Winter in the Pines

In the winter of 1735, a small group of settlers left Burlington, heading deep into the Pine Barrens with a wagon full of supplies and a map to new land. The woods were silent, the nights grew colder with every mile, and soon, unsettling cries echoed through the trees—cries that belonged to no creature any of them knew. By dawn, strange cloven tracks circled their camp, pressed deep into the frozen earth. They kept moving, but something followed them through the woods, drawing closer with each passing night.

We set out from Burlington at first light, late in November. Our group was small: Mr. Hargreaves, who held the deed to a tract near the Mullica and dreamed of cedar for shipbuilding; Men Pride, a local guide who knew the sand roads; Owen Ree, a carpenter with a strong back and a short temper; Ruth Lanning, a widow traveling to her sister near Leeds Point; and myself, hired to survey the land and keep notes. We expected four days through pine and swamp, then two days back if the streams allowed.

The air was cold, the sand beneath our wheels loose and pale. The horses labored, their breath white in the morning. Pines crowded close, their needles short and cones dark. We crossed a low place where cedar water ran brown and slow, smelling of iron and rot. A thin mist lay in the hollows, and my hands stiffened around my staff. I reminded myself to keep good notes—the deed called for a marked white oak no one had seen in twenty years. I trusted distances more than old trees.

We met a charcoal burner near a mound of ash. He warned us the bog at Quaker Bridge had swallowed a cart the week before, and told Ruth not to pass Leeds Point after dark. She thanked him, unafraid. Owen asked about timber, and the burner pointed east. “Plenty,” he said. “Watch for the ground. It is not firm.”

By noon, the sun gave no warmth. We ate cold pork and hard bread at the edge of a cedar stand. Ruth kept to the wagon, drinking a little cider. She was older than the rest, her hair gray and her gaze steady. She spoke little, but when she did, even Owen listened.

Mr. Hargreaves rode behind on a small mare, making lists under his cloak of what he believed he owned. He spoke of mills and docks and ships crossing the bars if channels were cut, as if talking to himself.

The road became two ruts with brush in the center. I measured a mile, marking pines as we went. The woods did not change—same trunks, same pale sand, same scattered cranberries near wet places. Small birds flitted, a vulture glided away, and the air stayed still. My senses dulled to the sameness. I forced myself to count steps between stakes so I wouldn’t drift.

We reached a clearing before dusk, with a collapsed shed and a ring of stones from an old fire. Men said we’d camp there. The shed roof sagged, boards damp. We tied the horses and fed them. Owen built a fire under a leaning plank to break the wind, Ruth warmed a few thin slices of pork. The others spoke quietly about roots and fords. I checked my notes by firelight—numbers didn’t care about empty land or old warnings.

When darkness fell, it came all at once. The trees formed a tight wall around the clearing, our fire lighting only the first few trunks. Beyond that, only shadow. We heard water past the shed, a fox barked once and went quiet. Men told a story of a man who’d sunk waist-deep in a cranberry bog, saved only by throwing his pole across the moss. He advised us to test the ground and watch for green over black. Owen said every place looked the same to him in these woods. Ruth said sameness hid small signs, and to keep our eyes sharp.

Near midnight, a sound ran through the trees—thin, high, and steady for a count of three, then cut off. Not a fox, not an owl. We sat still. Owen raised a hand toward the fire, Men gripped his staff like a spear, Mr. Hargreaves said nothing. The horses shifted and stamped. The sound did not return, and we settled again. I told myself it was a bird I didn’t know.

I slept with my cloak and chain under my arm, waking twice to the shift of hooves and the creak of the wagon. By morning, frost lay on the boards and grass. The horses had pulled at their ties, leaving deep prints. I walked a circle and found tracks I couldn’t read—cloven, but wide, with a long stride. The prints ran from the trees to a rotted stump, then vanished. Men crouched and traced a print; Owen muttered, “Deer.” But the stride was wrong. I paced twelve feet from one deep mark to the next. The hair on my arms stood up, though the air had warmed.

Ruth came to look but didn’t step into the line. She asked if we’d heard the sound again. We hadn’t. She said to keep moving. Mr. Hargreaves frowned at the tracks and told me to mark the day and place in my book, then ordered us to get on with our work.

Before we left, I checked the shed once more. Inside, the boards were scratched with long lines running downward from high up—higher than a man could reach without standing on something. The wood was freshly scarred, pale against the dark. I kept this to myself, watching the trees more closely.

