The ranger station. I’d seen it on our way in. It was at the entrance to the camping area, inside the park. It was only five miles or so. I’d get in Becca’s truck. I’d drive there. And tell the ranger…
The words are there, hovering in the forefront of my mind. I can taste them, can feel the pressure of them in my mouth. But when I try to say them, they dissolve into nonsense. My girlfriend went for a hike. She took off all her clothes, and disappeared into the woods. I’d have to say it. It was true. I start to bring Becca’s clothes with me, but what if she came back for them? I refuse to think about her not coming back — I push thoughts like the cold and the weather, and words like “exposure”, out of my mind. I compromise and take her coat and boots, leaving everything else in their neat, cold piles on the plateau.
The walk back seems shorter. Easier. I barely register my movements at all. Adrenaline? Fear? The woods are barely on my radar. I keep thinking about Becca, and how she’d looked this morning when she’d woken me up. Out of focus, eyebrows furrowed, her eyes so sad...had there been tears? I didn’t want that to be my last memory of her. Sleep-fuzzy, upset, possibly crying before disappearing into the forest. That couldn’t be how we ended. It just couldn’t.
I reach our cabin, panting. Had I been running? I am suddenly aware of the sheen of sweat stinging my face in the frigid air and the burning in my lungs. I chuck Becca’s clothes into the bed of the truck, thankful she’d given me a spare key ‘for emergencies’. More like when she was at my apartment and was too lazy to get out of bed to move her car. As active as Becca was, she loathed putting her clothes on after sex...
And I have to force happy memories down. They’re too sad now. Maybe. I didn’t know yet, I remind myself. This could all still be some misunderstanding. I cling to that feeling as my stomach twists into a grieving knot. I get in the truck. The engine lurches, gives a heaving, oily whimper, and dies. I turn the key again, refusing to believe that the truck wasn’t going to start when I most needed it to. It sputters again before fizzling away.
“Why is my life a goddamn movie!?” I punch the wheel and the horn goes off, scaring some nearby squirrels.
What do you need, Truck? Gas, oil, a new battery, a hug? What? I pop open the hood, but even my unmechanical eyes can spot the problem. Some very important-looking wires and tubes have been cut. Not broken, not chewed. There’s no fraying. Someone came here, and opened up Becca’s truck...
I turn slowly toward the woods, but nothing moves. There’s only the unflinching, unending gray of barren, wintry trees. My girlfriend went for a hike. She disappeared, leaving her clothes...
Or someone left them for me to find. Maybe the same someone who messed with the truck. Maybe they were still here, watching me. I turn back to the cabin. Had I locked it in my haste? The windows were dark, and there was no movement from inside.
I run. The rest is a blur of nightmarish shadows rushing around me, darting through the trees, matching my pace. Never catching me, and never letting me out of sight. I imagine a dark creature running low through the bushes. I think I see yellow eyes, but when I turn there’s nothing. When I reach the ranger station it’s raining again. I pound up the stairs to the cabin, gasping for breath and choking on raindrops. I scan the woods, looking for someone lurking in the brush and undergrowth, but I appear to be alone.
The ranger station squats above the ground on stilts, with stairs leading to a narrow porch that wraps around the entire cabin. The door is at the other side, and it’s open. No, it’s not just open, it’s broken. The door hangs off a single hinge, and the wood has been torn in places. Fluffs of splinters dangle from its edges and fall onto the floor of the cabin, which is now damp with rain.
Claw marks. The ruined door and doorframe are covered in long gashes.
Looks like claw marks, Steph. I think it very loudly, trying to keep my heart from breaking my ribcage. Run. Runrunrunrunrunrun. My brain’s shrieking at me. Get the Hell out of here! I want to listen, I really do. I’m terrified. I’ve never been so utterly, horribly, completely scared in my entire life. But before I can decide not to go in I find myself inside the cabin, taking tentative steps, making my feet hit the floor as softly as possible. The ranger could still be here. Then again, so could the thing that destroyed the door. A bear, I guess? What else could be powerful enough to do that? And even if the ranger...well, there would still be a landline here. I could call for help.
There’s a smell that sends my “fight or flight” instinct into overdrive. A pungent odor that warns other prey: stay away. It grows stronger the more steps I take. The marks that only remind me of claws, but are not necessarily claw marks, run across the floor in harsh, jagged gouges. I almost imagine I can see glimmers of the thing, running and skidding across the floorboards. The lacerations in the wood seem much, much too long. I listen, but there’s only the patter of rain against the roof and window panes. Whatever was here seems to be gone, so I follow the gashes. The door opens up into a large communal area. I can see a kitchenette to the left, and the rest is a general living space. The couch is overturned.
