My finger hovered over the stop button.
All three figures went still.
The river roared louder, filling the sudden silence.
I sat rigid, mic still live, heart slamming against my ribs as the headlights snapped off. Darkness rushed back in, thick and absolute. I yanked down the shade and slapped the stop button. My finger slipped the first time. The second time it worked.
Live ended.
Too late.
The saved file was already processing.
I checked the listener count, horrified to find it higher than usual. Much higher.Crap, crap, crap. I deleted the episode from the public page with shaking hands, but the damage was already done. Words had left my mouth. Sound had traveled. People had been listening. I shoved the laptop aside and stood so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Too loud. I clicked off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the trailer. The quiet was suffocating. I stood frozen, straining to hear anything over the river—footsteps, car doors, voices returning. Nothing.
My thoughts spiraled.
What had I just seen?
There was probably a boring explanation.
I almost believed it. But my prickling skin and the hair standing up on my neck refused to let me.
Butwho had heard me?
I’d told myself my audience was small. Insomniacs. Night owls. A handful of regulars who liked the sound of someone talking when they couldn’t sleep. And Aunt Aggie, who always figured me out. Was she listening?
I backed away from the window slowly, like the dark outside might notice if I moved too fast. The trailer creaked beneath my feet—every sound suddenly amplified, traitorous.
I wrapped my arms around myself, heart racing, realizing with frightening clarity that whatever had happened down by the river—I wasn’t supposed to see it. My trailer was closest. My angle was just right.
And I definitely wasn’t supposed to talk about it.
One of them had stood with his arms crossed, weight shifted back. I’d seen that posture a thousand times. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Freaked out, I pushed the thought away before I could finish it. I stood there in the dark for a long time, listening to my own breathing and the river rushing just beyond the trees.
Finally, curiosity—or stupidity—won.
I eased the shade up a fraction of an inch, careful not to let the glass catch any stray light. The riverbank was empty now. No headlights. No movement. Just wet ground, black water, and the dark line of trees pressed close together.
Relief fluttered, thin and fleeting.
Then, farther down near the bend, something glowed.
A single red light hovered at the edge of the trees.
My breath caught.
It didn’t move. Not even an inch. I just sat there, watching.
Then it vanished.
I let the shade fall back down and stepped back, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The trailer walls felt suddenly paper-thin, the darkness outside pressing in as if it were listening. I crossed to the door. Checked the lock. Checked it again. Then the window latches. My movements were deliberate, almost calm. I told myself I did this every night. That this wasn’t fear—it was sensible. Totally normal.
The river kept roaring, indifferent.
I climbed into bed, pulled the blanket to my chin, and turned off the last light. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening. Nothing happened. Eventually, sleep crept in. Until my phone buzzed on the nightstand, waking me.
