"The Carvings in the Adirondacks":
I’ve been a park ranger in the Adirondacks for over a decade, patrolling the endless trails and dense forests that stretch across millions of acres. The job is usually predictable—guiding lost hikers, checking campsites, watching for signs of bear activity. But there are moments, rare and unsettling, that stick with you, like a shadow you can’t shake. Last summer, I had one of those moments, during a search for two missing teens on the Northville-Placid Trail. What I found out there wasn’t just strange—it was the kind of thing that makes you question what people are capable of in the middle of nowhere.
It started with a call to the ranger station just after noon. The phone was crackling, the voice on the other end frantic. Two seventeen-year-olds, a girl and a boy, hadn’t checked in after a weekend hike. Their parents said they were experienced, knew the trails, always carried a map and compass. But their phones were off, and no one had heard from them in two days. My partner, Jake, was at the station with me, cleaning his boots and sipping coffee. He looked up when I hung up the phone, his eyebrows raised. “Trouble?” he asked.
“Missing kids,” I said, grabbing my pack. “Northville-Placid Trail. Parents are freaking out.”
Jake cursed under his breath, but he was already moving, tossing his coffee in the sink and slinging his gear over his shoulder. We loaded up with the essentials—radios, maps, first aid kits, flashlights, and enough water and food for a long haul. The Northville-Placid Trail is no joke, over 130 miles of rugged path winding through some of the wildest parts of the Adirondacks. It’s beautiful, but unforgiving. One wrong turn, and you’re lost in a sea of trees with no cell signal.
We hit the trailhead by 1 p.m., moving fast but methodical. The forest was dense, pine and birch crowding the path, their branches knitting together overhead. Every few steps, we’d stop to check for signs—broken twigs, scuffed dirt, a scrap of fabric. Nothing. Hours ticked by, and the deeper we went, the quieter it got. No birds chirping, no squirrels skittering. Just the crunch of our boots and the occasional hum of insects. Jake was ahead, scanning the ground, his map folded in his hand. “They couldn’t have gone too far off,” he said, more to himself than me. “Kids like that, they stick to the trail, right?”
“Maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen hikers get cocky, think they knew the woods better than they did. I kept my eyes on the underbrush, looking for any clue—a footprint, a dropped water bottle. My gut was tight, not just from worry about the kids, but from something else, something I couldn’t name yet.
By dusk, we were about twenty miles in, way deeper than most hikers venture. The trail was barely a suggestion here, just a faint line of packed earth swallowed by ferns and roots. I was about to call for a break when I caught a whiff of something strange. Not the usual forest smells of damp earth or pine sap, but something sharp, like sawdust or freshly cut wood. I stopped dead, holding up a hand. Jake froze behind me. “You smell that?” I asked, turning my head to pinpoint it.
He sniffed the air, his brow furrowing. “Yeah. What is that? Nobody’s logging out here.”
We followed the scent, stepping off the trail into a thicket of brambles that tugged at our pants. The forest seemed to tighten around us, branches scraping our arms, leaves brushing our faces like fingers. My heart was beating faster now, though I didn’t know why. After a few minutes of pushing through, the trees parted, and we stepped into a clearing. It was maybe thirty feet wide, unnaturally flat, like someone had leveled it with care. The ground was bare, swept clean of leaves or pine needles, which didn’t make sense this deep in the woods.
In the center of the clearing was a pile of sticks, maybe a dozen of them, each about two feet long. They weren’t just broken branches—they were carved, covered in jagged, spiraling lines, like someone had spent hours with a knife. The cuts were fresh, the wood still pale, almost glowing in the fading light. Around the clearing, the trees had similar markings—deep slashes in the bark, forming shapes that looked random but deliberate, like a code I couldn’t crack. My stomach churned. This wasn’t a hiker’s camp. This was something else.
“What the hell is this?” Jake said, his voice low. He took a step toward the pile, but I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” I said. “Just… don’t touch anything yet.” My eyes were scanning the clearing, catching on something that made my breath catch. Hanging from a low branch, tied with a thin piece of rope, was a teddy bear. It was small, no bigger than my hand, with matted brown fur and one black button eye missing. The rope was knotted tight around its neck, like a noose, and it dangled there, swaying slightly, though I couldn’t feel any breeze.
