Hi there, I'm Samantha Sam and I was a park Ranger for six years.
I won't specify where because I don't want to get in trouble.
One of the people I worked with told me to read the other park
Ranger stories on here, so I thought I'd give it a shot.
And hell, it's good to see someone being honest.
It inspired me to share some of my own stories.
People need to know what happens in the woods.
I quit my job a couple of years ago.
I couldn't deal with bottling up all the things I've seen.
Nobody wants to talk about them, but I feel like I'm drowning in
the memories of it all, so I'm going to share them.
I don't know if I'll be able to share everything, it might be
too hard, but I'll give it a go. I hope this raises some
awareness of the true dangers of the woods and makes people
consider their safety. I don't want people to think I'm
copying someone or making these things up.
I'm just sharing my stories and experiences.
Let's get into it. This was my first weird
experience as a junior Ranger. To this day, I still don't know
what I saw, but I know it wasn't friendly.
I had just received a call about screams coming from deeper in
the forest off one of the more popular trails.
This wasn't unusual. If you've heard a Mountain Lion,
you know it can sound like a woman screaming.
Just as I was about to set off, my chief at the time asked to
come along. I found this odd because the job
seemed too insignificant for his rank, but I brushed it off.
I was new and figured maybe he wanted to check my progress.
We set off. Making small talk and I was
obviously trying to suck up a little.
We were joking around when he made a quick remark about taking
even small jobs seriously, because you never know what
you'll find. That turned out to be some of
the most valuable advice I ever got on this job, and I
definitely learned my lesson later, but that's another story.
We reached the area where the call originated and headed north
of the trail. We heard the screams and it
sounded like a Mountain Lion, but something was really off
about. It we kept walking toward the
noise. About 10 minutes in, all of a
sudden it was like every sound was sucked out of the woods.
It was dead silent. I couldn't even hear my own
breathing. I thought maybe I'd gone deaf,
but I looked at my chief and saw he had the same nervous
expression on his face by the way he was.
Acting. It felt like he'd encountered
this before, which I now know to be true.
Just as quickly as the silence came, I started to hear a low
buzzing. But it wasn't just a buzzing.
I could feel it vibrating through my entire body, so much
that my ears and jaw began to hurt.
The best way I can describe it is like when you're getting your
teeth drilled at the dentist, but worse.
Even my vision started to vibrate.
And as that happened, I swear I saw a black figure about 7 feet
tall step out from behind the trees in front of me.
It started letting out that same scream as it bent down and began
crawling toward us. Naturally, I freaked the hell
out and stepped back to run. My chief grabbed my arm hard,
almost knocking me over, and put his other arm around me as he
began to walk me out of the forest.
Just as I was about to fight him and yell for us to run, he said
in a calm voice. Don't run, don't talk, don't
look back, just keep walking. I did exactly what he said.
He obviously knew something I didn't, and as much as I wanted
to run, I didn't want to find out what would happen if I did.
Those 10 minutes were excruciating.
I could tell it was crawling behind us by the buzzing in my
head and the faint wailing sound it made.
I wanted to run so badly. Eventually I think it ran off
because all the regular noise of the forest came back and the
buzzing stopped. When we got back on the trail I
was shaking. I was in such shock I couldn't
even cry. He let go of me and started
walking back to the main base without saying a word about what
happened. I started screaming at him,
asking what the hell that thing was.
He said. And yes, I remember this word
for word. There are things in these woods
that have been here longer than us, things we can't explain or
get rid of. If you don't think you can
handle that, you should pack your bags now.
He kept walking and I followed behind, trying to make sense of
what happened. I obviously stayed in the job.
When it was good, it was really good.
I met some amazing people and I love nature.
But in the end. The bad experiences outweighed
the good and I had to leave. Honestly, I wish I had left when
he told me to pack my bags. I know this experience doesn't
sound that scary in writing, but trust me, living through it was
terrifying. And there are worse ones.
Some of them are scarier, some are more explainable.
I'm still debating whether to share all my stories.
Maybe I'll see how I feel after posting this.
I'd love to hear other people's experiences with the woods.
Part 2. A lot of people seem to be
interested in stairs found in the woods.
I've seen a set of stairs in the woods once and personally it
wasn't too scary, just a bit creepy.
I know a couple of my friends in the Force a Force to be Reckoned
With have some stories about stairs that they've mentioned in
passing. If and when I decide to contact
them for permission, maybe I'll post those.
I do, however, have a story about a ladder that I wish I
could forget because just thinking about it gives me the
creeps. My experience with the stairs is
pretty tame, so I'll add another incident afterward.
We were searching for a young girl who had wandered off.
We found her, she's fine. The team was stretched out
pretty far, so I was walking alone but within shouting
distance of others. As I was walking I saw a set of
stairs. They sort of looked like they
belonged there, but also didn't. They were overgrown, like they
might have been the steps to someone's house, but I realized
there was no way someone had put them there.
Recently I figured I'd stumbled upon one of those mysterious
stairs my Co workers had talked about.
I thought I'd be terrified if I ever saw them, but I wasn't.
I did however, feel an urge to walk up them, like something was
pulling me toward them. Maybe it was just the excitement
of finally seeing them, or maybe something darker.
Someone nearby called out that they'd found something and it
snapped me back to reality. I'm really glad they did.
I'm not sure what would have happened if I'd gone up.
We found the girl and all was well.
On the way back, I mentioned to a partner that I had seen some
stairs. She got worried and sort of
grilled me about whether I touched or walked up them.
I said no and that was it. So yeah, pretty tame, nothing
too intense. I'm not going to lie or
overemphasize anything here. This next occurrence isn't about
stairs, but it is about a ladder, which I'd say is pretty
similar. This happened sometime during my
first year as a park Ranger, around the start of summer when
Poison Ivy really goes wild. We had to do weekly checks on
the trails and the surrounding brush.
My partner and I were assigned to check some of the less
popular trails. We came to a smaller trail that
forked for a couple of minutes and then joined up again.
Being the idiots we were, we split, planning to meet where it
connects. We could still see each other
through the brush in the middle, so we thought it was fine.
He took the left path and I took the right.
As I was walking, keeping an eye out for Ivy, I caught something
in the corner of my eye, a large clearing in the middle of the
trees. It looked man made, perfectly
round, as if someone had been maintaining it.
