Scarf

A trail of abandoned equipment marked the route of the doomed expedition. The scarf, forlornly fluttering from a gate. The single shoe, broken and beached in the gutter. The glove, impaled, dripping, on a railing, its upraised fingers beckoning the unwise traveller onwards, ever onwards.

And waiting at the end of the trail (at the car park near the library) like a panther in the darkness or a spider at the centre of its web, lurked Doom itself.