Jake swore under his breath, stepping back. “Who does this? Who comes out here and does… this?” His voice was shaky, and I could see his hand hovering near his radio, like he was ready to call for backup.
“I don’t know,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “But it’s fresh. Look at the cuts. This wasn’t here long.” I crouched near the pile of sticks, careful not to touch them. The carvings weren’t random scratches—they were precise, almost artistic, like someone had taken their time. The smell of cut wood was stronger here, sharp enough to sting my nose. I stood up, my skin prickling. It felt like the clearing was watching us, like the trees themselves had eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jake said, his eyes darting to the shadows beyond the clearing. “We need to find those kids.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. We marked the coordinates on the map, radioed the station with a quick report, and kept moving. Every step away from that clearing felt heavier, like the air was thicker, pressing against my chest. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone—or something—standing in the trees. Jake tried to break the tension. “Bet it’s just some weirdo playing a prank,” he said, forcing a laugh. “You know, like those kids who leave creepy stuff to freak people out.”
“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. Pranks don’t happen thirty-five miles into the wilderness. You don’t carry a teddy bear that far just to hang it from a tree.
It was almost dark when we found the kids, about twenty miles east of the clearing. They were huddled under a tarp, their faces pale and streaked with dirt. The girl had short brown hair and was clutching a water bottle like it was a lifeline. The boy wore glasses, his hoodie torn at the sleeve. They jumped when they saw us, relief flooding their faces. “Thank God,” the girl said, her voice cracking. “We thought we were gonna die out here.”
“What happened?” I asked, handing them water and granola bars from my pack. They drank greedily, their hands shaking.
“We got lost,” the boy said, wiping his mouth. “Took a wrong turn a couple days ago. Kept trying to find the trail, but it was like… the woods kept changing.”
The girl nodded, her eyes wide. “Then we found that place. The one with the sticks and the bear.” She shivered, pulling her knees to her chest. “It was so weird. We didn’t know what to do, so we just ran. Kept running until we couldn’t hear it anymore.”
“Hear what?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. Jake shot me a look, but I ignored him.
“I don’t know,” the boy said, glancing at the girl. “It was like… footsteps, maybe. Or branches moving. We didn’t see anyone, but it felt like someone was there, you know? Like they were watching us.”
The girl hugged herself tighter. “That bear… it was so creepy. Who puts something like that out here? We weren’t going back that way, no matter what.”
I didn’t tell them we’d seen it too. Didn’t tell them how it made my skin crawl, how I couldn’t stop picturing that one-eyed teddy bear swinging from the rope. We got them warmed up, checked for injuries—nothing serious, just cuts and bruises—and started the long trek back to the trailhead. Their parents were waiting at the station, crying and hugging them like they’d come back from the dead. Jake and I gave our report, left out the part about the clearing. No need to scare anyone more than they already were.
But I couldn’t let it go. A week later, I went back alone. I don’t know what I was looking for—answers, maybe, or proof that it wasn’t as bad as I remembered. I hiked the twenty miles to the coordinates, my pack heavy on my shoulders, the forest as quiet as a grave. When I reached the clearing, my heart sank. It was still there, but it wasn’t the same. The pile of sticks was gone, scattered across the ground like someone had kicked it apart. The carvings on the trees were faded, the edges softened, like someone had tried to erase them. The rope still hung from the branch, but the teddy bear was gone, leaving just a frayed loop swaying in the air.
I stood there, my radio silent in my hand, the smell of cut wood faint but lingering. No one else had been out here—no rangers, no hikers. The station would’ve known. Whoever made that clearing, whoever cleaned it up, they didn’t want to be found. I turned and hiked out, faster than I needed to, my boots pounding the dirt. I haven’t been back to that spot since, but sometimes, deep in the woods, I catch that sharp, sawdust smell. And I wonder if they’re still out there, carving their sticks, hanging their ropes, waiting for someone else to stumble across their work.
