Page 4 of The Girl Who Cried Bigfoot

“Marge, that’s exactly the kind of local color I need for the blog,” I say, reaching for my pen. “Does he have a name? Does he wear flannel? Does he look like he could be mistaken for a large bipedal ape from three hundred yards away?”

“You’ll leave that man alone, Wren,” Marge says, her tone shifting into something uncharacteristically serious. “He’s not a bit for your website. He’s part of the woods. My grandmother used to say the Cassidys had an arrangement with the mountain. You’d do well to remember that some things are meant to stay in the shadows.”

I roll my eyes. “Arrangements with mountains don’t pay the property taxes. If there’s a hermit living in the forest, he’s a liability to the brand if he starts scaring off the paying guests.”

“He doesn’t scare them,” Marge says quietly. “He just... ensures they don’t get lost. He found a hiker two years ago, back when the storm took out the cell towers. Brought him right to the porch of the guide cabin. SAR team knows him, too, but he mostly keeps to himself.”

I make a mental note: The Silent Savior of the Cascades. It’s a bit too flowery, but I can work with it. Maybe I can frame it as if the Sasquatch has a human familiar. The fans will eat it up. I can already see the comment threads blooming with theories about inter-species communication.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A new hotline call. I pick it up, sliding the screen to answer. This is the part of the job I actually enjoy—the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of the human imagination.

“Bigfoot Hotline, this is Wren. Please state the nature of your encounter.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. Then, a voice that sounds like it’s been filtered through a mouthful of marbles says, “He took ’em. He just... he just took ’em right off the porch.”

I glance at Marge. She’s watching me, one eyebrow arched.

“Who took what, sir?”

“The big guy! I’m staying in Cabin Six. I left my Crocs out to dry after that creek hike. You know, the lime-green ones? High-visibility? I went inside to grab a beer, came back out, and they were gone. Just... gone.”

I press the phone to my ear, trying to keep my voice professional. “And you believe a Sasquatch stole your lime-green Crocs?”

“Well, I saw the footprint! It was huge! Size thirteen at least. Not sure my Crocs will fit him. And he’s got style, apparently. You gotta do something, lady. Those were the limited edition ones. With the little taco charms in the holes!”

Marge lets out a bark of laughter from across the kitchen. She’s leaning over the counter now, her face flushed with amusement.

“Sir,” I say, my voice steady despite the twitch in my cheek. “I’ll add your report to our database. We have noticed a pattern of... item displacement... in the north sector. It’s possible the creature was attracted to the scent of the rubber. Or perhaps the tacos.”

“The tacos! I knew it! Nobody can resist the tacos!” The caller sounds triumphant. “You tell people. You tell ’em he’s out there, and he’s fashionable!”

I hang up and choke on my laughter. “Crocs. He thinks Bigfoot stole his Crocs.”

“Maybe he’s just tired of going barefoot,” Marge says, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. “It’s a long walk across the ridge. A little arch support goes a long way.”

I pick up my fork, but the humor of the moment is already starting to evaporate. The kitchen is quiet now, save for the low drone of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a truck on the access road. The reality of the lodge is always waiting just outside the door, a heavy, looming presence that doesn’t care about lime-green footwear or viral transcripts.

“Cell reception is getting worse, by the way,” Marge says, her voice dropping back into her pragmatic register. “Walt tried to call from the trailhead signage yesterday. Nothing but static. If someone has a real problem out there, they’re going to have to walk all the way in. Just like the old days.”

I nod, chewing slowly. “I checked the signal maps. The valley is a dead zone. That’s why we’re the only number on the signs. We’re the emergency line by default, whether we like it or not.”

“People call the lodge for everything now,” Marge says. “Walt got a call on the landline last night from someone with a flat tire on the access road. They didn’t call AAA. They called us because we’re the only ones who ever answer.”

I sigh. “I’ll add it to the list of non-Bigfoot-related duties. Somewhere between fixing the septic tank and faking a legend.”

I look at the yellow invoice sitting on the butcher block. The four-figure number is circled in red. It’s a small number in the grand scheme of things, but it feels huge. It’s the cost of keeping Marge in her sunflowers and Walt in his gravel lot. It’s the cost of a legacy that I never asked for but can’t quite bring myself to let go of.

I finish my eggs in silence. The sun is finally starting to clear the peaks, casting long, sharp shadows across the kitchen floor. The day is starting, the hotline already pinging with messages. More sightings of red eyes. More people looking for something in the woods that doesn’t want to be found.

“Don’t forget to check the guide cabin later,” Marge says as I stand up to leave. “Walt says the lock is sticking. And Wren?”

I stop at the door, my hand on the frame. “Yeah?”

“Watch yourself near the tree line. The woods have a way of pushing back when you poke them too hard.” Her voice holds the weight of things that have been here a lot longer than I have.

As I walk out of the kitchen and toward the lobby, I think about the guy Walt saw. It’s just local color, a seed for a future blog post. But when I look out the window at the wall of green, I can’t help but feel the prickle of something on the back of my neck. It’s not fear, exactly. More that feeling of being watched.

I sit down at the desk and open the laptop. The red notifications are waiting. I have a brand to manage, a legend to feed. And, apparently, I have a thief in lime-green Crocs to track down. It’s not the life I imagined when I was studying the iconography of the Renaissance, but it’s the one I have.