DYATLOV PASS x BLAIR WITCH with a splattering of YELLOWJACKETS
Four campers enter the Kentucky woods trying to find the next undiscovered climbing spot. But the spot is cursed, and it’s only a matter of time before the woods, the ghosts, or their own cabin fever gets the best of them.
What baffled them was the skeleton.
The others were weird, but they couldn’t figure out the fucking skeleton. Just bones, no organic matter, arranged all together, every one of the two hundred and six in its place, a kneecap or two hidden by new fall leaves. Not one scrap of skin left. No sinews, no rotting brain, no nothing. Had the group resorted to cannibalism? It was one of the early guesses. But even that did not seem to fit. The bones wouldn’t be so clean, arranged perfectly, as if they belonged to a knocked-over classroom display, sans bolts. No scorch marks, not even any signs of instruments or scratches against them, and surely any form of cannibalism that left such a perfect anatomy would have included at the very least a blade to peel the flesh.
The coroners and first responders could make guesses at the others—animals, perhaps, though they had not discovered any wildlife, had not even heard the flap of wings overhead or the crunching of a swift mammal over leaves—but this fucking set of bones. It was wrong to move them, the investigators thought, even as they placed them into the evidence bags, each piece lifting away like gravel, no tendons or fat to hold them together. The perfect model undone, like putting a complicated puzzle back in the box after hours of piecing the cardboard together.