The storm finally broke, leaving the forest dripping and heavy with fog. I was checking camp when the sat-phone buzzed—an unexpected call from The Dr. His voice was clipped, urgent. A new case had come in, one he claimed couldn’t wait. Details were scarce, but his tone told me everything: whatever it was, it was big.
He ordered me to stand down on the current search and head east immediately. Every instinct screamed to keep tracking—especially after what I’d heard during the storm—but the Dr. doesn’t call people off a case without reason.
I worked quickly, forcing my hands to move with purpose. The plaster casts, still drying in their molds, were too valuable to risk carrying in my backpack. I wrapped each one in oilcloth, labeled them with location and time, and set them carefully into a reinforced crate. Every photo card, audio recorder, and field notebook went into another, sealed tight against the wet.
By the time I was done, two crates sat side by side beneath the tarp.
They’d be easy for the team to spot when they came through—clear tags maRking them as priority evidence.
I gave the base camp one last glance and tightened the straps on my pack. Then I turned east, away from the prints, the structure, and the shadow of what I’d been chasing—toward the rendezvous point the Dr. had chosen, still wondering what could be important enough to pull me off the trail now.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something here was watching me leave.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues