It was late afternoon when we finally reached Mulberry
Mountain, far beyond the well worn paths of Ozark National
Forest. Tyler had insisted on leading us
deep into the Backcountry, promising solitude away from the
usual weekend campers. The five of us, me, Tyler,
Rachel, Marcus and Jess, set up camp in a small clearing ringed
by dense stands of white oak and Hickory.
The trees pressed close, their leafy canopy filtering sunlight
into muted streaks across the forest floor.
As we pitched our tents, Marcus joked about bears and mountain
lions, but Rachel's eyes flickered nervously toward the
shadowy woods. I smiled reassuringly, telling
her it was all part of the adventure.
Still, an odd tension hung in the air, the kind you only
notice in hindsight. By the time we'd gathered around
the campfire, the sky had turned a deep orange, the sun dipping
behind distant ridges. Jess pulled out her phone,
snapping photos of our silhouettes against the fading
light. That's when we first heard it. 2
sharp whistles echoed faintly from the trees, crisp and clear,
like someone calling their dog back home.
Tyler raised an eyebrow, glancing around the circle.
Anyone else hear that? Marcus shrugged.
Probably. Another group of campers nearby
just leaned forward, smirking. 2 quick whistles, right?
Maybe it's Morse code. dot dot. They're trying to tell us
something important, like they're out of marshmallows.
We laughed, but Rachel stayed quiet, eyes fixed uneasily on
the darkening woods. The fire crackled low, sparks
drifting upward into the gathering darkness.
Tyler spoke up, voice quieter than usual.
You know, I read some weird stuff online about this area.
Some hikers claimed people have disappeared out here east of
Shores Lake, toward Dunn Hollow. Said something about it being
bad ground. Marcus rolled his eyes.
Come on, Tyler, those stories are just meant to scare
tourists. But Tyler didn't smile.
He poked at the fire with a stick, causing embers to swirl
upward. Just figured you guys should
know. I glanced at Rachel.
Her eyes had gone wide, reflecting firelight as she
stared silently into the trees. Darkness settled fully, bringing
with it a dense, oppressive silence, broken only by the
occasional crackle of firewood. I felt strangely exposed,
sitting in that clearing ringed by trees whose trunks vanished
into endless shadow just before we turned in.
The whistles came again, clearer this time, cutting through the
night air like sharp blades. Jess tensed, sitting up rigidly.
OK, seriously, that's closer, isn't it?
Her voice held an edge of unease.
Tyler stood slowly, flashlights sweeping over the edges of the
camp. The beam illuminated nothing but
empty forest. Rachel whispered.
I don't think anyone else is out here.
Jess grabbed her audio recorder, determined to capture evidence.
Walking hesitantly toward the trees at the edge of camp, we
watched her slender figure blend Into Darkness, illuminated only
by her dim flashlight beam. She paused several yards out,
holding her recorder aloft. Silence returned for a moment,
the forest seeming to hold its breath.
Then, clearly and distinctly, from somewhere right behind
Jess, came 2 short, piercing whistles.
She whirled around, flashlight jerking wildly through shadows,
voice cracking with panic. Who's there?
Tyler and I sprinted over, flashlights slicing through the
gloom. We reached Jess, who stood
trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.
I swear to God, she whispered urgently.
Someone was standing right behind me.
We searched the immediate area, beams casting stark shadows
across empty underbrush and rough bark.
There was no sign of anyone having been there at all.
No footprints, no broken twigs, no disturbance of any kind.
Rachel pulled Jess close, her voice shaking.
We should go back. Let's leave first thing
tomorrow. Tyler nodded grimly.
Yeah, we'll head east, catch that trail, loop back toward the
car. We returned to camp, subdued and
wary. The fire had burned low, leaving
glowing embers that cast faint, uncertain light across our
anxious faces. As I crawled into my sleeping
bag, I tried to push away the unsettling image of Jess, frozen
in fear, alone in the darkness. I lay awake listening intently
sometime around midnight, drifting into a restless sleep.
I swore I heard it again, 2 sharp whistles drifting softly
through the trees, closer than before, just beyond the boundary
of our camp. At dawn, we packed quickly,
driven by silent urgency to leave behind the tension of the
previous night. The morning air felt colder,
sharper, as we hiked E toward White Rock Mountain.
Tyler assured us this lesser known trail would loop us back
safely to our car, but his voice carried uncertainty I hadn't
heard before. By late morning, the forest
thickened significantly. The trail grew narrow, fading
into patches of weeds and tangled underbrush.
Occasionally we pass signs of old campsites, rotting tarps
tangled in brush, fire pits, scorched black filled with
leaves and debris. These weren't normal campsites.
They looked abandoned, hastily left behind, as if someone fled.
Marcus stopped, crouching to inspect something half buried in
dirt. He lifted A rusted pocket knife,
its handle warped and melted as if exposed to tremendous heat.
He turned it slowly in his fingers, frowning deeply.
What would make something like this?
Marcus asked, his voice tight. Tyler didn't answer.
He glanced down at his map, brows furrowed, eyes shifting
uneasily across the forest. Rachel moved close to Jess,
whispering something reassuring but unconvincing.
The woods around us had grown silent, absent the usual
rustling leaves or birdsong. We set camp early, uneasy
fatigue draining the strength from our limbs.
Tyler placed trail cams around our perimeter, small electronic
eyes watching silently from sturdy trees.
Jess set her phone to record audio, leaving it propped
carefully near her tent. As dusk approached, the familiar
feeling of dread crept over us again.
Stronger now, we spoke less, each locked in our own private
thoughts, glancing frequently at the encroaching darkness.
Then, as if summoned by the fading daylight, the whistles
returned. 2 sharp notes, clear and precise, echoed around the
clearing. It sounded closer, more
deliberate, like someone or something was observing us
carefully, hidden in the dense foliage.
The whistles repeated methodically, bouncing from one
side of our campsite to the other, circling us.
My pulse quickened. The air felt suddenly thick,
oppressive. Marcus cursed under his breath,
eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Who's out there? Tyler shouted, desperation
edging into his voice. The forest answered only with
another sharp whistle, directly ahead, tauntingly close yet
invisible. Jess pressed her back against a
tree, face pale. Rachel clutched her arm, staring
anxiously into the darkness. We need to check the cameras.
Tyler said firmly. Marcus hesitated briefly, but
nodded, and together we approached the nearest tree Cam.
I watched as Tyler reached for the strap and found nothing but
a dangling piece of fabric. The camera had been removed
cleanly, the mount undamaged, the device itself nowhere.
Insight. A chill ran through me as we
moved quickly around camp, checking every tree.
Each camera was gone, meticulously removed.
It felt intentional, calculated. Jess, hands shaking, retrieved
her phone. I recorded something earlier.
Maybe it caught whoever took them.
We crowded around her as she pressed play.
At first, silence, then 2 short whistles, startlingly loud.
