I retired six weeks ago, just shy of my 62nd birthday.
My husband Tom left the fire department a month later and we
celebrated by buying a used 24 foot Winnebago.
Our idea was simple. Point the nose of the rig at the
Cascades and learn what it meant to relax.
Gifford Pinchot National Forest seemed like the right first
Test. Plenty of dispersed sites, clear
summer air and the promise of Tuck Lock lakes mirror smooth
view of Mount Adams. We turned off State Route 12
onto Forest Rd. 25 late on a Tuesday morning, confident we
had found the perfect stretch of wilderness to mark the beginning
of our new unscheduled life. Tom handled the driving while I
watched the elevation creep past 3000 feet on the dash display.
Cell service flickered but never quite disappeared.
Aside from 1 logging truck and a lone silver Chevrolet C10
pickup. Heading north, we had the road
to ourselves. The trees on either side were
second growth Douglas fir and cedar, tall enough to hide the
sky until a sharp bend suddenly framed the snow cap of Mount
Adams in the windshield. I took a photograph even though
we were both sure we would see better angles later.
By mid afternoon we had rattled across a narrow bridge spanning
Taku Creek and spotted a cleared Knoll about 30 yards off the
pavement. A faded wooden post confirmed it
was legal to camp for up to 14 days.
Tom leveled the RV and I climbed down the bank to fetch water
filtered through pumice colored gravel.
The air smelled of wet needles and wood smoke from someone's
distant fire. We set our chairs facing West,
poured 2 fingers of bourbon, and toasted the quiet.
A low rumble in the evening reminded me that these mountains
are alive in a very literal way. Small rock slides are common
along Road 25, especially when the temperature swings at dusk.
We heard one thud, then another somewhere up slope, but nothing
close enough to stir real concern.
The campground fire ring glowed with Alder coals while Tom
grilled the trout we had bought in Randall that morning.
Darkness settled without ceremony and we turned in early,
lulled by rain tapping steadily on the fiberglass roof.
The next day was everything we had hoped retirement would be.
We paddled inflatable kayaks on Taklak's Ink Black Water,
counted 5 other visitors all afternoon, and listened to a
woodpecker hammer somewhere beyond the tree line.
My phone maintained 2 bars of signal, enough to send a
photograph to our daughter in Seattle and assure her that her
parents were not completely off the grid.
Around 7:00 that evening, the silver pickup from the previous
day eased into our clearing. Headlights washed over the
Winnebago and gravel cracked under its tires.
The driver shut off the engine but left the beams on, creating
a stark theater of light and shadow around the fire pit where
Tom was turning foil wrapped vegetables.
A man climbed out, mid 40s, maybe early 50s, lean beneath a
mud streaked Carhartt jacket. He wore a green ball cap with a
Forest Service silhouette stitched in white thread.
No district name. He greeted us by first name,
though we had never introduced ourselves.
Slide took out the blacktop at mile marker 23, he said,
nodding. N whole lanes gone.
You will not get that rig out the way you came.
Tom asked whether the County Road crew had been notified.
The man shook his head and produced a folded sheet of
printer paper. Thick arrows traced a route that
started on a spur labeled NF2550 and ended at an unlabeled
junction he claimed would reconnect us to State Route 125
near Swift Reservoir. I thought it's strange that no
official closure signs had gone up.
But the stranger spoke with a matter of fact confidence that
discouraged doubt. He returned to his truck, waved
once, and drove N tail lights fading behind curtains of fir
branches. We broke camp at first light,
rain still hovering in the tree canopy like steam.
It felt prudent to confirm the landslide before committing to a
detour, so Tom idled toward mile marker 23.
The slide existed all right, broken pavement sheared clean
away, a fresh V shaped bite carved into the road bed.
A single plastic detour arrow, bright orange and spotless,
pointed down the gravel lane marked NF2550.
I opened a topographic map on my tablet.
The spur was not listed. Neither were any intersections
branching from it. Yet the gravel looked recently
grated, and we had no appetite for waiting days on a rural
repair crew. Tommy's the Winnebago forward.
We rolled for 10 slow minutes, tires crunching over granite
chips. The trees grew denser, trunks
almost crowding the road bed, until we reached AT junction
with no signage. Tom stopped.
According to the odometer, we had driven exactly 3 miles since
leaving the slide, but the terrain looked identical.
I stepped out to stretch and noticed a detail that tightened
the skin on my arms. 2 fresh ruts.
Our ruts ended abruptly at a raw wall of earth 20 yards behind
us. The lane we had just traveled
was gone, replaced by a slope of churned clay and splintered
roots, as if a bulldozer had erased it.
While we blinked back in the cab, Tom tried to reverse,
wheels spinning only ash colored dust.
The GPS puck on the dash insisted we were half a mile
east of our actual position. Floating in a blank field of
Gray pixels labeled uncharted, we had no option but to continue
forward. 1/4 mile later we passed a wooden trailhead sign
so weathered the lettering had peeled off.
Beyond it lay a small pull out littered with beer cans and,
unexpectedly, 2 canvas tents pitched on damp soil.
The camp looked occupied, zipper doors open, cookware stacked
beside a smoldering fire ring, But no voices answered when we
called out. A Subaru Outback sat nearby,
passenger door ajar, its dash Cam blinking red every second.
I reached in, pressed playback and watched grainy footage of a
campsite at night. A pair of headlights swept
across the lens, followed by brief shouts in a final frame of
the camera tumbling sideways. Tom suggested leaving
immediately. I agreed.
We marked the intersection with orange flagging tape and chose
the left branch, hoping it would angle us toward Hwy. 99.
The forest only grew darker, the canopy knitting overhead until
even midday felt like dusk. I checked the rear view mirror
and glimpsed our own orange tape fluttering past the back window.
Barely 15 minutes after we had hung it, a fork in the road
appeared, left, descending toward what looked like an old
lahar plain, right climbing toward ridgeline.
Tom steered right. The Winnebago rattled over
potholes, then levelled out onto the same fork we had just left,
the same flattened volcanic pumice, the same skid marks
etched into gravel. Our taped branch marker dangled
beside us, impossible and undeniable.
When full night arrived, the generator hesitated, then
coughed into silence. The cabin lights dimmed, cold
air seeped through the vents, carrying the faint chemical odor
of pumice dust. Tom clicked the hazard switch
out of habit, but the dash stayed black.
That is when the headlights appeared in the mirror, 2 white
cones cutting through mist. The silver Chevrolet rolled
forward at walking speed, engine smooth, cab interior glowing.
No driver occupied the seat. The pickup halted inches from
our bumper, it's horn silent, it's grill filling the entire
back window. Mud streaks on the tailgate
spelled 2 words in block letters.
Follow me. Tom looked at me, waiting for my
decision. I turned the key and prayed the
batteries had enough left to crank the engine.
The Winnebago started on the second try.
The pickup shifted into motion without a driver's hand anywhere
near its wheel. It LED us into the dark, deeper
into the unknown reaches of Gifford Pinchot, where maps
ended and roads seem to rearrange themselves while no
one watched. I kept my eyes on those tail
lights, gripping the armrest hard enough for my nails to
leave dense, and silently begged the forest to stay still, even
though I knew by then that the forest was not the one moving.
The Chevy's tail lights guided us along the spur for nearly an
hour. I kept my eyes fixed on the
glowing red rectangles while Tom coaxed the Winnebago across
potholes that struck like speed bumps at a wide bend.
The pickup accelerated, slipped between two stands of fur, and
disappeared when we reached the same bend.
