I shove off the couch where I’d eventually collapsed, baseball bat still within arm’s reach. Every muscle protests. My neck has a crick from sleeping upright, and my eyes feel like someone poured sand in them.
Coffee. I need coffee. And cell signal. And possibly a psychiatrist.
The kitchen provides the first. I find a French press and grounds that smell recent enough. While the water heats, I stare at my phone. Still no signal. The landline is still dead. I’m completely cut off from the outside world.
There has to be higher ground somewhere. A clearing. Something.
I pour my coffee, drink it black and scalding, and make a decision.
I’m not spending another day trapped in this cabin waiting for talking shadows to make good on their threats. When the sun is fully up, I’m going to find a cell signal, call for help, and get the hell off this mountain.
The hidden compartment in the living room yields more than just journals. Behind a false panel, I find a hunting knife in a worn leather sheath. The blade is old but sharp, the grip molded to fit a hand. Grandma’s hand, maybe. Or someone who came before her.
I strap it to my belt and feel slightly less like prey.
Bears I can handle.I pull on my boots, still damp from last night’s rain.Talking shadows, we’ll see.
The forest looksdifferent in daylight. Less menacing. Almost peaceful.
Birds sing in the canopy. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. A light breeze carries the scent of pine and damp earth.
I follow a trail that leads away from the cabin, phone held high, searching for a single bar of signal. The path winds uphill through old-growth pines, their trunks wide enough to hide behind. Not that I’m thinking about hiding. Not that I’m cataloging every potential escape route.
Okay, maybe I’m thinking about it a little.
The sound of water reaches me first—a stream, somewhere ahead. I quicken my pace. Higher ground often means clearer signals, and streams usually flow downhill from somewhere elevated.
The trail opens onto a small clearing where a stream cuts through the rocks, crystal clear and achingly cold when I dip my fingers in. I splash some on my face, letting the chill shock away the last cobwebs of exhaustion.
For a moment, everything is quiet. Peaceful. Normal.
Then the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I’m being watched.
The sensation is immediate and undeniable—that prickling awareness on my back, the weight of unseen eyes. Focused.
My hand moves to the knife at my belt. I rise slowly, scanning the tree line.
Nothing moves.
“I know you’re there.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Show yourself or leave. I’m not in the mood for games.”
Silence. The birds have stopped singing.
I draw the knife as a figure emerges from the shadows.
Holy hell.
That’s my first coherent thought. My second is somewhat less flattering.
He’s probably a serial killer.
The man is massive. At least six and a half feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block the sun filtering through the trees. His hair is golden, cropped short, and his jaw could cut glass. He moves with a fluid grace that seems impossible for someone his size—each step deliberate, predatory, closing the distance between us without seeming to hurry.
But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.
They catch the morning light and seem to glow from within. Not natural. Not entirely human. Something about them makes my pulse spike and my skin flush with heat that has nothing to do with fear.
