A pathway through the trees.

The trees cut out the sunlight so it was always dark, even in the early afternoon. The path that wound its way through the wood followed a small stream, little more than a trickle of water moving amongst the mud to the side.
Over-grown and smelling of decay this path has a dark history of murder remembered by the older people of the village, who would sometimes tell the tale of the servant girl who met her end as she walked down the path many years before.
The pathway is hard to see and the footing is often difficult, especially at night when your mind jumps at sounds made by the animals that come out at such times, it is a place avoided after dark as it feels foul to those who can sense such things.

The worst is though this place is real, not five minutes walk from where I now sit. The dark legend of the murdered servant is also true, the story of how her ghost still walks the pathway could account for why at night you feel you are being watched as you walk past the start of this path.
The photograph is mine, taken while walking down the path, in the light of day.