The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of pine and an inexplicable cold, even as the morning sun began to pierce through the dense canopy of trees. My backpack, light with the promise of adventure, bounced gently against my spine as Andre's car chewed up the last miles of paved road, leaving the city's frantic pulse far behind. Layla, ever the urbanite, was already grumbling about the lack of signal, but I just smiled, inhaling the crisp, clean air.

This was it. My first real escape, a journey to a place whispered about in hushed tones, a town frozen in time by a story both tragic and terrifying. The 'ghost town of the dead witch.' A shiver, not entirely from the cold, traced its way down my arms. "Almost there," Andre announced, glancing at the map on his phone, and a thrill, a mix of excitement and an odd sense of belonging, surged through me.