There was no turn off, only thick timber and a ravine choked
with slide debris. I slowed until the RV crawled.
The odometer showed eight additional miles, yet the map
application still displayed a blank grid labeled UNCHARTED.
A wooden kiosk appeared ahead trailhead for Ape Canyon, though
the letters were bleached in, the glass display case held only
a curled volunteer schedule sheet dated May 23rd, 2025.
That was yesterday. Just beyond the kiosk we found
an improvised campsite. On a flat bench above the road,
2 Dome tents stood with doors unzipped.
A frying pan rested on hot ash. I could feel faint warmth when I
hovered my palm over the coals. A blue enamel mug lay on its
side, half full of coffee gone cold.
Nearby, a Subaru Outback idled with its headlights off, dash
Cam blinking red every second. No packs, no keys, no people.
I reached into the Subaru, press the playback button and scrub to
the last recorded minute. Night time footage showed the
tents. A pair of high beams swept
across the lens, bright enough to wash out detail.
Then two muffled screams cut off mid syllable.
The frame tilted as if the camera had been ripped free.
The file ended there. I slipped the memory card into
my phone and saved a copy. Tom tied orange survey tape to a
sapling beside the junction and we drove on, taking the only
branch that looked recently travelled.
After 10 minutes the road curved, climbed and dropped us
into a clearing. I recognized instantly.
Same flat bench, same tents, same Subaru.
My tape fluttered from the sapling as though we had never
left. Tom tried a three-point turn.
The rear tires spun in loose pumice before catching.
We backed on to what should have been the outbound track, yet the
headlights lit the identical fork again.
The GPS rebooted itself, defaulting to a waypoint labeled
NF Loop. The compass application rotated
without settling. I clicked the phone off and
shoved it into the console. Rain intensified and daylight
thinned, though my watch said it was barely 3.
Farther on, an old Forest Service barricade leaned across
a spur. The metal sign read NF99A Paved
scenic byway I knew sat 40 Rd. miles east.
Moss covered the lower edge. Bullet holes peppered the route
number. Past the barricade, the road
narrowed to single lane cinder and descended toward Gray ash
flats left by the 1980 eruption. Generator power dropped without
warning. Interior lights dimmed to an
amber glow. The temperature inside the cab
fell quickly. Our breaths clouded the
windshield. A warning placard appeared at
mile 11. Black silhouettes of trees
toppled by blast force the standard symbol marking St.
Helens restricted core. Someone had painted a fresh
arrow beneath it in the same orange as the unofficial detour
signs. We reached a fork at what my
watch claimed was six in the evening.
Left descended toward the Ash Plain.
Right climb toward Windy Ridge Overlook.
I chose left. The RV rolled downhill for two
long minutes, and the headlights struck my own tire tracks
looping from the opposite direction.
I shifted into reverse, backed up to the junction, and tried
right. The same tracks greeted us at
the same fork. I repeated the maneuver twice
more. Each attempt ended with the
Winnebago facing the identical decision.
Just after midnight. Engine noise approached from
behind. Tom shut off our headlights.
The silver Chevrolet eased into the beam of moonlight breaking
through low cloud, idled 10 yards back and rested there.
The cab Dome illuminated empty seats.
Mud streaks on the tailgate form 2 words.
Follow me. The truck crept forward, brake
lights pulsing at half second intervals, inviting pursuit.
I hesitated until the RV battery gauge dipped below 9 volts.
Stalling here meant freezing fog and dead radios.
I turned the key. The starter groan, but caught.
We trailed the pickup at 15 miles an hour at an unmarked
crossroads. It's brake lights flashed 3
times. Then it surged ahead, merged
with shadow and vanished. Headlamps revealed no branch, no
skid marks, just solid tree trunks where the truck should
have gone. Tom parked on level gravel
outside the Subaru campsite for the third time that night,
hoping the clearing would at least let us maneuver if we
needed to flee on foot. I opened the dash Cam file
again, scrolling frame by frame. The final seconds now showed
something new, our Winnebago rolling past the Subaru captured
from behind the tree line. Time stamped 317 AM, 12 minutes
in the future. I checked my watch.
It was 3 O 5:00 AM. Something rattled the RV's rear
ladder, 3 sharp jolts that reverberated through the
fiberglass Tom killed the interior lights.
We listened. No footsteps followed, no
voices, just the ticking of the cooling engine and the steady
drip of rain through the Cedars. When the minute hand reached 17
past, I watched the campground entrance through a crack in the
curtain. A familiar white shape moved
between the trunks, wide, boxy headlights gliding without
sound. The silver Chevrolet emerged,
nose angled straight toward our windshield, engine idling and
neutral. The mud letters across its
bumper had changed. Last chance.
I reached for the ignition, ready to follow or flee or
anything that might break the loop before dawn locked us here
for good. The word last chance glared at
us from the Chevy's bumper. I believed it.
Tom believed it. Neither of us felt safe trusting
A driverless truck. Yet staying inside the RV
promised a slow bleed of batteries and options.
We chose 1/3 path. I pulled the emergency backpacks
from under the dinette, 2 liters of water each, freeze dried
meals, a filter, and a signal mirror I had never used.
Tom grabbed the satellite phone we kept for true emergencies.
It's battery indicator showed 38% and the screen still refused
to lock onto satellites, but the weight of it felt reassuring.
We left a note on the table with the date and time, locked the
Winnebago and stepped into air that smelled faintly of sulfur
and wet cedar. A game trail angled uphill
behind the campsite. The slope promised elevation
and, with luck, a vantage over the looping roads.
We climbed in silence for 10 minutes before the forest
thinned and Gray pumice replaced living soil.
The line of sight opened onto the eastern flank of Mount Saint
Helens, its ragged crater rim catching the first light of
dawn. No person stood anywhere on the
ash plain below, but fresh tire ruts formed a tangle near the
base of Windy Ridge, proof that vehicles had passed recently,
even if we had seen none. Navigation electronics offered
no help. The compass application spun as
before, and the GPS pulsed. Acquiring.
Tom folded the devices away and relied on a simple rule.
Descend toward water. Smith Creek lay somewhere in the
valley east of us, and from there a network of maintained
trails should lead to the Forest Service Rd. system beyond the
restricted zone. Travel across the blast plain
demanded more effort than I expected.
Each step sank an inch into powdered ash.
Fallen trunks forced detours over and under splintered
obstacles. The watching silence unnerved me
more than any sound. My mind recorded every detail,
the crunch of grit under souls, the shallow rasp of my breathing
through a dust mask, the slow ticking of Tom's trekking pole
against basalt crumbs. I clung to tangible facts,
unwilling to give imagination space to wander.
After three hours, the grade mellowed.
Sparse Alder and fireweed marked the edge of surviving forest
east of the crater. When wind shifted, I heard a
distant mechanical rhythm. 3 short bursts, then a pause.
A chainsaw. I raised my hand and Tom nodded.
Human presence meant maintenance crews or hikers, either of which
could anchor us to reality. We angled toward the sound.
Half an hour later, bright hard hats flashed through Alder
stems. A six person trail crew cleared
storm fallen logs from a route I recognized on older maps as
Smith Creek trail #225 A Sawyer killed the engine as we broke
cover. I managed A shaky greeting, then
offered the short version. Stranded RV, malfunctioning
electronics, unmarked detours that circled indefinitely.
The crew leader, Ranger Hadley, radioed headquarters at Trout
Lake. Dispatch confirmed no landslide
on Forest Rd. 25, no emergency detours and no Chevy pickup
registered to any district fleet.
