Scene 1: Trail Talk and Mosquito Swats
The next morning rose thick and hot, like the sun had boiled the whole sky in a pot and poured it straight over the bayou.
By 8 a.m., Josie Mae Dupree stood at the back fence again, canteen on her hip, hair tied up with a frayed blue ribbon, and a fresh line of mosquito bites dotting her legs like red Braille. The shimmer spot was gone—nothing but trees now—but her gut told her they were in the right place.
One by one, her crew appeared through the brush: Bo lumbering with a breakfast biscuit in hand, Lila Rae with a satchel bulging like a squirrel ready for winter, Cricket barefoot as usual, hopping between patches of shade, and Tadpole gliding in behind them with that silent gait of his, eyes already scanning the trees like they might whisper clues.
And then came Kenji Nguyen.
The newest of the bunch and the quietest, Kenji had the look of a boy who lived half in his own head. His backpack looked like it could survive a hurricane—patched with duct tape, antenna wire, and what might’ve once been a toaster handle. He had a flashlight clipped to one side, a compass on the other, and a roll of tinfoil sticking out like a shiny tongue.
“You brought a radio?” Josie asked, peeking at the odd bundle of wires in his hand.
Kenji nodded, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “It’s a signal sniffer. Might pick up any residual magnetic distortion if that shimmer thing was real.”
Cricket gave him a slow clap. “We got ourselves a bonafide swamp scientist now.”
“I ain’t a scientist,” Kenji muttered. “Yet.”
“Still counts,” Bo grunted, mouth full of biscuit.
Josie turned toward the trees. “We’re headin’ in. Trail bends near the leaning pine, then follows the dry creek. We keep close. If anyone hears somethin’ weird, speak up. Unless it’s your stomach, Bo.”
“I can’t help biology,” he grinned.
They ducked through the fence, the dry grass brushing their legs as they followed the worn trail Josie and Tadpole had marked the night before. In daylight, it looked less like a secret path and more like something forgotten—overgrown, but still walkable if you knew where to look.
The trees formed a tunnel above them, limbs heavy with moss and sleepy insects. Dragonflies danced across sunbeams. Somewhere off to the left, a gator let out a grunt deep in the water. The air buzzed with heat and possibility.
They walked in single file, Lila Rae scribbling in her notebook, Kenji fiddling with knobs and muttering to himself, Bo humming a CCR tune he barely knew the words to, and Cricket poking a long stick at anything that moved.
“This better not be another dead raccoon,” Bo muttered after ten minutes of brush and sweat. “Last time I followed Josie into the woods, we found one in a washtub.”
“That was science,” Josie replied. “And an important part of the food chain.”
“That thing had three legs and an attitude.”
“I think it was cursed,” Cricket added brightly.
“Y’all hush,” Tadpole called back. “Hear that?”
The group paused. All six of them turned toward the faint sound—barely there, but distinct. Metal on metal. A clink, followed by a slow creak. Like something rusted shifting under its own weight.
Josie pointed. “That way.”
They veered off the main trail, following the sound down a slope where the mud grew thicker underfoot. Vines caught their ankles, and mosquitoes thickened like clouds with teeth. Bo swatted his neck with a curse. Lila Rae pulled a scarf over her face.
Then Tadpole stopped short.
“There.”
Half-buried in a cradle of muck and vines, hidden behind a wall of ferns, sat the husk of an old truck. Rusted through, windshield shattered, one tire eaten entirely by the earth. A skeleton of chrome and time, leaning like it had just given up trying.
“Well,” Kenji muttered, eyes wide, “that ain’t from this decade.”
Josie stepped forward slowly, brushing away a clump of moss from the hood. The original paint had long since faded to rust, but the faintest outline of a decal remained. A name, maybe. Or a logo.
Bo poked the door with a stick. “Y’all think anyone’s in there?”
“Only ghosts,” Preacher would’ve said. But Preacher wasn’t here.
Josie gave the handle a tug. The door groaned open, loud and long like a yawn from the grave.
