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Speaker 1: It's not glamorous work, but it pays well and offers

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opportunities for over time. After the divorce and the foreclosure,

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after most of my friends stopped calling, County Maintenance was

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steady enough, quiet, predictable, and away from the noise for

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my life I was trying to avoid. I was assigned

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a new job to do. Take the truck, follow the checklist,

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tear down the old signs, like the trails as cleared,

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move on. I was sitting in the diner the morning

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before the job started, staring into a mug of burnt coffee,

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pretending not to hear the old men at the corner

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table watching me. One of them finally spoke up, some

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trails don't want to be forgotten. The others gave a

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chuckle at that. Half serious, half sarcastic, small town men

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with too many years behind them, too familiar with bad stories,

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too many bad stories told over whiskey and boredom. I

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gave them the polite nod you learn to use when

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you're too tired to argue. They're just signs, I said,

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just trees. They didn't argue, They just kept watching me

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finish my coffee. Truth was this route landed on my

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lap because nobody else wanted it, not the younger guys,

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not the retirees pulling half shifts to pad their pensions.

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Even my supervisor didn't look me in the eye when

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he gave me the paperwork. A lot of bad breakouts there,

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he said, be careful, you step. I figured it was

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the usual small town superstition. Faded trail markers, knell to

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rotting trees weren't going to bite me. The bureaucracy doesn't

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scare me. Not usually. The first few trails went by

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without much to say for themselves, nothing unusual beyond how

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quiet everything felt. No birds, no squirrels, not even the

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hummer flies of a deadfall, just me and the trees,

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the kind of silence you feel in your teeth. The

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work itself stayed simple. Hike in, find the markers, pull

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them down, lock the removal, move on. Every sign had

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a name on it, stamped in wood and weather worn

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to hell. Some of them I recognized from old missing

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persons fliers, faces that used to hang by the register

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and gas stations when I was a kid, memorials to

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those lost and never found. Others dated further back than that,

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Names passed down through town gossip, usually mentioned in the

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same breath as bad luck or sad endings. It struck

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me more than once, how strange it was the name

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trails after people who'd gone missing on them. Stranger still,

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how nobody ever bothered to mention that part when handing

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me the job sheet. After a few days, things started

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not lining up. I'd clear a path in the morning,

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all the markers out, only to find some of them

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back up by the afternoon. Same trees, samet bolts, sunk

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into bark that should have been bare. Then there were

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the footprints too narrow for my boots, moving across the

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paths in places where no one should have been walking.

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They never led anywhere, just stopped dead in the middle

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of thick brush, or vanished outright on solid ground. The

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radio gave me more static the deeper I went, Voices

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sometimes faint and broken beneath the white noise. I couldn't

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make out much at first, but after a while it

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got clearer. Stop, turn back, leave it alone, always urgent,

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always on the edge of words. I told myself it

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had to be locals playing games, teens tapping into my

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radio frequency. Maybe those old boys at the diner still

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had enough spite in them to plant a CB somewhere

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and mess with me. I thought about packing up early,

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taking the right up, losing the overtime, but rent was due,

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bills were stacked, and I couldn't stomach screwing up another job.

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So I stayed, set up camp right in the thick

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of it to finish quicker one more night. Then I'd

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tear down the last of it and never look back.

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Even as I hammered in the last stake and zip

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my tent shut beneath those dead trees, I couldn't shake

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the feeling I should have left already. That night, the

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woods didn't pretend to sleep. I heard movement outside the

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tent long before I unzipped it. Not footsteps exactly, not

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anything that steady. Branches snapped, leaves shifted, and something mimicked

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the short clipped beaps of my radio. Not words, just noise,

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chopped and mechanical, trying to get the rhythm right without

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understanding the purpose behind it. I sat in the dark, listening,

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waiting for it to stop. When it didn't, I stepped

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out with my flashlight and swept the trees beyond the camp.

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For a second, I thought I saw a figure. It

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was tall, bigger than anyone living ought to be, standing

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too still between the trunks. My light didn't catch it properly.

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I blinked. It was gone. I told myself it had

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been a tree, a shadow, or a grazing animal I

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had spooked away. When I tried the radio again, the

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static gave way to words, not sentences, nothing conversational, just names,

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names of trails I hadn't reached yet, names pulled straight

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from my paperwork. Some I didn't even recognize. I didn't

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sleep after that. By morning, every marker I had pulled

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the day before had been reinstalled, not where I had

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found them originally, but deeper into the woods, trees I

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hadn't walked past yet. Some even looked freshly mounted bolts

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driven into the park that wet, clean sap beneath them.

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I packed up camp and made for the truck, ready

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to leave this evolving night mare behind, only to find

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it wasn't where I left it. The tire tracks stretched

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off into the brush and vanished without a sign of

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turning around. I stood there for a long while, fighting

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the urge to just walk back to town and leave

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it all behind. But the job was half way done.

