Onawa

Onawa was found seated at the base of a weathered cedar tree near the remnants of an old forest trail. Her dress was faded, her pig tails messy, and across her face—a crimson handprint. The pigment appeared freshly painted despite years of exposure.

Those who found her described an overwhelming silence when she was lifted from the ground. No wind, no birds, no sound—only the faint scent of smoke and sweetgrass. The finder, a park ranger, reported hearing whispered names as he carried her back to his vehicle. By morning, his recorder had captured faint rhythmic tapping—like a distant drumbeat—though no such sounds were heard at the time.

Local oral histories tell of Onawa, a woman who once walked the forests calling for those who never came home. She was said to craft dolls from river clay and cedar bark, each bearing a mark for a woman taken from her community. The last time she was seen, she carried a single doll—marked in red. Neither she nor the doll returned to camp.

When wildfires swept through the area decades later, nothing of her cabin remained—except the doll, unburned, resting on blackened earth.

Owners who keep her describe dreams of being led through pine forests by unseen hands. In these dreams, they feel watched—but not harmed. One woman awoke to find red fingerprints pressed faintly into the window glass, though no one was outside.