Speaker 1: Working as a park ranger was a big deal for me.
I've always loved the outdoors, and getting paid to patrol
hiking trails and check on campsites felt like a dream.
It was only a seasonal job, but I was still
content with the allocated time I was given. I'd been
assigned to a remote national park, miles from anything resembling civilization.
My station was a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere,
surrounded by dense forest. There was an even sell service
most of the time. First day in the job was
pretty standard. I met ed my supervisor. He's this older guy,
maybe in his fifties, with a kind of weathered face
that says he's been out here way too long. Nice enough,
but kind of distant. He handed me a basic book
full of protocols, how to check the trail damage, what
to do if you you encounter a bear, how to
handle lost hikers, stir of fe you'd expect. But then
tucked in between the normal sections there was this page
titled Special Procedures. The front looked older, like it hadn't
been updated in years, and it stood out immediately. The
rules on the page, well, they were different. Ignore the
screaming after midnight. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects
the moon. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not
turn around. I actually laughed when I first read them.
I thought it was some kind of joke the older
rangers played on the newbies. But when I asked ed
about it, he didn't laugh, he didn't even smirk. He
just said, follow them and you'll be fine. That's it.
No explanation, no elaboration. I even tried pushing him a little,
asking why these rules are in there, and if this
was some kind of hazing thing, but he just shrugged
and said, you'll see. So I put the book down
and figured maybe it was just some weird tradition or
superstition the Parksteff kept alive for fun, maybe a way
to freak out new hires. Whatever, right, But my first
few nights of the cabin started to change my mind.
You ever stay somewhere so quiet that it almost feels
a loud. That's how it was out there at night.
It was like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Sometimes the only sound was the wind pushing through the trees.
Other times there wasn't even that. The stillness made me
jump at every creak of the cabin, every rustle in
the bushes outside, and then there was this feeling like
I wasn't really alone, even when I knew I was.
It was my third day in when I first heard
the scream. I was sitting at the tiny table in
the cabin, half way through a lukewarm cup of instant coffee.
My eyes were glued to the book of Rules again,
trying to make sense of it all. It was late
past midnight, but I wasn't tired. Something about the cabin
made it hard to relax. Maybe it was how the
floor creaked randomly, even when I wasn't moving all the way.
The wind outside never quite sounded like just wind. I
was flipping through the rules when it started. At first
it was faint, I thought it was the wind again,
But then it got louder, a sharp, piercing scream that
cut through the stillness like a knife. It sounded human,
a woman maybe, or a kid. My stomach dropped, my froze,
my hand gripping the edge of the table so hard
my knuckles turned white. My eyes darted back to the Rules,
to that stupid yellowed page. Ignore the screaming after midnight.
Ignore it easy to write harder to do when it
sounds like someone's out there begging for help. I sat
there for what felt like forever, just listening. The scream
would rise, hold for a few seconds, and then fade.
Then it would start again. My heart was raising, and
before I knew it, I was standing by the cabin door,
my hand on the knob. I told myself it had
to be something explainable, a hiker in trouble maybe, or
an animal that just sounded like a person. I mean,
I'm a park ranger, It's literally my job to check
these things out, right. I stepped outside. The cold hit
me first. It wasn't a normal cold. It was biting,
the kind that sinks into your bones. The forest was
pitch black except for the faint cone of light from
my flashlight. The scream came again, louder now, and I
swung the beam in its direction, trying to see through
the trees. My throat was dry, and every step I
took felt heavier than the last. Then it stopped, not
just the scream, everything, the wind, the rustling of leaves,
the distant sound of nocturnal animals, it all just cut out,
like someone hit the mute button in the world The
silence was so thick I could hear my own breathing,
quick and shallow. I don't know how long I stood there,
frozen in place, but eventually I turned back toward the cabin.
Whatever I thought I was going to find out there
it wasn't worth it. My skin crawled the entire way back,
like something was watching me, just beyond the edge of
the flashlight's reach. When I got inside, I locked the
door twice. The next morning, I asked Lisa about it.
She's another ranger works the main station closer to the
visitor center, the kind of person who always seems upbeat,
like nothing rattles her. But when I brought up the scream,
her face changed immediately. She went pale, and her eyes
darted around the room, like she was checking to see
if anyone else was listening. You didn't follow it, did you,
she asked, her voice low. I hesitated, not sure how
much to admit. I stepped outside, I said, finally, didn't
go far. Lisa's expression darkened. She looked at me like
I just signed my own death warrant. That's how it starts,
she muttered. Then she stood up and walked out of
the room, like I wasn't even there. Later that day,
I went out to patrol one of the popular trails
near the cabin. It was my first time on that route,
and for the most part it seemed normal, just trees, dirt,
and the occasional squirrel. But about half way through I
noticed something hard. The ground had these scuff marks, like
someone had been running off the trail. The branches and
the bushes nearby were broken, and the dirt was churned up.
