Mount Hood had always seemed welcoming.
Nate and I had visited before short day trips, mostly a quick
drive from Eugene when we needed a change of scenery.
But we've never ventured into its deeper reaches, the isolated
corners away from tourists and marked trails.
When we found a posting online advertising A rustic, secluded
cabin off grid, miles from the nearest neighbor, it sounded
like the ideal escape. The ad was sparse, the price
affordable, and we didn't ask too many questions.
The owner, whoever he was, assured us via e-mail that we'd
find everything we needed inside.
His last message warned that cell signals died out past
Rhododendron, which sounded like paradise at the time.
No buzzing phones, no endless notifications, just the quiet
solitude we've been craving. We drove past Government Camp,
turned onto a dirt Rd. marked only by a faded wooden sign, and
followed the overgrown path as branches brushed against our
windows. After nearly an hour, the road
became too narrow and Nate parked the car by a stand of old
growth trees. From there, we had to carry our
bags the last 50 yards on foot. When we first saw the cabin, my
stomach tightened a bit. It was small and sturdy, but
rougher than I'd imagined. Heavy pine logs formed the
walls, Moss creeping up from the damp earth.
A rusted manual water pump stood in front, and the windows were
filmed with years of grime. Nate flashed me a reassuring
grin, squeezed my shoulder gently, and stepped up onto the
porch, keys jingling in his hand.
The air inside smelled earthy and musty, but the place was
solid enough. Wooden furniture, heavy
blankets, an old wood burning stove.
It felt like stepping back into another era.
On a battered wooden table lay a leather bound guestbook, warped
from humidity and speckled with mold.
I flipped through its yellowed pages.
The most recent entry was dated July 1991.
Enjoy your stay, it read. Nothing since.
Charming. Nate laughed uneasily.
Let's get some air. We spent that first evening on
the porch. Nate built a fire in a stone
ring just outside the cabin, and soon the comforting scent of
burning pine drifted around us. It felt peaceful as we settled
into folding chairs, drinking wine, and listening to the
occasional distant owl or snap of a twig somewhere deep in the
woods. As the sunset, the forest took
on a shadowed twilight blue hue. The silence stretched deeper.
I don't remember who noticed first.
It might have been Nate suddenly sitting upright, or the way he
lowered his wine glass slowly, eyes fixed toward the trees at
the edge of the clearing. What is it?
I asked, squinting in the dimming light.
Someone's out there, he murmured.
I followed his gaze. A chill ran through me,
immediate and sharp. Just beyond the edge of the tree
line, standing perfectly still, was a figure too far away to
make out clearly but undeniably there.
It didn't move, didn't shift even slightly.
It was just standing, watching. Maybe it's another hiker?
I whispered, my voice barely audible, but something deep
inside me rejected that idea immediately.
We waved cautiously. There was no response, just
silence and stillness. Nate grabbed his flashlight,
switched it on, and aimed it toward the trees.
My breath caught as the beam illuminated empty space.
The figure was gone, as if erased from existence.
We exchanged uneasy glances. Neither of us spoke, but the
comforting isolation we'd saw it suddenly felt oppressive, heavy
with dread. Nate stoked the fire higher,
sending sparks swirling into the night sky.
Sleep didn't come easily that night.
Every Creek of the cabin, every rustle in the trees jolted me
awake. Nate's steady breathing beside
me was my only comfort as I drifted in and out, wondering if
we'd made a terrible mistake by morning.
Daylight brought some reassurance.
Coffee brewed over the stove, and we tried to laugh away the
unease of the night before. Nate walked down toward the spot
where we'd seen the figure, expecting footprints or evidence
of someone having stood there. He returned, shaking his head.
No tracks, he said quietly. Nothing at all.
The rational part of me clung to logic.
It had been dusk. Shadows could play tricks.
Maybe it had been a deer standing strangely upright, but
the memory was vivid, stubbornly clear.
We spent the morning hiking short distances around the
property, trying to put distance between ourselves and the
unsettling feeling from the night before.
On our return, we noticed something odd.
A length of rusted wire nailed crudely into a tree, A relic
from another time, marking an abandoned boundary.
But it LED nowhere, just disappeared into the underbrush.
We didn't speak of it, though I noticed Nate glancing back at it
several times as we walked on. As twilight approached again,
anxiety prickled at my skin. We decided to build the fire
earlier, hoping its presence would keep whatever we'd seen at
Bay. But as shadows lengthened once
more, there it was again, Closer this time, maybe 70 yards away,
standing motionless, waiting just beyond the reach of our
site. Nate grabbed his binoculars.
I watched his face as he scanned slowly, his expression
darkening. He handed them to me without a
word. My hands trembled as I raised
them to my eyes, adjusting the focus until the figure sharpened
into view. It was shadowed, nearly
featureless, but something about it was wrong.
It's posture too rigid, clothing dark like old fatigues or a
Ranger uniform, worn and tattered.
What do we do? I whispered.
Nate didn't respond at first. He only reached for my hand,
squeezing it tightly, refusing to break his gaze.
I don't know, He finally said quietly.
But we're not alone out here. We decided at sunrise it was
time to leave. Neither Nate nor I had slept
much, haunted by the memory of that figure standing at the edge
of the trees. Whatever this was, it wasn't the
peaceful retreat we'd envisioned with daylight filtering weekly
through the thick forest canopy. I hurriedly packed our bags
while Nate carried our belongings out to the car.
We spoke very little, our tension palpable.
I stepped onto the porch and my eyes immediately fixed on Nate.
He was hunched over the open hood of our car, hands moving
rapidly. Something was wrong, I could
feel it approaching. Cautiously, I called out.
What's going on? He looked up at me, face pale
beneath a thin Sheen of sweat. The battery's dead.
Dead how? It was fine 2 days ago.
He shook his head grimly. It wasn't an accident.
The terminals unscrewed. Someone messed with it.
Becca. A wave of dread washed over me.
This was deliberate. Someone didn't want us leaving.
Nate tried to reconnect the battery, but it was too far.
Drained, we were stuck, stranded without cell service, miles from
anyone who might hear us. We'll hike out, Nate said, doing
his best to sound confident. If we follow the road back,
eventually we'll hit the main route.
I nodded, though the prospect was unsettling.
But staying here felt worse. Within minutes we were moving
down the narrow dirt Rd. silent except for our steady breathing
and the crunch of our shoes on gravel.
After a mile or so, Nate slowed abruptly.
Becca, look. He pointed to something odd.
A small, precise pile of pine needles.
They were fresh, stacked neatly, clearly deliberate.
We walked further, finding more piles at equal distances,
perfectly spaced every 50 feet or so.
A chill ran down my spine. Someone had marked this trail
recently, methodically. What do you think it means?
I whispered, scanning the trees nervously.
I don't know, Nate admitted. But I don't think it's good.
We pushed forward cautiously, our pace quickening despite
fatigue. After another 20 minutes, Nate
stopped again, breath sharply drawn.
A head nailed to a massive fir tree was an old, weathered
wooden sign. In faded letters, it read Do NOT
Trespass, property of the US Forest Service.
Site 17 A Site 17 A. Have you ever heard of that?
Nate shook his head. It's not on any map I've ever
seen. We stood there for several
minutes, frozen, unsure how to proceed.
The forest around us felt oppressive, the trees towering
overhead like silent witnesses. Eventually, Nate turned toward
me, concern etched deeply into his face.
I think we should head back. We don't know what's out there.
The idea of returning made my chest tighten painfully, but the
uncertainty ahead was equally terrifying.
Reluctantly, I agreed, and we retraced our steps toward the
cabin. Neither of us spoke much as the
forest closed in again, each of us alert to every rustle, every
distant sound. Back at the cabin, as daylight
waned, the oppressive tension settled around us like fog.
