Chapter Three – The Woods Keep Their Secrets

Evelyn was halfway through a cup of lukewarm coffee when the knock came. Three sharp raps against the lodge door, hard enough to jolt her from her restless thoughts. She checked her watch—6:14 a.m. Too early for anything good.

When she opened the door, Deputy Mark Hanley stood on the porch, his breath fogging in the chill. His boyish face was pale, his freckles stark against skin gone clammy. He held his hat in his hands like a schoolboy about to confess mischief.

“Doctor Hart,” he said, voice tight. “We’ve got another one.”

Evelyn set the mug aside, her stomach sinking. “Where?”

“In the woods. North trail, past the old logging road. Sheriff says come quick.”

She grabbed her coat and bag, her recorder already in her pocket. If there was a fresh scene, she needed to see it untouched.

The forest felt colder that morning, its canopy filtering the weak sunlight into a pallid glow. Frost clung to the edges of leaves, the ground stiff under her boots. Evelyn followed Hanley up the narrow trail, breath clouding in front of her, the silence pressing in. Even the birds seemed hushed.

They found Sheriff Calhoun waiting at the clearing, his posture rigid, one hand on his belt. Two other deputies lingered nearby, their faces carefully blank. Beyond them, a huddle of men—woodcutters, maybe—stood whispering among themselves, rifles slung loosely in their arms.

Calhoun gave Evelyn a curt nod. “Glad you came. But fair warning—it’s worse this time.”

She didn’t respond. She’d learned long ago that every case was “worse this time.” She only moved forward, forcing herself not to glance at the murmuring crowd.

The body lay near a fallen log, half-hidden in brush. Male, thirties, maybe forties. His clothing—flannel, heavy boots—suggested a hunter or someone who worked the land. But what drew Evelyn’s gaze was not his identity, but his state.

Bones jutted from the skin at impossible angles, as though he’d been twisted by giant hands. His ribcage had caved inward, snapped like brittle twigs. Blood had soaked the ground beneath him, though much of it had already darkened to brown.

Evelyn crouched carefully, adjusting her gloves, recorder in hand. “Subject is male, approximately mid-thirties to early forties. Massive blunt-force trauma present. Multiple compound fractures—legs, ribs, arms. Cause of death appears consistent with crushing injury.”

Her voice remained steady, though her stomach threatened revolt. The injuries were brutal, deliberate.

She leaned closer. “Clothing torn but not shredded in typical bite patterns. No clear signs of predation. Flesh not consumed.” She paused, swallowing. “This isn’t a kill for food.”

Behind her, one of the deputies muttered something under his breath. She caught only the word curse.

Evelyn stood, turning toward Calhoun. “No one touches him until I’m done here.”

The sheriff’s jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “You’ve got your time. Just know the longer he lies out here, the worse folks’ll talk.”

“Let them talk,” she said coldly. “I need evidence.”

The evidence wasn’t just in the body. It was in the trees.

Evelyn walked slowly around the clearing, scanning bark and undergrowth. That was when she saw it—long gouges carved deep into the trunk of an oak. Four parallel lines, raked downward, each groove clean and fresh.

She reached up, measuring. The lowest mark began at least eight feet off the ground.

Her mouth went dry. Wolves couldn’t reach that height. Even bears would struggle, unless they’d reared on hind legs—and even then, the precision was odd.

She photographed the marks, her hand trembling slightly as she clicked.

Another tree bore similar scars, these angled across as though something massive had swiped in fury. Bark curled at the edges, sap oozing slowly. The strength required was staggering.

She returned to the body, kneeling again. The man’s spine had been compressed, almost folded. She pressed her gloved hand against the shattered ribs, the shape of the break. It wasn’t tearing. It wasn’t ripping. It was crushing.

A memory of last night’s scratching at her window flared unwelcome in her mind. She shook it off. Coincidence. Animals. Imagination.

And yet—her rational explanations were fraying.

By the time the body was bagged and carried back toward town, a crowd had gathered near the trailhead. Men with rifles, women clutching children, faces taut with fear. Their whispers rose like smoke, curling into words Evelyn caught despite herself.

“Curse of Black Hollow…”

“…the beast again…”

“…should’ve left the woods alone…”

Evelyn tightened her grip on her bag. “Superstitions won’t solve this,” she said aloud, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard her.

Jonah Blackwood was among the crowd. He stood apart, as if the others avoided him, but his eyes found hers immediately. Those amber irises gleamed, sharp and knowing.

“You see it now, don’t you?” he asked when she passed him.

“I see claw marks and broken bones,” Evelyn retorted. “Nothing more.”

“Claw marks higher than any wolf can reach. Bones crushed like twigs. Tell me, Doctor—what kind of animal does that?”

Her silence stretched too long. He gave a grim smile. “You can’t answer, because it’s not in your textbooks.”

Evelyn walked past him, refusing to engage further. But the whisper of his words clung to her, just as the townsfolk’s murmurs clung to the air.

Back in the sheriff’s office, Calhoun paced behind his desk. “You’re not helping me, Doctor. Every time you open your mouth, people get more spooked.”

“I’m reporting facts,” Evelyn snapped. “If the truth scares them, maybe they should be scared.”

“You don’t understand,” Calhoun said, slamming his palm against the desk. “This town runs on belief. You shake that belief, you break the town.”

“They’re already breaking.” Evelyn leaned forward, her voice sharp. “There’s something out there killing people. Wolves don’t fit. If you want to save this town, stop burying it under fairy tales and start preparing for what’s real.”

He glared at her, then looked away, shoulders sagging. “Maybe you’re right. But God help us if you are.”

That night, Evelyn returned to her lodge with her notes. She tried to write, to rationalize.

Possibility one: a rogue bear. Bears could climb, could swipe high, could crush. But the claw marks were too deliberate, too long.

Possibility two: a human. Someone staging animal attacks, using tools, planting evidence. Yet the sheer force required to shatter bones that way—it bordered on inhuman.

She rubbed her temples until her eyes burned. Logic was her anchor, but it was slipping.

Outside, the forest was silent. No howls, no scratching. Only silence, heavy and expectant.

Evelyn closed her notebook, the unease in her chest a weight she could no longer name.

For the first time since arriving in Black Hollow, she wondered if the truth would be something she didn’t want to find.