We made poor time that day. The road split and joined again, no sign which part saw more wheels. Men chose by smell and the look of the ground, keeping us inland. We crossed a stream stained with iron, the horses drinking brown water. Ruth washed a pot, frowning at the grit left inside. Owen showed me a nail from the chest, saying the forgemaster would like its weight.

By late afternoon, the air turned sharp again. We passed a farmstead with no smoke and a broken fence. A single pig lay in the pen, throat torn, the wound clean and deep. Marks around the pen showed something had pressed into the ground, tearing up sand. Men looked toward the house, raised his palm, and we did not go inside. He said the owners were likely at a neighbor’s or the mill, and we lacked time to seek them. We left a stick across the gate and moved on.

Dusk came while we were still a mile from Quaker Bridge. We didn’t want the bog by dark, so we camped on higher sand with scrub oak and small pines. I kept the fire modest, sleeping near the wagon wheel. The night carried sound in a plain way—an owl, a distant splash, then the thin call again, higher and closer. It rose, held, and cut off, as if a hand had closed over it. Owen swore under his breath, Men stood facing the dark, Mr. Hargreaves pretended to sleep. Ruth sat up, hand on my arm, steady but silent. I counted to twenty and saw a shape cross the sky between two pines—a long body, wings angled, vanishing as fast as it appeared. I felt exposed, wrong, and moved back to the wheel.

We broke camp before first light, breath showing in short bursts. I counted paces to steady my thoughts. Owen checked the harness, Mr. Hargreaves tapped the chest with his boot, Ruth watched the trees. As the sky paled, the road dropped toward bog water, the air sour. The trees thinned, then closed again. We heard small flows under moss, then Quaker Bridge came into view, narrow, with crude side rails. The stream below was slow and brown, the far bank firmer. Men tested each plank, told us to keep to the center and not stop. Owen walked at the horses’ heads, I steadied the wagon. Halfway across, a cry came from above the trees—thin, stretched longer, as if pulled past breaking. The horses raised their heads, pressed against the harness. Owen spoke to them in a flat voice, I matched his pace, not looking up. The cry ended, leaving a hush that rang in my ears. We reached the far bank and rolled onto sand.

On the trunk of a cedar tree, high up, were four fresh grooves. No prints held shape, only torn moss and scuffs. Men said to water the horses and move on without delay. We followed the stream, turned inland, and found a small hut of cedar poles. No one answered when we called out. Inside, a low bed, a faded blanket, a tin cup, a loaf gone hard, and a page torn from a ledger: “Noise at night. Go to Tom’s river. Back before thaw.” Men placed the page back, looked at the roof line, then the ground behind the hut—something had landed there, the sand showing a broad shallow print, not matching any animal I knew.

Ruth said the sound was the same as she’d heard near Leeds Point as a girl, when older men went out with lanterns and came back silent, moving the family inland the next spring. Owen looked at Mr. Hargreaves, as if questioning the trip’s purpose. Mr. Hargreaves insisted the forge expected the nails and the deed required a survey, not tales.

The road soured again with bog smell by midday. We came to a cut with water running in a narrow channel, a log across as a causeway. We unloaded half the wagon, carried the chest to the far side, then returned for the rest. The horses refused the log at first, Owen steadied them, led them one at a time. When it was the wagon’s turn, the rear wheel slipped and sank. We spoke low, worked the lever under the axle. The wood groaned, the wheel did not lift, brown water crept into the spokes. A shadow crossed the water, breaking the skin. Ruth raised her eyes, lowered them again. Men set the lever, told us to heave. The wheel moved, the horses pulled, the wagon slid forward. Something burst from the brush—a rabbit or muskrat, bolting. The wheel reached the far sand, we settled our breath, loaded the wagon, and moved on.

By late day, the trees grew thicker, a cold showing in the shade. We found shallow pits rimmed with moss and brick shards—an old bog iron dig. The ground held better than the low places, so we used it. I marked bearings and times, the work steadying me. The others walked tight to the wagon, not spreading out. A low building appeared near dusk, with a shed and cordwood. Smoke did not rise. Men called out, gave our names. No answer. He lifted the peg, pushed the door. Inside, the air smelled of tallow and something sharp. White ash in the hearth, a small book on the table: “Child ill, cows strayed. Heard it again. It knows the roof.” Above the table, the rafters showed spaced holes, splintered fresh wood. The roof boards had a spot of dried brown, small but clear. Owen traced a split, swore. Men said storms didn’t leave clean edges like that. Ruth ran a finger along the book’s spine, saying the owner had left in a hurry and might return. We left a bundle of food and a note with our names and the day, barred the door, and agreed to keep watch.

