Page 6 of Silent Shadows

I sit up.

“Okay, no,” I blurt out, even though I’m alone. “That was definitely edited. That had to be edited.”

But the team goes quiet, listening.

Waiting.

My heart does this weird little stutter, like it’s deciding whether this is thrilling or unsettling.

“It’s probably just an animal,” I whisper.

Still, I don’t look away.

At some point, I stretch out along the couch, my head sinking into the armrest, the show continuing in a steady rhythm of speculation and suspense. My eyes grow heavy, the voices blending, the forest becoming a kind of white noise. Somewhere between a heated debate about footprint size and a slow pan across a dark tree line, I start to drift.

My last coherent thought is annoyingly simple.

Following a crew of people who really believe something is out there definitely wouldn’t be boring.

The TV keeps playing, soft flickers of light casting shadows across the room as another episode auto-starts. Someone on screen is whispering again, scanning the darkness, convinced they’re not alone.

I curl deeper into the couch, the blanket tucked under my chin, and allow the hum of the show to pull me under.

For once, I fall asleep not replaying a conversation, not planning content, not analyzing a relationship—but wondering, just a little, what it would feel like to step into the unknown.

The next morning, I walk into the studio, two lattes in hand, to find Marissa sitting alone in the boardroom, a deck titled “Meet Your Crew” on the big screen. She steeples her fingers, looking over them with a comical, determined smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, like an evil mastermind.

“You really did it up, huh?” I say, handing her a coffee.

“It’s the only way I know how,” Marissa smiles as she takes a sip.

“How did you know I’d say yes?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“I know you. And I know this is scary, not only because of the potential of encountering Bigfoot. But because you’d be branching out. Not hiding behind sex position talk.”

I scoff and shrug. “Well, you aren’t wrong.” I slide my bag off my shoulder and onto the seat next to mine, then sink into my chair. “It is fucking terrifying, but I reviewed our numbers again this morning. If I don’t do something different, the other shows on the network are going to surpass me in the next three to six months. Which, sure, I’d be happy for them. I brought them on and want them to succeed. But at the same time, this is my company. I know advertisers are getting less interested in me, and that will eventually lead to less interest in the network overall. I need to do something different. So, yeah, let’s do it.”

Marissa doesn’t say anything, pursing her lips, eyes wide.

“So, what do you got for me, girl?” I sit up, ready to take in whatever Marissa has planned.

“Okay, so,” she starts. “I know you’ve been creeping on people already, but most of the well-known crews are known for the wrong reasons. They appeal to the algorithm—think clickbait, content-first approach. They’re brash, trashy, and, in all honesty, they seem dangerous.”

I nod, taking a sip.

“I wanted to find a crew no one is talking about, but one that knows their shit. Right?” Marissa’s eyes gleam with excitement. “So I did some digging… That one quote you shared the other day? About ‘being watched by something that knew you didn’t belong.’” She adopts a mocking, poetic tone. “Well, that guy leads a crew.”

At that point, Marissa clicks to the next slide with a flourish, and a group of misfits appears on the screen.

Honestly, there’s no other word for it.

Four people stand in front of what looks like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream of an RV, all dusty and aggressively outdoorsy in a way that makes me want to reach for moisturizer.

In the center stands a guy in glasses who was a total nerd in high school and somehow blossomed into a babe. He holds a tablet against his chest as he talks to the group, frozen mid-gesture. Beside him stands a blonde woman in cowboy boots, giving Sabrina Carpenter vibes. Another guy crouches near what looks like a drone setup, wearing mirrored sunglasses and the expression of someone seconds away from saying something about a babe he banged this weekend. The last woman has tawny skin and a dark bob. She looks competent and like she’s probably over everyone’s nonsense.

“Why,” I say, squinting at the screen, “does that RV look like it’s carrying classified information?”

Marissa grins. “Because, Daisy Bennett—” she makes the photo full-screen—“they investigate paranormal occurrences and other phenomena. And their current case is on Bigfoot.”