Deep within the yew and cottonwoods, the beast waited. His red eyes began to glow as the sun set, and the darkness overtook the woods. If you listen carefully, you can hear his nails scrape against the bark of the trees, just waiting for someone to get close enough to strike. And if he strikes, if he gets you, then all they will ever find is a single lock of hair. Nothing more, nothing less, no matter how long they search.
That’s what they say of Anson Woods, anyways. Not even the tourists dare to go. It’s that spooky.