I gave me in a struggle. I followed the marks
for maybe twenty feet before I found it. A single boot,
muddy torn, just sitting there in the middle of the forest.
There was no sign of its owner. My stomach twisted
as I stared at it. It wasn't just the boot itself.
It was the way it was sitting there, like it
had been dropped deliberately. It didn't feel like something someone
had just forgotten. It felt wrong. When I got back
to the station, I told Ed about it. He barely
looked up from his paperwork. The forest takes what it wants,
he said, shrugging. Then he went back to his coffee
like that was the end of it. The first time
I broke a rule, I told myself. It didn't really count.
It was maybe a week in and I'd almost started
to feel like I heard a routine down. Sure, the
rules are weird, and yeah, the nights were unnervingly quiet,
but I'd convinced myself that things weren't as bad as
I'd made them out to be. Then the footsteps started.
It was late, probably around one am, and I was
lying in bed trying to fall asleep. First I thought
it was just the sound of branches tapping against the cabin,
but then I realized it was rhythmic, slow, deliberate. Someone
was walking around the cabin. My froze, my heart was pounding,
but I kept telling myself to stay calm. I remembered
the rule if you hear footsteps behind you, do not
turn around. Okay, fine, the footsteps weren't exactly behind me,
but the logic seemed the same. Just don't engage. Right.
The pacing continued. It'd circle the cabin, slow and steady,
and I swear whoever or whatever it was would stop
right by my window. I could feel it lingering there,
just out of sight. The sound went on for hours.
I tried covering my ears, but it didn't help. I
couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for me
to look. I held out as long as I could,
but by three a m My nerves were shot. I figured,
if someone was actually outside, I needed to know. What
if it was a hiker I got lost? What if
I was in danger? I pulled back the curtain, just
a crack. Nothing. There was nothing out there, just the trees,
the dirt path, and the faint glow of the moon.
But the second I looked, the footsteps stopped, like they'd
been waiting for me to break. The silence that followed
was even worse. It was thick, pressing down on me,
like gravity was being turned up on a dial. I
didn't sleep that night. The next morning I noticed something
was off. My boots weren't by the door where I
had left them. They were in the middle of the room.
My radio, which I left off, was on, hissing with
faint static, and when I glanced at the window, I
swear my reflection didn't move in time with me. It
lagged just a split second, but enough to make my
stomach drop. I told myself it was nothing, just my
mind playing tricks. But then I patrolled the lake a
few days later, I was out patrolling the trails near
the lake at dusk. The sky was this brilliant orange
and the moon was just starting to rise. When I
got to the water's edge, I noticed the moon's reflection.
It was too much, too bright, too vivid, almost like
it wasn't just reflecting the moon but amplifying it. I
stood there for a second, hypnotized, before the rule clicked
in my head. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects
the moon. I snapped out of it and took a
step back. But as I turned to leave, I saw
a ripple in the water. There wasn't any wind, no
fish jumping, just that ripple spreading out from the center,
and for a split second, I swear I saw a hand,
pale and thin, reach up toward the surface. I didn't
stick around to see what came next. I stumbled back
to the trail and didn't stop until I was half
way to the cabin. That night, I had a dream.
I was back at the lake, standing at the edge,
but the Moon's reflection was shattered like broken glass. I
could hear something crawling out of the water, slow and deliberate,
dragging itself towards me. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream.
I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart raising. But
it wasn't just the dream. When I swung my legs
out of the bed, I felt cold, wet fabric, My
boots were soaked, caaked with mud, and there were footprints, muddy, unmistakable,
leading from the door to my bed. Looking back, I
think the first real warning sign wasn't the footsteps or
the lake. It was Lisa. She'd been one of the
first people I met on the job, and while she
wasn't exactly friendly, she was present. She cracked a joke
now and then talk about the hikes she liked to take.
But after the footsteps and the lake, she changed. She
was still around technically, but she wasn't Lisa anymore. Her
skin looked pale, like she'd been sick for weeks, and
her eyes I don't even know how to describe it.
They just didn't seem to focus, like she was looking
through me, not at me. She barely spoke unless it
was necessary, and even then her voice was flat, almost mechanical.