There wasn't a single tree, Bush, or even a weed.
I was so focused on the lack of vegetation that I almost didn't
notice the huge, unmistakable ladder standing right in the
center. It was upright and leaning
against absolutely nothing, like some unknown force was holding
it. I looked up and saw a man at the
top wearing a business suit. It almost seemed comical, like
he'd walk straight out of a corporate office.
His head was tilted back, staring up at the sky, and his
mouth was wide open. I couldn't get a Clearview, so I
called to him a few times. No response.
I circled the ladder looking for wires or strings, hoping it was
some sort of prank or art installation, but I found
nothing. He looked like he was on display
for some bizarre exhibition. I didn't know what else to do
and I couldn't see my partner, so I radioed him to come over.
While waiting, I made the stupid decision to touch the ladder.
I know, terrible idea. Don't touch weird crap you find
in the woods. I got a weird feeling just
before my hand reached it, but I brushed it off and touched it
anyway. The moment I did, the man at the
top snapped his neck in this horrifically contorted way to
look at me and let out an ungodly gasp like he was drawing
his last breath. His face was still warped in
this gaping expression, eyelids and lips pulled back as though
he were in perpetual shock. I stumbled back and grabbed my
Taser. Just then I heard someone behind
me and I spun around, Taser raised.
It was my partner, hands in the air to avoid getting tased.
When I looked back, the latter was flat on the ground and the
man was gone. My partner asked what was going
on, so I explained and begged him not to think I was crazy.
Of course he didn't. He knew as well as I did that
weird stuff like this happens more often than you'd think.
We had to do a quick search for the guy.
Protocol, which I hated. I was praying we wouldn't find
him. We didn't.
I never saw anything like that again, and neither has anyone
I've talked to. That guy was balancing on top of
a ladder that wasn't leaning against anything.
Maybe I met Houdini. When you see stuff like that,
you make jokes. Or you'll never move on.
I'm really glad people are enjoying what I have to say.
I'm not sure when I'll write more.
Don't expect too much because this is both tiring and
cathartic. I'm thinking of sharing some of
the less spooky stories and the ones that are just about humans
being weird. We'll see.
I should have known something was off when my supervisor
called me in for an urgent adjustment to my usual shift.
A bunch of people had recently bailed on the night schedule
without much of an explanation, so it landed in my lap.
At first I wasn't exactly thrilled, but a small part of me
was curious about what it'd be like to watch the park after
dark. I guess I figured it'd be hours
of quiet, broken up by the occasional hoot of an owl or
flicker of a flashlight. So there I was, hiking up the
tower's endless steps with a backpack full of coffee, energy
drinks, and whatever courage I thought I had.
The night air tasted cool, almost damp, and my boots
crunched on gravel in a way that echoed like I wasn't the only
one listening. By the time I made it to the
top, my legs felt like Jelly, but I forced myself to shrug it
off. The tower's narrow wooden
platform led me into a cramped room with three walls of glass
and a fourth wall hosting a door.
There was a rickety bed, a tiny kitchen corner with a mini
fridge and a microwave, plus a desk where the Comm station sat
blinking. I gave the radio a test.
Static popped and hissed, but Donny's voice came through
eventually, saying something about how I'd better make
friends with my flashlight because the moon was barely out.
That bit of chatter steadied my nerves a bit.
Like, OK, at least I wasn't alone in the world.
I stepped onto the balcony to get a proper look at my
surroundings. Trees stretched in nearly every
direction, their tops swaying faintly in the breeze.
Off to my right was the lagoon, which looked more like a giant
puddle choked with algae, Lily pads and random debris.
The water sat way too still for my comfort.
Meanwhile, the usual night time orchestra kicked up.
Frogs, crickets, leaves rustling.
It was almost soothing. I leaned over the balcony rail,
scanning the area with binoculars at first.
I spotted nothing except a few moonlit clearings and shadows
that I assumed were just logs or rocks.
But near one of the ridges I caught a glimpse of something
pale, a shape that stood out against the dark.
It looked suspiciously like a person, maybe a kid wearing a
blanket with two big circles where eyes might be.
A ghost costume in the middle of summer on Federal land with no
one else around. It threw me off so hard I nearly
dropped the binoculars. I blinked, steadying the lenses
again. This little ghost thing was
still staring straight at the tower.
Part of me wanted to believe it was just some leftover prank,
but my gut churned in protest. I pulled out my handheld radio
and called Donnie. Hey man, you in earshot?
There's, I don't even know how to say this.
There's a kid dressed like a ghost on the Ridge right below
the big dip in the tree line. Donnie sounded as confused as I
was. A ghost.
You serious as a heart attack? I muttered.
Could be some lost campers, kid, or maybe a runaway.
Want to check it out before it becomes our problem?
He sighed, but agreed. Fine, I'll head that way.
Keep your eyes on him and let me know if they move.
I caught a flicker of Donnie's flashlight weaving through the
dark beneath me. He wasn't fast, but at least he
was going in the right direction.
I stayed on the balcony, sweeping the binoculars around,
glancing back at the Ridge every few seconds.
The figure didn't move at all, like it was a statue with a bed
sheet draped over it. Then, just as Donnie's light got
close, his flashlight went out. The beam vanished so abruptly
that I thought maybe my eyes tricked me.
My radio let out a burst of static, and Donnie's voice cut
off mid sentence. In that exact same instant, the
forest dropped every sound it had.
Not one chirp, not one rustle. The hush felt alive, like I'd
stepped into some bubble of silence.
My pulse hammered in my ears, and I stumbled back into the
tower, practically yanking the door off its hinges to close it.
I tried calling Donnie again. Nothing but static.
My flashlight spotlighted the corners of the tower's room, and
everything looked normal, but my nerves were lit up.
I decided to go back outside, maybe yell into the darkness a
few times. That was when I noticed a shape
below, next to the first flight of steps.
It looked like a woman, but impossibly tall and unnaturally
thin, with a soaked dress clinging to her body.
Her hair dangled in wet clumps, and she seemed to be bent at odd
angles, like someone had tried putting a puzzle together the
wrong way. She wasn't just dripping.
She looked swollen with water, her skin a sickly bluish color
that glistened in the moonlight. She lifted her face, eyes cloudy
like murky pond water, and her mouth stretched open far too
wide. A sound emerged, high pitched,
gurgling, way too loud to be human.
