The path may be gone, but Olivia doesn't need one anymore; the most she has to do is step carefully to avoid any roots or brambles. Her flashlight stays up, the gun joining it soon after.

As they move closer, the twisted silhouette of the tree becomes much more apparent.

Worse, so does the glimmer: it's taken on a sheen like oily, brackish water, shivering in violent patterns that make bile rise in Olivia's throat.

Quietly, to Will: "I think we're about another fifty feet out."