Chapter One: Misled Path

During a camping trip, a group of friends stumbles upon an abandoned house and strange figures who trick them into a world filled with shadows and lies, where nothing is as it seems

The trees stood tall and unyielding, their dark trunks stretching into the sky like silent sentinels. Leaves tinged with autumn hues --brown, red, orange-- rustled in the soft breeze, though the sound did little to break the eerie stillness around us. Shadows seemed to shift between the trees as if the forest itself were alive, watching.

“Abigail,” Shawn’s voice broke through the quiet, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Remember that ghost story from school all those years ago?”

I glanced at him, frowning. Shawn walked a few paces behind the group, his gray eyes flicking toward the forest as if searching for movement. His question hung in the air, half-joking but tinged with something else. Something uneasy.

Before I could answer, Matt, with his boundless energy, chimed in. “Yes! Ghost stories! Perfect way to get Lyla to freak out.”

Layla, walking ahead, glanced back at him, her pale blonde hair catching the light. She didn’t say much, but her blush betrayed her embarrassment. “I’m not freaking out,” she mumbled, though her grip on her backpack straps tightened.

I smiled faintly, though my legs ached from hours of hiking. “We’re not here for ghost stories. Just to have fun. Right?” My voice wavered slightly as I spoke. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but something about this forest unsettled me.

Matt sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up. “And there it is Abigail ruins the ghost-hunting vibe with her whole ‘logic and reason’ thing.” He looked over at Layla, adding, “Guess we’ll just have to scare you twice as much to make up for her!”

Layla let out a nervous laugh, fiddling with her backpack straps. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Shawn gave me a long look before glancing at Carla, our guide, who led the way several steps ahead. Her thin frame seemed almost out of place in the forest, her red hair and thick-rimmed glasses a bright contrast to the muted greens and browns around us. A silver whistle dangled from her neck, reflecting the light whenever she moved.

“Alright, everyone,” Carla called out, her voice bright but firm. “We’re heading toward the last marked site on the map. It’s about two hours away. Stick together, follow my lead, and don’t wander off.”

Matt groaned. “Two more hours? My legs are killing me!”

Carla turned slightly, adjusting the red scarf tied around her neck. “Better keep up then, unless you want to end up like the others who wandered off.”

Silence fell. It was a morbid joke, but no one laughed. Stories about disappearances in Leenir Nature Park weren’t exactly uncommon. Hikers vanishing without a trace. Campsites left abandoned. Unexplained phenomena that no one could explain or investigate too deeply. The rumors were what brought us here in the first place, though Carla hadn’t seemed thrilled about our curiosity.

“Disappearances are just people getting lost,” I said, “Right, Carla?”

Her expression tightened. “Sometimes. Other times... well, let’s just say this forest doesn’t add up it’s like it’s hiding something”

I frowned, her words sinking into me like tiny needles. Shawn and I exchanged a look. He didn’t say anything, but his lips pressed into a thin line.

We walked in silence for a while, the forest growing darker and denser with each step. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, and the air thickened with the smell of damp earth. Something about the place felt… wrong, like it didn’t want us there.

“Carla,” Layla said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “That necklace you’re wearing. Where’s it from?”

Carla paused, touching the pendant a small silver locket shaped like a crescent moon. “Oh, this? It’s… a gift. From someone important.”

Matt, smirked. “Important, huh? Family? A Lover~?”

“Ah, cut it out,” Carla said, though a flicker of something, sadness, passed over her face. “It’s just a keepsake.”

Shawn, walking beside me, muttered under his breath. “Keepsake for what, though?”

After what felt like hours, Layla let out a sudden gasp. “Where’s Carla?”

We all stopped in our tracks, looking around. Carla was gone. She had been ahead of us only moments ago, her red scarf a beacon in the shadowed forest. Now, there was no sign of her. The silence felt oppressive, the trees seeming to lean in closer.

“Carla?” I called out, my voice echoing. No response.

