About a month ago, my friend asked if anyone had ever had
strange experiences in southern Tennessee and a few other nearby
places, particularly in the mountains.
I had too much going on to respond at the time, but my
husband and I did have an experience there that I think is
worth telling, although most of our family doesn't know because
we understand how they'd react, so we've never told them.
While I realize this post describes many over the top
experiences, my husband and I both went through the following
exactly as I'll describe. I understand that not everyone
will believe me, but since this post contains deeply personal
moments in my life, I ask that everyone please keep comments
respectful whatever opinions you express on the subject matter.
Thank you so much. This story needs background to
convey some factors that were potentially involved.
I suspect the events leading up to the trip to Tennessee may
have had a direct relation to the severity of what we
experienced while there. I had never wanted to marry,
neither had my now husband. Then we met each other.
We got engaged at ages 30 and 28 and had a two year engagement.
We wanted our wedding to symbolize our true soul bond and
decided to go completely non traditional.
His giant family wanted a white dress Catholic wedding, so we
were at major odds with them from day one.
My fiance and I began suffering a long run of exceptionally bad
luck along with some odd poltergeist activity at home.
It was nothing too major so we mostly brushed it off, except
for one instance when we left the house and came back to find
a red clown nose sitting front and center on our bathroom sink.
No one had keys to our place and we definitely didn't own a clown
nose. That one freaked us out.
When I told a friend something weird was going on to the point
I almost felt the wedding was cursed, he tried to explain it
away. I said watch, something's going
to happen today while he's getting his tux.
I'm telling you, I got 1 flabbergasted look from my
friend before my fiance immediately called to say
there'd been a freak accident in the parking lot while he was
getting fitted and someone had totaled the back end of his
truck. That shut my friend right up.
Another glitch was my refusal to have my father walk me down the
aisle. I also refused a random stand in
just for tradition's sake. I asked my younger brother and
he said he would be so honored. We'd had some problems in the
past, but he'd been clean for seven years and we'd finally
reconciled. Losing our middle brother to a
drunk driver had driven us apart for a while, but later on it
brought us back closer. Then 40 days before the wedding,
my younger brother unintentionally passed away in
his mid 20s. My fiance and I drove over 16
hours close to Point Pleasant, WV to say goodbye.
I knew my brother and I knew he wouldn't crossover easily after
what he'd done, especially with my wedding around the corner and
me counting on him. It bothered me deeply.
His viewing was closed to immediate family only.
He wasn't embalmed due to the complete autopsy required.
He was covered in a handmade quilt up to his chin.
We were instructed not to touch him, although we ignored that.
After saying our goodbyes, I walked to the end of his Gurney
and laid my hands on his feet like a supplicant.
I told him I understood it was an accident and that I forgave
him. I told him that if he still felt
he needed to make amends to me, he could do so by calling forth
my loved ones and those of my fiance to come witness the
wedding from the other side. I asked him to bring our other
brother, my fiance's sister, grandparents, aunts, friends,
calling them by name, all the beloved souls who had already
passed. Do this, I told him, and there
will be no debt between us. You can rest in peace.
The looks on my family's faces were priceless, but it felt like
something I needed to offer. When I returned to New Orleans,
I had a pendant maid featuring my favorite picture of my two
brothers. I wrapped it around my bouquet
and although to the guests it seemed I walked the aisle alone,
I knew both my sweet brothers were right beside me in spirit.
They would never miss their sister's wedding, especially
with Hector, the passing actively dragging them across
the veil to fulfill what he must have felt was his final
obligation to the living. My new husband Eli and I went to
a rental cabin on Bluff Mountain for our honeymoon week.
I don't want to name the specific cabin in case I'm not
supposed to, but I will say it was very rocky with a raccoon
theme. Bluff Mountain is in Pigeon
Forge outside of Gatlinburg in the Smoky Mountains.
I was living in New Orleans and had brought a double handful of
fresh picked gardenia blossoms with me.
It was a symbolic offering to the mountain for hosting us on
such a special occasion. No rituals or anything, I simply
arranged them on a wooden box with a fake bird and nest that
sat on top of the cabin's porch railing, and I sent up feelings
of gratitude and joy. We went out to eat and grab
groceries. Upon arriving back at the cabin,
the wooden bird box was smashed into a million pieces all over
the porch. It must have hit the ground hard
to shatter so thoroughly. We figured maybe a raccoon or
bear had gotten to it. Then I noticed there were no
flowers. I thought it could have been the
wind, but the leaves scattered around the porch were still
exactly how we'd left them. Gardenias aren't super light
flowers, heavier than leaves, so it was weird they were gone
while the leaves stayed. I searched around the porch,
stairs and walkway but found nothing.
The next morning I went a little way down the driveway to pick
some honeysuckle. About 20 feet from the porch, I
glanced down and did a double take.
There were all my gardenias, piled up and flattened as thin
as crepes. There were no shoe prints, but
it looked like more than one stomp was needed to squash them
that flat. Feeling unnerved, I walked away,
wondering if the mountain didn't like my offering after all, then
laughing at myself for the thought.
Night one. Eli woke suddenly to what
sounded like something big banging on the support beams
under the cabin. The front half of the cabin was
supported about 15 feet off the forest floor by giant wooden
posts because it hung off the side of a hill.
He said the impact was so strong that the mirror on the wall
vibrated, which shouldn't be physically possible for anyone
to do. Each time he started to drift
back off, there was another bang.
Finally, he got up. After one more cabin shaking
thud, he decided to wake me. Apparently he'd been waiting to
see if I would wake up on my own so he'd know he wasn't imagining
it, but now he was completely alert.
Right as he reached for me, he heard the loudest bang slap from
the area between the sitting area and the kitchen, right at
the foot of the bed. It was a one room cabin.
He said it sounded like a giant book being dropped from high up,
but there was nothing there. This bang was definitely inside
the cabin. He tried frantically to wake me,
but he said I was in such a deep sleep he actually thought
something was wrong that he could barely tell I was
breathing. Then this strange metallic
jangling noise started up behind the TV, directly across the
cabin from our bed. He said it went on forever, but
he was too scared to go check, especially since it was right by
the huge windows and near where he'd heard the noise inside.
It was this insistent buzzing jangling that finally woke me.
I remember it being so hard to come back to consciousness, like
swimming through blackness to get back to myself.
I kept asking what the hell is that noise, thinking it was an
alarm someone left set. When I finally managed to get up
to smash the offending noisemaker, the trilling
stopped. Exhausted, I fell back onto my
pillow. Eli told me about the banging.
He was obviously terrified and while I believed him, I was so
numb and out of it that I had no emotional response.
I was overwhelmed with a debilitating fatigue and just
zonked out until morning. Normally I'm a very light
sleeper, especially in new places, but almost every night
during this trip was like that. The second my head hit the
pillow it was as if I fell into a coma.
