ONE
SELENE
The engine coughs, sputters, and dies with a pathetic wheeze that sounds almost apologetic.
“Of course.” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Steam curls from under the hood, ghostly wisps swallowed by the rain sheeting across my windshield. “Of course, you die now, you piece of junk.”
My Honda Civic has survived three cross-country moves, two bad relationships, and a close encounter with a deer on I-70. But apparently, Grandma’s final gift comes with a side of hypothermia.
Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the narrow mountain road in stark white. The trees press close on both sides, their branches reaching across the asphalt like gnarled fingers. According to my phone—which lost signal twenty minutes ago—the cabin is roughly a mile ahead.
One mile. In a thunderstorm. At dusk. On a mountain I’ve never set foot on.
This is fine.I grab my emergency pack from the backseat—thank you, paranoid father—and shove open the door.
The rain hits me instantly, cold and sharp. Within seconds, my jacket is soaked through, my hair plastered to my face. Iadjust the pack’s straps and start walking, boots squelching in the mud pooling along the road’s edge.
The incline climbs steadily. My thighs burn. My lungs ache from the altitude I’m not used to. But I keep moving because the alternative is standing still in the dark, waiting to become a statistic.
Selene Ward, 28, found eaten by mountain lions. Friends described her as “really should have stayed in Portland.”
The forest is watching.
I feel it almost immediately—that prickling awareness between my shoulder blades. The sensation of being observed. Measured.
Probably just wildlife.I pull my jacket tighter.Deer. Raccoons. Normal mountain things that don’t eat people.
Something large moves through the trees to my left.
I freeze mid-step. The sound is unmistakable—branches cracking, undergrowth rustling. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving parallel to the road.
Moving alongside me.
My hand closes around a fallen branch—thick, solid, roughly the length of a baseball bat. “I’ve got pepper spray and anger issues!” I shout into the darkness. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “And this is private property, so whatever you are, back off!”
The sounds stop.
Not fade away. Stop. Instantly. As if whatever was out there heard me and simply... decided to be silent.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I start walking again. Faster.
The road curves around a massive oak, and that’s when I see them—claw marks gouged into the bark. Four parallel grooves, each as long as my forearm and deep enough to expose the pale wood beneath.
I trace one with my fingertip. Still sticky with sap. Fresh.
Bears don’t have claws this long.I pull my hand back.What the hell lives up here?
The cabin appears through the trees like a dark promise. Weathered logs, a stone chimney, a covered porch that spans the front. Smaller than I expected. More isolated.
No neighbors. No streetlights. No witnesses if something decides to drag me off into the woods.
Charming, Grandma. Really warming up to your real estate choices.
The door is secured with an electronic keypad—which feels wildly out of place given the rustic exterior. I punch in the code from Grandma’s lawyer: her birthday backward. The lock clicks. I push inside and slam the door behind me, sagging against it as my lungs finally remember how to work.
Safe. You’re safe.
The interior is... not what I expected.
