Ben and I had been planning the trip for months.
Life in Pittsburgh was relentless.
The city's hum never faded, and between work deadlines and the
crowded streets, we both felt our nerves fraying.
That's why we chose Monongahela National Forest in West
Virginia, a sprawling expanse of untouched wilderness, deep
forests, and mountain trails. We rented an old fire watch
cabin near Spruce Knob, remote enough that it required a three
mile hike from the nearest Dirt Rd.
No electricity, no cell service, and no distractions.
Exactly what we needed. Our hike to the cabin was
tougher than we'd anticipated. The trails were barely marked,
covered with thick brush and fallen branches.
By the time we reached the clearing, our legs burned and
sweat dripped into our eyes. The cabin itself was squat and
weathered, built from thick Timbers and set back against a
cluster of hemlocks. A tiny woodshed stood nearby,
stacked with logs for the wood stove inside.
I caught my breath and smiled at Ben.
Perfect. I said, half believing myself.
He grinned, exhausted but relieved.
We wanted isolated. I'd say we nailed it.
But as Ben unlocked the cabin door, I noticed something odd.
The latch was freshly scratched, deep gouges scarring the metal
as if someone had forced it open with a blade or a screwdriver.
I tried to ignore it, convincing myself that forestry crews must
have had trouble opening it at some point.
Ben didn't seem bothered, so I followed his lead.
The first night passed quietly, except for the wind rustling
through branches above. We sat near the stove, warm fire
light flickering, sipping whiskey and savouring the rare
silence. Eventually, sleep found us
easily. In the morning, Ben went outside
to gather more firewood from the shed.
A minute later, he called my name urgently.
Kara, come look at this. I stepped out, tugging on my
sweater. Ben stood near the clearing's
edge, staring at one of the large maples that encircled the
cabin. Approaching.
My breath caught sharply in my throat.
Carved into the bark was a triangle about 8 inches high,
fresh enough that curls of bark still dangled, SAP oozing from
the edges. I turned slowly, scanning the
perimeter. There were more, one after
another, marked trees formed a perfect ring around our cabin,
each bearing the same simple symbol, etched with meticulous
precision. Ben ran his fingers over 1
carving. Did you notice these yesterday?
No, I answered, shivering slightly despite the morning
sun, They weren't here. These marks look fresh.
We exchanged uncertain glances, the silence of the forest
suddenly oppressive. Been straightened visibly
shrugging off his unease. Probably some Ranger thing.
Trail markers, maybe, but they don't lead anywhere, I pointed
out. They're facing inward, toward
us. He shook his head, brushing it
aside. It's probably nothing.
We spent the afternoon hiking nearby trails, deliberately
avoiding mentioning the symbols. The forest felt heavier, darker
somehow. Neither of us wanted to admit
it. As the sun dipped toward the
horizon, we hurried back to the cabin.
The marked trees stood like sentries in the fading light,
silent and watchful. Night fell quickly.
We built the fire again and ate dinner quietly, conversation
sparse. Later, lying awake in the
darkness, listening to the logs crackle, I heard it.
Soft, irregular taps against the cabin walls.
My pulse quickened as I sat up, straining to listen.
The sound was too deliberate to be wind, too sharp to be
branches brushing the walls. Ben.
I whispered sharply, shaking him awake.
There's someone outside. He jolted upright, instantly
alert. We both listened intently, our
breathing shallow, hearts pounding.
The tapping came again, this time from another wall closer to
the door. I pictured someone circling the
cabin, slowly, testing the strength of our refuge.
Ben stood silently, grabbed the flashlight, and quietly stepped
toward the door. Be careful.
I whispered, my voice trembling. He nodded grimly and pushed open
the door, bathing the clearing in pale yellow light.
Trees loomed around us, unmoving and silent.
Ben stepped outside, flashlights scanning nervously across empty
shadows. Nothing, he said quietly,
turning back. No one's here.
He closed the door firmly, locking the latch behind him.
We stayed awake, sitting together on the narrow bed,
listening to the forest settle back into silence.
Dawn felt impossibly distant. Eventually, exhaustion overcame
our fear and we fell asleep, huddled closely together.
When morning finally broke, we stepped outside, wary and tense.
Near the woodshed, Ben froze, staring down at the ground.
Overnight, the firewood had been carefully rearranged into
another triangle, identical to the carvings on the trees.
I swallowed hard, gripping Ben's arm tightly.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't coincidence, and it
wasn't harmless. We weren't alone here.
Someone was watching, waiting, making their presence known.
But why? The morning passed in uneasy
silence. Ben said little, and I said even
less. Neither of us wanted to admit
out loud what we both knew. Someone was stalking our cabin
after breakfast. Ben grabbed his hiking boots and
muttered something about checking the area again.
He was edgy, restless, unwilling to simply wait for nightfall
again. I'll scout around, He told me,
forcing confidence into his voice.
Maybe there's another cabin nearby, or campers messing with
us. I nodded, but didn't believe it.
Be careful. I urged quietly.
Ben took off down the trail, leaving me alone.
The forest felt different without him there, colder
somehow, even in the sunlight. I busied myself around the
cabin, desperate to stay distracted.
Every few minutes, though, my eyes drifted toward the ring of
marked trees, as if expecting to see someone lurking there,
silently observing. An hour later, Ben returned,
sweaty and agitated. Nothing, he said flatly,
dropping his gear by the door. No trails, no other cabins,
nothing but endless forest. He hesitated a moment, then
added softly. I don't think we should stay.
Relief flooded through me. I think you're right.
This doesn't feel safe. Ben shook his head in
frustration. But it's too late to hike out
today. We can't risk getting caught out
there after dark. We leave at first light
tomorrow. Agreed.
I nodded vigorously, gripping his hand.
Absolutely determined to feel less vulnerable, Ben spent the
next hour rigging up a crude security system around the
clearing. He strung fishing twine tightly
between the trees, each length attached to tiny metal bells we
had brought along from home. The slightest pressure would
trigger a soft chiming alert, enough warning for us to prepare
at least. As darkness approached, we
retreated inside, locking the door firmly behind us.
Ben lit the wood stove and we sat together near the fire,
silently sipping coffee and watching shadows flicker on the
walls. I jumped at every tiny sound,
the crackling fire, wind pushing through branches, the gentle
creaking of timber. My nerves were frayed, my
muscles tensed, preparing for something I couldn't name.
Around 2:00 in the morning, the bells rang, a single clear note
piercing the stillness. My heart froze mid beat.
Ben grabbed the flashlight and silently gestured for me to stay
back. I stood motionless as he cracked
the cabin door open, shining the light toward the tree line.
He cursed quietly under his breath.