First watch fell to me and Owen. We sat near the hearth, no fire. The night rose cold. Sounds were small—a branch settling, a strip of bark loosening, a drop from the gutter, a board shifting above. The sound was light, as if a hand placed weight, then none. I looked at Owen, he looked at the ceiling. Then a scrape along the ridge, careful and slow, stopping above the door. The door latch lifted a fraction and fell back. I stood, reached for the musket. The scrape returned above the table, then the hearth, then the far corner. A thin breath came through the seam, as if air had been drawn in. My chest tightened. The breath ceased.

For a time, nothing. Then a sound from the yard—the same high cry, close and short, like a test. Another sound answered from farther off, lower and rougher. Owen’s mouth opened and closed. We woke the others. Mr. Hargreaves sat up, frowning. Men took his staff, moved to the window. Ruth steadied herself near the door. The roof creaked once more, something moved down the far wall outside, nails or hooves clicking softly. The steps reached the ground and stopped. The window showed only our faces in the glass. Then a light knock at the door—three small taps, not human. Owen whispered to answer, Men shook his head. The taps came again, same pattern, then stopped. A smell reached us—iron and old wet, filling the room, then fading.

The quiet that followed had weight. Mr. Hargreaves whispered that fear would ruin the work. No one answered. The quiet broke with a sudden rush on the roof, a heavy thud behind the house. The horses screamed from the shed, sound cut short by a hard breath. Then the scrape of hooves and a post hitting the ground. We unbarred the door and ran for the shed. The lantern showed the nearest horse backed into the corner, eyes rolling, rope twisted around a beam. The other leaned hard against the wall, sweating and shaking. The rear door hung open on a broken hinge, boards marked by parallel grooves, high up. We brought the horses into the yard, kept them moving until their breath eased. I found raised lines on their flanks, hair torn but no deep wounds. Men circled the shed once, returned without a word. We all felt what he’d seen—the prints never held long enough for detail, the scuffed sand, the sense of passing weight.

We did not sleep. We barred the house again, sat with the musket. The roof did not speak again, the cry did not return. By dawn, we gathered what we could and left, writing a note: “roof not sound.” On the road, Men said we’d cut south to Batsto and follow it to the forge without stopping. No one objected.

The morning stayed gray and low, thin wind hissing through the pines. The track narrowed, bent often, forcing us to weave between leaning trees. Men said the road was older than it looked, first cut by men carrying iron to Batsto. The sand was firmer, mixed with gravel, the horses moved with less strain, but their ears flicked at every noise. I counted progress by changes in light more than distance. The sun never showed, but the air shifted from slate to dull silver.

We reached a fork by mid-morning. The left path showed fresh wheel marks, the right only deer and raccoon prints. Men said the left ran to the forge, the right to abandoned cedar ground. We went left. The smell of smoke came faintly, the sound of water on rock followed. I felt order return. The others walked faster. The road dipped, then the forge pond came into view—dark and still except for the mill race. Beyond stood the forge house, low and wide with two chimneys and an open door.

No one met us at first. The hammer inside stood silent. A boy came from behind the house, no more than twelve, with a shy face and bare feet. Men spoke to him. The boy said his father and others had gone upriver two days before to fell timber and hadn’t returned. He said they’d heard strange sounds at night from the woods behind the slag heap—long cries like a woman screaming, stretched thin and high. His father had told them to keep close and not answer any calls after dark. He pointed to a spot where something had burned—the sand black and glossy, as if heat had fused it. Men asked if there had been a fire. The boy said no, it had just been like that one morning, the air smelling of iron and wet stone.

Mr. Hargreaves handed the boy a coin, told him to fetch water and oats for the horses. We led the wagon near the forge and unhitched. Owen checked the wheels, Ruth went inside with a small loaf to rest. I followed Men to the slag heap. In the middle, the fused patch the boy had spoken of—round, six feet across, smooth at the edges, darker than the rest. White feathers lay caught in the cracks. Men touched the surface; it was cold, slick like glass. He said it wasn’t fire that made it and that we should leave before nightfall.

We spent two hours unloading nails and repacking for the return. The forge boy stayed near, looking toward the trees. At one point, he asked if we’d seen anything in the sky. We said no. He nodded, said sometimes just before dark something passed over without sound, and the geese would rise all at once. It never came from the same direction twice. Owen asked if anyone had tried to shoot at it—the boy said his uncle had fired once, and the gun barrel split.

