The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn't die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut.
Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent "cut point." When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain's ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years.
After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential...
It gets a lot more deeper then that but I'll stop there!

The time loop in the book functions like the old practice of coppicing a branch.
When foresters coppice a branch, they cut it back to a fixed point near the base. The tree doesn’t die, it is forced to grow again from that same cut. Each new growth is shaped by the conditions that follow the cutting.
In Grandfather Paradox, the meteor strike on the blue hole creates a wound in time. That moment becomes the permanent “cut point.” When the rift activates, Dallas is thrown back to the exact day the meteor hit. The timeline is cut back to that single fixed moment, just like a branch being cut back to the stump.
From that point, the timeline begins growing again. Because the mushrooms enhance his brain’s ability to retain memory across the reset through neural plasticity and enhanced electrical potential, Dallas remembers what happened in the previous growth. Every choice he makes.. every step, every action causes the new timeline to grow differently from the one before it.
The rift can keep doing this for up to seven years. After that, the unique chemical conditions that hold the wound open begins to lose its potential… It gets a lot more deeper then that but I’ll stop there!

Grandfather Paradox is the story of a young man who keeps falling through the same cracked mirror of time, only to discover the reflection was always watching him back.

In the ruins of a collapsed America, the New Jersey Pinelands rise as a shadowed stronghold of gnarled pines and haunted swamps, a place thick with old folklore, whispered prophecies, and the weight of biblical end-times. Here lives Dallas: wiry, restless, half-wild. He walks the sandy trails with his dog, tends secret gardens, and answers the forest’s older call.

One day a white stag appears. It leads him to mushrooms that glow with colors the world has forgotten. He eats. Reality fractures. Time slips. What begins as survival becomes something far stranger; a living paradox that rewrites the ground beneath every step he takes.

This is not simply a tale of the end of the world.
It is a myth of vision and blood, of loyalty tested in the dark, and of the strange mercy of a forest that refuses to let its chosen son stay lost.

a.co/d/0h1CQdBs

Ruins of Babylon 

In the twilight of a shattered America, the Pinelands of New Jersey stand as a shadowed fortress, a sprawling wilderness of gnarled pines and haunted swamps that cradles its people in fierce isolation. Once a nation bound by promise, the land has crumbled under the weight of division—neighbor turned against neighbor, fueled by greed and fear, until resources withered and lawlessness set cities ablaze. The inner cities, gutted by violence, now lie as husks, their scars a testament to a collapse that tore hope from the masses. The chaos has dulled to a wary hush, but trust remains a ghost. Survivors, hardened and skeptical, fortify their lives behind scavenged walls, bartering scraps and guarding their kin, each day a battle to meet meager needs as the world tilts toward a biblical end—plagues of scarcity, wars of faction, and a reckoning whispered in scripture.

Within the Pinelands’ ancient embrace, a deeper isolation takes root. Its sandy barrens and tangled marshes, stretching over a million acres, repel outsiders with unforgiving terrain. Rivers twist like sentinels, and fog-choked trails swallow the careless, shielding small havens. Here, the land itself enforces solitude, its acidic soils yielding little, forcing reliance on foraged berries and hard-won crops. Once shunned as a wasteland, the Pinelands now cradle those fleeing the apocalypse’s wrath, their fortified lives hidden from raiders and ruin. Yet, this isolation births more than survival—it awakens a spiritual pulse. The forest hums with ancient echoes. As darkness cloaks the nation, the Pinelands become a crucible of revelation. The land channels a biblical truth—a call to face the end with eyes open, where every step through the pines is a pilgrimage toward meaning in a world unraveling as foretold.