It was extremely deep, but not restful.
Waking up was worse. It literally felt like I had to
claw my way out of unconsciousness and it left me
exhausted day and night too. While doing my make up in the
infamous shaking mirror the next morning, I finally heard the
full story from Eli. I tried to talk it out
logically, maybe a bear was rubbing against the post, but he
insisted it was solid bangs like a giant fist.
No way it was a bear. And there was also that bang
from the center of the floor on the inside of the cabin that
reminded me of the alarm. I was all set to disable it.
At the exact second I mentioned it, that horrible buzzing noise
started up again behind the TV. We both jumped.
I joked. That's some interesting timing.
Looking behind the TVI realized it wasn't an alarm clock, but an
old landline phone with a bell buzzer, which explained the
horrid noise. Of course I had to answer it.
There was a minute of silence and then bursts of static.
It sounded like someone was talking, but it was so garbled
by static I couldn't make out any words.
I told them to move around to get better reception.
Was it cabin management? Still silence and occasional
static bursts. I hung up.
I was more amused than anything, especially seeing Eli's face.
As soon as I set the phone down, he unplugged it.
He said management had both our cell numbers, so it was probably
a prank call from someone who'd stayed before, but we weren't
playing along and ending up in a deliverance scenario.
Smart man. The phone stayed unplugged.
That night we were in the hot tub on the deck.
It was around the back, enclosed on three sides by a kind of
gazebo, with no bright lights nearby to avoid bug swarms.
As we relaxed, I was facing the wooden slats of the enclosure
and Eli was facing me in the forest.
I kept admiring this large blue light behind the enclosed end.
It was about the size of a cantaloupe and looked bright,
but the glow over us in the hot tub was pretty muted.
I assumed it must be some kind of LED, though I'd never seen a
blue that shade. All the other cabin lights were
bright and orange. I distinctly remember commenting
on how nice it was for mood lighting.
Eli also looked at it and agreed.
We stayed out there about two hours.
When we decided to get out, the light blinked on and off in a
seemingly deliberate pattern before shining a few more
seconds and going dark. We both remarked how strange it
was that the light burned out like that.
I planned to call the next morning to request a new bulb.
When I woke up, I walked around back to see what kind of fixture
needed replacing. There was nothing there.
No pole, no wiring, nothing that could produce a light.
The management confirmed they'd never installed one in that spot
because of unstable soil. Whatever the light was, it was
definitely there for the two hours we were soaking.
It didn't turn off. It flat out disappeared.
From this second night on, after coming inside, I started getting
goosebumps and the hair on my neck stood on end every time I
passed the open bathroom. The bathroom was next to the bed
area. Lying in bed you could see the
bathroom sink and a small window above it that opened onto the
woods behind the hot tub. It had no curtain.
I still thought the blue light was man made at this point, but
I could swear something was looking in through that window.
I'd been leaving the bathroom door open because I liked seeing
the forest from the bed, but now I tried to keep it shut without
Eli noticing. I was creeped out.
The next morning, Eli told me that any time he began to drift
off, a resounding bang on the posts under the cabin would jolt
him awake. He swore it was like something
new exactly when he was closing his eyes.
He never got up, so how could it tell?
Once again I was no help sleeping like the dead night 3.
After scrubbing ourselves in the cabins heavily sulphuric water,
we got ready for bed. Walking from the bathroom to the
bed, I remembered I'd forgotten to shut the bathroom door since
Eli was already in bed watching me.
I just kept going, telling myself to stop being ridiculous.
Although I was sure I felt eyes at that window.
I had checked before and saw nothing unusual, but that
feeling persisted. Then Eli quietly asked if I
could shut the door. Why?
I asked? Because that window gives me the
creeps. He replied.
It was eerie validation. That night I had some disturbing
dreams I can't really recall. Eli, however, experienced a
severe bout of sleep paralysis. SP.
Though he initially swore it wasn't SP because he said he sat
up, kicked, and yelled at the figure.
Now he agrees it was probably SP.
Either way, he woke to eerie laughter and saw what he
described as a grudge type woman standing at the end of the bed
laughing at him. I wouldn't wake up.
He said. She wore a white dress, had pale
skin, black eyes and a horrible mouth and long black hair
partially obscuring her face, surrounded by swirling black
mist. She reached for him and he sat
up, yanking his legs to his chest.
He said he started yelling at her to GTFO and kicked at her.
She faded out laughing. He said he woke several times to
her grabbing his ankles and giggling throughout the night.
I still wouldn't wake up. Night four it was more of the
same. Eli had repeat SP experiences
with the same lady in white, even more intense.
Also, I realized a small trinket I'd brought for luck left on the
shelf next to my side of the bed was missing.
The cabin was tiny and we tore it apart over the next two days,
but it never turned up. It was worthless monetarily, so
I don't think it was stolen. Night 5, Whenever I sat up on
the edge of the hot tub to cool off, I felt that same sense of
being watched I'd gotten from the bathroom window.
I'd literally break out in goosebumps.
It was a Friday and we could hear a group of guessing college
kids partying some distance away, close enough to catch
their screaming whoops and cheers.
Not wanting some creepy wood savvy lurker to watch me, we
went inside. Not much else happened that
night beyond troubled sleep. At one point Eli woke to frantic
banging on a support post, but it didn't last long.
Or repeat night six final. This was an extra night we
received due to the terrible sulfuric water.
The filters needed replacing, so they comped us a night.
The water wasn't dangerous, just really really stinky.
Like ODA latur da la rotten egg. It was bad.
Despite our weird nights, we'd been having a blast during the
day, riding rides, eating great food, trying good wine.
Gatlinburg is amazing to visit. So on our last night in the hot
tub, everything was great until I started feeling that intense,
hostile gaze from the tree line for the second night in a row.
This time, it felt worse. Every time I sat up to cool off,
I'd unconsciously hug myself and sink back into the water.
I reminded my husband that in all the years he'd known me, I'd
never been the paranoid or scared type, but there was
absolutely something aggressive out there watching me.
And it wasn't one of the college kids.
We could hear them again. Eli pulled me over to the
covered side. Within 5 minutes of my moving,
we heard a tremendous crash in the brush behind us, Then
something big stomping directly below us.
A few seconds later there was more crashing and a second set
of stomping footsteps. They sounded human in rhythm,
but no one on packed earth should be that loud.
We both bolted inside, still dripping.
Eli says that night was the worst for banging on the posts.
He said there was banging on at least three widely separated
posts and it went on most of the night.
Whenever the banging stopped, he doze off and the white dressed
woman would appear again. I slept like the dead morning of
day 7. Leaving day.
Something demanded my attention, pulling me toward consciousness.
