To: Regional Director, North American Operations
From: Kevin Harding, Field Researcher – Alaskan Sector
Date: September 21, 2014
Subject: Urgent Transfer Request – Immediate Relocation Needed
Dear Mr. Langford,
I hope this email finds you well. I know the team has been short-staffed lately, but I must insist—beg, even—that my request for an immediate transfer be taken into serious consideration. I've tried to manage, truly, but the situation here has deteriorated beyond anything I anticipated. What I'm experiencing isn't something I can brush off or endure. I no longer feel safe in this region, and if you could expedite my request, I'd be grateful.
I'll start with the facts.
When I accepted the Alaskan assignment, I was excited. The isolation, the raw, untouched landscape—it appealed to me in ways I hadn't expected. I thought I was mentally prepared for the solitude, the long nights, the wildlife, the cold. I've handled remote assignments before, as you know. But Alaska, particularly this part of the interior, is different. Ancient, somehow. This place has a pulse, a rhythm that humans aren't meant to exist in for long.
For the past month, I've been stationed in the small village of Naluk, nestled deep in the tundra, surrounded by dense forests and jagged peaks. The locals, mostly Inupiat, have lived here for centuries. They're tough, resilient people, hardened by a landscape that offers no mercy. When I arrived, they were polite, but distant. I expected that, considering I was an outsider, but the distance felt deeper than simple wariness. It felt like they were waiting for something.
I didn't understand what that was until recently.
There's something primal about the fear that's woven into this place, Mr. Langford. It's in the eyes of the elders, especially when the sun begins to set. They lock their doors early—around mid-afternoon, when the light starts to wane—and they won't venture outside until the morning sun breaks. They avoid the forest that looms around the village like a wall of darkness. They never talk about it directly, but I've heard them muttering, quietly, words that sound like warnings. At first, I dismissed it as superstition, tales of the wild. But now I'm not so sure.
You see, it started with the wind.
We're accustomed to wind out here, of course. Howling gales that whip across the tundra, screaming through the trees, rattling the windowpanes. But this… this is different. It's almost as if the wind carries voices in it—faint at first, but growing louder as the night deepens. It was easy to convince myself that it was just the wind's tricks at first, that I was hearing echoes bouncing off the mountains. But that theory collapsed quickly.
Two weeks ago, the local dogs—sled dogs, trained for this unforgiving terrain—began acting strangely. They became agitated, restless. They refused to go near the forest's edge, even during the day. At night, they'd whine and scratch at their kennels, desperate to get inside. It wasn't just them, either. I've noticed the wildlife behaving… oddly. Birds disappearing. Deer staying far away from the tree line, which, from what I've gathered, is highly unusual this time of year.
Still, I tried to chalk it up to coincidence—until the disappearance happened.
On September 13th, a young villager named Alauna went missing. She was 17, vibrant, always eager to help with any research. The day she vanished, she'd gone into the forest to gather wood for her family. The search parties combed the woods for days. No footprints, no signs of struggle. Just gone, swallowed whole by the forest. The elders won't talk about it. In fact, they've started avoiding me altogether. I suspect they know something—or at least, they suspect something.
That's when I started to feel it myself—the presence.
It's hard to explain in words, but I'll try. The forest… it isn't just trees and snow and shadows. There's something in it. I can feel it watching me when I step outside. It's not an animal. It's not human. I don't know what it is, but I feel it everywhere. It's as if the landscape itself has eyes, and the deeper I go, the more it feels like it's closing in on me.
Last night, I heard it for the first time—footsteps. Not the crunch of snow from wildlife or the shuffle of a stray villager. These were heavier, deliberate, pacing around the perimeter of my cabin. I stayed perfectly still, frozen with my back to the wall, trying to convince myself it was nothing. But the steps grew closer, circling, slow and measured, like they knew I was there, waiting for me to make the mistake of stepping outside.
I didn't sleep.
I asked one of the elders this morning, very directly, if there was something I should know about the woods. He didn't respond at first—just stared at me with those hollow, clouded eyes that seem so much older than the man they belong to. After a long silence, he muttered something in Inupiaq. I had to ask the local guide to translate.
"The woods are hungry."
I'm not sure what he meant by that, but his tone sent a chill through me that hasn't left since.
Mr. Langford, I don't think this is just a matter of superstition anymore. I believe there's something out here in the wilderness, something we weren't meant to disturb. I've heard stories about spirits—the Tuunbaq—hunters that roam the ice and snow, preying on those who wander too far from safety. I always thought it was just part of the local mythology, but now… I'm not so sure.
Something out here knows I'm alone. It knows I'm foreign to this land, an outsider who doesn't understand the rules. And it's getting closer.
I'm seeing shapes now—dark figures that move between the trees at twilight. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but they're there, always lurking just at the edge of my vision. They're not animals. They're too tall, too fast. I caught a glimpse of one last night—just a flash of movement outside my window. Tall, gaunt, and… wrong. It disappeared into the trees before I could get a clear look, but the way it moved—it wasn't natural.
I haven't told anyone here. They already look at me with pity in their eyes, like they know something terrible is going to happen, but can't say it outright. Maybe they think I'll just disappear too, become another story whispered around the fire.
And now, there's something else I need to mention, something I'm hesitant to even put in writing.
I think Alauna came back last night.
There was a knock at my door—soft, almost hesitant. When I opened it, there was no one there. But in the snow outside my cabin, I saw footprints leading from the forest. They were small, like a child's, and they ended right at my door. No returning steps, no sign of where they'd come from. Just her footprints, leading to me.
I know what you're thinking—this is impossible. She's been gone for over a week now, and the search was called off days ago. But Mr. Langford, I swear I heard her voice. Last night, through the wind. She was calling for help, softly, as if she was just out of reach. I almost went outside. I almost followed the sound into the forest. But I didn't.
Because something in the pit of my stomach told me it wasn't really her.
I don't think this place wants me to leave. And that's why I'm begging you—please, get me out of here. I can't explain it properly in words, but something is coming for me. It's watching, waiting for the right moment. If you can expedite my transfer, I'll pack up immediately. I'll go anywhere—anywhere but here.
The locals have stopped talking to me entirely. I think they've already made their peace with whatever's going to happen. I haven't. I can still get out of here. But I need you to act quickly.
Please, before the woods take me too.
Best regards,
Kevin Harding
Field Researcher – Alaskan Sector