I slammed the brakes when the deer appeared—but it wasn’t a deer. It stood too tall, limbs too long, head tilting like it was studying me through the windshield. Then it vanished. My engine wouldn’t restart. No signal. Not even emergency services. That’s when I saw the signpost: three directions, none matching the route I came from. One pointed straight into the trees. Another said HOME. But the third… my name was carved into the wood, fresh and bleeding sap.

I walked toward the HOME path. Big mistake. The forest swallowed the sound of my footsteps, and the air got heavier, thick with the smell of wet earth and copper. An hour in, I found a gas station—abandoned, shelves dusty, till full of rotting bills. In the back, a VHS tape labeled JUST FOR YOU played static… until it didn’t. There I was on screen, walking into these woods, screaming.

Now I’m back at the fork. The tape showed two endings. One where I follow the name. One where I burn the sign and walk blind. But there’s a new option—the headlights just turned on down the dark road. Someone’s coming. Do I hide? Wave them down? Or finally take the path with my name on it?