My stomach flipped. Every cell in my body demanded I
get the hell away from that door.
I jumped back inside, locking the knob as fast as I could,
though a flimsy piece of metal didn't feel like it'd stop
anything. The radio squawked uselessly
from the desk, providing 0 comfort.
I stayed there, pressed against the wall, trying to catch my
breath, shining my flashlight at the door in case the woman
decided to break it down. I could still sense her presence
outside, but I had no idea if she'd left or if she was
crawling her way up to the balcony.
The quiet returned in force, making every second stretch out.
My hands trembled so hard that holding on to the flashlight was
a challenge. And I kept thinking, if this is
some weird joke, it's the sickest one anyone's ever
pulled. But there was nothing funny in
those eyes or that sound echoing in my head.
No, that had felt horribly real. I had a wild urge to bolt, but
stepping outside again seemed suicidal.
All I could do was stand in the darkness, alone, with no clue
where Donnie was or who or what was waiting by the stairs.
I stood in front of that flimsy wooden door for what felt like
an eternity. Every nerve in my body twisted
tight. The tower had gone so deathly
quiet that each breath felt like a shout.
My flashlight beam wavered, lighting up only empty corners
and the reflection of my own terror in the glass panels.
A tiny, rational part of me insisted that I was safe inside,
but the rest of my brain kept painting images of that drowned
figure lunging through the door, those cloudy eyes rolling as she
shrieked. Eventually, I forced myself to
breathe deeper. One step back, 2 steps back,
until I bumped into the kitchen counter.
My hand slid across it, searching for anything solid,
and I ended up clutching a long steel knife.
My legs were ready to collapse under me, but I gripped the
knife like a lifeline. I tried the handheld
walkie-talkie again, pressing the button so hard my thumb
ached. Donnie.
I hissed. Answer me, man, where are you?
Static. A faint pop, then another hiss.
Nothing. I swung around, shining my
flashlight behind me because I felt like something was creeping
closer, only to land on the big cabinet in the corner.
Something about it seemed different.
The door was open. I knew it was sealed tight when
I arrived, which gave me a vicious jolt of dread.
Instinct forced me to raise the knife, as if expecting that
watery nightmare woman to burst out.
My heart thundered like an engine in my chest, and out
stepped a little ghost, the same ragged sheet I'd seen on the
Ridge. That was enough to make me want
to scream, but then the figure lifted it off, revealing Marvin,
Donnie's son, sporting a grin so wide you'd think he'd scored the
prank of the century. He also had a walkie in his
hand. The green LED, winking mockingly
at me. I felt heat flush my face.
Marvin, what the hell? Before the kid could answer,
another voice crackled over the main radio on the desk.
There he is. How'd he do, Marv?
He freak out? Recognizing Donnie's voice, I
stomped across the room and grabbed that radio.
You set me up. I yelled, so furious my voice
went ragged. Hiding your kid in my tower,
dressing him like some cheap little ghost.
Donnie And a second voice had to be his other son.
Joey started howling with laughter.
Apparently they've been planning this for days.
Snuck Marvin in here before my shift, made a show of him
standing on the Ridge. Cut the power to Donnie's
flashlight at the perfect moment.
I'm sure they expected me to lose it.
Mission accomplished, Relax. Donnie cackled over the line.
It was just some harmless fun, man.
Thought we'd welcome you to the graveyard shift in style.
More Snickers in the background. How's your blood pressure?
I felt relief and anger crashed together like thunderclouds in
my gut. You have no idea how close I was
to stabbing. I stopped short, eyeing Marvin.
He gave me a playful shrug, like he hadn't just watched me panic
in genuine terror. I wanted to tear into Donnie,
but there was still one problem overshadowing everything.
What about that thing outside? My words choked in my throat.
Some waterlogged woman or I don't know what.
You can't tell me. That was part of the plan too.
For a second, the radio went silent.
Then Donnie let out a short laugh, one that sounded less
certain. Wait, slow down.
You think I hired an extra for your personal horror movie or
something? More awkward?
Chuckles. We only planned the ghost, kid.
That's it. No ladies insight.
His words hit me like a punch to the ribs.
Even if they'd orchestrated a bunch of details to fool me, the
shrieking creature I'd seen was way beyond a backyard prank.
I couldn't shake the memory of that sallow, stretched skin.
I had the insane urge to fling open the tower door just to see
if she was still out there, but the possibility kept me rooted
in place. Marvin must have seen the alarm
still etched on my face, because his grin faltered.
Dad. He said softly into his own
walkie. What if someone else is out
here? The question hung in the air,
heavy as lead. After a moment, Donnie tried to
keep it light. Look, maybe you saw a deer, or
your eyes played tricks on you. It's late and you're wound up.
We'll swing by once we finish up.
Sound good? I clicked off the radio without
answering. My anger was draining, replaced
by an old, deep fear that stuck to my thoughts like tar.
Part of me wanted to chase Marvin out with a scolding, but
a stronger part, maybe the protective side, wouldn't risk
letting him leave alone. Until this thing was explained
or gone, I had zero trust in that black stretch of forest.
I paced the tower, double checking windows and fiddling
with the lock on the door. It felt so thin, like a stiff
wind could knock it down. Meanwhile, the night outside
remained too quiet for comfort. Marvin looked just as jumpy as
me now, hugging his arms close to his body like the joke wasn't
so funny anymore. Time crawled.
Every so often, I'd catch a glimpse of movement outside, a
branch shifting or a swirl of mist over the lagoon, but I
never saw that gaunt figure again.
It was almost worse not knowing if it was still lurking beneath
the tower. At one point, a faint screech
echoed from somewhere in the woods, and I nearly tripped over
my own feet, spinning around to face the door.
Marvin squeaked, then tried to laugh it off, but his eyes were
wide. By the time the first streaks of
dawn arrived, I felt shredded. My chest was tight, my muscles
stiff from clenching. Donnie came.
Through on the walkie once more to say something about making
the rounds, but I barely registered it.
All I could think was that if I had to do another shift here,
locked in this fishbowl, I'd lose my mind.
Jokes were one thing, but that woman's Milky gaze was not
something you faked with store bought make up.
