There's something in the forest cutting off people's hands and fixing them to a tree. That's enough, right? Enough to make you head for the car at first light.
For now you're locked in the trailer, you've tied a line from handle to sink so the door can't be opened even if the lock fails, you're clutching the kitchen knife as you huddle in the corner sweating and willing your heartbeat to slow. You're waiting it out, hoping it can't get in, hoping it doesn't even know you're here, didn't hear the car, didn't smell the smoke from the campfire, didn't see you panicked and running through the forest and tripping and falling while you were scrambling towards the safety of the trailer.
But you don't know the worst part, Amy. You've missed it. There's an odd number of hands on the tree. There's thirteen. Where's the fourteenth hand, Amy?