Page 25 of Obscurity
The space was larger than she’d expected, with windows overlooking the forest and walls lined with filing cabinets that probably contained decades of guest records, financial documents, and business correspondence. A computer sat powered down on the desk beside stacks of papers and a coffee mug with the lodge logo.
She moved quickly, scanning the visible documents for anything related to missing hikers or unusual incidents.
Most appeared to be routine business paperwork—vendor invoices, guest registration forms, paystubs.
Then she spotted a manila folder tucked beneath a stack of brochures, partially hidden but not entirely concealed. The tab read “INCIDENT REPORTS—2025.”
Olive’s pulse quickened as she pulled out her phone and began photographing the contents.
Page after page of reports painted a very different picture than the one Elias had presented.
Missing person reports filed with local authorities. Search and rescue operations that had turned up nothing. Insuranceclaims for “presumed deceased” hikers whose bodies were never recovered.
At the back of the folder, there was a collection of newspaper clippings about the disappearances, some with handwritten notes in the margins: “Too close to Grayfall.” “Hiking alone after dark.” “Ignored safety protocols.”
Her heart pounded harder.
There were more than three people missing. Far more than three. And most were outsiders to the area.
She kept snapping pictures. Her hands shook slightly as she captured page after page of evidence. David Brooks and Clara Holloway were just the most recent. The clippings went back several months—hikers, campers, even a few locals who’d ventured too close to whatever was happening in Grayfall.
But Olive needed more. The photograph on the wall with her father’s face haunted her, and she had to know what connection Northwoods Investment Group had to this place.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, still distant but definitely approaching.
She scanned the filing cabinets, looking for anything labeled with “N” for Northwoods. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she spotted a drawer marked “N–P,” and she carefully pulled it open.
The footsteps were closer now, accompanied by voices—Elias talking to someone about “getting everything in order.”
Her fingers flew through the files: “News Articles,” “Noise Complaints,” “Night Security.”
And there, near the back, a thick folder labeled “Northwoods Investment—Historical.”
Working quickly, she grabbed the folder and flipped it open. The first page was a letterhead from 2003, and she could see her father’s name listed as a “consulting advisor” on some kind of property development project.
The footsteps in the hall moved again, much closer now.
Voices sounded near the door.
“. . . just want to grab those insurance documents before tomorrow,” Elias was saying.
Olive snapped a photo of the first page, but there was so much more—maps, financial records, what looked like geological surveys.
She desperately flipped through the folder, trying to capture as much as possible. But the approaching voices made her hands shake.
The door handle rattled.
She had to get out. Now.
Olive quickly replaced the Northwoods folder, praying she’d put it back in exactly the right spot, and moved toward the window behind the desk. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she heard the key sliding into the lock.
She tugged at the window, but the old sash stuck.
No . . .
Dread filled her as she heard the lock click. She pulled harder at the window, desperation making her reckless with the noise she made.
“You really think the shuttle was sabotaged?” came a voice from the hallway. It wasn’t Elias, but another voice she didn’t recognize.
