Prologue
Welcome to Cryptid Creek
The forests of the Pacific Northwest are mysterious places. Dense, dark, and misty, full of sounds and strange animals.
Sometimes the woods feel like they might go on forever. Bird calls echo for too long, footsteps are too muffled. All that can be seen of the sky is a somber gray peering through the treetops. Everything is alive, everything seems to be watching. The moss, the lichen, the bushes full of shining berries, the spindly flowers that grow low to the ground. The trees most of all. The map quickly becomes useless. The compass spins and spins.
It’s been two days in the woods and you’re starting to worry that you’ll never get home. This was supposed to be an easy hike. The guidebook promised it would take a few hours at most.
Panic is setting in. There’s no way to know where you’ve been, no way to know where you’re going.
Then you hear it. The sound of running water. Faint, but not far off. Hurrying through the trees, tripping on roots and rotting stumps, you move toward the sound. Finally, a break in the trees. A creek flowing over polished rocks, green and brown and blue. Strands of algae wave in the water, tiny fish dart with the current. Moss grows in thick tufts on the bank. Without hesitating, you follow the water upstream.
A wisp of blue sky peeks through the clouds. There’s something up ahead. It’s an old wooden footbridge, soft with age. A good sign. Someone was here once. Maybe someone still is.
You follow the gentle curve of the creek until you hear something through the trees. Laughter, people talking. You run into the woods, toward the source of the sound. After a few yards, you stumble into a clearing. The sun breaks through the clouds overhead. You’re in a small town. A town you don’t remember seeing on your map.
Tired, hungry, covered in dirt, you stagger to the street. Almost immediately, someone stops to ask if you’re all right. You look up to reply, but find yourself unable to speak. The being before you is not a human. He’s several feet taller than you. His body is covered in a thick layer of salt-and-pepper fur. His feet are enormous. Somehow, though, the most surprising thing about him is that he’s wearing a flannel and jeans. He puts a large hand on your shoulder.
“Where’d you come from?” he asks. But you can’t answer.
Copyright © 2026 by McKayla Coyle. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
