I hadn't been back to Kentucky in almost five years, not since
the funeral. Brett was there, quiet as ever,
his arms crossed and his face carved from granite.
He'd always been the tough one, built like a tree trunk, a
seasoned outdoorsman who tracked deer and elk through the Daniel
Boone National Forest for a living.
I, on the other hand, spent my days trapped behind dual
monitors, drowning in code and client emails.
It was soul crushing, and Brett knew it.
When he invited me to meet him in the Red River Gorge for a
weekend of camping, I accepted instantly.
It sounded perfect. No screens, no calls, just miles
of rugged trails and absolute solitude.
We parked Brett's truck at the mouth of an old Forest Service
Rd. shouldered our packs, and set off along a trail that
wasn't officially marked on any park maps.
Brett liked it that way. Keeps the tourists away, he'd
muttered. After a few hours, we arrived at
a clearing he called Slab Camp Gulch.
It was a quiet, primitive sight, nothing more than Flat Earth
ringed by tall trees, close enough to the murmuring trickle
of Slab Camp Creek for water, and isolated enough to forget
the rest of the world. I was rusty at pitching a tent,
and Brett chuckled as I fought the nylon fabric.
Easy now, Evan, you're setting camp, not fighting a bear.
It felt good to laugh. We spent the early evening
cooking canned chili over a modest fire, swapping old
stories, filling each other in on missed years.
But as the sun sank behind the treetops, the atmosphere
changed. I couldn't shake the feeling we
were intruders here, small and insignificant beneath towering
cliffs and vast Kentucky wilderness.
As darkness crept in, Brett pointed out something odd along
the trail. An oak tree stripped almost
completely bare of bark. The peeled strips stretched
nearly 10 feet high, revealing smooth, pale wood beneath.
What is that? I asked, uncomfortable with how
unnatural it looked. Lightning sometimes, Brett
mused, frowning. But there's no burn marks.
We moved on, and soon I found something stranger.
A neat stack of three round stones atop a Moss covered
stump. They were carefully placed,
almost symmetrical. That's creepy, I muttered.
Brett shrugged it off as animal behavior, but the hairs on my
neck said otherwise. That first night, the forest
felt oppressive, heavy. Brett snored softly, unaffected,
but I lay awake, staring at the canvas ceiling of my tent.
Hours in, I heard it, the slow, heavy crunch of footfalls and
dry leaves. My heart quickened, my breath
caught in my chest. It wasn't the skittering of
raccoons or the bounding trot of deer.
These were heavy steps, methodical and too slow to be
animal. I grabbed the zipper of my tent
flap, cautiously opening it an inch.
Outside, the dying embers of our fire cast faint orange glows
across the clearing. Beyond that, shadows swallowed
the rest of the forest. The steps continued, moving
slowly around our camp, always just out of sight.
Step, step. Pause step.
Brett. I hissed quietly, my voice
shaking. A grunt from Brett's tent told
me he'd heard. The steps ceased instantly.
Silence returned, oppressive and thick.
Brett whispered back. Probably just a bear.
Stay quiet. But I'd heard bears before.
Bears didn't pace methodically, circling quietly like predators
sizing up prey. We lay there listening for what
felt like hours, until exhaustion took hold and sleep
finally claimed me. At sunrise, I emerged from my
tent, relief washing over me as daylight flooded the forest
again. Brett was already up, expression
grim. You hear those steps?
He asked, staring at something behind me.
Yeah, thought it was my imagination at first.
He shook his head. It wasn't Look.
I turned to see our supplies. Cooler cookware, backpacks moved
roughly 10 feet to the left. Not scattered or rummaged, but
neatly arranged, lined up perfectly as if someone had
meticulously positioned them. What the hell?
I whispered, chills rippling down my spine.
Brett stood quietly, eyes scanning the tree line.
Somebody's playing with us. We need to pack up.
But as he spoke, my eyes landed on fresh marks gouged into the
trees surrounding the clearing. Deep claw like scratches
stretched high above our heads, too high to be from a bear.
My pulse quickened, stomach tightening into knots.
Brett, those marks. His jaw tightened.
Yeah, I see them. He didn't say what we were both
thinking, that whoever or whatever was here was far bigger
and far stranger than any bear. Without another word, we began
packing quickly, neither of us turning our backs on the woods
for long. I knew we needed to leave, but
as I stuffed gear frantically into my pack, I felt watched,
judged, and somehow, instinctively, I knew getting
out wouldn't be easy. We broke camp quickly, barely
speaking. Brett's calm confidence had
faded, replaced by a tense alertness I'd never seen in him.
We hoisted our packs and retraced our steps back along
the trail we'd come in on. The air was humid, oppressive.
Every few feet Brett would pause, eyes narrowed, scanning
the shadows. After an hour of hiking, I
noticed a strange feeling of familiarity.
Brett stopped abruptly, his body rigid, staring at something
ahead of us. You've got to be kidding me, he
muttered. A head stood, the same broken
oak from earlier, it's bare wood gleaming pale beneath the forest
canopy. We had circled back to the same
spot we started from. How is that possible?
I asked, breath catching in my throat.
Brett shook his head slowly, glancing down at the compass in
his palm. It's spun in lazy circles,
Useless. He snapped it shut, frustration
lining his face. Something's messing with us.
It was hard not to feel panic bubbling up.
Brett knew these woods. He was never lost.
Yet here we stood, confused and disoriented, exactly where we
tried to leave from. Look.
Brett said quietly, pointing to another tree.
Deep gouges, fresh claw marks stretched along the bark, higher
than either of us could reach. I felt my stomach twist.
Bears might claw trees, but never like this.
Not so high, not so deliberately placed.
Brett's face told me he was thinking the same.
We tried a different direction, Brett leading us with tense
determination, hacking through dense brush with his hunting
knife. The heat was unbearable, sweat
drenching my shirt, blurring my vision.
And that's when I saw it. Movement, just a flicker among
the distant trees. I stopped dead, eyes straining
into the shadows. Between two ancient trunks stood
a figure, a man at least shaped like 1, but twisted and hunched,
wearing only a ragged scrap of cloth around his waist.
His bare skin was smeared with grime, his hair matted and
tangled over broad shoulders. He watched us silently,
motionless. Brett.
I whispered harshly. Look.
But as Brett spun around, the figure stepped swiftly backward,
disappearing silently into the dense forest.
What? What did you see?
A man? I managed to choke out, throat
dry. Someone's following us.
Brett's eyes hardened. We need to keep moving fast.
We pushed forward, limbs aching, breath ragged.
Every few minutes I glanced over my shoulder, feeling his gaze
even though I couldn't spot him again.