Hadley insisted we ride out with them.
The hike to the trailhead parking lot took 90 minutes
along New Clearing. Once there, cell service
returned in a single bar and the satellite phone blinked alive
with strong coordinates. The spell, whatever name one
chose for it, ended 100 yards from the last blast zone warning
sign. A deputy drove us to the Trout
Lake Ranger Station. After warm drinks and
statements, a search team escorted us back toward the loop
to recover the Winnebago and inspect our flagged route.
They found the tape but nothing else.
No washout at mile marker 23. No tents, no Subaru, no Chevy.
The RV sat exactly where we left it, batteries reading, full
charge generator idle but functional.
The note on our table still bore the ink timestamp we had
written, yet it's paper felt bone dry despite the previous
night's rain. The dash Cam memory card I
copied inside the Subaru suffered data loss during
evidence transfer. Only one clip survived A10
second loop of Tom and me sleeping in our RV, filmed from
several feet above the windshield.
No date, no time code, no audio. Investigators could not
determine origin or device. We spent two nights in Trout
Lake while Rangers attempted reconstruction.
They uncovered no recent missing person reports matching our
description, although one officer mentioned a couple who
vanished from Tuck Lock Lake in 1994.
A photo from that file showed their campsite beside a silver
Chevrolet C10 with a dented left Fender.
The officer allowed me a brief look.
The truck's license plate sat unreadable under a glare spot,
but deep ash Gray tire tracks stretched beyond the frame's
edge. Weeks later, back in Seattle, we
listed the Winnebago for sale. The buyers paid in cash the day
they saw it. We donated part of the proceeds
to Washington Search and Rescue volunteers.
On paperwork, I cited personal health reasons for leaving Rd.
life behind. The deeper motives felt harder
to explain. Some nights, when house sounds
settle, I still picture orange arrows nailed to trees and hear
an idling engine at the edge of darkness.
I remind myself that every route has a fixed length, that maps
remain static unless new roads appear.
By deliberate human work, the logic calms me enough to sleep,
though I never quite convinced myself all loops can be broken
once they close. When I was growing up in
Brevard, NC, just outside Pisgah National Forest, people always
told stories about strange things in the woods.
The adults would mention them casually at cookouts or at the
diner on Sundays after church. Stories about weird noises, odd
lights drifting through the trees, and vague descriptions of
animals no one could identify. Like everyone else my age, I
laughed it off. Living near mountains and thick
forests, rumors were normal. Just something to make our quiet
lives feel more interesting. By 17, I had developed an
interest in photography, and my senior year project was all
about capturing the wilderness near Pisgah, especially in
winter. It was perfect.
Empty trails, Gray skies, ice frosting the edges of streams
and branches. There was something hauntingly
beautiful about it, a loneliness that spoke through the camera
lens. But despite the beauty, the
forest in winter also made me feel oddly vulnerable.
Everything seemed more exposed, including me.
On an icy afternoon in January, my mom drove me out to the
Sycamore Flats trailhead. It was familiar ground, a safe
spot where I'd taken photos dozens of times before.
My camera hung around my neck, bouncing gently against my chest
as I waved goodbye and watched her car pull over to the side of
the road. She'd wait there, listening to
the radio, comfortable, knowing I wasn't far away.
I walked alone down the dirt path, leaves crunching softly
beneath my feet. Without my glasses, the trees
and river beyond took on blurry outlines, making the woods feel
dreamlike. I'd recently gotten glasses
because my vision had become noticeably worse, but I was
still adjusting to wearing them regularly.
Without them, distant things always looked indistinct,
slightly distorted. The path opened up onto the
familiar riverbank, curving gently alongside the French
Broad River. It was empty now, nothing like
summer when families crowded the banks.
Today it was silent. Ice shimmering at the water's
edges, bare branches overhead. I wandered slowly, snapping
photos of brittle twigs, cracked ice formations, and rocks shaped
like strange little animals. Soon something caught my eye, a
rusted railroad spike jutting up from the gravel, worn and
covered with patches of frost. I knelt to get a close up,
framing it carefully in my camera's viewfinder.
It was at that exact moment that I became aware of a sudden
change. Everything around me had gone
utterly silent. The birds, the faint rustle of
wind, even the distant sound of flowing water seemed muted,
pressed beneath a thick blanket of silence.
It was the kind of silence that pressed inward on your eardrums,
heavy and unnatural. I stood slowly, uneasy now.
My orange raincoat, vibrant against the washed out
landscape, suddenly made me feel exposed, almost spotlighted.
A creeping sensation crawled up my spine, a raw, primal feeling
of being watched. I squinted across the river
without my glasses. Everything beyond the nearest
trees was unclear, shapes blending into a hazy Gray
backdrop. Then I heard footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, crunching loudly through dead leaves and
twigs coming from the far side of the river.
My pulse quickened as I searched the blurry tree line, straining
my eyes to catch any sign of movement.
A figure appeared, slipping quietly out from between two
large trees. It stood upright, tall and thin,
but its proportions felt wrong, too elongated, too fluid in its
motion. Nothing about it looked human or
animal. It moved carefully toward the
river, stepping silently, smoothly, stopping just short of
the riverbank. I couldn't breathe, couldn't
move, couldn't do anything except stare and numb terror.
Even without clarity, I knew instantly it wasn't right.
Gray skin like ash and long limbs shifting with eerie grace,
impossible to mistake for anything ordinary.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
My fingers tightened painfully around my camera, frozen with
indecision. Only when the figure took
another step closer did adrenaline break the spell.
I spun on my heels, stumbling awkwardly over rocks and ice,
and ran faster than I'd ever run in my life.
I didn't dare glance behind me, terrified of what I might see.
Every step was panic driven until I finally broke through
the trees and saw the car waiting, my mom already opening
her door, a worried expression on her face.
What happened? She asked urgently, gripping my
shoulder as I gasped for air. I couldn't immediately respond,
still shaking violently. Eventually, in broken sentences,
I told her about the figure, the terrible silence, the awful
sense of vulnerability. Her expression tightened.
She admitted softly that she had felt something strange herself
and overwhelming anxiety the moment I disappeared down the
trail. We didn't stay.
We drove away immediately, neither of us speaking much on
the drive home, the forest slipping silently away in the
rearview mirror. That day became a fixed point in
my memory, something I could never explain clearly to anyone.
Even years later. As an adult, I'd sometimes
wonder exactly what had stood on the opposite Bank of the French
Broad River that afternoon, and just how close it had come.
After we left Pisgah, my mind wouldn't stop replaying the
scene by the river. I tried to convince myself that
what I saw was just a trick of my bad eyesight or nerves from
the unnatural silence, but deep down I knew it wasn't that
simple. Something else was out there,
and whatever it was, it stayed rooted in my thoughts, keeping
me awake that night as I stared at my bedroom ceiling.
The next morning, I woke feeling exhausted.
Still unsettled, I joined Mom at the kitchen table for breakfast.
She handed me a plate of pancakes without speaking, but I
could see she hadn't slept well either.
She stirred her coffee, eyes distant.
You felt something yesterday, didn't you?
I finally asked her. She paused for a moment, not
looking up. I felt worried.
She admitted quietly. It was strange, right after you
went down that trail, something didn't feel right.
It was like the air just went heavy.
I've never had a feeling quite like that before.
Hearing her admit it sent a chill down my spine.
Do you think anyone else has felt it?
I wondered aloud. She met my eyes with an
uncomfortable expression. Around here, everyone has
stories. I always ignored them.
