I’ve been waking up in the forest and I have no idea how I got there.

I inherited this old shack in the middle of nowhere, and let me tell you, it's hotter than Satan's sauna out here. I'm a young guy, no family to speak of, and this swampy piece of land is my new sanctuary. Been living in this rundown shack for a few months now, surrounded by buzzing mosquitoes and the constant hum of mystery. It ain't much, but it's mine, and I'll be damned if it doesn't have its own secrets to keep.

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You can tell this old shack has been around a long time. The outside is all beat up, with faded white paint that's peeling off in chunks. Creaky weatherboard walls, they've got these worn-out surfaces that are like a roadmap of memories from generations ago. It's a towering two-story beast, standing tall and leaning into the heat. No neighbours for miles.

Lately, something's been messing with me. I go to sleep in my room like any other normal person, but somehow, I keep waking up in the middle of the night, smack dab in the middle of the forest, miles from home. Actually, it’s more of a clearing and is surrounded by these massive boulders that seem like they were dropped straight from the moon. I mean, how does this even happen?

At first, I didn't pay it much mind. I figured I was just sleepwalking, maybe too much swamp air messing with my head. I'd stumble my way back home, guided by the pale glow of the moon, and tuck myself back into bed, none the wiser.

I brushed off the strangeness like a pesky mosquito, thinking it was harmless. I mean, what could go wrong in the middle of the night in a deserted clearing, right? But deep down, that nagging feeling in my gut knew better. The unease was like a low hum, always present but never quite loud enough to demand my full attention. So, I continued with my days, pushing the bizarre nights to the back of my mind like a dusty old artefact in the attic. Ignorance is bliss, they say, but I can't just brush this off as harmless anymore.

As the days went by, that eerie clearing became my dreaded rendezvous spot. I'd wake up, disoriented and surrounded by those damn boulders again. It was like some twisted game of hide-and-seek, except I was the one being sought, and by who or what, I had no clue. The whole situation was creeping me out, and that uneasy feeling crawled under my skin like a colony of fire ants.

But you know what's even weirder? The marks. Yeah, those strange symbols etched on my skin like a twisted tattoo parlour's handiwork. At first, I thought it was just a bunch of scratches from wandering around in the dark, brushing up against branches or something. But these marks had a pattern, like some twisted shapes. The more I looked at them, the more they screamed occult. I mean, what the actual hell?

Now, I'm no expert in the supernatural or anything, but something told me this wasn't your run-of-the-mill sleepwalking adventure. There was something sinister at play, and I couldn't ignore it any longer. It was time to dig deeper, to find out what in the swampy depths of this godforsaken land was messing with my head. I had to take matters into my own hands, even if it meant setting up a low-budget spy operation in my room.

So, armed with nothing but a cheap camera and a gut full of curiosity, I hatched my plan. If I was going to uncover the truth, I had to catch whatever the heck was happening in the act. Before bed that night, I rigged that camera to record whenever it sensed motion, hoping to catch the creep that was responsible for my midnight escapades. Grainy black-and-white footage was all I had to work with, but it was better than nothing.

Like clockwork, I woke out in the clearing again the next day. I hurriedly made my way back home, eager to review whatever footage the camera managed to capture. As I huddled over the grainy footage, my heart thumped in my chest like a bass drum on steroids. There it was, clear as day - a figure. It emerged from the shadows, its form shrouded in an inky blackness that seemed to devour the light around it. Standing at an imposing height, it towered above me, a terrifying presence. Cloaked in a black robe that concealed its hands and feet, the figure exuded an air of malevolence. Its face hidden beneath a hood, it remained an enigma, an inscrutable entity. My skin crawled as I watched the figure move with an eerie grace, like a predator closing in on its prey.

But what really sent chills down my spine were the whispers. Soft, haunting whispers seemed to emanate from the screen itself. I strained to make out the words, but they were muffled, distorted, like secrets meant to be kept. The figure spoke with a voice that dripped with something ancient and malevolent, something that sent shivers racing down my spine. The worst part? The “me” caught by the camera stood up. I didn't even seem to hesitate. As if in a trance, I watched as the camera showed me walking right out of the room.

So, here I am, sleeping with a damn baseball bat like I'm preparing for a slugfest. Every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of the wind sends shivers down my spine. I'm on edge, constantly on the lookout for signs of his return. I lie in bed, my eyes darting around the room, waiting for that figure to make its move. I don't know when he's going to come for me again.

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