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Rent wasn't going to pay itself, and I couldn't stomach

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another mistake on my record. I just needed to finish

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off the last of my assigned route, so I kept going.

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I was going to finish clearing these trails. Nothing in

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those woods connected the way it should. Paths I knew

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for a fact ran east to west began curving in

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on themselves, leading me back to places I hadn't passed. Twice.

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I checked my compass until the needle spun in slow,

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lazy circles. No matter which way I turned the GPS,

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my phone glitched between aero screens and coordinates that made

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no sense. I started leaving fresh markers behind me, bright

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tape scratches in the bark, small cairns of stone. Every

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time I circled back, they were gone. The discarded pile

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of signs I created the disposal later that morning vanished too.

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I kept walking until the trees opened into a clearing

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I didn't remember from any map, and its center stood

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a structure, not natural, not accidental, a totem of old

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signs rusted and rotted, deliberately bolted together in twisting layers.

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Beneath the plaques hung scraps of fabric, torn backpacks and

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empty shoes, bones which between them yellowed thin with age.

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I recognized a few of the names on those signs

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from the markers. I pulled names from my paperwork, names

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from missing persons cases decades old. The trees around the

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clearing weren't untouched either, deep grooves cut into the bark,

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long slashes that pulled at the wood in crude shapes.

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At first they looked random, for the longer eyes stared,

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the more they resembled the clean square fonts used on

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county trail markers. Letters, half formed, sentences, left unfinished. This

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wasn't some prank. This wasn't locals trying to scare me off,

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or some bitter old men with a Cbee radio in

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the woods. The trails weren't just abandoned. They weren't meant

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to be touched. The woods were watching, or worse, waiting.

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I tried to backtrack. I tried to follow the map,

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my own markers, even the sun. None of it lined

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up anymore. In the end, I went back to the clearing,

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back to the totem. I thought if I burned it,

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maybe it would break whatever was holding me here. Maybe

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fire would undo it. Strip it down to something human again.

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The flames caught easily enough, but they burned blue green

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at the edges, curling smoke up in heavy spirals that

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didn't rise, but hung low and thick over the ground.

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That was when the woods reacted. The wind roared through

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the trees and sharp burst, pulling at the branches until

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they bowed and twisted. The ground trembled beneath my feet.

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I heard something creak in the dark beyond the clearing timber, straining, metal,

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grinding against itself. The totem didn't burn, not really. The

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signs blackened, peeled, fell apart, only to pull themselves together again,

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bent metal, reformed, plaques, twisting into new shapes, names, rearranging

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themselves into words. I couldn't read. The whole thing shifted taller, now,

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branches splitting off its core like limbs. Something stepped free

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of it. I couldn't tell whether the structure ended and

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the thing began. Wood for bones, rusted, signs for skin, nailed,

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plaques overlapping like scales, limbs too long, torso hollowed out

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a shape made of all the pieces I thought I

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had removed. Signs hung from its body, clattering against each

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other with every slow, deliberate movement, words I recognized, names,

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I had touched, dates I had logged. It didn't speak,

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it didn't need to. The weight of its gaze pressed

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into me, pulling something loose behind my eyes. Branches scraping

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against one another until they sounded almost like laughter, Dry

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and joyless. I turned to run, but there was nowhere

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left to go. Paths folded in on themselves. Roots broke

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through the dirt in coils thick enough to trip me

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no matter which way I turned. Daylight snapped the dusk

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without warning, Shadows stretching long and thin until they swallowed

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the edges of the clearing. The thing watched me until

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I couldn't hold on to the moment any longer. The

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ground tilted, the air split sideways, My thoughts scattered into static.

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I blacked out, standing right where it wanted me. I

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woke up lying in the dirt, but it wasn't the

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same dirt I'd blacked out on the ground beneath me

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was clean, the trail well made, fresh gravel crunched under

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my hands. When I pushed myself upright, the trees weren't

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dead and twisting anymore. They stood tall and green leaves

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shifting gently in a breeze that actually smelled right. I

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could hear birds again, wind in the branches. For a moment,

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I let myself believe I'd made it out. Maybe i'd

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wandered too far, passed out, and someone had dragged me

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back to a safe route. But my truck was gone.

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No sign of my tent, my tools, the clearing or

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twisted thing i'd seen, pullets off together from bones and metal.

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I turned in a slow circle, trying to find any

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marker to orient myself. Nothing. Only a trail running ahead

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in behind, so neat and addly it might have been

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laid down yesterday. I followed it backward, hoping it might

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lead to a road. Instead, it brought me to a sign, new,

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freshly bolted, standing proud at the trailhead. The words didn't

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make sense until I read them twice. It was a

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new trail, one I hadn't seen when I took inventory

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of the listed trails for the area named after me.

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The established date was the day I had blacked out.