Maybe I shouldn't have. After breakfast, my unease
turned into determination. I needed answers, or at least
something to ground what I'd seen in reality.
I spent most of the morning at the library, searching old
articles and scrolling through archived Internet forums on the
public computer. My fingers tapped anxiously on
the worn keyboard until I found a single strange reference on an
old hiking message board in 2004, someone had posted.
Has anyone else seen the Gray Walker by the river near
Sycamore Flats? No responses, no follow-ups, but
the question itself was enough to make my stomach tighten.
The post was deleted a few days later, as if someone regretted
even asking. Digging deeper, I found
something even older, an archived article from the
Brevard Times dated 1953. The headline read Local Boy
frightened by Gray man in Sycamore Hollow.
I skimmed the faded text, heart beating faster with every line.
The details were sparse, but the boy described a figure, tall and
Gray, moving silently by the river.
Authorities dismissed it as imagination.
The story was buried, fading into folklore.
Feeling even more unsettled, I met up with Mark later that
afternoon, sitting together on the worn out sofa in his
basement. I recounted everything, the
silence, the strange feeling, the thing by the riverbank.
Mark listened closely, eyebrows furrowed.
That sounds like something out of those stories your grandpa
tells. He finally said, trying to
lighten the mood, but I noticed the tension in his voice.
Do you really think it was a skinwalker or something?
I asked, half hoping he'd laugh it off, reassure me it was
nonsense. He hesitated, looking uneasy.
No, skinwalkers are just stories from out West.
They're human, like whatever you described.
It didn't sound human or animal. I grabbed a notebook from my
backpack, quickly sketching out the figure as best as I could
remember. Elongated limbs, hunched
shoulders, oddly jointed legs. I handed it to him silently,
waiting for his reaction. Mark stared at it for a long
moment, then placed it slowly on the table, frowning.
That's not like anything I've ever heard of around here.
Honestly, Aaron, I don't know what that is.
We sat quietly, my anxiety settling thickly around us both.
After a while, Mark took a deep breath.
We should go back. He said abruptly.
Check it out in daylight, maybe we'll find tracks or something.
The thought made my stomach twist, but I nodded reluctantly.
He saw my hesitation and gently squeezed my hand.
We'll be careful. I have a trail camera.
I'll set it up, see if we catch anything.
At least we'll know. The idea of returning made me
nauseous, but curiosity and fear were tangled together, pushing
me toward answers. Eventually, I agreed.
We decided we'd go in a few days, give ourselves time to
prepare and calm our nerves. But that night, lying awake
again in my bed, I wondered if going back was a terrible
mistake. I imagine the river, the
silence, and that Gray figure moving closer.
I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just coincidence,
that other people had seen it too, Decades apart, it felt like
something ancient was waiting patiently out there, hidden just
beyond clear sight, undisturbed except by those unfortunate
enough to stumble too close. Three days later, Mark and I
found ourselves back at Sycamore Flats.
It was even colder than before, the Gray sky pressing down
heavily over the forest. The air felt tight in my lungs,
the quietness of the woods returning as soon as we stepped
onto the trail. Mark adjusted the strap of his
backpack where he'd stored his hunting camera and glanced at me
cautiously. Are you sure you're OK?
He asked, keeping his voice low as if afraid something would
overhear us. Not really.
I admitted, forcing myself to smile.
But let's just get this over with.
We walked slowly toward the river, our footsteps crunching
softly over dead leaves and patches of ice.
The forest around us felt strangely watchful, silent
except for our breathing and the faint trickle of water somewhere
ahead. As we neared the riverbank, I
felt the familiar tension grip my chest, as if the memory
itself was warning me away. When we finally reached the spot
where I'd seen the figure, Mark knelt by the river, eyes
scanning carefully over the ground.
I hovered beside him, resisting the urge to constantly glance
across the water. After several tense moments, he
called me over quietly. Look at this, he murmured,
pointing at an impression in the wet soil near the edge of the
riverbank. My heart tightened painfully as
I stared at it. It was shaped like a footprint,
but impossibly elongated, too thin, with deep indentations
that seemed more like claws than toes.
What could make something like that?
I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He shook his head slowly, eyes wary.
Nothing I've ever haunted, and nothing human, either.
I took a step back, breathing faster now, trying to fight off
the panic creeping steadily into my chest.
Mark straightened up, visibly uneasy, and glanced quickly
across the river. He motioned silently toward a
tree farther along the bank. I'll set up the camera there.
He whispered, voice taut. We can leave it for a day or two
and come back when it's safe. I nodded numbly, eyes fixed on
the opposite shore. The bare trees stood frozen,
blurred slightly by my poor vision.
Something deep inside warned me to leave immediately, but I
stayed rooted in place, forcing myself to keep calm.
Mark worked quickly, climbing a low branch and securing the
trail camera so it overlooked the riverbank clearly.
His hands shook slightly, but he said nothing more.
We both knew the sooner we left, the better.
Just as we turn to head back down the path, the air around us
shifted again, becoming thick, heavy.
My pulse surged. My stomach tightened violently.
A sudden, undeniable awareness flooded me.
We were being watched. Again.
The footsteps returned, this time quicker, louder, rushing
toward us along the opposite bank.
I spun around sharply, squinting into the blur of trees.
Across the water, a shadow darted between trunks, fast,
fluid, impossibly agile. Mark saw it too, and grabbed my
wrist. His voice strained.
We have to go now. We ran, feet slipping over wet
stones and frozen leaves. My breath rasped painfully in my
throat, panic driving me forward until something caught my foot.
I tripped hard, sprawling forward onto the cold earth.
Mark quickly turned back, pulling me to my feet.
My ankle stung sharply, but I didn't stop.
Behind us, branches snapped loudly, something big crashing
through the brush. Neither of us dared to look
back. We scrambled frantically toward
the trailhead, breaking through the final line of trees and onto
the road. Breathless and shaken, Mark
unlocked his car quickly, and we practically dove inside.
He peeled away, tires skidding slightly on the icy Rd.
For a long moment we just sat silently, listening to the roar
of the engine, trying desperately to slow our
breathing. Later that evening, safe in
Mark's basement, we connected the trail camera's SD card to
his laptop. Most of the video files were
distorted, static riddled, blurred shapes shifting rapidly
through corrupted frames. But near the very end, one image
came through, clear enough to freeze us both in place.
Standing near the edge of the river was the Gray figure,
exactly as I remembered. Its limbs were unnaturally long,
its stance slightly bent, its head tilted oddly, as though it
had been listening or tracking something.
It stood motionless, partly hidden among bare branches, just
clear enough for us to see that it was real, solid and
terrifyingly close. Mark closed the laptop slowly,
his expression haunted. No one can ever see this, he
whispered. I nodded silently, heart heavy,
knowing we'd never set foot near Sycamore Flats again.
In the years since, I've heard other quiet whispers around
town, vague reports of shadows in the woods, missing pets,
strange noises after dark. But Mark and I never spoke
openly about it again. The river still flows quietly
through Pisgah, indifferent and unchanging.
But now, every time I pass near those woods, I remember clearly
what stood watching me from the other side.
Some things belong to the wilderness, alone, hidden and
waiting just beyond clear sight. I never understood why Tyler
always chose places he found online, remote places we barely
had any information on. Maybe that's what drew us all
together. Me, Tyler, and Jace.
Each of us had a different flavor of recklessness.
Tyler had his drone obsession, always chasing aerial shots for
YouTube clicks. Jace chased rocks and fossils
with a stubbornness that bordered on obsession.