“The Pale One”:
I’ve been a park ranger in the Adirondacks for nearly a decade, and I thought I’d seen it all—lost hikers, bear encounters, even the occasional drunk causing trouble. But there’s one night that haunts me, one I can’t explain, no matter how hard I try. It was late in the season, and I was stationed at a small outpost, a wooden cabin with a radio, a heater, and enough supplies to last a week. It was just me that night, the other rangers off duty or at another post. The radio crackled around 9 p.m., shattering the quiet.
It was a hiker named Tom, his voice shaking so bad I could barely make out his words. He said his group of four was lost, deep in the forest, miles from any marked trail. They’d been hiking for days, a backcountry trip gone wrong, and now they were scared. “Someone’s out here,” Tom whispered, his voice cutting in and out. “They’re following us. Please, you gotta help.” My chest tightened. I told him to stay calm, share their coordinates, and huddle together. I’d find them. Grabbing my pack—flashlight, knife, first-aid kit, and a radio—I headed out, my heart already racing.
The forest was pitch black, the kind of dark that swallows your flashlight beam. The coordinates pointed to a spot about four miles out, near an old logging road that hadn’t been used in years. I knew the area—dense, overgrown, easy to get turned around in. As I moved, my boots crunched on the ground, every snap of a twig making me pause. Tom’s words kept replaying in my head: Someone’s following us. Could be a hunter, I told myself, or another hiker. But the way he said it, the fear in his voice, made my gut twist.
It took nearly two hours to reach them. My flashlight caught four figures in a small clearing, their silhouettes hunched against a fallen log. Tom, tall with glasses and a red beanie, was pacing, his breath visible in the cold air. Lisa, a short woman with a braid, clutched her pack like a lifeline. Emma, younger, maybe early twenties, had her knees pulled up, rocking slightly. Jake, broad-shouldered with a scruffy beard, stood with a stick in his hand, like he was ready to swing at something.
“You the ranger?” Tom asked, his voice hoarse as I approached.
“Yeah,” I said, shining my light on them. “You all okay? Anyone hurt?”
“No, we’re just… freaked out,” Lisa said, her eyes darting to the trees. “We saw someone out there. He was watching us.”
I frowned, scanning the darkness. “Watching? What’d he look like?”
“He was tall,” Jake cut in, gripping his stick tighter. “Thin. Just standing there, maybe sixty feet away, in the shadows. Didn’t say a word, didn’t move. Just… stared.”
Emma nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “His face was wrong. Too pale. Like he wasn’t… normal.”
I didn’t like that. I’d heard stories from other rangers—hikers seeing figures in the woods, people who didn’t act right. Most were explained away: lost campers, drifters, or just shadows playing tricks. But something about their fear felt real. “Let’s get you back to the outpost,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It’s safer there. Stick close and move fast.”
They grabbed their packs, falling in behind me. Tom kept muttering about how they’d taken a wrong turn two days ago, their map useless in the dense forest. Lisa said they’d heard noises the night before—twigs snapping, low murmurs, like someone was circling their camp. I listened, nodding, but my eyes were on the trees, my flashlight sweeping back and forth. The forest was too quiet, no owls, no rustling animals. Just our footsteps and breathing.
We’d gone maybe a mile when I heard it—a low, guttural sound, like a dog growling but deeper, more human. I stopped, raising a hand. “Hear that?” I whispered.
Emma’s eyes went wide. “That’s it. That’s what we heard last night.”
My hand went to the knife on my belt, the weight of it reassuring but not enough. “Stay tight,” I said. “Keep moving.” We picked up the pace, the hikers stumbling over roots, their packs bouncing. The sound came again, closer, from somewhere to our left. I swung my flashlight, but it only caught branches swaying in the dark. My heart was hammering now, and I could hear Lisa’s breath hitching, like she was trying not to cry.
“Almost there,” I said, more to myself than them. The outpost was maybe two miles away, its lights a faint promise through the trees. But then Jake froze, pointing to the right. “There!” he hissed.
I turned, and my flashlight caught it—a figure, just at the edge of the beam. Tall, unnaturally thin, standing still as a statue. Its face was pale, almost glowing in the dark, and its eyes… they didn’t blink. They were dark, empty, locked on us. My stomach lurched. This wasn’t a hiker. Not a hunter. Not anything I’d seen before.
“Keep moving,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “Don’t look at it.” But they were frozen, staring. Tom’s hands were shaking so bad he dropped his water bottle. Emma whimpered, backing into Lisa.
