I once stalked the abandoned salt mines in the Carpathians, deep beneath the cracked earth. The air was thick with a chill that made the hair on my arms stand up, and every echo sounded like footsteps of the dead. Walking through those tunnels with only a flare and my instincts was pure solitude turned nightmare, but it carved a story into my memory that even a GPS can’t map.

The darkness was thick enough you could taste it. I kept my torch low, just enough to see the cracks, because too bright would have felt like staring straight into the belly of a beast. Every step echoed off the stone walls, a low, breathing rhythm that made me feel like a ghost myself. It was terrifying, but also oddly reverent—like the place was keeping a secret and I was the only one allowed to listen. The wind that came out when the mine opened a crack carried that hush back out, and I swear it still lingers in my thoughts when the city noise gets too loud.