I couldn't explain it and Donny wouldn't listen.
That left me with one real choice.
All right, Marvin, time to go, I said quietly and escorted him
down the tower steps. In the fragile early light, the
two of us jumped at every rustle or bump.
I was armed with that kitchen knife, feeling ridiculous but
unable to relax. The lagoon looked almost
peaceful in daylight, but I was too on edge to appreciate it.
By the end of that endless descent, my mind was made-up.
The moment I got the chance, I'd inform the higher ups I wasn't
staying on nights, not another hour.
Let them call me paranoid. Whatever I'd seen out there, it
wasn't just a trick of the dark. Something in those woods had
noticed me, and I had no intention of sticking around for
Round 2. Marvin and I trudged toward the
Ranger station, the first rays of sun hitting the trees in a
washed out glow. Part of me expected to see that
soggy figure trailing behind us, but every time I looked over my
shoulder, it was only empty space.
Maybe that was even scarier. It meant it could still be
anywhere. I'd always believed the night
shift was nothing but quiet hours, but nothing from this
point forward would ever feel normal again.
When I glanced back at the tower, all I saw was a lonely
shape against the morning sky and the silent, unmoving lagoon.
But I remembered that scream. I remembered the hush that
followed it too, and I wondered if maybe it was the woods
themselves sending a warning. Some things aren't meant to be
watched after dark. At least not by anyone who wants
to make it home sane. I knew the night was off to a
strange start the minute I checked in.
The Ranger station, which normally felt like a second home
to me, seemed smaller and lonelier than usual.
Even the warm glow from the overhead lights couldn't chase
away the gloom pouring in from the windows.
I stepped inside, figuring I'd see Pat, Marcus, and Dana
gathered around the battered table in the corner, trading
jokes while we waited out another quiet shift.
Instead, I found them pacing around, each one fiddling with
equipment or rechecking logs. It was my turn to do a final
walkthrough outside. Usually, I enjoy strolling
around under the moonlight, scoping out the tree line for
raccoons or wandering deer. Tonight, the moon was hidden
behind roiling clouds and the path beyond the station was
pitch black. The wind whipped across the
roof, making the beams groan. I half wondered if the entire
structure would shake itself apart.
After a few minutes of testing the locks and listening for
anything unusual, I stepped back inside, my jacket dripping with
cold dew. Pat gave me this look that said
all good out there, and I nodded, but I didn't really feel
certain. Before I could settle at the
desk, Dana spoke up. She's usually the practical one,
never letting gossip or superstitions rattle her, but
her expression was guarded. She asked if we'd ever heard
rumors about the Phantom of Hollow Grove.
Marcus let out a nervous laugh, but Pat's face turned serious.
Dana explained how this old local legend had been passed
around since before any of us were hired.
A name tied to unexplained vanishings, especially when the
moon was at its fullest. She didn't sound like she was
spinning a campfire story. Her voice was calm, too calm,
like she was remembering something unsettling.
The station lights flickered just then.
It might have been a hiccup in the power, but it made every
single nerve in me go on alert. Even the fireplace, which
usually made the room cozy, seemed to cast weird shadows
across the walls. Pat ventured to the window and
peered out. The glass was flecked with
condensation, making it tough to see anything but vague outlines
of trees shifting in the wind. Marcus, normally the easygoing
1, was already double checking the radio as if he.
Expected to need backup at any second, I felt this nagging urge
to go outside again, to scan the perimeter and be absolutely sure
we were alone. Yet the idea of venturing past
the door gave me pause. I remembered all the times I'd
teased guests about being nervous in the dark, and
suddenly I wondered if I'd been a fool to brush off what the
woods might conceal. Something about the Knight put a
knot in my chest. I kept seeing movement in the
corners of my eyes just enough to unsettle me every time I
turned. There was nothing but old walls
and dusty corners. Dana cleared her throat and said
we should try to keep it together, that sometimes these
shifts set our imaginations on OverDrive.
She kept talking about how the stories of Hollow Grove weren't
just for spooking tourists. There was a grain of truth
buried in them, enough to make even skeptics look over their
shoulders now and then. I wanted to brush it off, but I
couldn't. Not with the wind howling
outside like it had a purpose. Not with the odd quiet in the
station, even though the four of us were there.
And definitely not with the sense that something or someone
was beyond our beam of light, standing just out of sight,
waiting. We didn't speak for a while
after that. We just sat there, each lost in
our own thoughts, half expecting a knock on the door or a flicker
of movement in the dark. When we finally did say
anything, it was barely above a whisper, as if we were afraid of
who else might be. Listening, Dana had a faraway
look that practically begged us to lean in.
I could see she wasn't sure if she really wanted to rehash
whatever was sitting on her mind, but she let out a shaky
sigh and began. Couple years back, she said
quietly. I was finishing up a shift here.
The weather had been horrible for days, Relentless rain, all
the trails, basically sludge. Nobody was bothering to visit,
which meant I had to keep an eye out by myself that night.
I was still new enough to think every single bump outside could
be a stray animal. Except the sounds I heard
weren't from an animal. She paused, gazing at the table.
None of us moved. Even Pat, who usually tries to
crack a joke and break tension, just watched her in silence.
Dana went on about how she'd spent the whole evening hauling
fallen branches off the paths. When the sunset, she ducked
inside, thinking she'd wait out the storm and call it a night.
The wind was raging so hard the station windows rattled every
few seconds. Finally, her stomach growled.
So she ordered from the nearest diner.
Old Henry, a delivery guy everyone in town knew, pulled up
half an hour later. She stepped out onto the porch
to grab her food. I remember how dark it felt, she
said, rubbing her hands together like she could still feel the
chill. There was this dampness that
wouldn't let go. The diner's headlights cut
across the station's walls, but everything else was swallowed by
black sky. She tried to keep it casual,
chatting with Henry about the rain, how he managed to drive in
such miserable conditions, but he kept glancing over her
shoulder. Finally, he blurted that
somebody was standing among the twisted oaks near the fence.
Dana saw nothing at first, just the silhouette of trees shifting
in the wind. Then she made out a shape, thin,
ragged, like it was half crouched behind a trunk.
That's when they both heard something, like a hushed voice
telling them to go. It didn't.