The lines cut clean. He whispered sharply.
Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.
The realization left us both speechless, staring into the
darkness beyond. Someone was close.
Someone who knew we were here, knew we'd set up alarms and
didn't care. Ben, we can't stay another
minute. I whispered, voice trembling.
Leaving now would be suicide. He answered softly but firmly.
They're probably watching, waiting for us to panic.
Tomorrow morning, Daylight, we run.
Not now. We barricaded ourselves in,
stacking furniture against the door, waiting desperately for
morning to come. Each minute stretched
impossibly, every second thick with dread.
Twice I swore I saw movement through the cracks in the
shutters, figures shifting behind the trees, But each time
Ben checked, he found nothing. At first light, we finally
emerged from our fortress, exhausted and jittery.
Ben silently began packing our gear while I nervously glanced
around, desperate to be gone. I'll check the woodshed quickly,
he muttered. We might need some extra
supplies, just in case. He swung open the shed door and
paused sharply. His body stiffened visibly.
Kara, come here. My heart sank as I approached.
Inside, wedged behind a neat stack of firewood, was a damp
canvas backpack, clearly abandoned months earlier.
Ben cautiously opened it, revealing stale granola bars,
mildewed blankets, and a battered leather journal.
He flipped through quickly, his eyes wide and darkening with
each page. His face drained of color as he
reached the final entry, voice barely audible.
They're quiet, they wait. I should have left when I saw
the marks. A chill surged down my spine, my
breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
My chest tightened painfully, panic rising fast.
Ben snapped the journal shut, shoving it back into the bag.
We need to go now. He said, his voice urgent and
brittle. Leave everything but essentials.
I didn't hesitate, grabbing the backpack I'd already prepared
and following him closely toward the trailhead.
But as we moved past the perimeter of marked trees, I
glanced back toward the cabin and froze.
Just beyond the farthest carved tree stood a figure perfectly
still, staring directly at us from the shadows.
He was shirtless, clad only in rough, dirty deerskin pants.
He didn't move or speak, just watched.
Before I could scream or move, I noticed more silhouettes
emerging from the woods behind him.
They stepped silently forward, spreading out into a wide arc.
Ben pulled sharply at my arm, jolting me from my paralysis.
Run, He whispered urgently now. My feet finally obeyed, and we
plunged headlong into the dense undergrowth, fleeing blindly
into the darkness of the forest. Branches scraped at my face,
snagging my clothes as I stumbled after Ben through the
dark woods. The sounds behind us were
minimal but constant. Footsteps softly crunching
leaves, twigs snapping quietly, bodies pushing smoothly through
the dense brush. I fought back panic, forcing
myself to keep pace with Ben's frantic movements ahead of me.
Stay close. Ben hissed sharply, grabbing my
hand as we rushed toward the Creek we'd pass days earlier.
We'll follow the Creek downstream if we get split up.
Keep moving downstream, no matter what, I wanted to
protest, to tell him. Splitting up wasn't an option,
but fear had stolen my voice. We reached the water's edge, the
shallow stream barely visible in the moonlight.
We splashed noisily into the icy water, pushing forward against
the rocky Creek bed. Behind us.
A sharp whistle pierced the air. 1 brief chilling note.
They'd spotted us. Ben tightened his grip on my
hand, pulling me forward. Come on, he urged breathlessly.
We can't slow down. We ran downstream, stumbling
awkwardly through the slippery current.
My feet went numb quickly, my breath catching painfully in my
chest. Then, from somewhere in the
darkness to our left, branches snapped violently.
A shadow burst through the undergrowth toward us.
My heart froze, muscles locking in terror.
Go, Ben shouted, shoving me forward.
Don't look back. In a blur, figures moved in from
multiple directions. I ran blindly, Ben's hand
slipping from mine as the sound of struggle erupted behind me.
I wanted desperately to turn back, to help, but Ben's
instructions echoed in my head, pushing me on downstream no
matter what. Tears blurred my vision as I
plunged through the icy water, stumbling on hidden rocks.
My lungs burned, adrenaline surging, mind screaming for me
to keep moving. Then, somewhere close behind,
voices murmured in low tones, barely audible above the rushing
water. They were calm, measured,
unhurried. They knew these woods far better
than we ever could. Panic surged through me as their
footsteps grew closer. Desperate, I scrambled from the
Creek and hid beneath the dense roots of a fallen tree, pressing
my body deep into the cold mud. I lay utterly still, heart
pounding violently in my ears, listening as their footsteps
approached, paused, then moved slowly past me.
Through gaps in the roots, I saw legs clad in muddy trousers,
some barefoot, all passing silently.
In the lead was a man carrying a hooked wooden stick, dragging it
lazily across the muddy bank. It passed inches from my hiding
spot, leaving a faint groove behind.
I barely breathed, certain they'd hear my heart hammering.
Minutes dragged by, agonizingly slow, until finally their
footsteps faded away downstream. Even then, I didn't dare move,
paralyzed by fear that they might circle back.
Hours passed as I lay beneath the roots, soaked and trembling,
fighting exhaustion and cold. Eventually, a pale grey dawn
broke through the forest canopy. Shivering uncontrollably, I
forced myself from my hiding spot.
My limbs ached with every step, but daylight brought a faint
hope. I moved cautiously back into the
Creek, trudging numbly downstream, straining my ears
for any sign of pursuit. After nearly an hour, the faint
growl of an engine cut through the silence somewhere just
beyond a steep Ridge. With a surge of desperate
energy, I climbed frantically upward, clawing my way over
loose soil and rocks until I reached a narrow, muddy forest
Rd. A forest ranger's truck
approached, its headlights cutting through lingering
morning mist. Help.
I screamed hoarsely, staggering into the truck's path, waving my
arms wildly. Please help me.
The truck stopped abruptly, and the Ranger leaped out, eyes wide
with concern. What happened?
He demanded urgently, guiding me toward the warmth of the
vehicle. I collapsed into the passenger
seat, sobbing uncontrollably. They took Ben.
There's people out here. Easy, the Ranger said firmly,
grabbing his radio. We'll get help.
Within hours, search teams combed the forest.
They found no trace of Ben. When they finally reached the
cabin, they found it smoldering, burned nearly to the ground,
smoke still drifting upward into the cold morning air.
The ring of marked trees had been crudely hacked down,
splintered wood scattered around the blackened clearing.
Days later, the authorities quietly closed off the trail,
claiming ecological restoration. No mention was made publicly
about what we encountered or who had been out there watching us.
But I knew they were still out there, hidden deep in those
woods. And they weren't finished yet.
I've been planning this trip for months.
A full week alone on the Little Tennessee River, starting in
Franklin and winding through the rugged corners of the Nantahala
National Forest until I hit Fontana Lake.
