"An ambitious journalist investigates a small town's mysterious disappearances, but soon realizes that the town's dark secrets may consume her as well."

The forestland were thick and eerily quiet as five musketeers hiked through them on their periodic camping trip. They had been coming to this spot for times, and it had always been a peaceful and comforting retreat from the stresses of everyday life. But commodity felt different this time. The air was heavy with a foreboding sense of apprehension, and the murk sounded to dance and shift in an unsettling way.

As they trudged deeper into the forestland, they came across a cabin nestled in a small clearing. It looked like it had been abandoned for times, the wood survived and slate, the windows boarded up. But commodity about it drew them in, and they approached with a sense of curiosity and alarm .

As they got closer, they noticed commodity odd. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone had left it open. They changed uneasy ganders and cautiously stepped outside.

The cabin was dark and musty, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. But it was what they set up in the main room that transferred jitters down their backbones. There was a large pentagram etched into the bottom, the wood blackened and scorched as if it had been burned. The walls were covered in strange symbols and jotting, written in what looked like blood.

One of the musketeers, a unbeliever by nature, laughed nervously." Looks like someone's been watching too numerous horror pictures," he said, trying to shake off the apprehension that had settled in his stomach.

But the others were not so sure. They could feel a sense of nastiness radiating from the very walls of the cabin, as if commodity dark and minatory had taken up hearthstone there. They tried to leave, but the door wouldn't budge. It was as if they were trapped, sealed inside the cabin with whatever evil lurked within.

As the hours passed, their fear grew, and they began to hear strange noises coming from outdoors. At first, it was just the sound of outgrowths snapping and leaves rustling, but soon it came commodity further minatory. They could hear whispers and horselaugh, as if a group of people were watching them from the forestland.

also, they started to see effects. murk moving in the corners of their vision, shapes lurking just out of sight. One of them saw a face gaping in through the boarded- up window, eyes glowing in the darkness.

As the night wore on, their fear turned to despair. They tried everything they could suppose of to escape, but the cabin sounded to have a hold on them, enmeshing them inside its walls. They could hear the sound of steps coming closer and closer, and they knew that whatever was out there was no longer happy to stay in the murk.

Eventually, as the sun began to rise, the door creaked open, and they stumbled out into the light, heaving for air. They were bombarded and bruised, their clothes torn and dirty, but they were alive.

As they made their way back to civilization, they could not shake the feeling that commodity was following them, lurking just out of sight. And they knew that whatever evil they had encountered in that cabin would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

Times latterly, the musketeers still could not bring themselves to talk about that night in the forestland. But they all knew that commodity had changed inside them. They were no longer the debonair, happy- go-lucky group that had set out on that camping trip. They were visited by the memory of what they had seen and the knowledge that wrong was real, and it lurked in the darkness, staying for its coming victim.

As time passed, strange effects began to be to the group of musketeers. They would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling as though they were being watched. They would hear whispers in their cognizance, indeed when they were alone. And they all endured pictorial agonies, filled with images of the cabin and the wrong that lurked within.

The recollections of that night noway left them, and they set up themselves drawn back to the forestland, to the cabin that had visited their dreams for so numerous times. They knew it was foolish, but they could not repel the pull, the need to defy the source of their fear and put it to rest.

As they made their way back to the cabin, they could feel the air growing colder, the forestland growing darker. It was as if the wrong had been staying for them, anticipating their return.

When they reached the cabin, they set up that it had changed. The wood was no longer survived and slate, but rather lustered a dark, nearly malignant shade of red. The pentagram on the bottom had beenre-etched, the blood acting fresher than ahead. And there, in the center of the room, stood a figure, dressed in black, with eyes that sounded to glow with a sickly green light.

They tried to run, but they were too late. The figure dived at them, and they set up themselves enveloped in a agony from which there was no escape.

When they woke up, they were in a different place, a place that sounded to live outside of time and space. The walls were black, and the air was thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of the room, sat a figure, with eyes that sounded to know all of their deepest fears and darkest secrets.

" We've been staying for you," the figure said, its voice like the sound of bones grinding against each other." You allowed

you could escape us, but you were wrong. You belong to us now."

The musketeers tried to run, but they could not move. They were trapped, like insects in a spider's web, at the mercy of an wrong that they could not begin to comprehend.

And so, they remained there, in that place outside of time and space, trapped in a agony from which there was no escape. They were noway seen or heard from again, and their families and loved bones

could only wonder what had come of them.

But in the forestland, in the place where the cabin formerly stood, whispers could still be heard, and murk seen moving in the darkness. The wrong that had formerly abided there was still alive and well, staying for its coming victims to stumble into its web of darkness and despair.

Times passed, and the forestland grew quiet. The cabin remained, a dark and foreboding presence in the heart of the timber. But no bone

dared to adventure near it, for they could feel the nastiness that radiated from its walls.

And also, one day, a group of teenagers stumbled upon the cabin. They were foolish and ignorant of its history, and they entered the cabin without vacillation. But they soon rued their decision.

For the wrong that abided in the cabin was empty, and it devoured them one by one, consuming their souls and leaving nothing but empty cocoons behind. And with each victim, the wrong grew stronger, until it was strong enough to break free from the cabin's walls and spread throughout the timber.

And so, the timber came a place of darkness and terror, a place where the stalwart noway ventured and the foolish noway returned. The cabin remained, a monument to the wrong that had formerly lived within its walls, a warning to all those who would dare to explore the unknown.

And as for the musketeers who had first discovered the cabin, they were noway forgotten. Their families mourned their loss, and their recollections were kept alive by those who had known them. But they were gone, consumed by the darkness that had formerly abided in the cabin, and now was only as a warning to those who would dare to venture too far into the forestland.