Page 9 of Silent Shadows

“Okay, that’s weird, right?” I say, because I can’t help but narrate my thoughts out loud in moments like this. “Statistically speaking, there should be some level of ambient noise in this kind of environment⁠—”

“Miles,” Jax cuts in, his voice dry and amused. “It’s the woods. Sometimes it’s quiet.”

“It’s not just quiet,” I insist, turning toward him and pushing my glasses up. “It’s absence quiet. There’s a difference. This is like… like when you walk into a room, and everyone stops talking, and you know they’d been talking about you.”

Taylor, our transport expert, snorts softly. “So the forest is gossiping about you, Miles?”

I press on, ignoring her. “I’m saying there’s a disruption in the baseline. Something passed through here recently enough to alter the behavior of the surrounding wildlife.”

Taylor shifts beside me, blue eyes bright even in the dim light. “Think Bigfoot is listening to us right now?”

“It’s possible,” I say, raising my eyebrows in consideration. “For example, look at this. A deer doesn’t break branches like that.” I point to a cluster of bent limbs ahead of us. “Look at the angle. That’s not a natural fall. That’s manipulation.”

“Manipulation,” Jax echoes, zooming in like he’s filming a documentary narrated by a guy with a British accent and a budget.

I step closer, crouching down, fingers hovering just above the wood, but I don’t touch it.

“See this?” I say, gesturing for them to come in. “These aren’t snapped at random. They’re twisted. That requires force and intent.”

“Couldn’t it just be the wind, dude?” Jax says.

“Wind doesn’t twist,” I counter. “It breaks. Clean. This is a rotational pressure. In general, rotational pressure is most likely applied manually, though it may also be applied by bite force.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Taylor crouches next to me, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “You think it’s a marker?”

My chest tightens just a little, because that’s the thing about Taylor. She doesn’t question the premise. She jumps straight to the possibility.

“Could be,” I say, keeping my voice measured even as my pulse picks up. “Territorial. Communication. But we’ve been out here for six hours.” I exhale, rocking back on my heels. “We’ve got no tracks, no thermal hits, and no audio beyond the wind and our running commentary—which, while funny, isn’t getting us anywhere. At some point, we have to call it.”

Jax lowers the camera slightly, watching me. Not pushing. Not filling the silence with one of his usual comments. I assume Maya is proud of him for that. Taylor lets out a long, defeated breath. I sense the disappointment and don’t want to let them down.

“Alright, let’s run one more sweep,” I say at last. “Fifteen minutes. Grid pattern. Then we can be sure we did what we could today.”

We’re walking through thick brush somewhere in Northwest Ohio, and the sun is almost down. Every now and then, it hits me how strange it is that this feels normal now. Boots move over uneven ground, headlamps cutting narrow tunnels through the trees, the quiet hum of equipment strapped to our bodies like a second skin.

Before I went down the paranormal path, I worked for the Forest Service, putting my degrees in biology and anthropology to use. Inspired by my parents and the traveling we did in my childhood, I wanted to protect places people didn't spend much time in, but I kept finding things I couldn't explain. Patterns. Witnesses who didn't know each other telling the same stories. Footprints that didn't make sense. Other rangers quietly mentioning places they avoided after dark. So I wanted to explore more. When I turned twenty-five, I finally came into the trust my parents left behind. I used part of that inheritance to fund the RV and basic equipment and got started. We’ve come a long way.

Taylor is just ahead of me, weaving through the brush like she was built for it, tossing observations over her shoulder that are half-practical, half-spacey hippie talk. Jax lags behind a bit, camera up, catching everything—the sway of branches, the rhythm of our steps, and all of the moments in between. Maya’s steady at my side, tracking our path and making notes even as we walk. It’s not chaos. It’s not random. It’s a system. One we’ve built together out in the field, chasing things most people don’t even think twice about dismissing.

Most of them found me; they all chose to be here. Taylor’s our driver and transport lead. She could’ve taken her off-roading skills anywhere after earning some fame in racing, but she’s here. Similarly, Jax thrives on adrenaline, sure, but he’s not just here for the thrill. That’s what people assume when they first meet him—the motorcycle, the way he moves like he’s always one step ahead of gravity, the constant need to push things just a little further than they should probably go. But that’s surface level. The real thing, the reason he’s here, is the way he sees. Jax leads all content capture, specializing in drone footage, and manages our social accounts and Patreon. I met him through Maya, actually. Maya is the reason this doesn’t fall apart. She’s our operations manager, handling the business side of things and making sure we both stay afloat and grounded, even when the whole point of this is to reach for something just beyond that.

As we move deeper into the trees, I feel the weight of it settle in my chest again. They’re not just out here looking for Bigfoot. They’re out here because I chose this case. Because I said there was something worth finding—something I’ve felt was real since I was a kid. Every step they take in the dark is a step they’re trusting me to lead.

I glance at them, savoring the unspoken rhythm between us, and push down the flicker of doubt before it can take hold. I don’t get to question this out here. Not now. Not when they’re following my lead into the unknown. So I adjust my grip on the scanner, refocus on the terrain ahead, and keep moving–because if I hesitate, even for a second, I risk breaking the one thing holding all of this together.

Fifteen minutes turned into thirty while my mind wandered.

And still, nothing.

No movement. No prints. No heat signatures lighting up the thermal scanner in that telltale, impossible shape I’ve been chasing for most of my life.

Just trees. Dirt. Silence.

I call it.

I hate calling it.