October was always my favorite time.
Clear skies, crisp air, and fewer folks cluttering the
banks. Solo paddling wasn't new to me.
I tackled stretches of river across Appalachia, but this run
felt special. It was remote enough to feel
wild, familiar enough to seem manageable.
I spent my first two days paddling steadily through calm
waters, spotting black bears along distant banks and watching
rainbow trout flicker beneath my kayak.
On the 3rd morning, a mist settled over the river, wrapping
the trees and gauzy curtains. My GPS flickered once or twice,
but I had old topo maps stuffed into a dry bag and trusted those
more than any electronics. Around midday, just past
Needmore Rd., the river forked unexpectedly.
One branch, the larger one, flowed W as anticipated, broad
and inviting. The other veered sharply NE,
narrowing to half the width. My map showed only the faintest
dashed line there, accompanied by a handwritten note.
Dead Water Gap. My mind flashed back to the old
outfitter in Franklin, Gray bearded and roomy eyed, who
chuckled softly when I'd mentioned the route.
He'd shaken his head, eyes darkening, telling me to stay
clear of Dead Water Gap, something about a hydroelectric
project from the 20s that had never been completed.
The state abandoned it, leaving behind rusted machines, flooded
tunnels, and whispered stories of accidents and madness.
Curiosity got the better of me. I rationalized that a short
detour wouldn't hurt, especially if I turned back at the first
sign of trouble. It would be good material for my
kayaking journal, at the very least.
I steered my kayak into the narrower passage, immediately
noticing the temperature drop as the walls of rhododendron and
steep banks rose around me. Within half an hour, the gorge
closed in tighter. Sunlight, thin to a weak glow,
filtered through dense branches. My paddle stroke sounded louder
here, echoing back off damp stone and fallen timber.
The current picked up slightly, pulling me forward with
insistent urgency. I paused, glancing at my GPS.
It flashed erratically before dying completely.
I shrugged it off. I knew roughly where I was, and
the map hadn't failed me yet. 1/2 mile further down, the first
real sign of the abandoned project appeared.
A huge slab of crumbling concrete jutting from the muddy
bank. Moss covered most of its
surface, but rebar poked through like jagged bones.
It was some kind of control shed or turbine housing, I guessed,
left to decay. The sight unsettled me, though I
couldn't say exactly why. It looked out of place,
unnatural among the forest's quiet stillness.
I pushed on until late afternoon, when I found a narrow
gravel bar just wide enough for my tent.
Dragging my kayak onto land, I pitched camp quickly, glancing
often at the dense woods that pressed in around me.
Usually I love the solitude of wilderness camping, but here an
unease clung to me. As darkness settled, the silence
became oppressive. The normal nocturnal sounds of
the forest felt strangely absent.
No crickets, no owls, just a deep quiet, broken only by the
rivers. Murmuring, I cooked a hurried
dinner, ate it by headlamp, then crawled into my tent, hoping
sleep would reset my nerves. I must have dozed off
eventually, but woke abruptly sometime after midnight.
I lay still, listening. A rhythmic, steady splashing
echoed from upstream. Not random animal movement, but
the unmistakable sound of paddling.
Someone was coming down the river, methodically dipping a
paddle into the water, lifting, then repeating.
Hey. I shouted, more alarmed than
friendly. The splashing stopped
immediately, replaced by absolute silence.
Heart racing, I waited for a response, but none came.
Minutes dragged by. Eventually, I convinced myself
it had been imagination, just nerves and exhaustion playing
tricks. Still, I couldn't shake the
feeling that I wasn't alone. I lay awake until morning, tense
and vigilant, knowing deep down that something was wrong.
The rhythmic strokes hadn't been imaginary, and whoever or
whatever had made them had been real and was likely still
somewhere nearby. At first light, I broke camp
hastily, desperate to put distance between myself and
whatever lurked upstream, unaware that I was paddling
deeper into the very nightmare I should have avoided.
Morning came with a weak Gray haze, the air colder than the
day before. My breath came out in clouds as
I hastily packed my gear, eager to leave the uneasy gravel bar
behind. I'd convince myself that what
I'd heard in the night was simply my nerves acting up,
though deep down I knew better. I'd been alone in the wild many
times before and never imagined sounds like those rhythmic
paddle strokes. I shoved off, hoping daylight
would ease my apprehension. The river, narrower now, forced
me to weave carefully between fallen trees and protruding
boulders. Occasionally I glanced behind
me, half expecting to see another kayak or canoe emerge
from the fog. About an hour into my paddle, I
noticed another crumbling structure ahead, larger than the
first. This one stretched partially
into the river, it's dark entrance yawning wide as I
approached. The water swirled in small
eddies around rusted metal pipes protruding from the concrete
wall. An intake tunnel, part of the
unfinished dam project the old outfitter had warned me about.
Against my better judgement, I edged closer, peering inside.
The tunnel was partially flooded, dark water lapping
against cracked walls. Rusted tools, corroded hard
hats, and rotted canvas sacs lay half submerged in the shallow
muck. One bag had torn open, its
contents scattered on the tunnel floor.
Old rusted bolts, a wrench, and scraps of fabric.
I shivered, not entirely from the cold, and pushed away
quickly continuing downstream. A sudden splashing erupted
behind me. Spinning around, my heart
skipped as I caught sight of something disappearing swiftly
around a bend. A small kayak, unmistakably
handmade, crafted crudely from wood and canvas.
A single dim lamp mounted on a battered helmet reflected
briefly off the water before vanishing.
Wait, I yelled, instinctively, paddling furiously toward the
bend. But when I reached it, the river
was empty, silent as if the kayak had never existed.
I drifted in confusion, scanning the banks, heart thumping
painfully against my ribs. Who else was out here?
Why hadn't they responded to my calls?
I continued downstream, anxiety now surging with each stroke.
Eventually, the river narrowed to a thin, choked passage
littered with fallen debris, splintered boards, twisted steel
rods and tangled branches. I climbed from my kayak and
dragged it laboriously over a blockage, wincing as sharp edges
scraped against my gear. After hours of exhausting
travel, darkness began creeping back into the gorge.
Desperate to find higher ground and safety, I abandoned the
kayak temporarily and scrambled up the bank toward a rocky
outcropping I'd noticed earlier. I found a flat spot to pitch my
tent, exhausted and uneasy. Just before the last light
faded, I spotted movement on the opposite Ridge.
Squinting, I made out two small figures, clearly human but oddly
proportioned, standing perfectly still among the trees.
They weren't adults yet. Something about their posture,
hunched, motionless, sent a chill crawling up my spine.
As soon as my gaze shifted even slightly, they vanished.