But that wasn't all. Just behind the whistles,
something else emerged, barely audible beneath the static.
Jess raised the volume, and we leaned closer.
A voice whispered hurriedly, desperate and strained.
Don't move, it sees sound. Rachel gasped, stepping back.
Marcus stared wide eyed at Jess's trembling hand gripping
the phone. Tyler lowered his voice, barely
audible. Done hollow, he muttered.
We must be close. What's done hollow?
Marcus demanded sharply. Tyler hesitated, then continued
grimly. Loggers disappeared here a
century ago. Locals said something haunted
them, something that could mimic sounds, voices, animals, even
whistles. They called it cursed land.
Nobody came here after that. You knew?
Rachel whispered accusingly. I didn't think it was real.
Tyler replied weakly. A deafening silence enveloped
us. Oppressive, smothering.
My heart thudded loudly. I glanced at Marcus, his face
twisted with fear and anger. Then, without warning, multiple
whistles erupted from all directions, a chilling chorus
filling the dark woods surrounding and closing in.
Marcus bolted, flashlight bobbing wildly as he plunged
Into Darkness. Tyler shouted after him, but his
cries were drowned by the unsettling, layered whistles.
Minutes passed, long, agonizing minutes, before Tyler and I
dared venture out to find Marcus.
We followed the narrow beam of his flashlight lying abandoned
on the ground. We searched frantically, calling
his name, our voices swallowed instantly by the thick, stifling
forest. Then Rachel pointed upward, a
trembling finger aimed high into the branches. 12 feet above us,
caught tightly between the rough bark of an oak tree, fluttered A
torn piece of Marcus's jacket. My stomach dropped, dread
flooding through me. He couldn't have climbed that.
Jess whispered hoarsely. Tyler took a slow, shaking
breath, his eyes fixed on the torn fabric.
No, he couldn't. We were treated to our tents
without speaking, zipping them shut tightly as the whistles
echoed once more through the darkness.
Closer now, purposeful and persistent.
Marcus was gone, and we all understood instinctively.
He wasn't coming back. Sleep didn't come.
I lay awake, listening intently to every sound.
Jess was curled beside Rachel, her breath shallow, eyes wide
open, staring blankly at the fabric ceiling.
Tyler sat motionless, periodically checking the tent
zipper as if to ensure it hadn't moved.
Marcus's absence hungover us like a heavyweight, suffocating,
impossible to ignore. At dawn we emerged, exhausted
and silent, quickly packing our gear.
Tyler checked his GPS again, but frowned, turning the device over
in his palm. The screen flickered
erratically, coordinates jumping without logic.
Something's wrong with this. He muttered, frustration tight
in his voice. It's useless.
Rachel glanced nervously around, hands clenched at her sides.
We should just retrace our steps, go back the way we came.
Tyler nodded, though doubt darkened his face.
We set off hiking faster than the day before, driven by
urgency, glancing backward constantly.
But after hours of walking, nothing looked familiar.
Hills rose abruptly where none had existed before.
Streams ran in directions that contradicted the map.
The forest itself felt distorted, the landscape twisted
out of alignment. At midday, Jess began to hum
quietly. At first none of us noticed, but
soon I realized what she was humming. 2 short tones, the
whistle we'd heard every night. My stomach tightened painfully.
Jess. I snapped, louder than intended.
She jumped, startled, eyes glassy and distant.
What? She whispered hoarsely.
You were humming the whistle? Rachel said softly, voice
trembling. Jess paled, her hand rising to
her mouth in horror. I didn't even realize her voice
trailed off into silence. Keep moving.
Tyler urged, gripping his pack straps tight, eyes fixed
straight ahead. Within minutes, Ben stopped
abruptly, his eyes wide, head tilted slightly as if straining
to hear something distant. What is it?
I asked warily. Ben's eyes filled suddenly with
tears, his voice barely audible. I hear my mom calling me.
She's close. Rachel's expression twisted in
pain. Ben's mother had died three
years earlier. Ben, listen, it can't be her.
But he shook his head urgently, eyes darting through the trees.
I know her voice. She's right here, just ahead.
Before we could stop him, Ben bolted into the dense foliage,
ignoring our frantic calls. Rachel sobbed openly as we
chased after him, tripping over roots, scratching our faces on
branches. But he vanished completely,
leaving nothing behind but an oppressive silence.
Exhausted, desperate, we pushed on, barely speaking.
Late in the afternoon, we stumbled upon a clearing.
Rising from the tangled underbrush was an old fire
lookout tower, rusted and leaning precariously.
Relief surged briefly through me.
Maybe we could finally get our bearings.
As we approached, we saw deep gouges covering the metal
supports. Claw marks gouged deeply into
the rusted steel beams. My skin prickled uneasily, my
pulse quickening. Tyler climbed quickly, ignoring
the groans of the aged structure.
Jess, Rachel and I followed carefully, the tower swaying
slightly beneath our feet. At the top, we crowded into the
cramped observation room. Dusty glass windows overlooked
the sprawling forest, endless and indistinguishable in every
direction. In a battered cabinet, Rachel
found a leather bound Ranger logbook.
She flipped anxiously through yellowed pages, her face
draining of color as she reached the last entry, dated August
15th, 1994. Her voice shook as she read
aloud. 2 tone whistle heard again.
Third hiker gone, ordered to evacuate.
We're not alone in this forest. Cold dread seeped into my bones.
Jess pressed her forehead against the window glass,
breathing raggedly. The sun had begun to dip below
the horizon, casting a sickly amber glow across the endless
trees. Then it came again.
The whistles, not one but dozens, high pitched and low,
echoing simultaneously, surrounding the tower.
The sound rose into a chorus, unbearably loud, mocking,
relentless. Mixed into the whistles, I heard
a familiar voice, Tyler's voice, calling for help from somewhere
deep in the woods below. We turned sharply toward Tyler.
His face was pale, lips trembling.
That's not me, he whispered, shaking his head.
The whistling intensified, nearly deafening, resonating
through the tower structure. Tyler grabbed Rachel's shoulders
firmly, staring directly into her eyes.
You have to run, He said forcefully.
Go E downhill, don't stop, don't look back, I'll distract it.
Rachel shook her head fiercely, eyes streaming with tears.
Tyler's voice was firm, unyielding now.
Before any of us could object, Tyler grabbed A flare from his
pack, igniting it in a blaze of red.
He moved quickly, tossing it into the wooden debris piled at
the base of the tower. Flames erupted swiftly, roaring
upward, heat washing over us instantly.
Go. Tyler shouted again, voice lost
amid the flames and echoes of whistles.
Rachel and Jess fled first, scrambling down the ladder.
I followed rapidly, glancing upward just long enough to see
Tyler silhouetted against the glowing sky, holding another
flare defiantly at the base. Smoke thickened rapidly, choking
the air. We ran frantically, branches
clawing at our faces, roots catching at our feet.
