Chapter 1

1

K aitlin

"This so-called road is nothing more than a cow path that never ends," I mutter to myself as I navigate my beat-up Jeep through the thick, misty forest of the Pacific Northwest. Towering Douglas firs and ancient cedars flank the narrow path, their moss-covered branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.

I feel like I'm driving into the heart of an emerald labyrinth as the air grows cooler and damper with each mile. The scent of petrichor, that earthy aroma that follows rainfall, fills my nostrils, mingling with the sharp tang of evergreen. It's a scent that always reminds me of Grandma Rose, of summers spent at her rambling old house on the edge of a sleepy town, where the forest was a constant presence, a green and growing mystery that whispered at the edges of my childhood imaginings.

I glance at the hastily scrawled directions on the passenger seat, the last gift from my late grandmother, Rose. Her spidery handwriting, once so familiar from birthday cards and postcards from far-flung locales, details the route to a property I didn't even know existed until a few weeks ago, when her lawyer informed me I'd inherited a cabin and a good chunk of land out here in the middle of nowhere.

Grandma Rose was always an enigma, a free spirit who hinted at a life full of adventure and secrets. Her tales of far-off places and mysterious encounters captivated me as a kid, whether she whispered them over hot chocolate on winter evenings or shared them on sun-dappled back porches in the height of summer. She spoke of the wonders of the world with a twinkle in her eye and a knowing smile, as if she held the keys to mysteries I could only dream of.

But a hidden cabin in the woods? That's a new one, even for her. I wonder what other secrets she kept, what other mysteries might wait for me out here in the wilderness.

I've been needing a change, a break from the grind of city life and the constant hustle to make it as a freelance writer. The last few years have been a blur of deadlines and query letters, of late nights hunched over my laptop and early mornings fueled by too much coffee.

Somewhere along the line, I lost the joy of it, the thrill of crafting stories and shaping words. My writing felt more like a chore than a calling.

When the inheritance came through, it felt like a sign, a chance to escape and maybe find the inspiration that's been eluding me. So I packed up my life, sublet my tiny studio apartment with its ever-growing stack of rejection letters, and pointed my Jeep northward, chasing the promise of a fresh start and a new perspective.

My GPS gave up miles ago, surrendering to the remoteness of my destination with a final, plaintive beep. Since then, I've been relying on Grandma's notes and a bit of blind faith, trusting that her directions will lead me true. But as the miles stretch on and the road grows narrower and more overgrown, I wonder if I've taken a wrong turn somewhere, if I've passed into some twilight zone where the normal rules of navigation no longer apply.

Just as I'm about to pull over and reconsider my life choices, I spot a weathered wooden sign peeking out from a tangle of underbrush. Charles Property - Private Drive. The relief that washes over me is immediate, a loosening of the tension I didn't even realize I was carrying.

"Finally!" I make the turnoff, tires crunching on the gravel drive. The forest seems to envelop me, the thick evergreens towering overhead, their branches knitting together to form a verdant canopy that filters the sunlight into a soft, green glow. There's something both comforting and unsettling about it—like being wrapped in a living green blanket that might just smother you if you let your guard down.

The drive winds on, the twists and turns disorienting, making me feel like I'm driving in circles. But just as I'm thinking some forest fairy's idea of a practical joke might trap me, the trees open up, unveiling a small clearing and my new home.

The cabin is rustic, to put it generously. The log walls show a weathered soft gray, the shingled roof sports a few patches of moss, and the front porch sags slightly in the middle as if welcoming me with a weary sigh. But there's a certain charm to it, a sense of history and resilience that resonates with something deep inside me, a kinship with this place that has stood strong against the passage of time and the encroachment of the forest.

I pull up beside the cabin, the Jeep's engine ticking as it cools, a mechanical counterpoint to the organic symphony of the woods. The silence that falls in its absence is almost overwhelming, broken only by the occasional birdsong and the whisper of a breeze through the needles of the pines.

It's a far cry from the constant hum of the city, the ceaseless soundtrack of humanity that I've grown accustomed to over the years. This stillness will take some getting used to, but it feels like a balm to my frayed nerves, a salve for my soul.

Because that's why I'm here, isn't it? To get away, to clear my head and try to reconnect with my writing, with myself. I've been feeling lost lately, adrift in a sea of words that don't feel like my own.

