They say time takes everything — wood rots, nails rust, walls fall.
But not Carver’s barn.

Built nearly a century ago, it should have collapsed long ago, yet it leans and groans like something that refuses to die. Carver has tried to tear it down. His tools snap, his saws bend, the wounds in the wood close as if the barn heals itself.

And at night, the sounds begin. Hammers striking. Beams dragging across the dirt. Voices, low and eager, counting in whispers. The barn is still building.

The animals know it too. Cows refuse to cross the fence line, eyes rolling at shadows that slither along the ground. And the corn… the corn has turned against him. Stalks knot into walls, rows fold back on themselves, and in the half-light they move. They move like workers.

Carver swears he has seen them. Shapes stepping from the corn, their bodies half-formed, bent like straw and bone, carrying timber into the barn. When he turns to look, they vanish. Yet each dawn, the barn is larger than the night before.

The land itself is bending to the barn’s will. And soon, it will need more than wood.

First you must escape the maze it has sown.
 

Then you’ll step inside its walls.
 

And if you return at all, you will not return unchanged.