At first it sounded like a parade of horses clip clopping
down a paved street. Then I remembered where I was.
The sound was coming from the roof.
I checked my phone just after 8:00 AM on a Sunday.
I groaned, thinking roofers must be working on the cabin, but why
wouldn't they know the cabin was still booked until 11?
AMI glanced at Eli. He looked pale and was breathing
very slowly, obviously exhausted.
I gave him a half hearted poke, but he was out cold.
He'd been dealing with so much. I let him sleep.
At least it was morning sunny and not something going bump at
4:00 AM. Then I wondered what roofers
worked on Sundays. I listened more carefully.
It wasn't exactly a hammering. It really sounded like hooves
pounding the roof. I decided I'd have to ask them
to hold off until we checked out.
I pulled back the covers and swung my legs off the bed.
The second my feet touched the floor, the pounding on the roof
stopped instantly. And the door handle to the main
entrance, three or four steps in front of me, started rattling
violently. There were two things I noticed.
There was no pause between the sound on the roof and the door
handle. It moved from above me to right
in front of me with no delay. The top half of the door was
glass with a sheer curtain, and the sun was shining directly
through it. I could plainly see that no one
was near the door yet the handle was shaking uncontrollably.
I yanked my feet back onto the bed and ducked under the covers
like a terrified kid. The moment my feet left the
floor, the doorknob stopped rattling and the pounding on the
roof resumed in the exact same spot.
Again, no pause. I stared at Eli, torn over
weather to wake him. I was scared he'd wake up and
hear nothing at all, but then his eyelids fluttered open on
their own. Do you hear that?
I whispered. He said yes.
I felt so relieved I hadn't imagined it.
We stayed there whispering. He also thought it sounded like
a horse or multiple hoofs, but not quite metal.
The pounding was so strong we could see the mirror shaking,
glasses rattling, and cabinets quaking.
Whatever was on the roof was huge.
The pounding continued for about 35 minutes, from around 8 O 2:00
AM until 8:36 AM, though I don't know how long it had been going
on before it woke me. It was deafening and absolutely
terrifying. We lay there whispering about
whether it was trying to breakthrough the roof, though
the glass doors would have been easier to smash.
Eli decided he would get up and look.
I told him about the door knob shaking when I tried.
After a moment's hesitation, he threw back his covers and stood.
The pounding stopped. We both froze.
Then came a horrible grating noise sliding across the roof.
Our eyes went huge. Was that claws?
I hissed in the softest voice I could manage.
Eli jumped back onto the bed and the banging resumed.
We had the quietest conversation ever about whether we'd actually
just heard giant claws on the roof.
It sure sounded like it. Eli finally grabbed his legally
owned firearm from his bedside drawer and made a sudden dash
for the door. The pounding instantly stopped
and everything went silent. No running footsteps or
anything. The roof was completely empty.
Given the cabins location perched on the hill with no
close trees, there was nowhere something that big could hide or
escape to without being seen. We packed at lightning speed,
but we did have one last quick smoke in the driveway.
It felt safer in open space. While we were out there we heard
the group of partiers from the previous nights yelling for a
missing friend. We could hear the panic in their
voices. Where is he?
He was with us last night. They shouted his name over and
over. Eli and I tried to find them to
help, or at least to ask if they'd seen or heard anything
weird. But the winding one way dirt
roads were confusing. We think they might have been
locals and we were on rental cabin roads that didn't connect
to local ones. We couldn't reach them.
I really hope they found him passed out drunk in a Bush
somewhere. I have no idea what we
encountered on that trip. It showed elements of so many
paranormal experiences, orbs, strange phone calls, poltergeist
activity, Cryptid like behavior, and a lady in white.
Yet it really felt like 1 entity wearing different outfits so to
speak. After we got home everything
went back to normal though. I'd asked my departed loved ones
to bear witness to our wedding, specifically the blessed dead,
and specifically only for the ceremony.
None of this activity seemed like protective ancestors to me.
I lean towards some kind of nature or elemental spirit, but
that's just a guess. Eli, on the other hand, says he
thinks it was a Bigfoot, even though he said otherwise at the
time. Anyway, that was our oh so
memorable honeymoon. If you made it this far, thank
you for reading. I'd love to hear any ideas on
what we might have encountered. Thank you and best wishes.
I've been working at this Michigan nature preserve for a
while now, and usually the biggest surprise I get is the
occasional lost hiker or an unexpected downpour.
That all changed one night when the storm clouds rolled in like
a warning. Rain hammered the roof of the
tiny entrance booth I was stationed in, and the wind
rattled the windows so hard I thought they might crack.
Every flash of lightning lit up the forest in these stark white
bursts, and each time I swore the trees were shifting like
they were alive in ways they shouldn't be.
I was supposed to clock out soon, but my supervisor radioed
me roads were flooding and I needed to pack up before they
got any worse. I'd done this routine in bad
weather before, heck, I've practically lived at this park
on rough nights. But something in the air this
time felt genuinely off. The booth light gave me just
enough illumination to see the sheets of rain pounding the dirt
Rd. Beyond that, shadows ran
together like ink on wet paper. I double checked the lock on the
Money Box, then shoved my gear into my backpack.
The second I stepped outside, the downpour smacked me so hard
I almost dove back in. Water was pooling around my
boots and visibility was down to a few yards at best.
My flashlight created a jittery beam that kept bouncing off
raindrops, making it hard to tell what was just a swaying
branch and what might be something else.
Thunder cracked again and I nearly dropped my keys it was so
loud I felt the rumble in my chest.
As I fumble to secure the booth door, a flicker of movement
caught my attention. It wasn't just a gust of wind or
a trick of the light. There was a silhouette, tall and
gangly, standing deeper in the darkness.
The way it shifted reminded me of an animal trying to walk
upright, like it wasn't designed for two legs.
Rain soaked my jacket in seconds, but I couldn't tear my
eyes away because that shape was definitely looking back.
I tried to pretend it was just a deer or something harmless, but
my gut told me otherwise. I snapped out of my daze long
enough to break into a run for my car.
Water splashed up my shins with every step.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't fit the key in
the door. By the time I got inside, my
clothes were plastered to my skin and my heart hammered like
it was trying to punch its way out.
Turning the key in the ignition, I heard the dreaded click of a
dead engine. I muttered a few choice words,
praying it was just a hiccup. On my second try, the engine
coughed into life. Lightning flared again, and for
a split second I glimpsed that figure closer than before, its
elongated limbs bent at eerie angles.
I jammed the car into drive and peeled out faster than I'd ever
done in park property. The radio, which should have
been blasting my supervisor's voice, hissed with static.
Normally these things are built tough.
They've worked through hail and snow without a glitch.
But now it was nothing but white noise.
Rain hammered the windshield the entire ride back.