The figure didn’t move, but I could feel its eyes on us, heavy, like a weight. I stepped in front of the group, gripping my knife. “Go!” I barked, and they snapped out of it, scrambling forward. I kept my light on the figure as we moved, and it stayed there, watching, until the trees swallowed it.
We were running now, branches snagging at our clothes. The outpost was close, maybe a mile. But the figure was moving too, keeping pace, always just out of clear sight. I caught glimpses—tattered clothes, long arms, hands that looked wrong, fingers too long and curled. It didn’t make a sound, didn’t call out, just glided through the trees like a shadow.
“What is it?” Lisa whispered, her voice breaking.
“I don’t know,” I said, dodging a low branch. “Just keep going.”
Jake was muttering again, something about how they should’ve stayed at the clearing, how this was a mistake. “Shut up,” I snapped, my fear boiling over. “You wanna stay out here, be my guest.” He went quiet, but I could feel his panic, all their panic, feeding mine.
The outpost lights were brighter now, maybe half a mile away. I thought we might make it. Then the figure stepped out in front of us, right on the path. It was taller than I’d realized, its head tilted at a strange angle. Its face was gaunt, mouth too wide, like it was stretched into a permanent grin. Its eyes were black, reflecting my flashlight like mirrors. It didn’t speak, just stood there, blocking our way.
Tom screamed, a raw, desperate sound. Emma stumbled back, falling into Jake, who dropped his stick. Lisa was sobbing now, clutching my arm. I pulled my knife, holding it out, though my hand was shaking. “Stay back!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
The figure tilted its head further, like it was curious. Then it took a step forward, slow, deliberate. My heart was in my throat. I waved the knife, trying to look bigger, tougher. “I said stay back!” It stopped, its eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, everything was still—us, it, the forest. Then it let out a sound, a low, rattling hiss that made my skin crawl. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t anything I knew.
Before I could react, it lunged—not at me, but past me, toward the hikers. I swung my knife, catching its arm, and it hissed again, louder, a sound that echoed in my skull. It staggered, then turned and bolted into the trees, faster than I could follow. I didn’t try. I grabbed Lisa’s arm, shouting, “Run! Now!”
We sprinted, crashing through the underbrush, the outpost lights guiding us. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn’t stop until we reached the door. I shoved it open, pushed the hikers inside, and slammed it shut, locking it with shaking hands. Inside, we collapsed, gasping, staring at each other.
“What the hell was that?” Jake finally said, his voice raw.
“I don’t know,” I said, checking the windows, my knife still in hand. “But you’re safe here. I’m calling for help.”
I grabbed the radio, reported the incident, and requested backup. My voice was steady, but my mind was racing. The hikers sat on the floor, wrapped in blankets I dug out from storage. Tom kept muttering about the figure’s face, how it wasn’t right. Lisa was crying quietly, her hands twisted in her lap. Emma stared at the wall, silent, like she was in shock. Jake paced, asking over and over if the doors were locked.
Backup took two hours to arrive—two other rangers, guys I’d worked with for years. We searched the area, our flashlights cutting through the dark, but there was nothing—no tracks, no signs, just the forest staring back. The hikers were taken to a nearby town, shaken but alive. I wrote a report, but I kept it vague. How do you explain something like that? A figure that wasn’t human, that moved like a predator, that vanished without a trace?
Later, I heard whispers from other rangers. Stories of figures in the Adirondacks, going back decades. Hikers seeing pale faces in the trees, hearing hisses in the dark. Some said they were drifters, people who’d gone feral living off the grid. Others thought they were something else, something the forest had changed. Nobody had proof, just stories that kept you up at night.
I still work as a ranger, but I’m different now. I don’t go out alone after dark, and I keep my knife closer than I used to. Sometimes, on quiet patrols, I feel it—a prickle on my neck, like I’m being watched. I don’t look into the trees too long. I’m afraid of what I might see, and I’m afraid it might see me back.
