Mason

When we asked him where he was going, he told us he'd take us to the main road and then to our vehicle if we could tell him where it was.

When we tried to tell him what we saw, the deer, the voice, the tracks, he cut us off once, not angry, just firm, and he said, don't.

He didn't say we were lying.

He didn't say we were imagining it.

He said, don't talk about it up here.

At one point, he slowed down and spit out the window, and he said, almost to himself, if it followed you this far, you're lucky it let you go.

I tried to ask what he meant, but he didn't answer.

He just drove faster.

He got us back to the area where our car was parked near dark.

We drove until town lights showed up, until there were other cars, until there were signs in stores and normal sounds.

We didn't stop talking about it right away because we didn't have the words.

Caleb kept touching the torn part of his jacket like he needed proof it happened.

I kept checking the mirrors like the road behind us might grow antlers.

When we finally stopped for gas, I stood under the harsh lights and felt my body start to shake now that it had permission.

We made the decision that night without drama.

We didn't say we'd go back with more people, or better gear, or a gun, or a plan.

We didn't say we'd prove anything.

We said we were done.

We said those woods could keep whatever they had because we had already given them enough.

So yeah, at the end of it, we are never going into those mountains again, not that section, not that trailhead, not that kind of deep quiet where you feel like your own footsteps are an announcement.