In a quiet corner of a London suburb stood a small, unassuming house. From a second-floor window, a dim light flickered through the darkness. It was nearly 2:00 AM. Eighteen-year-old William Mark sat at his study desk, his thick-rimmed glasses fogging up repeatedly from the sheer intensity of his nerves. Spread before him were several maps, a few weathered diaries, and a large, sturdy backpack.
William had always been an outsider. While boys his age were out on the football pitch, William would be tucked away in a library corner, lost in world maps. He was the subject of constant ridicule. With his quiet demeanor, shy nature, and spectacles, the school bullies had dubbed him 'Timid Will.' His father had been a legendary explorer who vanished five years ago during a mysterious expedition, never to be heard from again. Since then, his mother had kept him under a protective shroud, terrified that her son would follow in his father's tragic footsteps.
But the thirst for the unknown ran deep in William's veins. Tonight, he had decided to break free from this suffocatingly quiet life. He was going to prove that glasses and a calm temperament did not equal weakness. He left a letter for his mother on his desk, then cautiously hoisted the heavy backpack onto his shoulders. Inside lay his father's mysterious diary and an old, brass compass.
As he stepped out, a light drizzle was falling. The fog seemed to dance under the yellow glow of the London streetlamps. William's heart hammered against his ribs. He stole one last glance at his childhood home, took a deep breath, and began the long trek toward the station.
By the time he reached the platform, it was 3:00 AM. The station was desolate, save for a stray dog huddled in a corner. As he waited, his father's parting words echoed in his mind: "William, courage isn't the absence of fear; it's moving forward despite being afraid." For the first time, he felt the weight of those words in his very bones.
When the train finally groaned into the station, its whistle sounded like a piercing battle cry. William boarded a carriage where the lights were dim and flickering. In the far corner sat an old man, his face completely obscured by a heavy shawl. As the train accelerated, the world outside blurred. When the urban landscape gave way to jagged hills, William noticed the needle of his compass beginning to vibrate erratically.
Hours passed. The train eventually pulled into a nameless, deserted station. There was no sign indicating where they were. As William stepped onto the platform, a biting, icy wind gripped him. The station lights blinked rhythmically, struggling against the encroaching darkness.
As he crossed the platform toward the dense forest, a raspy voice emerged from the shadows.
"Go back, boy. This path was not meant for the living."
William spun around. It was the old man from the train, stepping out of the gloom. His eyes seemed to glint with an unnatural light.
William stammered, "I'm... I'm going to Death Valley."
The old man erupted into a chilling laugh. "Death Valley? Those who go there leave nothing behind—not even their skeletons. You are but a child; you can't even see through those spectacles in this darkness!"
Adjusting his glasses, William felt a surge of both anger and fear. But he didn't retreat. He gripped his bag and marched into the narrow forest trail. The woods were nightmarish; towering trees stood like silent giants, and the only sound was the rhythmic crunch of dry leaves beneath his boots.
Suddenly, a sensation crawled up his spine—he was being followed. He glanced back several times but saw nothing. Yet, a foul stench of rotting meat began to waft through the air. He fumbled for his flashlight and switched it on. What he saw drained the blood from his face.
Hanging from a thick branch was a pair of broken spectacles. And on the cracked glass, written in fresh, crimson blood, were the words: "WELCOME, WILLIAM."
His hands began to shake uncontrollably. How did anyone in this desolate forest know his name? Was he lost, or was this a meticulously planned trap? At that moment, his glasses slipped from his nose and fell into the dark. He was now helpless in the pitch black. As he scrambled on the ground, his hand touched something cold and sticky.
He shone the light on it. It was the skeletal hand of a human. William tried to scream, but his voice died in his throat. From the thicket behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps approached. They weren't the steps of a man; they sounded like a massive, lumbering beast.
Panic took over. William ran blindly through the thorny brush, the brambles tearing at his skin. Suddenly, he skidded to a halt at the edge of a sheer cliff. The footsteps were deafeningly close now. He turned to see a towering shadow with eyes like burning embers emerging from the mist, wielding a long, jagged blade.
William realized he was trapped. A bottomless abyss on one side, and certain death on the other. Was his journey over before it had even begun? Or could he summon the hidden strength within?
As the shadow drew within striking distance, it growled something in an ancient, forgotten tongue. Reaching into his bag, William grabbed his father's old diary. He didn't know why, but he felt it was his only shield. Just then, the shadow lunged at him...