We locked the door and double checked the windows, though the
flimsy latches offered little comfort.
Nate began stacking furniture in front of the door, his hands
shaking slightly as he worked. I kept glancing through the
window, afraid yet compelled to look.
Sure enough, as dusk crept in, the figure had returned.
My heart clenched painfully as I realized it was now halfway
across the Meadow, closer than ever, silent and utterly still.
Nate. I whispered urgently.
It's closer. He rushed to the window, his
breath catching sharply. Damn it.
He muttered, pulling the curtains shut.
This isn't right. None of it.
We sat on the old couch together, bodies tense, ears
straining against the silence. Every creak, every faint tap
against the wall seemed amplified, and I wondered
desperately who or what was out there, circling us, drawing
closer with each passing hour. Late into the night, exhaustion
blurred the edges of my fear. My eyes grew heavy and I nearly
drifted off when suddenly a scratching sound jolted me
awake. Nate tensed beside me, hand
gripping my arm. The scratching became a slow
drag, wood against wood, something placed deliberately
against the outer wall. What was that?
My voice shook, barely audible. Nate stood slowly, eyes wide
with alarm, and peered out the side window.
He froze, rigid and silent, staring down at the ground.
I joined him, heart hammering in the dim moonlight just visible
against the dirt beneath the window, where fresh footprints
pressed deep into the earth, heels digging in.
Leading away from the cabin, on the window sill, wedged
deliberately into the gap, was an old, rusted Forest Service
badge. Nate reached out cautiously,
plucking it free. The metal was cold, corroded by
years of exposure, yet unmistakably official.
My hands trembled as he passed it to me.
Someone had placed it there deliberately.
A message, or maybe a threat. Neither of us slept after that.
We sat together silently staring at the locked door, waiting
anxiously for dawn. I clutched the badge in my hand,
the corroded metal digging painfully into my palm.
It felt like a warning, but worse, it felt like a promise
that whatever waited in the dark wasn't finished yet.
The first hints of dawn were enough.
Nate and I silently agreed. We couldn't stay trapped here
another night. We packed quickly, leaving
anything unnecessary behind. Nate pocketed the rusted Forest
Service badge, the grim reminder from the night before.
As we stepped out into the still Gray morning.
The forest around us lay hushed and heavy.
There was no visible sign of whoever had been tormenting us,
but the presence felt closer now, more tangible, as though
eyes were watching our every movement.
Nate shouldered our backpack, grabbing my hand tightly as we
stepped off the porch, refusing to look back at the cabin
looming silently behind us. We walked at a swift pace along
the rough dirt Rd. our breathing shallow, eyes scanning the trees
with hyper vigilance. The silence unnerved me more
than any sound could have. It felt unnatural, A void where
life should have thrived. Nate kept glancing over his
shoulder, and soon I found myself doing the same, the fear
building steadily with each step.
After half an hour, a faint snapping noise came from
somewhere behind us. I froze mid step, Nate squeezing
my hand tightly. Did you hear that?
He whispered. I nodded slowly.
Then came another sound, quieter, rhythmic, the soft
crunch of footsteps matching ours somewhere out of sight.
Each time we stopped, the noise ceased.
Each time we moved, it resumed, perfectly synchronized.
My chest tightened with panic. We need to go faster, Nate said
urgently, and we started running, ignoring the branches
tearing at our arms and faces. Our pace quickened until we were
sprinting blindly down the trail, propelled by pure fear
and desperation. My lungs burned, throat dry and
raw. Nate's grip never loosened.
Hours blurred together in frantic flight until finally
exhaustion forced us to slow. We stopped in a small clearing,
breathless, scanning frantically around us.
Nothing stirred, no visible threat, only the unsettling
quiet pressing down on us from every direction.
Just as panic began creeping back, distant headlights
flickered through the trees, bobbing gently as a vehicle
moved along the main road ahead. Nate's eyes widened, flooded
with relief. Becca, come on.
We ran again, stumbling through the brush, calling out as loudly
as we could. The vehicle slowed and pulled
over. White official looking
emblazoned with a Forest Service logo.
My knees nearly buckled with relief as we approached.
The Ranger stepped from the driver's side, an older man with
weathered skin and wary eyes. He regarded us with an
unreadable expression, concerned, deepening the lines
on his face. You 2 lost?
No, yes, Nate stammered. We rented a cabin back there,
off Lolo Pass Rd. Something happened.
Someone was following us. The Ranger stared suddenly rigid
cabin off Lolo Pass Rd. Yes, I replied quickly.
It was rustic, small, no electricity.
We booked it online. His eyes narrowed slightly and
he glanced briefly toward the direction we'd come.
You'd better get in. We climbed into the warmth of
the trucks cab, the relief overwhelming.
He introduced himself as Ranger Hank Redden, his voice calm but
guarded. We recounted everything.
The figure at the edge of the trees, the sabotage car, the
badge left in the window. Ranger read and listened in
silence, his expression becoming increasingly grim.
When we finished, he sighed deeply and shook his head.
That cabin isn't rented, Hasn't been for decades.
It was officially condemned in 92 after an incident.
What kind of incident? Nate's voice cracked slightly.
Redden hesitated briefly, then reached into a compartment
between the seats and produced a weathered binder.
A murder suicide. Ranger Mitchell Jenkins.
He shot two people, a couple squatting illegally, then
himself. Authorities sealed it off,
declared it abandoned. He flipped open the binder.
My breath caught sharply as my eyes landed on a grainy black
and white photograph of a man in a tattered Ranger uniform.
Though faded and aged, the image was unmistakable, the stiff
posture, the dark uniform, exactly like the figure we'd
seen standing at the timberline. That's him, Nate whispered
hoarsely. That's exactly what we saw.
Ranger Redding closed the binder gently, expression grave.
You're lucky to have made it out at all.
He drove us to a small Ranger station near Zigzag.
We made a formal report, hands trembling as we recounted the
events. The other Rangers promised
they'd investigate, but their skeptical glances told me they
weren't convinced. Days later, safe at home in
Eugene, sleep still elusive, my phone vibrated with a message
from an unknown number. My fingers shook as I tapped the
screen, eyes widening in horror at what appeared A grainy,
shadowed photo of Nate and me taken through the cabin window.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Below the photo, a single line
of text. Nice to finally see you up
close. My breath halted.
I stared helplessly at Nate, knowing we'd never truly escaped
what waited for us in those woods.
It's been 6 months since we lost David.
Six months of a silence between my sister, Chloe, and me that
felt heavier and more suffocating than any grief I
could process. He was the glue, the vibrant
laughing bridge between my pragmatism and her artistic
chaos. With him gone, we were just two
strangers sharing a history of inside jokes that no longer felt
funny. That's why I booked the cabin.
I thought the Ozark National Forest, with its rugged, honest
wilderness, could be the neutral territory where we might find
our way back to each other. I thought the quiet would be
healing. I was wrong.
The last few miles to the cabin were a testament to the word
secluded. My sedan bounced and rattled
over a winding dirt Rd. the color of rust that seemed to
Burrow deeper into the earth with every turn.
Towering oaks and hickories formed a dense canopy overhead,
swallowing the late afternoon sun and plunging us into a humid
green twilight. I gripped the steering wheel, my
knuckles white, my architect's mind cataloguing the remoteness,
the sheer distance from anything resembling civilization.
Are we there yet? Chloe's voice was flat, devoid
of its usual melodic lilt. She hadn't looked up from her
sketchbook since we left the main highway.
Almost. I said, trying to inject some
cheer into my tone. The owner said to look for a
hand carved sign. Stillwater.
The cabin, when we finally found it, sat in a small, lumpy
clearing. It was smaller than the pictures
had suggested, built from massive dark logs that looked
ancient, the gaps chinked with a Gray crumbling mortar.
