"Silka Was Here":
I’d been coming to the Manley Hot Springs boat landing my whole life. It was our place, where the Tanana River carved through the Alaskan wilderness, wide and restless, like it was alive. Manley Hot Springs, our little village of maybe 80 people, was as off-grid as it gets—no police, no hospital, just a general store, a post office, and us, looking out for each other. We were 160 miles from Fairbanks, at the end of the Elliott Highway, where the road just stops and the wild takes over. That day, May 17, 1984, I was supposed to meet my friend Fred at the landing. He’d been talking all week about a fishing trip, maybe hauling some supplies upriver to his homestead. Fred was always planning something, his big laugh filling the store when he’d tell me about his latest idea. But my truck had other plans. The engine kept stalling, coughing like it was choking on dust. I spent an hour under the hood, cursing the spark plugs, and by the time I got it running, I was way late.
The landing was dead quiet when I pulled up. That wasn’t right. Usually, you’d hear boats clunking against the dock, folks swapping stories, or kids like Marshall Klein giggling as they tossed rocks into the water. Joyce and Lymen, Marshall’s parents, were always there with him, teaching him how to tie knots or skip stones. But today, there was nothing—just the river’s low hum and the crunch of gravel under my boots as I stepped out. I scanned for Fred’s boat, a beat-up blue thing with chipped paint he called “the old girl.” It was gone. My eyes caught something else, though, something that made my gut lurch: a smear of red on the wooden dock, bright and wet, like spilled paint but thicker, stickier. I froze, my breath catching. Nearby, a couple of brass cartridge casings glinted in the dirt, and a tackle box lay tipped over, hooks and lures scattered like someone had bolted mid-task. A fishing rod leaned against a post, its line tangled in the bushes.
“Fred?” I called, my voice sounding thin, swallowed by the river’s murmur. No answer. I stepped closer, my boots heavy, like my legs didn’t want to move. The blood trailed toward the water’s edge, smudged in places, like something—or someone—had been dragged. My heart was pounding now, a dull thump in my ears. I crouched, my fingers hovering over the stain, close enough to smell the sharp, coppery tang. That’s when I saw it, half-hidden in the bushes: a tiny blue shoe with a Velcro strap, scuffed from play. Marshall’s shoe. I knew it because I’d seen him running around in those shoes just yesterday, chasing his mom’s laughter at the store. Joyce, four months pregnant, had been glowing, talking about names for the new baby. Lymen had been there too, ruffling Marshall’s hair, proud as anything.
I stood, my knees shaky, and looked out at the river. Far off, maybe a quarter-mile, a boat was slicing through the current, moving fast. It looked like Fred’s, but the guy in it wasn’t Fred. He was tall, lean, with a dark jacket and a scruffy beard. I recognized him—the drifter who’d shown up a few days ago. I’d seen him at Mary’s store, buying canned beans, matches, and a box of rifle ammo. He’d kept his head down, his eyes sharp and cold when they met mine for a second. He’d nodded, said nothing, and paid in crumpled bills. Now he was in Fred’s boat, alone, leaning into the throttle like he was running from something—or someone.
My hands were trembling as I backed toward my truck. I needed to tell someone, anyone. The store was closest, a mile down the road, where Mary kept the only radio that could reach Fairbanks. I drove too fast, the truck rattling over potholes, my mind racing. Was Fred hurt? Was that Joyce’s blood, or Lymen’s? What about Marshall? And the others—Albert Hagen Jr., who’d just moved back after years away, or Joe McVey, the Vietnam vet with the limp who trapped upriver? Dale, the carpenter, had been talking about fixing the dock. They’d all been at the landing today, hadn’t they? The thought made my throat tight.
I burst into the store, the bell above the door jangling wildly. Mary looked up from her ledger, her glasses slipping down her nose. She was in her 50s, tough as nails, the kind who’d seen everything and didn’t scare easy.
“You okay?” she asked, squinting. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“Something’s wrong at the landing,” I said, my voice cracking. I leaned on the counter, trying to steady myself. “There’s blood, Mary. A lot of it, on the dock. Cartridge casings, a tackle box knocked over. Marshall’s shoe was in the bushes. Fred’s boat’s gone, and I saw that drifter guy in it, out on the river.”
