The Blackroot Forest breathed.
Godwin Vaughn felt it the moment they stepped past the trailhead—a low, rhythmic shudder beneath his boots, as if the earth itself were inhaling. He tightened the straps of his backpack, the weight of his gear grounding him. Beside him, his brother Patrick adjusted a GoPro on his head, its red light blinking like a Cyclops' eye. "First one to spot a bear buys the beers tonight," Patrick said, grinning.
"Not funny," muttered Jude Ellis. He crouched to photograph a cluster of fiddlehead ferns unfurling from the damp soil, his camera's shutter clicking rapid-fire. His cargo pants were already streaked with mud, his blond hair tousled by the wind. "This ecosystem is pristine. We're lucky the rangers even let us in after those hikers went missing last month."
Linda Reyes said nothing. She traced a finger over a fern's serrated edge, its veins pulsing faintly in the muted light. Six months. That's what the doctor had given her. Six months before the autoimmune disease gnawing at her nerves would leave her wheelchair-bound. This trip was a farewell, a last dance with the wildness she'd spent her life cataloging in tattered field journals. *One final chapter*, she thought, plucking a sprig of feverfew and tucking it into her pocket.
Godwin handed everyone a GPS tracker, his voice clipped. "Stick to the route. We camp at Cedar Hollow before sundown. No detours."
Patrick snorted. "Relax, Sergeant. This isn't a covert op."
"No," Godwin said, staring into the shadows between the trees. "In Afghanistan, I could see the enemy."
The forest swallowed them whole. Birdsong faded, replaced by the creak of ancient cedars and the whisper of wind through dead leaves. The air thickened with the cloying sweetness of rotting wood and something sharper—musk, wet fur. By midday, Patrick's jokes dried up. The trail narrowed to a thread, forcing them to hike single-file. Jude paused to inspect claw marks gashed into a birch trunk—fresh, deep, and unnervingly high.
"Bear," Godwin said flatly. "Keep moving."
"Wait—look at this," Jude murmured, brushing moss from the tree. Embedded in the bark were strands of coarse, silver-tipped fur. "Grizzly. But they're supposed to be extinct in this region."
Linda crouched beside him, her fingers hovering over the fur. "Not extinct. Just… hidden."
A branch snapped in the undergrowth. Godwin's hand flew to his hatchet. For a heartbeat, the four stood frozen, ears straining. Then a squirrel darted across the path, and Patrick laughed, too loud. "Scared of a rodent, hero?"
Godwin ignored him, but his knuckles stayed white around the hatchet's handle.
---
By dusk, the forest's rhythm had shifted. The trees leaned closer, their branches interlaced like skeletal fingers. They pitched tents in a clearing where the ground sloped downward, as if the earth had been scooped by a giant's hand. Jude's GPS blinked ERROR.
"Satellite's blocked by the canopy," Godwin said, though his jaw tightened.
Linda wandered to the clearing's edge, drawn to a splash of crimson amid the ferns—a deer carcass, half-buried, ribs cracked inward. Flies clouded the air. "Something dragged it here," she called. "Recently."
Godwin crouched beside her, prodding the carcass with a stick. "Scavengers. Coyotes, maybe."
"Coyotes don't crack ribs like eggshells."
He met her gaze. "You suggesting something did this on purpose?"
Linda stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. "I'm suggesting we shouldn't camp here."
But the sky was bruising to violet, and Jude was already hammering tent stakes. Patrick uncapped a flask of whiskey, its peaty scent mingling with woodsmoke as the fire caught. "To surviving Day One," he said, tipping the flask toward Godwin. "Bet you ten bucks we're back at the motel by tomorrow."
Jude frowned. "Why'd you even come if you hate nature?"
"Free vacation. And the chance to document my brother's slow descent into madness." Patrick aimed his GoPro at Godwin, who stared into the flames, unblinking.
Linda retreated to her tent, unrolling a sleeping bag flecked with moth holes. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the zipper—a new symptom, the doctor had said. Progression. She dug out a pill bottle, dry-swallowing a steroid. Outside, Patrick's laughter echoed, sharp and brittle.
---
Night fell like a burial shroud.
The fire died to embers. Godwin took first watch, his back against a cedar, hatchet across his knees. The forest sighed around him—rustling leaves, distant hoots, the endless drip of condensation. He'd forgotten this weight, this razor's-edge alertness. Afghanistan had been sand and sun and the staccato bark of rifles. Here, the enemy was the dark itself.
A twig snapped.
He lunged upright, hatchet raised. The beam of his headlamp cut through the black, illuminating Jude stumbling from his tent, eyes wide. "I heard something. Like… whispering."
"Wind," Godwin said.
"No. Words. 'Go back.' "
"You're dreaming."
But as Jude retreated, Godwin's headlamp grazed the tree line. For a split second, he swore he saw a shape—tall, antlered, gone before he could blink.
A low, wet growl rippled through the dark.
The trees held their breath.