Chapter 1 #3
Five minutes in, I’m analyzing them like I would any other cast of over-the-top characters.
The leader—the intense one who speaks like everything is life or death, with a deep country twang and a stained tank top.
The skeptic. The overly enthusiastic believer.
The quiet one who probably knows more than they let on.
It’s not that different from any group dynamic I’ve ever dissected on the podcast. Just with more trees, and significantly less eyeliner.
Ten minutes in, I’m talking to the TV. "That's a setup. No way those branches could twist without human intervention." I frown, leaning forward. “Also, why are they acting like that noise couldn’t be, I don’t know, literally anything else?”
Fifteen minutes in, I’ve stopped pretending I’m above it.
By the time they start doing a nighttime call session—actual grown adults howling into the dark and waiting for something to answer—I should be out. That should be my limit.
Instead, I pull the blanket tighter.
The woods on screen are pitch black, the kind of darkness that feels heavy. The kind that makes you hyperaware of every sound, every shift in the air. One of them calls out again, their long, echoing whoop that disappears into the trees.
And then—a crack in the distance.
I sit up.
“Okay, no,” I blurt out, even though I’m alone. “That was definitely edited. That had to be edited.”
But the team goes quiet, listening.
Waiting.
My heart does this weird little stutter, like it’s deciding whether this is thrilling or unsettling.
“It’s probably just an animal,” I whisper.
Still, I don’t look away.
At some point, I stretch out along the couch, my head sinking into the armrest, the show continuing in a steady rhythm of speculation and suspense.
My eyes grow heavy, the voices blending, the forest becoming a kind of white noise.
Somewhere between a heated debate about footprint size and a slow pan across a dark tree line, I start to drift.
My last coherent thought is annoyingly simple.
Following a crew of people who really believe something is out there definitely wouldn’t be boring.
The TV keeps playing, soft flickers of light casting shadows across the room as another episode auto-starts. Someone on screen is whispering again, scanning the darkness, convinced they’re not alone.
I curl deeper into the couch, the blanket tucked under my chin, and allow the hum of the show to pull me under.
For once, I fall asleep not replaying a conversation, not planning content, not analyzing a relationship—but wondering, just a little, what it would feel like to step into the unknown.
The next morning, I walk into the studio, two lattes in hand, to find Marissa sitting alone in the boardroom, a deck titled “Meet Your Crew” on the big screen. She steeples her fingers, looking over them with a comical, determined smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, like an evil mastermind.
“You really did it up, huh?” I say, handing her a coffee.
“It’s the only way I know how,” Marissa smiles as she takes a sip.
“How did you know I’d say yes?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“I know you. And I know this is scary, not only because of the potential of encountering Bigfoot. But because you’d be branching out. Not hiding behind sex position talk.”
I scoff and shrug. “Well, you aren’t wrong.
” I slide my bag off my shoulder and onto the seat next to mine, then sink into my chair.
“It is fucking terrifying, but I reviewed our numbers again this morning. If I don’t do something different, the other shows on the network are going to surpass me in the next three to six months.
Which, sure, I’d be happy for them. I brought them on and want them to succeed.
But at the same time, this is my company.
I know advertisers are getting less interested in me, and that will eventually lead to less interest in the network overall.
I need to do something different. So, yeah, let’s do it. ”
Marissa doesn’t say anything, pursing her lips, eyes wide.
“So, what do you got for me, girl?” I sit up, ready to take in whatever Marissa has planned.
“Okay, so,” she starts. “I know you’ve been creeping on people already, but most of the well-known crews are known for the wrong reasons. They appeal to the algorithm—think clickbait, content-first approach. They’re brash, trashy, and, in all honesty, they seem dangerous.”
I nod, taking a sip.
“I wanted to find a crew no one is talking about, but one that knows their shit. Right?” Marissa’s eyes gleam with excitement.
“So I did some digging… That one quote you shared the other day? About ‘being watched by something that knew you didn’t belong.’” She adopts a mocking, poetic tone. “Well, that guy leads a crew.”
At that point, Marissa clicks to the next slide with a flourish, and a group of misfits appears on the screen.
