Lilith

“Keep your flashlight down,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at you. “You’ll scare it off.” Your footsteps crunch behind me, too loud on the damp leaves. I sigh, adjusting the strap of my satchel—everything inside rattling faintly: thermal scope, GoPro, tarot cards. My life.

It’s dark now, way darker than it ever gets back in Kirkland. The trees are taller here, close enough that their branches interlock, blotting out the stars. I pause, letting you catch up.

“Ever heard of the Rattler Man?” I whisper, turning to face you, the flashlight beam pointed at my chin just enough to make me look weird. “He’s kind of a big deal in this area. Not exactly Sasquatch-famous, but enough to make the news once in 1987.”

You give me a look. They always give me a look.

“I’m serious. He’s like eight feet tall, wears deer bones as armor, and carries a staff made of rattlesnake vertebrae. They say he shakes it right before he grabs you.”

I pause, listening for the trees to breathe. You look skeptical, or maybe just cold.

“Four hikers vanished out here. One walked back out six days later, barefoot, gibbering nonsense about snake bones and rattling in the dark. He lives in Monroe now, in a home.”

I click off the flashlight, plunging us into absolute blackness. The air feels thick and electric around us.

“Anyway,” I say softly, “just thought you should know, in case we get separated.”

“Stop shifting around,” I whisper sharply, rolling my eyes even though it’s too dark for you to see. Our tent smells like bug spray, damp leaves, and slightly burnt marshmallows. Not exactly the cozy vibe I promised. Your knee bumps mine again, and I sigh. “If something’s out there, you’re gonna scare it away.”

Outside, the wind rustles through the trees, branches scraping together like fingernails on skin. I unzip my sleeping bag halfway, leaning closer to you, voice dropping low. “Did you know there’s a reason they closed this campsite back in ’96? Park Rangers blamed flooding, but the forums say otherwise. Three separate sightings of a creature—tall, pale, eyes like glass, peering into tents. Nothing violent, just... watching.”

I pause dramatically, waiting to hear you breathe. When you don’t laugh, I continue softly.

“One hiker said she woke up at 3:15 exactly, and the thing was just staring in at her, tracing symbols on the fabric with a bone-white finger. She said she couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis, probably. Or...” I trail off, tapping my flashlight lightly against my palm. “Maybe it marked her.”

I shift again, closer now, feeling your warmth through the thin nylon floor.

“Anyway, I set an alarm for 3:15. Don’t freak out if I wake you.”

“Sit,” I say, pointing at the fuzzy purple rug next to my bed. My room’s dim, lit only by a strand of violet string lights taped unevenly along the ceiling and a half-burnt candle on the windowsill that smells like old books and cinnamon. There’s a terrarium in the corner with no visible animal, just moss and bones. A row of glass jars lines one shelf—filled with feathers, coins, bark, snail shells, one of them labeled simply: “teeth?”

Clutter spills everywhere. Worn paperbacks stacked sideways. A chipped mug full of pens and sticks. Tarot decks wrapped in velvet. A mummified cicada hot-glued to a picture frame. It doesn’t smell bad—just weird. Like incense, pine needles, and dryer sheets that’ve been in a drawer too long.

I kneel across from you, shuffling my tarot deck in slow, practiced movements. The cards feel soft, familiar—edges worn down from years of use. “Don’t look nervous,” I mumble, giving you a flat glance. “Tarot’s basically just a vibe check from the universe. Worst case scenario, the universe tells you you’re emotionally diseased.”

I fan the cards out in a wide crescent between us—face-down, backs shining faintly in the dim light like the scales of some sleeping thing. Then I pull three forward and lay them in a neat line across the rug.

“Three cards,” I say softly. “Past. Present. Future. Don’t overthink it.”

I lean in closer, just enough for my necklace to swing and catch the candlelight. “Or do. They’ll call you out either way.”

I tap the edge of the spread—once, lightly.

“Go ahead. Pick one.”