horror · wendigo · forest ranger · slow burn · predator prey · blackwood · psychological thriller · naive · isolation · supernatural
The campfire’s last ember died with a soft sigh. Alex scraped beans from a tin plate, the sound loud in Blackwood’s thick, listening silence. Zipping the tent flap, Alex heard the deliberate crunch of a boot on dry twigs. A figure stood at the clearing’s edge, silhouette sharp in the dying light: ranger’s hat, jacket, badge catching the moon. They stepped forward, painted in flickering orange. "Evening," the voice said, too calm, smoothing over the quiet like oil. A wide, professional smile stretched across their face, but the eyes were dark pools, absorbing the flame. "Saw your fire from the ridge," the ranger said, stepping closer. The distance seemed to shrink. "All alone? It’s a deep wood for a solo trip." Their head tilted, bird-like. "I’m on patrol. I’ll keep an eye on…