And I was the guy behind the camera lens, always aiming for
perfect shots of star clusters or nebulae.
The idea was to drive West, rent an RV, and vanish for a weekend
under some of the darkest skies left in the country.
Our chosen destination was an abandoned logging landing above
Pactila Reservoir in South Dakota's Black Hills National
Forest, somewhere barely marked on outdated maps and whispered
about in ancient hiking forums. We arrived on a Friday
afternoon. The drive up that unmarked Spur
Rd. was a nightmare. Thick brush clawed at the sides
of the RV, potholes deep enough to jar our bones, and half
collapsed sections that threatened to send us rolling
backward into oblivion. It took hours, but eventually we
climbed to the clearing. The place was perfect, at least
at first glance. Flat ground, panoramic views of
the reservoir far below, and not another soul for miles.
Tyler parked us near a rusted loader frame poking up through a
patch of grass. I stepped outside, savouring the
silence. But it wasn't peaceful silence.
It was heavy pressing, the kind that felt like it was waiting,
holding its breath as we set up camp.
Jace immediately wandered off, already poking through the
undergrowth. Tyler got to work rigging up his
drone, eager to scout the area. I took out my gear.
Telescope, tripod, camera. This was going to be my best
night for astrophotography yet. We lost ourselves in the usual
routine, each absorbed in our tasks.
When darkness settled, it was like a black velvet curtain
pulled slowly across the sky. The stars emerged, dazzling and
sharp, a billion scattered pinpricks against absolute
darkness. Yet despite the beauty, a
nagging discomfort lingered at the edge of my mind.
You hear that? Tyler asked, breaking my
concentration as I adjusted the focus ring.
Hear what? I replied.
Exactly. Nothing.
Not a cricket, not an owl, nothing.
It's like we're inside a Dome. Jace returned then, dusting dirt
from his pants, shaking his head.
Found something weird. Animal droppings, big ones
shaped strange. Too big for deer, doesn't look
right for bear. I tried to laugh it off, but my
voice fell flat. Tyler ignored him, launching the
drone with practiced ease. We gathered around the small
monitor, watching the drone sweep the tree line in
grayscale, the infrared camera turning the forest into a
ghostly landscape. Looks clear, Tyler said,
satisfied. We returned to the RV, ate
canned chili heated on the propane stove, and waited for
total darkness to fully immerse the campsite.
By midnight, I was capturing frames of a distant nebula, Jay
scribbling notes about quartz veins in his notebook, Tyler
checking drone footage. My camera beeped quietly with
each exposure, a soft reassurance everything was fine,
normal even. We were safe, hidden away in our
private wilderness. I drifted asleep sometime after
2:00 AM, my head filled with images of distant galaxies
spinning silently. It wasn't until morning when
things unravelled. Tyler's voice woke me tight and
strained. Guys, you need to see this.
We crowded around his laptop. On screen was a frozen drone
image, time stamped precisely at 18 hours, 43 minutes and 12
seconds yesterday evening. At first glance, it appeared
normal. Trees brush shadows.
Look closer, Tyler whispered. Then I saw him.
Standing just inside the tree line behind our campsite was a
tall man in camouflage clothing. He was half concealed by a
ponderosa pine, his figure motionless, blending
disturbingly well into the background, his posture
unnaturally stiff, facing directly toward where we've been
unloading our gear, his face obscured by shadow and branches.
Even frozen, his intent was unmistakable.
My throat tightened. Did anyone see him yesterday?
No, Tyler said. No way.
I reviewed every second of this footage last night.
He wasn't there. You think he was a hunter?
Jay said weekly. Maybe scouting us out.
Could have passed by after the drone flew over.
Tyler shook his head. Watch.
He advanced frame by frame. The man never moved, not even
slightly. Not a head turn, not a twitch.
He was a fixed object, frozen, hidden in plain sight.
The drone had recorded only seconds of him before its path
carried the lens away. Seconds was long enough.
A cold dread sank into my chest. The timestamp showed clearly.
He'd been less than 40 feet from US, 40 feet close enough to hear
us breathe, close enough to step out at any moment.
The three of us sat in silence, the RV suddenly feeling small
and fragile, a thin aluminum shell in a wilderness we had
dangerously underestimated. Jay stood abruptly, grabbing his
jacket. Maybe it's just someone messing
with us. We should look around, clear our
heads. We stepped outside together,
each trying to mask our growing unease.
But as I glanced at the tree line again, I knew whatever had
watched us was not far out here, hidden in plain sight.
Someone or something was already far too close.
The afternoon sun did nothing to ease the tight knot of unease
twisting inside me. Despite the light, the forest
still felt impossibly quiet. After discovering the stranger
in Tyler's drone footage, none of us spoke for hours.
We wandered around camp, inventing busy work to distract
ourselves from the truth. Someone had watched us closely,
silently, and we'd never even noticed.
Jace, ever practical, insisted we stay one more night.
We're isolated, sure, but running off now means hiking
down that road in the dark. No thanks, Tyler agreed
hesitantly, suggesting we rig motion sensor floodlights around
the perimeter of camp. We'll catch whoever it is, he
muttered grimly. His optimism felt thin, more
bravado than genuine confidence, but we all welcomed it.
As Tyler carefully positioned the lights around the clearing,
I decided to climb a small Ridge behind our campsite, hoping to
find a higher point where I might catch enough signal to
call someone. The hike was short but steep,
through thick brush and loose rock.
When I reached the top, my heart sank.
Still no reception. I turned slowly, surveying the
surrounding woods. At the ridge's summit was an
old, rotted fire ring encircled by small, precisely placed
stones. The circle was meticulous, each
stone evenly spaced, carefully aligned.
Chills prickled my skin. I knelt down to inspect them
more closely, finding Moss covering their bases.
Whoever placed these stones had done so a long time ago.
But as I stood, something else hit me harder.
The mossy ground showed no footprints but mine.
My stomach lurched. How could someone arrange these
stones without disturbing the ground?
Returning to the RVI found Jay sharpening his hatchet, eyes
nervously darting toward the trees.
Tyler fiddled endlessly with the drone's controls, recalibrating
again and again. Neither acknowledged my
presence, their silence confirmation that anxiety now
gripped us fully. Nightfall came swiftly, draining
color from the sky until only inky darkness remained.
I tried to distract myself, recalibrating my telescope, but
eventually abandoned it. The shadows felt suffocating.
All we could do now was wait. At precisely 10:32 PM, the first
motion sensor floodlight snapped on, flooding the clearing and
harsh white illumination. We rushed outside, scanning the
edge of the trees, flashlights probing deep into the darkness.
Nothing moved, no sound or shift in the shadows, just the
relentless empty forest. 40 minutes later, another light
blazed on, this time from behind the RV.
We circled it, frantic beams searching.
Again, nothing. No footprints, no branches
disturbed. Jace muttered under his breath,
gripping his hatchet so tightly his knuckles turned pale.
This continued, light snapping on and off randomly through the
night, each activation drawing us out like frightened animals,
our nerves wearing thin. By three in the morning,
exhaustion dulled, the edges of our fear replaced by sheer
fatigue. Tyler slumped onto his bunk,
hands trembling. Jay stared blankly at nothing,
eyes hollow. Just after four, as I dozed
fitfully, a loud, deliberate knock echoed from outside.
Not a branch or an animal. It was clear, precise,
intentional. My heart pounded against my
ribs. Tyler jumped upright.
Jace grabbed his hatchet and stared wide eyed at the door.
