I wiped down the Rusty Lantern's counters with the same motion I'd used a hundred times before – small circles, working left to right, the rhythm. My hands moved automatically while my mind stayed fixed on the poster by the door. The third missing girl in the last six months. The girl's face – pretty, open, unaware – stared back at me from behind laminated plastic. I recognized her type without ever having met her—an unmistakable sign that somewhere deep in these rugged mountains, someone sought out women just like her.

  Outside, Blackthorn Ridge sulked beneath a heavy sky. Clouds rolled low over the treetops, swallowing light and color. The rolling clouds and dim light imbued every ridge and crevice with a quiet foreboding, mirroring the melancholy that seemed to settle deep into my bones. Rain tapped on the windows. Steady. Testing. Under the sickly glow of the fluorescent lights, faces took on gaunt, almost ghostly aspects while the coffee, dark as motor oil, added to the grim tableau. We were thirty miles from any semblance of civilization, tucked away in a forgotten nook of mountains that had long before this era swallowed up wanderers and dreamers alike.

  Drifting toward the poster, rag still in hand, I studied the image of Leila Crawford, 28—a missing woman whose hiking selfie captured her in a moment of exertion and pride, her dark hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail.

  Inevitably, my fingers reached out almost on their own, delicately tracing the edge of the paper, feeling the slight dampness that had warped its corners already. Beneath her vital details, the Forest Service’s contact information was printed in a stark, utilitarian font.

  It read: “Last seen on Crooked Spine Trailhead, wearing green rain jacket, black hiking pants…”

  Something shifted in my chest. Not fear. Something colder. Recognition. Leila Crawford wasn’t just gone. She was part of a pattern nobody wanted to see.

  Behind me, a spoon clinked against ceramic. A trucker laughed too loudly at something the cook said. The ancient coffee machine wheezed and gurgled, forcing another pot of bitter liquid through its veins. I cataloged each sound without turning, my body still but my senses unfurled like antennae.

  "You okay there, Josie?" Ruth called out from her perch at the counter.

  "Fine," I said, the word emerging softer than I intended. No, I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been for years. I’d learned to lie, learned to make it sound normal. Back then, I thought safety was something you earned—if you stayed quiet, polite, forgettable. I don’t believe that anymore.

  Her sharp eyes studied me for a moment, they miss very little. If she had any suspicions that I was lying she chose to keep them to herself. She sipped her coffee and turned back to the cook. They argued about pretty much everything, every day.

  I tried to focus. But the poster pulled at my vision.

  Twelve days missing.

  Crooked Spine Trailhead.

  Eastern ridge.

  Three trails converge near Coldwater Creek.

  She smiled crookedly in that photo—left side higher than the right. Tiny scar near her lip.

  Details. That’s what I’d trained myself to see. Not the whole, not the person. The pieces that remained after everything else was stripped away.

  The diner's sounds washed over me – coffee pouring, plates clinking, hushed conversations about the logging company's latest layoffs. None of it touched me. My mind spinning with thoughts, ideas, plans. Itching to find where this latest piece fits.

  Another patron entered, bringing with them a gust of pine-scented air and rain. The poster fluttered. The missing woman's eyes seemed to follow me, asking a question I couldn't answer yet.

  "Order up," the cook called, sliding a plate of eggs and hash browns onto the counter. Normalcy, sharp and absurd. The world kept moving while women vanished into trees.

  I delivered the plate to a man in the corner booth, Elias, my mind supplied his name. He nodded thanks without looking up from his newspaper. I liked that about Blackthorn Ridge – people minded their business. Nobody asked why I flinched at sudden movements or why I always sat facing the door. They mistook my watchfulness for shyness, my silence for submissiveness.

  As the rain intensified into a steady drumming against the roof, I resumed my cleaning. Moving with mechanical precision between tables, refilling empty coffee mugs with an empty smile.

  The lunch crowd thinned to a handful of regulars by two o'clock. From behind the counter, the cooks’s familiar voice broke through once more, “Hey, Josie, can you take these to table six?” She slid two steaming plates across the counter, trails of gravy-smothered meatloaf rising like wisps of aromatic steam.

  “Sure thing,” I replied, my tone calibrated to strike the perfect balance between helpfulness and unassuming reserve—just enough to keep probing eyes at bay.

  When I returned, I noticed that the corner booth, where the unofficial town council convened, was deep in conversation.

  Norm Peterson. Quiet. Owned most of the land along the park’s border.

