Ben Carter loved the feeling of his high-end trainers thumping against the packed earth of the trail. The air in Epping Forest was cool and damp, smelling of loam and decaying leaves—a world away from the fumes of his old London flat. His GPS watch beeped, marking another kilometre completed. 8:32. Not his best, but decent enough for a Tuesday morning. He smirked, picturing the weekend ramblers with their flasks of tea and oversized maps. They ambled through these woods; he conquered them.
It was on his return loop that he saw it. A perfectly straight, two-metre line of acorns laid meticulously across the path. He slowed to a stop, frowning. It wasn't random. It was deliberate, precise. Kids, he thought, or some local oddball taking the mickey. He scoffed, kicked through the line, and ran on, dismissing it.
The feeling of unease returned two days later. Tucked into the wrought iron handle of his cottage door was a small, intricately tied knot of long grass. It wasn't just a stray piece; it was tied with a purposeful, complex twist. It felt like a message, but one in a language he didn't understand. He threw it into the bushes, but the image of it stayed with him. He felt watched.
"Right, that's it," he muttered to the empty kitchen on Saturday morning. "Not going to be spooked out of my own woods by some weirdo."
He pulled on his gear with a renewed, defiant energy. He'd do the long trail today, the ten-miler, push himself so hard there'd be no room for foolish thoughts.
The forest was quieter today, the air holding a still, grey reverence under the canopy of ancient oak and beech. For the first few miles, Ben felt his confidence return, the familiar burn in his legs a welcome distraction. Then, deep in the woods, he heard it. The sharp snap of a twig from the trees to his right. He stopped, straining his ears. Nothing but the whisper of the wind. He started running again, faster this time.
A flash of movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced over. Through a gap in the trees, he saw a figure, maybe a hundred yards away, moving parallel to him. Just a bloke in a dark wax jacket, it seemed. But he was keeping pace effortlessly.
Ben felt a surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with exercise. He glanced at his watch to check his location on the map. The screen flickered, the map pixelating before showing his position a half-mile away in the middle of a reservoir. He swore under his breath, tapping the screen uselessly. He pulled out his mobile. No Service. Impossible. He always had at least two bars here.
The hunter was herding him.
Panic, cold and sharp, finally took hold. Ben abandoned the path, plunging into the dense, trackless undergrowth, branches whipping at his face. He just needed to head west, towards the road. But every direction looked the same. The woods seemed to warp around him, the familiar landmarks gone, replaced by an endless sea of green and brown. He was no longer a runner; he was prey.
As dusk began to bleed through the canopy, turning the forest into a labyrinth of menacing shadows, Ben's body gave out. His lungs burned, his legs felt like lead, and a sob of pure exhaustion escaped him. He stumbled into a small, mossy clearing and collapsed against the trunk of an old oak, unable to run another step. He was done.
The Pathfinder emerged from the trees opposite him. He didn't rush. He simply stepped into the clearing, his movements silent and deliberate. He wasn't a monster. He was a man who looked as though he'd been carved from the woods itself—rugged, patient, with an air of absolute competence. He wasn't even out of breath. He just watched Ben, his eyes holding a calm, appraising curiosity.
Ben tried to scramble backwards, to push himself up, but his limbs refused to obey. The man approached, pulling a knife from a sheath on his belt. It was a thick-spined survival blade with a cruel, curved gut hook near the tip.
The end was brutally, terrifyingly practical. There was no rage in the man's face, only a quiet focus, like a hunter finishing his work.
The Pathfinder wiped his blade clean on a patch of damp moss. He took a moment, not to admire his kill, but to pull a real, old-fashioned compass from his pocket, its needle settling confidently to the north. He gave a single, satisfied nod, turned, and melted back into the trees, his footsteps making no sound. The forest had already begun the slow, patient work of reclaiming him.