An hour later, as we descended into a narrow ravine, I saw him
once more, now standing atop a Ridge to our left, silhouetted
against the sky, mirroring our pace and direction.
He moved fluidly, gliding from shadow to shadow, never losing
sight of us. He's tracking us.
I hissed, pointing upward. Brett swore under his breath,
his hand tightening around the knife handle.
We need to get off his path. He knows exactly where we're
going. But no matter how hard we tried,
the shadow we figure remained in our peripheral vision, always
distant, always watching. By late afternoon, we were
exhausted, our clothes torn from the brush, limbs scraped and
bleeding from briars and thorns. Brett's jaw was clenched, eyes
scanning constantly. We can't outrun him.
He finally admitted, breathing heavily.
And it's getting dark again. A sinking feeling settled into
my chest. What do we do?
He met my eyes grimly. We set a trap tonight.
At sunset, we reached another clearing.
Brett lit a small fire, then quietly explained his plan.
I'd stay by the fire, visible and vulnerable, while he hid
nearby with his hunting knife and flare gun, waiting to ambush
our stalker. I'll be watching the whole time,
Brett assured me. The second he gets close, I'll
hit him. Just hold your nerve.
As darkness swallowed the trees around us, I sat near the fire,
pretending to stare into the flames calmly.
My hands shook uncontrollably. My chest felt painfully tight,
every breath a struggle. Somewhere out there in the
shadows, our watcher was waiting, circling slowly,
patiently, inching closer. And Brett was waiting too,
hidden in the darkness, ready to strike.
Minutes dragged into hours as I sat rigidly beside the dwindling
fire, the heat barely noticeable against my clammy skin.
Brett was somewhere behind me, concealed in a small rock
outcrop, ready and waiting. The night air pressed down,
heavy and thick. Every tiny sound made my muscles
tense. A twig snapping, leaves
rustling, small animals darting unseen.
Each noise could be nothing or everything at once.
Suddenly, the small sounds ceased.
Silence flooded the clearing, absolute and crushing.
My heart hammered, pulse throbbing at my temples.
Slowly, deliberately, heavy footsteps crunched toward me
from the trees. Not animal steps, not random
rustling, but slow, careful strides of someone who no longer
feared being heard. I forced myself not to look,
keeping my gaze locked on the smoldering embers as the
footsteps drew closer. Step after step, until finally a
shape emerged from the darkness opposite me, standing motionless
just beyond the fires faint glow.
It was him. The man we'd glimpsed earlier.
He was taller than I'd imagined, powerfully built, but gaunt, his
skin smeared with dirt and soot, tangled hair draping down to
broad, muscular shoulders. He stared directly at me, his
expression unreadable beneath the grime coating his face.
His chest heaved slowly, rhythmically, as if gathering
strength or courage. My throat was dry, raw.
I fought the impulse to shout or flee.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity until he
began to circle slowly around the fire, careful to keep a
fixed distance, his eyes never leaving mine.
His movements were careful but confident.
This was his territory, and he knew exactly how to navigate it.
My fingers twitched nervously. Brett needed him closer within
striking range. I drew in a shaky breath, trying
desperately to appear calm, defenseless.
The man paused, finally taking a step toward the fire, his face
illuminated in the flickering amber light.
I caught a clearer view of his features.
Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, lips cracked and bleeding from
exposure. There was intelligence in those
eyes, though, buried deep beneath layers of animalistic
instinct and isolation. He tilted his head slightly,
inspecting me with cold curiosity, almost as if he were
deciding what to do next. He took another step closer,
almost close enough Now, Brett, now.
As if hearing my desperate thoughts, Brett burst from his
hiding place behind the rocks, firing the flare gun directly at
the man. The sudden flash of burning red
ignited the darkness, slamming into the stalker's shoulder.
A feral, guttural scream tore from his throat, echoing
painfully through the forest. He reeled backward, clutching at
his burned flesh, eyes wide with shock and pain.
For a moment, I thought he'd charge, driven by rage and
desperation. Instead, he bolted suddenly,
vanishing into the woods, crashing noisily through the
underbrush and leaving behind a thin, glistening trail of blood.
Brett moved quickly, grabbing my arm and pulling me up.
Move. We can't stay here, he said
urgently. We stumbled through the darkness
until sunrise painted the treetops pale gold.
We followed the blood trail. It seemed our attacker knew the
terrain better than we ever could.
Eventually the blood faded, but Brett spotted a service Rd.
through the thinning trees. We stumbled out onto the gravel,
gasping, shaking with exhaustion and relief.
A passing truck slowed and stopped, the driver staring wide
eyed at our torn clothing and scratched, bruised skin.
Authorities returned to the spot we described and found the man's
hidden shelter deep within a nearby rock overhang.
Inside, they uncovered remnants of survival gear, stolen
belongings, animal carcasses and human remains, evidence tying
the man to several missing hikers from years past.
DNA tests later identified him as a survivalist who vanished in
2008, presumed dead. We never returned to Slab Camp
Gulch. Brett wiped the coordinates from
his private maps, erasing it completely from existence.
As for me, my days of venturing into deep wilderness, we're
done. My nightmares would always lead
back to those woods, to the silent stare of a man lost to
civilization and the horrifying realization that sometimes the
monsters out there wear a human face.
My wife, Emma hadn't smiled in months, not since the
miscarriage. When we'd packed our gear into
the car that morning, she'd quietly folded up a little blue
onesie she'd kept tucked beneath her sweaters.
It had torn my heart right out of my chest.
The camping trip had been my idea, an attempt to escape our
tiny San Diego apartment and the painful silences we'd fallen
into. I'd convinced myself that a few
peaceful nights in Inyo National Forest near Mammoth Lakes might
be enough to ease us back toward normal.
As we turned off onto the dirt Rd. toward Upper Twin Lake, the
emptiness around us seemed to widen.
It was late September, the summer crowds long gone, and as
we pulled our gear out and began the half mile hike into the
campsite, I felt isolated in the best possible way.
Tall Evergreen surrounded the clear, quiet waters, and the air
was crisp enough to numb my fingertips.
Maybe out here, away from everyone, we could finally start
talking again. We set up camp quickly, Emma
silent the entire time. She sat cross legged by the
tent, fiddling with her gloves, staring into the distant tree
line. I watched her, wanted to say
something comforting, but found no words.
Instead, I busied myself building a small fire as the sun
slid behind the peaks. Sleep was hard that first night.
Emma turned restlessly beside me.
I stared at the top of the tent, counting the hours until dawn.
Sometime past midnight, we both heard faint twigs snapping
nearby. Emma squeezed my wrist tightly.
Probably a deer? I whispered, though I wasn't
entirely convinced. She didn't reply.
