Let me tell you a story.
It’s about the abandoned house in the woods behind the camp. They say someone lives there; well, not someone. Something.
It starts with the dreams. First, you see him staring at you from the woods, a mere shadow. Then the next night you see his jagged smile and dark, hollowed eyes. The sand upon the ground where he stood. He begins to whisper to you in the dreams; he says to come find him in the forest. At the old house. He will grant your wish; all your deepest desires will come true.
He is from where the arid sand stretches as far as the eye can see. When he rose from the sand, it fell from his body. He is of it and from it; the sand still falls from him though he is now living in the woods.
You bring a friend, but they can’t see the flickering light in the house. They turn back. You follow the light, transfixed. The Sandman is there. He’s the last thing you see before he plucks your eyes from your head and eats them. The eyes of a clairvoyant—only they can see his lure. Then you wander in his realm without sight as he feeds off your aura of fear. Your body becomes sand, and he absorbs you. Of the sand and from it. Beware the Sandman and pray you can’t see the light.