  Stan Ralston. Loud. Owned the hardware store.

  Lucille, his sister, postmistress. Eyes like needles.

  Russell Vito, head ranger.

  I caught fragments of their hushed dialogue drifting through the salty, rain-misted air. Circling near their table, wiping down the neighboring booth with deliberate slowness, I listened intently. The coffee pot hung heavy in my left hand. I switched it back to my right, cursing myself mentally for my slipup.

  “…third one since spring…”

  "You'd think people would learn to stay on the marked paths." Stan said, tapping a thick finger against the newspaper spread between their mugs.

  "Tourists," Lucille agreed, her voice thin and sharp like a paper cut. "They come up here thinking it's some kind of amusement park with guardrails and emergency phones."

  Russell leaned back, booth creaking in protest. His retort lost in the noise of the diner.

  My hand tightened around the coffee pot's handle, the heat burning through the cheap plastic, but my face remained carefully blank. A pleasant nobody. Forgettable.

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  "Need a warm-up?" I asked, approaching their table with the practiced smile that never reached my eyes. Norm simply nodded without so much as glancing in my direction.

  "Thanks, honey."

  I poured with a steady hand, moving clockwise around their table. Up close, I could smell Russell's pine-and-tobacco scent, see the network of broken capillaries mapping Stan's nose, notice how Lucille's eyes tracked my movements with the habitual suspicion of someone who had spent decades examining parcels for incorrect postage.

  "Bet she wandered off the trail trying to get a better view for her Instagram," Stan said. "Probably fell into a ravine taking a selfie."

  "Or ran off with someone," Lucille countered sharply. "Wouldn't be the first girl to use a 'hiking trip' as cover for meeting someone."

  Russell shook his head slowly. "Nah, these mountains don't forgive foolhardiness. You go unprepared, and nature exacts its toll without a second thought. I wish I had more rangers covering the trails, but the fucking government bean counters won’t budge."

  Norm’s eyes narrowed slightly as he added, "There've been a lot of these incidents lately." A moment of heavy silence fell over the table. I slowed my pouring, stretching the seconds.

  "Just bad luck," Russell finally said. "Different trails, different times of year. Sprained ankle in some ravine, or shacked up in Portland with a new boyfriend like Lucille mentioned."

  My coffee pot was empty now, but I lingered, adjusting the salt and pepper shakers on their table with precision that could be mistaken for diner protocol rather than what it was – an excuse to listen longer.

  "What do you think happened to her?" Norm asked, his voice lower now, eyes darting toward the missing poster. “If the news catches wind of this, we’ll have even fewer people coming up here. The town is dying as it is.”

  Lucille shrugged. "Same as always. Got lost, got scared, made bad decisions.” Her eyes close for a moment as if remembering something painful. “It does seem like…” her voice drifts off. The details formed an ominous tapestry, even as the table drifted back into safer, more conventional topics.

  I backed away, careful not to seem like I was listening too closely. Face blank. Eyes calm. But underneath, the wheels were turning. Fast.

  They didn’t see it. But I did.

  Not the trails. Not the timing.

  It was the women. Their type.

  How they were picked. Where they ended up—if they turned up at all.

  From behind the counter, I watched the four of them drift back to safer topics – weather, politics, somebody's daughter getting engaged. They talked like they always did. Touched every subject but the truth.

  The others didn't believe in monsters, they couldn’t allow themselves to. They believed in bad luck, poor planning, the indifference of nature. But I knew better. I knew the darkness that lived in people's hearts – how it hungered, how it hunted, how it hid behind ordinary faces and everyday clothes.

  I picked up the coffee pot again, circling back to their table. Invisible in my uniform, useful only for the service I provided. It was the perfect cover.

  The room I rented at Twin Pines Manor was deliberately impersonal – a blank slate that could be abandoned at a moment's notice. No photographs, no keepsakes, nothing that couldn't fit in a single backpack if I needed to disappear again. The worn floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I locked the door behind me, sliding the chain into place with a familiar click. Night pressed against my single window, the glass reflecting my movements like a dark mirror.

  I pulled the large map from beneath my mattress, unfolding it carefully on the bed. The paper was crisp despite the damp air. Across the map, Blackthorn Ridge spread out in intricate lines, marking the Crooked Spine Trails, abandoned fire roads, and ravines too perilous for tourist brochures, each drawn with the meticulous precision of memory and forest service charts.