Her face went still, her pen frozen over the ledger. “Blood? You sure it’s not… fish or something?”
“It’s not fish,” I snapped, then caught myself. “It’s human, Mary. And Marshall’s shoe—Joyce and Lymen wouldn’t leave it there. Something bad happened.”
She nodded, slow, like she was piecing it together. “Alright. Stay here.” She moved to the back, where the radio sat on a cluttered shelf. Her voice was calm but tight as she keyed the mic. “This is Manley Hot Springs, calling Fairbanks dispatch. We got a problem at the boat landing. Blood, signs of a struggle, possible missing persons. Send troopers, soon as you can.”
The wait was torture. I paced the store, my boots scuffing the worn floorboards. Mary poured me coffee, but I couldn’t drink it. I kept seeing that blood, the scattered lures, Marshall’s shoe. I thought about Fred, how he’d invited me to his place last week, showing off his new traps, joking about his bad luck with fish. Joyce had been at the store, buying yarn to knit booties for the baby. Lymen had teased her about making them too small. Albert, quiet but friendly, had been helping Dale with the dock repairs. Joe, always with a story about his trapping days, had been there too, his cane tapping as he walked. They were all part of this place, part of us. And now?
“You think it’s him?” Mary asked, breaking the silence. “That drifter?”
“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my face. “But he was in Fred’s boat. Why would he have it unless…?” I couldn’t finish the thought.
She shook her head. “He came in here three days ago. Bought supplies, didn’t talk much. Had this look, though—like he was sizing everything up.”
I nodded. I’d felt it too, that unease when he’d glanced at me. Like he saw right through you, but you couldn’t see him at all.
Hours later, the troopers arrived, their helicopter kicking up dust as it landed outside town. A few of us—me, Tom from the post office, and a couple others—went back to the landing with them. The blood was still there, darker now, soaking into the wood. Tom found a torn jacket sleeve caught on a splintered post. “Joe’s,” he said, his voice low. “He always wore that camo jacket.” One of the troopers bagged it, his face unreadable. Another found more casings, .308 rounds, the kind used for hunting—or worse. They took a boat upriver, following where I’d seen the drifter go. We stayed behind, huddled by the dock, nobody talking much. Mary showed up with a thermos of coffee, but it went untouched.
“They’ll find him,” Tom said, kicking a rock into the water. “Ain’t nowhere to hide out there.”
I wanted to believe him, but the Tanana was massive, full of twists and hidden inlets. If that guy knew the river, he could disappear. I kept picturing him out there, his cold eyes scanning the banks, Fred’s boat bobbing under him. What had he done? Why?
The next day, we heard more. The troopers had found signs of a struggle upriver—more blood, a broken oar, a shredded tarp. They’d spotted the drifter, Michael Silka, they called him, camped out in a thicket. He’d shot at them, killed one of their own, a trooper named Troy Duncan, before they gunned him down. Nine dead, they said. Fred, Joyce, Lymen, little Marshall, Albert, Joe, Dale, and two others passing through. Most of their bodies were gone, likely dragged into the river’s swift current, lost in the deep, cold water. Silka had done it all in a couple of hours, a quiet rampage that tore our world apart.
The village wasn’t the same after that. We held a memorial at the community hall, everyone bringing something—photos, a fishing lure Fred loved, a scarf Joyce had knitted. I stood by the wall, listening to folks share stories, their voices breaking. I kept seeing Marshall’s shoe, the blood on the dock, the empty landing. Living out here, we knew the risks—bears, accidents, the river’s pull. But this was different. This was one of us, or someone we’d let in, turning on us.
I don’t go to the landing anymore. I drive by sometimes, but I can’t stop. The dock’s been rebuilt, the blood scrubbed away, but it doesn’t matter. I still see it, feel it—the silence, the weight of what we lost. Out here, off-grid, we’re on our own. We trust each other because we have to. But after that day, I look at strangers different—new faces at the store, new boats on the river. I wonder what they’re carrying, what they might leave behind. Because now I know: the real danger isn’t the wilderness. It’s the ones who walk into it, quiet, watching, waiting.
