The day began with a low, uneasy wind—an omen I’ve learned not to ignore. By early afternoon, the horizon boiled with black clouds, moving faster than any storm I’ve tracked in this region. The forest seemed to brace itself; birds vanished, and even the insects went silent.
When the storm hit, it came without warning—an abrupt shift from tense stillness to chaos. The wind howled through the trees like some unseen predator, bending branches until they groaned and cracked. Rain came in sheets, slicing sideways, each drop stinging against my skin. The sharp, electric tang of ozone filled the air, so strong it burned my nose and coated my tongue with the metallic taste of lightning.
The canopy above thrashed as if under sIege, the roar of leaves and branches blending into a single, deafening wall of sound. Water poured down the trunks in rivulets, pooling in every dip and hollow, turning the ground into a sucking, unstable mess.
At base camp, the storm’s fury was worse. The earth beneath my boots had softened into a thick, sucking mud that tried to claim every step. My tent sagged under the weight of water, seams straining as rivulets streamed down its sides. Gear that had been neatly stacked was now half-submerged, cases and bags sinking slowly into the mire. The rhythmic drumming of rain on the tarp became a constant hammering, as if the storm meant to pound the camp into the ground.
Each gust of wind rattled through the clearing, making the trees sway dangerously close. I could feel the cold seeping through every layer of clothing, and in the back of my mind one thought repeated itself: if this keeps up, the camp won’t survive the night.
Through the noise, I caught it: three sharp knocks, deep and deliberate, echoing from somewhere downslope. Too regular to be wind. Too heavy to be chance. Something was out there, signaling—or warning.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues