A Record Before the Dark

Part 1 – In Case I Don’t Come Back

I’m writing this down because I’m scared of what might happen to me. And I’m alone.

Recently, I took this job as a forest ranger. The instructions were strange: when night falls, keep the windows closed, the doors locked, and the curtains drawn. Strange because I’m supposed to watch the forest, not hide from it. How can I keep an eye on everything if I’m locked away inside a wooden box?

Now, with everything shut, all I can do is listen. The rain lashes against the cabin walls, sharp on the wood, muffled but heavy against the glass panes.

My partner for this shift—Steve—was supposed to be here tonight. He never showed up. The radio is unreliable, cutting in and out. My phone keeps freezing. The signal flickers between 5G and 3G, sometimes vanishing altogether. We don’t have much tech out here, only the bare minimum: some for safety, some for survival. Entertainment is a luxury. Internet, a myth.

I’m writing this to keep my mind from breaking. To hold myself together. And in case someone finds this and needs to tell my family what happened to me.

There it is again. A sound.

Knock. Knock.

It’s coming from outside, near the corner of the cabin. Creaking follows—wood under weight. Someone walking. But who walks in a storm like this? If it were Steve, he’d have barged in already, dripping wet, grumbling, “What the hell’s going on out here tonight, man? Jesus!”

But it isn’t Steve.

Between the footsteps, I hear something else. A dull, heavy thud. Something being dragged. Dropped. Slammed against the ground.

The lights are gone. The power cut out. My phone slipped to black.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to post this. Maybe never. But I still have enough battery to keep writing. Enough for someone to find this record. Enough for someone to know that I was here—before the dark took me.