Mason

It wasn't a building the way you picture a station.

It was a cabin-sized structure, half hidden among trees, with a small porch and a window.

It looked like it could be a ranger outpost.

There was even a sign nailed to the front, but the sign was crooked.

Mason hurried up, almost jogging.

I followed, heart pounding with relief and dread.

The door was ajar.

Mason stopped short and put out an arm to hold me back.

We stood there listening.

Inside, it was quiet.

Mason leaned forward and called, Hello, Ranger?

No answer.

We stepped onto the porch.

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.