Narrator

Two tourists reported missing after weekend trip.

Different names, different circumstances, but the location was close enough that my stomach turned.

The article quoted the sheriff's office saying it was likely a navigation issue and wildlife.

The comments were full of people joking about mountain boogers.

That was when I did the thing I'd sworn I wouldn't do.

I went back.

Not to the cabin, not onto that property, but to the town.

I needed to know whether we'd been singled out, or whether we'd stumbled into something that happened in cycles like the turning of leaves.

I took the notebook with me, wrapped in a towel like it was fragile.

In town, I found a small historical society in a converted house, run by an older woman named Mrs. Larkin, who had the kind of patience that comes from years of listening to people romanticize your home.

I introduced myself, said I'd stayed in a cabin nearby, said I'd found an old notebook.

I did not lead with voice-stealing creature because I wanted her to keep talking.

When she saw the name on the first page, H.L.

McRae, her face changed subtly.

Not fear, exactly.

More like recognition of a story she'd heard too many times.

She asked where I'd found it.

I hesitated, then told her enough.

Her mouth tightened.

"'That property,' she said, choosing her words carefully, "'has a history.