Inside was nothing but shadows and the scent of mildew and old stories waiting to be found.
Scene 2: The Rusted Truck
Bo wasn’t the superstitious type—unless he was near old, broken-down things in the woods, in which case he was extremely superstitious.
He stood a good three feet back from the rusted-out truck, arms crossed and mouth set in a line, as Josie crouched low beside the open door, squinting into the shadows of the cab.
“This thing looks like it drove outta time,” she muttered. “Might’ve been red once. Or blue.”
“Definitely not green,” said Cricket, perched on a nearby log, swatting at mosquitoes like she was conducting an invisible orchestra.
“It’s a Chevrolet,” Kenji announced, brushing dirt off the old grille. “Maybe a '59 or '60. No plate. Front axle’s cracked clean through.”
Tadpole had already circled around the back, inspecting the flattened tires and the way the vines had slithered through the undercarriage. “Ain’t no one drove this out here. It’s been dead a while.”
Lila Rae knelt beside Josie, sketching the layout of the cab in her notebook. “It’s too far from any old road. Had to be stashed here on purpose.”
Josie nodded slowly. “Or someone didn’t want it found.”
Inside the truck, the bench seat was split down the middle, foam spilling out like old bread. The dash was sun-bleached and warped, knobs snapped off, glovebox pried open and empty. The gear shift was stuck somewhere between first and regret.
“Anything under the seat?” Lila Rae asked.
“Nothing but mold and a family of spiders the size of biscuits,” Josie replied, backing out.
“Gimme room,” said Kenji, stepping forward and clicking on a small penlight. “If there’s a hidden panel or storage pocket, it’d be here. Old trucks had all sorts of weird spots.”
He climbed halfway into the cab, flashlight sweeping the corners. Everyone waited, the woods unusually still around them.
Bo tossed a pebble and muttered, “This is how horror movies start.”
“Shh!” Cricket snapped. “He’s gonna find a secret compartment or a skeleton or—”
“Found somethin’,” Kenji said suddenly.
He was reaching beneath the driver’s seat, arm elbow-deep into the dark. With a grunt, he pulled free—and in his hand was something metal, small, and rectangular.
A tin box, scuffed and battered, with a rusted clasp and remnants of red paint on the lid.
Josie’s eyes went wide. “Well now... that don’t look like no truck part.”
Kenji handed it over like it was glass. “It was wedged up under the springs. Probably been there for decades.”
Lila Rae was already jotting a fresh note in the margin of her page. “Do we open it now?”
Tadpole answered by pulling his pocketknife and popping the clasp with a click.
The box creaked open slow, the hinges squealing in protest—like they didn’t want to give up their secrets.
Inside:
? A stack of black-and-white photographs, faded and curled at the corners
? A torn, hand-drawn map marked with an X and strange looping symbols
? A cassette tape in a cracked plastic case with the label nearly rubbed off
? And a small leather tag stamped with three initials: L.R.W.
Nobody spoke for a full ten seconds.
Finally, Bo broke the silence.
“Anybody else just get chills? Or was that the wind?”
“There ain’t no wind,” Tadpole said, voice low.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Josie stared at the contents of the tin box, heart beating faster now.
“That’s him,” she said quietly, holding up one of the photos. “That’s the man from the article. The one who vanished. And I think... I think we just found where he was goin’.”
Scene 3: What the Tin Box Held
The kids sat in a wide circle under the trees, sunlight dripping through the branches like warm honey. The old truck loomed behind them, its rusted shell silent now, as if it had finished whispering secrets and was content to let the box do the rest.
The tin lay open between them on a flat patch of dry moss. Josie crouched over it, her fingers twitching with the itch of discovery. The forest buzzed faintly around them—mosquitoes, gnats, a distant bullfrog—but the moment felt suspended, like even the bayou itself was leanin’ in to listen.
“Alright,” she said, picking up the cassette first. “This here’s got a label, but it’s all rubbed off. Just... smudges.”
“Could be anything,” Bo said, eyeing it with suspicion. “Might be a trap. What if you play it and it curses your whole bloodline?”