“She’s probably just ahead,” Matt said, though his voice lacked its usual bravado. “Right?”

“Or she’s gone,” Layla whispered, her hands trembling as she hugged her arms. “What if… what if something took her?”

“Don’t start with that,” Shawn said sharply, though his gaze darted around the forest.

“Carla wouldn’t just leave,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Not without saying something.”

We moved as one, searching the forest for any sign of her. My heart pounded in my chest as we stumbled upon her scarf, draped over a low-hanging branch. It was streaked with something dark. Blood.

Layla let out a small, choked noise, and Matt swore under his breath. Shawn crouched low, pulling a thin twig from the ground. He brushed it against the damp stain, watching how it absorbed. “It’s soaked in,” he muttered, glancing at the edges of the patch. “No discoloration, no pooling. This happened hours ago at least.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Wow, Sherlock, you figure that out from CSI reruns?”

Shawn stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Some of us actually pay attention in science class. Dried blood tells a story.”

A low hum seemed to vibrate beneath our feet, almost like the forest itself was alive, watching us. I folded my arms, trying to stop the trembling in my hands.

“Look,” Shawn said, pointing to the ground. A faint trail of blood led deeper into the forest. It was thin and scattered, as if whoever left it had been staggering.

“Do we follow it?” Matt asked, his hand hovering near the strap of his backpack.

Shawn’s jaw tightened, his expression grim. “We don’t have much choice.”

No one argued, but no one moved at first, either. The silence was thick, stretching between us like the tangled roots beneath our feet. Finally, Shawn started forward, and the rest of us trailed behind him.

The trail was faint, barely more than a thread of disturbed leaves and broken twigs winding through the forest. Each step felt heavier than the last, the air growing colder and sharper. Above us, the canopy pressed together so tightly that only a few stray beams of light pierced through, casting strange, shifting patterns on the ground.

We followed the trail in silence, the forest growing darker with every step. 

“Does anyone else hear that?” Layla whispered, clutching her arms. Her voice trembled, and I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or the chill that seeped into the air.
I strained my ears. At first, there was only the crunch of our footsteps and the distant rustle of leaves. But then I heard it: a faint, almost slight whispering, like the forest itself was trying to speak. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Probably just the wind,” Matt said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than us. “Right? Just... the wind.”

Shawn stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. “Look.” He pointed to the ground ahead.

We crowded around, peering at the patch of dirt and leaves. A faint smear of dark red stained the earth, leading forward like breadcrumbs.
“Blood?” Layla’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Maybe,” Shawn said, crouching to examine it. His fingers hovered over the trail but didn’t touch it. “It’s dry. This isn’t fresh. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t just now.”

“How do you even know that?” Matt demanded, his voice rising. “You’re not some kind of blood expert!”

“Just an observation,” Shawn muttered, standing up. “Let’s keep going.”

Small signs appeared in the dirt and bark: a snapped twig here, a scuffed patch of moss there. And then there were the trees. Their bark was carved with strange, jagged symbols, some shallow, others etched deep enough to flake off pieces of wood. The shapes were unfamiliar, almost alien.

“What do you think those mean?” I asked, glancing at Shawn. He didn’t answer, but his brow was furrowed. Layla kept her distance from the carvings, her eyes darting around.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered.

“None of us do,” Matt shot back. “But we’re not turning around.”

Ahead of us, the whispering grew louder. My skin prickled with the sensation of being observed, and I fought the urge to look over my shoulder every few seconds.

Then, just as I was about to suggest we stop and regroup, a shape emerged in the distance. At first, it was just a shadow among shadows, barely distinguishable from the trees. But as we drew closer, it took form: an old, crumbling house, its silhouette jagged and unnatural against the faint light.

“This… this wasn’t on the map,” Shawn said, his voice low.

“No kidding,” Matt muttered. He shifted on his feet, like he couldn’t decide whether to move forward or back. “So, uh... do we go in?”

Layla clung to her backpack straps, her face pale. “What if… whatever’s in there… did this to her?”