Summoning my courage, I cracked open the RV door, flashlight
trembling in my hand. Our cooler, previously right
outside the door, had vanished. Guys, I whispered, mouth dry.
The cooler's gone. We stepped outside cautiously,
senses hyper alert. 20 feet away, in the center of the
clearing, the cooler sat neatly upright around it.
Every item from inside had been arranged meticulously into a
perfect outward spiral. Soda cans, hot dog packages,
bags of ice, even utensils, all precisely placed labels facing
upward, untouched and exact. The precision was chilling.
Jay shook his head in disbelief. Someone screwing with us?
No, Tyler murmured, voice thick with dread.
This is different. I couldn't tear my eyes from the
unnatural symmetry. Who had enough patience and
stealth to do this so silently within feet of where we slept?
Suddenly, Tyler's drone word to life on its own.
We'd nearly forgotten he'd programmed it earlier for a
perimeter sweep at dawn. It climbed slowly, hovering just
above our heads. Tyler snatched up the
controller, fingers shaking as he watched the live feed.
Oh God. He gasped, his voice cracking.
We crowded around the screen. The drone swung to the RV,
zooming steadily in. A figure stood perfectly still
atop our vehicle, tall, fully camouflaged, arms rigidly at his
sides. His head tilted downward, face
obscured beneath the brim of a wide, shadowy hat.
The drone's camera glitched with static, distortion tearing at
the edges of the screen. The man didn't flinch or move,
frozen in unnatural stillness. The feed cut abruptly,
dissolving into static snow. We spun toward the RV, lights
and flashlights piercing every corner.
The roof was empty, untouched, no signs of entry or
disturbance. But as Tyler circled the RV, he
stopped abruptly. Wedged neatly into the window
screen at eye level was a small clump of animal fur, tied neatly
with thin thread, like some sort of Talisman or marker.
Tyler's hand shook as he gently removed it.
Eyes wide in horror, we stood silently staring at the darkened
forest around us. Whatever or whoever was out
there was watching closely, calmly tormenting us, savoring
our fear, We realized with nauseating clarity that this was
no prank. We were being hunted at sunrise.
We moved like frightened animals.
There was no pretense of calm left among us.
Every sound, every flicker of shadow made my pulse race.
We packed hastily, abandoning the careful organization of
supplies from earlier, driven now by an overwhelming urge to
flee. Tyler tossed equipment
recklessly into storage bins, muttering anxiously.
Jay stood guard, clutching his hatchet, eyes dark with
exhaustion. My hands shook as I secured the
telescope rig. The clearing felt different now,
tainted, as though unseen eyes watched every frantic move we
made. By the time we were rolling down
the narrow, overgrown Rd. away from the landing site, our
relief was palpable. If short lived, the descent felt
more treacherous than our arrival, each rut jarring us
roughly. Tyler drove slowly, straining to
keep the vehicle steady, but barely half a mile down the
slope, the RV lurched violently left, nearly throwing me from my
seat. Tyler cursed loudly, gripping
the wheel as we skidded to a stop in the loose gravel.
We stumbled outside, hearts sinking immediately.
Both rear tires had been shredded, their thick rubber
slashed and clean, brutal cuts. This was no random damage.
It had been done deliberately, precisely while we'd slept.
Tyler slumped against the RV, his face pale.
What do we do now? Jay stared helplessly at the
tires gripping his hatchet until his knuckles whitened.
Only one option. We hiked down for help.
Pactila visitor centers got to be reachable by foot.
I felt dread coil tighter in my gut.
Hiking meant leaving the relative safety of the vehicle.
Hiking meant exposure to whatever was out there.
Tyler and I exchanged a long, uneasy glance.
I'll stay with the RV. Jayce offered, voice rough.
If whoever this is wants to mess with us more, I'll handle it.
You 2 get help. There was something fierce and
determined in his eyes, and I realized he wouldn't budget.
With grim nods, Tyler and I packed light bags, took the bear
spray, flashlights, and extra batteries, and set off downhill.
I glanced back once, seeing Jace leaning silently against the RV
hatchet. Ready.
Then he disappeared from view as the trees swallowed us whole.
The trail downward was brutal. Loose shale, thick undergrowth
and uneven footing slowed our progress.
I stumbled often each fall, ratcheting up the anxiety
gnawing at my nerves. Tyler stayed silent, his face
grimly said as we pushed through the dense brush.
Then we spotted something odd, a weathered wooden marker etched
roughly with the number six. A few 100 feet lower, we passed
another marked 5, then four, each number counting downward.
Tyler halted abruptly, staring at the marker in disbelief.
They're counting something, he whispered.
I swallowed hard. Counting what?
He didn't answer, just urged us onward faster.
I felt a sense of suffocating dread grow with every step,
certain we'd made a terrible mistake splitting up.
The woods were impossibly dense, shadows pressing close around
us. Finally, after hours, the brush
thinned and we stumbled out beside a small day use area
overlooking Pactola Reservoir. A solitary kayaker stood near a
vehicle, packing gear. He turned, startled by our
sudden appearance. You boys all right?
He called warily. No, Tyler answered sharply.
We need help. Our RV broke down miles uphill,
Friends still back there. The kayaker listened, expression
darkening as we described our experience.
He had a satellite phone, thank God, and immediately called.
Search and rescue Rangers were on their way within an hour, yet
every minute felt agonizingly long.
The climb back up with the rescue team was grim.
The Rangers were quiet, their cautious professionalism a stark
reminder of how dangerous our situation truly was.
Reaching the clearing again, the sight of the RV, empty, silent,
chilled me. Jace.
Tyler shouted, desperation clear in his voice.
Silence answered. We raced to the vehicle,
throwing open the door. Inside, every window stood wide
open, the screen slashed neatly from the inside.
My breath caught painfully. Jace was gone.
Tyler sank to his knees, staring vacantly into space.
A Ranger approached quietly, noticing something.
The monitor screen we'd used for the drone now looped a short
video clip continuously. With trembling fingers, I played
it again. Static gave way to grainy
footage of Jayce sitting inside the RV, back turned toward the
door. Slowly, silently, the RV door
swung inward behind him. My pulse hammered painfully as
Jayce turned his head slightly and smiled.
The image snapped abruptly back to static, repeating endlessly.
A Ranger gestured urgently, pointing to the wooden cabinet
behind me. Carved crudely into the wood
with Jace's multi tool were words I knew would haunt me
forever. He waits at eye level.
Don't look up. Weeks later, back home in
Minnesota, we were still numb. Search teams had scoured the
hills, found nothing, and labeled Jace's disappearance as
another unsolved mystery in a long history of vanishings
around the reservoir. Tyler called me late one night,
voice ragged. I found something.
What? My voice was barely a whisper,
the drone footage uploaded automatically to my cloud
backup. It caught one last frame before
the feed cut. He sent me the video clip.
I opened it, blood freezing instantly in grainy clarity.
The camouflaged figure stood motionless on the RV roof,
facing downward. Then, slowly, deliberately, the
figure raised one hand, waving directly at the drone.
The camera jerked upward, catching a panoramic shot of the
clearing and the dark tree line surrounding it.
My heart stilled as I noticed them, nearly invisible among the
treetops. More figures, camouflaged,
silent. Dozens of them, standing
perfectly still, watching, waiting.
I understood, suddenly and terribly, that whatever had
taken Jace was not a solitary threat.
It was something older, darker, a presence patient enough to
wait unseen and motionless until the moment was right.
And as I stared at that frozen image, I remember Jason's smile
on the video loop. It was the smile of someone who
had finally realized the inevitable.