Morning arrived slowly, a dull glow warming the nylon above us.
Outside, the lake was glassy and still, reflecting an orange sky
that gave way to pale blue. I stepped outside and stretched,
my breath puffing into the chilly air.
Emma emerged silently, tightening her jacket around her
body as if holding herself together.
It was then that I first noticed him.
Across the lake, nearly blending into the shadowed backdrop of
trees, was a figure sitting motionless on an old fallen log.
I squinted, trying to make him out.
He wore a faded red and black flannel jacket, the kind hunters
wore years ago. He wasn't fishing, wasn't
moving, just sitting there staring in our direction.
Emma. I said quietly, nodding toward
the figure. See that guy over there?
She followed my gaze, a small shiver visibly traveling down
her spine. Has he been there long?
Not sure, probably just someone enjoying the solitude like us.
But as I watched him, unease began creeping into my gut.
It wasn't uncommon to see other people out here, but there was
something unnaturally still about this man, an unsettling
stillness I'd never encountered before.
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Emma wandered the shore, occasionally crouching by the
water, picking smooth stones and tossing them into the lake.
I fished for a while without much luck, but every now and
then my eyes flicked across the water, and each time they did,
the man was still there, Same spot, same position.
That night was colder. The wind slipped through gaps in
the tent, whispering against my sleeping bag.
Emma fell asleep quickly, exhausted by grief or boredom or
both. I lay awake again, listening for
noises the previous night. Snapping twigs were played in my
mind. Suddenly, a sound caught my
attention. Careful, deliberate breaths
outside the thin fabric wall, close enough that I felt a surge
of fear deep in my chest. I held my breath, listening
closely, hoping it was only my imagination.
But the breathing continued. Slow, steady, intentional.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs.
Carefully, I reached for the flashlight and crawled toward
the tent flap. I took a deep breath, pushed
myself out, and swept the light across our camp.
Nothing was there. I circled our sight, flashlight
beam darting across dirt, rocks, and scrub.
Then I froze. There were boot prints, fresh
and deep, circling the tent. Panic clawed at my throat.
I swung the light wildly through the trees, searching.
Nothing moved. Emma appeared behind me, her
voice barely above a whisper. Mark.
I turned, shining the beam downward, trying to keep her
calm. It's nothing, I lied.
Probably just someone passing through.
She looked at the Prince, eyes wide.
Mark. Those aren't ours.
I wanted to reassure her, to tell her we were safe, but I
couldn't. Instead, I guided her back to
the tent and sat guard outside, flashlight pointed toward the
dark trees, heart hammering with every small rustle of leaves.
At sunrise, my eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but my
adrenaline still hummed as the pale light grew brighter.
I stared across the lake again, and my stomach tightened.
The man was still there, only now he'd moved closer.
He sat less than 100 yards away, partially hidden by a stand of
slender aspens. Same posture, same silent,
unmoving stare. Emma saw him, too.
Her face went pale, and for the first time since we'd arrived,
she reached out and took my hand.
Mark. She whispered, voice strained
and frightened. We need to leave.
I stared back at the silent figure, dread pooling in my
chest. Whatever healing we'd come here
to find had vanished completely, replaced only by a dark, gnawing
fear. Emma's grip on my hand was
tight, her fingers trembling against mine.
Neither of us wanted to admit how scared we were.
Without a word, I quickly packed our tent and gear, checking over
my shoulder every few seconds. The man had disappeared from his
spot by the aspens, leaving a hollow feeling in my stomach.
He could be anywhere now. We headed east along the lake
toward where we'd last seen him. Emma stayed behind at the edge
of the clearing, watching nervously as I approached the
line of trees. The sun cut through the
branches, creating jagged patterns on the forest floor.
My heart raced with every step, but I had to know if there was
something or someone waiting there.
About 100 feet into the woods, I stopped cold.
On the ground lay a perfectly arranged arrow made from thin
branches pointing directly W straight toward our campsite.
My pulse quickened. A faint rustle drew my eyes
upward to the trunk of a nearby tree.
There, carved roughly into the bark, was another arrow, 3 sharp
lines pointing straight down. A rusted, bent nail jutted out
of the tree just above it. Mark.
Emma's voice called from behind me.
She sounded distant and frightened.
Are you OK? Stay there, I called back,
forcing calm into my voice. I'll be right out.
I moved faster, pushing through the thickening brush, eyes
scanning wildly. There was another arrow, freshly
assembled and deliberate again, pointing toward our camp.
A sickening dread filled me. We weren't being watched
casually. We were being tracked.
I rushed back to Emma, breathing hard.
What did you see? Her eyes searched mine,
desperate for reassurance. I hesitated, but decided honesty
was better. Someone marked a trail toward
us. We need to leave now.
We made our way quickly down the trail to where we'd left the
car. The forest around us seemed
tighter, more oppressive, every shadow deepening the fear
growing inside me. About halfway there, Emma
stopped abruptly, staring down at the path.
Another arrow, placed deliberately on the trail,
pointed directly at us. She squeezed my arm.
Mark. Someone knew we'd come this way.
We ran then, boots pounding, the packed earth gear clanking
awkwardly on our backs. Relief flooded through me when
we finally broke free from the trees, the dirt Rd. in our car.
Insight. Emma threw her pack down beside
the car, panting. But when I turned the ignition,
nothing happened. The engine wouldn't turn over.
No, no. Emma muttered, eyes wide and
frantic. I didn't leave anything on.
I said helplessly, trying the ignition again and again.
It was completely dead. Emma stared into the dark
forest, clutching herself tightly.
What do we do now? The nearest Ranger station was
miles away, no cell service anywhere near us.
Staying at the car was too exposed, too vulnerable.
After a brief panic debate, we decided to return to the forest,
choosing an elevated rocky clearing we'd passed earlier,
hoping we'd see anyone approaching before they could
get too close. The thought of another night
outside was unbearable, but we had no choice.
Darkness fell quickly. I tried not to think about the
arrows or the silent figure in the woods, but every noise sent
adrenaline jolting through my veins.
A distant metallic sound, like something lightly tapping steel,
echoed through the trees. Emma's eyes snapped open.
Terrified, I pretended not to hear it, hoping she'd believe it
was the wind or something harmless, but I knew better at
first light. Desperate and nearly sleepless,
we decided to push through the forest, cutting eastward in
hopes of intersecting the main road.
But instead of a path, we stumbled onto a narrow, twisting
game trail. It LED us deep into unfamiliar
territory. Our progress was slow, anxiety
mounting with every step. Then, suddenly, hidden among the
trees, we saw it. An old weather beaten hunting
shack, walls Gray and splintered, barely standing.