“It’s a cassette, Bo,” Lila Rae muttered. “Not a haunted doll.”
Josie turned it in her hands. The case was cracked at the edge, but the tape inside looked mostly intact.
“Kenji,” she said, passing it over, “think it still works?”
Kenji took it gingerly, already digging in his backpack for his portable tape recorder. “Only one way to find out.”
While he fiddled with batteries and buttons, Lila Rae spread the map across her lap. The parchment was yellowed and soft, edges worn like it had been handled too many times. Several spots were marked in red ink—loops and swirls and Xs—but no roads. No names. Only the shape of the river winding like a sleeping snake and one word scrawled near the corner:
“BRT.”
Lila Rae squinted. “Bayou River... Trading post? Trail? Treasure?”
Cricket leaned over her shoulder, chewing a piece of gum like it held answers. “Maybe it stands for Big Risky Trouble.”
Bo rubbed the back of his neck. “This whole thing’s already startin’ to feel like trouble.”
“Good,” Josie said without looking up. “Means we’re on the right trail.”
Tadpole held one of the photos in his hands, his thumb brushing the edge. It was black-and-white, the corners curled. In it stood a man—tall, thin, hat pulled low over his brow—beside the very same truck they’d just found. The cypress trees behind him hadn’t changed much in all these years.
“There’s somethin’ carved on that tree,” Tadpole said, pointing to a shape in the photo. “Right there. On the bark.”
“Can you match it to one of the trees here?” Josie asked.
“Maybe. If we check the trunks,” he said, already standing to walk a slow circle around the clearing.
Kenji clicked the tape recorder shut and gave a thumbs-up. “It works. The motor’s a little slow, but it didn’t eat the tape.”
“What’s on it?” Cricket asked.
“Don’t know yet. Wanna wait till we’re somewhere quiet. Safer for the equipment.”
Lila Rae was flipping over the map carefully. “No writing on the back, just... more of those swirls. Symbols, maybe.”
Bo leaned over, eyes narrowed. “They look like... I dunno... voodoo marks.”
Cricket made a dramatic gasp. “Swamp voodoo!”
“Swamp voodoo,” Bo repeated in a spooky whisper, wriggling his fingers. “We’re gonna get hexed!”
Josie snorted. “You don’t even know what a hex is.”
“Sure I do. It’s like a cold, but for your soul.”
Cricket fell over laughing. Even Tadpole cracked the ghost of a grin.
Josie, still focused, held up the leather tag. It was worn thin, stamped with three faded letters: L.R.W.
Lila Rae looked up sharply. “Those’re my initials.”
Everyone went quiet.
“...Wait,” she added, blinking. “So maybe I’m cursed now?”
Kenji deadpanned, “That tracks.”
Josie gently set the items back in the box, one by one, arranging them just as they’d found them.
“This ain’t no accident,” she said. “This was left here. For someone.”
“Maybe for us,” Cricket said softly.
“Maybe,” Josie replied. “Or maybe we just stumbled into someone else’s story.”
She looked out at the trees—wide, old, and still. The map, the photos, the shimmer last night—it was all part of something bigger.
And they were officially in it now.
Scene 4: Tadpole Finds the Mark
The woods were holding their breath again.
As the others packed up the tin box, still buzzing from the discovery, Tadpole wandered slowly along the curve of the clearing. His boots sank slightly in the soft moss underfoot, and he dragged one hand along each tree he passed—fingertips brushing rough bark, looking for something the photo had promised.
“Whatcha doin’ over there?” Bo called. “Don’t go wanderin’ off. You’ll wake the gator ghosts.”
Tadpole didn’t answer.
He paused beside a wide cypress with a thick, knotted trunk, nearly hollow at its base. He narrowed his eyes, leaned in, and gently brushed aside a veil of Spanish moss.
There it was.
Carved faint but sure into the bark: a three-loop symbol with an arrow pointed east. Not weathered by time like you’d expect from decades in the elements—this one looked newer. Not fresh, but not old enough to be forgotten either.