My tires slipped more than once on the muddy road, and it felt
like the storm was trying to keep me from reaching the main
lodge. The headlights lit up the
drizzle in a frantic swirl, and even with the wipers going at
full speed, I could barely see. Every so often, I thought I
spotted something on the edge of my vision, darting between the
trees. When I finally rolled into the
lot, relief flooded me. The office lights glowed faintly
through the storm, promising some scrap of normalcy.
I slowed to park, thinking maybe I'd imagined it all.
But a lean shape, impossibly quick, zipped across the beams
of my headlights. It was thinner than anything I'd
seen before, limbs too long, posture almost predatory.
I killed the engine and sat there in stunned silence, soaked
and on edge. Rain hammered the roof and
Thunder rumbled, but my focus was on the darkness beyond the
lights. Nothing else moved yet.
The hair on the back of my neck refused to settle.
I needed to get inside, let them know the night had taken a
strange turn, But for a moment I just stayed put, listening to
the storm and trying to convince myself I hadn't witnessed
something that defied reason. Eventually, I mustered up the
courage to hurry from my car to the office door.
I went in, dripping water all over the floor, not really sure
how I'd explain that I saw something that looked nothing
like a normal animal. Maybe it was stress, maybe it
was just the storm making me see shapes.
I told myself that once the rain passed, everything would be
fine. But deep down, I knew the park
was different now, and I had a bad feeling the night's events
were only the beginning. I've always thought of myself as
pretty resilient. After that stormy night, though,
I noticed my senses were on high alert.
Every time a branch snapped or a leaf rustled, I'd spin around
expecting to see something lurking.
My Co workers teased me about being jumpy, but they didn't
experience what I did. It was like the forest had
changed overnight and I couldn't pretend otherwise.
That evening I was assigned to do the final trail check before
closing, a standard duty where we make sure no one's stuck or
lost. I headed out around nine with a
headlamp and my usual gear. The place officially shuts down
at 11, but we start clearing people early in case someone has
an emergency or the path is too dark to navigate.
Normally. The routine is simple enough.
Walk the main loop, call out a few hey anybody still out here
lines and move on. This time the walk felt
different from the very start. The first half mile passed in
silence. The quiet was unsettling.
No owls, no night time insects humming.
My footsteps echoed in a way they never had before, crunching
leaves and twigs under foot. After a while I thought maybe
this was me overreacting again, but as I reached a bend in the
trail, something drifting on the breeze made my stomach turn.
A rancid smell, like soggy fur mixed with rotting vegetation,
It was strong enough to make me pause and cover my nose.
I swung my headlamp toward the trees, trying to pinpoint the
source. Yet all I saw were dense trunks
and shrubs shifting slightly in the breeze.
Further in, the odor grew more pungent, practically clinging to
the air. Just as I considered turning
back early, a noise ripped through the silence.
A sound so distorted it was hard to believe it came from a living
creature. It was low pitched, drawn out,
almost like several voices melding into a single agonized
howl. I froze for a second, scanning
the darkness. My heart hammered.
A second cry echoed from behind me, as if something else was
calling out in response. The layering made it impossible
to determine distance or direction.
It was like the whole forest throbbed with these eerie
sounds. Fear jolted through me.
I'd never encountered animals like this in the preserve.
Coyotes have their distinct yips and owls have hoots, but nothing
I knew matched that alien cacophony.
Normally, I'd power through the full loop.
We're not supposed to leave until we're certain nobody's
still on the trail, but my instincts were screaming that
this was bigger than a normal wildlife risk.
Another roar burst through the air, closer this time, vibrating
in my chest. My legs started moving before I
even realized it. I turned around and headed back
the way I came, shining my headlamp left and right to make
sure I wasn't about to run into anything.
Leaves crackled behind me at an alarming pace, like something
was mimicking my speed. It's hard to keep calm when
every step you take is matched by another set of footsteps.
The path twisted in a Serpentine pattern, forcing me to slow at
corners. Each time I felt completely
exposed. My breath came in ragged gasps
and sweat dripped down my temples even though the evening
was chilly. Eventually, I spotted a faint
glow from the small Lantern near the trailhead.
I pushed myself to move faster. My ankles wobbled on the uneven
ground a few times, but adrenaline forced me onward.
The bizarre chorus still echoed, shifting in tone until it felt
almost metallic. I could sense something pacing
me from the shadows, hidden just beyond the beam of my headlamp.
When I reached the trailhead at last, I was breathing hard,
scanning the forest behind me. Only then did I realize how
quiet it had become. Whatever was chasing me had gone
silent, or maybe it was just waiting.
My hands trembled as I texted my supervisor, saying the sweep was
done, leaving out the details. I wasn't ready to explain what
had happened. Clambering into my car, I locked
the doors and stared at the black silhouettes of the trees.
They stood there, unresponsive, revealing nothing.
Even with the engine running, my nerves felt shot.
I can handle animals, but I've never confronted anything like
that. Part of me wanted to turn
around, go back in and prove I wasn't just being paranoid.
Another part insisted that was a terrible idea.
I managed to drive to the lodge and give 1/2 hearted report.
Nobody asked many questions, they were just relieved I'd done
the sweep. But in the back of my mind I
kept picturing those twisting shapes, hearing those blended
cries. Something was out there,
something I couldn't classify. And the worst part was knowing
I'd probably have to head back into the trails again soon.
The thought clung to me the rest of the night like a warning I
couldn't ignore. I started noticing everything
that shouldn't be there. Strange tracks in the mud,
ominous scratch marks on the fence near the lodge, and a
lingering odor nobody could explain.
My colleagues wrote it off as scavengers, or maybe just my
imagination, but I was done brushing it aside.
Something was definitely lurking among these old trails, and I
was determined to figure out what.
I rummage through my grandparents old trunk at home,
where I keep the protective charms my family swears by.
I picked one I hadn't worn in years, a small carved symbol
that always struck me as both comforting and menacing.
It felt right for what I was up against.
After all, the strange sightings weren't letting up, and I was
convinced that the preserve held some presents not found in any
field guide. That night, I decided to return
to the deepest part of the trail network alone.
Maybe it was a mistake, but I needed answers.
My flashlight was upgraded with fresh batteries, and I stowed a
flare gun in my backpack, just in case.
Most people would say that was overkill, but I'd experienced
enough to know better. The moment I stepped onto the
path, the forest greeted me with a suffocating stillness.
Each step sank into damp leaves, as if the ground itself was
trying to pull me in close to a clearing.
The foul stench appeared again, stronger this time, clinging to
my nostrils and triggering a wave of nausea.
My pulse thudded against my eardrums.
Keeping the flashlight beam steady, I scanned the trees.
A flash of movement flitted between thick trunks.