"The Clearing":
I’d been itching to leave the city for years. The constant hum of traffic, the crowded sidewalks, the way everyone seemed to be in a hurry—it wore me down. I wanted quiet, space, a place where I could breathe. So when I found an ad for a cheap plot of land deep in the woods, I didn’t hesitate. It was a small clearing, miles from the nearest town, with a beat-up cabin that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. I figured I could fix it up, live off-grid, grow my own food, and just… disappear for a while. I’d spent hours scrolling through forums, reading about people who’d done it, their posts full of pictures of gardens and solar panels. It sounded like freedom. Now, looking back, I wish I’d stayed where the streets were loud and the lights never went out.
I moved in with a truck packed tight—tools, canned food, a solar panel, a water purifier, and a rifle for protection. I wasn’t a hunter, but I’d read enough to know the woods had bears, maybe coyotes. The cabin was rougher than I expected. The floorboards sagged under my weight, and the windows were so grimy I could barely see through them. It smelled like damp wood and something sour, like old food left to rot. Cobwebs clung to every corner, and the single bedroom had a mattress so stained I dragged it outside and burned it. Still, I was thrilled. This was mine. My fresh start. The first few days were busy—chopping firewood, clearing weeds for a garden, rigging up the solar panel. At night, the silence was so deep it felt like the world had stopped. I’d sit by a fire pit I’d built, staring at the stars, feeling like I’d cracked some secret to life.
But that feeling didn’t last. It was maybe the fourth night when I first sensed something wrong. I was outside by the fire pit, eating beans straight from a can, the flames casting shadows on the trees. A branch snapped in the woods—not a small twig, but a loud, sharp crack, like something heavy had stepped on it. I froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth. The woods were pitch-black, the kind of dark that swallows your flashlight beam. I grabbed the light from beside me and swept it across the trees. Nothing. Just trunks and leaves, still as a photograph. My heart was thumping, but I told myself it was an animal. I’d seen deer tracks when I arrived, even some bigger prints I figured were from a bear. But it didn’t feel like an animal. It felt like something watching me, waiting for me to look away.
I didn’t sleep well that night. Every creak of the cabin made me jump, and I kept the rifle by my bed, one hand on the stock. The next morning, I went out to check the clearing. That’s when I found the footprints. They were big—bigger than mine, with deep, clear outlines in the mud. They started at the edge of the woods and circled the cabin, slow and deliberate, like someone had been pacing around while I slept. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t seen a single person since I got here. The nearest neighbor was a two-hour hike, and the dirt road to town was so overgrown I doubted anyone used it. I followed the tracks into the woods, my boots sinking in the soft earth, but they vanished into a tangle of roots and ferns. I stood there, listening, half-expecting to hear something move. But it was just me and the trees.
I tried to shake it off. Maybe it was a hiker, I told myself, someone who got lost and stumbled across my place. But I couldn’t stop checking over my shoulder while I worked that day. I nailed boards over the worst of the windows, telling myself it was to keep out drafts, but really I just wanted fewer ways for someone to look in. That night, I locked the door—something I hadn’t bothered with before—and sat up with the rifle across my lap. Around midnight, I heard it again: snap, snap, snap. Slow, steady, circling the cabin. I crept to the window, my hands sweaty on the gun. The moonlight barely reached the clearing, but I saw something—a shadow, tall and thin, slipping behind a tree. My breath caught. I wanted to shout, to scare them off, but my voice wouldn’t come. I just stood there, staring, until the noises stopped.
The next morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know if I was imagining things or if someone was really out there. I hiked to the nearest property, a small farm with a sagging barn and a few chickens scratching in the yard. The owner, an older guy named Tom, was outside splitting wood. His dog, a wiry mutt with a missing ear, barked at me until he shushed it.
“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You ever see anyone wandering around out here?”
Tom stopped, resting the axe on his shoulder. “Wandering? What kind?”
