I'm a Forest Ranger. We're Trained to Ignore the Not-Deer

David's first night as a forest ranger at a remote outpost begins with a briefing that sounds like local folklore. His supervisor, Eric Thompson, lays out three simple rules: stay on marked trails, ignore anything that seems off, and never assist anyone who approaches asking for help. When David asks about people getting lost, Eric corrects him: "Whether they're actually lost is another question entirely." He mentions "not-deer"—creatures that look like deer but aren't—with joints that bend wrong and faces that aren't quite right. David dismisses it as the kind of hazing every new employee endures. Eric's final warning is more direct: people have disappeared in these woods completely, not lost and found three days later. The Forest Service doesn't advertise it because it's bad for tourism.

The Mimic

Two hours into his patrol, David encounters a woman named Sarah on an empty forest road. She's looking for her husband at a lake called Crystal Lake—a name that doesn't appear on any map within fifty miles. Her clothes are spotless despite claiming to have walked for hours. She's wearing only one shoe. David gives her directions toward the eastern trails, keeping them intentionally vague, but she smiles in a way that feels wrong—"too wide, too knowing"—and disappears into the trees without another word.