Crosby Crux's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Crosby stood at the forest's edge and stared into the tangled shadows of Gremlinland. His camera was set. His siren had called out. Now he just had to wait. The legendary patriarch was real—he knew it in his bones. Every tracker who doubted him would see the proof soon enough. He adjusted his staff and pulled his hat lower. This hunt had taken years, but it would finally end here. Behind him, deeper in the woods, stood his cabin. The structure's ashen black wood looked almost charred in the fading light. Neon-green moss clung to its edges, glowing faint against the bark. He'd built it three seasons ago, right when the other trackers had given up. They'd called him obsessed. They'd laughed at his maps and his theories. But this cabin had become his base, his proof that he wasn't leaving until he found what he came for. The camera beeped once. Crosby spun around and checked the display. Nothing yet. Just trees swaying in the wind. He walked back toward the cabin and pushed open the door. Inside, his walls were covered with sketches and notes. Claw marks measured and photographed. Footprints cast in clay. Every piece of evidence pointed to one truth: the patriarch existed, and it moved through these woods. Crosby sat on a wooden stool and waited. The hunt wasn't over. It was just beginning. Outside, the siren stood silent on its tall pole near the cabin's front wall. He'd installed it last month after the locals started reporting strange sounds at night. The dark metal framework held a megaphone at the top, and a hand crank jutted out from the side. When turned, it sent a low wail across the forest—a signal that something had been spotted. Crosby had used it tonight to draw attention, to call the patriarch out of hiding. If the creature was territorial like he believed, the sound would bring it close. He stood and walked to the window. The forest was still. But somewhere out there, in the darkness between the trees, his proof was moving. He just had to be ready when it showed itself. Hours passed. The camera clicked three times but captured only shadows and branches. Crosby checked his equipment one last time before dawn. The Gothic Steampunk Camera sat mounted on its tripod legs, its extendable components ready for close-up shots if the patriarch appeared. He'd positioned it to cover the widest area, angled toward the deer path where tracks had been freshest. His goal was simple: one clear photograph. One image that would silence every doubt and prove the patriarch was real. Then the other trackers would have to admit they'd been wrong. Crosby grabbed his staff and stepped outside. The first light broke through the trees. He would wait another night if he had to. And another after that. This cabin would remain his base until the hunt was finished.