Narrator

Friend to those who have no friend.

Janet Corning and a man named Harry Barlow, wanted for a Kansas murder, are stealing furs and apparently getting assistance in their work from Boston Blackie.

Inspector Faraday is convinced that Blackie is working with the thieves when he finds a stolen fur coat hidden away in Mary Wesley's apartment.

When confronted with this evidence, Blackie locks both Faraday and Mary in a closet and escapes with Janet.

As we return to our story, Blackie and Janet are in Blackie's car driving down a street in a remote part of town.

I'm going to tell this the way I've told it to two therapists, one deputy, and exactly one person who knew the cabin's owner well enough to make a call that got returned.

I'm not going to dress it up, and I'm not going to pretend I understand everything that happened.

I also want to say this up front because people love labels.

I'm going to use the phrase skinwalker-like the same way people say wolf-like when they mean, it moved like a wolf and made me think of a wolf.

I'm not Navajo.

I'm not going to borrow anyone's beliefs as a prop.

The Appalachian Mountains have their own old stories.

Boogers.

Haints.

Things you don't call by name after dark.

And whatever we ran into out there fits better into that category anyway.

Something that steals familiarity, uses it like a tool, and leaves you arguing with yourself about whether your senses can be trusted.

This happened on a week-long cabin trip in the Appalachians in mid-October, the kind of week where the leaves look like the whole mountain's been lit from underneath, but the shadows between the trunks are already winter dark.

There were four of us, me, my wife Nora, my closest friend from college Eric, and Eric's younger sister Maddie, who joined because she'd just gotten out of a messy relationship and wanted a reset.

We booked a cabin that was advertised as remote, authentic, historic, which is realtor language for, you won't have cell service and nobody will hear you if you scream.