Dried leaves crackled under her feet. Each step came at a cost. Her body, heavy from exhaustion, no longer moved as much as it dragged, dragged under the night sky's cover. The old path unraveled before her, however; a straight line stretching further with every step, a trail of rocks half-overtaken by underbrush. So long as she stuck to it, she would see the light of day.

She had long left behind her worries. It was too late—too late to turn back, too late to curse her decisions. She had committed to the path on a whim, out of haste and curiosity, and now here she was, carried on legs she could no longer feel, following a trail that went on forever. And still she carried on, safe in the knowledge that all roads lead somewhere, and that the old path had been used once, before they tried to hide it by growing new trees over its end sections, after the local children started getting lost. Even with all the signs they had put up, directing passers-by towards the new concrete road, it hadn't worked. Anyone who knew the area knew exactly how to reach the old path—all they had to do was follow the saplings. It was in a child’s nature to lose themselves.

Leaves rustled above. If it wasn't for the mounting sounds of a living breathing forest, she might have thought she wasn't making progress. Here and there her flashlight reflected the blood-red eyes of some forest critter, a rat here, something else there, and they either stared or scurried.

She wondered how much time had passed. An hour? A day? No, not a day—she would have noticed the sunlight, even through so thick a canopy. Still, what if she was late? Had anyone noticed her missing?

The forest was alive. The owls, its lungs, hissed breath-like. Woodpeckers drummed the rabid beating of a heart. Leaves rustled above and crackled beneath, and when the tepid breeze blew, it whistled, gently, like a call, and as she walked, so did the air fill with more and louder sounds, a crescendo that throbbed against her temples, mounting, mounting, mounting until its individual compontents, every voice in its hellish choir, combined into a persistent, ear-splitting hum.

She was sweating, now, even though she had underdressed for the walk, and the night was cold, or had been cold, and there was condensation on her breath. She shouted into the cacophony, swore at it, tried to silence the forest. She was used to crickets going quiet when she approached, to stray dogs stopping their howls when she howled back. But her voice was lost in the hum, and the hum claimed it and grew louder still. Tears ran down her face. Sweat ran down her back. Her head hurt, and it was starting to affect her vision with sharp flashes and a blur, and the flashlight trembled in her hand, no longer holding it, just refusing to let it go.

Silence.

So sudden it was, and so absolute, that it left her stunned. But relief soon left her. Even the breeze had gone silent, but still it blew, she could feel it against her skin. All she could hear was her own breathing, not her footfalls, not anything else, just her breathing, and the buzzing of the flashlight in her hand.

Something crackled ahead. She turned her light upon the sound, and her blood froze in her veins.

There was a four-legged shape in the path, blacker than the night around it, shaggy and horned, scratching at the path's stonework with its hooves. It turned to face her, and its rectangular pupils did not reflect the flashlight's shine; rather, they absorbed it, as if rejecting its very being.

The goat assessed her for a moment. There was a curious innocence to its stare, like a puzzled animal, but older, and wiser, and more; it stared at her for a moment and opened its mouth, but no sound, not even a whisper, came out. Then, after evaluating her for a second it stood on its hind limbs, its horns a crown, its shaggy hair a cloak, and it stepped out of the path, into the darkness.

She stood frozen. Adrenaline sent trembles down her limbs, made the urge to fly hard to resist. She had to quell her instinct with what little reason she had left, you're seeing things, Filipa, you're almost there, you've been walking for so long, the forest isn't that deep, you walked this path a hundred times as a child. And with the strength of words she steeled herself, made herself tough, and, wearing the armor of logic, she stepped forward. Adrenaline numbed the pain and delayed the shock; adrenaline kept her alive. She pushed through.

She pushed through, but the silence never eased.

She traveled on, but the path never cleared.

And as the last of time's meaning melted away, as the forest closed ahead and behind her and the flashlight began to flicker, she realized she should have listened. To the signs, to the sounds, to Him. Humanity's claim over the old path had faded; it was another's domain now, no longer hers to tread.

The branches began to fold, and when she opened her mouth to scream, only the crackling of leaves came out.