In Oregon, the forests don’t just grow — they breathe. They lean in close, thick with fog and dripping moss, wrapping the lost and the curious in a green, velvet noose.
Ghost stories drip from the trees: missing hikers who followed soft laughter into the mist, phantom lights that lead straight off the cliffs, and voices that call your name from somewhere too far — or far too close.
The Shanghai Tunnels still open their mouths beneath Portland’s streets, swallowing footsteps and swallowing the foolish whole. Along the coast, the old lighthouses flicker against the black waves, trying to warn you… but by the time you see the light, it’s already too late.
In Oregon, the land doesn’t need to chase you — it waits. It hums. It smiles.
Because sooner or later, everyone steps off the path.
And once you do?
The trees close in behind you, and the forest keeps your secret… forever.