MyniQ

The sun was setting over Max Yasgur's dairy farm in Bethel, New York, casting a golden glow over the rolling hills. But amidst the peaceful atmosphere, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. It was August 1969, and Woodstock Music Festival was about to unleash its dark side.

I had arrived at the festival with a group of friends, eager to experience the iconic music and counterculture that defined our generation. But as we made our way through the crowded fields, I began to feel a creeping sense of dread. The air was thick with smoke, and the smell of incense wafted through the crowds like a malignant presence.

As night fell, the music started, and the crowd surged forward, driven by the primal energy of Jimi Hendrix's guitar riffs and Janis Joplin's soulful wails. But beneath the surface, something was stirring – a dark, malevolent force that seemed to be feeding on our collective madness. I felt it in my bones, a chill that ran deeper than any summer breeze.

And then, it happened. A young couple stumbled through the crowd, their eyes wild with terror. They spoke of a figure they had seen – tall, gaunt, and imposing – lurking just beyond the edge of the festival grounds. I tried to brush it off as mere paranoia, but deep down, I knew that we were not alone in those woods.