Feel like a threat, Dana admitted, tapping her fingers on
the table. It was more like someone warning
us, but I couldn't begin to guess who or what was trying to
help. She said the fear ramped up
quick. She and Henry jumped into his
car without saying a word, not caring about anything but
getting down that mud slick Rd. The tires spun, kicking up
gravel and water and they raced off.
After a couple miles, Henry pulled over and they just sat
there shaking from adrenaline. Neither one could fully believe
what they'd seen. Dana spent the next minutes
debating how to explain taking off mid shift, but it turned out
she didn't have to. By that time, she said, the
station's security system had already caught a group dressed
in dark hooded coats smashing the door in.
They roamed inside for about 5 minutes, rummaging around with
this eerie calm. They didn't steal a thing, it
was more like they were inspecting the place as if
searching for something. Then they walked out into the
storm like none of it mattered, leaving behind a few soaked
footprints and a lot of unanswered questions.
The cops called me in, Dana said, lowering her voice.
And all they could figure was a botched robbery.
But who breaks down a door just to poke around?
They never left a single fingerprint.
We all glanced around, half expecting to see those hooded
figures lurking right outside our windows.
Dana's story was unnerving enough, but she wasn't done.
She mentioned the little wooden bundle she discovered later,
lying in the corner near the supply closet, a pile of twigs
bound with a strip of ribbon so tightly knotted that she had to
use a knife to cut it. No one in the department could
explain it, and eventually someone just tossed it in a box
to be forgotten. That was the same day the break
in happened, she said. So call me paranoid if you want,
but I've spent every day since wondering why those people came
in and who they really were. Maybe it has something to do
with all the old stories about this place, or maybe we just got
unlucky, but either way, I still can't shake the feeling it's not
over. She finished talking, and the
little hum of our electrical devices was the only noise left.
I was imagining Henry's headlights reflecting on a
figure half hidden by trunk and branch, waving them away like it
was granting mercy. Dana blinked a few times, as if
waking from a bad dream, and that's when I realized her story
had changed the air in the room. We weren't just Rangers killing
time on another routine shift. We were four uneasy souls
perched in a remote station with something out there in the
darkness, a presence that might help us or harm us, and we had
no way of knowing which. We all fell silent after Dana
finished her story, like we were waiting for the shadows outside
to respond. Pat broke the tension first,
clearing his throat and suggesting a perimeter check.
It should have been routine, but every step felt heavy.
I volunteered to team up with Dana while Pat and Marcus swept
the back. Outside, the air was colder than
before. The station's floodlight didn't
reach far, so most of the yard was barely visible.
I noticed how the wind had died down.
It made every noise echo, like the forest was an empty stage
waiting for an actor to appear. Dana and I started circling
around the side, flashlights bouncing off twisted branches
and soggy undergrowth. I tried to calm my breathing,
telling myself we were just being thorough.
Yet it felt like we were trespassing on something's
territory. A few yards from the storage
shed, our beams picked up footprints.
Barefoot, pressed into the mud, they veered in a weird,
meandering path toward the tree line.
I glanced at Dana, who knelt and prodded one of the prints with
her fingers. They were fresh enough to still
glisten with moisture. Goosebumps prickled along my
arms. Nobody sane would walk around
barefoot at this hour. Suddenly, a branch snapped in
the distance, louder than it should have been.
My flashlight swung toward the tree line, finding nothing but
dark shapes. Then I spotted a tiny wooden
figure perched on a fallen log, a crude stick person tied with a
thread the color of dried blood. For a moment, I could have sworn
it tilted its head at me. I knew that was impossible, but
it felt real. Dana approached slowly, her
steps careful. She reached out and lifted the
figure up close. It was damp and smelled faintly
of rotting. Leaves some kind of totem or
warning. We heard murmurs, then hushed
voices carrying through the hush of the night.
I flicked off my flashlight, signaling Dana to do the same.
Through the gloom, we made out movement, silhouettes shifting
among the trees, maybe four or five.
They moved in a rhythmic way, as if following a practiced
formation. No flashlights, no phones, just
bodies and shadows. We crouched, our hearts
pounding, thoughts racing about what we do if they headed our
way. Pat and Marcus stumbled upon us,
nearly causing me to jump. Marcus mouthed.
We saw them, too, pointing toward another patch of
darkness. We decided, in silent agreement,
to back up to the station. As we retreated, I kept looking
over my shoulder, convinced we were being watched, but I caught
only faint outlines flickering through the trees inside.
We locked the doors, drew the blinds, and shoved a heavy table
against the main entrance. The logs in the fireplace
popped, scattering embers in a sudden burst.
Usually that sound is comforting, but this time it
felt more like a warning shot. No one sat.
We hovered near the windows, peeking out through narrow gaps
in the blinds. The station smelled of damp
clothes and fear. If fear can have a smell.
Pat wanted to call for backup, but Dana hesitated.
What if they're gone by the time anyone arrives?
We'll look paranoid. She had a point.
I remembered the story she told us, the unanswered questions
left behind after the hooded group trashed the station.
If they were the same ones prowling outside, they'd likely
vanish as soon as they heard sirens.
Time dragged. The wind picked up again,
rattling the siding. My eyes burned from staring out
the window, half expecting to see faces pressed against the
glass. The phone lines were spotty this
far out. If the lines went down, we'd be
stranded without any communication.
Marcus joked about how we should have transferred to a beach
post, but the humor fell flat. We all knew we were in over our
heads. Hours later, the forest remained
silent, like it was holding its breath for something worse.
We agreed to wait for first light before making any bold.
Moves. Whatever lurked outside, it felt
like it was waiting, too. The four of us ended up around
the fireplace, jumpy at every twig snap or gust of wind.
Nobody wanted to say it out loud, but we all knew the night
wasn't done testing us. As the clock inched closer to
dawn, we heard the faintest scrape against the back wall,
like someone running a blade or a rock along the wood.
I stood, flashlight trembling in my hand, but the noise stopped.
No footsteps, no break in, but they'd reminded us they were out
there. We realized morning might not
bring any safety at all, but for now, it was the only hope we
had. We took turns peering through
the windows, watching for shapes among the trees, each minute
feeling like an hour. There was a shared, unspoken
sense that whatever happened tonight was just the prelude,
and as we huddled by the sputtering fire, none of us felt
particularly eager to see what came next.