I sat rigidly in my tent that evening, too wary even to cook a
meal. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but
fear suppressed my appetite. Eventually, fatigue took over
and I fell into an uneasy doze. Late that night, something woke
me. A faint scraping sound followed
by the rhythmic splash of paddling.
Panic shot through me as I realized it was closer than
before, right along the riverbank beneath my camp.
I scrambled out of the tent, my eyes straining in the darkness.
A dim beam of light skimmed slowly across the water's
surface, reflecting weakly off wet stones.
The splashing stopped abruptly in the silence.
A heavy rock thudded violently against a tree mere feet from
where I stood, jolting my pulse to a feverish pitch.
Fear surged through me, cold and numbing.
Without hesitation, I grabbed only my essentials, leaving the
tent and remaining gear scattered behind, and plunged
blindly into the night shrouded woods, desperate to escape
whatever was hunting me along dead water gap branches scraped
against my face and arms as I stumbled blindly uphill through
the darkness. The dim glow of moonlight
filtering down through the canopy barely illuminated the
uneven ground beneath my feet. My breath rasped harshly in my
chest, throat burning, heart hammering painfully with every
step. I glanced backward, occasionally
dreading that I'd see another small figure moving swiftly
through the shadows, but saw nothing.
Only darkness, endless and oppressive.
Hours passed, or maybe only minutes, before I crested the
Ridge. From there, the faint sound of
water guided me downhill toward the river.
I paused, exhausted and shaking, gripping a tree trunk to steady
myself. My fingers, numb and trembling,
brushed against cold, hard stone.
Squinting in the dim moonlight, I saw it clearly, a circular
opening carved into the hillside.
The old intake chamber I'd glimpsed earlier from the river,
built decades ago and long abandoned, it now offered my
only shelter. I hesitated, but another sound,
soft footsteps crunching over dried leaves somewhere behind
me, drove me inside. The chamber was dark and damp,
the concrete floor slick with moisture.
I stumbled forward, my feet sliding on rusted metal scraps
and brittle debris littering the ground.
At the far end of the cavernous chamber, partially obscured by
rotting wood and scattered metal, lay a heap of tarp.
Desperately, I crawled toward it, pulling the damp fabric
around my shoulders for warmth. Curling into a tight ball, I
forced myself to remain motionless, straining to listen.
Above me, a faint scratching echoed against stone,
accompanied by the muffled padding of small, careful feet.
My breath quickened. I pressed A trembling hand
firmly against my mouth, trying desperately to quiet myself.
The sound moved across the ceiling, then stopped abruptly.
For a moment, there was only silence.
A sudden, dull thud broke the quiet, a wet, heavy sound
hitting the concrete floor only feet from me.
My heart froze. Slowly, cautiously, I peered
from beneath the tarp. Lying just out of arm's reach
was a freshly gutted trout, blood pooling silently beneath
its open belly. My stomach twisted violently,
nausea rising. Was this some twisted offering,
or perhaps bait? I drew back deeper beneath the
tarp, trying not to breathe, eyes fixed on the bloody fish.
Time stretched endlessly, each 2nd and eternity of waiting.
My muscles cramped, stiffening painfully as I remained curled
tight, fearful even to shift position.
Gradually the scraping footsteps resumed, circling slowly,
cautiously, before fading into silence again.
I lay there, tense and rigid, listening helplessly as minutes
bled into hours. Eventually, dawn's pale glow
seeped faintly through the chamber entrance.
Stiff and cold, I rose carefully, every movement
cautious and deliberate. My eyes darted around the
chamber, expecting an attack, but saw nothing but shadows and
abandoned machinery. Gathering courage, I moved
swiftly to the opening and peered out.
The forest appeared empty, quiet in the cold morning air.
Without hesitation, I bolted. I ran downhill through thickets
and across sharp, rocky terrain, ignoring branches tearing at my
clothing. The distant rushing of the main
river grew louder, beckoning me forward.
When I finally reached the bank, I plunged into the icy current,
the shock nearly stealing my breath.
I swam desperately propelled by adrenaline, until finally
crawling ashore downstream, exhausted and shivering
uncontrollably. Half conscious and shaking
violently, I stumbled along the shore, dragging myself forward
until I spotted a family fishing couple who shouted in alarm at
the sight of me. They rushed toward me, calling
for help, wrapping me in warm blankets from their packs as I
babbled incoherently about small figures, abandoned tunnels and
silent paddlers. Hours later, a search team
recovered me, badly hypothermic and delirious.
I tried frantically to explain, desperate for someone to
understand the nightmare I just escaped.
But when they found my abandoned campsite hours later, torn
apart, my tent shredded, food scattered, authority shrugged it
off. Probably a bear, they said,
dismissing my story as fear induced hallucinations.
Weeks afterward, when I'd physically recovered, I returned
to Franklin, drawn back to the outfitter who'd warned me.
His eyes narrowed when he recognized me.
Without prompting, he pulled a faded map from a battered drawer
and tapped a finger on a spot labeled Dead Water Gap.
Others have gone up there, he said quietly, voice heavy.
Workers from the old dam project folded, left him stranded.
Most left eventually, but the kids, his voice trailed off,
eyes distant. They never knew anything else.
I walked away that day knowing I'd never paddle again.
The river, the forest they belong to, something older,
Wilder, and the children of Dead Water Gap remain there, still,
patiently waiting for the next traveler foolish enough to
venture too close. My name is Levi Langford, and
I've been a Backcountry guide in the Red River Gorge for nearly a
decade. I've walked almost every mile of
this forest, watched countless tourists and weekend warriors
attempt to wrestle nature into submission and learn to respect
the wilderness. But if you'd asked me about
Knuckle Bone Ridge before this trip, I would have shrugged and
laughed it off as local folklore.
The Ridge earned its nickname long ago, named by locals who
found small, bleached white limestone formations scattered
along its spine. They looked disturbingly like
knuckle bones, joints and fragments of something older
than memory. Old timers whispered about
hunters who'd lost their way up there, tracking animals that
seem to vanish without a trace. But those were campfire stories
meant to scare city folks. I never paid them much mind.
That summer, I took a booking from two young professionals out
of Atlanta, Corey, a software engineer determined to prove he
was tougher than his office life suggested, and his girlfriend,
Lacey, who was less enthusiastic but willing to try anything once
they specifically requested a rugged Appalachian experience.
No cushy cabins or groomed trails.
Knuckle Bone Ridge seemed perfect, isolated, unspoiled and
seldom visited. We met at the trailhead near
Wolfe County early on a humid Friday morning.
Corey wore brand new hiking boots and an expensive backpack
that looked barely touched. Laci watched the tree line
nervously fiddling with a braided leather bracelet on her
wrist. You sure you want primitive?
