Jonas

I just needed to be alone.

We buried my uncle the week before, and since then the house had been stuffed wall to wall with family, casseroles, murmur prayers, and too much silence between the talking.

Grief makes people weird.

They either don't talk at all or they talk too much.

I needed to breathe air that hadn't passed through someone sobbing, so I slipped out early, didn't even tell anyone.

Just took my thermos, a sleeve of crackers, and my pocket knife.

The kind that clips onto your belt, not meant for much more than whittling bark or peeling an apple.

But it made me feel better having it.

My phone was useless up there anyway.

No service, that was the point.

I walked slow, took the long path, let the quiet settle in.

It was nice for a while.

Leaves crunching, frost still clinging to the grass and the shadows, the kind of cold that stings a little when you breathe too deep.

About an hour in, I came up on the third shack, the one I never liked.

I stopped there, not sure why, maybe just curious to see how much worse it had gotten.

It looked the same, like something had tried to claw its way up from underneath and then given up halfway through.

I was standing beside it, sipping coffee, and staring at the collapsed roof when I noticed the boot prints.

They were fresh, still sharp around the edges, big, too like warp boots.

And they weren't mine.

They cut behind the shack and headed straight into the woods off the path in a direction no Saint Hunter would go.