One morning I asked her if she was okay. She
just shrugged and said, I'm fine, just tired. But she
wasn't fine in the world. Ed didn't seem surprised, if anything,
he avoided her. When I brought it up to Ed later,
he snapped at me, Ed the guy who'd spent most
of my first week cracking dad jokes and calling me nuby.
The rules are there for a reason, Nick, he said,
glaring at me, like I just insulted his entire family.
You don't follow them, and you deal with the fallout.
That's it, no exceptions. What kind of fallout are we
talking about? I pressed, what's actually happening here? You don't
want to know, he muttered, turning back to his coffee,
like we hadn't just had the most unsettling conversation of
my life. Later that day, I went out to patrol,
trying to shake the weird tension between us. It was
supposed to be in normal route when I'd done twice before,
but something was different. The trail I was on didn't
feel right. The trees seemed taller, like they were leaning
in towards me, and the air was colder than it
should have been for midday. Still I pushed forward. I
don't know why. Maybe I was hoping to find something
proof that I was still in control. Then I saw them,
carvings in the trees. Faces they were walked and stretched,
their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes too big,
too round. They weren't there the last time I'd walked
this trail. I swear my life, they weren't. As I
stood there, staring, I heard something. It started as a
faint whisper, like wind through the branches, but it grew
louder words. I couldn't make out voices, dozens of them,
maybe more, all overlapping. My chest tightened and I turned
back the way. I came, practically running until I was
back of the cabin. That night, the scream came back, louder, closer.
It didn't just echo through the forest this time. It
felt like it was inside my head, rattling around my skull,
clawing at my thoughts. And then I swear to you,
I heard my name. It was woven into the scream,
whispered at first, then louder, my name, over and over,
like it was begging me, calling me. I grabbed my
flashlight and stood by the door, my hand on the handle.
I almost opened it. I don't know what stopped me.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the rule. Either way,
I let go of the handle and stepped back, my
whole body shaking. I didn't sleep that night. I wish
I could tell you this is where it stopped. That
after ignoring the scream and the whispers and whatever the
hell happened with the lake, I just rode up my
time and left the park like a normal person. But
that's not how it works here. It was the manual
that tipped me off. One morning, I woke up to
find it sitting on my kitchen table. I swear I
had left it in the drawer, but there it was,
right next to my untouched breakfast. I thought someone had
just left it out, But then I saw the writing.
The rules had changed. The old ones were still there,
ignored the screaming, don't look at the lake, but new
ones had appeared, scribbled in handwriting. I didn't recognize. One
read the cabin lights must stay on after dark. Another,
if you hear knocking from inside the walls, don't investigate.
But the one that made my stomach drop was at
the bottom of the page. You are part of the cycle.
You must stay. I stared at it for a long time,
hoping I misread it or losing my mind. Part of
me wanted to crumple the page, toss it in the trash,
and pretend I hadn't seen it, But I couldn't. Something
about it felt final. It wasn't instructions. I could just
ignore That afternoon, I went to find Ed. He was
sitting on the porch of his cabin, sipping coffee, like
everything was fine, Like none of this was happening. Ed,
I said, holding up the manual, What the hell is this?
He barely glanced at it. It's the rules. Don't give
me that the rules are changing. Look. I flipped to
the new entry, shoving it toward him. What does this mean?
What the hell is the cycle? Why does it say
I have to stay? Ed didn't say anything At first,
He just stared at the horizon, his face unreadable. Finally
he sighed and put down his mug. I told you
follow the rules, that's all you had to do. What
does that mean? My voice cracked, but I didn't care.
You knew this was going to happen, didn't you. You knew,
and you didn't say anything. His eyes met mine, and
for the first time I saw cracks in his calm demeanor.
He looked tired, defeated. The rules aren't just there to
keep you safe, he said quietly. They're part of the agreement.
What agreement with the forest, he said, his voice barely
above a whisper. It takes what it wants. The rules
are how we keep it at bay. But once you
start breaking them, he trowled off, shaking his head. You
can't undo it, Nick, It's already claimed you. That night,
I didn't bother trying to sleep. I sat at the table,
the manual open in front of me, The words you
must stay burned into my brain. The footsteps started around midnight.
At first they were faint, just a soft shuffle outside
the cabin. Then they grew louder, circling the walls, passing
by the windows. I kept my eyes on the manual,
my foot shaking nervously, trying to focus. Then came the knocking.
It was slow at first, deliberate, like someone tapping their
knuckles against the wood. But it didn't come from the door.
It was inside the walls. I tried to block it out,
repeating the rules in my head like a prayer. But
then I made the mistake of looking up my reflection
in the window. Staring back at me, except it wasn't me.
