Coordinates in the Dust

I woke up this morning to something I can't explain.

On the inside of my window—the one that faces the dead oak where the crows gather—there were numbers traced in the dust. I'm not a clean person (off-grid living will do that), so there's always a fine layer of dust on everything. But this morning, someone had written in it:

35.7796

• 83.5279

I live alone. The cabin was locked. I'm a light sleeper—I would have heard someone moving around.

But there they were. Clear as anything. Written with a finger, from the look of it.

I recognized the format immediately: coordinates. Decimal degrees. Standard GPS format.

I couldn't help myself. I pulled out my old USGS maps and cross-referenced.

The coordinates point to a location about 40 miles from here. In the middle of the Smokies. No roads, no trails marked. Just deep forest.

Here's where it gets stranger: that location is almost exactly due east from my cabin. The same direction the crows face every evening.

I don't remember writing those numbers. I don't sleepwalk—never have. And the dust pattern doesn't match my finger width; I checked.

Am I being paranoid? Probably. But I've learned to trust my paranoia. It's kept me alive out here.

I'm not going to those coordinates. Not yet. Not alone. But I'm adding them to my map. They mean something.

The pattern is getting clearer. Whatever is happening in these woods, it has a center. And I think I'm getting closer to it.

Coffee's cold. Need to think.