Sound behaved strangely here. The wind would howl high in the treetops, but down on the ground, the air often felt stagnant and heavy. Alex Miller felt it the moment he stepped out of his truck.
Alex was 43. A tall, rugged man with broad shoulders and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite, he looked older than his years. A thick salt-and-pepper beard hid a scar on his jaw—a souvenir from a tour in the Middle East years ago.
His gray eyes were observant, rarely lingering on people, usually scanning the space between them. He moved with an economical grace, the habit of a man used to pacing himself for the long haul. The service had taught him to notice the small things and never trust a first impression.
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he never ignored his gut. His training had taught him a simple rule: if something looks out of place, it’s there for a reason. That was why he listened when the old-timers lowered their voices.
Stories would surface during long drives or around the morning coffee pot, usually trailing off before the end. Stories of hunters who never came back from a season, or abandoned cabins where the pots and boots were still sitting in place. Equipment found deep in the brush, miles from any known trail.
There were never any official reports. No dates, no police statements. And yet, the locals avoided certain hollows and clearings.
Some men would press a coin into the bark of an old tree near the rocky ridge at the sector’s edge. No one explained why. They just did it silently, like a small gesture of respect before a long journey.
Alex noticed these things, but he didn’t ask. He knew that sometimes, asking questions makes a man stand out.
The order came in after a severe storm. The wind had snapped mature trunks and washed out the soil, leaving “widow-makers” hanging precariously over the access roads. They needed to clear the path, quickly and without delays. The forest’s reputation took a backseat to the bottom line.
The company put together a small but experienced crew, adding a few younger guys for the heavy lifting. The foreman, Sam Patterson—a wiry man in his fifties with a perpetually stiff neck and the squint of someone expecting trouble—briefed them quickly. He spoke in dry, businesslike tones, avoiding any fluff.
Alex noticed how Sam’s voice dropped an octave when he read out the coordinates for the tract. Among the younger guys was Ethan, a tall kid with reddish hair and gloves that were still too clean. He tried to act tough, but he kept looking around, checking the older men’s reactions…
