The Hunter's Moon Rises Again

The air hung thick and heavy, smelling of damp earth and pine needles, a scent I usually found comforting, grounding. Tonight, it felt like a shroud. The hunter’s moon, a perfect, unblemished pearl, hung impossibly high in the ink-black sky, bathing the dense woods in an ethereal, unsettling glow. It was the kind of night that made the hairs on your arms prickle, even without a killer stalking the shadows.

"Anything?" I grunted, my voice rough, the echo swallowed by the trees. My flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating nothing but more trees, more shadows. Jack, bless his eager, rookie heart, had disappeared into the undergrowth twenty minutes ago, convinced he’d heard something. He always was. Always chasing a whisper, a rustle, a phantom threat.

"Just the wind, Ramirez," his voice crackled through the cheap walkie-talkie clipped to my belt. "And maybe a very large squirrel contemplating a career change."