It had the presence of something that had grown out of the earth
rather than been built upon it. My first thought was of
structural integrity. Chloe's, I'm sure, was of its
rustic charm. Inside, the air was thick with
the smell of wood smoke and damp earth.
A single large room served as living, dining, and sleeping
space, with a stone fireplace dominating one wall.
The furniture was sturdy, handmade and worn smooth with
time. Well, it's authentic.
I said, running a hand over the rough hewn mantle.
Chloe finally looked up from her sketchbook, her eyes the same
deep brown as David's, scanning the room.
It's perfect. She whispered, a ghost of her
old smile touching her lips. The first day was a fragile
truce. We tackled A5 mile loop of the
Ozark Highlands trail, the strenuous climb leaving us
little breath for forced conversation.
The air was thick and hot, but the view from the top, a
sweeping panorama of rolling Green Mountains stretching to
the horizon, was worth it. We ate our sandwiches in near
silence, but it was a comfortable silence for the
first time in months. I caught Chloe looking at a hawk
circling on the thermals, A genuine spark of interest in her
eyes. It was a start.
That evening, as the sun began to dip below the tree line, the
world went quiet. It wasn't the gradual, layered
hush of a normal forest night. It was abrupt, like a switch had
been flipped. 1 moment the air was filled with the chittering
of insects and the droning of cicadas.
The next there was nothing. A profound, unnatural silence
pressed in on the cabin from all sides.
Do you hear that? Chloe asked, her voice a little
too loud in the stillness. Hear what?
There's nothing to hear. I said, trying to sound
dismissive. But she was right.
It wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was an absence, A void where
sound should have been. The second night, the silence
returned, heavier and more complete.
We sat on the porch, nursing cups of lukewarm tea, the quiet
stretching our nerves taut. Then a new sound started, a
slow, rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape, coming from the edge of
the woods. It was the sound of rock
grinding on rock, deliberate and methodical.
What is that? Chloe whispered, her eyes wide.
A deer maybe, rubbing its antlers on a rock?
I offered, my own heart beginning to beat a little
faster. But the sound wasn't right.
It was too heavy, too consistent.
It continued for nearly an hour, seeming to move parallel to our
clearing, before it finally faded away.
We went to bed that night with the flimsy cabin door locked, a
chair wedged under the knob for good measure.
I told myself we were being ridiculous.
The next day, a pervasive feeling of being watched
followed us on our hike. We cut it short, the beauty of
the forest now feeling menacing. That evening, the scraping
started earlier, louder and unmistakably closer.
It was coming from the spot where the woods were darkest,
where the trail we'd hiked earlier disappeared into shadow.
I'm going to see what it is. I said, my voice betraying a
confidence I didn't feel. Maya, no.
Chloe grabbed my arm. We have to know.
I insisted, pulling away. Grabbing the heavy duty
flashlight from my pack. I marched towards the edge of
the clearing, Chloe trailing hesitantly behind me.
I swept the beam of the flashlight across the tree line,
but the light seemed to be swallowed by the darkness.
Then I pointed it at the ground. My breath caught in my throat.
There, in the hard packed, damp earth at the edge of the forest
were two deep parallel gouges. They were about a foot apart and
dug several inches into the soil and the exposed limestone
beneath it. They looked as if something
impossibly heavy with two stone like points had dragged itself
out of the woods and then back in again.
The displaced dirt was still dark and moist.
They were fresh. Chloe let out a small, choked
gasp. We stood there for a long
moment, the flashlight beam trembling in my hand, The only
sound the frantic thumping of my own heart, the rational
explanations, A fallen tree, some kind of farm equipment,
anything died in my mind. There was nothing rational about
the marks in the ground, and in the heavy, pressing silence of
the Ozark night, I knew with a certainty that chilled me to the
bone that whatever had made them was still out there in the dark.
And it was coming for us. We scrambled back into the
cabin, slamming the door and fumbling with the dead bolt.
The chair I had wedged under the knob last night now seemed like
a child's toy. We didn't speak.
There were no words for what we had seen.
The silence that had been our companion for two nights was now
our enemy, a canvas against which every terrifying
possibility could be painted. And then the scraping started
again. Not from the edge of the woods.
This time it was in the clearing.
It was slow, deliberate, and getting closer.
Each scrape was a drawn out grating sound that vibrated
through the floorboards and up my spine.
My mind, usually a safe harbor of logic and reason, was a storm
of raw fear. I thought of the gouges in the
earth, the sheer weight required to carve into solid rock.
Scrape, scrape. It was at the porch steps now,
the wood creaked under a pressure it was never designed
to bear. Chloe had backed into the
farthest corner of the room, her hands over her mouth, her eyes
wide and dark. Tears streamed down her face,
silent and constant scrape. It was on the porch.
The sound was deafeningly close, a heavy dragging weight.
Then a new sound, a low grinding noise like stone rubbing against
the logs of the cabin wall right next to the boarded up window.
Curiosity, or maybe some desperate need to understand the
source of our terror, propelled me forward.
I crept to the window, my body trembling.
I peered through a small, grimy pane of glass between two of the
thick wooden slats. What I saw wasn't an animal.
It wasn't anything I had a name for.
A hulking, vaguely humanoid shape blotted out the faint
moonlight. Its body was a lumpy,
asymmetrical mass of what looked like wet river rocks, dark Moss,
and thick, gnarled roots all fused together.
It had no face, no eyes, no features at all.
It was just a thing of stone and earth, animated by some
unknowable force. 2 long, heavy limbs ended in jagged points of
rock, the source of the gouges. It was methodically dragging one
of them against the wall, testing its strength with a
slow, relentless pressure. A deep, primal part of my brain
screamed, but I couldn't make a sound.
Maya, what is it? Chloe's voice was a ragged
whisper. I couldn't answer.
I just backed away from the window, shaking my head.
The image was burned into my mind.
The sight of it, the sheer wrongness of it broke something
in me. For a moment, all I could see
was David falling, the rope snapping, my own hand reaching
out, grasping at empty air. I had failed to save him.
I would not fail to save Chloe. That single thought cut through
the fog of my fear. The creature moved to the front
of the cabin. A tremendous grinding pressure
was applied to the door. It wasn't the frantic attack of
a bear. It was slow, methodical, and
patient. The thick oak of the door began
to groan, the wood fibers screaming in protest.
Splinters of wood rained down from the door frame.
Dust trickled from the ceiling. We were in a box, and something
was trying to patiently pry it open.
Chloe let out a SOB, a raw sound of pure terror.
We're going to die here. No, we're not, I said, my voice
shaking but firm. Think Chloe, think I can't.
She cried, her body racked with shudders.
Then her eyes went wide with something other than fear, a
memory. The map.
She stammered, pointing a trembling finger at my backpack.
The map. There was an old trail, a
logging trail. It went to a fire tower.
A fire tower. A metal structure high off the
ground. A chance.
I scrambled for the pack, my hands clumsy as I unzipped it
and pulled out the crumpled map. While the creatures attention
was focused on its slow grinding assault on the front door, I
spread the map on the floor. In the dim light we found it.
A thin dotted line labeled Old Logging ARD branching off the
main trail 1/2 mile back and snaking for several miles before
ending at a small symbol marked FT Hope.
As sharp and painful as a needle pierced through my fear.
The back window. I whispered, pointing to the
small square window above the kitchen sink.
The creature at the door gave a tremendous shove and a loud
crack echoed through the cabin. We didn't have much time.
While the grinding and splintering at the front of the
cabin covered our movements, we worked on the window.
It was swollen shut with decades of humidity.
We put our shoulders into it, grunting with effort.
For a terrifying moment, it wouldn't budget.
Then, with a shriek of protesting wood, it gave way,
swinging open into the night. I hoisted Chloe up.