“Whispers Beyond the Tree Line”:
I’ve been a park ranger in the Adirondacks for seven years, patrolling the endless trails, checking on remote cabins, and guiding hikers who get turned around. Most days are routine—birds singing, wind rustling through the pines, the crunch of gravel under my boots. But some things I’ve seen out here don’t sit right. They linger in your mind, make you question what’s hiding in these woods. It started a few years ago during an ice storm in Essex County, and the strange encounters just kept piling up, each one creepier than the last.
It was during that ice storm, the kind that coats everything in a glassy sheen, that I first felt the unease. I was doing welfare checks on folks living deep in the park, people who don’t see neighbors for weeks. One stop was Mrs. Brown, an elderly woman who lived in a small, weathered house tucked in the shadow of Jay Range. Her place was a mile off the main road, down a narrow path lined with hemlocks. I pulled my truck up, the tires slipping on the ice, and grabbed my flashlight. The air was sharp, my breath fogging as I crunched toward her porch. Before I could knock, the door creaked open, and there she was, her face pale, her gray hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, like she’d seen something she couldn’t explain.
“You see those?” she said, her voice trembling, pointing to the ground just off the porch.
I followed her gaze. There, pressed deep into the ice, were footprints. Human, but bare—no shoes, no socks, nothing. They were huge, bigger than any man’s I’d ever seen, the toes splayed wide, like whoever made them didn’t care about the cold or the sharp edges of the ice. My stomach knotted up. Who walks barefoot in an ice storm? And why here, at the edge of nowhere?
“You didn’t hear anything last night?” I asked, crouching to get a better look. The prints were crisp, no smudging, like someone had stepped deliberately, pressing their weight into each one. They started near her woodpile and trailed toward the dark line of trees at the edge of her property.
“Nothing,” she said, pulling her sweater tight. “I went to bed early. Woke up to get wood this morning and saw them. They weren’t there when I locked up last night, I swear.”
I pulled out my phone and snapped photos, the faint glow of the screen lighting up the prints. They were unnaturally deep, like the person was heavy—really heavy—or had stood in place for a long time. I glanced at Mrs. Brown, her hands twisting together, and tried to keep my voice steady. “Stay inside, keep the doors locked. Call me if you see anything else, okay?”
She nodded, her eyes flicking to the woods. “You think someone’s out there?”
“I’ll check it out,” I said, forcing a smile. “Probably just a hiker who got lost. I’ll let you know.”
I followed the tracks, my flashlight beam bouncing off the ice. They led straight to the tree line, then just… stopped. No more prints, no broken branches, no sign of anyone turning back or veering off. It was like whoever made them stepped into the woods and disappeared. I swept the light around, my heart thumping louder than I’d like to admit. The forest was silent, not even a bird calling. I went back to my truck, the hairs on my neck standing up, and drove to the ranger station.
At the station, I showed the photos to Joe, a ranger with twenty years under his belt. He was at his desk, sipping coffee, his weathered face lit by the dim glow of a lamp. I slid my phone across to him. “Ever seen anything like this?”
He squinted at the screen, his jaw tightening. The prints looked even stranger in the photos, too perfect, too deep. He leaned back, rubbing his chin. “Not exactly,” he said, his voice low. “But you hear things out here. Hikers talk about tracks that don’t add up—human, animal, doesn’t matter. Usually, it’s nothing. Kids pulling pranks, maybe.” He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “But those… those don’t look like a prank.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Just keep your eyes open. This park’s big. Lots of places for things to hide.”
That wasn’t the end of it. A few months later, I was on patrol near Kibby Pond, a quiet spot surrounded by thick pines and marshy ground. I was checking trail markers when I spotted tracks again—not human this time, but animal. They looked like bear prints, but massive, each one twice the size of any bear I’d ever tracked. The claws dug deep into the mud, and the spacing was off, like the thing was moving slow, deliberate. They circled the pond, weaving through reeds, then stopped at the water’s edge. No splash marks, no prints leading out. Just gone.
I called Joe on the radio, my voice steady but my pulse racing. “You ever see bear tracks this big? Near Kibby Pond?”
Static crackled, then his voice came through. “Nope. Never. Could be someone messing around, carving fake tracks. But… I don’t know. Check the area, but don’t go alone if you can help it.”