A padlock hung uselessly from the broken door, clearly forced
open. I approached cautiously, Emma
close behind. I nudged the door open, heart
hammering. Inside, dim sunlight revealed a
cot, a rusted wood stove, and a battered plywood table covered
with old Polaroid photographs, edges yellowed and curling.
My breath caught sharply. I stepped closer and saw faded
images of hikers, families, couples, each picture taken at a
distance. Secretly.
Emma's voice shook behind me. Mark, look.
She pointed to a single photo pinned carefully to the wall.
It showed our camp, clearly taken from the far side of the
lake, Me bent over the fire, Emma seated by the tent.
The photo was only two days old. Next to the stove sat an old
coffee can. A dull white object rested at
the bottom. I stared numbly, dread pooling
in my stomach. It was a human jawbone.
Footprints scuffed the dusty floorboards.
Fresh prints, boots that matched those we'd seen circling our
tent. Whoever had watched us, whoever
had stalked us through the night, had been here very
recently. I turned, desperate to get us
both away from this place. But Emma stood frozen, staring
at the photograph of our campsite.
Her voice was a whisper of fear. He knew we were coming.
We have to go. I said urgently, pulling Emma
from her frozen stare. My voice trembled, betraying the
panic I was trying so hard to hide right now.
Emma didn't argue. She grabbed our pack, tossing in
whatever she could. I took an old hatchet from
beside the wood stove, my knuckles white around its
splintered handle. The shack seemed darker now,
like it was slowly absorbing what little daylight was left
outside. The wind tore violently through
the trees. Clouds, black and heavy, raced
overhead, erasing the daylight piece by piece.
We pushed W, stumbling through brush, scraping against branches
and tripping over uneven ground. Behind us, something moved
steadily through the trees. Following our frantic flight, I
heard the unmistakable crunch of boots, deliberately slow but
persistent. Every time I glanced back, I saw
nothing but endless trees in darkness.
Emma gripped my arm tighter, breathing heavily.
He's right behind us, She whispered, voiced tight with
fear. I can feel him.
Don't look back, I urged her, but my own curiosity betrayed
me. I glanced quickly toward the
ridgeline. Behind us, against the fading
sky, stood the shadow of a figure, perfectly still, red
flannel jackets starkly visible even in the gathering darkness,
watching us. We didn't stop after that,
pushing forward through thickening shadows.
The flashlight barely pierced the dense nightfall, and rain
began to fall in icy sheets, drenching us both.
Every root, every slippery stone threatened to bring us down.
Then, abruptly, our feet hit something solid.
The old dirt Rd. that led back toward our car and the
trailhead. Hope surged through me, bitter
and sharp, driving us both onward.
Ahead, through blinding rain and swirling leaves, we spotted the
glow of headlights. A ranger's truck was parked at
the trailhead, engine rumbling softly.
A park Ranger stood beside it, checking gear in the bed.
Help. I shouted hoarsely, waving my
arms. Emma stumbled forward, nearly
collapsing beside the truck. The Ranger spun, startled, then
rushed to steady her. What happened?
He demanded, scanning us both with practiced eyes.
Someone followed us. I gasped, forcing out each word
between exhausted breaths. A shack back there.
He was watching us. The ranger's expression shifted
instantly from curiosity to concern.
He ushered us quickly into his truck.
Emma huddled beside me, shivering uncontrollably.
The Ranger grabbed his radio urgently requesting backup.
You said a shack. He turned back to us, voice low,
serious. Can you tell me exactly where?
I described the trail as best I could, stumbling over details in
my panic. The Ranger nodded grimly, radio
crackling as more voices joined the conversation.
Within minutes, headlights bounced toward us from down the
road. A second Ranger vehicle.
Emma and I exchanged a glance, filled with relief and
exhaustion. For the first time in days we
felt safe. Three days passed before we
heard anything more. A voicemail lit up my phone as
we packed to leave Mammoth Lakes, finally heading home.
The Ranger District supervisors voice was calm but tense.
The shack burned to the ground, he explained slowly.
Happened the night you left. Lightning most likely, but no
strikes recorded. We found the jawbone you
described, Lab matched it to a missing hiker, Cody Allen, not
far from here. My blood went cold.
I met Emma's wide, frightened eyes.
Neither of us spoke. We never found your guy in the
flannel. The supervisor continued, voice
tight. But yesterday, one of my guys
spotted an old fire pit and an axe stuck in a stump down by
Lower Twin Lake. Whoever he is, he's gone for
now. The line went quiet, but the
unease lingered between Emma and me, unspoken but clearly
understood. We left Mammoth Lakes behind
without looking back, desperate to put distance between US and
the forest, between US and the silent figure who had turned our
attempt at healing into a nightmare.
But even weeks later, in the quiet safety of our apartment, I
kept the hatchet close, tucked away in the closet as a silent
reminder that out there, somewhere in the endless trees,
someone was still watching. Growing up near Sheridan, WY,
you become familiar with Bighorn National Forest, dense woods,
steep ravines, and forgotten fire roads that wander endlessly
into the mountains. It's easy to lose your bearings
out there, especially if you stray far enough from the marked
paths. It had been three years since
I'd last seen Wes. Three years since Mom passed
away, leaving us without a real reason to reconnect.
Life had pulled us in different directions.
Wes had joined the Army and gone off to Iraq, returning changed
in ways I couldn't fully grasp. I chose the quieter path,
becoming a middle school history teacher in Casper.
Our worlds rarely intersected anymore until I reached out and
suggested a camping trip. I figured nature and isolation
might help bridge the gap between us.
Wes, somewhat to my surprise, agreed.
We met in Sheridan early on a Saturday, loaded up supplies and
drove W passing through the sleepy town of Dayton before
ascending the winding switchbacks of Hwy. 14 to
Burgess Junction. Wes seemed quiet, distracted,
even though I tried making small talk.
He kept his answers short, glancing occasionally toward the
dense walls of spruce that lined the road.
You good? I finally asked, breaking the
silence. Yeah, Wes replied softly.
Just been a while since I've been out here.
I could hear something underneath his voice, something
cautious and tense. About 7 miles past the junction,
Wes pointed out a hidden pull off on the right.
I could barely see it through the brush.
This it? I asked skeptically.
Yeah, that's the one old logging Rd.
They stopped using it back in the 80s.
I eased my truck onto the rough, narrow path, branches scraping
loudly against the doors as we drove deeper into the woods.
After about two miles, the road abruptly ended at a slight
incline. Wes nodded, satisfied.
We'll hike from here. We shouldered our packs and
started uphill, winding between tall stands of spruce and
juniper. Wes took the lead, confident
despite the uneven ground and lack of obvious trails.