It was so tall and unnaturally lean, disappearing before I
could focus. Unearthly howls rose in the
distance, more jarring than before, like a chorus of
distorted voices echoing through a massive tunnel.
With each new call, I felt cornered, and my mind reeled at
the thought of multiple creatures roaming out there.
Branches rustled overhead despite no wind.
Dim yellowish reflections, like eyes winked in and out beyond
the reach of my light. One was directly to my left,
another behind me, and a third deeper in the darkness.
My breath turned ragged. I fumble for the flare gun, half
thinking I might scare them off. With a blinding flash.
A loud snap erupted from a few yards away, and I accidentally
fired the flare. Crimson light seared the night,
revealing shapes crouched within the gloom.
Their limbs bent in ways that made my skin crawl.
The stench grew. Overpowering instinct took over.
I sprinted down the path, feeling brush snagging my
clothes and leaving scratches on my arms.
The echoes of those howls followed me, accompanied by
thrashing movements that never seemed far enough behind.
I stumbled more than once, struggling to keep my balance on
the uneven trail, but the surge of fear propelled me forward.
When I finally broke free into a small open area near the main
trailhead, I whirled around, expecting to see them closing
in. The forest had gone eerily still
again. My flashlight trembled in my
grasp, casting shaky beams on bare ground and twisted tree
roots. No sign of those silhouettes,
yet the odor lingered as if the air itself had absorbed it.
I made it back to the parking lot in record time, slammed my
gear into my car, and dropped into the driver's seat, trying
to catch my breath. For a moment, I sat there in
total disbelief, replaying the scene in my mind.
Although I managed to escape, I realized I'd just confirmed my
worst suspicions. There was more than one of those
things, and they wanted me off their territory.
After returning, I considered warning the rest of the staff,
but fear and pride clashed in my mind.
Who would believe me? And yet, the truth pressed down
on me. Ignoring it was no longer an
option. I might not have discovered what
these entities truly are or how far their domain stretches, but
one fact burned itself into my thoughts.
The preserve belongs to them once the sun goes down, and I
doubt they're leaving anytime soon.
I remember the sun beating down on our station wagon as we
bumped along the winding dirt Rd.
My grandfather Marshall was at the wheel, determined to find
some perfect spot for the picnic he'd been talking about all
week. My grandmother Lucille sat
stiffly in the passenger seat, pretending to be calm.
In the back, I was crammed between MY2 aunts Sherry and
Marsha, who were bickering about who was hogging the most space.
Mom was trying to referee, but her voice was nearly drowned out
by the rumble of gravel under the tires.
Marshall finally spotted a clearing and pulled over.
I was thrilled to escape the cramped car, but it didn't take
long for my eagerness to turn sour.
The air itself seemed oddly stagnant too.
Still like the woods were keeping a secret.
Normally I would have been running around collecting
wildflowers or climbing on old stumps, but something tugged at
me to stay close to everyone else.
We started unloading the trunk. Lucille spread a blanket on a
patch of grass while Mom fussed over a basket of sandwiches.
Marshall, who never explained himself, announced he was going
to look for something out past the tree line.
The rest of us huddled in the clearing, trying not to wonder
why he'd stalk off without another word.
My aunts usually loved exploring, but this time they
stayed put, fiddling with the cups and plates like they were
afraid to wander too far. As I helped lay out the plates,
Sherry nudged me. Eyes wide, she jerked her chin
toward a mound of dirt that looked freshly tossed.
It sat just outside the ring of sunlight, partly in the shade of
an old oak. Stones were half buried on top,
making it look like a little grave, too big for a rabbit or a
stray raccoon. My stomach felt heavy.
I glanced at Lucille, hoping for reassurance, but she avoided my
gaze. She told us very firmly to leave
that mound alone. The shake in her voice made it
clear she didn't have a good explanation.
Sherri and Marsha tried to shrug it off, saying we'd seen weird
things in the forest before, but I knew they were scared.
The chatter we usually had on outings had vanished.
Even Mom was uncharacteristically quiet.
Lucille busied herself laying out napkins, though her hands
trembled whenever she thought nobody was looking.
Hoping to distract ourselves, we set out the rest of the food.
For a minute, it felt almost normal again, like we could
still turn this day around. But as we settled down, Marsha
stiffened. She pointed toward a thick
branch overhead. A rope hung from it, a loop tied
at the end, gently rocking in the breeze that had finally
stirred. We all froze.
I tried to tell myself it was some weird hunting set up, maybe
a leftover snare or something, But a slow dread inch through me
as I realized this wasn't the kind of thing people just leave
behind. Lucille glanced at it, face
drained of color, and mumbled about nothing to worry about,
but it was obvious she wasn't convinced.
All of us just sat there, rigid and uneasy, scanning the trees,
waiting for Marshall to come back and wishing we hadn't
driven so far from home. The quiet started to feel
suffocating. Each little crunch of leaves in
the distance made us tense. The picnic we'd planned so
happily was devolving into a silent watch over that mound and
that rope. With every passing moment, I
became more certain that something was deeply wrong and
we were stuck in the middle of it, waiting for a man who never
showed fear to return from somewhere deeper in the woods.
I remember all of us huddling together after noticing that
rope. We were on edge, debating if we
should pack up and leave or wait for Marshall to come back.
Nobody wanted to say it out loud, but we all had the same
unspoken question. What if something was really
wrong? Lucille kept whispering it's
just an old rope, that's all, but it felt more like she was
trying to convince herself. Aunts, Sherry and Marsha stayed
close by Mom, glancing around as if the forest itself might lash
out. Even the breeze rustling through
the leaves felt off. Every flutter of motion had me
scanning the edges of the clearing, wondering if I'd see a
figure behind a tree or some shadow darting away.
Suddenly, a low, rhythmic thud came from deep in the woods.
It was so faint at first that I wondered if I'd imagined it.
Then it grew more distinct. 3 sharp beats.
Then a pause. Three more.
A pause, over and over. Mom's face tightened.
Nobody spoke. The beats rattled me more than
any crashing noise could have. It felt deliberate, like someone
or several people wanted to send a message.
Marsha dared to say. Maybe it's just hunters, but
Sherri cut her off, shaking her head.
We all knew this didn't sound like any hunting ritual we'd
heard about. The drum, like pulsing, kept
going, and the tension around us climbed.
Lucille knelt and tried to gather the cups and leftover
food, like maybe if we tidied up, the odd chanting would
vanish. The clink of plastic felt
absurdly loud against the hushed clearing.
Then the voices joined in. It was a strange hum, layered in
a way that made it impossible to tell how many people were out
there. Each echo merged with the
drumbeats until it felt like the air was vibrating.
I felt it in my chest, like a pulse that wouldn't quit.
