June 30, 2023
Dear Journal,
Last night, we heard someone crying in the woods.
It started just after midnight. The station had fallen into uneasy silence—Marcus snoring lightly upstairs, Nora whispering lullabies to the baby, Naomi scribbling something in a small notebook I hadn't seen her use before. I was sitting by the boarded window, keeping watch. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, but I could make out the silhouettes of trees swaying in the wind.
That's when I heard it.
A sob. Soft. Staggered. A woman's voice, somewhere beyond the treeline.
At first, I thought I imagined it.
But then it came again.
Closer.
I signaled Naomi. She froze, her hand tightening around the knife she now keeps tucked in her boot. Together, we crept to the door and pressed our ears against the wood.
Stillness. And then—
"Help… please…"
My stomach dropped.
We woke Marcus and Nora. No one spoke. We all heard it that time. A woman's voice, thin and shaking, calling for help just beyond our view.
Nora clutched the baby tightly. "It could be real," she whispered, "maybe someone saw the flare."
Naomi shook her head. "Or it's bait."
The idea sank like a stone in our stomachs. We'd heard stories—people using cries for help to lure others into traps. Bandits. Cannibals. Worse.
Still… what if she was real?
We argued about it. Marcus wanted to go out with me and check. Naomi refused to let anyone go alone. Nora begged us not to leave. In the end, we compromised: we'd wait until first light. If she was still out there, we'd search. If not…
We'd assume the worst.
Morning came gray and still. No more sobbing. No more movement. Just trees and silence.
But we went anyway.
We swept the clearing and combed the surrounding woods in a wide arc. Naomi marked the trees with chalk as we moved, a habit she picked up early on to avoid getting lost. No tracks. No signs of struggle. No woman.
What we did find was more disturbing.
A campsite. Old. Long abandoned.
Torn tarp half-buried under leaves. Rusted tin cans scattered around a charred firepit. And something else:
A photograph.
It was damp and wrinkled, wedged between two stones.
A woman and a little girl. Smiling. Standing in front of what looked like a minivan. The girl was missing her front teeth. Her shirt said Camp Clearwater – 2021.
Naomi stared at it for a long time. Then she tucked it in her pocket without a word.
Marcus said what we were all thinking: "She might've died out here. And now…"
He trailed off. No one wanted to finish the thought.
We returned to the station around midday. Nora had boiled water and tried to make something close to broth with the last of the dry rice. The baby seemed better—less flushed, at least—but still weak. The meds are helping, but we need more.
Naomi says we can't afford to sit still anymore.
"There's a town about ten miles southeast," she said. "Small. Used to be a stopover for tourists. There might still be something there."
It's a risk. Bigger towns mean more walkers. More desperation. But we don't have much choice. The ranger station gave us temporary shelter, but it's isolated. No food. No way to communicate. And now—maybe not as empty as we thought.
That night, I kept watch again.
And just before dawn, I saw something that chilled me more than anything yet.
A flicker of movement in the trees.
Not a walker.
Not a deer.
A figure.
Too far to make out clearly, but definitely watching.
They didn't move. Didn't run.
Just… stood there.
Watching.
When the sun came up, they were gone.
I didn't tell the others. Not yet. Not until I'm sure.
But I've got this sinking feeling.
The forest isn't empty anymore.
Someone saw the flare.
And now, they're watching.
Whoever—or whatever—they are.
Yours in dread,
J.K.