I asked as we sorted gear by the bed of my truck.
We didn't drive all this way for hot showers and cell service.
Corey laughed. We're all in.
Fair enough. I replied, and we headed into
the gorge. The first day went smoothly
enough. We moved at a good pace through
familiar trails and abandoned fire roads.
After a while, the trees thickened and our conversation
thinned out. By afternoon, Knuckle Bone Ridge
loomed above us, a sharp sandstone spine rising like the
exposed backbone of some ancient creature.
We pitched our camp beneath a wide sandstone overhang,
sheltered from the weather but open enough for views across the
deep forested valley. As dusk fell, I hung our food
bag carefully in a high branch and demonstrated basic bear
safety. Corey listened intently, Lacey
less so, her eyes constantly darting to the darkening woods.
She was unsettled, and honestly, I didn't blame her.
Something felt off about this place, though I couldn't yet put
my finger on exactly what. We built a modest fire and ate
freeze dried meals while the forest deepened into full night
around us. I tried to break the tension
with a few amusing stories of past clients who'd panicked at
raccoons or mistook owls for mountain lions.
Corey laughed politely. Laci hardly cracked a smile.
Later, we settled into our tents, the embers of the fire
dying down to a faint orange glow.
I lay awake, as I always did the first night of a trek, listening
to the forest. At first, everything seemed
normal. Crickets, distant owls, the
rustle of leaves. Then came the sound.
A sharp crack echoed from somewhere beyond the clearing.
Not the kind of quick snap you'd expect from a branch breaking
under an animal's foot, but something slower, more
intentional, like a thick stick slowly twisted until it
fractured. I lay motionless, listening.
Crack again, slower this time, more deliberate.
I silently unzipped my sleeping bag, slipped out of the tent and
stood listening at the edge of the clearing, scanning the tree
line with my headlamp. Nothing moved.
No eyes shone back at me, just the stillness of old woods.
What is it? Laci's voice, hushed but
frightened, came from their tent.
Probably just deer, I said, though I didn't believe it.
I climbed back into my tent, telling myself that sometimes
sounds carried strangely in these hollows.
Sleep was fitful, broken by vague dreams of something
standing silently at the edge of camp, just out of reach.
Morning broke, Gray and humid, and my nerves calmed in the
daylight until I walked over to retrieve our food.
The bag was gone completely. The rope still hung untouched
from the tree limb, dangling empty in the morning breeze.
Beneath it, five small figures lay, carefully placed in a line.
I knelt and picked one up. It was smooth and pale, carved
meticulously from antler. Each one was shaped like a crude
human form, elongated, faceless, disturbingly precise.
Corey approached, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and froze when he
saw what I held. You messing with us, Levi?
I shook my head, slowly scanning the surrounding earth.
The ground beneath the hanging rope was undisturbed.
No footprints, human or animal, nothing.
A prickle ran up my spine. Years of experience in these
hills, and suddenly I felt like a child lost in the woods.
I don't know who's doing this. I said, trying to sound calm.
But we're not alone out here. I glanced at the small bone
figures again. They all face the same direction
N toward the deeper heart of Knuckle Bone Ridge.
Whoever had done this was silent enough to approach camp without
waking any of us, nimble enough to remove a food bag 15 feet up
a tree without leaving a mark, and patient enough to craft
these tiny idols in the darkness.
It wasn't a prank, it was a warning.
I turned toward the Ridge, shadows lengthening under the
cloudy sky, and suddenly the forest felt larger, older, and
more dangerous than it ever had before.
After losing our food and finding those carvings, I
decided to alter the original plan.
My priority became leading Corey and Lacey back toward familiar
terrain, making sure we were off Knuckle Bone Ridge by sundown.
We traveled in tense silence, boots crunching dry leaves,
packs heavy on our shoulders. I kept a steady pace, checking
behind us often, though I saw nothing following our path.
By midday, fatigue began to gnaw at us, and I spotted a small
clearing up ahead, shaded by dense Hickory and Maple trees.
It seemed safe enough, at least for a quick break.
As we walked into the clearing, Corey stopped abruptly, his face
draining of color. Laci gasped softly behind him.
Following their gazes, I looked down, my heart instantly
freezing in my chest. Spread neatly around the
clearing, arranged with surgical precision, was a wide spiral of
deer bones. They were stark white against
the dark leaf litter, gleaming slightly in scattered sunlight.
Leg bones, ribs, and vertebrae were carefully placed in
patterns that grew tighter toward the center, ending with a
single skull. Jaws parted, empty eye sockets
staring upward. Jesus, Corey murmured, voice
barely audible. What is this?
I shook my head, trying to push aside my own rising dread.
Let's not hang around, I said firmly.
We'll eat something quick and keep moving.
Eat what? Laci whispered, eyes fixed on
the bones. They took our food.
She was right. Hunger was now another problem,
adding to my worries. Still, we needed rest.
I handed out water and we drank quickly.
Nobody spoke. We couldn't stop staring at the
spiral. We left the clearing soon after,
pushing harder through thickening brush, eager to put
distance between ourselves and whatever had left those bones
behind. The daylight faded slowly,
shadows stretching long through the tangled woods.
I kept us moving, ignoring the burning ache in my calves.
As dusk fell, I found a narrow Ridge flanked by a steep slope
overlooking a small dried up stream bed.
It wasn't ideal, but it felt defensible.
No easy approaches except straight ahead.
Quickly, we pitched the tent in silence.
There was no food to cook, no fire worth building.
Corey stared moodily into the darkening forest.
Laci wouldn't look me in the eye.
Sleep eluded me again, and I lay awake in my sleeping bag,
listening to every rustle of leaves, every faint crackle from
beyond the tent walls. Hours passed slowly, minutes
bleeding into each other. Eventually, silence deepened
into a stifling quiet, as if the forest itself had paused.
Then I heard footsteps, quiet, purposeful, circling our camp.
Not animal paws, not a casual rustle.
These were slow, methodical, heavy enough to press lightly
into the leaf litter without snapping anything beneath.
I sat upright, heart hammering, straining to listen.
Corey and Lacey breathe shallowly and sleep beside me,
unaware. The footsteps continued their
circuit, pausing directly behind our tent.
My mouth went dry, muscles rigid, second stretched
painfully. Then the steps moved away,
drifting silently into the dark. After several long minutes, I
summoned the courage to open the tent flap, knife gripped tightly
in my hand. Nothing.
The darkness was complete, dense and unbroken, but just beyond
the dim reach of my headlamp, movement caught my eye.