Honestly, there’s no other word for it.
Four people stand in front of what looks like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream of an RV, all dusty and aggressively outdoorsy in a way that makes me want to reach for moisturizer.
In the center stands a guy in glasses who was a total nerd in high school and somehow blossomed into a babe.
He holds a tablet against his chest as he talks to the group, frozen mid-gesture.
Beside him stands a blonde woman in cowboy boots, giving Sabrina Carpenter vibes.
Another guy crouches near what looks like a drone setup, wearing mirrored sunglasses and the expression of someone seconds away from saying something about a babe he banged this weekend.
The last woman has tawny skin and a dark bob.
She looks competent and like she’s probably over everyone’s nonsense.
“Why,” I say, squinting at the screen, “does that RV look like it’s carrying classified information?”
Marissa grins. “Because, Daisy Bennett—” she makes the photo full-screen—“they investigate paranormal occurrences and other phenomena. And their current case is on Bigfoot.”
I stare at her. Then back at the photo.
“Absolutely not.”
“Meet the Strange Terrain Division,” she says.
“Small team. Tight-knit. They’re all in their twenties and thirties and a mix of men and women, so less likely to be creepy than a bunch of leering, sexist old dudes.
Which was a concern of mine. For your safety, but let’s be real, also for optics.
Anyway, they’ve been getting a lot of attention lately because they’re investigating some recent sightings around Four Corners. ”
I frown. “Isn’t that desert-y? That doesn’t seem very Bigfoot-ish.”
“I don’t know, Daisy!” She throws her hands in the air. “It’s desert meets forest, or whatever. Rugged terrain. Very scenic. It’s aesthetic.” She raises a brow as if that’s a major advantage.
I sigh. “You’re selling this way too hard.”
“I’m a producer. It’s literally my job.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling.
A month in the remote wilderness. With a bunch of Bigfoot hunters. Recording a podcast.
“My listeners are going to think I’ve lost my mind,” I mutter.
“Or they’re going to think you’re finding new footing,” she says. “Reconnecting with your childhood passions. Diving into something new and funny. Evolving!”
I close my eyes.
Evolving.
God, I still hate that word.
But she’s right about one thing: I am bored.
Maybe I do need something that shakes me out of this endlessly repeating loop I’ve been living in.
“Do they have cell service?” I ask finally.
Marissa’s grin is immediate and victorious. “Spotty.”
I groan. “Of course it is.”
“But we’ll make it work,” she insists. “Satellite, backups, whatever you need.”
I open my eyes, staring at her.
“You really think this is a good idea?” I ask.
“I think it’s a bold idea,” she replies. “And I think you used to be the kind of person who chased those.”
I let that sit between us.
Used to be.
“Fine,” I say at last.
She blinks. “Fine?”
“Fine,” I repeat, pushing myself up from the chair. “I’ll do it.”
Her mouth drops open. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I warn. “I’m already questioning every life choice that led me to this moment.”
She laughs, jumping to her feet. “Oh, thank God!” She gets serious again as she says, “We need this to work, Daisy. I need you all in, bringing the charm. I think this could be really entertaining.”
“I’m all in,” I assure her, though a pang of guilt already settles in my stomach for making fun of people who take this so seriously.
“Content gold,” she counters.
“Embarrassing. Humiliating. Potentially mosquito-infested content gold.”
She claps her hands together. “I’m emailing them right now.”
“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “If I get murdered by Bigfoot—”
“Not likely.”
“—you have to make sure my legacy is handled appropriately.”
She nods, straight-faced, and places a hand over her heart. “I’ll make sure each host on the network has a whole episode dedicated to you. And pays tribute to your infamous blow job episode.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.”
“And you love me,” she sings, already pulling out her phone.
I watch her for a second, shaking my head.
Then I glance back up at the screen.
At the picture of the Strange Terrain Division.
At the blurry photos.
At the world I don’t understand at all but have always been curious about.
“This is ridiculous,” I murmur to myself, nervous excitement bubbling up.
At the very least, I won’t be bored.