You can’t blame the property or the Northwoods, Matthew, the little voice said. You can only blame the Puller. Don’t be overcome with sorrow. This is not an advantage. This is not how to win.

When his wits returned, he stood, bumping his head against the passenger door. He pushed it open and peered out like a tank operator in enemy territory. Then he used the shifter as a step and exited the truck.

The drop from the truck was never fun, and this time was no different. After the aches subsided, he scanned the grass for tracks. There had to be something, somewhere. Within a flattened patch of orchard grass lay a print the size of a garbage can lid. Five trenches cut into the soil from the print’s widest pad.

Without thinking he limped into the shack and retrieved his headlamp. Then he pinched off some orchard grass and sprinkled it into the mini-trenches. The beam from his lamp reflected off the pinched grass at the bottom. Three feet, maybe, he thought.

Evidence, he said to the orchard in a faux British accent, tossing his arm is if a lawyer making his final point.

Ten feet from the first track lay another print, near the shack door. Another ten feet west and another track. He followed the tracks out to the leaning post where they leapt the fire pit. A swath of flattened orchard grass led south down to the wall of chokecherry and alder.

Matt picked up the axe from the wheelbarrow, admiring the heft as he rotated the blade. Then he followed the tracks down to the vegetation wall and reached out to the chokecherry branches.

Tests can really, really suck, he thought.

Of course, without warning, needle sensations prickled his body. And next he gulped like a guppy flung from its tank.

Brilliant. Walked right into him, he thought, as precious oxygen dwindled from his brain. But wasn’t he supposed to test? Didn’t he have to know?

Somehow he struggled four steps backwards and the sensations faded. In between his raspy breaths, he heard breathing that was not his own. A few leaves from a nearby stunted birch shook, but there was no wind.

He turned slowly, gripping the axe in his right hand, knuckles whitening. The air whooshed above him in methodic chops, but no clue was given as to the cause. Funny, he thought. No, that’s not funny. This is funny. Midway into a casual step, he lunged towards the breathing noise, swinging the axe, his face clenched like a wolverine.

The axe found its spot, sinking into a fleshy substance and making a sick tearing noise across the orchard. Then it chinked something hard, maybe bone. Hell yeah.

Above him, the Puller blasted hot stank breath all over him, then roared, much like the train sound on the night of the northern lights.