CHAPTER 2

PRISCILLA

The motel room was quiet. Too quiet.

I set my duffle bag on the creaky mattress and sighed, the springs groaning in protest beneath its weight. Everything about this place screamed "forgotten"—from the peeling wallpaper to the flickering fluorescent bulb dangling like a noose from the ceiling. It wasn’t exactly a five-star getaway, but it had been the closest thing to civilization after landing in Oregon’s nowhere-ville.

Pulling the blinds apart just a fraction, I peered out. My window overlooked nothing but endless pine trees, their silhouettes dark against the dimming grey sky. The wind outside made them sway, their branches scratching one another like whispers in the gloom. I shivered despite myself and let the blinds snap shut.

I didn’t know what I had expected—Oregon was forests and mountains, but there was something off about this particular town. The air felt heavier here, thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, but there was something else too—something metallic and sharp that lingered in my nose.

It wasn’t just the landscape that unnerved me; it was the stillness. In New York, noise was a constant companion—sirens, conversations, the hum of a city that never truly slept. Here, the silence pressed against my ears, amplifying the sound of my heartbeat.

I checked the time on my phone. 7:45 PM. My contact, a local blogger named Chris, had promised to meet me tomorrow morning. According to him, people had gone missing near the edge of the woods—folks who’d ventured too far into what locals called The Deadwood. I smirked at the name; small towns loved their creepy folklore.

Still, missing people wasn't a joke. I came here for answers, and I’d find them.

I grabbed my notepad and sat cross-legged on the bed. My boots left small smudges of dirt on the ugly floral blanket, but I didn’t care. I flipped through my notes, skimming over scribbled dates and statements from my earlier research:

- Six people have been missing in the last four months.

- Last seen near “The Deadwood”

- Locals refuse to talk about it—fearful? Superstitious?

- Rumors of “animal attacks” with no evidence.

I tapped my pen against the paper. Animal attacks. That was the official story floating around. Bears, wolves—whatever helped keep people calm. But the bodies, or rather the lack of them, didn’t match that theory. No remains had ever been recovered. No trails. No blood.

It didn’t sit right with me.

Pushing off the bed, I grabbed my jacket and slung my camera bag over my shoulder. Sitting here wouldn’t get me anywhere, and I didn’t like how my thoughts looped back to the unease curling in my stomach. I needed to move. To clear my head.

I stepped outside and locked the door behind me, my breath fogging up in the chilly air. Dusk had swallowed the sky, casting a blue haze over the narrow road that ran through town. I spotted an old gas station across the street, its fluorescent sign sputtering. A “convenience store” sat next to it, the kind that probably sold expired bread and questionable coffee.

I walked toward the gas station, my boots crunching on gravel. A battered pickup truck rumbled past, its headlights barely flickering as it disappeared down the winding road toward the woods. I squinted after it.

For a town with a population this small, it felt empty.

The guy behind the counter of the gas station barely looked up as I entered, the bell above the door jingling weakly. Shelves of dusty snacks and road-trip necessities lined the aisles. I picked up a bottle of water and wandered toward the counter, catching the faint strains of an old radio station playing in the background.

“Quiet place,” I said casually, placing the water on the counter.

The guy in his late forties with a faded trucker cap grunted. “That’s how we like it.”

I offered a polite smile. “Any interesting stories about the woods nearby? I hear people say it’s dangerous.”

The guy stilled, his hand hovering over the register for just a second too long. His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, just visiting,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Journalist. I’m looking into the recent disappearances.”

The man’s expression hardened. “Ain’t much to look into. People go where they shouldn’t. You’ll want to leave it alone.”

His sudden coldness caught me off guard. “What do you mean? Has something happened?”

He shoved the water bottle toward me, his voice clipped. “My advice? Stay out of the Deadwood. Nothing good comes outta there.”

I hesitated, wanting to push him further, but the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn’t hostility—it was fear. Deep, genuine fear that crawled across his face like a shadow.

I paid for the water and stepped outside, my thoughts swirling. Nothing good comes out of there.

For a moment, I considered heading back to the motel. But my instincts, the ones that got me through tougher assignments than this, screamed at me to look closer.

Across the street, past the last flicker of the gas station light, the forest loomed. Dark and infinite. I tightened my grip on my bag and headed toward the edge of the tree line, drawn forward like a moth to flame.

Something watched me from the shadows. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it—heavy and unblinking.

I stopped just shy of stepping into the woods, my breath catching in my throat. The air was colder here, and the quiet had shifted into something sharper.

I lifted my camera and snapped a picture of the forest. Just one. For a second, the flash illuminated the trees, but nothing stood out.

Then I turned back toward the road, quickening my pace. I could still feel the weight of unseen eyes on my back.

I told myself I was imagining things.

But I knew better.