It was late November, one of those cold, gray afternoons in the Allegheny National Forest

when the woods go quiet. My best friend Reed and I were in the final hour of the season,

trying to fill our last tag before darkness forced us back home empty-handed. We'd hunted these hills since we were teenagers.

A tradition passed down from our fathers.

Everything felt familiar, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath our boots,

the bitter chill seeping through layers of wool and camouflage,

and the scent of damp earth that always reminded me of simpler times.

Tom, over there, Reed whispered sharply, nodding toward a thick cluster of hemlocks on the opposite ridge.

I saw the movement, too, a buck stepping carefully, its antlers barely visible through the

gathering dusk. Slowly, I raised my rifle and took aim, steadying my breath.

The buck paused just long enough, its silhouette clear against the fading orange light

of the sky.

My finger tightened on the trigger, and the gunshot shattered the silence.

The buck collapsed instantly, a clean kill. Reed clapped me on the shoulder,

grinning. Nice shot, he said relieved. Let's get him out before it gets too dark. We made our way down

into the gully, boots sliding on slick patches of moss and mud. As we approached the buck,

the last glow of daylight drained away, leaving the forest

washed in deepening shadows. Reed knelt beside the animal, flashlight beam sweeping across its

body. I came up behind him and something immediately felt off.

"'Where's the blood?' Reed muttered, Confusion in his voice. He was right.

"'I'd hunted long enough to know a killshot always left a trail, crimson splashes soaking fur and

earth alike. But there was nothing here, not a single drop. My chest tightened, unease

...