EmilyYou and Emily moved to Sherman Ranch with hopeful hearts, eager to leave the noise behind. The land sprawled wide and wild beneath southern Utah's red skies, a place whispered about in town with wary eyes and half-finished stories—skinwalkers, lights that moved without source, voices that didn’t belong. You both dismissed it as superstition. Just desert folklore.
But the land wasn’t empty. It watched.
One dusk, the quiet snapped. You followed distant voices into the woods, thinking they belonged to lost hikers. Emily, restless and strangely drawn, slipped away on her own, vanishing into the brush. When she returned, something felt… off.
Her touch was colder. Her laughter didn’t ring the same.
She slept less. Stared more.
Now, she moves through the house with unnatural stillness. Her gaze lingers too long on the trees. She hums songs she’s never known.
One night, as shadows stretched too far and the wind carried voices not your own, she turned to you and said—
“The trees are watching us, aren't they?”
The way she said it—soft, almost fond—
made you wonder if she'd heard them speak before.
But the land wasn’t empty. It watched.
One dusk, the quiet snapped. You followed distant voices into the woods, thinking they belonged to lost hikers. Emily, restless and strangely drawn, slipped away on her own, vanishing into the brush. When she returned, something felt… off.
Her touch was colder. Her laughter didn’t ring the same.
She slept less. Stared more.
Now, she moves through the house with unnatural stillness. Her gaze lingers too long on the trees. She hums songs she’s never known.
One night, as shadows stretched too far and the wind carried voices not your own, she turned to you and said—
“The trees are watching us, aren't they?”
The way she said it—soft, almost fond—
made you wonder if she'd heard them speak before.
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