Chapter 5: The Hunt Begins

Sleep was a forgotten country. Liam lay on his cot all night, fully dressed, his body thrumming with the park's alien energy, a cruel joke that denied him even the brief oblivion of unconsciousness. Every rustle of leaves outside his window, every hoot of a distant owl, sounded like a prelude to horror. The faces from the missing person files flickered behind his eyes, a grim slideshow of the damned, with the smiling face of a young Dr. Sharma as their ghostly curator.

Just before dawn, a sharp rap on his door made him jolt upright. It was Casey, his silhouette a dark block against the grey, misty light. There was no booming welcome, no folksy grin. His face was a mask of stony pragmatism.

"Time to earn your keep, son," he said, his voice flat.

Liam felt a fresh wave of nausea. "I can't do this."

Casey’s gaze hardened. "You think you're the first one to get cold feet? David Miller, the fella your professor was sweet on, he said the same thing. Look where it got him. The park doesn't care if you're willing. It only cares that you're here. Now get your jacket. We're burning daylight."

The implicit threat was absolute. Defiance meant joining David Miller in the park's eternal embrace. Powerless, his spirit hollowed out, Liam followed.

The work was a perversion of everything he loved about his profession. He, who had once taken pride in maintaining trails for the safety and enjoyment of others, was now actively corrupting them. Under the watchful, silent supervision of Chip, he dug up a heavy wooden signpost pointing toward the safety of the main lodge and replanted it, angling it toward a treacherous, little-used game trail that vanished into a deep, thorny ravine. The strength the park had gifted him made the labor easy; the heavy post felt light in his hands, the earth yielded to his shovel with little effort. He was using the entity's own power to serve it, a puppet dancing on its strings.

They worked for hours, a grim trio of saboteurs. They moved rocks to create a convincing-looking landslide that blocked the path back to the parking lot, artfully scattering smaller stones and debris to make it look natural. They took down the brightly colored trail markers from a safe loop and re-tied them to trees leading into a notorious swamp known for its deep, hungry mud. Chip moved with a silent, ghostly efficiency, his movements economical and precise. He’d done this a hundred times. Liam felt bile rise in his throat, the metallic taste of complicity. He was a Judas, leading lambs to the slaughter for thirty pieces of silver and a cursed, unnatural vitality.

Around mid-morning, as they were concealing a trail entrance with fallen branches, the sound of happy voices drifted through the trees.

"Hellooo there!"

Liam froze, a heavy branch in his hands. A family of four emerged from the mist. A father in a bright blue jacket, clutching a map. A mother with a backpack full of snacks. A young boy of about ten, prodding at a mushroom with a stick. And a little girl, no older than six, her pigtails bouncing, a brilliant pink raincoat her only shield against the predatory green of the forest.

Sherri materialized beside them as if from the very air, her face wreathed in that warm, grandmotherly smile. "Well, good morning! Out for a little adventure, are we?"

"We sure are!" the father said, beaming. "We were hoping to see the Twin Falls, but the sign back there seems to have been knocked over."

"Oh, dear," Sherri said with a theatrical sigh. "That wind last week. No matter. You're in for a real treat. The falls are lovely, but the real secret is the Crystal Grotto. It's a bit off the beaten path, but it's just breathtaking."

Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs. The Crystal Grotto. He’d seen it on the topographical map. It was a box canyon, a dead end of sheer rock walls and slick moss. A perfect trap.

"Is it far?" the mother asked, adjusting the strap on her pack.

"Not at all. Just follow this little path here," Sherri said, gesturing toward the trail they had just finished camouflaging, the one that now led nowhere safe. "Keep the crooked oak on your left, and you can't miss it. It’s a special place, not on the main maps. A little secret just for you."

The little girl in the pink raincoat skipped ahead, her laughter echoing unnervingly in the quiet woods. She stumbled and a small, glittery hairclip fell from her pigtails, landing in the mud near Liam's boots. Without thinking, his body moved, an echo of a person he used to be. He bent, picked it up, and wiped the mud from it on his sleeve.

"Here you go," he mumbled, his voice thick.

"Thank you, Ranger!" she chirped, her eyes wide and innocent. She took the clip with her small, warm fingers, a fleeting touch of life against his cold skin.

He looked from her trusting face to Sherri's serene, monstrous smile. The guilt was no longer an abstract concept; it was a physical weight, a stone in his throat, choking him. He wanted to scream, to grab them and tell them to run, to flee this accursed place. But he saw Chip leaning on his axe a few yards away, his cold eyes fixed on him, and Sherri's smile tightened ever so slightly at the edges. A silent, deadly warning.

"Have a wonderful hike!" Sherri called out as the family, full of gratitude and excitement, turned down the path to their doom.

Liam watched them go, the splash of pink from the little girl's raincoat the last thing to be swallowed by the fog and the trees. He had touched her hand. He had looked into her eyes. And he had sent her to her death.

When they were gone, the silence that fell was heavier than any mountain.

Later that afternoon, the work finally done, Casey approached him near his cabin. The folksy act was gone for good. His face was grim, his eyes holding a hunter's watchfulness.

"Alright, kid. The table's set. Now we wait for the dinner guests," he said gruffly. "Go to your cabin. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone or anything. Not for three days."

Liam just stared at him, numb.

"You still got that whistle?" Casey asked.

Liam nodded, his hand instinctively going to his pocket, touching the cold, heavy metal.

Casey's expression was deadly serious. "Listen to me, and listen good. That ain't for scaring off bears. And it sure as hell ain't for calling for help. When the park gets to feeding, it doesn't always look too close at what it's grabbing. It's… indiscriminate. It knows us by our scent, by the life it gave us, but sometimes, in its hunger, it forgets."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "That whistle is your only protection. It's not a call for help; it's a signal. The sound reminds the park that you are one of its own. It says 'I belong to you. I am not food.' It's your brand, kid. An auditory one."

The cryptic warning on the tag suddenly made horrifying sense. The park is always listening.

"Don't lose it," Casey finished, his eyes boring into Liam's. "And don't use it unless you have to. The park... it doesn't like being reminded who's who."

With a final, hard look, Casey turned and walked away, leaving Liam standing alone before his cabin, the gilded cage that was now his only sanctuary. He fumbled with the key, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He stumbled inside and threw the bolt. The solid thunk of the lock echoed in the small room like the lid of a coffin closing. He sank onto his cot, pulling the silver whistle from his pocket. It gleamed in the dim light, a symbol of his damnation and his only, terrible lifeline. The forest outside was utterly silent, a predator holding its breath, waiting for nightfall. Waiting for the hunt to begin.