The smile of someone who knew he was being watched, accepted, and
chosen. And now, weeks later, as I
glance out my window into the dark woods behind my house, I
can't shake the terrible certainty.
We had never been alone out there, and whatever had taken
Jace might be closer than we ever realized.
Olympic National Forest isn't exactly a hidden gem, but the
Doswallops River area, accessed by a barely drivable track
called Forest Rd. 28, feels about as isolated as you can get
without completely vanishing off the map.
It had taken months of planning between me, Riley and Elena to
carve out a weekend away from Portland's crowded bustle.
This was our getaway, a few nights spent under towering fir
trees, just us, a trailer full of beer and snacks, and the
rhythmic murmur of the Dos Wallops River.
I'd recently picked up a used teardrop trailer, small enough
to tow anywhere comfortable enough to ease Riley's concerns
about sleeping in a tent, and sturdy enough to handle the
rough Backcountry roads we all preferred.
Forest Rd. 28 had barely qualified as a Rd. more, a
collection of potholes and mud grooves that rattled our teeth
with every mile. But eventually, after nearly an
hour of creeping through dense ferns and shadowy overgrowth, we
emerged at our destination, a gravel clearing beside a gentle
bend in the river. We quickly set up camp,
stringing up lights and unfolding camp chairs.
Riley joked about bears, but Elena brushed it off, pointing
to our sealed trailer. Evening slipped quietly into
night, the air thickening with moisture from the river, the
darkness around us absolute except for the narrow cone of
orange glow cast by our portable lights.
After hours of laughter, old stories, and a few too many
beers, we finally crawled into the tiny trailer, letting the
river's gentle hum lull us to sleep.
I woke before the others just after dawn.
Stretching out of the cramped bed, I stepped outside into a
Gray morning mist drifting lazily off the river's surface.
Everything felt calm, untouched, exactly as we had left it, until
I looked beyond the edge of our clearing.
Standing about 20 yards from our trailer was a crude figure made
entirely of driftwood and river debris.
It was tall, about 6 feet, and positioned precisely so it faced
directly at our trailer, as if studying us.
The longer I stared, the more uneasy I felt.
A pair of shed elk antlers had been tightly lashed to the top
of its head. Both points twisted deliberately
to point inland, away from the river toward the dense old
growth furs. Elena.
I called quietly. She stirred awake, followed by
Riley groaning about coffee. When they emerged from the
trailer, their faces mirrored my confusion.
Who built that? Riley muttered, unease edging
into his voice. He walked cautiously toward it,
circling slowly, examining the way its limbs were bound
together with braided grass and sinewy bark.
Looks too deliberate to just be random, doesn't it?
Someone messing with us? Elena said, shrugging and
forcing a laugh that didn't reach her eyes.
Maybe other campers nearby. There weren't any other campers?
Riley reminded her, glancing nervously at the dark wall of
trees. No tire tracks, no sign anyone
else was here. Let's put up a trail Cam
tonight. I suggested, hoping a rational
solution would settle everyone's nerves, catch whoever it is in
the act. Riley nodded reluctantly, and
Elena returned her attention to boiling water for coffee.
But we all kept glancing back at that strange figure, half
expecting it to move or vanish. Something to explain away it's
unsettling presence. The rest of the day passed
without incident. We explored along the dose
wallops. Fished unsuccessfully in a small
pool upstream and eventually made dinner.
As dusk settled heavily around us, we set up the trail camera,
positioning it carefully to capture any activity near the
edge of our clearing. As darkness fell, the silence
deepened, heavy and absolute. Each small sound, the crack of a
branch, the faint rustling of leaves seemed magnified.
I found myself straining to hear something beyond the familiar
lull of the river, anything out of place, but exhaustion finally
won out. I woke in the night briefly to
Elena shaking my shoulder. She whispered nervously.
Did you hear that? What?
I whispered back, heart quickening.
A snapping sound. Something big near the trees.
She breathed. We listened intently for several
minutes, hearing nothing but the river's ceaseless whispering,
until sleep reclaimed us. At first light, we all stepped
cautiously from the trailer. Elena gasped, her hands shooting
up to cover her mouth. Another sculpture stood just a
few feet closer than yesterday's figure.
It was eerily similar in style, except this one had the skull of
a salmon fastened neatly at eye level, strands of wet Moss
hanging from it like some grotesque veil.
Check the camera. Riley said quietly, eyes wide
with fear. I retrieved it quickly, fumbling
nervously with the buttons as we crowded around the tiny display.
The footage rolled forward, showing our campsite empty and
untouched. Then, suddenly, within the blink
of an eye, the figure appeared fully formed, built within the
gap between 2 consecutive 10 second frames.
No builder, no blurred movement, just an instantaneous creation.
We stood in stunned silence. Riley looked visibly shaken,
eyes darting nervously to the tree line.
Elena stared quietly at the strange figure, as if it might
reveal something if she looked long enough.
What the hell is this? I finally muttered.
Nobody answered, because none of us had an explanation that made
sense. The trees around us seemed
closer now, looming, pressing in, more watchful, more
oppressive. It was clear something didn't
want us here, and for reasons none of us could begin to
understand, it was making that fact impossible to ignore.
The morning passed in uneasy silence.
Breakfast tasted dull, mechanical, just oatmeal
shoveled into mouths too distracted to taste it.
Riley was pacing anxiously, already making half formed plans
to abandon our trip. Elena seemed detached, quietly
packing and repacking our gear, eyes constantly flicking toward
the driftwood sculpture that now stood disturbingly close to our
campsite. I tried to rationalize what we'd
seen on the camera footage, maybe a glitch, a technical
failure, or something else that made more sense than a figure
instantly appearing fully constructed from nothing.
But even my attempts at logic felt hollow, my own words
failing to soothe the persistent dread.
We should leave. Riley finally blurted out,
breaking along silence. His voice shook slightly,
betraying the fear we all felt but hadn't fully acknowledged.
Elena hesitated, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
And just ignore this leave without knowing what's actually
going on. I don't care about explanations
anymore. Riley said sharply.
Whoever or whatever did that. He gestured toward the grotesque
salmon headed figure. Clearly doesn't want us here.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. We set the camera again tonight.
Wider lens, better positioning, maybe we'll get a clear shot.
If nothing happens, we leave first thing in the morning.
They both reluctantly agreed, though no one seemed truly
convinced. We spent the rest of the
afternoon making preparations, placing additional trail cameras
strategically around the perimeter of our campsite.
Riley suggested setting up solar powered motion sensitive lights,
something he'd bought as a precaution weeks ago and was now
nervously eager to deploy. As dusk settled once again, the
atmosphere shifted palpably. Darkness blanketed us quickly,
the forest pressing closer with every passing hour.
We retreated into the trailer early, sealed tightly behind its
metal walls, the tiny space feeling less comforting now and
more like a trap. Sleep was impossible.
I lay awake, heart pounding with every distant creak of branches,
every snap and crackle of leaves disturbed by unseen feet.
Elena tossed and turned restlessly beside me.
Riley was a rigid shadow on the narrow cut across from us,
unmoving, silent. Then, just after 2:30 in the
morning, a sharp burst of static tore through the silence,
accompanied by a flash of white light bright enough to penetrate
through the trailer's small windows.
Elena jolted upright beside me, gripping my arm painfully tight.
What was that? She whispered, her breath
shallow, trembling. I was already reaching for the
trailer door. Check the camera, We have to
see. Stepping outside, flashlight
beams swung chaotically around the clearing, illuminating
nothing but stillness. The air felt colder, wetter.
