The first snow fell on the morning Mara returned to Blackwood, dusting the pine needles and frost-bitten branches with a brittle white sheen. She hadn’t set foot in the town since her brother’s disappearance ten years ago, but the letter—sealed with a wax stamp of a silver fox—had pulled her back. The sheriff’s office stood at the edge of the square, its red brick façade weathered to a dull rust. Inside, the air smelled of old wood and coffee grounds. Deputy Ellis, a man with a face like crumpled paper, slid a file across the desk. “You’re here about the logs?” he asked, his voice flat. Mara stared at the photo inside: a pile of timber stacked haphazardly near the river, snow crusting the edges. “I’m here about everything,” she said. Ellis didn’t blink. The town had a way of swallowing people whole, and Mara wasn’t sure if she’d come to find answers or to become another ghost in the pines.
The cabin sat at the edge of the woods, its windows frosted over like a sleeping animal. Mara’s boots crunched on the gravel path as she approached, the cold seeping into her bones. She pushed open the creaking door, and the scent of pine resin and mildew hit her. Inside, the firepit was still filled with ashes, and the walls bore scratches in the wood—deep, jagged lines that looked like claw marks. She ran her fingers over them, feeling the grooves. A sound echoed from the floorboards above: a soft thud, then another. Her breath caught. “Hello?” she called. Silence. She stepped into the hallway, her flashlight beam slicing through the dark. The floorboard near the stairs gave way under her weight, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside lay a journal, its leather cover cracked and brittle. The pages were filled with frantic scrawls: *They’re watching. The logs aren’t just logs. The river doesn’t run straight.* Mara’s pulse quickened. She’d read those words before—on the back of the letter that had brought her here.
The sheriff’s office was empty when she returned, the file gone. A single envelope sat on the desk, addressed to her in jagged, uneven script. Inside was a key and a map marked with a red X near the river. Mara pocketed them, her hands trembling. The woods beyond the cabin were thick with shadows, the trees leaning like spectators. She followed the map’s path, her breath visible in the air, until she reached a clearing where the river cut through the land like a silver scar. The water was unnaturally still, its surface reflecting the gray sky. At the river’s edge, she found a stack of logs, their ends carved with symbols that matched the journal’s scratches. A chill ran down her spine. The town had been hiding something here, and she was close to uncovering it.
The next morning, Mara returned to the sheriff’s office, determined. The door creaked open, revealing a figure hunched over the desk—Ellis, but his posture was different, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a weight. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he said without looking up. “This place isn’t safe.” Mara stepped closer, her voice steady. “What’s in the logs? What did my brother find?” Ellis finally looked at her, his eyes hollow. “He saw too much. The river doesn’t just carry water—it carries memories. And some things aren’t meant to be remembered.” Before she could respond, a loud crash echoed from the back of the building. Mara turned to see a figure darting into the shadows. She gave chase, her boots pounding against the wooden floor. The figure led her through a maze of storage rooms until they burst into the alley behind the office. It was a woman, her face obscured by a scarf, but Mara recognized the voice: “You shouldn’t have dug this deep.” The woman vanished into the snow, leaving Mara alone with the weight of unanswered questions.
That night, Mara returned to the cabin, the key from the envelope glinting in her hand. The compartment beneath the floorboard was larger than she’d thought, revealing a tunnel that sloped downward into the earth. She descended, her flashlight beam illuminating a series of stone chambers carved into the bedrock. The walls were covered in carvings—scenes of people being dragged into the river, their faces contorted in fear. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and on it rested a metal box. Inside was a collection of photographs, each showing a different resident of Blackwood, their faces blurred except for one: her brother, standing at the edge of the river, his expression one of terror. Mara’s hands shook as she pulled out the last photo—a snapshot of herself as a child, standing beside her brother, the river behind them. The truth hit her like a blow: the town hadn’t just taken him. It had taken part of her too.
The next day, Mara stood at the river’s edge, the wind tugging at her coat. She knew what she had to do. The logs, the carvings, the photos—they were all pieces of a larger puzzle, a history the town had tried to bury. She took a deep breath and stepped into the water, the cold biting through her boots. The river surged around her, pulling at her legs, but she held steady. Somewhere beneath the surface, her brother’s voice echoed, not in words but in feeling—a warning, a plea. As she sank deeper, the world above faded, and for a moment, she was back in the cabin, the firepit glowing, the scratches on the walls whispering secrets only she could hear. When she emerged, gasping for air, the river was still. The town had tried to keep its secrets, but Mara had seen them. And now, they would have to face what came next.