We stood there, frozen, staring at the house. It loomed over us like a predator, its shattered windows dark and empty, vines twisting around its frame like veins. The trail led directly to its front steps, and for a moment, none of us moved.

“Do you think...” Layla’s voice faltered. “Do you think Carla’s in there?”

No one answered, but we all knew we were thinking the same thing. If she was, then why hadn’t she come back out? The four of us stood there, staring at the house. The forest felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for our next move.

Matt swallowed hard. “Only one way to find out.”

Author's Note

Thanks for reading! This is still an early draft, so I’d appreciate feedback on the pacing and the balance between suspense and mystery. Please focus on character development and world-building. Feel free to ignore small grammar mistakes for now—I’m more interested in how the story and themes come across.

Reviews

[JayG]

You write well...very well. But your approach is akin to writing a report: This happens...then that happens...he says this...she does that...and after that...” We have a clearly recorded chronicle of events, but it’s too dispassionate to involve the reader.

You say, for example:

• I smiled faintly, though my legs ached from hours of hiking.

This is true, yes, but it’s a response to someone amusing the narrator. What does being tired have to do with that? Nothing, so juxtapositioning the two doesn’t track.

Look at another line:

• Layla, walking ahead, glanced back at him, her pale blonde hair catching the light.

1. Who cares if her hair is illuminated? We-can’t-see-her. And the plot would change not in the slightest if it wasn’t “catching the light.” Thinking cinematically in a medium that doesn't reproduce pictures is a problem.
2. Where are we in time and space? Unknown. Why are we there? Unstated. Who are we in relation to the others? Unexplained. What’s the short and long term scene-goal? Not a clue.

And because that’s all unknown, there’s no context for the reader—though because you have context as you read, it works perfectly—which is why we need to edit from the seat of a reader who has only what the words suggest, based on their life experience, not your intent. You call one of the people the “guide.” But to what. For what? Are these adults, refugees, explorers, a scout troop? That matters as far as setting the mood and reader expectations,

Not knowing that, the reader is being given data, when they’ve come to you seeking entertainment. As E. L. Doctorow puts it, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” But with you the only one on stage, telling the reader what’s happening, secondhand, where’s the excitement?

The problem is that though your writing skills are far better than most I see online, you’re not making use of our medium’s most powerful asset, the ability to take the reader into the protagonist's mind.

Mostly, you're providing a dispassionate record of what’s said and done, with zero emotional content for the reader. And because you’re using an outside-in approach, things are said and done because you dictate them, which leads to inconsistencies.

Take for example, when Carla vanishes. As a scoutmaster I’ve been on endless numbers of hikes. No one disappears from in front of the group. First, because they’re almost always in sight. Yes, the trail might turn, but as soon as the rest of the group made the turn she’d be in sight again, so there’d be no “after what seemed like hours.”

Next, they find a scarf on a tree branch with blood that’s hours old, which makes no sense given that she can't have been missing for hours and have them search "the woods" and immediately find the scarf. Catrinly, someone in the group would wonder how the blood could be hours old, and comment.

My point is that were you writing from within the viewpoint of the one living the events instead of that of a narrator pretending to HAVE lived the events, you, as the protagonist living the scene, would have noticed that.

For a quick upgrade to a more immediate approach, try this article on Writing the Perfect Scene. The MRU, and Scene and Sequel techniques can make a huge difference.

http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

Take a read, and perhaps try it on this first scene. I think you’ll be amazed at the difference in the immediacy of events when using the MRU approach.

And if it seems like it’s worth following up on, the book it was condensed from, Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, is the best I've found to date at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader.

https://dokumen.pub/techniques-of-the-selling-writer-0806111917.html

Sorry my news isn’t better. But the problem is invisible until pointed out. And since we’ll not address the problem we don’t see as being one, I thought you might want to know.

Hope this helps.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

“In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”
~ Sol Stein

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~ Groucho Marx