  My fingers reached into my pocket for a red marker, uncapping it with my teeth in a practiced gesture, and I marked a precise dot where Leila Crawford had last been seen. The sharp, chemical tang of ink mixed with a silent resolve as I surveyed the pattern emerging on the map. Now, five red dots stood out—a trail of five missing women over the last two years. The last three from the last six months. Whomever was taking them, they were getting bolder. They were all brunettes, athletic and vibrant, between twenty-five and thirty-five, each taken along the eastern ridge trails. Four bodies found in the infamous cluster of pines deep within the ridge. One still missing.

  The Widow Trees, twisted and ancient, their gnarled branches scarred with lightning strikes. They are the subject of many local superstitions and legends. An eerie place where most do not linger. Even the rangers didn’t like patrolling that stretch.

  The local and state police are deliberately keeping the details of the scenes under wraps. However, with this newest missing girl, whispers of a serial killer have been floating around. The old timers musing about the past and dredging up local legends. I itched to spend a day in the local library researching.

  The bulb flickered overhead. The red dots stared back at me.I’d seen this before—methodical, practiced.“I see you,” I said. Not loud. Not soft. Just certain.

  Rising from the bed, I moved purposefully to the narrow closet and retrieved my hiking gear. I chose not the bright, cheerful equipment that tourist hikers favored, but rather worn, practical items in subdued, earthy tones—a waterproof jacket in faded olive, boots softened by countless miles and silent trails, and wool socks that clung to warmth even when dampened by the forest’s mist. Each item was laid out with the precision of a surgeon arranging his tools.

  I checked my revolver—a .38 Special I’d bought in a distant state with cash and a forged ID—letting the cool metal reassure me as it rested in my palm. I had honed my skills until the weight of the weapon was as natural as the beat of my own heart, and I maintained it as faithfully as any sacred ritual, cleaning it once every week. It was a means of last resort, if I ever had to use it I would have to dispose of it. Its presence would lead to too many uncomfortable questions and scrutiny. Something I did not need.

  Next came the knife with its gleaming edge, the canister of pepper spray, and finally the burner phone loaded with only three meticulously programmed numbers. I laid each item out with precision.

  Knife.

  Pepper spray.

  Burner phone.

  Every tool had its place. No extras. No mistakes.

  I pinned my dark brown hair back with mechanical motions, studying my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. My face gave nothing away – no fear, no anticipation, just calm assessment. I'd spent months practicing this blank mask, perfecting the art of looking forgettable.

  The truth was, I'd been patient since I arrived in Blackthorn Ridge three months ago. Watching. Listening. Learning the rhythms of the town, the secrets of the trails. I spent what little time I was not working, hiking every path where a woman had vanished, noting every blind spot and hidden turn, cataloguing each local regular at the diner, every seasonal worker at the ranger station, and the drifters who came and went like shadows. All the pieces were converging into a pattern that was as meticulous as it was sinister.

  I spread the trail maps beside my own, cross-referencing points of interest.

  Tomorrow, I would begin my search from Coldwater Creek—the spot where three trails converged and the sharp bend in the ridge blocked sightlines—a perfect hunting ground for someone who had mastered these wild terrains and could predict the vulnerable moments of lone hikers.

  Outside, the rain had ceased, leaving behind a humid silence that hummed with potential. The mountains would be slick and treacherous at dawn, turning the trails into muddied paths that would discourage the casual wanderer. Most would remain safely in town, lingering in gift shops or nursing cups of bitter coffee at the Rusty Lantern.

  Perfect.

  The fewer people on the paths, the better. A natural filter; only the serious ones remained. Those with the skills to stalk and disappear without a trace. But not all of them. There were the determined ones—the ones who craved solitude and the unpredictable expanse of unfettered trails. Women like Leila Crawford, who believed that adventure was worth risking everything, despite their inexperience.

  And then there was me.

  I folded the maps with precise creases, tucking them into a waterproof pouch. My fingers moved through the preparations without conscious thought – checking batteries in my flashlight, packing energy bars and water, securing first aid supplies.

  "Tomorrow," I whispered to the red dots on my map.

  The predator haunting these winding trails had chosen Blackthorn Ridge for its isolation, believing that the sprawling forest would shield his secrets from prying eyes. He never imagined that someone else was hunting him in return.

  Setting my alarm for 4 AM, I stretched out on the narrow bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling where dim patterns of light danced in the silence. Sleep would come as it always did; with it, the dreams of shadows and monsters. However, with morning’s first light, the hunt would begin.