Jess tripped, sprawling to the ground.
Rachel helped her up roughly pulling her forward.
But in that moment, Jess froze, her eyes widening as she stared
into the thickening smoke. Behind us, something moved,
something large, indistinct, weaving between the trees.
Whistles now blending with deep guttural sounds that sent ice
coursing through my veins. Just pushed Rachel hard.
Keep going, she whispered urgently.
We sprinted blindly, terror overriding exhaustion.
My heart hammered painfully as darkness enveloped us entirely.
Hours later, or perhaps minutes, time lost meaning, I stumbled
onto a Forest Service Rd. I collapsed onto gravel,
breathing raggedly. I glanced desperately around.
Rachel emerged a moment later, eyes hollow, face streaked with
dirt and tears. Jess never appeared.
Days later, the Rangers found no trace of Tyler, Marcus, Ben or
Jess. Rachel and I were the only
survivors. The official report listed the
area as restricted due to wildfire risk, but we knew
differently. There was no fire.
There was no official investigation.
Dunn Hollow quietly disappeared from maps forgotten.
Yet sometimes late at night, I swear I still hear 2 sharp
whistles from somewhere far away just beyond my window.
An invitation I will never answer.
My name is Trevor Martinez. I've always preferred the
solitude of hiking alone, capturing everything on my GoPro
for my modest audience online. There's a certain clarity in
isolation, especially in places like Los Padres National Forest,
where the terrain is raw and unforgiving.
This trip in particular was supposed to be straightforward.
A2 night loop along the Devil's Backbone Trail, starting from
the near a campground. I'd done my research.
Steep ridgelines, thorny brush and a handful of wildlife
warnings. Nothing I hadn't handled before.
It was late spring, and the California heat hadn't fully
taken hold yet. I hit the trail at dawn, camera
rolling. Birds sang intermittently as I
navigated through dry chaparral, taking steady strides across the
rocky path. By mid morning, the rhythmic
crunch of my boots was the only thing accompanying me.
Around midday, the path narrowed and the chaparral became denser,
whipping at my sleeves. It was then on an exposed Ridge.
I first saw it. Just off the trail.
On a wide boulder stood a strange stone Cairn.
At first glance, it looked like a normal stack of rocks, the
kind hikers leave behind to mark obscure roads, but something
felt off. Approaching cautiously, I
realized it wasn't a simple stack.
It spiraled inward, tight and deliberate, with no obvious
point or message. Probably just someone's weird
art project, I muttered to myself, half laughing.
But the silence around me made my voice echo strangely, and I
quickly pressed on. Hours passed, and as daylight
stretched thin, I found myself noticing more spiraling Cairns.
Each one was smaller and more intricate than the last.
They were leading away from the main trail, deeper into the
rugged hills and canyons. Curiosity tugged at me.
Maybe it was some forgotten historical trail, possibly a
route left by locals. I checked my GPS, which
flickered weakly under the dense canopy, the signal fading in and
out unpredictably. Still, my curiosity got the
better of me, and with the reassurance of being well
equipped, I turned off the main path, following these peculiar
markers into increasingly rough terrain.
The landscape changed subtly, becoming steep and heavily
wooded. The ground softened, carpeted
with fallen needles and dense underbrush that snagged my gear.
The spirals LED further downhill into a narrow Canyon, unmarked
on my maps. At the Canyon bottom, I found a
trickle of water barely big enough to fill my canteen.
Perfect place to camp, I figured, setting up my small
tent under the shade of dense oak and Sycamore trees.
That night sleep was restless. Every Creek of branches
overhead, every rustle in the brush set my nerves on edge.
Twice I sat up abruptly, convinced I heard footsteps
circling my camp. But when I shine my flashlight
into the surrounding darkness, nothing but shadows and branches
stared back. Eventually, I drifted into
uneasy sleep. Just before dawn, I woke again,
sharply, my pulse racing. I couldn't pinpoint why until I
realized what was bothering me. The forest was completely
silent, not even the distant hoot of an owl or hum of
insects. Nothing.
Shivering despite the mild night.
I whispered into my camera, documenting my unease.
Something feels off here, like I shouldn't have followed those
Cairns. I paused, suddenly aware of a
faint noise in the trees above. A subtle scraping, almost like
fingernails lightly dragging on bark.
My breathing quickened. I turned the camera lens toward
the trees, squinting into the darkness.
For a brief second, I thought I saw movement.
A vague silhouette, human shaped, standing absolutely
still. Hello.
My voice cracked slightly, betraying my fear.
Silence swallowed my words, offering no reassurance.
I tried convincing myself it was just shadows and tired eyes, but
deep down an unsettling thought lingered as dawn slowly broke
over the Canyon walls. I think it knows I'm lost.
Morning arrived with a faint muted sunlight filtering through
heavy layers of oak leaves, barely illuminating the
campsite. I sat up groggy, trying to shake
off the fatigue from the nights unrest.
Checking my GPS again only deepened my unease.
The device showed a distorted screen, the arrow spinning
slowly, unable to lock onto any reliable coordinates.
My compass was no better, trembling unsteadily in my palm.
Frustration crept into my thoughts.
I rarely got lost, and certainly not this thoroughly determined.
I packed up quickly and started back up the slope, certain I
could retrace my steps to the main trail, but nothing looked
familiar. Each hill and gully seemed
interchangeable, repeating endlessly in every direction.
I felt my pulse quicken as the morning wore on, my sense of
direction increasingly uncertain.
Midway through the morning, I came across a single Cairn, but
this one was different. Toppled, scattered deliberately
nearby in the soft soil were fresh tracks.
Leaning down, I examine them closely.
The Prince resembled a human foot, elongated with oddly
spread toes pressed deeply into the ground.
A chill crawled up my spine. I scanned the trees cautiously,
scanning slowly in all directions.
There was nothing visible, yet the sensation of being watched
was impossible to ignore. By noon, desperation set in.
My water supply dwindled rapidly, forcing me to find a
stream or spring. Soon I stumbled down an
overgrown hillside, leaves and branches scratching my face and
arms until I found a narrow stream.
Relief flooded me momentarily, pushing aside the growing dread.
But when I tried to fill my filter, it clogged immediately.
The water was clouded with fine, muddy silt.
Unusable panic gnawed at my composure.
Hunger and thirst weakened my limbs, clouding my thoughts.
I knew dehydration could quickly become deadly, especially in
terrain this rugged and isolated.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, I stumbled
into something that made my stomach twist.
A crude, makeshift shelter constructed from twisted
branches and piled pine boughs. I approached carefully, my
heartbeat quickening. Inside the shelter, I found a
torn, faded day pack. Hesitantly, I reached inside and
retrieved a slab of bark etched with shaky, desperate writing.
No trail leads out. It follows in silence.
My hands shook as I dropped the bark.
