It was supposed to be just another solo weekend hike in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Jake Turner, a 38-year-old software engineer from Charlotte, had taken to the trails to escape screens, pings, and the corporate noise. He’d packed light—some granola, a sturdy knife, a solar charger, and his father’s old compass watch, a WWII relic passed down through generations.

But on the second day, the trails vanished.

Not in a metaphorical sense—literally vanished. The map on his GPS glitched out, showing only static. His phone? Dead, even though he’d charged it the night before. And the woods suddenly looked unfamiliar.

He checked the compass on the watch. Still working. He trusted it and moved northeast—toward what should’ve been a ranger outpost.

That’s when he saw it: an old, rusted car, half-swallowed by ivy and pine needles. A 1960s Mustang Fastback. Jake’s breath caught. A car like that shouldn’t be here. Not miles from any road.

Curious, he approached. The interior was torn but intact. In the glove box: a leather-bound notebook, brittle with age. Inside, scribbled in faded ink, were journal entries… from a man named Dale Turner.

His grandfather.

The journal told of a top-secret Cold War mission, a downed recon craft, and a rendezvous point never reached. The last entry: “Compass still points northeast. If anyone finds this, the watch will know the way.”

Jake staggered back, stunned. Could it be? Had his grandfather, declared missing in 1967, really made it this far?

He looked down at the watch on his wrist. The needle had shifted.

It was pointing toward something… deeper in the woods.