The Piney Quakers

Dallas emerged from the weathered farmhouse, his slight frame moving with a restless energy that seemed to defy the oppressive heat. At 21, he was small and wiry, his lean build honed by years of slipping through the woods and dodging trouble. His blonde hair, sun-bleached and perpetually tousled, fell just above his piercing blue eyes, which sparkled with a mix of mischief and defiance. His faded flannel shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, hung loosely over a threadbare white tee, and his dirt-caked jeans clung to his narrow hips, the hems frayed from countless treks. A rolled joint was tucked behind his ear, and his worn canvas backpack bounced lightly against his back as he walked, Daisy—a scrappy mutt with a patchy brown coat—trotting faithfully at his heels.

The compound buzzed with activity as Dallas made his way through it, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt path that wound through the heart of their sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sweat, undercut by the faint, acrid hum of generators that powered their fragile hold on civilization. Nearly a hundred souls call this place home, a hardscrabble collective of family, friends, and stragglers who’d earned their keep. The property, sprawling across acres of ancestral land, was a fortress born of necessity. Its origins stretched back to the American Revolution, when their forebears had built the sturdy farmhouse that still stood as the compound’s heart. The single dirt road leading in, rutted and overgrown, was the only tether to the world beyond, now choked with chaos.

As Dallas passed the polebarn—a cavernous structure of corrugated metal and weathered wood—he glanced at the work crews bustling around it. The barn served as a communal hub, its interior packed with supplies, tools, and makeshift workstations where people repaired gear or sorted rations. Around it, a cluster of campers and small, hand-built homes fanned out in a rough semicircle, their mismatched roofs glinting in the late afternoon sun. Some were salvaged RVs, their paint peeling but functional, while others were cobbled-together shacks of plywood and scavenged timber, each a testament to the group’s ingenuity. Laundry hung on lines strung between them, flapping in the breeze, and children darted through the gaps, their laughter a rare note of levity.

Dallas tossed a quip at a group hauling logs near the polebarn. “Y’all building a castle or a coffin?” he called, his crooked grin flashing. A few chuckled, others rolled their eyes, accustomed to his sharp tongue. His charisma was a double-edged sword—his sarcasm grated, but his easy charm made it hard to stay mad. 

The path led him past the irrigation pond, a murky oval fringed with cattails and fed by a jury-rigged system of pipes that siphoned water from a nearby creek. Beyond it stretched a long field of crops—neat rows of corn, beans, and squash, their green shoots a defiant contrast to the desolation outside the compound. The field was encircled by towering pines and dense forest, their dark boughs forming a natural barrier that hid the compound from prying eyes. The perimeter wall, a patchwork of felled pines reinforced with scavenged metal and buried logs, loomed at the field’s edge, its weakest section—a makeshift barrier of stacked trunks—where Dallas was headed.

As he approached, he spotted his older brother, Daniel, standing guard. At 28, Daniel was Dallas’s opposite: broad-shouldered, disciplined, and perpetually exasperated by his younger brother’s antics. His dark hair was cropped short, his sweat-stained shirt clinging to his solid frame and his hazel eyes carried the weight of bearing too much responsibility. He gripped the rifle slung across his chest, his stance rigid.

“Dallas,” Daniel called, his voice low but sharp. “You’re late. Again.”

Dallas smirked, slipping under the log wall with practiced ease. “Relax, Dan. World’s already ended. What’s a missed shift gonna do?”

Daniel shook his head, his grip tightening on the rifle. “You keep sneaking off, I’m telling Bo what you’re really doing out there.”

Dallas paused, turning to flash a mischievous grin. “Do that, and you’ll find something real special in your pillow tonight.” Daisy yipped as if in agreement, and Dallas gave his brother a mock salute before disappearing into the woods. Daniel sighed, muttering under his breath, “Kid’s gonna get himself killed one day.”

The Hidden Grove

The Pinelands swallowed Dallas and Daisy whole, their figures dwarfed by towering pines and gnarled cedars that stretched into the blue sky. The trail beneath Dallas’s boots was a ribbon of pale, sandy earth, soft and shifting, each step kicking up faint clouds of dust that clung to his frayed jeans. Sunlight pierced the canopy in thin, golden shafts, painting dappled patterns across the ground. Ferns and brambles crowded the path’s edges, their thorny fingers brushing against his faded flannel as he moved with purpose. Daisy scampered ahead, her patchy brown coat blending with the undergrowth, her nose twitching at every scent—pine sap, damp earth, the faint musk of some unseen critter.

