text: [Themes: horror, action, supernatural]
  
  You ride another ten minutes on the highway before taking an exit to a forest service road. Gravel kicks up from beneath the tires, rapping against the metal underside. Fifteen minutes in, you silence the motor and step out of the vehicle. A small picket at the head of the trail reads "Sorry Falls 5.4 mi" under the moonlight. The trail is a jagged path of dirt cutting through the dying underbrush, and carpeted in leaves. You begin trudging along, passing by barren trees. The air is frosty under the pellucid sky. Animal trails weave across both sides of the path — the wildlife still has a presence. You stop at a point where tree roots knot across the surface, around four miles in. You're getting closer, but you won't find her here.
  
  You feel the pressure of a headache as Stanley's mind kicks with the realization of what's going on; that you have taken ahold of his body. It's a harmless protest. You look at the moon, the timeless observer, who watches from its remote perch in the sky. It saw the old men kill the witches. It witnessed the fading of magic from the world, long ago. But, here in this time, the soil yearns for the return of magic. You have tonight alone to find the crypt.
  
  Animal paths run like scars through the brush. Moonlight dances across groups of withered leaves, highlighting a particular patch on a hill to the right. Perhaps it's an omen.
  
  > follow the animal path
  You step off the manicured road and into the brush, sweeping spiderwebs as you move along the small path. A wintry gust riles branches into motion as the trail takes you on a curve over a steepening hill. You're forced to make switchbacks down to safely resume along the path below. Reaching the bottom of a small gully, you see a quiet stream. The animal trail ends at the river. Memories of how the land used to look come to you, and after a moment, you get your bearings. Her grave is upstream.
  
  She was Farra, the last true mystic that you know lived; she was one of the seers, fortune-makers and earth-brewers fatally punished for the crimes of witches. All practitioners were persecuted in the old days, undifferentiated. It's the cruel ones that are celebrated and remembered in the caricatures of Halloween decor tonight.
  
  Along the way, you see a black silhouette against the trees, opposite of the bank. It lumbers towards you as you walk upstream — a large bear. Your hands reach for imaginary weapons at your waist, but you're not in your own body, and Stanley has nothing convenient for defense. A pressure in your head reminds you that he is still in there. All he has to offer is fear, and the desire to run. You're also considering spooking it off.
  
  > yell at the bear
  Making yourself as tall as possible, you call at the bear. It lowers its head, staring at you across the distance, and stands resolutely still. You're not sure exactly how to follow up. You could make a careful retreat, hoping you'll find the gravesite without the aid of the river. Or, you could walk towards it, yelling aggressively, in an attempt to scare it away.
  
  > avoid the bear
  Walking away might just be announcing your presence. Walking forward could be a threat. It's a gamble, but you'll take the safest bet possible. You start backing up and strafing to the tree line, ensuring your chest and eyes are always facing the bear. Your left foot lands on leaves, and you've made it to the trees. You probe blindly with your foot leading you uphill, watching all the while. Trees slowly begin to obscure your view, crowding in until there's no threat in sight. You sigh in relief. You'll have to give it a wide berth if you don't want to risk another encounter.
  
  After a good hour of flattening bramble, you get on a long groove heading in the same direction. The trek is difficult on the body, which you figure isn't conditioned for much more than walking around the house on a regular basis. You find the stream again, confident that the bear is long behind you. Walking the graveled shore, you try to remember where to go.
  
  There should be ferns...ferns, curled on end, growing in irregular circles. Nearby would be a headstone, if human activity hasn't ground it to dust. There never was a body beneath that grave; it was built as a tribute from those that knew her. It's only by the moon's influence, or forces stirring beneath the sandcastles of man, that this whole area remains untouched by concrete and steel. The stream, which in your time was a river, must be followed for a few more hours.
  
  It's not an easygoing hike. You stop to recover your breath at many points along the route. It's well after midnight, so you'll only have a few hours left. Stanley senses the question and, no longer fighting, pushes forth ideas about checking the phone. Either he gave up, he's biding time before the next tantrum, or he's accepted that you're in charge. The screen indicates that you have four hours to find the site. However, you're beginning to have problems doing so. The trees are different, right down to their species. Nothing matches up with your antique memories. In the vegetation overhead, well above the leafless thistles, is an owl. It hoots when your eyes meet its gaze, throws out its wings, and descends rapidly towards you. It looks like it might collide with your face.
  
  > Duck
  The owl is probably trying to ward you away, so you shield your face and duck. It sweeps overhead, close enough to rake wind across your hair. You turn around to see where it went, but it's already out of sight. It must be hunting mice.
  
  You pause to take inventory of your location, but the survey yields nothing for memory. Farra's grave could be a couple hours in any orientation from here. You begin to probe in different directions, hoping to see something indicative, something to spark a memory. An hour passes, then hours, and you become desperate. You'll be too far away to reach the site in time if you don't pick an angle at random and hope to run across it. You pick an arbitrary direction and walk.
  
  The leaves grow wildly here, in the rustic colors of Autumn, still attached to branches for the most part. Patches of moss cling around their limbs. The floor is composed of mostly bramble. Time slips ever forward, all without results.
  
  You can feel the encroaching emptiness of oblivion. You look mournfully as daylight forms a thin line on the horizon. There is no suitable place to harbor until next Halloween. The moon beckons you to the Otherside, and so you make your final astral light, leaving business unfinished. Stanley collapses to the ground from overwhelming weariness.
  
  Sunlight wakes you around midday. You touch your head, blink, and shuffle around. He's gone, and you're back in control. You think about last night with a shiver and a touch of sorrow. At first he seemed mad, but that faded over time. The possession shattered so many things you thought were true about the world; you can hardly imagine the ramifications of what would happen had he accomplished his goal. But instead, the world will remain bleak, without the touch of magic. If you can be controlled by a ghost, that lends some credit to its claims, and you're inclined to believe them. You head off to the stream and follow it back until you hear the roar of the highway.