“Tadpole?” Josie asked, walking toward him. “You find somethin’?”
He pointed silently. She stepped closer and stared.
Lila Rae, Cricket, and Kenji clustered in behind her. Even Bo wandered over, munching a cracker.
Josie traced the carving with one finger. “Same as the one in the photo. Same tree?”
“Could be,” Tadpole said. “Might even be redone. Like someone carved it over again.”
Lila Rae flipped open her notebook, matching the shape to the photo in the tin box. “It’s identical. Same symbol, same lean in the tree.”
Cricket squinted up at the branches. “So either the man who disappeared carved it twice... or someone else came back.”
Bo muttered, “Maybe they never left.”
Kenji pointed past the tree. “Look there.”
Behind the cypress, mostly hidden under brush and leaves, was a faint path—just a suggestion of a trail, no more than a narrow dip in the ground. Ferns leaned into it like they were guarding it. But it was there.
Josie stepped forward, swept aside a low-hanging vine, and felt her breath catch.
“Looks like it keeps goin’,” she whispered.
Tadpole crouched at the edge, ran a hand through the dirt. “Footprints. At least two sets. Not deep, but fresh enough.”
Cricket bounced on her heels. “So... we follow it, right? I mean, we have to.”
Bo looked back toward the truck. “Y’all sure about this? That shimmer thing was weird enough. Now we’re talkin’ hidden trails and fresh marks? What if this whole thing’s a trap?”
Josie looked down the narrow trail. It twisted quickly into shadow, swallowed up by the trees.
“We don’t have to go far,” she said. “Just enough to see where it leads.”
Lila Rae tightened her grip on the satchel. “I say we mark our path and come back prepared.”
“Agreed,” Kenji nodded. “We’ll need better gear. Bug spray. A compass. And snacks that aren’t crushed at the bottom of Bo’s backpack.”
Bo held up a smashed chocolate bar. “It adds texture.”
Tadpole stood slowly, gaze still on the carving.
“This here’s a sign,” he said. “A message.”
Josie looked at him. “From who?”
Tadpole shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But they wanted somebody to find it.”
They all stood quietly for a moment, the wind barely rustling the leaves overhead. Then Josie reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of red ribbon, and tied it around the branch just above the carving.
“Then we’ll come back,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
Scene 5: Swamp Voodoo and Field Notes
The sun had climbed high enough to bake the air thick and slow, and the insects had decided to shout about it. A chorus of cicadas rattled from the trees, so loud it felt like the whole forest was humming with heat and secrets.
Back in the clearing, the kids had settled into what passed for a break. Josie leaned against the bumper of the old truck, staring out at the trail beyond the cypress tree. She hadn’t said much since they found the carving, but her mind was moving faster than the river after a storm.
Cricket was stretched out in the moss with her arms behind her head, chewing bubblegum and watching a dragonfly zigzag overhead. Tadpole sat on a log nearby, sharpening a stick with his pocketknife like he might need it later for something he couldn’t name.
Bo had climbed halfway into the truck bed and was lounging like a possum in the shade. “All I’m sayin’ is,” he drawled, “we got an old truck, a secret map, a ghost trail, and some kind of shimmerin’ air magic. That ain’t normal. That’s swamp voodoo.”
Lila Rae didn’t even look up from her notebook. “That’s not what voodoo is.”
“It’s what my cousin Reggie said it is,” Bo insisted. “He once saw a chicken turn inside out at a crawfish boil.”
“That sounds like bad cookin’, not mysticism,” Kenji muttered, hunched over a paper from his backpack, sketching the symbol Tadpole found.
Cricket popped her gum. “I dunno. Could be some kinda swamp curse. Like, what if whoever this L.R.W. guy was—what if he opened somethin’ he wasn’t supposed to and got erased?”
“That’s not how erasin’ works,” Kenji said, squinting at his lines.
“Ever seen a shimmer in broad daylight?” Cricket asked, eyebrow arched.
Kenji paused. “…No.”
“Exactly.”