Go, don't look back, Just run for the trail.
She scrambled through, dropping to the soft ground outside.
I followed, landing awkwardly on my ankle.
A sharp pain shot up my leg, but I ignored it.
We didn't dare look back. Behind us, the sound of the
front door beginning to splinter and break apart was all the
motivation we needed. We ran.
We crashed through the undergrowth, branches whipping
at our faces, the oppressive silence of the forest returning
now that the scraping had ceased.
The only sounds were our own ragged breaths and the frantic
pounding of our feet on the damp earth.
The moon was a sliver, offering little light to guide us.
Every shadow was a monster, every rustle of leaves a new
threat. The image of the rock and Moss
thing, faceless and relentless, propelled us onward.
Our fear. A cold, hard knot in my stomach,
we ran blindly, desperately, into the suffocating darkness of
the woods. My lungs were on fire.
Every breath was a ragged, tearing gasp that did nothing to
quell the burning in my chest. Pain, sharp and insistent,
radiated up from my ankle with every jarring step.
Beside me, Chloe ran with a wild, desperate energy, her face
pale and streaked with dirt. In the faint moonlight.
The woods were a disorienting maze of black trunks and
grasping branches. We ran without direction,
propelled only by the memory of splintering wood in the image of
that faceless rock hewn thing. Just when I thought my legs
would give out, that I would collapse right there on the
forest floor, my foot caught on something.
Not a root, but a rut. I stumbled and fell, my bad
ankle twisting beneath me. I cried out, a sound that was
immediately swallowed by the immense silence.
Maya. Chloe was at my side, hauling me
up. I'm OK.
I gasped, though my vision swam with pain.
I looked down. It wasn't just one rut.
It was 2 faint parallel depressions in the earth, mostly
overgrown but still discernible. It was a path, the old logging
trail. Hope, thin and fragile,
flickered within me. We had found it.
We followed the faint trail, half running, half stumbling.
It was a grueling, endless journey through the dark.
The silence pressed in a physical weight.
I found myself listening, straining to hear the scrape of
rock on rock behind us. But there was nothing, only the
sound of our own labored breathing and the crunch of our
feet on the forest debris. The absence of pursuit was
almost as terrifying as the pursuit itself.
Where had it gone? The sky ahead began to soften,
from impenetrable black to a deep, bruised purple.
And then we saw it. As we crested a small rise, a
silhouette emerged against the lightning sky.
It was a stark skeletal structure of metal cross beams
and struts pointing a finger at the heavens.
The fire tower. The site broke through our
exhaustion. We summoned a final, desperate
burst of energy, scrambling up the steep incline toward its
base. The tower was old, rusted, and
forgotten. A chain link fence surrounded
it, but a section had long ago collapsed.
We squeezed through and ran to the base of the metal staircase
that spiraled up into the sky. The climb was terrifying in its
own right. The metal steps groaned and
creaked under our weight, slick with dew.
With every upward step, I expected a rung to give way,
sending us plummeting back into the darkness.
We didn't stop, didn't look down until we reached the small glass
pained cab at the very top. I shoved the door open and we
collapsed inside, huddling together on the floor, our
bodies shaking uncontrollably. From our vantage point, we
watched the sunrise. It was the most beautiful and
welcome sight of my life. Ribbons of orange and pink
unfurled across the horizon, pushing back the shadows and
illuminating the vast, rolling sea of the Ozark National
Forest. And with the light came sound.
First, a single bird chirped, then another joined in.
Soon the air was filled with a chorus of birdsong, the rustle
of wind through the canopy, the hum of insects, the normal
natural sounds of the world reasserting themselves.
The unnatural silence was broken.
We were safe. We stayed in the tower until the
sun was high in the sky, it's full light a comforting blanket.
We made the difficult choice. The car, our phones, my laptop,
Chloe's, art supplies, all of it would be left behind.
They were just things we could not bring ourselves to hike back
to the cabin. The walk out following the
logging trail to where it eventually met a gravel service
Rd. was a long, nerve racking ordeal.
Every shadow seemed to hold a lurking shape.
Every snap of a twig made us jump.
It took hours before we finally saw a plume of dust from an
approaching truck, an old Ford driven by a park Ranger.
He saw our torn clothes, our scratched faces and our
exhaustion, and listened with a patient practice skepticism.
We told him we got lost, that a bear had torn apart our cabin.
It was easier than trying to explain the truth.
He nodded, his expression giving nothing away, and drove us back
to the nearest town. We filed a report with the local
sheriff, who promised to send someone to check on the cabin.
We never heard from them again. We took a bus back to the city,
leaving that entire chapter of our lives behind in the Arkansas
woods. Months have passed.
Chloe and I talk now. We talk about everything except
that night. The shared terror forged a bond
between us that grief had nearly shattered.
She's sculpting again, not with wood and stone, but with welded
metal, creating things of stark, angular beauty.
I'm designing buildings again, finding comfort in the solid,
predictable laws of physics. We are survivors.
That is our satisfying ending. But sometimes, in the quiet
moments, when I'm alone in my apartment and the city outside
has fallen into a momentary hush, I can still feel it, that
profound, unnatural stillness. And I remember the slow,
rhythmic scrape of rock on rock, and the faceless, silent thing
that lurks in the deep woods, waiting in the stillness of the
Ozarks. We know what we saw, and we know
that we were lucky to escape with only our memories.
Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park covers more than
60,000 acres of dense forest in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.
Most visitors come for the rugged beauty waterfalls, scenic
overlooks, endless trails winding through hardwood
forests. By late October, though, the
park is mostly abandoned. The air turns brittle, the
colors drain from the leaves, and visitors thin out
dramatically. The Park Rangers warned hikers
at the visitor center that going far into the Backcountry at this
time of year isn't recommended unless you're experienced.
But Jake booked Mirror Lake Cabin for anyway, a remote log
cabin 7 miles deep into the wilderness with no electricity,
no running water and definitely no cell service.
I wasn't worried. I'd been hiking all my life,
though never quite this far out or this late in the season.
Jake was always laid back, always optimistic.
Evan, on the other hand, needed this trip more than any of us.
He was fresh off a divorce, quiet on the ride up from
Chicago, just staring out the window, occasionally checking
his phone as if he still expected messages that would
never come. We arrived at the visitor center
around noon, and a Ranger named Patel handed us our maps.
He looked us over carefully, noting Evan's designer jeans and
Jake's old Converse sneakers. I felt judged in my fleece
jacket and expensive boots like Patel could tell we weren't the
usual hardened hikers who pushed into these parts in late
October. Just make sure you get there
well before dark, Patel said, tracing a finger over the map
toward our cabin. And don't wander too far off
trail. Easy to lose your bearings out
there. The hike took us longer than
expected. 7 miles doesn't seem like much until you're carrying
all your gear on your back. The trail twisted sharply
through tall, slender trees, their branches nearly bare.
A carpet of wet leaves made footing slippery.
Evan struggled frequently stopping to catch his breath,
though I suspected he just wanted to be alone.
Jake made jokes, tried to lighten the mood.
I focused on the silence, the unsettling quiet of the forest
closing around us. It was late afternoon when the
cabin came into view. Built from thick logs, it sat in
a small clearing, a stone fire pit out front, the lake glinting
like black glass behind it. The cabin was exactly as
advertised, rustic, sturdy, isolated.
Inside smelled faintly of damp wood and ashes.
We unloaded our packs, grateful for the chance to rest.
Dinner was canned, chilly, heated over a crackling fire
outside. Evan warmed up slightly as the
evening wore on, smiling a little more freely, sharing
jokes I knew cost him effort. We toasted cheap whiskey from
Jake's flask and pretended we weren't as cold as we were.
