I just wanted to escape six days in South Korea. Away from my 9-to-5, away from screens, away from sameness.

The first two days were perfect: bright neon streets, calm temples, warm faces.

But on the third night… something shifted.

My hotel sat beside a dark, sprawling forest the locals called The Quiet One. They said it was peaceful. But it didn't feel peaceful. It felt like the trees were holding their breath.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. So I went for a walk. Just a few minutes, I told myself.

But the path kept twisting, looping, swallowing me whole. My phone light flickered. And the forest… it listened.

Then I saw it a faint glow of light ahead. I thought it was my hotel.

It wasn't.

In a hidden clearing stood a circle of figures. Black robes, pale masks, faces that didn't move. They chanted, low and rhythmic:

“He shall come… He shall come.”

A man in white stepped forward. The rest knelt. And they dragged another man into the center of the circle tied, shaking. The chanting rose. The air cracked. Then, absolute silence.

I ran. I don’t even remember how I made it back to my room.

At dawn, word spread that someone was found dead near the forest edge. The authorities called it an animal attack. I knew better.

That night, headlights cut through the dark. Cars returned to the treeline.

I followed stupidly.

The same circle. The same chant. Only this time, the man in white whispered into the night air, "Tonight’s the full moon our last chance to summon authority."

A snake brushed my shoe. I gasped.

Every masked head snapped toward me. "Someone watches!"

I ran until my lungs burned and my vision blurred, tearing through the jagged branches until I collapsed back in my room. The next morning, I checked out with shaking hands. In the lobby, a concierge stood smiling at the front desk bearing the exact same strange tattoo I saw on the cult leader.

At a roadside café miles away, an old man caught my frantic look and told me the truth: decades ago, a cult vanished into that forest after ninety people mysteriously disappeared.

I flew home. I tried to forget. I tried to tell myself it was just a nightmare born of a foreign place.

Three weeks later, a letter arrived in my mailbox.

No return address. Just five words scrawled in deep red ink:

“We are waiting for you.”

And right underneath, in a handwriting that wasn't mine, yet felt entirely familiar:

“I will come.”

Some trips never really end.