Eventually the land leveled out, opening into a small clearing
that seems strangely out of place, flat, symmetrical, with
an old rusted truck cab hidden in the weeds near the tree line.
What is this place? I asked, feeling suddenly
uneasy. Old logging camp, W said.
We used to hunt near here when I was younger.
There's a trail over there. Might still be passable.
He pointed toward a narrow opening between the trees.
It wasn't marked or well trodden, but something about it
felt deliberate, as if it had been intentionally maintained.
We followed it cautiously, Wes occasionally stopping to inspect
snapped branches and flattened Moss as we move deeper into the
woods. A heavy silence descended.
It was as if the forest had been muffled by some unseen hand,
swallowing even the normal sounds of insects and wind.
Wes slowed, turning his head slightly.
You notice it? He whispered, voice barely
audible. What?
No birds, no insects? It's dead quiet, unnatural.
We walked another half mile, the path growing tighter, the brush
thickening around us. Finally, W stopped, glancing at
the darkening sky. We should turn back, it'll be
dark soon. We retraced our steps, returning
to the clearing to set up camp quickly.
W started a small fire, the flames pushing back the
approaching darkness. We ate in near silence, W still
edgy, glancing into the trees as though expecting something to
appear. Later that night, I woke
abruptly. At first I wasn't sure what had
stirred me. Maybe a dream, maybe the
lingering anxiety of Wes's mood. But then I heard it clearly.
Slow, heavy footsteps pacing deliberately near our tent.
My pulse quickened. Wes.
I whispered. There was no answer.
My eyes adjusted slowly to the moonlight filtering through the
fabric of the tent. Wes was motionless in his
sleeping bag, breathing deep and slow.
My heart raced. If Wes was here, who was
outside? I rolled slightly to peer
through the tents mesh window. Just beyond the circle of our
dying firelight, standing perfectly still at the edge of
the trees was a silhouette. It was Wes, or someone who
looked exactly like him, his familiar stance, shoulders
slightly hunched forward, hands hanging loosely at his sides.
But Wes was beside me, sleeping peacefully.
A sickening feeling twisted through me.
I closed my eyes, willing the figure to vanish, convinced it
must be a trick of the dark. But when I opened them again,
the figure remained still, silent, still, unmoving.
I lay there, paralyzed by fear, hardly daring to breathe.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally mustered the
courage to shake Wes awake. He jolted upright, instantly
alert. What?
He hissed, seeing my face. Someone's out there.
I whispered hoarsely. Wes reached for the knife beside
him, sitting perfectly still, listening.
Minutes dragged by intense silence.
When he finally crawled forward to peer through the mesh, the
figure had disappeared, leaving only an empty patch of moonlit
grass. There is nobody.
Wes murmured, uncertainty heavy in his voice.
He looked at me warily, the unspoken question hanging
between us. Had I imagined it?
But I knew what I'd seen. Wes settled back, uneasy.
We'll look in the morning, he muttered.
Neither of us slept again that night, listening anxiously as
the silent forest pressed in around us, each sound amplifying
our dread as we waited helplessly for dawn.
I hadn't slept a second since seeing the figure outside our
tent, and when the sky began turning Gray, I crawled out,
desperate for fresh air. Wes was already awake, kneeling
in front of the tent flap, staring at something on the
ground. I moved beside him and froze, my
breath catching sharply. Deep footprints, bare, wide,
misshapen, had sunk into the soft mud just inches from where
our heads had rested. They didn't match either of our
boots, or even any human footprints I'd ever seen.
They slanted inward at strange angles, almost pigeon toed, as
though whoever made them had bones bent and twisted beneath
their skin. They circle the tent.
W murmured quietly. 3 times I turned to see him pointing, and
sure enough, the tracks made careful, perfect loops.
I glanced back at my brother, searching his eyes for answers
or reassurance, but his expression was empty, distant,
like he drifted somewhere far away.
We moved stiffly through our morning routine, packing up our
sleeping gear without much conversation.
Wes stayed quiet, occasionally glancing toward the tree line,
always watching every movement, felt cautious, measured.
The forest still seemed drained of its usual sounds.
No birds, no rustling animals. Just oppressive, unnatural
silence. I think someone's playing with
us. Wes finally spoke, his voice low
and even. He sounded calm, almost
detached, but I could see tension straining at the corners
of his eyes. Messing with our heads.
Who would do something like this?
I asked. He didn't answer, only shaking
his head as he stood. Let's go check the trail again.
I want to know what we're dealing with.
I hesitated, A sickening dread churning in my gut.
But the idea of being alone here was worse.
I followed him back toward the narrow path we discovered
yesterday, the entrance now appearing even darker, more
unwelcoming in daylight than it had before.
The trail twisted further into the dense woods, brush snagging
our clothing, branches clawing at exposed skin.
After a short distance, I paused, turning to whistle
softly back to Wes. It was a quick signal we'd
always used as kids, 2 notes to let him know I was ahead,
nothing more. But as the whistle died away, a
reply echoed from ahead of me. Same notes, same pitch,
perfectly repeated. My blood ran cold.
I spun around immediately, heart hammering, to see Wes frozen
several paces behind me, eyes wide.
Did you? I started, but Wes shook his
head slowly, signaling urgently to stay silent.
He moved ahead of me on the path now, his rifle gripped tightly.
Each step he took felt deliberate and cautious, as if
he feared something hidden might burst through the brush at any
moment. My ears strained for any sound
besides our own breathing, but the forest remained maddingly
quiet, empty of life and sound. We finally emerged back into our
campsite, and I almost cried out.
A few feet from our tent, in a perfect circle, lay a dozen
birds, small black winged starlings, each placed with
unnatural precision, heads outward and wings folded tight
against their sides. They showed no sign of injury,
no blood, no damage. Just lifeless birds arranged in
deliberate order. This is intentional.
Wes said slowly, crouching beside the grim arrangement.
Whoever's out here wants to scare us.
It's working. I muttered, my throat dry.
Wes straightened abruptly, scanning the trees.
Check your pack, see if anything's missing.
I moved quickly to our gear, feeling a surge of anxiety as I
opened my pack. Clothes, food, gear, all there.
But then I realized my phone was missing.
We'd powered them off for the trip, agreeing to disconnect
entirely, but now the empty pocket stared back at me
accusingly. My phone's gone.
I called, dread thickening in my voice.
Wes paced around the site quickly, then stopped, crouching
by a flat, Moss covered stone. Carefully, he lifted it aside,
revealing my phone nestled beneath, covered neatly with
leaves and dirt. He picked it up, examining it
closely. It's dead, He said quietly,
completely drained. How is that possible?
My voice sounded strained, even to my ears.