By the time we decided to call it a night, the darkness had
pressed firmly around us. It felt tangible, thick enough
to swallow sound, heavy enough to smother the firelight
quickly. Once we went inside, Jake
climbed the ladder to the loft, Evan chose the cot by the far
window, and I took the bunk nearest the stove.
Sleep came quickly at first, fueled by fatigue and whiskey.
The knocking woke us around midnight, 3 sharp taps, evenly
spaced. I sat up immediately,
disoriented, heart hammering against my ribs.
Did you hear that? Evan's voice trembled from
across the dark cabin. Jake answered groggily from
above. Hear what?
Another set of three taps, clearer this time.
Front door. We all scrambled upright,
reaching for headlamps. My legs felt leaden, waited by a
primal reluctance to move toward that sound.
Someone might be in trouble. Jake murmured, trying to
rationalize the situation. He approached the door slowly,
hand extended, as if afraid it might open on its own.
He pulled it open. Outside, there was no one, only
the darkness staring back at us. Silent and absolute.
Evan stepped out cautiously, flashlight in hand, sweeping the
beam across the damp ground. There's footprints, He
whispered, voice brittle. I joined him outside, following
the pale glow of his flashlight. Bare footprints stark against
the wet, cold mud encircled the cabin.
Not boots or shoes. Bare feet, impossibly small.
Evan's hand shook visibly, the light trembling over the
imprints in the dirt. Maybe someone playing a prank?
Jake suggested, clearly trying to calm us, but even he couldn't
mask the unease creeping into his voice.
He moved his light toward the tree line, scanning back and
forth. No movement, no noise.
We were treated inside, quickly locking the door behind us,
pulling the wooden shutters closed, shutting out the
darkness as best we could. Nobody wanted to talk.
Evan sat wide eyed, rigid on his cot.
Jake took the loft again, his silence betraying his nerves.
I volunteered to keep watch. They didn't argue alone.
I sat awake for hours, listening intently, my mind running
through explanations that never quite satisfied.
Every rustle of leaves, every Creek of settling logs pulled me
closer to panic. Then, just past three in the
morning, I heard movement outside, a careful shuffling of
feet in the fallen leaves, slow and deliberate.
I stood quietly and peered through a narrow gap in the
shutter. About 30 yards from the cabin,
lit only by the faint light of the moon, stood a figure, still,
silent, watching. I could barely make out details,
just the outline, thin shoulders squared, human yet somehow
wrong. The figure didn't move, didn't
speak. It simply stood there, waiting.
And so did I. Morning came slowly, the
darkness receding inch by inch until a pale grey dawn filled
the cabin. Jake climbed down from the loft,
eyes bloodshot, moving with a weariness that told me he hadn't
slept much either. Evan barely spoke as he stared
blankly toward the shuttered windows.
None of us brought up the figure I'd seen outside.
Some part of me hoped it had been exhaustion playing tricks,
but deep down I knew better. Breakfast was eaten quietly,
cold granola bars and instant coffee heated over the wood
stove. Nobody wanted to venture out,
but we knew we had to survey the area.
Jake opened the door first, stepping cautiously onto the
porch, looking around nervously before motioning us outside.
In the daylight, everything felt safer.
The cabin stood innocently amid skeletal trees, their branches
stripped bare by autumn winds. But when we stepped off the
porch and looked down, any illusion of safety vanished.
The footprints from last night circled the cabin in a
deliberate pattern, their edges hardened by overnight frost.
Smaller sets of tracks appeared now, weaving through the trees,
crisscrossing paths. More than one person?
Evan whispered, the color draining from his face.
Who walks around barefoot out here?
Jake tried a weak laugh. Kids.
Probably local kids messing around.
But his voice didn't convince any of us, least of all himself.
He glanced back toward the cabin, then at the forest
beyond. Uncertain.
Maybe we hike out now. I agreed immediately, but Evan
hesitated. We won't get back before dark. 7
miles in daylight took forever and now we're exhausted.
Jake shook his head, frustrated, but resigned.
OK, we'll stay one more night, but we leave at first light
tomorrow, no delays. We spent the rest of the day
close to the cabin, nervous energy driving us to gather
firewood, clean out gear, do anything to distract ourselves.
Evan was skittish, his eyes darting constantly toward the
tree line, jumping at the slightest snap of a twig.
At one point I heard footsteps pacing just beyond the shadows,
but when I stopped moving to listen carefully, they ceased
abruptly. As daylight slipped away, our
nerves tightened. We lit the fire early, flames
pushing back the dusk as best they could, but the approaching
night was relentless. It swallowed the trees, consumed
the sky, leaving us huddled inside the cabin once more.
Jake locked the door and barred it with a heavy wooden bench.
Evan stood silently near the stove, watching intently.
It began again around sunset, softly at first, rhythmic
knocking against the cabin walls.
This time, the knocks came from multiple directions at once,
each sound overlapping, growing louder, quicker, until it
sounded like dozens of hands tapping all around us.
Jake's breath quickened. Evan's fists clenched tightly.
What do they want? Evan whispered harshly.
Why won't they just say something?
I couldn't answer. Instead, I moved toward one of
the small, shuttered windows, heart hammering in my chest.
With trembling fingers, I eased open a thin crack, peering out
into the gloom. The forest was darkening
rapidly, the details fading into silhouettes.
But I saw them clearly. Figures standing motionless at
the edge of the clearing, three of them spaced evenly apart,
silent and waiting. My blood chilled.
Who is it? Jake's voice cracked nervously
behind me. Can you see there's three?
I answered quietly, voice barely audible.
They're just standing there. A sudden movement startled me.
A muddy palm slapped hard against the window, smearing
grime across the glass. Evan yelled sharply, stumbling
back. I jerked away, heart slamming
against my ribs. Jesus.
Jake muttered, pacing anxiously. We need to get out of here.
Evan, pale and visibly shaken, suddenly turned toward the door.
I, I have to go. I need to use the outhouse.
Wait until morning. I urged.
Please, Evan, I can't, he whispered, voice strained.
He reached for a flashlight and opened the door, quickly
stepping outside before either of us could stop him.
We watched helplessly as his beam bobbed toward the outhouse,
swallowed quickly by darkness. Minutes ticked by, painfully
slow. Five, then 10.
Jake paced restlessly, checking the window repeatedly.
Evan. He finally shouted into the
darkness. Only silence answered.
I'm going out there. Jake insisted.
He grabbed his flashlight and stepped hesitantly onto the
porch. I stayed at the door.
Muscles tensed, eyes straining into the shadows, Jake's
flashlight swung nervously back and forth as he walked
cautiously toward the outhouse. Evan.
Jake called again, louder now, desperation creeping into his
voice. He stopped abruptly, the beam
frozen on something beyond the outhouse.
Ryan, footprints, they're fresh. I hurried to his side, following
the weak circle of his flashlight.
Clear tracks in the mud LED away from the outhouse into the
trees. Evan's flashlight lay abandoned
on the ground, flickering weakly.
No struggle? Jake murmured.
He just walked away. My skin prickled, goosebumps
rising sharply back to the cabin.
I urged, tugging Jake's sleeve urgently.
Now. Inside, we barricaded the door
again, pushing every piece of furniture available against it.
Our breath came fast, short bursts of panic fogging in the
cold cabin air. Outside, the knocking resumed,
louder now, insistent, urgent taps that echoed from every
direction. My chest tightened painfully.
Jake sank heavily onto a chair, face buried and shaking hands.
I stayed upright, afraid sitting down might let exhaustion
overtake me. Then came silence.
A deep, unnatural quiet. Just as my breathing began to
steady, a single knock shattered the silence, sharp and clear
against the front door. Before either of us could move,
another knock came immediately from the back wall.
Purposeful, deliberate, I moved again toward the window, knowing
already what I'd see through the narrow gap. 3 shadowy shapes
stood among the trees, perfectly still, patiently waiting.