The cameras were all silent, their tiny indicator lights now
dead. The batteries are drained.
Riley muttered in disbelief, shaking the empty battery
compartment. These were fully charged, brand
new. I looked back toward the
trailer, something at the edge of my vision catching my
attention. The rear hatch, secured tight
every night, now stood wide open.
Did someone forget to latch that?
I asked softly, already knowing the answer.
Elena shook her head slowly, eyes wide.
I triple checked. Riley murmured.
It was closed. Approaching the open hatch
cautiously. Our flashlights revealed
something far more unsettling. All our food, every can, every
wrapper, every bag had been carefully removed and arranged
into an Immaculate spiral pattern extending outward from
the trailer toward the dense line of fir trees.
The precision of it, the symmetry, sent chills cascading
down my spine. No animal did that.
Elena said hoarsely, eyes darting nervously toward the
woods. What kind of person would even?
Her words trailed off as we slowly followed the spirals
direction with our beams of light.
It extended into the forest, fading into the darkness beyond
the edge of our clearing. We have to see.
Riley whispered, though it sounded as if he hoped someone
might disagree. Reluctantly, we crept forward,
stepping carefully around the arranged items.
The forest swallowed us quickly, each step plunging us deeper
into shadows thick enough to smother our flashlights.
Barely breathing, we move slowly, scanning for anything
out of place. The spiral ended abruptly at a
clearing hidden beneath towering furs, a circle of driftwood
totem surrounding the perimeter, all facing inward, as if
guarding something sacred or forbidden.
Each sculpture was crafted meticulously from bones, bark,
feathers, Moss, natural things twisted into shapes distinctly
unnatural. At the center, atop A weathered
stump, sat one of our sleeping bags, rolled neatly, zipped
tightly shut, damp with river water.
We stood silently staring at it, dread growing heavy inside each
of us. No, Elena whispered, finally
shaking her head in denial. That was in the trailer.
Riley backed away slowly, breathing heavily.
We need to go right now. There was no argument, no
hesitation. We turned swiftly and retraced
our steps, pulse pounding louder with every footfall, every
snapping twig, until the trailer loomed ahead, small and
vulnerable beneath the endless darkness.
Back inside, we barricaded the doors instinctively blocking
every possible entrance with gear, bags and equipment.
No one spoke, no one slept. We sat in tense silence,
listening to the river's constant murmur, hoping
desperately for dawn. We didn't speak much at dawn.
Riley moved mechanically, packing our gear, his hands
shaking slightly. Elena, always so steady, now,
avoided eye contact, busying herself securing the trailer for
travel. I checked and rechecked our
hitch, our tires, the chains, anything to keep myself busy,
anything to avoid thinking about the spiral, the figures, or the
soaking wet sleeping bag arranged so deliberately in the
forest clearing. We climbed into the SUV without
breakfast, anxious to put distance between ourselves and
whatever was lurking in these woods.
The forest around us was still almost oppressive, as if
watching, waiting for something else.
Shaking off that thought, I started the engine and guided us
slowly back up. Forest Rd. 28, barely 5 minutes
past before I slammed on the brakes, skidding slightly in the
gravel Cam. What the?
Elena began, but then fell silent as her eyes caught the
same thing mine had. A massive driftwood sculpture,
larger and heavier than any we'd seen, stretched across the
narrow road ahead, completely blocking our way.
The twisted interwoven logs seem deliberately placed, their ends
driven forcefully into the muddy earth.
It looked immovable. That wasn't here yesterday.
Riley muttered, his voice tight with panic.
We climbed out, the air cold and damp, tension making every
movement feel heavy. I stood staring at the
barricade, mind racing, desperately searching for an
explanation. This couldn't be an accident.
Whoever or whatever had arranged this wanted us trapped.
Let's use the winch, Riley suggested shakily, clearly
grasping at anything that might offer hope.
We unwound the steel cable from the SU VS bumper, fastening it
to the thickest log. Riley engaged the winch and
slowly, painfully, it strained against the barricade.
The logs barely budged. I watched helplessly as the
cable frayed, strands of steel peeling apart, snapping with a
metallic twang. This isn't working.
Elena whispered urgently. Her voice trembled, eyes locked
on something distant in the trees.
I turned, following her gaze, and saw another figure, barely
visible through the gaps between towering fur trunks, standing
perfectly still, partially hidden by shadow.
Constructed from mossy wood and animal bones, it's empty sockets
seem to peer directly at us. Cam, we have to go back.
Elena said, quietly and firmly. This isn't safe.
We had no choice. Reluctantly, silently, we
retreated to the campsite we'd fled only moments ago.
Our little trailer sat waiting, untouched yet profoundly
changed. We parked hurriedly, barricading
ourselves inside, locking doors, windows, anything that might
provide an entry point. We take shifts watching, I
suggested quietly, trying to sound reassuring.
Maybe whatever's happening stays away if we're awake.
Nobody believed that, but nobody argued either.
Hours dragged by, night fell swiftly and utterly, enveloping
us in absolute darkness, our single battery powered Lantern
casting frail shadows inside the cramped trailer.
Time slowed painfully. Wryly pale and Drawn peered
nervously from the tiny window, his breath fogging the glass.
Then it started. A subtle vibration under our
feet, barely perceptible at first, like an underground hum,
resonating gently but insistently beneath the trailer.
Do you feel that? Elena whispered, voice thin with
dread. Yes, I replied softly, holding
my breath, listening, feeling the vibration pulse steadily,
rhythmically, like a heartbeat deep beneath the earth.
Riley turned sharply, eyes wide. Something's out there again.
I glanced toward the trail camera position just outside our
window, blinking steadily. I hesitated only a moment, then
open the trailer door, swiftly grabbing the camera from its
post before slamming the door shut again.
We crowded around the tiny screen as the video played back.
At first, only darkness showed. Then at four O 9 AMA single
frame flickered clearly into view, a figure standing just at
the edge of the forest, draped in thick layers of animal pelts,
Moss and wood. Its shape was distinctly human
beneath the layers of primal camouflage.
It's eyes, visible briefly beneath the crude mask of bone
and bark, stared directly toward the camera, directly at us.
Then the footage dissolved instantly into static, leaving
us staring dumbly at a blank screen.
No one spoke. Elena's face was pale, Riley
trembling visibly. Fear clogged my throat, and all
I could do was stare silently toward the trailer door,
waiting, listening. Somehow, mercifully, dawn
finally came. Pale grey filtered through the
trees, and as if granted permission, we burst from the
trailer, anxious to flee this place forever.
The road ahead was now completely clear.
Where the massive driftwood barricade had stood, only
scattered twigs remained, as if it had never existed.
But something else waited there. One final figure.
Its arms were outstretched, holding a small branch
horizontally. Dangling from it were three
loops made from brightly colored tent cords, chords we
immediately recognized as ours. Let's get out of here, Riley
whispered urgently, his voice a plea.
We moved in silent agreement, packed hurriedly, and drove away
without speaking, without looking back.
Weeks later, unable to shake the memory, I posted our experience
anonymously on a Pacific Northwest backpacking forum,
hoping someone might know something, anything, about what
we encountered. Within hours, the post vanished,
deleted by an administrator. A private message flashed onto
my screen seconds later. You camped on the wrong bend.
Don't go back. They don't want you there twice.
I closed the laptop slowly, a chill sliding down my spine,
knowing instinctively that whoever or whatever built those
sculptures was watching, waiting, making certain we never
returned.