He shook his head again, eyes hardening.
Whoever took it, turned it on, drained the battery, hit it
here. This is all a game.
But what do they want? Fear, he replied simply,
standing straight again, casting another wary look into the
trees. They're testing us, watching how
we react. We spent the next several hours
reinforcing our camp. Wes meticulously set alarms
using twigs and fishing line around the perimeter,
positioning logs to form barriers.
He worked quickly, quietly, with a sense of practiced urgency
that reminded me how little I truly understood about his years
away. Night fell swiftly, the shadows
from the tree line stretching hungrily toward our camp.
We built the fire higher than before, it's bright flames
offering little comfort against the heavy darkness that pressed
in around us. We sat silently, ears tuned for
the smallest sound. Around midnight, Wes shifted
suddenly, staring intently at the wall of the tent behind me.
I followed his gaze, my pulse racing.
Pressed against the tents fabric was the outline of a hand, long
fingers spread wide, unmoving, firm and steady against the
nylon. It held perfectly still, not
pressing harder, not retreating, just resting there.
Like an unmistakable statement. Wes slowly raised his rifle,
pointing it carefully at the shadow.
Neither of us moved, neither dared breathe as seconds crawled
into minutes. After nearly half an hour, the
hand slowly pulled away, vanishing as silently as it had
appeared. I glanced at Wes, eyes wide, my
voice barely a whisper. We have to get out of here.
Wes nodded slowly, never lowering his rifle, eyes locked
on the place the hand had been. First light, he murmured
quietly. We move at first light.
But dawn felt impossibly far away, and the forest seemed
alive, watchful, waiting patiently for its next move.
As dawn broke, the forest remained unsettlingly quiet.
Neither of us had slept a second since the hand pressed against
our tent. Wes hadn't moved much all night,
keeping his rifle balanced carefully across his knees.
He stood slowly, stretching stiff muscles, eyes still fixed
on the trees. We're leaving, I said, trying to
mask the tremor in my voice now. Wes didn't answer immediately.
He surveyed the edge of camp, his gaze intense, calculating.
We can't leave blind, he finally muttered.
We need to know what we're up against, Wes, I pleaded quietly,
exhaustion bleeding into my voice.
We can't handle this. We need to go.
He stared back at me for a long moment, his face pale and grim.
Just give me one hour. I opened my mouth to protest,
but he moved quickly toward the old truck cab at the clearing's
edge. He rummaged briefly inside,
pulling out oily rags and some pine needles, tossing them at my
feet. Start making a line of brush and
pine needles across the edge of camp.
Something we can burn. We'll smoke it out.
I hesitated, glancing nervously at the darkened tree line, then
nodded, trusting Wes's instincts more than my own.
We arranged A makeshift line of debris and kindling quickly,
forming A shallow semicircle just beyond our tent.
Wes lit it carefully, and smoke began rising into the air,
drifting slowly toward the thicker woods uphill.
We waited tensely, standing just behind the small barrier, eyes
scanning the drifting smoke. After several minutes, a
movement emerged, a shape stepping out slowly from the
trees, hunched low at the shoulders, cautious but
strangely fearless. I couldn't breathe, couldn't
move, eyes locked on the figure as the smoke parted around it.
A man stood there, if you could still call him that.
He was thin and wiry, shirtless despite the morning chill.
Pale scars twisted across his chest and stomach.
His face was a wreck of jagged tissue, one side of his mouth
permanently torn upward, exposing teeth stained yellow.
He tilted his head oddly, looking at us as if curious.
Then I saw the way he stood, twisted slightly at the waist,
hips angled in opposite directions, as though his spine
had broken and healed incorrectly.
His bare feet slanted inward at unnatural angles, the exact same
footprints we'd found circling our tent.
Wes slowly raised his rifle. The man's eyes widened briefly
in recognition, and he took a careful step backward, limping
and hobbling, body swaying awkwardly.
He made no sound, no threat, just watched us, eyes bright and
alert, before backing away into the smoky woods.
Wes exhaled sharply, still aiming toward where the figure
had disappeared. Pack everything now.
I threw gear into packs as quickly as I could, my hands
trembling, adrenaline making each simple movement feel nearly
impossible. Wes moved to the far edge of the
clearing, setting another small fire line to conceal our tracks.
We're not taking any chances. He murmured, eyes dark.
He's not going to follow us. We shouldered our gear and moved
out, keeping silent nerves stretched tight.
Wes stayed just behind me, glancing frequently over his
shoulder, wary, his rifle always within reach.
Neither of us spoke the entire hike back, every sound causing
us to flinch, every shadow becoming the twisted silhouette
of the man we'd seen. Finally, reaching my truck felt
surreal, like waking from a nightmare.
I threw our packs in the bed, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Wes paused before climbing into the passenger seat, looking once
more toward the woods, his expression haunted.
At the Burgess Junction Ranger Station, Wes recounted our
experience quietly, carefully choosing his words.
The Ranger listened intently, skeptical at 1st, until Wes
mentioned the figures twisted posture and scars.
Something in the ranger's eyes flickered with recognition,
though he didn't elaborate. A week later, we got a call.
The Ranger and his team had scoured the area thoroughly.
Deep in the forest they discovered a hidden campsite, A
crumbling lean to camouflaged with fallen branches.
Nearby, beneath layers of Moss and debris, they'd uncovered a
shack, half buried and rotting from decades of neglect.
Inside were piles of Vietnam era gear, old packs, rusted canteens
and cracked helmets. Most disturbing were the
notebooks. Pages upon pages of neat
handwriting chronicled years of observations about campers who'd
ventured into the forest. Names, dates, habits.
Carefully documented, meticulously catalogued.
The Ranger hesitated briefly before continuing, his voice
cautious. The entry started in 1983.
Most were just brief notes about hikers and hunters, but the
latest? He paused again, letting the
silence linger painfully. They were about you 2.
Wes's jaw tightened, a deep shadow passing over his face.
We thank the Ranger and ended the call quickly, eager to
forget but knowing we never truly would.
Three days later, Wes stopped by my apartment.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out
something small and metallic, dropping it gently onto my
table. It clattered softly, spinning
slowly to rest in the fading afternoon light.
It was one of Wes's dog tags from his first deployment,
battered, dented and rusted, with his name still readable
despite years of weather and wear.
Wes's voice came softly, tight, with barely restrained anger and
confusion. They found it nailed to the
inside wall of that shack. Neither of us spoke again that
night, but we both knew. Whatever had found us on that
old logging Rd. whatever had been watching and waiting, had
known exactly who we were. And that fact terrified me most
of all. I'd been hiking Angeles National
Forest for years, so when my friends suggested spending two
nights above Bear Flat, I didn't think twice.