Lucille shot me a look. Her eyes were wide, and she
opened her mouth as if to say something, but stayed silent
instead. No one wanted to admit we might
be surrounded. With Marshall gone, we were
stuck. Leaving him behind wasn't an
option, but staying in that clearing felt more dangerous by
the second. The rhythmic chanting crept
closer, swelling in volume. It wasn't random noise.
It had a pattern, almost like a ceremony.
A few times I thought I glimpsed movement among the trees, but
whenever I tried to focus, it was gone, replaced by shifting
shadows. Sherry clutched my arm and
pointed to the mound. Nothing had changed about it,
yet somehow it seemed more sinister, like it was connected
to that drum beat. I kept imagining something or
someone buried there. The chanting reverberated in my
ears. My own breathing felt shallow.
I didn't want to show how spooked I was, but it was too
strong a feeling to hide. We bunched together on the
picnic blanket, hardly aware of the food we'd scattered around
earlier. The only thing anyone cared
about was spotting Marshall's return.
The weight was excruciating. I glanced at Mom.
She attempted to steady her breathing, though her hand
trembled on the baskets handle. Lucille scanned the tree line.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
The voices rose again, this time deeper, more urgent.
The three beats of the drum hammered away, punctuated by
those guttural chance. The forest seemed to close in a
wall of thick trunks and branches that trapped us.
I kept wishing we'd never left home, or that we'd settled on a
different patch of woods anywhere else.
The strain on my nerves was overwhelming, and I knew
everyone else felt it too. Then Marshall burst into view,
practically tearing through the undergrowth.
He yelled at the top of his lungs, eyes wild and complexion
pale. For a split second, none of us
moved. We were so stunned to see him
look that distraught Lucille jolted into action first,
grabbing whatever she could. Mom hustled the rest of us to
our feet and we bolted for the car, all of us spurred on by the
fear in Marshall's voice. I kept glancing over my shoulder
as we ran. The chanting seemed impossibly
loud, echoing between the trees and pounding in my ears.
Although I couldn't see anyone out there, the drumbeats and
voices gave the impression we were being watched from all
sides. If we'd stayed, I'm not sure
we'd have made it out. By the time we scrambled into
the car, I was so unnerved that I could barely focus on shutting
the door behind me. Marshall slammed the driver's
door, started the engine, and tore away.
As we lurched forward, I peeked out the back window.
The clearing vanished behind swaying branches, but the noise
still followed us, lingering in the distance like an evil echo.
Whatever was out there, we had no desire to face it again.
Marshall's foot slammed on the gas and we jolted forward so
fast that I nearly pitched into the back of the front seat.
None of us said a word. Everyone stared at him, trying
to understand what had shaken him up so badly.
He gripped the wheel with knuckles turning white, eyes
flicking to the rear view mirror like he expected something or
someone to burst out onto the dirt.
Rd. Behind us, I caught a glimpse of
Lucille, my grandmother, trembling.
Her usual calm was gone, replaced by raw, visible fear.
Sherri and Marsha sat on either side of me, heads whipping back
to check if we were being followed.
Mom was curled up front, pressing a trembling hand to her
mouth. The chanting and drumming might
have faded in the distance, but it felt like it was still
pounding in my ears. The road was bumpy and riddled
with potholes. Every jerk of the car sent our
leftover picnic stuff rattling around in the trunk.
Part of me expected the engine to stall or a tire to blow,
leaving us stranded. But Marshall just kept going,
weaving around branches and debris as though he'd driven
this path a million times before.
Every so often, he'd glance over at Lucille, who looked like she
was bracing for an impact that never came.
After what felt like an hour, though it might have only been
minutes, we finally reached the main road.
The forest thinned out, replaced by sprawling fields.
I'd never felt such relief seeing open sky.
The silence in the car was thick.
None of us wanted to break it by asking questions we knew he
wouldn't answer. And yet 1000 questions swirled
in my mind, like what he'd witnessed out there, whether he
saw the source of the chanting, and why he looked so spooked.
Once we got home, Marshall threw the car into park and marched
inside. Lucille and Mom began unloading
whatever they could, but everything was such a mess that
we barely knew where to start. There were smashed sandwiches,
soaked blankets, and plastic cups covered in dirt.
My aunts hovered in the driveway, exchanging uneasy
looks. The warmth of the sun didn't
help. We were all chilled in our own
way. I headed inside, following the
dull thud of Marshall's boots down the hallway.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring at
the floor. I asked him if he was OK, voice
shaking despite my best efforts to sound calm.
He looked at me with a stare that almost stopped my breath,
then snapped. Don't ever ask me about this
again. It was like a door slamming
shut. Mom and Lucille came in behind
me, both of them looking just as stunned.
None of us tried to get any more words out of him.
We knew by now that once he drew a line, there was no crossing
it. In the days that followed, we
tiptoed around him, hoping maybe he'd open up on his own.
He never did. I remember lying in bed that
night, barely sleeping, replaying the day's events.
The drumbeats echoed in my head every time I closed my eyes.
I pictured the rope hanging from that gnarled branch.
I tried telling myself it was just a bad dream, but the image
wouldn't leave me. Mom mentioned the mound a few
times, wondering if there was something buried or if it was
some bizarre prank, but no one had a real answer.
A hush fell over our house, thick with the weight of
Marshall's unspoken terror. As the weeks passed, it became
clear no one was going to the police.
Marshall wouldn't have tolerated it, and none of us could even
articulate what we'd report. Some chanting in the woods, a
mound that looked too big to be an animal, and a rope swaying in
the breeze. It all sounded unreal the moment
you tried putting it into words, So we let it fester.
The rest of the family eventually filed it away under
weird things that happened, but I never managed to lock it away
so easily. To this day, the entire ordeal
lingers in my mind, especially the image of Marshall.
Unshakable Stone faced Marshall running for his life through the
trees. Whenever I think back, it's
impossible not to wonder what he saw in that forest.
Whatever it was, he carried that fear to the end of his days, and
if he never slept peacefully after that outing, I can't say
I'd be surprised. I still catch myself listening
for drum beats sometimes, half expecting that dark chanting to
roll over the horizon and find me again.
We started out just before sunrise, backpack stuffed and
shoulders already aching from all the gear we'd crammed in.
Stepping onto the trail at Redwood Gap, I felt A twist of
excitement and unease. The path hugged a steep
hillside, the ground cold and damp beneath my boots.
Devon walked up front, whistling a tune off key, and Chris
brought up the rear, constantly fiddling with the straps on his
pack. I took the middle spot, my
senses sharper than usual. The trees overhead formed a
canopy so thick that even the early light struggled to reach
us. Each breath tasted like wet
leaves and morning fog. I kept craning my neck, trying
to pick out any sign of wildlife or other hikers, but the place
felt deserted. Not silent, though.
Somewhere in the distance, water flowed, and every so often a
branch snapped, echoing across the valley.
