The ground told a story: footprints deep, deliberate, boots larger in size, fresh. He'd stood there just inside the treeline where the light from my porch barely reached, where he could see me if I stepped outside, but where he could melt back into the woods in seconds if he needed to.
I crouched down and examined the prints. They were angled slightly toward the back trail, the same one Karen had used to steal electricity. It meant he knew where that access point was. It meant he'd probably used that path before.
The hair on my arms prickled. I scanned the woods quietly, expecting stupidly to see him again. But the forest was empty. The only sounds were the rustling of branches and the faint whistle of wind pushing through the pines.
Still, the unsettling truth lingered in my chest: he'd been close, too close—close enough to reach my porch if he wanted.
I straightened up, tightening my fists in my pockets. I didn't want this turning into a Wild West showdown. I wasn't going to arm myself or escalate things with threats, but I wasn't about to let myself be intimidated either. So, I went inside, sat at the table, and called the sheriff's office.
Detective Harris answered on the third ring. "This is Harris."
"It's Dalton. I've got new information."
I filled him in about the mysterious tire tracks, Randall's warning, the green cord, and now the trail cam footage showing someone watching my cabin during the night. I expected him to be surprised, maybe alarmed, but he responded with a long, tired sigh.
"I figured something like this might happen," he said. "Karen's the type who spirals, and if her brother's involved, that complicates things."
"I'm not asking for a patrol car to camp on my porch," I said. "But I want this documented. I want it on record that someone trespassed again last night."
"You did the right thing calling," he replied. "Send me the footage and keep the camera running."
I emailed him the video file while he stayed on the line.
"And Mr. Dalton," he added, his voice softer, "keep your doors locked. Don't ignore your instincts."
"Trust me," I said. "That's the one thing I'm not ignoring."
After hanging up, I ate a quick breakfast and tried to focus on normal tasks—fixing a loose railing, sweeping the porch, stacking some firewood—but every little noise snapped my attention back toward the treeline. Was I being watched now? Was Joey somewhere out there again? Or was the mountain just being a mountain, creaking, shifting, whispering through the wind?
By noon, I decided on another step, one that didn't escalate things, but added a layer of protection. I drove down to town and bought two more trail cameras, a motion-sensor floodlight, and a reinforced lock for the back gate.
The cashier, a woman in her late 50s with curly hair and reading glasses, gave me a curious look. "Setting up a wildlife project?" she asked with a smile.
"Something like that," I answered. "Just capturing footage."
"Well, the bears come out early this year," she chuckled, "so you'll get plenty of video."
If only she knew, I thought.
After loading everything into the truck, I grabbed lunch at a small diner, trying to shake the constant feeling that someone was lurking in the shadows of my day. But even as I ate, my mind kept drifting back to the mountain: to the footprint, to the silhouette on my camera, to Karen's unhinged voicemail. Something was building—a pressure, a sense of inevitability.
By the time I headed back, clouds had rolled in thick, gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The mountain road was darker, quieter. I drove slower, scanning every bend, every turnout, every patch of forest.
When I finally reached my driveway, the first thing I noticed was the shape: a truck parked halfway down my drive. Not mine, not the sheriff's. A dented silver pickup with mismatched doors and mud-splattered tires.
My pulse jumped. That had to be Joey's.
I pulled in carefully, keeping a respectful distance between our vehicles. The cabin stood quiet behind him. Porch empty, door closed. No broken windows, no signs of forced entry. But the truck being here at all was already a violation.
I stepped out, my boots crunching on damp gravel, and called out, "Hello? Anyone here?"
No answer.
I raised my voice. "This is private property. You need to identify yourself."
Still nothing. The wind picked up, rattling leaves like a warning. I took a few steps forward, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The truck was cold, engine off for a while. No one was inside.
I circled toward the back of the cabin, heart thudding, expecting the worst—another cord, another trespass, some kind of sabotage. Instead, what I found froze me in place: a small metal box sat on the ground behind the cabin, open, wires spilling out. And the side panel of my breaker box was pried loose—just slightly, but unmistakably. Someone had tried to tamper with my electrical service. Not to steal, not to borrow—to tamper, in anger, in retaliation, or in some pathetic attempt at a lesson I didn't know.
But the implication was crystal clear: this wasn't about electricity anymore. This was personal.
I crouched, examining the box. The wires had been pulled, but not fully disconnected, likely because whoever did this didn't know what they were messing with and got spooked. Maybe the trail cam triggered again. Maybe headlights from a passing car scared them off. Maybe they realized they were about to fry themselves. But the job wasn't amateur. It was impulsive, messy, driven by rage, which meant one person: Joey.
I stood up, my fists tightening at my sides. A slow burn of anger rolled up my spine. I wasn't looking for a fight, but I wasn't about to let some hotheaded idiot vandalize my home.
I walked back toward the front of the cabin, scanning the woods as rain began to fall in soft, cold droplets. And that's when I saw him: a figure emerging from the treeline. No hood this time, no hiding, no subtlety—just broad shoulders, clenched fists, and a storm of anger marching straight toward me.
He stepped out of the trees like he'd been carved from the shadows: broad shoulders, heavy boots, jaw clenched tight enough to snap his own teeth. Even from a distance, I knew it was Joey. He carried the same energy Karen had, but compressed into something heavier, more physical. Where she used theatrics, he used raw threat.
The rain had shifted from drizzle to a steady fall now, droplets beating on his jacket as he walked toward me with the deliberate pace of someone who had convinced himself he was in the right, someone who had worked himself up into a righteous fury. He stopped a good 15 feet away, feet planted, chest rising and falling like he'd just marched up a mountain—which he had.
"You," he growled. Just that, no greeting, no explanation, no pretense of civility.
I crossed my arms, keeping my voice even. "This is private property. You need to leave."