Ahead a silver gate glistens in the hedgerow. One you swear you have never seen before though you have walked this path on countless occasions, both day and night. It shines with a high polish, unearthly in the moonlight as if the gate itself emits a glow. You pause before it, gazing through it into the pooling shadows beneath the trees.
Something glides between two ancient, moss-covered standing stones. A shiver cuts down your spine. It may be just mist, just a wisp of fog carried on the breeze, yet it moves slower than the wind, floating gracefully instead of tossed upon the rowdy breeze.
You lean closer, and against your better judgment, your hand brushes the gate. A shock of strange power jolts through you as the gate swings open. The wind whips up and snatches your hat from your head.
You stumble forward, flailing for it, and in one misguided step, you are on the wrong side of the hedge. Your feet leave the hard-packed road, worn by centuries of travelers, and sink into the cold, damp moss of the forest floor.