Sure, the summer heat can get brutal, and fire season warnings
posted at the trailhead made the stakes clear, but we weren't
novices. At least that's what I told
myself. My name's Chris, and with me
were Marissa, Jordan and Lex, all seasoned hikers.
Or so we believed. We plan to head off trail,
bypassing crowded campsites for a quieter spot.
We wanted isolation. We found something else
entirely. We set off just after sunrise,
aiming to beat the worst of the midday heat.
By the time we reached the junction where most hikers
turned back, sweat was already soaking through my shirt and Lex
was breathing hard. I ignored the discomfort.
The higher we climbed, the thinner the crowds.
By late afternoon, the trail we chosen vanished into a maze of
scrub and rocky outcroppings. Jordan glanced at me
skeptically, clearly questioning my navigation skills, but I
insisted I knew exactly where we were going.
That's when we spotted the old shelter.
It was wedged tightly into the rock face, a makeshift cabin
built long ago from rough cut logs, stone slabs and corrugated
tin. It looks sturdy enough, at least
for a night or two. Jordan kicked open the half
rusted door and we stepped inside, dust swirling around our
ankles. A pungent mix of mildew and
something metallic hit us immediately.
Marissa scrunched her nose, clearly disgusted.
Lex coughed. Home sweet home, Jordan said,
attempting a joke. We dropped our packs and claimed
corners of the shelter. I found a faded carving on the
wall. A date 1989.
The shelter was old, but not ancient.
It had probably seen plenty of traffic in the decades since.
Though by the thick layer of grime covering every surface,
not recently. After a quick meal, the
exhaustion set in, and we decided to settle down for the
night. As darkness swallowed the
valley, Lex lit our small camp stove, a single tiny flame
casting long jagged shadows along the walls.
We sat quietly, exhaustion overcoming any desire for small
talk. Lex spoke first, breaking the
silence. Hey, did you guys see that?
We all turned toward the open door, far away atop another
ridgeline, and orange glow had ignited, flickering like someone
starting a campfire. We watched it for maybe 2
seconds before it abruptly vanished, as if snuffed by an
unseen hand. What the hell?
Jordan muttered. That was weird.
Probably another group out here. I offered, though my own
confidence wavered. Something felt off.
Marissa stared uneasily into the blackness outside.
There's nobody else out here. That Ridge is miles from any
trail. Nobody responded.
There was no explanation that made sense.
We crawled into our sleeping bags soon after, unease settling
into my chest like a heavy stone.
Sleep eluded me for a long time, but eventually exhaustion one.
It couldn't have been long. I felt like I'd barely shut my
eyes when Marissa shook me awake.
Her eyes were wide and scared in the thin moonlight filtering
through gaps in the shelter walls.
What is it? I whispered, already tense.
I heard someone, she hissed, calling my name from up the
hill. Lex sat upright suddenly.
Alert me too, She whispered. I heard mine, clear as day.
Jordan rolled over in his sleep, oblivious.
I strained my ears, holding my breath.
Nothing but silence filled the shelter.
Still, the fear in Marissa's voice was impossible to dismiss.
She was not the type to overreact.
Should we check? Lex whispered, voice trembling
slightly. No, I said firmly.
It's probably the wind or something.
Even as I said it, I felt foolish.
There wasn't any wind at all. Lex settled back down
reluctantly. Marissa pulled her sleeping bag
tighter, eyes wide open in the dark.
Eventually I closed my eyes, listening until fatigue
reclaimed me. In the morning I awoke, stiff
sunlight slicing harshly through gaps in the crude shelter walls.
I felt sick, dehydrated already, and deeply unsettled by last
night's events. Beside me, Marissa was sitting
up, pale and staring at her sleeping bag.
It's wet, she said quietly, touching the damp fabric, her
hand trembling on the inside. Nobody had answers.
I looked out the door at the sun already burning above the Ridge
and felt a cold dread settle deep within me.
Something was very wrong on this mountain and suddenly isolation
didn't feel quite as appealing as it had yesterday.
It was barely mid morning. But the heat had already become
relentless. The sun glared down from a
harsh, cloudless sky, baking every inch of exposed ground.
We gathered our things quickly, eager to abandon the shelter and
the unsettling memories of the night before.
Marissa was quiet, clearly disturbed by the dampness she'd
found inside her sleeping bag. Lex stuck close to her,
murmuring reassurances that neither of them seem to believe.
I moved around the shelter, gathering our water stash from
the shaded nook where I'd carefully placed it the night
before. As I bent down, I froze, staring
at the emptiness where 4 bottles of water should have been.
Instead, there was just an empty gallon jug tipped onto its side.
Who took the water? I demanded sharply.
Jordan and Lex exchanged puzzled looks, and Marissa shook her
head nervously. None of us touched it, Chris.
I felt a surge of irritation mixed with unease.
Without water, we wouldn't last long in this heat.
Lex suggested. An animal had dragged them away,
but there weren't any animal tracks visible near the shelter.
I knew what raccoon or bear prints look like, and there was
nothing but dust and gravel. Nothing except my stomach
tightened. In the loose dirt just behind
the shelter, I saw a single set of footprints.
They were unmistakably human, barefoot and large, much bigger
than any of ours. I crouched down, running a
finger along the distinct outline of the toes.
Chris Marissa's voice broke my focus.
What is it? Footprints.
I said quietly, my voice barely carrying to the others.
Someone else was here last night.
Jordan came over, crouching beside me, barefoot.
Out here? He looked around warily.
We're miles from anywhere. I didn't respond, standing up
slowly and dusting off my hands. The sooner we were off this
mountain, the better. Inside the shelter, Marissa was
nervously picking at something on the wall.
I stepped closer and noticed a dark reddish brown stain just
beneath a scorched area of wood. It was dry and flaking as
Marissa scraped at it with her fingernail.
That's blood, she whispered, pulling her hand back sharply.
Someone tried to scrub it off. Jordan laughed uneasily, though
his face had lost all its color. Probably an animal.
Maybe someone cleaned their kill in here once.
No, Marissa said firmly. This is too high up the wall.
A thick silence settled over us. Nobody wanted to consider the
implications of her words. Lex back toward the shelter's
entrance, eyes darting nervously.
Let's just get out of here. I finally said, breaking the
tension. We started downhill along the
route we'd marked on our way up, moving slowly at first but soon
quickening our pace as the heat intensified.
My throat was already parched, and without the water stash,
each step felt harder than the last.
Less than an hour into our descent, things started
unraveling rapidly. I stopped abruptly, staring in
disbelief at the spot where I built a small Cairn, a stack of
carefully placed rocks marking our return route.
