Page 74 of Silent Bones

He licked his lips, glancing offscreen like he’d heard something. The angle tilted slightly as he adjusted the camera, bringing the edge of his cluttered wall into frame, a full corkboard, strings, photos.

“I don’t think this is about a legend anymore,” he said. “I think the legend in this region is a decoy, a cover for...”

The screen fuzzed. White noise stuttered across the image.

Noah leaned in. “Shit.”

The video cut, static popped. Then it resumed abruptly, handheld now, camera wobbling as it moved through underbrush. It was in a different location. It was night.

Branches scraped the lens.

A flashlight beam jerked across the frame. Then, too fast, a shape: a dark silhouette moving between trees, upright, too smooth.

And then the feed died.

Corrupted.

Rishi paused it on the final clear frame: Miles’ flashlight catching a smear of motion. Not fur. Not animal. But human.

“That’s it. File cuts at 12:12 a.m., ” Rishi said.

Noah said nothing for a long time. He replayed it. Then again. Slower. Watching Miles’ face. By the third loop, Callie stepped into the room. She leaned against the doorframe, eyes fixed on the screen.

“I figured you’d still be here.”

He didn’t look at her. He just replied, “Take a look at this.”

She walked to his side and watched as Miles whispered again:

“Not Bigfoot. Someone else. Human.”

The feed stuttered. Then that blur. That shape. When the screen went dark again, Callie exhaled. “So he got too close.”

Noah stared at the monitor, the ghost of Miles’ voice still clinging to the air. “Seems that way,” he said. “Someone made sure he wouldn’t tell us.”

They stood there in silence, side by side, as the screen froze on the final corrupted frame. In the background, behind the motion blur, a form hovered, just enough shoulder and curve to suggest a human figure.

The digital timestamp ticked at the bottom of the screen.

12:12:06 a.m.

Rain slickedthe windshield in wavering lines, catching the glow of the station’s security lights and blurring them into soft halos. Noah sat motionless in the front seat of his truck, engine off, jacket collar still damp against his neck. The night had pressed in tight, too quiet to feel like closure, too loud to sleep through.

He stared out at the parking lot for a long time.

The image of Miles kept replaying in his head, the wide, unblinking eyes, the whisper:“Not Bigfoot. Someone else. Human.”

Noah pulled out his phone, thumb hovering for a second before scrolling toEd Baxter.

He hit call.

It rang twice.

“Noah?” Ed’s voice was groggy, but alert beneath the surface. “You alright?”

Noah didn’t waste time. “Miles is dead.”

A long beat. “What?”