I made my decision before sunrise.
We all did. By the time the Gray light
started filtering through the station's grime smeared windows,
our nerves were shredded. Every noise from the night
before still seemed to echo in the back of my mind.
The shifting silhouettes, those footprints in the mud, that
faint scrape against the wall. None of us had slept.
We were running on pure adrenaline and dread.
Pat asked if anyone wanted breakfast, trying to mask the
tension with a sliver of normalcy, but no one had much
appetite. Marcus simply shook his head,
staring at the barrier we'd set against the door.
Dana, who had always been our rock, looked like a stranger.
Her eyes were dark, hollow circles.
She forced a small smile, but didn't say anything.
I realized we'd each reached the end of our tether.
We peeled back the blinds to watch.
The first rays of mourning cut through the forest, turning the
nearest treetops into a dull silhouette.
Though the night had receded, it hadn't taken that malevolent
feeling with it. I still sensed we were being
watched, maybe from the shadows, maybe from beyond the battered
fence line. That unshakable dread was enough
to convince me I couldn't keep doing this.
Marcus packed his gear in a frantic, clumsy way, almost as
if he thought we needed to evacuate immediately.
I couldn't blame him. I grabbed my backpack, stuffing
it with whatever personal items I could find.
Spare clothes and old mug. A few dog eared field guides.
None of us spoke more than a few words, but there was a shared
understanding. We were done for good.
It was like the forest itself had finally broken our last bit
of resolve. Pat tore down the makeshift
barricade, tossing the table aside with a grunt.
Aye, I'm not sticking around. He mumbled, blinking away the
fatigue that clung to all of us. I'll do the paperwork, whatever
it takes, but I'm not coming back here.
Dana stayed silent, but her eyes darted around the station one
final time, almost as if she was memorizing every crack and
splinter. I could only imagine what she
was feeling, given her past run insurance with whatever lurked
out there. Then she swallowed hard and
whispered. Let's go.
We stepped outside, the morning air chilling our lungs.
Instead of the usual dawn chorus of birds, there was near
complete silence. It was as if the entire forest
held its breath, waiting to see if we'd actually leave.
A low haze lingered around the tree roots and the wind hissed
through damp leaves. That creeping unease wouldn't
let up. I felt like eyes were drilling
holes in the back of my head at the trucks.
We didn't even try to pretend we'd come back.
Normally there'd be talk of the next shift, or a reminder to
lock up carefully. This time, we just piled in,
turned keys and drove away. No glances in the rearview
mirror. We knew what we were leaving
behind. It wasn't just the station.
It was the memory of that horrific night, the footprints
in the mud, the indecipherable murmurs among the trees, and the
strange totems that hinted we were in over our heads.
As we hit the main road, I felt a glimmer of relief mixed with
guilt. Part of me worried about the
next person who'd fill our roles, but I knew I couldn't
stay there. The forest had become too loaded
with shadows and unanswered questions.
We pulled up to the central Ranger office later that
morning. The woman at the front desk
looked startled as we handed over our resignations in near
unison. Pat's words tumbled out, shaky
but resolute. We're done.
No more nights out there, No more of whatever's in those
woods. Nobody asked a single follow up
question. Maybe they'd heard rumors.
Maybe they saw our pale faces and realized we'd seen enough.
All I know is we gathered our belongings from our lockers
without a glance back. I heard Dana quietly mutter that
if anyone tried to make her go back, she'd drive 3 states away
before she set foot in another forest.
Marcus just nodded and patted her shoulder.
We left that day, each in our own car, driving away from the
Ranger service and the job we'd once loved.
Even though I was relieved, there was a tiny voice in my
head warning me those woods wouldn't forget us.
Sometimes when I'm alone and thinking too much, I picture the
bare footprints and those hooded shapes slipping back beneath the
branches. There's a sense of finality to
it, but also a lingering question mark.
Did we escape or just postpone the inevitable?
Either way, I've got no intention of going back to find
out. And if anyone were to ask, I'd
tell them the same thing. Some places aren't meant to be
understood or conquered. Some forests can keep their
secrets, and I'll keep my distance forever.
I could sense the isolation the instant our tires left the main
road and hit that patchy excuse for gravel.
Every bump felt magnified, like even the dirt wanted us to turn
back. My boyfriend, who I'll call
Dylan, tried to act like all this was part of the adventure,
but I caught him glancing in the rear view mirror more than once,
scanning the empty stretch behind us.
We'd heard about this primitive camping spot from a friend of a
friend, a place so remote you'd swear you were on another
planet. No designated sites, no cell
service, no company other than the occasional deer wandering
past. We thought it'd be just the
escape we needed. As the road got narrower and the
trees pressed in, I began to wonder if we were going too far
off grid. After what felt like an hour of
muddy twists and turns, we noticed a truck pulled off by
the side. Its hood was popped, but there
was no sign of obvious trouble. No steam, no frantic waving.
A woman leaned against the driver's door, not trying to
flag us down or anything, she just stood there.
We slowed a little, automatically ready to help, but
Dylan gripped the wheel and shook his head, his gaze locked
on her. The way she stared made me feel
like she'd been expecting us specifically, like we were
already part of some plan she had in mind.
I tried to get a better look at her face, but Dylan pressed the
gas and suddenly she was just a figure in the rear view mirror.
I caught myself checking the side mirror, half expecting her
to jump in her truck and follow. That didn't happen, or at least
not right then. We headed on, but the air inside
our car felt heavy. Dylan said it was nothing, but I
knew better. It took us another 10 or 15
minutes to find a place to pull off.
The spot wasn't ideal. Mud clung to our boots, and we
had to stomp around a bit to find a decent patch for the
tent. Still, it was level enough, and
we figured we'd be left alone. That was the whole point, right?
We set up a small fire, both of us trying to shake off our
uneasy start. I cracked a couple jokes about
wanting S'mores, hoping that normal conversation might make
everything feel safer. Then a car crawled by, a rusty
old sedan with a driver who slowed to stare at us.
I tried not to dwell on it. Maybe he was just curious.
But when the same car came back a second time, lingering even
longer, my pulse pounded. Dylan muttered something about
folks trying to find dry land in this swampy mess.
I nodded, but secretly, I wasn't buying it.
