The logging road ended where the ridge dropped into a shallow cut filled with standing water the color of old iron. Marcus left the car at the turnout with the engine running and walked in with the flashlight held low so the beam would not bounce off the wet trunks. Twenty yards from the tree line he stopped. Something stood between two trunks higher on the slope. It was tall enough that the head cleared the lowest branches. The head was pale and smooth. There was no face. The shoulders were narrow under a black suit that did not catch the light. The arms hung past the hips, and the fingers nearly brushed the ground.
Marcus turned the light off. The figure did not move. He stood in the dark and listened. Nothing came. He walked back to the car and drove until the road met the highway. He did not look in the mirror. In the morning he returned with his brother. They left the car at the same turnout and walked the logging road through soft earth that held water in the prints. Marcus pointed to the place where he had seen the figure. Gray mist hung between the trees. Something stood at the edge of the mist. The head was higher than it had been the night before. The suit was the same.
One arm had lengthened. The hand rested against a trunk at shoulder height. The fingers were long. The nails were long enough to catch in the bark and tear small strips free. Blood ran down the trunk in thin lines where the nails had cut. Marcus’s brother raised his phone. The screen went black. The figure stepped forward. The mist moved with it. The other arm stretched. The hand opened. The fingers spread until they spanned the width of a man’s shoulders. One finger brushed the brother’s sleeve, the fabric tore, and blood welled where the nail had raked the skin. Marcus and his brother turned and walked. They did not run.
The figure did not follow. When they reached the car the phone worked again. The battery was dead. The brother’s sleeve was soaked to the elbow. They drove until the signal returned and then they stopped. Neither of them spoke. That night Marcus sat in the kitchen with the lights on and the blinds closed, around two the power went out, he stood and went to the window, the street was empty. Something stood at the end of the driveway. The head was pale. The suit was black. The arms hung at its sides. One of them had lengthened again. The hand nearly touched the ground. It did not move. Marcus closed the blinds and sat again.
The power returned an hour later. In the morning the driveway was empty. There were no tracks. He called his brother. The brother did not answer. Marcus drove to the brother’s house. The door was open. The lights were on. The brother was not inside. On the kitchen table, the phone lay face down. The screen was cracked from corner to corner. Marcus picked it up. The battery was dead. He walked through the rooms and found nothing. In the bathroom, the mirror had been wiped clean except for a single long smear of something dark that had already dried into a thin line. Blood marked the edge of the sink where a hand had gripped it.
The print was long and thin. He locked the door behind him and drove home. He did not call the police. He stayed inside for three days. On the fourth night the power went out again. He sat in the dark with a knife on the table. Something moved on the porch. The boards creaked once. He did not open the door.
In the morning the porch was empty. A single pale handprint marked the glass of the window beside the door. The print was long and thin, and the fingers had left trails where they had dragged downward. Blood ran from the bottom of the print in three thin lines that reached the sill. Marcus wiped it away with his sleeve. The glass stayed clean. He drove to the ridge again. The logging road was the same. He walked until the trees closed in. The figure stood between two trunks. The head was pale. There was no face. Both arms had lengthened until the hands nearly touched the ground. One hand reached toward him.
The fingers were thin. The nails were dark at the tips. Blood had dried on them. Marcus stopped. The figure did not move closer. He turned and walked back to the car. The engine started. He drove until the road met the highway. He did not look in the mirror. His brother did not come home. The police found the car. The keys were in the ignition. The battery was dead. They searched the ridge and found the phone in the shallow water at the bottom of the cut. The screen was cracked. The battery was dead. They found the brother’s jacket caught on a low branch, the sleeve was torn from shoulder to cuff, blood had dried into the fabric in long dark streaks, they found no body.
Marcus did not go back, he kept the blinds closed and the lights on. When the power failed he sat in the dark and waited for the boards to creak. They always creaked once. He never opened the door. In the morning the handprint was always on the glass. The fingers always dragged downward. Blood always ran from the bottom of the print. He wiped it away. The glass stayed clean until the next night. He stopped answering the phone. He stopped leaving the house. The brother never called. The figure never came closer than the end of the driveway.
On the seventh night the power failed and did not return. Marcus sat with the knife on the table and listened to the boards. They creaked once. He did not open the door. He did not look outside. In the morning the handprint was on the glass and the knife was gone from the table. Blood ran from the bottom of the print in three thin lines that reached the sill. He wiped the glass. The glass stayed clean. He did not leave the house. He sat in the dark and waited for the boards to creak again. They always creaked once. The sound stayed with him until morning.
On the eighth day the police found the brother’s car in a ditch two miles from the ridge. The driver’s door was open. The seat was empty, blood marked the steering wheel in long thin streaks, no one found the brother. Marcus stopped opening the blinds, he stopped wiping the glass, the print remained. The blood dried. He sat in the dark and listened. The boards creaked once every night. He never opened the door.
