THE WOLF’S CURSE

Chapter 3

Alec

The trailhead is quiet, unnervingly so. The only sounds are the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant call of a bird I can’t quite place. I stand there for a moment, staring at the narrow path that disappears into the trees. The signpost reads **Black Forest Trail – 12 Miles**, the letters faded and weathered, as if the forest itself is trying to erase any trace of human presence.

I pull out my phone, the screen bright against the dim light filtering through the canopy. The GPS map shows the trail winding deep into the forest, a thin red line cutting through a sea of green. There’s a small marker where I’m supposed to stop—a clearing Dad had marked on an old map he’d shown me years ago. “Best view in Colorado,” he’d said, his eyes lighting up. “You can see the whole valley from there.”

I slide the phone back into my pocket and adjust the straps of my backpack. It’s heavier than I expected, the weight of the tent, food, and supplies pressing into my shoulders. But it’s the Tupperware container, tucked safely in the side pocket, that feels like the heaviest burden.

I take a deep breath, the air cool and sharp in my lungs, and step onto the trail.

The forest closes in around me almost immediately, the trees towering overhead, their branches twisted and gnarled like ancient sentinels. The ground is soft beneath my boots, a thick layer of pine needles muffling my footsteps. The sunlight struggles to penetrate the dense canopy, casting the trail in a dim, greenish light that feels almost otherworldly.

I walk slowly, deliberately, my eyes scanning the surroundings. Every detail feels amplified—the way the light catches on the bark of the trees, the faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It’s peaceful, in a way, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. Something I can’t quite name.

My mind drifts back to Dad, as it always does. I can almost hear his voice, low and steady, pointing out the different types of trees or explaining how to read the weather by the clouds. He loved this. The quiet, the solitude, the sense of being so small in the face of something so vast.

“You’ll understand one day,” he’d said to me once, when I was too young to appreciate it. “There’s nothing like it, Alec. Nothing like standing in a place where the world feels untouched.”

I stop for a moment, leaning against a tree to catch my breath. The air is thinner here, the altitude already making itself known. I pull out my water bottle and take a sip, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat.

As I screw the cap back on, I notice something on the ground a few feet ahead—a set of tracks, pressed into the soft earth. I crouch down to get a closer look. They’re too large to be a deer, too small to be a bear. Wolf, maybe? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I shake it off. Wolves are shy, Dad always said. They avoid people.

Still, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder as I stand, the forest suddenly feeling less peaceful and more… watchful.

I keep walking, the trail winding steadily upward. The trees thin out slightly, allowing patches of sunlight to break through. It’s beautiful, in a haunting kind of way. The kind of beauty that makes you feel small, insignificant.

By the time I reach the first marker—a large boulder with a faded yellow blaze painted on it—the sun is lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the trail. I check my phone again. The GPS shows I’ve only gone about three miles. Still a long way to go.

I sit down on the boulder, pulling out one of Jamie’s cookies. The chocolate is slightly melted, but it’s still warm and gooey, the taste bringing a small smile to my face. I can almost hear her voice, teasing me about my sweet tooth.

“You better come back to me, Alec Bennett.”

I will, I think, folding the container and tucking it back into my bag. I have to.

I stand, slinging the backpack over my shoulders, and continue down the trail. The forest feels different now, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier. But I keep walking, one step at a time, the weight of Dad’s ashes a constant reminder of why I’m here.

The trail narrows as I push deeper into the forest, the trees crowding closer together, their branches forming a dense canopy overhead. The sunlight struggles to break through, casting the path in a patchwork of light and shadow. Every step feels deliberate, the weight of my backpack pressing into my shoulders, the sound of twigs snapping under my boots echoing in the stillness.

I’ve planned this trip meticulously—three overnight stops before I reach the summit. Tonight, I’ll camp near a small stream Dad marked on the map. Tomorrow, I’ll hike to a ridge with a view of the valley. And on the third day, I’ll make the final push to the top, where I’ll scatter his ashes. It’s a journey he would’ve loved, and I’m determined to do it right.

The forest is alive with sound, though it’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention. The rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant call of a bird, the occasional creak of a tree swaying in the wind. It’s peaceful, but there’s an edge to it, a tension that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I stop for a moment, listening. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a low, guttural sound—a growl, maybe, or the groan of a tree settling. I can’t tell. The forest has a way of playing tricks on you, distorting sounds until they’re unrecognizable.

I shake off the unease and keep walking, my boots crunching over a bed of pine needles. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and resin, a smell that’s both comforting and foreign. It reminds me of that first camping trip with Dad, the way he’d pointed out the different trees, their names rolling off his tongue like poetry—Douglas fir, ponderosa pine, quaking aspen.

“You see that, Alec?” he’d said, pointing to a cluster of aspens. “Their leaves tremble in the wind. That’s how you know they’re scared.”

I’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but he’d just smiled. “Everything in the forest has a story,” he’d said. “You just have to listen.”

I glance at the trees now, their trunks dark and gnarled, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. If they have stories, I’m not sure I want to hear them.

The sun is lower in the sky now, the light fading to a soft golden hue. I check my map and GPS, confirming I’m on the right path. The stream should be just ahead, and I’m relieved when I finally hear the faint sound of running water.

I follow the sound, the trail sloping downward until I reach the stream. It’s smaller than I expected, no more than a trickle cutting through the rocks, but it’s clear and cold, the water sparkling in the fading light.

I drop my backpack and stretch, my muscles aching from the hours of hiking. The campsite is perfect—flat ground, a ring of stones where someone must have built a fire long ago, and the stream close enough to refill my water bottle.

I set up the tent quickly, my hands moving on autopilot. Dad taught me how to do this when I was seven, and the memory makes me smile despite the ache in my chest. “Always stake it down tight,” he’d said. “You don’t want it blowing away in the middle of the night.”

Once the tent is secure, I gather some dry twigs and branches, stacking them in the fire ring. It takes a few tries to get the fire going, but eventually, the flames catch, crackling and spitting as they devour the wood.

I sit back on a log, pulling out one of Jamie’s cookies. The chocolate is soft and melty, the taste bringing a small comfort. I stare into the fire, the flames dancing in the growing darkness, and let my mind wander.

The forest is different at night. The sounds are sharper, more pronounced—the hoot of an owl, the rustle of something moving in the underbrush, the distant howl of… something. I tell myself it’s just the wind, but the sound sends a shiver down my spine.

I pull out my journal and flip to a blank page, sketching the fire and the trees around me. It’s something Dad used to do, documenting every trip with drawings and notes. “It’s not just about remembering,” he’d said. “It’s about seeing the world differently.”

As I sketch, I can almost feel him beside me, his presence as real as the fire warming my face. “I miss you, Dad,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the crackling flames.

The forest seems to hold its breath, the silence pressing in around me. And for a moment, just a moment, I feel like he’s here.