“I don’t know. Found footprints by my cabin. Big ones. Someone’s been walking around at night, snapping branches, like they’re trying to spook me.”
He squinted at me, wiping his forehead with a rag. “Could be kids. Town’s not far, and sometimes they come out here, mess around, steal stuff. But…” He trailed off, glancing at the woods behind his barn. “There’s been talk for years. Folks say someone’s living out there, deeper in. Not like you, not some city guy playing pioneer. Someone who’s been out here a long time. Doesn’t want company.”
A chill ran through me. “What do you mean? Like a hermit?”
“Something like that,” Tom said, his voice low. “Used to be a guy, years back. Hunter, lived in a shack out there. Kept to himself, but he’d show up in town sometimes, buy ammo, never talked much. Then he stopped coming. People figured he died, but some say he’s still out there, watching. Doesn’t take kindly to new folks moving in.”
I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Sounds like something kids tell around a campfire.”
Tom didn’t smile. “Maybe. But I’ve seen things—tracks, snares, stuff that don’t look like it’s from any animal. I’d keep that rifle loaded, friend. And maybe get a dog.”
I thanked him and hiked back, my mind spinning. I didn’t believe in boogeyman stories, but Tom’s face—serious, almost worried—stuck with me. When I got to the cabin, I checked the clearing again. No new footprints, but I found something else: a small pile of sticks near the fire pit, arranged in a perfect triangle. It wasn’t there yesterday. I stared at it, my skin prickling. It could’ve been the wind, I told myself, or maybe I’d missed it before. But deep down, I knew better.
That night, I set up motion-sensor lights I’d brought from the city. They were cheap, meant for a backyard, but I figured they’d catch anyone sneaking around. I tested them, waving my hand until the beams flicked on, bright enough to light half the clearing. Satisfied, I locked the door, made coffee, and sat by the window with the rifle. Hours dragged by. My eyes burned from staring into the dark. I was starting to nod off when one of the lights snapped on.
The glare was blinding, cutting through the night. I bolted upright, grabbing the rifle. The light was aimed at the edge of the clearing, where the woods began. I squinted, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. Something moved—a quick flash, like someone ducking out of sight. I threw open the door, the cold air hitting me like a slap. “Who’s there?” I shouted, my voice cracking. “I’ve got a gun!”
Nothing. The light stayed on, humming softly. I stepped outside, boots crunching on the gravel I’d laid around the cabin. The trees were still, the air heavy. I swept the flashlight across the woods, catching the glint of bat eyes low in the underbrush. Then, farther out, I saw it—a flicker, like metal reflecting the light, maybe a knife or a belt buckle. It was yards away, hidden among the trees. I raised the rifle, my hands shaking. “Come out! I see you!”
Silence. My finger hovered over the trigger, but I didn’t shoot. I couldn’t tell what I was aiming at, whether it was a person or just my imagination running wild. I stood there, frozen, until the motion light clicked off, plunging me back into darkness. I backed into the cabin, locked the cabin, and wedged a chair under the knob. I didn’t sleep. I just sat there, rifle in my lap, listening to the rest of that night.
The next morning, I found something that made my blood run cold. Near the fire pit, someone had left a pile of bones—small ones, maybe from a rabbit or a bird, picked clean and arranged in a circle. In the center was a knife, its blade stuck deep in the ground, the dirt, rusted but sharp. I stared, bile rising in my throat. This wasn’t kids or animals. This was a warning. I grabbed my satellite phone and called the sheriff’s office. The deputy who answered sounded like he was half-listening, his voice crackling over the line.
“Probably just hunters,” he said. “They pass through, leave weird stuff behind. Could be a prank. Stay calm, keep your doors locked. We’ll send someone out when we can.”
“When’s that?” I asked, gripping the phone so tight my hand ached.
“Few days. We’re short-staffed.”
“A few days?” My voice rose. “Someone’s circling my cabin at night, leaving bones and knives! I need help now.”
He sighed. “Look, we’ll get out there. Take pictures of the stuff, stay inside. You got a weapon?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but I felt like he wasn’t get it. A few days was forever when I was out here alone.