When dawn finally broke, Jake and I were already packed and
waiting by the door. Neither of us had slept.
We stood there for a long moment, staring silently at
Evan's abandoned pack, still sitting by the cot, as though
he'd returned at any moment. The woods beyond the cabin were
quiet, so quiet it felt unnatural after the chaos of the
night. Ready.
Jake whispered, eyes shadowed and hollow.
I nodded silently and unbolted the door.
Outside, the air was sharply cold, filled with the damp smell
of decaying leaves. We stepped cautiously onto the
porch, pausing to scan the tree line.
Nothing moved, no footprints in the immediate clearing besides
ours and the ones left by Evan the night before.
Without another word, we started down the trail toward the main
path, packs heavy on our backs, our legs stiff with exhaustion
and fear. The trail looked unfamiliar,
each bend and dip of the path disorienting.
Now. Jake kept his eyes fixed firmly
ahead, gripping his compass as if it were a lifeline.
Trail markers are gone, he said finally, voice barely above a
whisper. I glanced where he pointed and a
sinking dread filled my stomach. The small reflective markers
nailed to trees along the trail which had guided us to the cabin
were nowhere to be seen. Jagged marks on several trunks
showed where someone had ripped them away.
We have the compass. I reassured him, hoping I
sounded more confident than I felt.
We'll be fine if we keep heading east.
Minutes slipped into hours as we walked, the forest stretching
endlessly around us. My heart rate climbed steadily,
adrenaline mixing with exhaustion.
Occasionally I glanced behind us, certain that someone or
something watched us from the shadows.
We should have reached the ridgeline by now.
Jake muttered after a while, frustration edging into panic.
He checked the compass repeatedly, shaking his head in
disbelief. We've been walking E this whole
time. We stopped briefly.
Jake dugout, his knife carving a deep X into the bark of a nearby
pine. Just to be sure.
He muttered nervously. We continued onward, my breath
tight in my chest, my throat raw from breathing the cold air. 15
minutes later, Jake froze, his face drained of color.
Ahead of us, barely visible in the dim morning light, was a
familiar sight, the tree marked with an X we'd carved earlier.
Somehow, impossibly, we'd circled back.
Jake's voice cracked, filled with despair.
It's impossible we didn't turn once we go off trail.
I said, desperate now. Straight line east, no trail at
all. Eventually we'll hit something,
anything. Jake nodded numbly, his
confidence shattered. We plunged off the path into the
thicker woods, branches scraping at our jackets, roots snagging
our boots. Our pace quickened, becoming
frantic as we tore through underbrush, driven by a rising
panic that gripped us both. At times, I thought I heard
footsteps behind us, snapping twigs, soft whispers of movement
just beyond sight. Once, Jake stopped abruptly,
turning sharply toward a patch of dense foliage.
Did you see that? What?
My voice shook, though I already knew a face.
Jake whispered hoarsely. I swear I saw someone watching
us. My blood turned to ice, but I
forced myself to keep moving. Keep going, I urged.
Just keep going. We stumbled forward, ignoring
scratches and exhaustion. Hours passed in a blur of panic.
Finally, after what felt like forever, we crashed through a
dense barrier of trees and onto a narrow gravel Rd.
The relief almost knocked me off my feet.
Jake laughed sharply. A single desperate sound from
down the road, the distant hum of an engine approached.
A Ranger on a four Wheeler appeared, slowing down at the
sight of us. Disheveled, filthy eyes wild
with fear. He jumped off quickly.
What happened? You 2 OK?
He asked urgently, radio in hand.
We were at Mirror Lake. Cabin 4I gasped.
Our friend Evan disappeared last night.
People were outside the cabin. Someone took him.
The ranger's face hardened, nodding solemnly as he listened.
He called for backup on his radio before urging us onto his
vehicle. Minutes later, another Ranger
arrived in a truck, and we made the silent journey back toward
the cabin. None of us spoke, anxiety
thickening the air inside the cab as we pulled into the
clearing near the cabin. Dread twisted painfully in my
chest. Everything looked unsettlingly
normal. No signs of violence, no obvious
disturbance. We moved quickly toward the
cabin. Evan was nowhere to be seen
inside. Nothing had changed.
His gear lay untouched exactly where he'd left it.
We checked everywhere, I explained shakily to the Ranger.
His flashlight was on the ground, tracks heading into the
woods, but no struggle, nothing. The ranger's expression
darkened. Let's check around back.
Maybe something we missed. We followed him cautiously,
stepping carefully behind the cabin and into the woods.
About 20 yards from the back door, the Ranger stopped
abruptly. His voice caught sharply,
causing my pulse to spike again. What the hell is that?
Ahead of us, nestled in a small clearing, stood dozens of
strange, crude totems made from sticks and bones.
Feathers fluttered gently from string bindings.
They were arranged methodically, almost ritualistically.
My eyes focused on one particular figure, larger and
disturbingly human shaped, draped with scraps of cloth.
That's Evan's jacket lining. Jake whispered hoarsely.
His voice shook badly. I felt sick, my stomach twisting
painfully. The ranger's face paled, his
hand reflexively reaching for his radio.
Stay here, he instructed us, quickly stepping away to call
for more help. Jake sank to the ground, head
buried in his hands. I stayed standing, numb, staring
at the totems and the scraps of Evans clothing swaying silently
in the cold breeze. In the days that followed, we
answered countless questions. Search parties combed every inch
of wilderness around Mirror Lake, but no further signs were
ever found. Not Evan, Not even footprints
leading away from the bizarre clearing behind the cabin.
Eventually, the cabin and surrounding trails were closed
indefinitely. Weeks later, back home in
Chicago, my phone buzzed late at night, a call from the ranger's
office. A forgotten trail camera had
been retrieved near the cabin. The Ranger hesitated before
speaking, his voice low and strained.
We caught something on camera, he finally said.
Three figures standing outside your cabin the night your friend
disappeared. He sent me the photo. 3 pale,
emaciated figures stood in a perfect triangle, barefoot,
thin, staring directly at the cabin door.
Their faces were expressionless, gaunt but unmistakably human,
yet completely unknown to anyone who had ever hiked in or
patrolled those mountains. I stared at the photo for a long
time, heart pounding, hands trembling.
No one ever saw them again, and Evan never came home.
Of all the traditions Dad and I had, the annual fishing trip was
the one that mattered most. After Mom died, it became our
thing, a silent agreement that for one week a year we'd leave
the city behind and just be. Usually that meant driving the
beat up Ford Ranger down to the Russian River ferry, fighting
for a spot on the bank with 50 other guys.
But this year was different. For my 17th birthday, a sort of
last hurrah before senior year swallowed me whole.
Dad booked a flying cabin on the Upper Kenai.
No roads, no people. Just us, a log cabin and one of
the most powerful salmon rivers in the world.
The flight in on the de Havilland Beaver was incredible,
watching the vast wrinkled green of the Kenai National Wildlife
Refuge spread out below us. The river itself was a slash of
impossible turquoise, a color that seemed too vibrant to be
real. The pilot set us down on the
water as gently as a dragonfly and there it was, our home for
the week. It was a single room cabin of
dark, heavy logs with a porch that stood on stilts just yards
from the rushing water. The air was thick with the
clean, sharp scent of spruce and the wet smell of damp earth.
It was perfect. The first day was the kind of
day they print on calendars. We stood waist deep in the
shockingly cold current, the water a constant powerful
pressure against our waiters. Dad, a man whose patience was
forged in his twenty years in the army, showed me again how to
read the seams in the current where the sockeye rested.
We were good, or maybe just lucky.
We caught our limit, their silver and red bodies fighting
us with a strength that vibrated right up the line into my bones.
