Mason

The wood creaked.

The door swung slightly with the breeze and in that small movement I saw something on the inside wall.

A set of scratches, not claw marks, knife marks.

Deep repeated gouges in the wood, as if someone had dragged a blade over and over again in frustration or practice.

Below the scratches, someone had carved a symbol.

it was the same kind of intersecting lines and circle we'd seen on the bark strip days earlier mason's face drained of color again this isn't a station he said then from inside the structure we heard a soft sound a foot shifting on a floorboard

Mason grabbed my shoulder and yanked me backward off the porch so hard I almost fell.

We stumbled into the mud, backs to trees, staring at the doorway.

The door opened wider.

The man stepped out.

Up close, he looked worse.

Not monstrous, just wrong in a way that made him feel more dangerous because he was real.

His jacket was soaked and stained.

His beard was stringy.

His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin around them was raw, possibly from the bear spray, possibly from something else.

He held the blade in his right hand, relaxed at his side like it was just part of him.

He looked at us, and there was something almost satisfied in his expression, like he'd been waiting for this moment.

Mason raised the bear spray again.

I saw his thumb tremble on the safety.

The man's smile returned, small and calm.