One day in September, I was assigned to clean the station's storage room. It was a task always given to the newest ranger—and that was me.
While cleaning, I found an old cabinet turned toward the wall.
I pulled it forward and opened it.
Inside were dozens of old files—incidents from 1985 to 1990.
Around thirty files in total.
But when I opened them… I noticed something disturbing.
Several pages had been torn out.
Deliberately.
I began reading randomly.
One report described campers hearing a man crying in the forest at night. The ranger who filed the report had written that the sound needed further investigation.
Just then, I heard footsteps behind me.
It was Sarah.
"How's the cleaning going?" she asked.
"Almost done," I said.
She glanced at the cabinet.
"Oh, that old thing? We don't need those files anymore. No need to touch them."
"Sure," I said. "I'll put them back."
She stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary… then walked away.
A few days later, four campers arrived at the station early in the morning. They looked terrified.
Two married couples.
They had been camping for four days.
It was their second night.
Around 3 a.m., they said, they heard a man crying in the forest.
Not normal crying.
Sobbing. Loud. In pain.
At first, we assumed it was another tourist who might have been injured.
"Where were you camping?" Henry asked.
"Near Trout Lake," one of them replied.
They said they called out several times—asking who it was, asking if he needed help.
The crying would stop for a moment… then start again.
And they couldn't tell which direction it was coming from.
One of the women said, "You don't understand. It didn't sound normal. It felt like… like an animal trying to imitate a human."
David stepped in calmly. "Could be a wildcat. Their cries at night can sound human."
Without thinking, I interrupted.
"No. Wildcats migrate deeper into the forest during this season. It's not them. I've read about local tribal stories… they talk about a creature—"
Before I could finish, William cut me off sharply.
"We've noted your report. No need to worry."
The campers left.
As soon as they were gone, David grabbed my arm tightly.
"Let's take a walk."
We walked far enough that no one could hear us.
"Have you lost your mind?" he snapped.
"What did I do?" I asked.
"You think you know this forest after six months? We've been here for years."
"But what did I say wrong?"
"Why bring up tribal stories? Why say that name?"
"What name?"
He glared at me.
"The Wendigo."
I laughed nervously. "It's just a story. You think saying its name will make it appear?"
His face went pale.
"Oh my God, Kevin… why would you say that?"
I had never seen my brother like that before.
Fear.
Real fear.
He turned and walked back toward the station without another word.
That night, lying in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about his reaction.
David was logical. Practical. He didn't believe in ghosts or monsters.
So why was he scared?
What had he seen?
And what was everyone hiding?