Chapter 4: The Price of Paradise

The rain had stopped, but the world outside Liam’s cabin was shrouded in a damp, cloying mist. The vibrant greens and rich browns of the forest now looked sickly, like a painting left to mold. The humming vitality in his veins, once a source of invigorating power, now felt like a parasite feasting on his spirit. He clutched the file for David Miller, the photograph of a young, hopeful Dr. Sharma staring up at him, a ghost from a past he had just unearthed.

He didn't bother to change out of his rain-slicked jacket. Fury, cold and sharp, cut through his terror. He stormed out of the cabin, the splintered wood of the forced cabinet a testament to his violation of this place's unnatural peace. He marched toward the main ranger station, each powerful, energetic step a mockery of his own entrapment.

He found them just as he expected: an island of placid tranquility in his churning sea of horror. Sherri was humming to herself as she polished the already gleaming redwood desk. Chip sat in a corner, methodically sharpening the blade of a hand axe, the rhythmic shing-shing-shing of steel on stone grating on Liam’s nerves. Casey was leaning back in his chair, boots up on a small stool, whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a bird. They looked up as he burst through the door, not with alarm, but with a kind of weary patience.

Liam slapped the folder down on the desk. The brittle paper and the photograph of Dr. Sharma skidded across the polished surface, coming to a stop in front of Sherri.

"What is this?" Liam’s voice was a raw tear in the quiet station. "All of them. Dozens of missing people. What happened to David Miller? What happened to all of them?"

Sherri stopped her humming. She picked up the photograph, her lips curving into a faint, nostalgic smile. It was the most ghastly expression Liam had ever seen.

"Ah, David," she said, her voice soft and wistful. "He was a good boy. So much passion. A bit like you, actually."

"Don't compare me to him," Liam spat, his hands clenched into fists. "He's dead. You just left him to die out there, didn't you? All of them."

"Dead?" Casey let out a low chuckle, a rumbling sound devoid of any humor. He set his whittling aside. "No, son. That’s the wrong word entirely."

"Nothing happened to them, Liam," Sherri said, her eyes lifting from the photograph to meet his. Her gaze was as placid and as deep as a frozen lake. "They weren't lost. They were given."

The words hung in the air, nonsensical and monstrous. "Given? Given to what?"

Sherri spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed the entire station, the valley, the mountains looming in the mist. "To the park, of course. To this place. You think these trees are just wood? You think this mountain is just rock? It's alive, Liam. It's ancient, and it's hungry."

The world tilted, the floor seeming to fall away beneath him. He grabbed the edge of the desk for support, the polished redwood cold under his sweating palms.

Chip finally spoke, his voice a dry rasp like dead leaves skittering across pavement. "Generations ago, our ancestors made an arrangement. A pact. We serve as its Keepers. We maintain the grounds, we protect its solitude, we keep it pristine."

"And in return," Casey added, his folksy draw turning sinister, "it gives us its blessing. It gives us life." He slapped his own thigh, a solid, meaty thud. "You feel that spring in your step, boy? The way your old aches and pains just vanished? That ain't the mountain air. That's the park. That's the gift."

Liam’s mind reeled back to the moment he’d signed the ledger. The quill pen. The jolt of energy. The feeling of profound well-being that had seduced him so completely. It wasn’t a welcome. It was a transaction.

"That shock you felt," Sherri continued, her voice turning instructive, as if she were explaining botany to a student, "when you wrote your name in its book? That was the park tasting you. Judging your vitality. And it found you worthy, Liam. It accepted you."

The horror of it was a physical blow. The ‘gift’ was a brand. The ‘vitality’ was a chain, linking him to whatever ancient, conscious thing resided here. He was property.

He shook his head, backing away toward the door. "You're insane. All of you. This is… this is human sacrifice."

"Tsk. Such an ugly term," Sherri sighed, placing the photo of Dr. Sharma gently back into its folder. "We call it the tithe. And unfortunately for you, Liam, the tithe is due. It's been a quiet season. The park grows… impatient."

Liam’s blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

"The harvest begins tomorrow," Casey said, his voice now flat and businesslike. "For three days, we perform our real duty. We're not here to guide the visitors. We're here to prune the herd."

Sherri walked to a large topographical map on the wall, her finger tracing a network of trails. "We'll close the main loop for 'maintenance'. A few trail markers moved here," her finger tapped a remote canyon, "a 'rockslide' sign placed there. We don't harm anyone. We simply… set the table. We create the dead ends, the confusing forks in the path. We channel the offering to the places where the park is most receptive."

"The park does the rest," Chip rasped from his corner, the sharpening sound stopping as he held the axe up to inspect its gleaming edge.

Revulsion and defiance surged through Liam. "No. I won't do it. I'll go to the county sheriff. I'll call the news. I'll tell everyone what you are."

Sherri turned from the map, and for the first time, her maternal facade dropped entirely, replaced by a gaze of cold, absolute authority. It was the look of a priestess, a warden, a butcher.

"You misunderstand, Liam," she said, her voice dangerously soft. "This is not a job you can quit. You think we'd let you just walk away with our secret? With the park's own energy humming in your veins?"

She took a step toward him. "You belong to this place now. That strength you feel, the health, the way the woods seem to whisper to you? That is your chain. It's the park's mark on you. You're not our employee, Liam. You are one of its Keepers."

He stared at her, at the unwavering fanaticism in her eyes, and the final, terrible truth crashed down upon him. He was trapped. There was no escape. The paradise he'd coveted was a slaughterhouse, and they had just handed him a blood-stained apron.

"You will help us alter the trails tomorrow at dawn," Sherri commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Your participation is not a choice."