“Keep up, girl,” Dallas called softly, his voice barely disturbing the forest’s hush. “Ain’t got all day to sniff every damn leaf.” Daisy flicked an ear but didn’t slow, her tail wagging like a metronome as she darted over a gnarled root.

The sandy trail began to change as they pressed deeper, the ground growing uneven, studded with twisted roots that snaked across the path. The air grew heavier, cooler, as the forest thickened into a cedar swamp. The towering pines gave way to dense, moss-draped cedars, their branches knitting together overhead, choking the sunlight until the world dimmed to a twilight glow. The trail, now more mud than sand, sucked at Dallas’s boots, each step a deliberate pull against the earth’s grip. The scent of pine faded, replaced by the rich, loamy tang of decay and standing water.

“C’mon, Daisy, don’t get stuck now,” Dallas muttered, glancing at the mutt as she hesitated at the edge of a shallow creek. Its waters were murky, reflecting the shadowed canopy, but the current was gentle, rippling over smooth stones. Dallas kicked off his boots, tossing them onto the bank, and rolled his jeans up past his skinny calves. The mud squelched between his toes as he waded in, the cold biting just enough to make him hiss. Daisy whined, her paws sinking into the muck, unwilling to follow.

“Quit bein’ a princess,” he teased, scooping her up with one hand, her warm weight tucked against his hip. His boots dangled from his other hand, swinging as he crossed the creek, water lapping at his shins. On the far bank, he set Daisy down and retrieved a rusted bucket hanging from a cedar’s low, gnarled branch. He dipped it into the creek, the surface rippling under his touch as it filled, the weight tugging at his wiry arm. “Heavy today,” he grunted, shaking water from his hand. “Better be worth it.”

The trail narrowed beyond the creek, choked by brier bushes that clawed at his clothes, their thorns snagging the loose threads of his flannel. Dallas pushed through, cursing under his breath as a particularly stubborn branch nicked his wrist. “Goddamn jungle,” he muttered, but his blue eyes glinted with a familiar thrill. Daisy trotted behind, her earlier hesitation gone, as if she sensed their destination.

The briers parted to reveal a small clearing, a secret sanctuary Dallas had cultivated all summer. In its center stood a magnificent marijuana plant, nearly six feet tall, its vibrant green leaves fanning out like a crown, its buds just beginning to swell with promise. The air here was lighter, the cedar’s gloom giving way to a pocket of sunlight that bathed the plant in a warm glow. Dallas then poured the bucket’s contents onto the soil, watching it darken as the water soaked in. He crouched, running a hand along the plant’s sturdy stem, his fingers brushing the sticky leaves.

“Lookin’ good, girl,” he murmured, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “You’re gonna be a damn queen come harvest.” Daisy tilted her head, unimpressed, and flopped onto the grass with a huff. Dallas chuckled, settling beside her, his blue eyes scanning the clearing. “Just wait, pup. This will be our biggest yield yet.”

Within’ the Pines

Dallas slung his canvas backpack over his shoulder, the weight of the rusted bucket now empty and light in his hand. The clearing’s warm glow faded behind him as he and Daisy started back along the familiar trail toward the compound. The path crunched under his boots, the air thick with the scent of cedar and damp earth. Daisy trotted ahead, her nose low, pausing to sniff at a gnarled root or a patch of ferns. The Pinelands were quiet, save for the distant trill of a bird and the rustle of leaves stirred by a faint breeze. But something felt off—a prickle at the back of Dallas’s neck.