By the time we set out again, the light had begun to fade. The air turned still, a low mist rising from the pond. We followed the same track back, though the way seemed longer. Men walked faster, not waiting at turns. Owen drove with one hand on the reins, the other near the musket. I felt the same sense as before a storm, when air holds weight but no sound. Ruth hummed faintly, maybe a hymn.

As we passed the first bend, I heard a single cry behind us, distant and thin. The same sound as before, but fainter, drawn out as if across distance. Men did not turn, said to keep steady and not stop until the trees thinned. The sound came again, closer, sharper, ending in a low trill that made the horses toss their heads. Owen swore, struck the reins. I turned and saw movement above the trees—a dark shape gliding, wings half-folded, turning in a slow arc, passing over the road and vanishing into the mist. The silence after was worse than the cry.

We reached a dry stretch, the ground rising and trees thinning. Men stopped and told us to listen. For a moment, only wind. Then another cry, deeper and lower, from the direction of the forge. The boy had been alone there, and the thought settled in me with cold weight. Ruth crossed herself, Mr. Hargreaves said, “We have no choice but to move on.” Men agreed, though his tone carried doubt.

We camped that night on higher ground near scrub oak, no fire. The horses grazed dry grass, stayed close to the wagon. Owen kept his musket across his knees, Ruth drew her shawl up, eyes fixed on the dark. Men stood apart, facing the direction we’d come. Mr. Hargreaves took notes by lantern, words for his own comfort. I lay with my back to the wheel, watching the sky—no stars, only a faint glow pulsing on the horizon, like sheet lightning but slower. Men saw it, said it was not lightning. No sound followed.

Near midnight, the horses started, heads raised, ears forward, nostrils flared. A smell reached us—sharp and sour, like wet iron and decay. Owen stood with the musket raised. The next sound froze all movement—a slow, dragging breath drawn through the trees, something large moving between trunks, pausing to test the air. I counted the breaths, louder, then softer, circling. Men motioned us to stay low. A branch snapped, another breath closer, then silence—pressure, not emptiness. I felt it in my chest.

A faint scrape came from behind the wagon. Owen turned, fired the musket. The flash lit the trees—a glimpse of something large, a surface like leather catching light, then gone. The sound that followed was not a cry, but a burst of air, high and sharp, cut off halfway. The horses broke their lines and ran. The wagon jerked, nearly overturned. Owen shouted, his voice lost in chaos. Men grabbed the chest, threw it clear. The wagon tipped, spilling our things into the sand.

When it was over, the forest was silent. The smell lingered. The horses were gone, musket smoke hung low. Where the flash had lit the trees, the sand was disturbed in a wide circle, pressed flat, a single deep mark—cloven, larger than any hoof I’d seen, running for a short distance, stopping as if whatever made it had lifted into the air. Men said nothing, Owen reloaded in silence, hands shaking. Ruth’s eyes stayed fixed on the place the sound had come from. Mr. Hargreaves stood with his book half-open, staring at the blank page.

We did not sleep that night. Dawn came slowly, pale gray showing the ground and our scattered things. We gathered what we could and began walking east toward the old cedar road, hoping to reach Leeds Point by the next day. Men led without looking back; no one spoke for the first hour. When the trees opened, we saw black birds circling high above the direction we’d come from, rising and falling as if following something below. We kept walking until the sound of the forge pond was too faint to hear.

By midday, the land changed. Sand grew lighter, trees more spaced, air carrying a faint salt smell from the east. The silence hung around us, thinner but not gone. Men said we were within a day’s walk of Leeds Point if we kept the pace. We stopped once to drink from a shallow creek—cold, bitter, with an aftertaste of metal. Ruth said it reminded her of wells near her father’s farm, where buckets sometimes came up stained orange. Owen said little, eyes red from lack of sleep, musket always half-ready. Mr. Hargreaves no longer spoke of deeds or land, walking behind us as if following, not leading.

Late afternoon, the sky thickened again with gray, light weak and flat. Trees were shorter, trunks twisted, green moss clinging to their bases. Men stopped to study faint impressions in the sand—a line of prints like hooves, each mark farther apart than any normal stride, ground disturbed in long streaks, as if wings had slowed a landing. Men stood a long time, then told us to move quickly, his voice lost its calm.

The air grew colder, a heaviness in my chest—something waited nearby. The forest no longer felt empty. Every pause in our walk felt filled by another presence. Even the birds were gone—no calls, no wings, no movement, only the scrape of our boots.

Ruth whispered she could hear breathing behind her. When I turned, there was nothing. The air hung still. She looked at me as if I should deny it. I could not.