I stepped back quickly, nearly losing my balance, breathing
heavily. No birds sang overhead, and no
insects buzzed nearby. The silence felt tangible,
heavy, oppressive. For the rest of the afternoon, I
struggled forward, marking trees with my knife to track my path.
Yet after hours of wandering, I returned to the same shelter, my
own marks mysteriously missing or erased entirely.
Exhausted, I shouted into the still air.
Is anyone there? My voice echoed sharply off the
Canyon walls, repeating mockingly as darkness crept back
into the Canyon. I had no choice but to set up a
hasty, uneasy camp again, this time beneath A towering, gnarled
oak. Every nerve in my body urged me
to flee, but I had nowhere left to go.
Nightfall arrived swiftly, plunging everything around me
into inky darkness. I tried to sleep but jolted
awake frequently, convinced something shuffled quietly near
my tent. My GoPro was still recording its
tiny red light, blinking insistently, barely able to
breathe. I whispered hoarsely into the
camera, capturing my mounting dread.
It's been watching me. I'm not imagining this.
Pausing, I strained to listen closely, and at first there was
nothing. Then, suddenly, from somewhere
deeper in the Canyon, I heard a voice, faint but familiar,
speaking words that froze the blood in my veins.
It's been watching me. I'm not imagining this.
It was my own voice, repeating my words precisely, drifting
hauntingly from the darkness. My heart hammered uncontrollably
as I huddled tightly in my tent, gripping the camera until my
knuckles ached. I knew in a profound, chilling
instant I wasn't alone, and whatever was out there had no
intention of letting me leave this Canyon alive.
My memory fragments at this point.
Hunger and dehydration blurred reality, making every shadow
shift and every sound resonate ominously.
I was beyond exhausted, nerves frayed and raw.
The footage I'm about to describe is what rescuers and
investigators piece together afterward, because I hardly
recall recording it. The GoPro footage captured me
standing near a cluster of Moss covered rocks beside a sluggish,
muddy Creek. I watched this later, horrified
by my own hollow eyes and sunken cheeks.
Dirt streaked my face and clothes.
My breathing came in uneven, shallow bursts on the screen.
I spoke urgently, desperation and exhaustion evident in every
word. I've been circling for hours, I
said, voice trembling. It's keeping me here.
Every path leads back to the same place.
Every mark I make disappears. Then something captured my
attention, pulling my gaze suddenly upward.
The camera swung around as I scanned the dense foliage, eyes
wide and searching. Who's there?
I shouted, voice cracking with panic.
Only silence responded, heavy and oppressive.
Suddenly, in the distance, a faint yell echoed, a voice
indistinguishable from my own. It cried for help, then abruptly
shifted into sobbing. My knees nearly gave out.
The fear was primal, overwhelming.
No, I whispered, shaking my head violently.
That isn't me. It can't be.
But the voice continued, desperate and pleading, floating
through the Canyon like a twisted reflection of my own
terror. The camera shook as I broke into
a run, crashing blindly through the underbrush, desperate to
escape the echoing cries. Moments later, stumbling and
gasping, I dropped to the ground near a clearing.
I spoke directly into the camera, my voice barely audible
above my ragged breathing. This might be the last
recording, I said, glancing nervously over my shoulder.
If someone finds this, don't follow the Cairns.
Don't trust your eyes. It's mimicking me.
It wants me trapped here. I'm leaving the camera here.
Maybe someone will find it. Maybe someone can avoid whatever
this is. I wedged the GoPro firmly into
the crook of a tree branch, pointing it toward the narrow
path, a desperate final attempt at communicating what had
happened. I lingered for a moment,
hesitation clear on my face, before finally staggering out of
view. The rescuers recovered my
footage weeks later, precisely where I had left it.
They scoured the Canyon, tracking dogs, sniffing
fruitlessly along steep ridges and deep gullies.
But no sign of me emerged, no footprints beyond my camera, no
clothing scraps, nothing. I had vanished completely.
Then came the last piece of footage.
The timestamp flashed 36 hours after my last known appearance,
long after any rational chance of my survival.
The camera had activated again, triggered by some subtle motion
or sound. The clip was brief, less than a
minute. Darkness enveloped the trees,
the image barely visible in the faint moonlight.
For several seconds, nothing moved.
Then a shadow shifted subtly among the trees, silent and
indistinct. The breathing began, a low,
rasping exhale so close to the microphone it made my skin crawl
when I saw it later, just before the video ended.
The same voice, almost identical to mine but colder, emptier,
spoke clearly. You're next.
Those words still echo endlessly in my mind, a chilling reminder
that something still lurks out there in that nameless Canyon
along the Devil's Backbone Trail, waiting patiently in
silence. I took the seasonal forestry job
in New Hampshire mostly because I needed isolation, a break from
crowded city streets and fluorescent lit office cubicles.
After years managing digital records for a small company in
Boston, the silence and solitude promised by the White Mountain
National Forest seemed like salvation.
My name is Derek Madsen, and for the next 6 months I was tasked
with basic maintenance, clearing debris, maintaining trail
signage, and monitoring visitor safety.
The Ranger outpost I've been assigned to, Cabin 11, sat deep
in the Great Gulf Wilderness, a remote corner overshadowed by
Mount Washington's rugged peak. The first day started with a
grueling 6 mile hike, lugging heavy gear along a winding,
overgrown trail. Sweat coated my neck, soaking
into the collar of my flannel shirt.
By the time I spotted the cabin, nestled amid dense spruce trees,
the afternoon was already fading toward dusk, painting the
surrounding peaks with streaks of orange and purple.
I opened the creaky wooden door, setting down my backpack and
immediately smelling old cedar, damp fabric and decades of
disuse. Sparse furnishings, a battered
cot, a simple wooden desk, shelves stocked with canned
beans and coffee tins from previous Rangers.
Dust drifted lazily in the waning sunlight.
On the desk lay a thick, leather bound logbook.
Curious, I flipped through yellowed pages, noting dates and
signatures stretching back nearly 2 decades.
Most entries were mundane. Patrolled trail, removed fallen
branches, clear weather. But as I turned deeper, a
strange repetition caught my attention.
Cabin 27. Inspection overdue.
Cabin 27. Lantern out.
Cabin 27 C claw damage on interior beam.
These entries repeated themselves over and over in
different handwriting, going back years, sometimes months
apart. My brow furrowed.
I pulled out the official Forest Service binder, flipping
hurriedly through laminated maps and neatly printed cabin
inventories. No mention of Cabin 27 appeared
anywhere, not even as a ruin, not as a historical site.
Nothing. I shook my head and radioed the
nearest Ranger station, a crackling static voice
responding after a few tries. Hey, can someone confirm
something for me? I asked, trying to sound casual.
Is there supposed to be a Cabin 27 somewhere in Great Gulf?
Silence lingered on the line a bit too long.
When the voice returned, it was cautious, almost hesitant.
Negative. No Cabin 27 listed.