We made good progress for the first few miles, passing stunted
shrubs and weaving through narrow switchbacks.
At one point I nearly lost my footing on loose gravel and
Devon had to yank me upright. He laughed, cracking a joke
about me needing better balance. I gave him a half hearted grin,
but I couldn't help scanning the tree line, waiting for some
unknown presents to reveal itself.
By midday, the sun pierced through in patches, lighting up
sections of the trail. We paused on a rocky overlook to
catch our breath, and I stared down into a valley filled with
evergreens. Everything looked peaceful from
up there. Chris said something about
wanting to eat lunch, but Devin insisted on pushing another hour
before breaking. We'd heard that Lake Vesper, our
target for the night, wasn't too far away, and he wanted a longer
rest at camp. The last stretch toward the lake
turned into a slog. My shoulders ached, sweat stuck
to every inch of my skin, and the trail took on this
claustrophobic feeling. The trees pressed in and the air
seemed heavier. Chris tried to lighten the mood
by telling dumb jokes about some local legend he'd read online,
stuff about hermits who lived off the land.
Devon rolled his eyes, but I found myself looking over my
shoulder more often. When we finally reached Lake
Vesper, the sight was mesmerizing.
Crystal Clearwater lapped at a Pebble strewn shore, tall rocks
framing it like giant sentries. We dropped our packs and
collapsed onto the nearest boulders, relief washing over
us. Devon started setting up the
tents while Chris gathered fallen branches for the
campfire. I looked out at the lake,
noticing how still it was, like a sheet of glass reflecting the
sky. After we'd settled in, we lit a
small fire. The crackling flames offered a
reassuring light in the growing darkness.
We passed around a canteen, sharing swigs of water that felt
unbelievably refreshing, and for a moment we relaxed.
The world beyond our camp dissolved into black shadows,
and the occasional rustle of branches made me tense.
Chris and Devin laughed at me for jumping at the slightest
sound, but I knew I wasn't just being paranoid.
I busied myself with reorganizing gear, anything to
keep my hands occupied. Eventually, we all huddled
around the fire, exchanging stories of past trips, bragging
about who carried the heaviest pack and guessing how tough the
next day's terrain might be. The crackle of the flames and
the rhythm of Devon's teasing banter almost lulled me into a
false sense of comfort. Almost.
It was that first night in the wilderness, our guard down, our
minds eager Forrest, when a subtle awareness began to creep
in. Something felt off.
I couldn't name it. Maybe it was the way the wind
died abruptly, leaving the night thick with a hush.
Maybe it was the way the trees blocked out the moon, creating
walls of darkness beyond the glow of the fire.
Regardless, a prickling unease settled over me as we finally
crawled into our tents. And so began our journey, a
supposed five day trek that felt like a calling 1 moment and a
dire warning the next. With Redwood Gap now behind us,
we prepared to face the challenges and the strange
suspicions looming ahead. I woke up to the sound of Devon
unzipping his tent, groaning softly about sore legs and a
stiff back. My own shoulders felt like
someone had kicked them all night, and Chris looked like he
hadn't slept much either. None of us admitted it, but the
nights eerie quiet had put us on edge.
We ate a quick breakfast oatmeal that tasted like cardboard and
tore down camp, eager to move on.
The trail LED us deeper into the wilderness, The trees and brush
pressed in from both sides, making the path feel almost
claustrophobic. Every once in a while, the wind
would stir the branches overhead, creating this low
whisper that faded too quickly. We trudged through the morning
in near silence, stepping over gnarled roots and skirting
around muddy sections of trail. After a few miles, we reached a
small sign pointing toward Mossy Fork.
Devon had read about Mossy Fork online, supposedly a wide
shallow stream perfect for refilling canteens, but none of
us were prepared for just how densely overgrown the area was.
Thick Moss blanketed every trunk and rock, adding a soggy hush to
the place. We paused by the water, took off
our packs and filtered enough to last us until we got to our next
camp. That's when I noticed footprints
on the damp bank, spaced wide and deep like someone heavy had
been pacing there. Chris shrugged, saying it was
probably an old hikers footprints.
Devon and I weren't so sure. The edges looked fresh.
Still, we had miles to cover, so we pressed on.
By mid afternoon, we broke out into a sunlit clearing near Lake
Camilla. It felt like stumbling onto an
Oasis after hours of gloom. The lake sparkled, framed by
rough boulders and tall grass. We decided to call it home for
the night, hoping for a more peaceful evening.
We pitched our tents quickly, then took turns washing off the
sweat and dirt near the shoreline.
It wasn't exactly a spa bath, but it helped.
Night descended faster than expected, and the air grew cold.
We lit a small fire, cooking freeze dried meals and joking
about how good a burger would taste.
Devin claimed he kept catching glimpses of movement across the
water. Chris tried shining his
flashlight, but we saw nothing except our warped reflections on
the surface. I realized how edgy we all were.
Every time a twig snapped or a gust rattled the bushes, our
conversation ground to a halt. Later, as we were dozing in
front of the fire, Devin cleared his throat and pulled out a
small plastic pouch. He said he'd brought mushrooms
for fun. I stared at him, stunned.
Chris just grinned like he'd been waiting for this moment.
My gut said it was a terrible idea, but I was outvoted.
They insisted we only had enough for a light experience, nothing
wild. I reluctantly agreed, figuring
half a dose wouldn't kill me. We swallowed them, and at first
nothing happened aside from giggles at our own stupidity.
But after about half an hour, the forest seemed to breathe
with us. Colors sharpened, shadows grew
more defined. An odd sense of curiosity
bubbled up in my chest, like I wanted to wander off and see
everything around me in a new light.
I meandered a short distance from the fire, watching the tree
branches sway overhead. Something in the corner of my
vision darted behind a trunk. I froze, calling out to Devin
and Chris to see if they were messing with me.
But they were still by the fire, laughing about some inside joke.
My eyes strained to adjust, but the shape, whatever it was,
slipped deeper into the darkness.
We chalked it up to our altered state, though my skin kept
tingling as if someone stood behind me.
Devon insisted we all stay close to camp.
We eventually crawled into our tents, but sleep was out of
reach. Half the time, I felt like I
could hear movement circling our little campsite.
Twigs crunched, leaves rustled. Chris grunted in frustration,
shining his flashlight out of his tent every 10 minutes.
By dawn, we were exhausted, dreading the next day's climb to
Beckwith Pass. The mushrooms had worn off, but
our nerves remained rattled. We packed up in a hurry, quietly
agreeing there was no point in hanging around Lake Camilla any
longer. Something about that night,
those footprints, the unknown figure, sank a lingering anxiety
into our bones. We headed toward Beckwith Pass
with heavy steps, each of us lost in our own worried
thoughts. The trail started to rise,
twisting over rocky ledges and offering occasional glimpses of
steep valleys below. A gust kicked up gravel at one
point, nearly blinding me. Chris cursed under his breath,
and Devin kept muttering about how we'd better not see any more
weird shapes in the dark. We had no idea just how
unsettling the next night would become.