He circled back again. This time I locked eyes with him
for a split second. He didn't smile or wave, just
kept his gaze fixed on us. Before he drove off, Dylan and I
shared a look. Neither of us voiced what we
were thinking. Maybe we should leave, But the
idea of hauling all our stuff through slippery mud only to
have him follow our tracks made that plan seem pointless.
Dusk arrived, bringing the kind of silence that feels unnatural.
Our tiny fire crackled in the clearing, but the dark pressed
in from every side. We ate our hot dogs in tense
silence, checking the road every few minutes, waiting to see
headlights creeping by. When nothing else happened, we
tried to call it a night. The moment we zipped ourselves
into the tent, though, every rustle, every snap from the
fire's dying embers felt ominous.
I tried to calm my racing thoughts, reminding myself that
weird encounters happen sometimes, especially far from
civilization. Dylan seemed tense too, tossing
and turning, but we both tried to act like we were fine.
Neither of us wanted to be the one to say let's pack up right
now, not when we'd invested so much energy just getting there.
The last thing I remember before drifting off was wishing the
night would pass quickly, but deep down, I sensed things were
about to get a whole lot worse. Night settled around us in a
suffocating hush. I remember lying there, counting
the seconds between the crackling embers of our dying
fire and the distant rustle of undergrowth.
Dylan's breathing was shallow. I could tell he was as on edge
as I was, though neither of us admitted it.
Sometime past midnight must have been closer to 3:00 AM, an awful
noise tore through the silence. It was this warped combination
of metal scraping across gravel and a machine trying to start
up. It came in bursts, each one
echoing through the trees. My chest tightened as I strained
to figure out how close it was. Dylan quietly unzipped the tent
window just enough to peer out. The moonlight painted the
clearing in pale light, but everything looked still.
The sound must have been bouncing around the hills, or
maybe it was closer than I realized.
My mind was racing with questions I didn't dare say out
loud. I heard Dylan whisper that it
could be far away, but his voice wavered.
It didn't sound like he believed that himself.
I kept imagining shapes moving at the edge of the clearing,
people lurking just out of sight.
Usually I'd rationalize it all away, tell myself it was a weird
echo, an animal, anything. But there was nothing familiar
about that metallic grinding. A few minutes later, Dylan sat
up and started rummaging through our gear.
My pulse hammered as he pulled out the machete we'd packed.
It was still wrapped in that plastic packaging because we
never intended to use it for more than chopping brush.
Seeing him carefully remove it in the middle of the night in
total silence made me realize we were past the point of hoping
this would all blow over. He motioned for me to get
dressed quickly. No big speech, no debate.
We both knew we needed to leave. We moved as quietly as possible,
unzipping the tent and emerging into the cool night.
My senses were in OverDrive. My eyes jumped to every shifting
shadow. My ears caught every twitch in
the undergrowth. We started gathering our gear in
the weak moonlight. I almost tripped over an empty
can. I hadn't noticed before.
I nudged Dylan and he froze. We hadn't brought any beer, so
it definitely wasn't ours. That realization sent a jolt of
panic through me. Someone had been here close
enough to leave trash by our embers.
We didn't bother taking time for a detailed clean up.
We crammed our sleeping bags into the trunk, tossed the tent
on top, and locked ourselves in the car.
Dylan checked the gas gauge. He'd been worried that whoever
was out there might have siphoned our tank.
Thankfully, we still had enough to get out of there.
He fired up the engine and the headlights carved 2 stark beams
through the dark. Every tree seemed like a
potential hiding spot, and every bend in the muddy Rd. threatened
to reveal something we weren't ready to face.
We kept our eyes peeled for movement as we barreled through
puddles and slick patches, slipping a bit now and then but
never stopping. Once we finally got onto a more
solid stretch of gravel, I let myself breathe a little.
Dylan tried to make a joke, something about how a hybrid
saved us from ending up in some horror movie, but even the humor
felt forced. We were both still wired,
scanning the roadside as if the woman by the truck or that
circling car might appear around the next bend.
When we reached a main road, we didn't say much.
Relief washed over us, but it was the kind that left a bitter
after taste. We'd wanted isolation and ended
up feeling haunted. Neither of us slept easily that
night, and for the rest of the trip we stuck to crowded
campgrounds or cheap motels with bright lights in the parking
lot. I couldn't believe how different
everything looked when morning finally came, but that lingering
sense of unease stayed with me. In a single night, our idea of a
remote, peaceful getaway had been ripped apart by something
or someone we never even got a good look at.
I pulled into the campground just before sunset, expecting
the usual a few quiet families roasting marshmallows, maybe a
couple of seasoned hikers turning in early.
Instead, I was greeted by the clamor of loud music echoing off
the tree line. The source, A cluster of tents
circled around a blazing fire where a group of frat boys
hollered and laughed like they had the whole place to
themselves. Every so often, other campers
peeked out of their tents, uneasy and clearly wishing these
guys would tone it down. I couldn't blame them.
Noise doesn't just shatter the calm of a campsite, it draws
attention from things best left undisturbed.
Out here, folks whisper about the ghost cats, those local
mountain lions that are known to slip into camps without warning.
I'd seen enough tracks in eerily close proximity to sleeping bags
to know these stories were more than rumors.
I parked my rig a little ways off and walked over, picking my
path carefully around scattered coolers and folding chairs.
As I got close, the frat boys paused their banter, giving me
that half attentive look. They were mostly older teens or
early 20 somethings, still buzzing with alcohol and late
night bravado. Evening.
I started trying to keep it friendly but firm.
I'm the Ranger on duty. Got some other campers worried
you're attracting unwanted attention?
I motioned toward the looming tree line.
These woods have a reputation and it's not for the best sing
alongs. They laughed it off at first, so
I leaned in. Lowering my voice.
I described how mountain lions sometimes stalk the perimeter of
noisy camps, how you won't spot them until they're practically
brushing against your tent walls.
I explained how we call them ghost cats because of their
uncanny silence, the way they seemed to appear out of nowhere.
They sobered up a bit. A couple exchanged uncertain
glances, but one just shrugged, muttering that they'd keep it
down. I issued a final warning anyway.
Stay quiet, don't wander off, and if they heard anything odd
outside in the dark, make no sound.
I only hoped they'd actually listen.
Once I'd done all I could, I headed back to the station.