That night we sat in the warm, enclosed space of the cabin, the
hiss and crackle of salmon fillets in the cast iron skillet
on the wood stove the only sound.
Dad had a small flask of whiskey, and he let me have a
sip. The burn of it mixed with the
taste of the fish and the utter piece of the place felt like a
memory I'd want to keep forever. As we settled into our bunks,
the fire burning down to a soft orange glow, a change occurred
outside. Fog born from the river's icy
temperature began to fill the space between the trees, a solid
wall of white that pressed in from the riverbank and swallowed
the landscape. It muffled the world, reducing
the constant rush of the water to a distant, low hum.
I was on the edge of sleep when I heard it.
Tap, tap, tap. It was a faint, distinct sound
against the cabin wall, the one facing the river.
My first thought was a branch. A Sitka spruce stood near that
side, and I figured a breeze must be knocking A limb against
the logs. I closed my eyes, trying to will
myself to sleep, but the sound was too measured, too rhythmic.
It wasn't the random scrape of wood.
It was a steady, deliberate beat.
I sat up. In the dim light from the
stove's embers, I could see the outline of my father.
He was already awake, his head cocked absolutely still.
He wasn't looking at the wall. He was listening to it.
You hear that? He whispered, his voice a low
rumble. Yeah, just a branch, right?
The question sounded weak, even to me.
He didn't answer. He slipped out of his bunk, his
movements silent and economical, a habit from his old life that
never faded. He lifted the heavy iron latch
on the door and pulled it open just a crack.
A swirl of cold, damp air invaded the cabin.
I saw nothing but a uniform, impenetrable whiteness.
The air outside was completely still, no wind.
The tapping stopped the instant the door opened.
Dad stood there for a full minute before closing the door
and latching it, his face unreadable in the dark.
The next two nights were the same.
The fog would roll in and the tapping would begin,
intermittent and unnerving. We never found a single mark on
the cabin, not a footprint in the soft earth.
On our 4th day, we decided to fish a wide gravel bar about 1/4
mile downriver from the cabin. The fishing was slow, and I let
my line drift into a deeper channel.
It snagged. I sighed, thinking I'd lost
another fly to a submerged log. I waited out carefully, the
current pulling at my legs, and reached down into the icy water.
My fingers closed around something hard and rough.
It wasn't a branch. I pulled it up.
It was a fishing lure, but unlike anything I had ever seen
or read about. The body was a 5 inch piece of
yellowed, porous bone carved into a crude fish shape.
The line wasn't monofilament, it was a thick braided cord of what
looked like dried animal sinew. But the hook was what made my
stomach clench. It was a Shard of Blackstone,
maybe Obsidian, flaked to a viciously sharp point and lashed
to the bone with more of the gut like cord.
It was heavy, brutally primitive, and lethally
effective. Dad.
I said, my voice tight. He waited over and I held it
out. He took it from me, turning it
over in his hand. He ran his thumb near the
Obsidian point, a look of deep seated revulsion on his face.
He'd spent his life around tools, weapons and gear.
He knew craftsmanship. This was that, but it was also
something else, something wrong. Leave it, he said, his voice
quiet but firm. He dropped it onto the gravel
bar as if it were contaminated. Just leave it here.
That evening, the fog came for us before the sun had even set.
It was a living entity of white, so thick it felt like we were at
the bottom of a bowl of milk. We stood on the porch, a nervous
energy crackling between US, and watch the river vanish.
And then we saw him. He was just there, standing
waist deep in the middle of the river, a place where the current
was so fast it should have torn a man from his feet.
His form was a tall, skeletal silhouette against the slightly
paler fog behind him. He was gaunt, his limbs
unnaturally long and thin. He made no sound.
He simply stood in the rushing turquoise water, a statue of
bone and shadow. As we stared, our breath caught
in our throats. He raised one of his long,
spindly arms. There was a flicker of motion at
his wrist, a movement too quick to follow, and something a line
the same color as the sinew on the lure shot out with a faint
whistle. It moved with an impossible flat
trajectory, striking the water 20 yards away and instantly
pulling back. A large, struggling salmon
impaled on its end. He had the fish, but he didn't
move to secure it. Instead, his head, a dark and
oblong shape atop a pencil thin neck, turned slowly.
It rotated with a horrifying smoothness independent of his
body until it was facing directly at us on the porch.
We could see no eyes, no mouth, no face at all.
There was only the black shape and the suffocating certainty
that we were being seen, measured, and judged by an
intelligence that had nothing to do with the world of men.
We were no longer fishermen on a trip.
We were trespassers, and we had just been noticed.
The world narrowed to two points, the dark, oblong shape
in the mist and the cold, paralyzing certainty that it was
looking at me. Time stretched, the roar of the
river fading to a hum. Then the shape turned its head
away with that same unnatural smoothness and dissolved back
into the fog, leaving only the roiling white and the memory of
its presence. The spell broke.
A violent shiver racked my body, a physical reaction I couldn't
control. My breath came in shallow,
useless gasps. I looked at Dad.
He was already moving, his face a mask of cold granite.
The fisherman, the vacationing father, was gone.
In his place was the soldier. I'd only ever heard stories
about. Mark, he said, his voice so calm
it was scarier than if he'd yelled.
Go inside, pack your day, pack water filter, fire starter,
emergency rations, compass, nothing else.
Leave your rod. Move.
What was that? I stammered, my voice cracking.
Dad, what was that thing? Don't know, he said, grabbing my
arm and pulling me toward the cabin door.
His grip was like iron. And we're not staying to find
out. The plane isn't coming for us,
We're on our own. Inside, we moved with frantic
purpose. I fumble with my pack, my
fingers clumsy and shaking as I stuffed the survival essentials
inside. Dad was already at the door,
sliding the heavy wooden bar into its thick iron brackets.
The solid thump of the bar seating offered zero comfort.
The cabin no longer felt like a shelter.
It felt like a trap. As total darkness fell outside,
the sound began again. It was different this time.
Not a tap, but a hard, solid rap, like someone striking the
logs with a heavy stone. It started on the front door, 3
quick concussive blows that vibrated through the floor, Then
impossibly, a rap on the back wall, then the roof, moving with
a speed that defied logic. A new sound joined the assault,
a noise that came from the direction of the river.
It was a low, guttural clicking, a rapid succession of hard
sounds, like 100 pebbles being knocked together underwater.
The sound seemed to soak through the log walls, a dry, chittering
threat that was somehow worse than the wrapping.
Then came the scrape. A long, loud scrape dragged down
the thick planks of the door. I stared in horror as the heavy
wooden bar securing us inside began to tremble in its
brackets. The wood around the latch
groaned, splintering under a focused, immense pressure from
the other side. It was going to break.
The door was going to fly open. Get back.
Dad ordered, his voice sharp. He grabbed the heavy cast iron
skillet from the stove, holding it like a weapon.
He didn't look at the door. He looked at the small window on
the back wall, the one facing the dense black woods.
It wants us to watch the door. He wrapped his left hand in a
thick wool blanket from his bunk, took two steps, and drove
his first through the window pane.
The glass shattered with a deafening crash.
He worked quickly, knocking the remaining shards from the frame,
oblivious to the cold air and fog that now poured into the
cabin. Out Go now, Mark, be quiet.
I scrambled toward the opening, my pack snagging for a second on
the splintered frame. I tumbled through, landing hard
on the cold, damp earth. The sounds of the assault on the
door were suddenly clearer. Out here.
Dad came through right behind me, landing in a low Crouch, the
black skillet still in his hand. We were out, out of the trap and
into the cage of the wilderness. He didn't hesitate.
This way, he hissed, grabbing my sleeve.
He pulled out his compass, gave it a one second glance in the
faint ambient light that filtered through the fog, and
plunged into the trees. He set a course up river, but
deep in the forest, keeping the sound of the water to our left
as a guide. The next hours were a nightmare
of motion and misery. We didn't run.
