I pull into the spot where my Airbnb host said I could leave my car and look around me. It’s my first time in Bar Harbor, and though my surroundings look more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen on the Travel Channel, I’m not here to admire the foliage: I have an ulterior motive. Sure, the magazine could force me to use my vacation time, but they couldn’t keep me from writing while I did.

I’ve been trying to work my way up to a full-time editorial position with New World for about a year, and when HR told me that I had to either take my vacation time or lose it, I hatched a plan to work on something while I was away. The magazine has its one-thousandth issue coming out in a month, and I figured--I hoped--that an exposé on the controversial history behind the National Park Service would put me in a better position to get ahead. So, I scheduled my vacation time and booked an Airbnb in Bar Harbor, a quaint little tourist town right outside of Maine’s Acadia National Park, and started to plan my research.

I’d gotten the idea from a piece I’d read recently, which delved into how the National Park Service came into existence. Of course, there had always been green spaces that rich people bought up and set aside as conservation areas, but there was something in the article about the founders--something I couldn’t put my finger on--that struck me as a little odd. Aside from that, I’d come across these wacko conspiracy theory websites claiming the national parks were actually set up for some kind of nefarious purpose. The theories I’d read speculated they were being used as reserves for fossil fuels or gold and other precious metals; the most interesting and least likely to be true theory was that the lands had been set aside by freemasons and other occult groups in power for the sake of performing secret ceremonies.

I grab my laptop case and backpack off the passenger seat and check my phone to make sure I’m on time. Mary, the woman whose house I’m staying in, seems to be a fairly accommodating host, based on the messages we’ve been exchanging, anyway. Her place is more accessible than the hotels in Bar Harbor, and considering it’s the height of foliage season, much cheaper. I lock my car out of habit, even though I can’t imagine anyone on the sleepy little street stealing from me.

It’s chillier than I thought it would be, so I hurry up to the front door of the little house, pulling my denim jacket tight around me. I knock on the door and wait, fidgeting as I look around. Maine is one of those places that’s stunning when you’re looking at it in pictures or video, but if you’re standing outside in late September, it’s chilly and damp, making it hard to appreciate the beauty of the yellow, orange, and red leaves on the trees.

“You must be Hannah!” Mary looks like someone’s mom: gray-streaked chestnut hair, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, wearing a matching pink sweatsuit with 80s-era floral appliques stitched on the chest and pant legs. “Quick, come inside, dear; it’s getting cold out there.”

I follow her through the door and make small talk about my drive up as she gives me a tour of the house. The kitchen has plenty of cast iron and a gas-powered stove--according to Mary, it’s more reliable than electric in the winters. Mary leads me upstairs to my room, explaining about the bathroom and how she got a tankless, gas-powered water heater installed so that she’d never have to wait for hot water.

She shows me to the guest room, giving me the chance to unpack and get settled, but instead, I pull out my laptop and search for the Acadia National Park website. I chose it as the place for my work-cation because Acadia was one of the first national parks established by the NPS; I’d hoped it would be a good place to start.

I look over the material I’ve already assembled about the park, thinking about how I’ll kick off my investigation. Well, the first thing to do would be to get there and check the place out, I decide as I examine the maps of the area. Mary’s place is about two miles away--close enough that, in theory, I could walk there, but if I did, I may not have enough energy left to explore the place. It’s taken me all day to get up to Maine and it’s already late afternoon; I should probably wait until the morning, but if I want to get a real feel for the place, I’m going to need to check it out when there aren’t as many visitors there. I change into some warmer clothes--a thicker pair of jeans, a turtleneck sweater and a beanie--and I tell Mary that I’m off to run some errands.

I get back into my car and pull up the directions to the park. I’ve got about another hour or so before it’s too dark to really see, but I’ve got a heavy flashlight with me, so I’m not too worried.