My buddy Jim was there, flipping through some old wildlife
photos. He raised an eyebrow when I told
him about the frat boys. Let me guess, Blasting music,
ignoring every rule we've got, right?
He said, clearly unimpressed. Bingo.
I replied. And they're not taking the
Mountain Lion threat seriously. He let out a quiet laugh that
contained 0 humor. We both knew this was more than
a minor annoyance. If something did happen, we'd be
the ones hauling them out or dealing with an injured cat that
got too comfortable around humans.
That's when we started talking about a plan.
Not to harm anyone, obviously, but to rattle them enough that
they'd finally grasp the gravity of a place like this.
Jim reminded me about the old lion pelt in our interpretive
center. Used it once or twice for
educational tours, though it always gave me the creeps.
It's glass eyes caught the light in this unnerving way, like it
was still alive. We also had night vision goggles
stashed away thanks to a budget splurge before the new fiscal
year, perfect for sneaking around in the dark unseen by
unsuspecting campers. Over the next half hour, we
pieced together a strategy. Fake prints, hidden growls, and
a well timed appearance of a lion silhouette.
It might just be the jolt they needed to pack up, or at the
very least dial down the party volume.
Grabbing the pelt from a dusty storage closet, I noticed the
faint, musty smell of fur mixed with something almost medicinal.
I ran my hand over the stiff mane, shivering at how realistic
it still felt. Next, we tested the night vision
goggles. Even in the dim station lights,
they turned everything into an eerie green that made my pulse
spike. By the time we had our gear
ready, the sun had slipped below the horizon.
The woods outside transformed into a dark maze.
I had this sense that the frat boys, oblivious in their tents,
were about to discover that being out here isn't just a
carefree getaway if they refused to respect the campground's
unspoken rules. Well, we'd give them a night
they wouldn't forget. Jim killed the overhead lights.
As we locked up. We checked our plan one last
time and I took a breath, settling my nerves.
We were about to sneak into that campsite loaded with props and a
fair share of wild imagination. In the back of my mind I thought
about the actual ghost cats prowling these hills I hoped we
wouldn't run into. A real one while pulling our
prank. It's one thing to frighten a few
campers, it's another to come face to face with the genuine
article. Still, I felt this rush of
adrenaline as we set off into the darkness.
Maybe it was the satisfaction of delivering a wake up call, or
maybe it was just that strange hushed energy you feel whenever
you realize you're not at the top of the food chain out here.
Either way, there was no turning back.
We had our plan and we were committed to seeing it through.
The night was only getting darker.
And the silent. Woods seemed to hold their
breath, waiting for whatever came next.
I hunched down in the cramped front seat of our Jeep, double
checking that the lion pelt was still tucked out of sight.
Outside, moonlight drenched the forest in faint silver, and
every rustle of wind through the branches made me brace for
actual movement. I couldn't help scanning the
dark spaces between the trees, searching for any flicker of
eyes that might belong to the real thing.
My Co worker, Jim, was fidgeting in the passenger seat, adjusting
the small PA system we'd use for the recorded roars.
Ready. He asked, voice low.
As I'll ever be. I replied, half hoping those
frat kids were already asleep and half itching to put our plan
into action. Either way, we needed to move
quickly. The night sky was starless and
visibility would only get worse. I eased the Jeep toward their
campsite, headlights off to keep our approach silent.
Stopping a good distance away, we slipped out and quietly shut
the doors. The path under our boots was
damp from an earlier drizzle, which made our footfalls softer
but also gave the soil a perfect texture for stamping fake
tracks. 1 by 1, we planted oversized paw prints in the mud,
making sure to press deeply near the tents.
Every so often we pause to listen, worried someone inside
might stir and peek outside, but all we heard was the faint
crackle of a dying fire. Next, Jim propped the lion pelt
onto 2 sturdy sticks we'd duct tape together, clearly
convincing. Massive head, snarling mouth,
and the kind of glassy eyes that appear to stare into your soul.
I caught myself glancing over my shoulder, half expecting an
actual animal to emerge, drawn by the uncanny shape.
With the pelt set up, we turned to the other part of our plan,
the roars. We'd preloaded the PA system
with a series of snarls and growls from real Mountain Lion
recordings. Jim started them at a low volume
from across the clearing. The first noise rumbled through
the darkness like a threat, and I could almost sense the campers
tensing in their tents. A second roar followed, echoing
off the surrounding trees, making it sound as if multiple
predators were encircling the area.
I slipped back into the Jeep and carefully flicked on the
headlights, aiming them so that they backlit the pelt.
From the angle of the beam, it looked like a living, breathing
cat pacing along the outskirts of the camp.
Jim shouted from behind a Bush. Stay in your tents, though his
voice shook with just enough panic to convince anyone he was
facing a genuine attack. She's moving around us, he
hollered, layering more drama into the moment.
Then he bellowed. There's another one.
The reaction inside those tents was instant.
I heard muffled cries. Frantic.
Rustling and the scrape of tent zippers being yanked shut again.
My own heartbeat thudded as I realized how convincing this
whole thing probably looked and sounded from their perspective.
In the glare of the headlights, the pelt's silhouette shifted as
though it was preparing to leap at any second.
I killed the lights in one sudden click.
Darkness swallowed the campsite. Jim dropped the sticks and we
rested the lion pelt free. In under a minute, we tore back
to the Jeep, adrenaline hammering through every vein.
Once inside, I started the engine and didn't hold back,
kicking up gravel as we made our getaway.
Over the rumble of our tires, I thought I detected one final
roar playing through the PA system, echoing behind us like a
last warning. When dawn finally broke, the
camp's radio chatter indicated that nobody had poked their head
out until well into the morning. From our station windows, we
could imagine their pale faces and wide eyes discovering the
huge paw prints scattered around some alarmingly close to their
tent doors. We heard they packed up not long
after, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders at the
looming forest. No doubt they were rattled to
the core. Jim and I swapped glances, both
relieved to hear they were safe, but also satisfied we'd given
them something to think about. We'd wanted them to respect
these woods, or at least remember that nature doesn't
tolerate fools. From what we heard later, they
told everyone about the Mountain Lion attack.
They'd barely survived. Maybe next time they'd remember
that out here, silence can be the difference between a
peaceful night and something far more dangerous.