My stories have been coming out forced and hollow, like echoes of someone else's voice. I'm hoping that a change of scenery might knock something loose, help me find my voice again, that authentic spark that first set me on this path.

As I sit there, staring at the cabin that holds the promise of a new chapter, I feel a flicker of hope, a stirring of something that might just be the beginnings of inspiration.

Maybe Grandma Rose knew what she was doing when she left me this place.

Maybe, just maybe, the answers I've been seeking are waiting for me here, in the whispering woods and the echoes of a life well-lived.

As I'm unloading my bags from the Jeep, a sudden movement at the edge of the clearing catches my eye. I freeze, my heart jumping into my throat. There, just for a moment, I swear I see a large, shadowy figure darting in the trees. It's too big to be a deer, moving with an almost human-like gait, but it's gone before I can get a clear look.

I blink, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me. I've heard the stories, of course, the whispers about creatures that roam these woods. Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the hidden denizens of the forest. But those are just campfire tales, right? The product of overactive imaginations and too much time spent in the wilderness.

Still, I can't shake the feeling that I saw something out there, something that doesn't quite belong. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I scan the treeline, half expecting to see a pair of eyes staring back at me.

But the forest remains still, the only movement the gentle sway of branches in the breeze. The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. It's peaceful, idyllic even, but I can't quite shake the unease that's settled into the pit of my stomach.

I take a deep breath, the scent of pine and damp earth filling my lungs. I'm being ridiculous, I tell myself. I'm a rational adult, not some wide-eyed child to be spooked by shadows and old stories.

With a determined shake of my head, I grab my bags and head inside. The cabin is just as I remember from my brief childhood visits, though the years have left their mark. Dust motes dance in the slanting sunbeams, and the air is heavy with the scent of disuse. But beneath that, there's a warmth, a sense of welcome and familiarity that eases some of the tension from my shoulders.

I spend the next few hours unpacking, losing myself in the simple tasks of settling in. I air out the musty bedding, unpack my few dishes and provisions, and stack my notebooks and laptop on the old wooden table that serves as a desk. Slowly, the cabin feels like mine, a little oasis of civilization amidst the vast wilderness.

As the sun dips behind the trees, I step out onto the porch, stretching my back after hours of puttering. The clearing is awash in the golden glow of sunset with the light turning the leaves to stained glass and the dust motes to dancing fireflies. It's breathtaking, and for a moment, I forget all about my earlier unease.

But then, as my gaze sweeps the edge of the clearing, I see it. There, in the soft earth just beyond the reach of the porch light, is a footprint. But not just any footprint. This one is massive, easily twice the size of my own, with clear impressions of toes and a broad heel.

My breath catches in my throat as I stare at it, a chill racing down my spine despite the warm evening air. That's no human footprint, and it's far too large to belong to any animal I know of.

I take a step closer, then pause, a sudden fear rooting me to the spot. The footprint is fresh with the edges crisp and defined. Whatever made it was here recently, watching me as I unpacked, as I made myself at home.

Suddenly, the tranquil forest feels anything but. The lengthening shadows seem to hold a menace now, dark fingers reaching out to snare the unwary. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of branch, sets my nerves jangling.

My heart is pounding as I back slowly towards the cabin, my eyes never leaving the treeline. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, to bolt for the safety of those log walls and sturdy door.

But I force myself to move slowly, deliberately, as if that will mask my fear.

It feels like an eternity before my hand finds the doorknob, the metal cool and solid beneath my trembling fingers.

I stumble inside, slamming the door behind me and fumbling with the lock. It's only when I hear the click of the bolt sliding home that I allow myself to breathe, to sag back against the sturdy wood and close my eyes.

What have I gotten myself into? What secrets do these ancient woods hold, and what does that footprint mean? Is it a warning, a threat? Or something else entirely?

My mind is spinning with questions, with a rising tide of fear and exhilaration. Because as much as that footprint terrifies me, it also ignites a spark of curiosity, of wonder.

I came here looking for inspiration, for a story to tell. It seems I may have found more than I bargained for.

As I push off from the door, squaring my shoulders with a newfound determination, I know one thing for certain. My peaceful writer's retreat just took a very unexpected turn, and there's no going back now.

Whatever's out there, whatever made that print, I'm going to find out. Even if it means confronting the unknown, the impossible.

After all, every good story needs a mystery, right?