We woke at dawn, the last of our energy reserves running on
fumes. My calves cramped as soon as I
tried to stand, and Devin looked like he'd been wrestling
invisible enemies all night. His eyes were bloodshot and he
gripped his trekking poles with white knuckles.
Chris was muttering to himself something about how we should
have broken this route into six days instead of five.
None of us had it in us to argue.
We had 19 miles to cover if we wanted to reach Cedar Notch
trailhead before dark. 19 miles of rocks, switchbacks, and
unsteady ground. I forced some trail mix down,
tasting mostly salt and dust, then filled up my water from the
last stream we passed. The climbing wasn't as steep
now, but our feet dragged, every step jarring our joints.
Nobody cracked jokes anymore. Even Devon's usual chatter dried
up. By midday, the sun pounded down
mercilessly. The trees thinned out, leaving
us on an exposed Ridge. Every time a gust whipped
through, bits of gravel stung our cheeks.
My thoughts drifted back to that strange shape I saw near Lake
Camilla and the footprints at Mossy Fork.
I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see
someone trailing behind us with a crazed grin, but the trail
snaked on, empty in both directions.
It was well into the evening when we finally spotted a wooden
sign that indicated the Cedar Notch trailhead was near.
Relief washed over me. Maybe we'd outrun our paranoia.
We found a small clearing tucked off to the side, far enough from
the main path that we felt we'd get some privacy.
The area was flatter than anything else we'd seen all day,
so we wasted no time pitching our tents.
Chris gathered what little dry wood he could find, and we
scraped together a weak fire. The flames flickered feebly, but
it was enough to cook our last rations.
Devin and I split a bag of dehydrated chili, bland but
warm. Despite our exhaustion, we
stayed awake a while, staring into those flames as if they
were our last barrier against whatever might lurk in the dark.
I remember the conversation turning sentimental, something
about how we never have time like this anymore, how life gets
too busy, and how much this trip reminded us of why we became
friends. It was a bittersweet moment, all
the more precious because deep down, none of us felt totally
safe. Then I heard footsteps.
A steady crunch. Crunch of someone approaching
through dry underbrush. I tensed, my heart thudding, and
motioned for Devin and Chris to stay quiet.
Out of the corner of the fire light, a man limped into view.
He looked short and stocky, wearing a heavy coat that had
definitely seen better days. The faint orange glow revealed a
sunken portion on the left side of his jaw, like part of his
bone was missing. His cheek dipped inward, giving
his face a lopsided, eerie appearance.
He said something in a warped mumble I couldn't quite catch.
Evening, he repeated, louder this time, and I realized he was
asking to share our fire. For a moment, Devin swallowed
hard, and Chris didn't say a word.
We had no idea if he was armed or if he'd been following us,
but we all instinctively shifted over to make room, probably more
out of fear than hospitality. He settled in, staring into the
flames with cold, dark eyes. Up close, he smelled like sour
sweat and damp earth, as if he'd been living out in the woods for
weeks, maybe months. After an awkward silence, he
started talking about the trail, asking if we'd come far.
His voice had a low, shaky quality, like his jaw made it
difficult to enunciate. Chris tried to keep his tone
casual. Yeah, we just finished A5 day
route, heading home tomorrow. The man nodded slowly, lips
curling and a crooked smile. You got the look of folks who've
been out here a while, he said. Then he asked if we were armed.
The question hung in the air. Devon cleared his throat.
We have something small, he replied.
He didn't say it was a handgun, but the man seemed to understand
anyway. He leaned forward, gaze flicking
between us. Good, he grunted.
You never know who you'll run into.
That line set my nerves on edge. Was it a threat or just an
observation? A few beats of tense silence
followed, the campfire crackling between us.
That's when he started telling a story, one that paralleled our
journey way too closely. He described 3 hikers lost in
the hills, making noise at night, poking their noses where
they didn't belong. He mentioned how they whooped
and hollered near a lake, disturbing the peace of the
locals. And I realized he was talking
about us. My pulse pounded as he recounted
details only someone spying on us could know and almost fall
off a Ridge. The chatter by the water, our
nighttime struggles. He spat insults at these
arrogant city boys who didn't respect the land, and I felt my
stomach not. Chris looked furious about to
speak up, but I gave him a slight shake of the head.
The stranger's eyes narrowed like a predator's, and I
couldn't shake the sense that we weren't alone.
He went on about how the forest had families, old families who
didn't take kindly to intruders, and he described how one
particular stranger approached the hikers on their final night.
My blood turned icy. It was him, and here he was,
practically confessing he'd been following us, possibly not by
himself. Devin tried to stand up, but the
stranger stayed put, a smug look on his battered face.
He ended his story by saying the hikers finally got wise to who
really owned these hills. The unspoken threat made my skin
crawl. Then, with a slow, deliberate
motion, he rose to his feet and limped backward, letting the
firelight dance across his disfigured jaw.
Be on your way soon, he told us, if you know what's good for you.
He turned and walked off into the dark.
But I heard more than one set of footsteps fading away, like
someone else was out there, hidden from view.
Neither Chris nor Devin spoke for a long moment.
The night pressed in on us, and the realization that we'd been
shadowed all this time ripped away any sense of safety we had.
In a flurry of panicked motion, we packed up.
We barely bothered with neatness, just shoved our tents
and gear into our bags. Chris clutched the handgun,
ready to fire at the slightest movement.
I swung my flashlight left and right, half expecting to see a
dozen shapes lurking in the brush.
We left that campsite behind, stumbling through the dark,
guided by trembling beams of light.
Every so often I caught a flicker of movement in my
peripheral vision, but I couldn't be sure if it was the
wind or some figure stalking us. We must have pushed ourselves
another few miles, bodies aching, teeth chattering in
fear, before we felt even remotely comfortable.
Stopping to breathe. When we finally dropped to the
ground, our hands shaking, we looked at one another in silent
understanding. We might have escaped the
immediate danger, but the memory of that stranger and his
mocking, knowing gaze would follow us For a long time.
Exhaustion crashed over me, but I couldn't sleep.
All I could do was listen, every nerve primed for the slightest
snap of a twig or rustle of leaves, my mind stuck in a loop,
replaying that stranger's grin and the eerie certainty that he
hadn't been alone in the morning.
If we even made it that long, we'd get out of these woods.
But I suspected that part of me would always stay behind,
haunted by the knowledge that dark corners of the wilderness
are occupied by people who fiercely guard their domain,
silently watching every unsuspecting passerby.