Narrator

It never is.

Then she stood up, walked to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a folder without looking at the label, as if she'd done it before.

She slid a newspaper clipping across the table.

Different from ours.

Newer.

Late 1990s.

The headline, Cabin Fire Claims 1.

The article described a fire at a remote property.

The owner's name was different, but the location description matched.

The article said the fire was likely accidental.

It mentioned odd artifacts found on site, dismissed as folklore decor.

It quoted a deputy.

Same tone.

Same dismissal.

I asked Mrs. Larkin why she'd kept that folder.

She said, "'Because every few years someone comes in here with a story they don't want to tell out loud, and I don't like being the person who smiles and says, "'Oh, honey, that's just the wind.'"

I left with a photocopy of the clipping and a heaviness that felt like confirmation.

Not of a specific creature, not of a neat supernatural answer, but of a pattern.

Remote place, missing people, authorities minimizing, locals warning, a sense that whatever is out there benefits from being treated like a joke.

I did not go back to the cabin, I did not drive down that gravel road again.