I swung my beam in that direction just in time to catch
a glimpse of something tall, Elongated pale Gray skin,
impossibly thin limbs. It lowered itself silently,
disappearing among the underbrush.
My stomach turned. Whatever it was hadn't flinched
at the light, hadn't reacted at all.
It had simply withdrawn on its own terms.
I zipped the tent shut, hands trembling, mind racing.
Corey stirred, eyes opening groggily.
You all right? Fine, I lied.
Just checking. At sunrise, I woke the others.
Corey stretched uneasily while Lacey dug quietly into her pack.
I was already on my feet, scanning the woods anxiously,
when she cried out. She held something small in her
palm. Another carving, this one
meticulously shaped from a jawbone.
You think this is funny? Corey snapped, anger and fear in
his voice. He glared accusingly at me.
I swear I had nothing to do with it.
I said sharply. My voice echoed louder than
intended in the quiet clearing. There's something out here
following us. It's playing with us.
This is not a prank. Then what do we do?
Laci asked, voice breaking. Her eyes pleaded for reassurance
I couldn't give. We get out as fast as we can.
I said. No more rest stops, no detours.
They nodded, afraid now too afraid to argue.
We broke camp quickly and moved at an unrelenting pace, barely
speaking as the hours crawled by.
I checked my compass often, keeping us oriented eastward,
away from Knuckle Bone Ridge. Late in the afternoon, we
crossed a shallow gully and stopped abruptly.
Across from us, perched awkwardly in the crook of a dead
tree, was a figure, tall and thin, skin stretched taut over
sharp, angular bones, it's face featureless except for shadows
where eyes should be. My pulse surged.
Corey muttered a curse under his breath.
I scrambled for my binoculars, lifting them hastily.
By the time I focus, the thing was gone, vanished like it had
never existed. That night, we made camp near a
rocky depression. Exhausted, hungry, terrified.
None of us pretended to sleep. Around 2:00 AM, something
brushed slowly against the fabric behind me, pressing
gently inward, testing feeling, before withdrawing just as
silently. I didn't move.
I didn't breathe. I knew then we wouldn't be
allowed to leave easily. Something wanted us here, wanted
us frightened, and there was nothing I could do but wait
helplessly for dawn. At first light, we scrambled out
of our tent, desperate to escape the lingering dread from the
night before. I'd never felt fear like that,
raw and unfiltered, grinding away at my nerves.
I was exhausted, mentally frayed, but I tried not to show
it. Corey and Laci looked to me to
keep it together. We're leaving, I said, voice
firm despite my pounding heart. No trails, no resting straight
through. If we push hard, we'll find a
road or a trail. By midday, they nodded without
argument. Fear had worn away their
skepticism. We packed quickly, each scanning
the trees constantly. Everything felt too still, too
quiet, as if the world around us had stopped breathing.
We descended rapidly into a narrow ravine choked with
brambles and fallen timber. The terrain was rough, uneven
and slippery with morning dew. My hands shook, muscles
screaming from lack of sleep. Corey stumbled ahead, panting,
while Lacey followed closely, eyes wide and nervous.
After an hour, the ravine narrowed, walls steepening
sharply around us. The brush tore at our clothes
and skin, but no one slowed. At one point, Corey slipped hard
on loose shale, cutting a deep gash into his shin.
Blood seeped through his pant leg, mixing with the mud.
Can you walk? I asked him, trying to hide my
anxiety. Don't have much choice, he said,
teeth clenched tightly against the pain.
We pressed on, ignoring our mounting fatigue.
The ravine twisted unexpectedly, forcing us uphill again by
midday. Hunger and exhaustion, we're
taking a toll. Each step required effort.
My stomach cramped, limbs heavy like lead.
Finally, we emerged into a small clearing, sunlight cutting
through the trees overhead. For a moment, relief surged
through me until my heart stopped cold.
We were standing in the same campsite we'd started at our
campsite, beneath the sandstone overhang, the fire pit, the log
seating, even the spot where the bone carvings had first
appeared. Everything was exactly the same.
No, Laci whimpered softly behind me, stepping backward.
This can't be happening. Corey turned sharply to face me,
eyes burning with panic and fury.
You took us in a circle, he accused.
You dragged us back here on purpose.
I felt a surge of anger, barely controlled beneath my
exhaustion. I've guided these hills for
years, I snapped. We didn't circle around.
This is impossible. My words hung in the air.
We stared at each other in terrified silence.
Corey's breathing was ragged, and Laci looked ready to
collapse. I glanced down at the campsite
again. A chill crawled up my spine.
The small carved figures had moved.
Now they formed a clear circle. In the center lay another
carving, this one lying flat on its side.
My stomach turned, realization dawning.
It wasn't just symbolic. It was a depiction of someone
injured, incapacitated. A warning.
We can't stay here, I said, barely audible.
Whatever's out there, it brought us back for a reason.
The evening shadows gathered quickly.
With no other choice, we hastily pitched our tent, barricading
ourselves inside before darkness fully took hold.
I volunteered to stay awake, gripping my knife and headlamp,
refusing even to blink as I stared at the thin nylon walls.
Time stretched on endlessly. Around 3:00 AM, the quiet broke
again. The dry popping sounds closer
this time, like knuckles being cracked.
Slowly, deliberately, the sound circled the tent methodically,
testing our nerve. Laci's shallow breathing came in
terrified bursts. Corey lay rigidly beside her,
unmoving. The tent rustled.
Something pressed gently, silently against the fabric,
inches from my face. Every muscle locked painfully.
Without thinking, driven by pure desperation, I burst out into
the night, knife ready. My headlamp pierced the
blackness just beyond its beam. Something crouched low.
Thin bone, white limbs, pale flesh drawn tight over sharp
bones. It lifted its featureless face
briefly, smooth skin gleaming wetly in the light, then slowly
lowered itself until it vanished into the brush.
No footsteps, no sounds of movement.
Just a void left behind. Stumbling back inside the tent,
I zipped the flap shut. My body shook uncontrollably.
Corey and Lacey stared in wide eyed terror, questions unspoken.
Pack up, I whispered hoarsely. We're leaving right now.
Dawn was still a distant hope, the woods oppressive and
impenetrably dark. I navigated by instinct and
desperation, forcing a path eastward through tangled brush
and sharp drop offs. Branches clawed at our faces and
clothing, thorns ripping skin, but we didn't stop, not once.
Near midday, exhaustion finally overtook caution.
My foot punched through a rotten log hidden beneath a carpet of
Moss. Bone cracked audibly and I fell
hard, pain exploding through my ankle, blinding and fierce.
Corey rushed forward, fear momentarily forgotten, helping
me struggle upright. I knew immediately something was
seriously broken. My ankle hung at an unnatural
angle, agony radiating through every nerve.
