The wilderness was my home, more than any cabin or town ever could be. I'd spent nigh on fifty years wandering these woods, learning their secrets, their moods. The trees spoke to me in whispers of wind and creaking branches, and the earth told stories in the tracks of beasts and the flow of rivers. But lately, something was wrong. A prickling at the back of my neck, like eyes boring into me from the shadows. I'd turn, expecting to see a wolf or a bear, but there was nothing. Just the wind and the silence.
I was scouting ahead of the caravan, making sure the trail was clear for the wagons. The settlers were green as spring grass, stumbling through the wild like lost children. It was my job to keep them alive, though I'd rather be alone with the silence. My bones ached with age, but my senses were sharp as ever—sharper, maybe, honed by years of solitude. Yet today, they betrayed me. Or perhaps they were the only thing keeping me sane.
A twig snapped to my left. I froze, hand on my knife, eyes scanning the underbrush. Nothing moved. The forest was still, too still. Even the birds had gone quiet. I narrowed my eyes, peering into the gloom between the pines. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow flit behind a tree—tall, thin, gone in a blink. I blinked again, and it was just the sway of branches in the breeze.
"Gettin' old, Jed," I muttered to myself, though the unease didn't leave. I'd felt it for days now, ever since we crossed that cursed river. A presence, lurking just out of sight. I'd catch glimpses—shapes in the mist, movement at the edge of my vision—but whenever I turned, there was nothing. Maybe it was my mind playing tricks. Fifty years in the wild can do that to a man. But no, my instincts were sharp as ever. Something was watching us.
I shook off the feeling and pressed on. The caravan needed food. We'd lost too much in that river, and winter was closing in like a wolf on a lame deer. I spotted tracks—a buck, fresh. My mouth watered at the thought of venison. I followed the trail, moving silent as a ghost. The buck was close; I could smell it. There, in a clearing, it stood, antlers proud against the gray sky. I raised my rifle, steady as a rock. The shot echoed through the forest, and the buck fell.
As I approached, the feeling returned—eyes on me, unseen and relentless. I glanced around, but the clearing was empty. Just me and the fallen beast. I knelt beside the buck, drawing my knife. The blade gleamed in the dim light, and I began the work. Skinning, gutting, quartering—the motions were second nature, but today they felt heavy, like a ritual I didn't fully understand.
The blood steamed in the cold air, pooling dark and thick on the forest floor. I was reminded of the old stories, of sacrifices made to appease the spirits. My hands moved methodically, parting flesh from bone, and I muttered a prayer under my breath, though I wasn't sure to whom. "And the Lord said, 'Behold, the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil.'" The words slipped out, unbidden. I'd heard them from a preacher once, long ago. Now, they felt like a warning.
The knife slid through the hide, peeling it back to reveal the muscle beneath. Each cut was precise, reverent, as if I were preparing an offering. The buck's eyes were still open, glassy and accusing, reflecting the gray sky. I paused, staring into them. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw something else—a flicker of movement, a shadow passing behind me. I jerked upright, knife at the ready, but it was only a rabbit darting into the brush.
I cursed my nerves. What was wrong with me? I'd never been jumpy like this. But the feeling of being watched hadn't left; if anything, it was stronger now, pressing against my skin like a cold hand. I finished the butchering quickly, wrapping the meat in the deerskin. The air seemed thicker, the silence heavier, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
As I slung the bundle over my shoulder, a chill wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a faint, guttural sound—like a growl, but deeper, hungrier. I spun around, eyes wide, but the forest was empty. My heart hammered in my chest, the weight of the meat suddenly too much. I hurried back to the caravan, the trail stretching longer than I remembered.
The settlers greeted me with weary smiles, grateful for the food. I handed over the venison, but my eyes kept darting to the tree line. Something was out there. I could feel it. William, the young man who looked up to me like a pup to a wolf, noticed my unease. "You alright, Jed?" he asked, brow furrowed.
"Fine," I grunted, though my voice was tight. "Just tired."
That night, as the fire crackled and the settlers slept, I sat awake, rifle across my lap. The darkness seemed alive, pulsing with a hunger I couldn't name. And somewhere, in the depths of the forest, I thought I heard a whisper—a voice, low and guttural, calling my name. I gripped my rifle tighter, staring into the shadows.
But the night offered no answers, only the creeping certainty that we were not alone.