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There was no way someone could have made a whole

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trail in that shorter time. It would have taken a

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whole team weeks. Yet, here it was freshly laid and

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ready for use. I stood there, staring until my throat

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closed up. The font matched every sign I'd removed over

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the past week, same materials, same even the angle of

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the placement was the same as the ones I'd pulled

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down with my own hands. I remembered clear as daylight,

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how every one of those old trails bore the name

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of a missing person. Names I thought would just bureaucratic

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leftovers from decades past, memorials to those lost to nature,

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forgotten names. I had thought I was helping a raise,

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but I wasn't clearing them. I was making room. This

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was how new trails got built, not laid by county workers,

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not signed off with permits or blueprints. People didn't vanish here,

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they got repurposed. I kept walking because I didn't know

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what else to do. The trails stretched ahead, perfect and

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clean beneath my feet. No rot no traps, no no

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wrong turns, just a neat little path inviting people in.

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Up ahead, I saw them hikers, three of them, maybe four,

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bright jackets, backpacks, chatting as they made their way down

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the trail like nothing was wrong, laughing, relaxed, without a

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clue what waited further in. I shouted for them to stop.

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I waved my arms, stepped into their path, anything to

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get their attention. They didn't react, they didn't even glance up.

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I screamed at them, begged them to turn around, told

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them they had no idea what they were walking toward,

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that this trail wasn't meant to exist, that it would

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swallow them like it swallowed me. They walked through me,

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not around, not past through. Cold sliced through my ribs

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and chairs, a chill deeper than winter, leaving nothing behind

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but air. They didn't hesitate, didn't seem to notice at all.

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I chased after them, still shouting, still trying to get

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between them and the woods ahead. No matter what I did,

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they didn't hear my words, didn't touch them. My hands

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couldn't stop them. I stepped off the trail, hoping maybe

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that would break whatever held me here. The world twisted,

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trees folded inward, colors drained to ash and bone. I

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blinked and found myself back on the path where I

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had started. I tried again, same result. Every time, the

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trail wouldn't let me leave. I could only watch as

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the hikers moved ahead, until they left the confines of

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where my limits were, unaware that deeper in, something was

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possibly waiting to fold them into the earth the same

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way it folded me. I wanted to follow them, make

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sure they were safe, but I couldn't even touch them.

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All I could do was watch, helpless, voiceless, bound to

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this path. Time stopped making sense after a while. I

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didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't even get tired.

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My body didn't ache, my feet never blistered. But I

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couldn't leave the trail. I tried every direction, every hour

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of what I could only guess was passing time. Off

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the trail, the world broke apart and threw me back

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on to the gravel. I couldn't rest. I just walked

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back and forth from the trailhead bearing my name, to

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the furthest point before the woods bent the world in half. Again,

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back and forth forever. People came, not often, but enough,

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hikers and pears, or groups wandering in without a clue,

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following my name printed on that clean, fresh sign. I

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followed them at a distance, watched them finish the path,

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heard them laugh about the beautiful scenery, the quiet woods.

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They always made it through at least the ones I saw.

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They always left. I couldn't follow beyond the trailhead. I

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wanted to think I was watching over them. Some part

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of me still wanted to protect someone from this place.

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I told myself, maybe that mattered, Maybe I still mattered.

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Then came the ranger, a county man, clipboard in hand,

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maintenance vest, same patch and his sleeve I used to wear,

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same paperwork. I'd filled out, the checklist, the inventory, same job.

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He stood beneath my sign for a long time, scowling

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at it. Eventually he pulled out a crowbar and started

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prying it loose. I wanted to scream at him to stop,

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to leave it, to get back in his truck and

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drive until he couldn't see trees anymore. I followed him

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as he walked down the trail, dragging the sign under

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one arm. I screamed as loud as I could, then

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pushed harder to try to get through to him. Nothing

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happened until his radio crackled at his hip. My voice

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came through. It walked and broken, barely words at all,

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a handful of syllables, a warning he couldn't hear, or

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maybe he could, and simply dismissed it. As the locals

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driving him away, ahead of him between the trees. I

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saw it, the thing from the clearing, the shapes stitched

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together from rusted signs, and bones from wood and stolen names.

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They moved ahead of him, slow but certain, always just

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out of sight. It wasn't chasing him, it didn't have to.

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It was leading him somewhere. He didn't see it. He

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wouldn't have believed it if he did. He followed his paperwork,

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his duty, not knowing what was waiting for him. Now

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that he had disturbed the trail. They stepped off the

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trail together, into the woods, beyond where I could go.

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I stood there, watching the space where they vanished, listening

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to the empty woods breathe. The sign would come back.

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I knew, new name, new date, new path carved deeper,

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another piece added to the forest's collection, another mile for

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hikers to follow. Another man swallowed up, and I couldn't

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do a damned thing to stop it.