Narrator

And somewhere deeper in the hollow, from a place we couldn't see, something huge moved through brush with a slow, heavy crackle.

We were between them.

People above, something not human below.

That was the moment I understood the real shape of the trap.

The first thing I did in that hollow was the dumbest thing you can do when you're cornered.

I tried to make the scene make sense.

I stood there with my pack straps biting into my shoulders, staring at a rotting cabin that looked like it had been built before anyone cared about permits or property lines.

And my brain kept reaching for ordinary explanations.

Old homestead.

Squatters.

Hunters.

A weird coincidence that Glenn and his friend happened to be nearby and were messing with us for sport.

An animal moving through brush that sounded bigger than it was because hollow's echo.

A whistle that carried in strange ways because the air was heavy and still.

It took me longer than I'm proud of to accept that none of it was coincidence.

You don't accidentally end up in a place like that unless you've been guided there, by terrain, by fear, by people who know the shortcuts, or by all three at once.

The hollow felt wrong in the same way a room feels wrong when you walk into it and realize the furniture has been rearranged while you were gone.

The creek was there, the trees were there, but the human touches were too intentional.

Cut firewood stacked to shed water, a tarp lashed with care, snares hanging at a height that wasn't convenient unless someone was using them daily.

Smoke smell, faint but recent.