I hung up, my hands shaking. I took photos of the bones and knife, then started packing my truck. I’d drive to town, stay in a motel until the sheriff came. I couldn’t stay here, not with someone playing these games. But as I loaded my bags, I heard it—a branch snapping, closer than before, maybe ten feet from the clearing. I spun around, rifle in hand. The woods were quiet, but I could feel it—someone was there, just out of sight.
I shouted, “I’m leaving! You hear me? I’m gone!” My voice echoed, but no one answered. I threw the last bag in the truck and climbed in, locking the doors. As I started the engine, I saw him. He was at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by a tree. He was tall, painfully thin, in a tattered coat that hung off him like rags. His face was shadowed, but I could feel his eyes on me—cold, unblinking. I floored the gas, the truck fishtailing as I tore down the dirt road. When I checked the rearview mirror, he was gone, swallowed by the trees.
I didn’t stop until I reached town. I checked into a motel, the kind with flickering lights and cigarette burns on the carpet, but it felt like a fortress compared to the cabin. I sat on the edge of the bed, rifle across my knees, jumping at every car that passed outside. A week later, the sheriff’s office called. They’d been to the cabin, found the bones, the knife, and more footprints—fresh ones, circling the clearing. They said it was likely a drifter, someone passing through. They told me I could go back, that it was safe.
I’m not going back. I’m selling the cabin, the land, everything. I don’t care about the money. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still out there, waiting in the woods, watching for me to return. Sometimes, at night, I hear branches snapping outside my motel window, even though there’s nothing but pavement and streetlights outside. I don’t know if it’s my mind or if he followed me. All I know is, I’ll never feel safe again.
"The Cabin Transfer":
I’d known Jack for nearly a decade. He was a quiet man, a Korean War veteran in his early seventies, who’d chosen a life far from the bustle of Los Angeles. His cabin sat high in Mt. Baldy, a remote stretch of pine-covered hills where the nearest neighbor was a mile off. The place was simple—wooden walls, a sagging porch, a wood stove that filled the air with the scent of burning pine. Jack loved it, said the silence helped him think. He lived off-grid, no phone, no electricity, just a generator for the basics. Every few weeks, I’d drive the winding road up to check on him, bringing groceries or a new book for his small shelf. We’d sit on his porch, sipping bitter coffee from chipped mugs, him telling stories about his army days or the deer he’d seen at dawn.
It was early 1999 when Jack first mentioned the two women. “Marcia and Judy,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “They stopped by, interested in the cabin.” His eyes lit up, like he was glad for the company. They wanted to buy the place but didn’t have the cash, so Jack, always too kind, agreed to let them pay the mortgage bit by bit. “They’re good folks,” he told me, but I wasn’t so sure. I met them a week later when I dropped off a sack of potatoes and some canned soup. Marcia was tall, her hair pulled tight in a bun, her smile sharp like she was sizing me up. Judy was shorter, nervous, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. They offered me tea, their voices sweet, but their eyes followed me too closely, like they were waiting for me to leave.
At first, I brushed it off. Jack was lonely, and maybe they were just friendly. But over the next month, I started noticing things. Jack wasn’t himself. He’d always been quick to laugh, his stories full of life, but now he seemed distracted, his hands fidgeting with his mug. One day, I arrived to find Marcia at Jack’s kitchen table, papers spread out in front of her. “Just sorting bills,” she said, gathering the pages quickly when she saw me. I glanced at the top sheet—something about property transfer—but she tucked it away before I could read more. “Where’s Jack?” I asked. “Resting,” she said, pointing to the back room. I heard voices, low and tense—Jack’s and Judy’s. Words like “sign” and “agreement” drifted out, too faint to catch the rest. My chest tightened. Something felt wrong, but I didn’t know what to say.
