Narrator

Inside were directions, emergency numbers, instructions for the stove, and a page titled wildlife that read like it had been edited over time.

Black bears, common, coyotes, common, bobcats, rare, feral hogs, present in some areas.

Then in a different handwriting, one line, do not go into the woods after dark.

If you hear a person calling for help, do not answer, lock the doors.

It would be easy to say that's where we should have left.

But the human mind has a defense mechanism for things like that.

We treat them like quirks.

We file them under local color.

Eric said it was probably aimed at tourists who get lost.

Nora said maybe there were hunters who didn't want people wandering around.

Maddie didn't say anything.

She just turned the page and pretended she hadn't read it twice.

That first night, we sat on the porch with blankets and hot drinks because the air had that sharp edge that makes you feel awake.

The stars were bright in the gaps between tree branches.

Eric set up his telescope like a ritual.

We talked about nothing important.

At around 10, the wind shifted and the chimes moved for the first time.

They didn't tinkle like delicate chimes.

They clanged, low and hollow, like pipes.

It made all of us pause mid-sentence, the same way people pause when a dog growls.