“I’m already here,” I said, scanning the trees. The air felt heavy, like the forest was holding its breath. I walked the pond’s edge, looking for anything—a snapped twig, a tuft of fur—but it was clean. Too clean. I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on me, like something was just out of sight, waiting. I left faster than I usually would, my hand resting on my radio the whole way back.
Then there were the cabin break-ins near Allen Mountain. I got a call from a hiker renting one of the state cabins, a guy named Tom. He was waiting outside when I pulled up, his face pale, arms crossed tight. The cabin was small, wood-paneled, with a single door and windows locked tight. He led me inside, pointing to the mess. Chairs were tipped over, dishes stacked in odd patterns on the table—three plates in a triangle, forks balanced on top. Nothing was stolen, but the place felt wrong, like someone had been there just to leave a mark.
“You sure you locked up before you left?” I asked, shining my flashlight under the table, checking corners.
“Dead sure,” Tom said, his voice tight. “I was gone an hour, tops. Came back, and it was like this. I checked the door before I left—locked it myself.”
I examined the door. No scratches, no pry marks. The windows were intact, latches still in place. But the air inside was heavy, carrying a faint smell, like damp earth after rain. “Anything else you noticed?” I asked.
He hesitated, then said, “It felt like someone was watching me when I got back. Not close, but… out there.” He nodded toward the woods beyond the cabin.
I searched outside, circling the cabin twice. No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing. But that smell lingered, faint but unmistakable. I told Tom to stay somewhere else for the night and reported it to the station. Joe wasn’t surprised. “Happened before,” he said over the phone. “Cabins get messed with sometimes. No one ever finds anything.”
The next summer, things took a darker turn. I was patrolling near Wilcox Lake Wild Forest when a hiker flagged me down. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, named Emily, her face pale and her hands clutching her backpack straps. Her eyes kept darting to the trees, like she expected something to step out.
“I got lost last night,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Set up my tent off the trail. I heard footsteps, heavy ones, circling me. I called out, asked who was there. No answer. Then I saw… something.”
“What kind of something?” I asked, my notebook out, pen ready.
“A shape,” she said, swallowing hard. “Tall, standing just outside the light of my fire. It didn’t move, just stood there, staring. I couldn’t see a face, just… it was there. I stayed awake all night, and at first light, I packed up and ran.”
“Did it follow you?” I asked, my skin prickling.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I kept hearing things—twigs snapping, leaves crunching—but I didn’t look back.”
I walked her to the trailhead, my eyes scanning the woods. Nothing moved, no sounds but the usual forest hum. Her story stuck with me, though, because it wasn’t the first like it. Another ranger had told me about a hiker on Allen Mountain who saw a man with what he called a “thousand-yard stare.” The guy said the man watched him from the trees, silent, then crossed the trail and vanished. When the hiker reached the parking lot, his was the only car, and the trail register showed he was the last one out that day.
I started digging through old reports after that, sitting late at the station with a stack of files. There were others—rangers noting strange tracks, cabins tampered with, hikers reporting figures that didn’t act right. One report from the ‘90s caught my eye: a locket found on a trail near Jay Range, small and silver, no engraving, no owner ever claimed. It was still in the evidence locker, and I pulled it out one night, turning it over in my hands. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried something I couldn’t see. I kept it in my desk, a reminder to stay alert.
The final piece came when I ran into Ed, a ranger retiring after thirty years. He was cleaning out his locker, moving slow, like he wasn’t ready to leave. I told him about the footprints, the break-ins, Emily’s story, the locket. His face went still, his hands pausing on a stack of papers.
“You’re starting to see it,” he said, his voice low. “This park… it’s got shadows that don’t line up. People come through, leave things behind—tracks, objects, looks that make your skin crawl. You’ll never catch them, never explain it. But it’s been happening as long as I’ve been here.”
“What are they?” I asked, leaning forward.
He shook his head, zipping up his bag. “Don’t know. Never will. Just watch your back. Always.”
I still patrol the trails, check the cabins, help the hikers. But every step I take, I feel it—a weight in the air, like the woods are alive in a way they shouldn’t be. I check the ground for tracks, listen for sounds that don’t belong. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear footsteps, slow and heavy, just beyond the trees. I shine my flashlight, but there’s never anything there. Not yet. Whatever’s out there, it’s been here longer than me, and it’s not going anywhere.
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