It was gone, completely dismantled, with the stone
scattered randomly in all directions.
Who the hell did this? Jordan's voice cracked as he
stared down at the rocks. I said nothing, a knot
tightening painfully in my chest.
We continued carefully forward, searching desperately for the
blazes we've marked on trees, but each one had been scraped
away, leaving behind only rough gouges in the bark.
It's like someone's trying to trap us here.
Lex said quietly, voicing what we all feared but didn't want to
admit. Sweat dripped steadily down my
face, stinging my eyes. My sense of direction felt
scrambled, and the terrain seemed unfamiliar.
Everything was distorted by heat waves shimmering above the
ground, turning even solid landmarks into wavering mirages.
Hours later, exhausted and dehydrated, we finally stopped
beneath a cluster of twisted scrub oaks, their leaves
offering precious little shade. The sun hovered mercilessly
overhead, forcing us to wait until temperatures dropped
enough to move again. We didn't speak much, each lost
in silent dread, rationing what little water remained in our
packs. Jordan leaned heavily against
the trunk of a tree, staring blankly at the ground.
That night we camped again, our heads pounding and throats dry
and raw. None of us risked making a fire,
too afraid to attract attention. The darkness wrapped around us
heavily. Every sound seemed amplified in
the stillness. Then I heard it.
Slow, deliberate crunches, like footsteps coming from uphill
behind our makeshift campsite. My heart lurched painfully.
I sat upright, gripping the small hatchet from my pack,
every muscle in my body tense. Marissa grabbed Lex's arm
tightly, eyes wide with terror. We didn't dare speak or move,
barely breathing as we listened. The footsteps stopped just
beyond our line of sight. The silence stretched
unbearably, but I knew instinctively we weren't alone.
It was a long night and sleep never came.
I kept my eyes locked on the darkness around us.
My grip never loosening from the hatchet, the first Gray hint of
dawn brought no relief, only more questions.
When we stood to pack, I looked down and my breath caught
sharply. Fresh footprints circled our
camp, completely barefoot and wide.
Whoever had been watching us was close enough to touch.
Marissa's voice trembled as she finally broke the silence.
Chris, we need to get out of here now.
She was right, but I had no idea if we'd even make it.
By sunrise, the dehydration had begun, taking a severe toll on
all of us. My tongue felt swollen, scraping
like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
Marissa's lips had cracked, bleeding slightly at the
corners, her eyes sunken and distant.
Jordan stumbled as we packed our things, muttering incoherent
words under his breath. Lex hovered close to him, her
eyes shadowed by exhaustion and fear.
We resumed walking, desperation driving each step.
I struggled to keep my bearings as the rocky slopes blurred
together, each ridgeline looking identical.
A familiar path appeared to my right, and relief surged briefly
through. Me.
This is the way, I rasped, pointing upward.
I'm sure. Jordan shot me a doubtful
glance, shaking his head slowly, but said nothing.
We climbed anyway, our movements painfully slow, muscles cramping
from lack of water. After an hour of agonizing
ascent, the path abruptly ended at the edge of a dry wash filled
with bones. Animal bones, Deer, coyotes,
rabbits littered the dusty basin.
Some looked weathered and brittle, others disturbingly
fresh. Lex stared in horror at a
leather strap dangling from a low shrub.
It was unmistakably from Jordan's pack, ripped and torn,
though he'd never been this way before.
Jordan backed away, confused, his breathing ragged.
How? He muttered weakly, eyes wild.
We've never been here. A sickening realization washed
over me. We were walking in circles,
being herded deeper into unfamiliar terrain.
We stumbled downhill again, desperation and panic overtaking
rational thought. The sun was relentless, bearing
down heavily. And I began seeing flashes of
dark shapes darting at the edge of my vision.
I blinked hard, trying to force clarity, but they wouldn't fade.
By dusk, we were barely moving forward, stumbling on numb legs.
Marissa had fallen silent entirely, staring blankly ahead,
lost in exhaustion and despair. Jordan had grown pale, trembling
with each step. We finally collapsed beneath a
stand of twisted scrub oak, too exhausted even to speak.
Darkness fell heavily once more. None of us dared sleep.
I sat gripping the hatchet, my heart thudding painfully against
my ribs, my eyes straining into the endless blackness around us.
Then I heard the sound, a slow, rhythmic crunching of dry leaves
and twigs steadily approaching from the ridgeline above.
I held my breath, knuckles white as my fingers tightened around
the hatchet handle. Lex whimpered softly beside me,
her hand clutching Marissa's sleeve.
The footsteps circled our makeshift campsite, slow,
methodical, never stopping, but never coming into view.
Each step echoed louder in my ears until my heart.
Pounded painfully in time with them.
Then, suddenly, silence. I waited, my body trembling with
tension, until finally the first pale glow of morning illuminated
our surroundings. I stood on shaking legs, looking
down to see fresh footprints encircling our small clearing.
Bare, human, impossibly large. Lex's voice broke, raw and
ragged. Chris, we have to get out of
here. Please.
We moved as fast as we could manage, stumbling through brush
and rocky outcroppings, blind with fatigue, My vision blurred,
darkness creeping around the. Edges.
But I pushed forward, driven by sheer desperation.
Late in the afternoon, I spotted something that brought a hoarse
cry to my lips, a narrow fire Rd. snaking along the distant
hillside below. I waved frantically, hope
surging painfully in my chest. Behind me, Marissa fell to her
knees, weeping in relief. A white forestry truck rolled
slowly into view, the Ranger inside leaning forward,
surprised. We stumbled down the hillside,
shouting hoarsely, waving arms in wild desperation.
He stopped the vehicle, stepping quickly toward us, concern
etched clearly across his face. Minutes later, as I gulped down
water from his spare jug, relief threatened to overwhelm me.
But something dark linger deep inside, a dread I couldn't
shake. Days later, when we were strong
enough, Rangers brought us back up to the shelter.
It was exactly where we'd left it, yet something felt
profoundly wrong. The logs looked older, decayed,
as if abandoned decades earlier rather than mere days.
Around the shelter, Rangers found signs of illegal camping,
ashes from old fires, discarded clothing.
Nearby, Deep drag marks etched A grim trail toward the ridgeline
above. The lead Ranger shook his head
slowly as he studied the area. Barefoot.
He muttered, glancing down at fresh tracks pressed deeply into
the earth. We've seen these before.
I stared at him, my throat tight.
What do you mean? He hesitated, then met my eyes
directly. A group went missing out here in
the 90s. Experienced hikers.
We found gear, a campsite, but never any bodies.
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
I turned away, chills rippling down my spine.
Despite the heat, none of us ever set foot near Bear Flat
again.