Chapter 3: Chains and Panic

My heart jackhammered in my chest. I bolted, crashing through brush and branches, not caring about the scrapes or the noise. I just needed to get away.

I ran desperately back toward the town.

My feet tore at the earth, rocks scraping my shins. I didn’t look back. I didn’t care how much noise I made or if anyone saw me—just needed to get as far away from Mushroom Rock as fast as I could. My lungs burned and my throat was raw by the time the town lights came into view.

I stumbled home, the sky already pitch dark.

The porch light flickered, drawing June bugs and moths in a lazy, endless spiral. The town was quiet—no one out except the occasional old pickup rumbling past. I fumbled my key, hands slick with sweat, and pushed my way inside.

The guests were asleep. Only the porch light was on, leftovers still on the kitchen table.

My house still smelled like fried onions and detergent. There was a note from Faith—"Thanks for dinner, see you at breakfast!" I barely glanced at it.

I shoveled cold ham and leftover cornbread into my mouth, barely noticing the taste—just chewing to keep from screaming. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my fork. I kept seeing the yellow tent, the chain, those unmoving legs. I wanted to throw up.

On Mushroom Rock at night, two dark silhouettes drew close, pressed tightly together.

That memory twisted inside me. The shape of bodies, the shadows flickering in firelight. I’d always thought romance looked different—gentler, maybe. This was something else.

And those stockings, the chain at the ankles, those motionless legs—they haunted me.

Even closing my eyes, I saw them. A kind of cold fear settled in my gut, heavy as river mud.

Mr. Knox camping alone at Mushroom Rock. Yesterday I’d brought a woman there, and I’d even thought Natalie was Mr. Knox’s daughter.

I replayed every moment—her laughter, her nervous glances, the way Mr. Knox talked to her. I was a fool for not seeing what was right in front of me.

How could a daughter be lying in a tent like that?

I felt stupid, angry at myself. I should have known better. No father would treat his child that way—no decent man would, period.

Today I brought another, and she was snuggling up to Mr. Knox—what exactly was their relationship?

I tried to find a way for it all to make sense, but I couldn’t. None of it fit any story I’d ever heard, not even the wildest town gossip.

And tomorrow?

What would tomorrow bring? Another woman, another secret, another person in danger? I felt a cold sweat bead on my forehead.

There were still three women in the guest room. Their leader, called Ms. Dana, had been the one to ask me to bring Natalie and Aubrey to Mushroom Rock.

Ms. Dana was always in control—never a hair out of place, always watching everyone with those sharp blue eyes. She carried herself like she expected everyone else to move out of her way. I’d never met a woman like her in these parts.

Ms. Dana was an elegant woman—her skin meticulously cared for, delicate features, everything about her expensive. Clearly not someone who came for hiking.

Her luggage looked like something from a magazine—designer brands, real leather. She wore a silk scarf even in the heat. Not the type to sweat through her clothes on a backwoods trail.

But the four women with her, each beautiful in their own way, all dressed like travelers.

It was like they’d come for a photo shoot, not a real adventure. But they laughed and joked like old friends, never complaining about the dirt or the bugs.

Natalie: baseball cap, ponytail, cropped shirt, cargo pants, hiking boots.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a college brochure, but there was something guarded in her smile—like she was always waiting for the punchline.

Like a college girl, though I’d never actually met a college girl.

Her accent was local, but her eyes said she’d seen more than most folks twice her age.

Aubrey even brought a huge bag of toiletries.

She joked about it, saying, “You never know what’ll happen in the woods,” but I noticed her hands shook a little when she zipped it up.

The other two: one called Yasmine, a beautiful mixed-race woman; the other, Faith, the oldest—over forty, but kept in great shape.

Yasmine had a way of making everyone around her feel clumsy—her smile was quick and genuine, but her eyes missed nothing. Faith was the kind of woman who could out-hike a twenty-year-old and still have energy to make dinner after.

I’d been a local guide for over half a year, and rarely saw female tourists. If there were any, they always came with their husbands—never a group of women like this.

The men in town would have whispered about them—who they were, what they wanted, why they didn’t bring men along. But I kept my mouth shut, remembering all the times I’d been talked about myself.

The way Natalie’s lower half never moved kept replaying in my mind.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her legs—still, unmoving. I started counting my own breaths, just to remind myself I was still there, still alive.

Unmoving?

The question hung there, cold and sharp.

Could Natalie already be dead?

My hands went numb. I gripped the table edge, knuckles white. I was the one who brought her there. That guilt felt like poison.

My chest tightened until I thought I’d suffocate. I wanted to run out into the street, scream for help. But who would listen? Who would believe me?

A wild idea took root in my mind, growing more and more out of control:

The thought was reckless, but it burned away the fear for a second. Maybe I could still do something. Maybe I could make this right.

Mushroom Rock. I had to go back and see for myself.

It was probably stupid. But I’d rather be stupid than a coward. I stepped out into the night, heart pounding. Whatever waited up on that mountain, I had to see it for myself.