One miserable autumn evening I ventured into the forests behind my dead grandfather's house. My family had spooked me for years with stories of its haunting - "By the revenants of flesh-hungry ghouls," they claimed, but as a rational being of sound mind I never believed them. It was many years before I went in though. Kept telling myself it was because I was merely appeasing their egos but deep down there was a darker reason, an irrational aversion to its long branches. I stayed away until that miserable evening when a covering of cloud made the forest spectacularly eerie, and knew within one minute that I should have always have stayed away. Strange noises. The greyed bones of old animals. An unearthly smell. Nothing good could exist in there.