Dry leaves twist and flutter down from dead branches as you follow the path. Wind howls through the maples and birch, carrying a harsh chill from the waters beyond.

It’s an hour’s drive from town on a good day. Double that with storm season in full swing. But these folks wouldn’t dare ask for help -- especially from cops -- unless it was serious.

Christ...if this ain't bigger than the cougar sighting of ’96.

The trail banks into a root-covered clearing. On the far side, a brass bell hangs from a polished square of wood. It’s nailed to a gnarled tree at the mouth of a narrow lane.

The lane is fringed with bleached rocks and driftwood. From where you stand, it looks like a road of bones...

Ring the bell.
Examine the area.
Check in with the station.