He shook it off, “Just the woods playin’ tricks,” he muttered to Daisy, who flicked an ear but kept moving. The trail wound through the cedar swamp, the light dimming as the canopy thickened, shadows pooling around twisted roots that snagged at his boots. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see nothing but feeling the weight of unseen eyes. The air grew heavier, the silence deeper, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig underfoot.

Then it came—a rustling in the underbrush, sharp and deliberate, just off the trail. Dallas froze, his heart kicking up a notch. Daisy’s ears perked, her body tensing as she stared into the dense foliage. “Easy, girl,” he whispered, his hand dropping to the knife at his belt. Bears were rare in these parts, and the Pinelands were more likely to harbor deer or foxes than predators. Still, the sound was too heavy for a squirrel, too purposeful for the wind. He squinted into the green tangle, his blue eyes narrowing, breath shallow. The rustling stopped, leaving an eerie stillness that made his skin crawl.

He was about to move on, chalking it up to nerves, when a flash of white broke through the trees. Dallas’s breath caught. There, standing in a shaft of filtered sunlight, was a white stag, its coat gleaming like moonlight against the forest’s muted greens and browns. Its antlers curved gracefully, intricate as wrought iron, and its dark eyes locked with Dallas’s for a fleeting moment. Time seemed to pause, the air thick with an unspoken connection, a pulse of something ancient and wild. Daisy whined softly, her tail low, but Dallas was transfixed, his heart pounding with a mix of awe and unease.

Then the stag bolted, its form a blur as it vanished into the trees. “What the hell,” Dallas breathed, his voice barely audible. Curiosity sank its hooks into him, overriding the caution that tugged at his gut. “C’mon, Daisy,” he said, veering off the trail, his boots sinking into the soft earth. Daisy hesitated, her paws rooted to the path, but a sharp whistle from Dallas brought her trotting reluctantly after him.

The forest grew denser, the cedars and pines closing in, their branches clawing at his flannel as he pushed through thickets of brambles and ferns. The stag’s ghostly form flickered ahead, always just out of reach, a pale specter weaving through the trees. Dallas’s pulse raced, frustration creeping in as the trail became a maze of roots and undergrowth. Ducking under a low branch. Sweat beaded on his brow, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead, driven by a need he couldn’t name.

At last, the stag vanished entirely, swallowed by the forest’s depths. Dallas stopped, chest heaving, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Gone,” he said, half to himself, half to Daisy, who panted beside him. The forest was silent again, the air heavy with the scent of moss and decay. He straightened, scanning the trees, and his eyes fell to the forest floor. There, nestled among the gnarled roots of an ancient cedar, were mushrooms unlike any he’d seen. Their caps shimmered with bioluminescence hues of blue and purple, their undersides dusted with delicate pink spores. The stems were thick, mostly white but bruised with faint blue streaks, as if the forest itself had painted them. They looked otherworldly, like relics from a dream.

Dallas crouched, his wiry frame folding as he inspected them closely. He’d dabbled in foraging—enough to know chanterelles from death caps—but these didn’t match anything in his mental catalog. Their strange beauty was intoxicating, pulling at him like the stag’s gaze. “What the hell,” he muttered, plucking one and turning it in his hand. The texture was firm, the scent earthy with a faint, bitter edge. Daisy sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling, and let out a low whine. “Don’t gimme that look,” Dallas said, shooting her a grin. “I know exactly what these are.” 

Before doubt could take hold, he bit into the mushroom, the flesh yielding with a soft crunch, its taste earthy and slightly bitter, lingering on his tongue. He chewed slowly, his blue eyes fixed on the shimmering cap and blue streaks, then stuffed the rest of the mushrooms into his backpack, their strange glow muffled by the canvas. “Let’s go, girl,” he said, standing and brushing dirt from his jeans. Daisy trotted nervously at his side, her ears pinned as they resumed their trek, the forest’s shadows stretching long and dark around them.