Lila Rae scribbled another line in her notebook. “We need to log this properly. This isn’t just a ghost story. It’s a trail. And somebody left it on purpose.”
She turned the page and started listing:
- Truck location: approx. 1 mile behind Josie’s back fence
- Contents of tin box: 4 photos, 1 cassette tape, 1 marked map, 1 leather tag (L.R.W.)
- Carving found: matching symbol, possible guidepost
“We need to map the whole area,” she said. “Piece it together like a puzzle. If we follow the symbols—”
“If we follow the symbols,” Bo interrupted, waving one hand in the air, “we’re gonna end up in some spooky underground bunker with a thousand frogs chantin’ in Latin.”
Cricket laughed so hard she rolled off the moss patch.
Josie smiled faintly, then stood up and brushed off her shorts. “Well, maybe we will. Or maybe we’ll find something else. But it’s waitin’. Whatever it is.”
Tadpole looked up from his knife. “You reckon this fella L.R.W. left more marks?”
Kenji nodded slowly. “Would make sense. If the symbol’s a trail marker, we’re followin’ his steps.”
Lila Rae closed her notebook and looked to Josie. “So… we go back tomorrow?”
Josie nodded. “Tomorrow. With better gear. Full canteens. And maybe bug spray for Bo before he swells up like a melon.”
Bo scratched his arm. “Too late.”
The group stood, gathering bags and gear, but they weren’t the same kids who’d entered the woods that morning. Something had changed. Something had begun.
Josie looked down the trail again—where the shadows thickened, where the breeze whispered stories no one had told in years.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone. “We follow the next mark.”
Scene 6: Back in the Ground
The tin box sat in the grass like it didn’t want to be touched again.
The sun was high and hot, bleaching the clearing in gold. Somewhere in the canopy above, a woodpecker rapped out a stuttering rhythm, while the truck behind them stood quiet, rust baking gently in the heat.
No one said much.
Josie crouched beside the old vehicle, turning the box in her hands one last time. The rust was flaking more now, paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The contents—tucked safely into Kenji’s backup Ziploc bag—were wrapped and sealed, ready to be studied later. But the box itself… it needed to stay.
“We don’t take it,” Josie said, not asking, just stating. “Not yet.”
Lila Rae nodded immediately. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it. If it disappears now, someone else might come looking.”
Cricket chewed her gum slower than usual. “I still say we should bury it with a booby trap.”
Bo groaned. “No traps. I don’t wanna be the one to lose a toe next time we come back.”
Tadpole stepped forward, pulling a small hand shovel from his belt loop. He knelt by the hollow beneath the truck seat and began scooping the loose soil, slow and methodical. The dirt was soft from decades of damp, easy to move. He dug until the hole was deep enough to swallow the box whole.
Josie placed it in gently, like setting something into a grave.
“We come back when we’re ready,” she said. “When we know what we’re lookin’ for.”
Bo reached into his pocket and pulled out the last piece of his crushed chocolate bar. He broke off a square and dropped it into the hole beside the box.
“For luck,” he muttered.
Kenji looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t. Instead, he pulled out a marker and scrawled a small X on the inside of the truck door. Subtle, but clear enough for those who knew.
Tadpole packed the dirt back in, firm but not heavy, then scattered a few dead leaves on top.
“Don’t want it lookin’ like we just buried treasure out here,” he said.
Lila Rae took a bit of red thread from her kit and tied it to a nearby branch—small, quiet, barely visible if you didn’t know to look. She scribbled one last note in her field log.
Cricket stretched, bones popping. “Y’all realize we just started somethin’, right?”
Josie looked out past the cypress trees, where the narrow trail wound deeper into shadow. Her heart thudded steady. Not scared. Just... awake.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think we did.”
The group turned as one and started back up the trail—feet crunching softly through underbrush, sunlight dappling their shoulders. Behind them, the truck stood silent, the tin box nestled once more in the earth beneath it.
But something in the woods had changed.
The air felt aware.
And deep beneath the moss, the box waited.