Something in the Pines

Prologue

The Pacific Northwest forest does not care about you. It was old before the campground existed, before the road was cut, before anyone thought to hang a wooden sign pointing toward Lookout Point. It will be old long after. That is not the threat. The threat is what lives in it. Whispering Pines Campground has six sites, a cold creek to the east, and a ranger station at the entrance whose door is standing open. The ranger has not been seen in two days. Somewhere in the trees, there are fresh carvings in the bark — deep cuts, still wet. At night, the darkness between the trunks is absolute. Something has noticed the lights and the voices and the warmth of the people gathered here. It has been watching long enough to start learning. It is patient in the way that things are patient when they have never needed to hurry. It does not want to be seen. It wants to be heard. The campers at Whispering Pines do not yet know what they are sharing these woods with. That window — the time before knowing — is closing.