An Unexpected Trip

Dallas and Daisy began their walk through the dense pines on the familiar sandy trail back home, the forest's hush wrapping around them like a blanket. The air was still thick with the scent of pine and earth, but something hummed in Dallas's veins—a subtle buzz that made his steps feel lighter, almost buoyant. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers, and for a moment, they seemed to shimmer, the lines in his palms twisting like living vines. “Weird,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Must be the heat gettin’ to me.” Daisy trotted beside him, her ears perked, but she kept glancing up with wide eyes, as if sensing the shift before he did.

As they pressed on, the trail seemed to shift under his boots, the once-familiar path warping like a ribbon in the wind. His senses sharpened unnaturally—the crunch of pine needles amplified to thunderous cracks, the rustle of leaves a symphony of whispers. Then it blurred, edges softening, the world tilting on its axis. Colors grew vivid, the greens of the pines bleeding into one another like wet paint, swirling in hypnotic patterns that made his head spin. “Whoa, girl,” Dallas said, his voice echoing strangely in his ears. He reached out to steady himself against a trunk, but his hand passed through it like smoke, or so it felt. Panic flickered, but curiosity drowned it out. His hands looked foreign now, the skin rippling like water, the blue veins pulsing like rivers under his pale flesh.

A hot summer breeze swept through, but it turned icy mid-gust, raising goosebumps on his arms and sending a shiver down his spine. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he whispered, rubbing his arms. Daisy whimpered, pressing her warm body against his leg, her tail tucked low. “Easy, girl,” he said, kneeling to scratch behind her ears, but his voice sounded distant, as if spoken underwater, muffled and echoing from a great depth. “It’s just... just a bad mushroom or somethin’. We’ll be home soon.”

The sky darkened abruptly, clouds rolling in with unnatural speed, blotting out the sun like ink spilling across paper. The trail dimmed, shadows pooling like spilled oil, stretching long and twisted across the path. A rustling in the distance snapped his head up, the sound sharp and intrusive amid the haze. “You hear that, Daisy?” he murmured, his heart picking up pace. Something moved through the trees—fast, deliberate, and utterly wrong, its form a blur that defied the forest's logic. Dallas froze, his pulse hammering in his ears, a drumbeat that drowned out everything else.

His first thought was the white stag from earlier, that ghostly apparition leading him astray. But then another sighting appeared, closer this time—a glimpse of a scaly tail, forked and sinuous, vanishing behind a gnarled trunk. The scales gleamed with an iridescent sheen, shifting colors from emerald to obsidian in the fading light. “No way,” Dallas breathed, his blue eyes widening. “That ain’t no deer.” Fear clawed at his chest, cold and insistent, but the trip pulled him forward, the colors pulsing brighter around the spot where it had vanished.

He stepped to the trail’s edge, peering into the gloom, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The creature darted again, its movements jerky yet precise, like a predator stalking prey through the underbrush. Dallas caught more details—a body armored in overlapping scales, ridged and jagged, with leathery wings folded against its sides, hints of claws scraping the earth.

“Daisy, stay close,” he whispered, backing away slowly, his hand fumbling for the knife at his belt. The mutt growled low, her hackles raised, but she stuck to his side like glue. Silence fell then, heavy and oppressive, as if the forest held its breath, the vivid colors muting to a sickly pallor. Dallas’s vision swam, the trees leaning in like conspirators. 

Then, with a guttural snarl that rattled his bones, the creature lunged from the shadows. It exploded into view, its wings unfurling with a thunderous snap, blocking what little light remained and casting the world into eclipse. The scales rippled as it moved, its eyes glowing like embers in the dark, fangs bared in a maw that dripped with shadow. Dallas stumbled back, his vision fracturing into kaleidoscopic shards—scales blending with pines, wings swirling into the sky. 