The forest floor was too treacherous.
It was a high stepping, stumbling flight through a black
maze. Wet branches of Alder whipped at
our faces. The needle like thorns of
devil's club tore at our clothes and skin.
Moss covered logs lay hidden in the fog, and my ankles twisted
more than once on unseen roots. Every sound I made, a snapped
twig, a gasping breath, felt like a beacon in the night.
We heard no footsteps behind us. The pursuit was entirely
auditory, and it came from the river to our left.
A powerful, rhythmic splashing kept pace with us.
It was the sound of something large moving through the water
with tireless ease. Sometimes it would stop and the
silence would scream at us. We'd freeze, listening until the
splashing resumed, occasionally seeming closer than before.
The guttural clicking echoed through the mist, a constant
hunting sound that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
We were being herded, stalked by something that owned the night
and the water while we were two blind mice scrambling in the
dark. After what felt like an
eternity, we broke through a thicket of brush into a small
boggy clearing. The splashing from the river
stopped. The sudden total silence was the
most terrifying thing I had ever experienced.
Dad grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me down behind
a massive fallen spruce tree. We crouched in the wet Moss, my
heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure it was
audible. He put a finger to his lips, his
eyes wide and scanning the darkness.
We listened. From the river bank, maybe 40
yards away, came a new sound. It was a wet, heavy, dragging
noise, The sound of something immense pulling itself from the
water and onto the land. Then it started moving through
the undergrowth toward the clearing.
It wasn't the sound of walking. It was a slow, deliberate drag.
Slosh, drag. The noise of something heavy and
wet being hauled over the forest floor.
A foul stench, the smell of low tide, river mud, and something
like rotting fish drifted to us. The dragging sound grew closer,
moving methodically through the trees along the edge of the
clearing. It passed our position not ten
yards from where we hid. We were completely exposed.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my face into the damp
bark of the fallen log, convinced that at any second a
long, spindly hand would close around the back of my neck.
The dragon continued past us, circled the edge of the
clearing, and then we heard it recede, ending with a final deep
splash as it re entered the river.
A moment later, the rhythmic splashing resumed, still keeping
pace with the tree line, still moving upriver, still following
us. We waited, not daring to
breathe, until the sound was once again a steady presence to
our left. Only then did Dad let out a
slow, shaky breath and help me to my feet, pushing us back into
the suffocating darkness of the forest.
The forest held us in its cold, wet grip for the rest of the
night. We kept moving, driven by the
memory of the dragging sound and the foul smell that had filled
the clearing. The splashing in the river
remained our unseen companion, a tireless metronome marking our
desperate pace. My body was a collection of
aches and pains, my ankles screaming, my lungs burning, the
sting of 100 small cuts on my hands and face.
But the physical misery was nothing compared to the cold
dread that had taken up permanent residence in my gut.
Dawn arrived, not as a sunrise, but as a slow dilution of the
darkness. The fog thinned from an
impenetrable wall to a Gray ghostly shroud, revealing the
brutal landscape we had been fighting through towering
spruce, tangled Alder, and the ever present thorny arms of
devil's club. We staggered onto a game trail
and saw a pile of fresh bear scat filled with undigested
berries. A year ago, a week ago, that
sight would have sent a spike of fear through me.
Now, the thought of a bear felt mundane, unknown quantity in a
world that had suddenly shown us the truly unknown.
Dad's military discipline was the only thing that kept us from
collapsing. He rationed sips of water from
my pack and checked his compass every 10 minutes, his movement
stiff but unwavering. The 15 miles to the Ranger
patrol cabin he pointed out on the map before our trip might as
well have been 100. It was late afternoon when we
finally stumbled out of the tree line.
My legs gave out and I fell to my knees, looking up at a sight
I thought I'd only see again in my dreams.
It was a small, solid log cabin with a green metal roof.
A thin line of smoke rose from its stone chimney, a fragile
Gray ribbon against the immense backdrop of the mountains.
We must have been a hell of a sight.
Collapsing on the steps of the porch, the door opened and a man
stood there. He was older, maybe late 50s,
with a face that seemed carved from the same timber as the
cabin, all seams and weathered lines.
His eyes, though, were calm and sharp.
He took in our torn clothes, our pale, scratched faces, and the
raw terror that I knew was still plain in my expression.
He didn't ask what happened. Get inside you, 2, he said, his
voice a low, steady baritone. You look like you've been
through a ringer. He helped us into the single
warm room, sat us down in wooden chairs and wrapped thick wool
blankets around our shoulders. He handed us steaming mugs of
tea, so sweet it made my teeth ache, but the warmth spread
through my chest and into my frozen limbs.
He moved about the cabin with a quiet efficiency, never asking a
single question until the shivering in my body had finally
stopped. Bill Haskins.
He said, taking a seat across from us.
You 2 are a few days overdue, Dad.
His voice, hoarse and flat, started to talk.
He recounted everything, leaving nothing out.
He spoke with the precision of a man making an official report.
The arrival, the first perfect day, the rhythmic tapping in the
fog. He described the lure of bone
and Obsidian, his words measured and exact.
He detailed the tall figure in the water.
It's impossible cast the threat in its final stare.
He told of the assault on the cabin, the escape and the long,
terrifying flight through the dark, paced by the sounds from
the river. I just sat there, nodding, the
hot mug trembling in my hands. When Dad finished, an absolute
silence filled the cabin, broken only by the crackle of wood in
the stove. I expected Haskins to sigh, to
look at us with pity, to start talking about hypothermia and
the tricks exhaustion can play on the mind.
Instead, he stared into his own mug for a long time.
Then he got up, walked to a small, cluttered bookshelf, and
pulled down an old leather bound book with a faded spine.
He handled it carefully. I've been on this river for 30
years, he said, his back to us. You hear things, you see things
you can't explain. Most you write off, but not all
of them. He came back to the table and
opened the book. On the yellowed page was a faded
but detailed pencil sketch. It was a tall, gaunt figure with
unnaturally long limbs, standing waist deep in water.
My breath caught in my throat. The Dena Ena, the people who've
lived here for thousands of years, they have stories,
Haskins said, his finger tapping the drawing.
Stories about the Nantina, the river man.
They say he's not a ghost, but a spirit of the river itself, old
and territorial. He guards his best fishing
spots, doesn't like rivals. He looked up, his calm eyes
meeting dads. They say he can't be hurt, only
avoided. You took fish from his water,
and he saw it as a challenge. You were lucky.
By leaving, you showed respect. That's probably the only reason
you're here. The next day, Haskins made a
call on his radio. Found those two overdue anglers
from the Upper Bend, he said into the handset.
Got turned around in the fog, suffering from exposure.
I'm bringing them in, That was all.
He protected our story, locking it away as something that
belonged to the river, not to an official report.
The boat ride downriver under a bright, clear sky was surreal.
The water was the same brilliant turquoise, the spruce trees the
same deep green. The world looked exactly as it
had when we'd arrived, but it was all a lie.
It was a mask. We knew what it hid.
When the fog came down later, on the float plane back to
Anchorage, the drone of the engine was a loud, comforting
sound from a world I understood. We hadn't spoken about it since
leaving the Ranger's cabin. We didn't need to.
I looked over at my father. He wasn't just my dad anymore.
He was the man who had smashed a window and LED us through a
monstrous darkness. He met my gaze and I saw
something new in his eyes too. Respect.
An acknowledgement of what we had faced in that silent, shared
look. Everything was said.
We had gone to the edge of the map and fallen off.
We had survived something ancient and unexplained.
We had been lucky and we both knew it.
The bond between us was number longer, just one of father and
son. It was the unbreakable tie of
two sole survivors.