Keep moving, I gasped. Don't stop.
They supported me on either side, half dragging me through
the woods. Every step was torture, the
world reduced to a blur of pain. Just before sunset, we stumbled
onto an abandoned logging Rd. rough and overgrown but clear
enough to follow. We collapsed at the roadside,
breathing ragged, bodies trembling.
Relief flooded through me like icy water.
We'd escaped just barely. Early the next morning, an ATV
approached Forest Service Rangers responding to a call
after we'd missed our planned check in.
I refused to say what happened, muttering something about a boar
attack. They didn't press for details.
My ankle was shattered, requiring emergency surgery, but
we were alive 2 weeks later. After my discharge from the
hospital, I severed my contract with the outfitter I'd partnered
with for over 10 years. I abandoned social media,
blocked every familiar number, and sold off every piece of gear
I owned. Corey and Laci reached out once,
gratitude mixed with lingering questions I never answered.
Now I live alone, miles away near Lake Cumberland, isolated
and quiet at night, though sleep remains elusive.
I stay awake, ears straining, half expecting to hear again the
slow, methodical cracking of bones somewhere beyond my
window. I'd hiked the Smokies dozens of
times, alone, in groups, every way you could imagine.
Greenbrier had always been one of my favorites.
It wasn't crowded like Cade's Cove, and it had enough
wildflowers to keep my camera busy for days.
As a seasoned solo hiker, I knew the risks.
Bad weather, twisted ankles, Bears.
But this was the Smokies, safe enough if you knew what you were
doing. Or at least that's what I
believed. I parked at the Porters Creek
trailhead just after sunrise. My pack was loaded with enough
gear to last four days, my goal being to photograph some of the
more elusive wildflowers blooming high up where the
trails tapered off into old logging roads.
It had rained overnight, and the air was still heavy mist
clinging to the mountainsides like wet cotton.
By noon, I'd left the main trails behind.
My map showed only the faintest markings now, lines someone had
scratched in by hand years ago. I stepped over half hidden,
rusted cables, leftovers from logging crews a century before.
There was no noise here, not even the distant hum of tourists
cars. Eventually I reached a flat spot
near a Creek, perfect for setting up camp.
It was quiet, cool, and comfortably isolated.
After pitching my tent, I wandered uphill, scouting for
flowers while still keeping my camp within eyesight.
Maybe half a mile from my tent, hidden among ferns and patches
of Moss, I found something strange.
At first glance I mistook it for a natural formation, stones
arranged by water or wind. But as I drew closer, it became
obvious they had been stacked carefully.
In their center was a splintered, rotted wooden cross
driven deep into the earth. An old grave marker, probably
from back when the loggers lived and worked here.
They're dead close to the camps, crude memorials that lasted long
after the men who placed them were forgotten.
There were no names carved into it, just stones arranged by
hands long since vanished, quiet beneath the trees.
I took a quick photo on my phone out of curiosity, then turned
and started back toward camp. I tried not to dwell on it.
This was Appalachia, after all. Old graves were scattered
everywhere, fading reminders of lives spent in these hills.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, and night came
on gently, just birds and cicadas to serenade me.
I fell asleep quickly, comfortable in the rhythm of
nature. But when morning came, something
wasn't right. Crawling out of the tent, I
realized immediately that my camp had been disturbed.
A small camping trowel I had left out near my cook stove was
missing, but that wasn't what unsettled me.
It was the single, unfamiliar boot print pressed deeply into
the mud beside the stove. It was larger than mine and
shaped differently, like a heavy, old fashioned boot.
A chill climbed up my spine, but I shook it off.
Probably another hiker, though it was odd someone would pass
through here unnoticed. The forest had a habit of
swallowing sound. Maybe I'd slept deeper than
usual. Determined to put it from my
mind, I grabbed my gear, intent on spending the day
photographing wildflowers and ignoring the gnawing sense of
discomfort. I zipped the tent shut securely
and set off back toward the slope where I'd found the grave
marker, hoping to use it as a reference point to find new
blooms. But as I approached, my
heartbeat quickened and my breath caught painfully in my
chest. My backpack, the one I'd left
zipped inside my tent, now rested neatly atop the old grave
marker, straps arranged carefully, as though placed
there reverently. I stared at it, rooted in place,
the trees seeming to close around me.
Hello. I called out, hating the tremor
in my voice. The forest didn't answer.
There were no footsteps, no cracking branches, just the
silence of woods that felt suddenly, horribly unfamiliar.
A sense of vulnerability rushed over me.
Quickly, I snatched the pack off the stones, brushing away leaves
and debris, then ran back downhill toward camp.
Nothing else appeared touched. Tent zippers were still secured,
sleeping bag undisturbed inside. No sign that someone had entered
the tent at all. For a long time I stood there,
breathing too fast, ears straining for any sound. 100
explanations swirled in my head, but none made sense.
I was miles from anyone. If there had been another hiker,
why hadn't they answered? Why move my things?
A sickening certainty settled inside my chest.
I was not alone here. Someone else was moving unseen,
someone who knew the land better than I did.
Someone who had already stood outside my tent while I slept,
unaware. I didn't want to stay, but
daylight was running out. Hiking out now meant several
hours on a barely visible trail, so I stayed put, rationalizing
it away as a harmless prank or coincidence.
Deep down, I didn't believe it, not even for a second.
Sleep didn't come easy that night.
Every crack of a twig, every rustle of leaves brought me
awake again. Eventually, exhaustion one out,
and I drifted off sometime after midnight, clinging to the
reassurance that my tent, at least, was secure.
But when dawn finally broke, cold and Gray, reality shattered
that comfort. The tent flap I'd carefully
secured was open, unzipped neatly to the ground.
I scrambled up from my sleeping bag, panic sharp in my chest,
searching frantically for any sign someone had been inside.
Everything appeared untouched. But then I noticed my hiking
boots. I'd place them beside my
sleeping bag before bed, deliberately close for quick
access. Now they sat outside the tent
entrance, side by side, positioned carefully pointed
down the narrow path that led deeper into the woods.
My heart pounded, sending blood throbbing painfully into my
temples. I knew with certainty I hadn't
done this in my sleep. Someone had unzipped my tent,
reached inches from my face and move them outside, all without
making a sound. As I stepped cautiously out onto
the damp earth, the smell of smoke startled me.
A small pot sat bubbling quietly on the fire pit, boiling Creek
water. My stomach twisted violently at
the thought. I knew I'd extinguish the fire
completely. Someone had restarted it,
gathered water from the Creek and heated it for a reason I
couldn't fathom. There were no footprints, no
crushed leaves or snapped twigs. Just silence, thick and
pressing. I needed to leave, to get out of
there now. But when I reached into my pack
for the map, a sickening emptiness greeted my fingers.
