“I don’t know,” Caleb said quietly. “But we’re going to find out.”
They crossed the last backyard and slipped through a gap in the fence, stepping into untamed ground. The change was instant.
The neat lawns and flowerbeds were gone. In their place, the forest loomed—dense, shadowed, and utterly indifferent. Pine needles lay in a faded golden carpet. Overhead, branches wove together, dimming the sunlight and shutting out the world they’d left behind.
Caleb moved with careful precision, scanning every patch of earth and tangle of brush. Lisa followed close, her boots crunching over twigs.
“What exactly are we looking for?” she asked.
“Clues,” he murmured. “Snapped branches. Tufts of fur. Droppings. Blood, if we’re unlucky. It’ll leave a trail—we just have to read it.”
They walked in silence until Caleb stopped and pointed. “There.”
Half a pawprint pressed into the soil, edges blurred but still clear enough. The pads stood out, the toes spread wide.
“Same animal,” he said. “It comes through here often.”
Lisa’s throat tightened. Caleb motioned her closer. “Let’s keep moving. Eyes open.”
The deeper they went, the cooler the air grew. The hum of the neighborhood vanished, replaced by the whisper of branches and the occasional caw overhead.
Every sound seemed amplified, as though the forest itself were listening. A squirrel darted through dry leaves and Lisa jumped. Her boots felt too loud, every twig snap announcing them.
They were in its territory now. Caleb’s gaze flicked constantly to the shadows. “It knows this ground better than we do,” he muttered. “If it’s watching us, we won’t know until it decides we should.”
Lisa’s pulse thudded in her ears. She kept glancing over her shoulder, bracing for the flash of golden eyes between the trees. The fear wasn’t just of danger—it was the not knowing. Not knowing what it was. Not knowing how close.