Probably an old logging camp or something.
Best to ignore it. I thank the Ranger and hung up
the radio, but his response left a strange unease gnawing at my
gut. If it was an error, why had it
persisted across so many log entries over so many years?
I cooked a simple meal of beans and toast on the propane stove.
As darkness descended outside, trees rustled in the breeze,
branches occasionally scraping against the roof.
I tried to put the odd log entries from my mind, chalking
it up to bureaucratic oversight and boredom from previous
Rangers. After dinner, I readied myself
for sleep, stretching out on the narrow cot, exhaustion heavy in
my limbs. Sleep came uneasily, dreams
scattered with visions of shadowy cabins buried deep and
twisted forest trails. I woke suddenly around midnight,
unsure what had startled me. Listening closely, heart
quickening, I heard nothing at first but the faint wind and
distant trickle of a stream. Then came three distinct knocks
on the front door, slow, deliberate taps evenly spaced.
My chest tightened, muscles stiffening, I rose from the cot
quietly grabbing the flashlight from the desk and inching toward
the door. For a long moment, I stood
there, breath shallow, waiting. Silence.
Gathering courage, I swung the door open, flashlight beam
slicing through the inky blackness.
Nothing greeted me except darkness and the trees.
But as I lowered my beam to the ground, a chill spread across my
shoulders. There, clear as day, stamped
into the soft, damp earth at the edge of the porch, was a single
wet boot print. And it wasn't mine.
Morning came slow, breaking Gray and heavy over the great Gulf
wilderness. I hadn't slept since the
knocking, haunted by the image of that wet boot print just
outside my door. I ate breakfast, mechanically
stale bread and cold coffee, my thoughts cycling back
relentlessly to the strange log book entries and that
disembodied tapping. A restless energy crawled
through my limbs. I needed answers, something to
settle my mind. By mid morning, maps and notes
spread across the cabin desk. I pieced together clues from the
cryptic log entries above the River Split Ridge near blighted
Hemlocks. I cross reference these hints
obsessively with my official topographic charts.
Finally, an isolated, unmapped area near Chandler Brook Trail
revealed itself. A dense patch of wilderness
closed off years ago after a massive rockslide.
It wasn't far A short drive by ATV, then I'd have to bushwhack
the rest of the way on foot. Before I left, I radioed again
to the Ranger station, offering vague details of my route,
deliberately omitting my true destination.
Something about yesterday's hesitation unsettled me, and the
less they knew about my intentions the better. 20
minutes later I parked the ATV and moved into dense underbrush,
compass and map in hand. The forest was thick, the
terrain tangled with fallen logs and grasping shrubs.
Every step forward was slow, deliberate, punctuated by
snapping twigs and crunching leaf litter.
The air was oppressive, heavy with moisture that clung
stubbornly to my skin, my clothes soon damp with sweat.
An hour passed then, to the sunlight growing weak and watery
beneath the dense canopy. I began to doubt my direction,
double checking landmarks against the blurred photocopies
in my hand. Eventually, a rusted nail
hammered into a tree caught my eye.
Another appeared about 30 yards ahead, then another.
They formed a crude, forgotten path worn faintly into the
earth. A shiver ran through my spine.
As I followed deeper into the forest, I noticed something
strange. Trees stripped clean of bark at
chest height, as if something had clawed at them repeatedly,
exposing raw, pale wood beneath. Unease coiled tighter inside me.
The claw marks from the log book entries flashed through my mind,
and my pace quickened. Then, abruptly, the forest
opened slightly into a small clearing.
Nestled there, swallowed by decades of overgrowth, stood a
dilapidated wooden structure. Sagging roof beams weathered
boards nearly collapsing under their own weight.
Cabin 27. My pulse quickened, breath
shallow in my chest as I moved cautiously closer, stepping onto
the creaking porch. The door hung ajar, hinges
rusted and worn inside. Shadows pooled in every corner.
The scent of rot and mold permeated the air, nearly
choking me. My flashlight beam danced across
the wooden walls, revealing deep, jagged claw marks gouged
furiously into the timber. Splinters jutted outward at
harsh angles, violent in their origin.
Fear stirred inside me, mixing with dread and fascination.
Something drew my eyes upward. Suspended from the ceiling by a
rusted chain hung an ancient Lantern, it's glass blackened
and smeared strangely. It emitted A faint, lingering
warmth when my fingertips brushed against it, as though it
had only recently been extinguished.
A sudden wave of nausea passed over me.
I lowered the flashlight beam and saw on the floor beneath the
Lantern a small notebook bound in cracked leather.
My hands trembled slightly as I opened it, pages stiff with age.
Inside were sketches, frenzied, rough, chaotic eyes staring from
pages. Trees twisted and dark, crude
antlers sprouting from shadowy heads.
Triangles and vertical slashes repeated obsessively over and
over again. It felt like peering into
madness. I reached for my phone, quickly
snapping photos of the notebook and claw marks, but just as I
aimed for another shot, the screen flickered, dimmed, then
died completely. I pressed the power button
desperately, but the phone remains stubbornly dark,
glancing nervously around the cabin once more.
The hair on my neck rose as I heard something faint yet
distinct outside. A crunching sound, the snapping
of twigs beneath weight. I stepped out, scanning rapidly
with my flashlight beam. Nothing visible moved, but on
the muddy ground, clearly outlined in the faint light, was
a fresh print. It was barefoot, impossibly
large, the elongated toes spaced unnaturally far apart.
Panic surged through my limbs. My compass spun erratically in
my palm. Useless.
I quickly shoved it back into my pocket, turning away from the
cabin and sprinting through the undergrowth.
Branches scraped at my face. Thorn snagged my clothing, but
adrenaline fueled my escape. Still, no matter how fast I
moved, I heard faint footfalls paralleling my route, echoing my
every step from the shadowed forest around me.
It was dusk by the time I stumbled breathlessly back to
Cabin 11, heart hammering violently in my chest.
Locking the door tight, I barred it with a wooden chair and drew
curtains tightly over windows. I lit every Lantern, casting
jittery shadows against walls. Sleep was impossible.
Outside, silence grew thick and oppressive.
Hours later, long after darkness settled fully around the cabin,
it came again. 3 slow, steady knocks punctuating the night air
like hammer blows. Then silence.
Seconds dragged on agonizingly, until a low, rasping voice
hissed through the cabin window, barely above a whisper.
Lanterns out, the knocks echoed in my mind long after they had
ceased. I stayed motionless, frozen in
the middle of Cabin 11, eyes fixed on the door I'd
barricaded. Every muscle in my body strained
with tension, waiting for something, anything, to
breakthrough. But nothing came.
The silence returned, pressing heavier than before.
Hours dragged slowly toward dawn as pale Gray light seeped
through the curtains. I cautiously stepped outside,
bracing myself. The porch bore fresh gouges,
deep splinters torn from the wood.
The door frame itself had cracked.