He fell backward, but the ground never came. Instead, he plummeted into a void, darkness swallowing him whole, the creature’s roar echoing into nothingness. His body tumbled in the center of the abyss, slowly falling through endless black, the cold biting deeper than any winter. Until a pinprick of light appeared far above, growing like a distant star. From it, a hand reached out—pale, ethereal, beckoning. Dallas grabbed it, desperation overriding thought, his fingers closing around it as the void pulled tighter.

Dallas jolted awake on the sandy trail, sprawled in the dirt, his blonde hair matted with pine needles and earth. Daisy was there instantly, her rough tongue licking his face, her warm breath a tether pulling him back from the abyss. The forest around him warped at the edges, trees bending in impossible arcs, but overhead, the sky was a clear, unyielding blue, mocking his disorientation. His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, and his mouth tasted of bitter earth and lingering mushroom spores. “What the fuck was that?” he muttered, his voice hoarse and trembling. He pushed himself up on shaky arms, spitting out grit. “Daisy, girl... you okay?”

Daisy whined, her eyes wide with concern, pressing her body against his leg as if to steady him. The world tilted again, the trail blurring beneath his boots like melting wax. “Shit, it’s startin’ up again,” Dallas groaned, scooping her up into his arms, her scrappy weight a comforting anchor. He bolted forward, legs pumping despite the haze, the trees leaning in like ancient sentinels, their branches whispering secrets in a language he couldn’t decipher—hisses of wind that sounded almost like words, calling, urging. “Hang on, pup. We gotta get outta here.”

Driven by raw instinct, he veered off the path, the cold breath of something unseen prickling at his neck, a phantom chill that raised the hairs on his arms. Then, in the vast distance, it appeared again—the white stag, its ethereal form shimmering like a mirage born from the forest’s deepest memories. It stood regal, antlers branching like the roots of the world tree, its gaze locking onto his with an ancient, ritualistic pull. It wasn’t just a deer; it was a call from nature itself, a summons echoing through time, drawing him like a pilgrim to a forgotten shrine.

Dallas breathed, his voice laced with awe. “There she is, Daisy!” The stag turned slowly, its movements deliberate, almost ceremonial, and glided deeper into the woods. Compelled by that primal force, Dallas chased after it, branches snapping underfoot like ritual drums, his heart pounding in sync with the earth’s hidden rhythm. “Wait up, damn it!” he called, but the stag took off as he approached, a ghostly guide leading him through the tangled undergrowth.

The pursuit felt timeless, an ancient rite unfolding in the Pinelands’ heart. The stag’s path wove through dense pines and cedars, their trunks twisting as if alive, roots surfacing like veins of the forest floor. Finally, Dallas burst onto a sandy trail that unfurled before him, guiding him to a hidden clearing—a natural amphitheater where towering pines and gnarled cedars encircled a small, crystal-blue pond. The trees’ roots grew intertwined, arching and weaving as if they had sculpted the structure themselves over centuries, forming a sacred cradle for the water that gleamed like liquid sapphire under the sun.

Dallas followed the trail, his chest heaving, he set Daisy down gently and leaned against a cedar trunk, its bark soaked, despite weeks without rain, He walked towards the bluehole, reassuring against his sweat-slicked back. “What is this?” he gasped, wiping his brow. The stag paused at the back trail’s clearing’s edge, its white coat radiant, then calmly walked into the woods and disappeared in an instant, as if dissolving into the ether. Dallas’s heart slowed, the world steadying around him, the warping haze lifting like a veil. “It brought us here. Like it was meant to be.” He walked to the edge clearing and gave a look into the bluehole, it’s shimmering color looked like stars on a clear day. 

But peace was fleeting. A flash of color caught his eye—a triple-headed timber rattle snake, slithering sinuously over his boot. “What the fuck!” he yelped, jumping back in shock. His foot caught on an exposed cedar root, thick and gnarled like the hand of the forest itself, and he stumbled backward. Arms windmilling, he tumbled over the sandy cliff edging the bluehole, plunging into the pond below with a resounding splash, the cool water enveloping him in a shocking embrace.