The River Beneath the Pines
They never found Jake’s body. Not the first time, not the second. We weren’t supposed to be there. The old ranger had warned us at the base of the trailhead: “If you reach Blackpine River, you’ve gone too far. Don’t camp near the water. Not there.” He didn’t explain, just stared at us with those pale eyes, like fog was trapped behind them. But we were seventeen, and warnings sounded like dares. The hike had been long—six miles through dense forest with backpacks stuffed full of junk food, firewood, and cheap beer. By the time we reached the river, the sky was burning orange. Jake wanted to stop. “Why not here?” he said, already dropping his bag. “Flat ground, no bugs, and we got the water right there.” I hesitated. The air around the river felt… weird. Cold, even though it was July. The trees leaned in too close, like they were whispering to each other. But no one else seemed to notice. So we stayed. That night, we built a fire and roasted marshmallows over the flam...