The hinges warped slightly inward, as if something had
tried forcefully and persistently to enter.
My hands trembled as I raised the radio, desperate for
contact. Static crackled through the
speaker, obscuring most of what I heard.
I shouted urgently. This is Derek at Cabin 11.
Something attacked last night. I found Cabin 27.
It's real. I need immediate assistance.
Static again. Then, through the distorted
haze, a voice finally responded, clipped and urgent.
Leave now. That was enough for me.
I hastily gathered what little I could carry, a map, compass,
flashlight, and burst from the cabin, pushing toward the main
trail back to the Ranger station.
Each footstep crunched over twigs and leaves, my breathing
rapid and shallow, pulse hammering relentlessly in my
ears. Less than half a mile down the
familiar path, I halted abruptly.
A cluster of pine trees, trunks snapped cleanly and freshly
splintered, sprawled like matchsticks across the trail.
This wasn't the storm's doing, nor a natural collapse.
My heart sank. It would take hours to clear
this barrier, hours I didn't have.
Desperation forced me toward the riverbed, a more dangerous but
direct route leading around the obstruction.
Rain began falling quickly, thickening into a downpour.
I moved swiftly, soaked through, slipping off and on the Moss
slicked rocks, the noise of rushing water masking the sound
of my progress. Then I heard it again.
The same 3 taps, distinct rhythmic knocks resonating
through the trees on my left. I spun, flashlight shaking in my
grip, beam searching wildly among shadows and rain.
Nothing. Silence again, thick and
oppressive. A few steps later, the taps
repeated, now from behind. A cold dread climbed up my
spine. Leave me alone, I shouted, my
voice echoing weakly into the darkening forest.
A movement across the river caught my eye.
A shape indistinct through sheets of rain, standing tall,
hunched unnaturally. My throat tightened as I
struggled to focus on it clearly.
Its outline wavered, limbs too long, head tilted strangely, and
then it moved quickly, jerkily, along the opposite bank,
matching my pace precisely. I broke into a run, heedless of
my footing, stumbling repeatedly.
My knees struck rocks painfully, palm scraped raw as I pushed
myself upright again and again. Behind me, footsteps, heavy,
uneven, matched mine precisely, echoing wetly across the
riverbed. Panic seized me, blinding,
overwhelming. Suddenly, exhaustion took hold.
My legs folded beneath me, sending me sprawling into mud
and debris. I clutched at my chest, gasping
ragged breaths, eyes squeezed shut in desperation.
The footsteps stopped abruptly nearby.
I held perfectly still, terror hammering in my chest.
After several endless moments, another sound reached my ears.
A static hiss, faint but unmistakable.
My radio shaking, I pulled it from my pack, turning the volume
dial. A distorted voice, barely
audible through bursts of interference, crackled through
search and rescue. Do you copy?
Derek, we have your coordinates. Hold tight, we're coming.
I don't remember turning on the radio.
Minutes stretched painfully, blending into one another.
I didn't move. Eventually, bright beams pierced
through the rain, voices calling my name.
Hands lifted me gently from the ground.
Faces blurred by exhaustion and relief surrounded me.
They carried me swiftly out of the wilderness, wrapped in
blankets, my soaked body trembling violently.
Hours later, at the Ranger station, questions bombarded me.
I spoke in broken sentences, describing Cabin 27, the claw
marks, the Lantern. Someone brought, my phone fully
charged, displaying no photos of the cabin, just a single blurred
snapshot of muddy ground and dead leaves.
They exchanged uneasy glances, disbelief coloring their faces.
I knew what they thought Exposure, panic, hallucinations
brought on by isolation. I quit the Forestry Service
shortly after, unable to shake the feeling of dread clinging to
me. Months later, after I'd moved
far from New Hampshire's mountains, a plain envelope
arrived in the mail. No return address.
Inside, a single photograph, grainy and shadowed but
unmistakable. Cabin 27, sagging under years of
neglect. Claw marks deeply gouged into
the walls and hanging from its ceiling beam a rusted Lantern
glowing faintly in the gloom. I've always found a certain
comfort in the cold clarity of high elevations.
It's one reason my friend Thomas and I regularly climb in Rocky
Mountain National Park. Places like Sky Pond, nestled at
nearly 11,000 feet, feel both exhilarating and detached from
everyday anxieties. This particular trip had a clear
goal. Summit Taylor Peak via the Class
4 scramble. We'd bivouacked countless times
in Alpine conditions before, and this trip wasn't supposed to be
any different. The ascent from Glacier Gorge
trailhead had gone smoothly enough, despite lingering
patches of ice and snow. Tomas, A seasoned Alpine guide
from Boulder, always LED with confidence, joking and chatting
easily about future climbs. I, on the other hand, was
typically quiet, ever cautious from my military training, a
trait that had served me well. Our camp was tucked neatly into
a shelf of rock, sheltered beneath the shadow of the
shark's tooth, a jagged pinnacle that stabbed dramatically upward
into the Colorado sky. After setting up our bivvy sacks
and heating water from melting snow, we'd settled in early, the
wind drumming steadily against our modest shelter.
The sky was a crisp black, stars brittle and sharp overhead,
distant and indifferent. Sleep found me quickly.
I woke at dawn, stirred awake by the creeping chill that always
settled around first light. I sat up slowly, tugging at the
zipper on my bivvy sack, and then paused, my eyes adjusting
to the stark brightness of fresh morning sun reflecting off
scattered patches of snow. A strange sight greeted me
around our bivvy area, where there had definitely been snow
last night. I remembered melting it myself.
There now stretched a perfect circle of bare, dry earth about
20 feet in diameter. I climbed fully out, pulling my
down jacket tighter against my chest, examining the boundary
closely. The line between snow and dirt
was impossibly crisp. No footprints, no disturbances
of any kind. Just dry, crumbly soil encircled
precisely by frozen terrain. Hey, Tomas?
I called quietly, not wanting to sound panicked but unable to
keep a note of urgency from my voice.
He emerged groggily from his sleeping bag, rubbing at his
eyes. What's up?
I gestured wordlessly. His expression slowly shifted
from confusion to amusement. That's just wind scour, man.
He finally said, chuckling softly.
We get weird microclimates up here.
I shook my head slightly, unconvinced.
I've seen wind scour before. This isn't it?
Thomas shrugged easily, already rummaging through his pack for
food. Well, it's weird, sure, but
nature does strange stuff. I knelt again, pressing my palm
against the cold soil. It felt dry, utterly devoid of
moisture. Curious, I took out my compass,
noting immediately the needles faint quiver, like it was
hesitant about where North might be.
I glanced up at Tomas. He didn't notice he was busy
boiling water and talking about which routes we should avoid
because of avalanche risk. We should go for Taylor soon.
Tomas suggested cheerily. Weather looks stable enough.
I agreed absent mindedly, still studying the circle.
