Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ivy
V oices ring out through the woods around me, but I don't answer them.
Instead, I curl up tighter in the cramped space that seems to be working as a hiding place and wait for them to leave.
From the eighteen sixties to the nineteen twenties, there was a rudimentary road that ran through this forest, connecting the mining towns of Moonshine Ridge and Paradise Point on the east side of the mountains.
The forest is dense, but it fills in a natural pass through the mountains, so it was easier to cut through the forest than blast through the rocks.
The timber opportunities were what forged the early business relationship between Brodie McAllister and Anders Jones who saw the long term potential for the timber industry and had the foresight to invest their profits from a couple of moderately successful gold claims into the land they'd managed to secure as part of them.
In the sixty years that the old road was in use, an estimated thirty-some women were reported missing while traveling on it. Most while traveling alone or in small groups. All of them were unmarried.
The road was rerouted in the late nineteen twenties, after a prominent woman went missing, despite being accompanied by a male escort. She was the last straw, and the new road was blasted out of the rock face of the mountains farther south.
That road fell into disrepair shortly after it was completed, when the US highway system began connecting towns by way of more convenient roads running through the flat lands at lower elevations. The old road is now a popular off highway vehicle route.
That's what I know about the area's history.
Why they call it the "weeping wilderness;" because of all the tears shed for the missing women-- and by them.
Because their disappearances only added to the local folklore, going on to become ghost stories of tearful woman calling for help, luring others to their doom within the trees.
Resting my cheek against my bent knees, I hug my legs tighter to my chest and curse my extra pounds for making it hard to burrow further into the crevice between the massive boulders that are keeping me hidden.
I don't believe in dogmen. I don't believe in Bigfoot, or ghosts; and while I can do the math and come to the conclusion that we probably aren't the only intelligent life in the universe-- I don't believe aliens have nothing better to do than buzz rural earth and abduct humans.
Off in the distance, I hear more voices calling out-- presumably for me-- and my chest tightens with a new wave of fear.
I do believe in humans though, with a keen understanding that they aren't all good.
Two days ago, I was supposed to pack up and head out after an uneventful few nights of camping in the notorious "weeping wilderness."
I'd spent four nights camped alone, with only the sounds of the forest and the buzz of chainsaws from a logging crew I knew was working somewhere nearby. I didn't hear another human voice or see anyone lurking around my camp.
On my last day, I took a short hike to take one last look at the area. I wanted to follow the old road a little deeper into the woods and get a feel for the terrain, mapping out natural features and areas where it would be realistic for people to have fallen or gotten lost.
When I came back to pack up camp, however, I heard something. At first, I thought a bear had found my camp. I didn't want to surprise an animal that might not be happy to see me, so I stopped where I was and waited.
It didn't take long for me to go from cautious, to terrified. I heard voices; two men talking to each other as they went through my things.
I couldn't make out everything they said, but what I understood was enough to convince me that I needed to make sure they didn't find me.
Unfortunately, the old road is the only trail through here and those men were between me and the way back to my car and Moonshine Ridge.
I don't even know if the old road is still detectable all the way over the pass to Paradise Point anymore.
Even if it is, it's a nineteen mile trek to the other town.
When I looked for a place to sit and wait the intruders out, I fell in a creek. That made enough noise to announce my presence, and finding a hiding place became crucial.
I didn't expect them to keep looking for me.
Then night fell and the forest filled with sounds I hadn't heard so close-- wolf song. Too close for comfort.
Werewolves? Not something I believe in. Real wolves? Definitely something I believe in.
So I stayed wedged in my spot overnight despite the chilly mountain temperatures and the fact that I ate my last granola bar on my hike.
I expected to be safe when the sun was up yesterday, but the forest filled with more voices-- and they all seem to be looking for me.
Eventually, they'll give up and I'll be safe to make a run for it.
I hope. Because I ran out of water this morning, I'm hungry, and my wet clothes are likely to kill me if I don't get warm and dry soon.
"Ivy!"
The newest voice in the forest sounds vaguely familiar. I cringe back into the crevice as the man gets closer to my hiding place, but my brain is scrambling to place the voice. Why does this one make me feel safe?
Jake
T here's caution tape cordoning off her campsite. The one-person tent is shredded, a down sleeping bag under the remnants of pale green nylon torn open with the soft feathery stuffing lying around like a field of dandelions exploded on it.
Kitchen items and clothing lay in haphazard patterns around the compact area.
I force myself to pause here, take a good look at the things that Ivy left behind and take a minute to check in with the guys manning the camp set up nearby.
A fully organized search and rescue party will start combing the area soon enough, but I can't wait for that. Neither can Ivy. Not if she's been out here for two nights already.
July temperatures are mild even at this elevation and the weather's been clear the last few days, but the nights still cool down enough to be dangerous if you're not prepared.
There's no sign of a struggle here, but when I look carefully, I make out the faint imprint of footprints leading out to the trail a few feet away from the chaos.
I'm not great at tracking, but I used to go out hunting with my dad and grandpa. Looking at the clues in front of me, I'm glad I picked up a few things from them.
The prints are boots, much smaller than my own, and spaced to indicate a casual pace.
The good news is that Ivy didn't run out of camp in a panic, and she had on proper footwear for the terrain.
The other thing I can make out, is that her prints only start to show up once they're outside of the area that's been tamped down by whatever wrecked her stuff. I'm hoping that means she was away from camp when whatever happened happened.
The big concern now is-- why hasn't she come back?
"Ivy!"
I cup my hands around my mouth as I yell her name, praying for a response.
Nothing comes back to me in the late morning forest around me.
Following her prints, I can see she headed out on the old road to the east, but it's not long before I lose the trail as the soft dirt goes through rocky patches.
Nevertheless, I keep following the road. Every so often I see her prints again, and then I see it; a spot where the prints double back on one another, then move off the trail.
Her prints disappear in the thick duff of the forest floor, once I'm off the trail, there's no telling where she could have gone.
The trees here are old growth, growing so close together that the forest is dark and suffocating. Granite walls rise up maybe thirty feet high, exposing the bones of the mountain and cutting off the forest's ability to gain more ground.
"Ivy!"
I call for her one more time and then listen in the stillness that follows my voice.
Somewhere nearby, I think I hear something. There's a sound from inside the rocks like a gasp or a sob, but it's gone before I can be sure I even heard it.
The slabs of granite are riddled with crevices and small, cave-like spaces where animals might make dens; or where a woman might be trapped-- or hiding.
"Please answer me, Ivy. I need you to be safe."
My words are a prayer, spoken quietly to the forest around me while I fight my growing anxiety.
Beside me, I hear it again. Something that sounds human coming from inside a deep crevice between rock slabs.
Quickly pulling back the brush that hides the opening to the space, I look into the shallow cave and find the prettiest pair of emerald eyes I've ever seen, wide and frantic behind the sharp end of a broken stick prepared to skewer me.