My name is Steven Racher.
My life was never normal.
Not even close.
Some people grow up afraid of ghosts because they hear stories. I grew up knowing they were real. The supernatural didn't visit me once or twice—it lived with me, breathed near me, followed me from childhood into adulthood like a shadow that refused to detach.
I was born into it.
I survived it.
And now, somehow, I stand inside it again.
I'm a retired soldier now. Years in uniform taught me how to hunt enemies you can see, enemies that bleed, enemies that scream when they die. But nothing in the military prepares you for the kind of evil that watches silently… patiently… without blinking.
That's why I took this job.
Ranger. Appalachian Mountains.
Most people think rangers just patrol trails, rescue lost hikers, or deal with drunk campers. That's what the paperwork says. That's what the public believes.
They don't talk about the missing people.
They don't talk about the empty campsites with no footprints leaving.
They don't talk about radios cutting out at the same coordinates every time.
They don't talk about the folklore.
But the locals do.
They whisper.
They call this place a gate—a thin place where something old leaks into our world. An area dense with urban legends, half-forgotten myths, and stories people laugh at during the day and pray against at night.
They call it Black Valley.
My car stood alone in front of the ranger office, its engine ticking softly as it cooled. The building was small. Old wood. Peeling paint. A place the government forgot, just like the people who vanish out here.
I didn't shut the door immediately.
I listened.
Wind through the trees.
Leaves shifting though there was no breeze.
A deep silence that didn't feel empty—it felt aware.
I wasn't alone.
I never am.
This forest has eyes.
I could feel them on my back, between my shoulders, crawling across my thoughts. Not hostile. Not welcoming either. Just… watching. Measuring. Remembering me.
Some men would call that fear.
I don't.
Fear is what happens when you don't understand the dark.
I understand it too well.
I stepped out of the car and locked it, the sound echoing louder than it should have. The trees didn't move, but the shadows between them felt deeper, thicker, like ink soaking into paper.
"I'm not lost," I muttered, more to myself than anything else. "And I'm not weak."
The forest didn't answer.
It never does.
But somewhere deep between the trunks, something recognized me.
And that was worse.