I started coming by more often, twice a week instead of once. Each visit, Jack seemed worse—quieter, his shoulders hunched like he carried a weight. Marcia and Judy were always there, hovering, their voices soft but their presence heavy. One afternoon, I found Jack alone, splitting wood by the shed. I seized the chance. “You doing okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low. He paused, his axe resting on the stump, and looked at me with tired eyes. “They’re helping me,” he said. “Paying the mortgage, taking care of things.” His voice wavered, like he was trying to convince himself. I stepped closer. “What about those papers I saw? Are they making you sign stuff?” He stiffened, his grip tightening on the axe. “It’s for the cabin,” he said. “If I pass, they’ll get it. It’s fine.” But his eyes darted toward the cabin, where Marcia’s shadow moved behind the window.
I couldn’t shake the unease. A few days later, I parked my truck down the road and walked to the cabin, hoping to catch Jack without the women around. As I neared, I heard voices from the porch—Marcia and Judy, speaking in hushed tones. I crouched behind a thick pine, my heart thudding. “Once he signs the last one, we’re set,” Marcia said, her voice cold. Judy mumbled something, nervous. “He’s asking too many questions,” she said. Marcia laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Not for much longer.” My blood ran cold. Were they talking about Jack? I wanted to storm up, demand answers, but fear glued me to the spot. I slipped back to my truck, my mind racing. I had to do something, but what?
The next time I saw Jack, he looked like a ghost of himself—pale, thinner, his hands trembling as he poured coffee. Marcia and Judy were in the yard, stacking firewood, so I took my chance. “Jack,” I said, leaning close, “I’m scared for you. Those women—I heard them. They’re planning something, talking about papers and you not asking questions.” His eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his face. “You’re wrong,” he said, but his voice cracked. “They’re my friends.” I grabbed his arm, desperate. “Let me see those papers. Please. I think they’re taking advantage of you.” He yanked away, his face twisting with anger. “Leave it alone,” he snapped, loud enough that Marcia glanced over from the yard. I backed off, my stomach sinking. I’d pushed too hard.
A week later, I drove up, my gut screaming that something was wrong. The cabin was too still, the generator silent. Marcia answered the door, her face blank. “Jack’s gone,” she said. “Took a trip to Seattle.” I stared at her, my mouth dry. Jack hated cities, said they made his skin crawl. He’d never go to Seattle, not without telling me. “When did he leave?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “Few days ago,” she said, shrugging. Judy stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on me, unblinking. “He didn’t say anything to me,” I said, my voice tight. Marcia’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “It was sudden,” she said. I asked to look inside, see if he’d left a note, anything. “No need,” Judy said, her voice sharp, stepping forward. “He’ll be back soon.” Marcia closed the door, leaving me standing there, my hands clenched.
I drove straight to the sheriff’s office, spilling everything—the papers, the overheard conversation, Jack’s fear, the sudden “trip” to Seattle. The deputy took notes, said they’d check, but his tone told me they weren’t rushing. “Folks go off sometimes,” he said. “We’ll call you.” I wanted to shake him, make him see how wrong this was. Days dragged into weeks. I kept going back, parking down the road, watching the cabin. Marcia and Judy acted normal, carrying groceries, chatting like nothing had happened. I called Jack’s old army buddy in Fresno, asked if he’d heard anything. Nothing. Jack was gone, and I was the only one who seemed to care.
Months later, the sheriff called. They’d started digging deeper after finding Jack’s bank account emptied, transfers linked to Marcia. Then, in 2001, they found remains—Jack’s, scattered in the hills. Marcia had confessed, said she shot him, claimed it was an accident, then took it back. Judy helped cover it up, they said. They’d planned it all—gaining his trust, getting him to sign over his money, his cabin, everything. By 2004, Marcia was sentenced to life, Judy got less for testifying. I sat in the courtroom, hearing the details, feeling like I’d failed him. I’d seen the signs, heard the whispers, but I didn’t act fast enough.
I drive by that cabin sometimes. It’s empty now, the windows dark, the porch sagging worse than ever. I think about Jack, how he loved the quiet, how he trusted too much. Living out there, cut off from the world, he thought he was safe. But the worst dangers aren’t bears or cold nights. They’re the people who smile, who call you friend, while they’re sharpening the knife for your back.
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