It made my skin prickle in a way I'd experienced only rarely,
that deep seated intuition that something was subtly but
profoundly wrong. Finally, I photographed it, the
stark circle of dryness glaring at me from the screen of my
phone. Perhaps documentation would
reassure me later, somehow normalize this oddity.
We packed quickly, eager to put distance between ourselves and
the unexplained circle. The early sun shone bright but
cold, a typical Alpine morning where every breath crystallized
in front of us. We ascended higher, navigating
carefully across patches of frozen scree and scattered snow
fields. The terrain was rougher here,
demanding attention. As we approached a steep Ridge
leading toward Taylor Peak's final scramble, something tugged
at my attention. High above, silhouetted starkly
against the bright sky, was a dark figure.
A lone climber, maybe, but who else could be out here so early
in the season? Tomas.
I murmured, nudging his shoulder gently.
You see that? He squinted upward, shading his
eyes with a gloved hand where? I pointed directly above us to
the sharp Crest of the Ridge, but the figure had vanished as
abruptly as if it had been snatched away by wind.
Tomas chuckled again, more nervously this time.
Altitudes getting to you, Jace. Nobody else out here this early.
I nodded reluctantly. Maybe he was right.
Perhaps the thin air and that bizarre circle had unsettled me
more than I realized. We continued silently up the
slope, our crampons biting reassuringly into hard packed
snow. Still, even as the summit loomed
closer, the image of that perfectly bare circle persisted,
gnawing subtly at my thoughts. By late afternoon, the sun began
dropping lower in the sky, casting elongated shadows across
the mountainside. We made the mutual decision to
return to our camp at Sky Pond for another night, to rest and
prepare for an easier descent tomorrow morning.
We arrived back just before dusk, fatigue pulling at my
limbs. The circle was still there,
unchanged, stark in its simplicity, unsettlingly
precise. As we settled in again, zipping
tightly into our bivvy sacks against the biting wind, I heard
Thomas mutter softly from nearby.
Hey, Jace. Yeah.
You don't really think something's out here, right?
I hesitated. I don't know, I replied
honestly. Something's just off.
He went silent, and soon I heard his breathing deepen.
I lay awake longer, listening to the quiet hush of wind through
stone just before sleep took me. I couldn't shake the feeling of
eyes unseen, unknowable, fixed steadily upon our tiny camp,
waiting patiently beyond the confines of that impossible
circle. Sleep came in fits and starts
that night, my mind unable to fully shake the uneasy sensation
brought on by the circle of bare earth.
Every rustle of fabric from Tomas, every distant Creek of
shifting ice, seemed amplified in the quiet stillness of Sky
Pond. Sometime after midnight, I heard
something distinct, thin, rhythmic clicks carried on the
cold air. They were faint, intermittent,
and initially I dismissed them as natural ice cracking or
distant rockfall, but something about the cadence felt
deliberate. I lay still, ears straining in
the darkness, heart drumming softly in my chest.
The clicks faded, swallowed by the whisper of wind.
Morning came reluctantly, the sun climbing slowly above the
jagged ridgeline, spilling pale light across the landscape.
I pushed myself up, rubbing sleep from weary eyes, and was
immediately alert again. Outside the circles perimeter,
right where the snow resumed, I saw something new.
Footprints. Huge, elongated indentations in
the snow, perfectly clear against the bright, untouched
powder. Without waking Tomas, I climbed
out of my bivvy, carefully approaching the tracks.
They were deep, clearly defined, with a broad stance far wider
than my own stride, suggesting something large and bipedal.
They started abruptly, just outside the edge of the circle,
as if whatever made them had materialized out of thin air.
The footprints continued steadily uphill, so I followed
them. Each step required an
exaggerated stretch, the prints set unnaturally far apart.
Soon I came to a point high on an open slope where the tracks
simply stopped mid stride. The last print was pressed
firmly. Then nothing.
No indication of turning around, no sidestepping, no evidence of
a jump or climb. Just snow and emptiness.
I scanned upward. No trees, no rocks, nowhere.
Something could have logically gone.
My heart thudded harder, my throat dry with growing
uncertainty. I crouched and studied the final
print more closely, noting its unsettling length, easily twice
that of my climbing boot. What are you doing?
Thomas's voice broke through my thoughts.
He was standing just below, hands cupped around a steaming
mug. Come here, take a look.
I called back, trying to mask the unease in my voice.
He climbed up beside me, frowning down at the Prince.
He looked back toward camp, then slowly upward, following their
impossible trajectory. OK.
He admitted finally, voice quiet, cautious.
That's definitely not normal, I told you.
I muttered softly. Something's off here.
Tomas sighed deeply, nodding slowly.
Maybe someone's messing with us out here.
I countered. Who would hike in this deep just
to leave tracks like these and disappear?
And how did they start out of nowhere?
Neither of us had an answer. Eventually we returned silently
to our bivvy site. I reached into my pack and
pulled out a trail camera. Compact, motion triggered,
infrared capable. We hadn't intended to use it for
security, only wildlife photography, but now it seemed
prudent. Let's set this up, I suggested.
If something comes back tonight, maybe we'll catch it.
Tomas agreed silently, though his usual good humor had
noticeably diminished. Together, we secured the camera
to a sturdy tripod, pointing it toward our camp, ensuring it had
a clear field of view. The rest of the day passed
slowly. We barely spoke, busying
ourselves with menial tasks, melting snow, reorganizing gear.
Anxiety settled in my chest, a physical pressure that wouldn't
release. Worse, I'd started experiencing
brief lapses in memory, forgetting where I'd set down my
gloves, checking my GPS beacon, only to find it inexplicably
turned off. Fatigue, stress, altitude, I
rationalized. But deep down I knew it was
something more unsettling. Night descended again, darker
and quieter than the last. The sky was heavy with clouds,
obscuring stars and moonlight alike.
Inside my bivy, I stared into the darkness, ears alert, eyes
straining for movement. It felt like hours before Thomas
finally spoke again, his voice barely audible.
Jason. He whispered hoarsely.
Let's check the camera. We climbed out stiffly, boots
crunching softly in the snow, breath misting rapidly in the
freezing air. My pulse quickened as I opened
the camera's memory card compartment and plugged it into
my phone to review the images. The first set of images was
normal enough. Us setting up camp, boiling
water, chatting quietly. My finger swiped rapidly
forward. Dread building in my gut, I
froze abruptly. The timestamp read 3:12 AM.
The image showed Thomas and me, clearly asleep inside our bivvy
sax, taken from perhaps 5 feet above, angled downward.
I glanced sharply at the tripod. It hadn't moved.
The angle of the shot was wrong, impossible.
It couldn't have taken that picture.
It hadn't been triggered, hadn't shifted.
Thomas. My voice shook slightly.
Look at this. He peered closer, expression
tightening with concern. How?
He murmured, not finishing the question.
I clicked further into the memory card.
A second folder appeared, one we hadn't created.
