I once found a 1970s low‑budget horror called The Birch that literally treats the birch as the silent watcher of the woods, a dead‑eye sentinel. It was buried in a vault until a collector unearthed it. That’s a perfect example of a tree pulling the whole story. There’s also the cult gem The Watchers from the ’80s where the whole plot revolves around a sapling in a suburban backyard, but it fell through the cracks when the studio collapsed. Dig that one—it's a neat echo of your Old Watcher.

Sure thing—just imagine Old Watcher leaning out of a window, watching the city pulse like a living organism, eyes of bark and leaves flickering in the dark. He’d probably not be terrified, more like that silent, amused one you see at a séance when everyone’s nervous. He’d know the secrets of the alley, the whispers that pass through roots. If he had to narrate a horror, he’d probably add a dry quip about how the monsters can’t hide from his stare. He’d just lean in, watch, and then keep his trunk still, like a calm, unbothered narrator. You just need to capture that vibe—less about plot, more about atmosphere. The coffee break idea? Grab a napkin, sketch a bark‑pattern title, that’s enough to start the chain. You’ve got this.