The map was gone. Panic surged again, hotter this
time, spiking through every nerve.
Grabbing whatever gear I could, I shoved things hastily into my
pack, tied on my boots, and set off downhill.
I moved fast at first, eyes darting around the shadowy tree
trunks. After nearly an hour, I allowed
myself a pause, leaning breathlessly against an old oak
pulse pounding in my ears. But when I glanced upward
through sweat blurred eyes, my stomach twisted violently once
again. There, across the Creek on a
small clearing I'd never visited, was my tent.
My exact tent, pitched carefully as if it had always belonged
there. Dizziness threatened to buckle
my knees, but I crossed the Creek numbly, compelled by a
need to understand. Inside the tent, every single
item of mine was arranged precisely as I'd originally set
it up. Sleeping bag neatly laid out,
water bottles in place, clothes folded exactly the way I always
did. But outside the tent, something
else caught my eye. A thin rope stretched taut
between two young trees, forming A makeshift clothesline.
Hanging from it were my hiking socks, damp from yesterday's
trek, clipped meticulously along the rope.
I felt a sickening chill settle deep into my bones, nausea
swelling up so intensely I doubled over, retching dryly
onto the forest floor. This wasn't a prank.
It wasn't another hiker. This was deliberate and
calculated, done by someone who had watched me closely enough to
mimic every detail. That night, fleeing felt
impossible. Darkness swallowed the
landscape, turning familiar paths into twisted labyrinths.
I didn't dare sleep. I found a small clearing a safe
distance away, crouching beneath low branches, gripping a
trekking pole so tightly my knuckles throbbed.
Every noise was a potential threat, Every shifting shadow
seemed to mock my vulnerability. Hours passed like days,
stretching endlessly in the oppressive darkness.
But sometime long past midnight, movement flickered at the edge
of my vision. Instantly alert, I stared out,
straining my eyes against the blackness.
Then I saw him. A figure moved silently along
the Creek side, tall and lean, stepping quietly through moonlit
underbrush. I squinted hard, forcing myself
not to blink. He wore strange clothes, heavy
wool trousers held up by suspenders, and a canvas pack
strapped across broad shoulders. A wooden bow hung loosely in his
hand. He didn't look my way, didn't
pause or hesitate. His gait was smooth, quiet,
confident in a manner that left me cold.
He walked steadily uphill, vanishing into the darkness
without a backward glance. I sat frozen in place, fear
locking my muscles, shivering uncontrollably.
Whoever he was, he knew these woods intimately.
He had found my camp, moved my belongings, boiled water, done
everything without leaving a trace.
I realized bitterly that this had stopped being a hike or a
harmless encounter. It had become a Game 1 he knew
well, and one I didn't understand at all.
I waited motionless, my back pressed painfully against the
bark, until dawn turned the forest from ink black to muted
Gray. Every joint ached from the
strain of crouching all night, adrenaline still humming beneath
my skin. But the memory of that figure,
calm and purposeful, haunted me relentlessly.
I knew that staying still any longer was no longer an option.
I had to get out fast. At first light, I broke cover
and bolted downhill. The trail was faint, slick from
dew, but I didn't dare slow down.
Branches tore at my clothes, leaving raw scratches along my
arms and face. My pack felt heavier than ever,
tugging at my shoulders, slowing me with every step.
Within minutes, my breath was ragged and sharp, stabbing my
lungs like ice. As the ground grew steeper, my
boots sank deeply into the soft earth, mud gripping tightly as
if determined to pull me down. Finally, after nearly falling
forward twice, my left boot plunged so deep into thick mud
that when I tried to wrench free, my foot came out bare.
Panic seized me, but I didn't dare stop.
Frantically kicking off the other boot, I abandoned them
both in the muck and stumbled onward barefoot, sliding down
embankments, slicing my feet open on hidden roots and rocks.
The sound of rushing water ahead was my lifeline.
If I could follow the Creek down, I'd eventually reach the
lower trails, the safer trails where other people might be.
The terrain quickly became treacherous.
I slipped repeatedly, each fall sending sharp bursts of pain
radiating through my body. Blood streaked my hands, feet
and knees, but fear overrode pain.
Minutes dragged painfully into an hour, maybe more.
I lost track, focusing only on forward momentum, fighting
exhaustion and the sickening dread that any moment I'd look
up to find him standing calmly ahead, waiting for me.
Finally, after pushing through tangled undergrowth so thick I
could barely move forward, I broke free onto a familiar
section of trail, wider and clearly marked.
Relief surged through me so powerfully that tears blurred my
vision. I forced my aching legs onward,
limping desperately toward the distant trailhead parking lot.
My heart nearly stopped when I heard tires crunching gravel
through the trees ahead, I glimpsed a white shuttle van
slowly rounding the bend, beginning its first run of the
day. I staggered out of the brush
onto the road, waving my bleeding arms wildly.
Stop, please stop. My voice cracked, broken from
exhaustion and panic. The van braked sharply, the
driver's eyes wide as he took in my bloodied, barefoot state.
He threw open his door, concern painted across his face.
Ma'am, what happened? I collapsed onto the road,
sobbing uncontrollably, unable to get words out at first.
Eventually, between ragged breaths, I forced the words out.
Someone followed me. My tent.
They moved my things. He's still up there, The driver
radioed immediately, speaking rapidly into his handset.
Rangers would be coming soon. Relief and disbelief mingled
inside me as I sat trembling on the roadside, wrapped in a thick
fleece blanket pulled from the shuttle.
I'd made it. Somehow, impossibly, I was safe.
Hours later, a Ranger arrived, gentle but skeptical,
questioning me carefully as a search team began combing
through Greenbrier. They found my campsite exactly
as I described, my tent collapsed but still intact, gear
scattered and untouched, my boots half buried in mud a mile
up trail. But they found nothing else.
No unfamiliar tracks, no signs of another camper, and certainly
no one dressed in century old gear carrying a bow.
As we drove away from Greenbrier, a quiet older Ranger
riding along placed her hand gently on mine.
You're not crazy, she said softly.
I've worked these woods almost 20 years.
Sometimes we find things, stacks of rocks, old markers that
remind us this place belong to others long before us.
I learned a long time ago, if you find something out here that
doesn't belong to you, leave it alone.
I stared back through the truck window as the mountain slowly
faded into the distance. It didn't matter what the search
team believed or what they didn't find.
I knew what had happened. I'd felt his presence, silent
and certain he was real, whoever he was.
Something leftover from the past.
Still watching over Greenbrier, and as the forest disappeared
behind me, I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
I'd never hike alone again.