We reached a clearing before dusk, small, with a single dead oak in the center, bark stripped in patches showing pale wood. At its base lay a carcass—a deer, body split open, ribs exposed, organs gone, ground torn and blackened as if burned. Men bent to look closer, said the flesh was cold and dry, not fresh, yet the wound edges had no decay. The air stung with iron. Ruth turned away, muttering too low to hear. Owen spat, said we should burn it. Men said there was no time, fire would draw attention. We moved on, giving the clearing a wide berth.

As we entered the next stretch of woods, the light dimmed faster than it should. Clouds thickened, temperature dropped sharply. The absence of horses weighed on us more. We carried what supplies we could, the rest left behind with the wagon.

I heard the first sound not long after—a short, dry click from above, like claws on bark. Owen froze, pointed his musket upward. Nothing moved, but I saw a flash of something pale among the branches, quick and small. Men whispered to keep walking, not to stop no matter what we heard.

We did not make camp that night. Men said we’d walk until the next creek and rest there with a small fire. The road wound through a narrow cedar swamp, ground soft, mist rolling low. The clicking sound followed us—sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, sometimes overhead. I could not tell its distance. Each time it stopped, I strained to hear breathing, but only the stream and our steps.

When the trees opened, we found a rise of ground dry enough to stop. Owen built a small fire. The mist crept around us, thinning near the flame but never gone. Ruth sat with knees drawn to her chest, eyes fixed on the dark, whispering that the sound from the cabin roof had been the same clicking, only slower. Mr. Hargreaves sat apart, musket across his lap, staring into the fog. Men told him to rest, but he shook his head.

It came after the fire burned low—a high, piercing cry from the mist, so close it seemed within arm’s reach. The same pitch and length, but this time it held longer, vibrating the air. The absence of horses made it worse. Owen stood, raised his musket. The cry stopped at once, cut off. Silence, then a rush of air that bent the flame sideways. The trees shuddered, though there was no wind. Something passed above—a long, dark shape, wings stretched wide, tail curled, moving faster than the eye could follow, vanishing into the mist.

The fire guttered. Ruth whispered a prayer. Men took the musket from Owen, said calmly that we’d only fire if it came close enough to strike—noise would draw it back. The cry came again, farther away, circling. Each time it sounded, the horses we no longer had seemed to echo in my mind. Men said to move. We left the fire burning low, pushed east, guided by the faintest trace of starlight through the fog.

Behind us, something broke through the branches with a sharp crack. I looked back—nothing, but the sound of wings came again, heavy beats, then silence. By the time morning came, the trees thinned and we saw the outline of salt meadows. Leeds Point was hours away, but the land felt less closed, the air smelled of sea.

Men said we’d rest at the dunes. We stopped near dry reeds, the wind cold but alive. I lay back on the sand, staring at the sky. For a brief moment, I thought we’d left it behind. Then Ruth pointed upward—far off, at the edge of the clouds, a dark shape circled, then folded its wings and dropped straight down into the pines. No cry followed, only the wind and the steady roll of the tide.

Men watched until the shape was gone, then turned toward the road. We walked the last stretch in silence. By nightfall, we reached the cottages of Leeds Point, smoke rising from chimneys—a strange sight. People stared as we came in, covered in sand and dirt. An old man outside the tavern saw Men and nodded.

“Did you come from the inland road?”

“Yes,” Men said.

“Then you’ve heard it, too,” the man replied, looking toward the woods. “It’s been crying near the bogs three nights now. The miller’s boy saw it fly across the moon.”

We stayed the night in the tavern’s loft. None of us spoke much. Mr. Hargreaves tried to write, but stopped and folded the paper away. Owen slept with his musket beside him, Ruth kept her shawl pulled to her face, not closing her eyes until dawn. When I finally slept, I dreamed of trees bending without wind and the sound of wings scraping against bark.

In the morning, we left for Burlington. Men led again, quieter than before. None of us spoke about what we’d seen. But when Burlington disappeared behind us and the pines closed in again, I noticed Men glancing up more often than forward. Each time a shadow crossed the path, his hand went to his staff. He never said it aloud, but I could tell he knew, as I did, that whatever haunted those woods had not stayed behind.

We never returned to that part of the pines. The forge was later abandoned, the road fell into disuse, and the maps changed. Years later, I still hear that sound in my memory—that long, thin cry that cuts through every other noise. I have never heard it again with my ears, but sometimes, when the wind runs low and the trees grow still, I remember how it rose and held, and how it ended as if the air itself had been torn apart.