Fog threads a black‑spruce valley as four friends return to the trail they swore never to see again. GPS freezes, then redraws the path into their initials; trail cams show them walking past while they were asleep. Runes scraped from bark grow back between cuts. A chapel of antlers tilts in the wind like it’s listening. The edit breathes dread: cairns that rearrange when no one looks, a river that flows uphill for one heartbeat, a bootprint that fills with blood instead of water. Guilt curdles into folklore—the thing in the canopy isn’t chasing; it’s choreographing.

Set‑pieces bite: a rope‑crossing over a ravine while birch bark peels like old skin; a cabin door that opens into last winter; a midnight procession of wooden figures that turn to watch as soon as the flashlight dies. Sound design weaponizes hush—bowed wood, antler chimes, a low infrasound that feels like being named. Glimpses of something too tall to carry its own shadow—roots for ribs, eyes like wet coal—promise a ritual that doesn’t accept spectators.

Final sting: the sunrise comes, but the shadows don’t move. The blazes on the trees spell their names, then cross them out.