My hand trembled as I tapped it open.
Images loaded slowly, thumbnails flickering ominously.
They revealed photos taken before we arrived at Sky Pond.
Empty landscapes at first, then, increasingly, images of our
campsite. Not our current setup, but the
exact spot we chose, photographed repeatedly from
multiple angles. Empty snow, empty rock.
As if something had anticipated precisely where we'd bivouac.
Neither of us spoke. Thomas looked shaken, eyes wide
with apprehension. We have to get out of here.
I whispered urgently. He nodded slowly, deeply.
First thing tomorrow, we're leaving.
We returned silently to our bivvies, though sleep was
impossible. I lay awake, eyes straining at
the featureless dark, gripping my small knife and numb fingers.
The clicks returned sometime later, more distinct now,
echoing softly from above. Sharp, purposeful, they
continued long after dawn approached, fading only when the
Gray light of another cold morning spilled over the basin,
illuminating clearly the circle in the snow, a stark reminder
that something unseen was watching us closely.
We packed our gear hastily at dawn, tension tightening every
movement. The air was colder, clouds heavy
and Gray, promising snow. Thomas and I exchanged few
words, each of us silently preparing for a quick descent
toward the Loch and ultimately back to the relative safety of
Glacier Gorge trailhead. I couldn't shake the feeling of
being watched, a subtle pressure at the edge of perception,
something just beyond sight but undeniably real.
The image from the trail Cam haunted me.
Are sleeping forms captured by some unseen vantage point?
The impossibility of it all. The trail down was slick and
treacherous, patches of ice hiding beneath fresh powder.
Visibility worsened as fog drifted down from the peaks,
thickening steadily until the landscape blurred into vague
shapes and shadows. We paused briefly, checking our
GPS beacons and maps, ensuring we hadn't strayed from the
route. As we descended past Timberline
Falls, Tomas's boots slipped abruptly.
He dropped heavily onto the ice covered rock, a sharp cry
breaking from his lips as his leg twisted awkwardly beneath
him. Tomas.
I called urgently, rushing to him.
His face was pale, pain etched deeply into his features.
His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
He clenched his jaw, eyes watering my ankle.
He groaned, breathing hard. It's bad, Jason.
I quickly activated the Garmin SOS beacon clip to my pack, the
blinking red light reassuring despite the chill of dread.
Help will be here soon. I promised, forcing calm into my
voice. But we both knew rescue at this
elevation could take hours. Gently, I wrapped him in an
emergency blanket, propping him against a rock ledge to shield
him from the biting wind. You stay here.
I said firmly. I'll find a better signal and
see if I can spot any landmarks for SAR.
Tomas nodded weakly, eyes half closed in pain.
Don't go far. He warned softly, more pleading
than authoritative. I scrambled uphill slightly,
looking for clearer terrain. Fog hung thickly, making
navigation difficult. My feet crunched softly through
frozen Moss and snow, until suddenly the ground beneath my
boots changed. I stopped, my breath catching
sharply. Another circle, just like the
first. But this one was different.
It wasn't just bare earth. The ground within the circle was
scorched black, the Moss and pine needles charred and
brittle, radiating outward with perfect, unsettling symmetry.
The snow surrounding it was melted cleanly away, revealing a
ring of exposed, burned soil. The smell was acrid, lingering
thickly in the cold air. My pulse quickened.
I snapped a few photos quickly, driven by a nervous urgency to
document this new discovery. What could cause something like
this? Lightning wouldn't produce such
geometric precision, and the burns seemed inexplicably
recent, fresh yet without heat. Just wrong.
I retreated hastily toward Tomas, dread pushing at my
chest. As I reached him.
I found him drifting in and out of consciousness, his head
slumped forward. Tomas.
I shouted urgently, gripping his shoulder.
He stirred slightly, groaning softly in response.
Time dragged painfully slowly. Every few minutes I checked the
Garmin, reassuring myself that our distress signal was
broadcasting. The fog continued thickening,
isolating us further from the familiar landscape.
I stood, straining my eyes into the opaque whiteness.
That's when I saw it. At the edge of the tree line
above us, just visible through the shifting fog, a figure stood
motionless. My heart stopped cold.
It was tall, unnaturally so, limbs elongated and
disproportionate. Not human, but something trying
to appear human and failing. I froze completely, scarcely
breathing. The figure remained utterly
still, half hidden behind the trunks of lodge pole Pines.
Slowly, I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew my phone, my
hands trembling as I aimed it upward.
The shutter clicked softly. The figure was gone when I
glanced up again, nothing but fog and empty trees.
A distant hum slowly broke through my panic, the
unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter.
Relief flooded my veins as I signaled frantically.
Within moments the helicopter hovered briefly, a rescue team
descending rapidly via ropes, shouting commands muffled by the
rotor wash. Tomas was swiftly secured into a
stretcher, lifted carefully up towards safety.
A Ranger called out to me, offering to haul me out as well,
but stubborn pride and perhaps an irrational need to remain
alert made me shake my head. I'll hike down.
I shouted, barely audible above the helicopter noise.
The Ranger hesitated, but finally nodded, ascending after
Tomas. The helicopter vanished quickly,
leaving me alone. Adrenaline faded rapidly,
exhaustion weighing heavily now. I trudge downhill, ears tuned
sharply to every sound, eyes flickering toward every shadow.
By the time I reached the Ranger station at the trailhead,
nightfall had settled fully, deepening the quiet of the empty
building. A Ranger greeted me, his face
lined with concern. I showed him the photo from the
trail Cam and recounted the strange circles, the tracks, and
finally, reluctantly, the figure I'd glimpsed.
His expression shifted noticeably.
You're not the first, he said quietly, averting his eyes.
What do you mean? I pressed urgently.
He hesitated, shook his head softly.
Just forget it. Some things out here we don't
talk about. Go home.
Be glad you made it. Back in Boulder A few days
later, safely distant from the mountains and their cold
mysteries, I reviewed the photos I'd taken.
At first glance, they appeared ordinary landscapes, trees,
snow. But one image stopped me cold,
the one I'd snapped at the tree line above Thomas, zooming
carefully. My blood ran cold.
There, partially obscured behind the lodge pole, pine stood the
tall, blurred figure. Its limbs were distorted,
elongated, subtly wrong. It stood perfectly still,
undeniably present. My breath shook slightly.
Quickly, I attached the image to an e-mail, intending to send it
to the Ranger station. But as soon as I clicked send,
my laptop screen flickered sharply and went black.
The computer rebooted itself, the message and photo nowhere to
be found. Frantically, I searched through
my phone, but the image had vanished, leaving no trace.
Yet sometimes, late at night, my phone will flicker oddly, just
briefly. The screen flashes the image too
quick to capture, too fleeting to confirm, but unmistakably
clear, the blurred figure in the trees, watching silently from
behind the Pines at the edge of Sky Pond.