As I pull into the park a few minutes later, I fumble through the glove compartment in search of the one-week pass I’d ordered online before my trip and hand it to the ranger at the gate. I take a second look and have to admit he’s pretty hot; he fills out that uniform really well with those broad shoulders of his. His deep brown hair and beard are cut short, and he’s got strikingly bright green eyes.

“Just to let you know, the visitor center is closed for the day, but the park is open twenty-four hours,” he tells me. “If you need any help, there are signs posted just about everywhere telling you how to get in touch with the rangers.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, taking back my visitor pass. Maybe I can interview him about Acadia, or at least get an official quote.

“I’m on duty for the rest of night, so I’ll be checking to make sure that everyone gets out. If you plan on staying late, give me a call up here at the gate and I’ll keep folks from coming after you to make sure you’re not dead or lost,” he says with a little smile.

I grin back at him. “That seems normal,” I say, not quite sarcastic. “Give me the number, and I’ll be sure to let you know that I’m okay.” I program the number into my phone and the ranger passes me through the gate, heading back to the warmth of the guard house while I pull forward.

I don’t see many cars in the lot, but that makes sense; it’s starting to get dark, and it’s chilly, too--enough so that I’m glad I thought to change into warmer clothes. I grab my flashlight and make sure I’ve got my phone and a few other things in my purse, and climb out of the car.

As I’m walking towards one of the hiking trails, I have to admit, the park is genuinely beautiful. It’s almost the end of the foliage season, and I could see why outdoorsy people would come to the park at the peak of it. I step onto the path and breathe in the scent of dried leaves, loamy soil, and the shoreline, trying to get a feel for everything around me.

I start wandering, falling into a kind of rhythm that helps me to think. It’ll be easier to get more intel when it’s daylight, but as night begins to fall around me, there’s something about the quiet of the place that makes it a little easier to understand why people might conjure up all these bizarre theories.

Right then, something shifts in the air, and I get the sense that I’m being watched, but I can’t see anyone when I look around to prove it to myself. Even though I’ve been a journalist for a few years, I’ve never really been in any kind of dangerous situation before; there’s no reason anyone would be after me, anyway. Right?

The deeper I get into the wooded areas around the hiking trail, the more the eerie feeling starts to weigh on me. Maybe it’s just campers or rangers working, but a primal part of me feels like there’s something else at play.

Something predatory.

I try to remain calm by reminding myself there aren’t all that many predators in this area; black bears and coyotes are out here, but they’re shy, and I have to assume they’re not all that interested in attacking humans.

“Shake it off, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” I tell myself, looking around. I realize that I’m on a loop, and decide that instead of branching off onto one of the more remote trails, I’ll just move ahead and make my way back to the parking lot.

Just then, I hear the distinct sound of a stick breaking behind me, followed by what sounds like a growl.

My heart starts pounding in my chest. “Probably just a coyote going after a rabbit or something,” I tell myself as I start to move a little faster on the path, trying to get back to my car as quickly as possible.

I hear something else, something I can’t even name; a sound I don’t even know the word for, and that’s enough to make me launch into a steady jog. It’s dark, and though my flashlight is shaking uncontrollably in my hand, there’s still enough light for me to see the path ahead of me. I hear more movement behind me, and despite telling myself that it’s probably nothing, or that I’m just overreacting to the darkness and the creepy silence of the woods, I start sprinting outright.

“Get her!”

That is something I absolutely can’t mistake for being some coyote or bobcat going after prey in the underbrush. I can’t be certain it’s directed at me, but it seems like the best idea is to just get the hell out of there as fast as I can, no matter who it’s actually directed at.

I nearly make it to the trail’s entrance when I hear the heavy footfalls right behind me, faster than I would have imagined possible, and I stumble over some uneven patch of the trail and land on the damp ground below with a thud.

“Fuck!” I mutter, struggling to get back on my feet to flee. I can’t lie to myself for a second longer; there’s someone--or something--chasing me, and I need to get to my car. What the hell ever possessed me to think it was a good idea to visit this park and hike these trails alone at night?