The camera clicked, capturing the stark silhouettes of seven twisted, barren trees atop the lonely hill. Their skeletal branches clawed at the overcast sky, whispering secrets to the wind.

Locals called them The Seven Sisters—a name steeped in folklore and fear. Long ago, seven witches gathered on this very hill, brewing potions and casting curses upon anyone who dared to cross them. One fateful night, as legend tells, a storm unlike any other raged through the valley. Lightning struck, and when the villagers dared to look again, the witches were gone. In their place, seven gnarled trees had taken root, their limbs forever reaching as if still weaving spells into the air.

The photographer adjusted his lens, drawn by the eerie beauty of the scene. But as he took another shot, a strange chill gripped him. The wind howled through the twisted trunks, whispering a name he didn’t recognize. He stepped back. Had the trees… moved?

The camera slipped from his hands, shattering against the cold, hard earth. The whispers grew louder. And in the reflection of his broken lens, he saw them—seven shadowy figures standing beneath the trees, watching.

The Seven Sisters were never just trees.

And no one ever left the hill the same.