It looked like me, same face, same clothes, but his
expression was wrong. Its mouth curved into a grin. I
wasn't making its eyes darker than they should have been.
He raised a hand, pointing behind me. I turned around.
Nothing was there, but the footsteps inside the cabin didn't stop.
Ed came to my cabin the next morning. He didn't
knock or asked permission to come in, just opened the door,
stepped inside, and stood there like he belonged. You're taking
the North patrol today, he said. His voice was flat,
like we hadn't had that whole conversation about the cycle,
like I hadn't spent the entire night hearing footsteps inside
my cab. I didn't argue. What would have been the
point if I refused. He'd just give me some cryptic warning,
maybe shove the manual at me. I nodded and grabbed
my gear. The manual stayed on the table. I didn't
want it near me. The patrol route was one of
the longer ones, winding past the lake and cutting through
a part of the forest I'd avoided since I started
the job. It was in a hard trail, but something
about it felt heavy, like the air itself was thicker,
harder to breathe. I passed the lake first. The surface
was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the sky like a giant mirror.
I kept my head down, refusing to look too closely,
but out of the corner of my eye, I swear
I saw something someone just beneath the surface. Lisa, her
pale face, her eyes wide, staring up at me. I
don't know if it was real or if my mind
was playing tricks, but I hurried past, not daring to stop.
Further down the trail, I found a flashlight that belonged
to Harris, another ranger, lying in the dirt. It was
caked with mud, the lens cracked. I picked it up
without thinking, then immediately dropped it. The metal was ice cold,
like it had been sitting in a freezer, not out
in the open sun. That's when I started to notice
the forest wasn't quiet anymore. There were faint whispers coming
from the trees, layered and overlapping, like a hundred voices
murmuring just out of earshot. I couldn't make out the words,
but I didn't need to. I knew they were for me.
By the time I reached the park boundary, my legs
felt like lead. The air had a strange pull to it,
like the forest itself was holding me back. I stopped
at the edge of the tree line, staring out at
the empty road beyond, and an intrusive thought hit me.
I could leave right then, right there. I could drop
my gear, walk out of the forest and never look back.
I'd lose the job, sure, but I'd keep my life,
my real life, the one I'd had before all of this.
But then I thought about the manual, the rules head's warnings.
The forest takes what it wants, he'd said. What if
leaving wasn't an escape. What if I took something with me,
whatever this was, and it followed me home, Or worse,
what if leaving through everything off balance, broke the agreement
and dragged someone else into this nightmare. I stood there
for what felt like ours, staring at the road. My
mind was screaming at me to run, but my legs
wouldn't move. The whispers grew louder, circling around me, wrapping
me in their invisible grip, and then just like that,
they stopped. The forest went silent, completely utterly silent. I
turned back, my heart pounding. The trees seemed taller, darker,
and the trail I had come down looked like it
had never been there at all. I don't remember much
about walking back to the cabin. It felt like the
forest that saw followed me whole and when I stepped
through the door, I couldn't tell if I'd escaped or
walked deeper into something far worse. The air inside was
stale and cold. My body ate like I'd run a marathon.
But the exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was in my bones,
my mind. I locked the door, bolted it twice, and
sat down at the table. The manual was still there, waiting.
I opened it, slowly, flipping through the pages. The rules
were the same, or at least I thought they were.
I read each one carefully, over and over, like I
was memorizing scripture. I understood now. The rules weren't suggestions,
they weren't folklore. They were survival. As long as I
followed them, I could stay. I wouldn't disappear like Lisa,
wouldn't dissolve into whispers like Harris. The forest might have
claimed me, but it wouldn't take me all at once.
I fell into a routine after that, patrol during the day,
locked the door at night. I didn't ask questions anymore.
I didn't peek through the curtains when the footsteps started.
I didn't let myself think about leaving, because I knew
there wasn't anywhere to go. Sometimes I still heard the scream.
It's always distant, now muffled, like it's coming from miles away.
Maybe that's what happens. You fade into the forest, slowly,
until you're just another sound in the dark. I don't
know how long it's been. Time gets slippery out here.
The days blurred together, and the nights feel endless. I've
stopped counting the seasons, stopped looking at the calendar. The
forest doesn't care about dates, so why should I. But
something new has changed things. Last week I saw headlights
through the trees, a new ranger pulling into the station.
I watched from a distance as ed handed in the manual.
The kid looks so young, so confident. I wanted to
warn him, wanted to scream at him to leave now
while he still could. But I didn't because the forest
was watching, and the rules are clear. He has unknowingly
became a player in this game, and I just pray
he doesn't lose