The Shack In The Pines

"Turn left," the voice on my GPS instructed. I eased my car to a stop, squinting at the dirt path it wanted me to take. It was barely visible in the weak wash of my headlights and rain. Ahead, the main road stretched on endlessly, winding like a ribbon through the forest. I hesitated, the empty night pressing in from all sides.
The GPS insisted it would save me three hours. It was midnight and I was getting tired.
I glanced at the clock and sighed. Three hours was too much to waste. Pulling over, I checked my phone; 3% battery. Not enough to argue. I had forgotten my charger back at my friend’s house I was visiting. Meant to grab another at the gas station but forgot. Stupid. Rummaging through my car I found nothing useful. 2%.
Reluctantly, I turned and followed the directions.
Gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled onto the dirt path, the forest closing in tighter with every yard. The branches leaned over the road and scraped against my car like they wanted to peel it open. My grip tightened on the wheel. The road stretched endlessly ahead as it grew smaller and bumpier, the headlights swallowing more shadow than ground.
And then the phone died. Just like that—black screen, no GPS, nothing.
I cursed under my breath and slammed the brakes. My headlights caught the edges of a shack—crooked and decaying, its windows boarded up, the roof bowed as if the forest itself was crushing it. I threw the car into reverse, eager to get back to the main road, but when I looked in the mirror, my stomach dropped. The road was gone. Behind me was nothing but trees, dense, tangled, and unbroken. No gravel, no dirt, just an endless wall of black trunks
I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering in my ears. Turning back to the shack, I froze.
A light flickered on in the window.