It was early September of 2006 when the idea first came up.
A camping trip, just like the old days.
I hadn't seen Ryan or Mike in nearly a year.
By then, life had kind of scattered us.
I was stuck working 60 hour weeks at a hotel front desk in
Connecticut. Ryan was driving trucks for a
moving company up in Maine. And Mike, well, he bounced
between construction gigs and his girlfriend's couch.
But when we all finally got on the phone one night, just
shooting the crap like old times, the idea came up
naturally. Dude, you remember Ledgeview?
Ryan asked. I did.
I remembered it too. Well, we'd camped there once
before in high school. Back then, it was this kind of
unofficial spot. About two hours into the state
forest. No marked trail, no designated
campsite, just a flat clearing near a stream where someone had
made a fire ring out of rocks. There was a steep ledge you had
to climb over to get there, hence the name, and it was just
far enough off the beaten path that you never saw anyone else.
No Rangers, no hikers, total privacy.
The first time we went there, it was perfect.
We were 17 and stupid and high as hell, and we stayed up all
night throwing logs on the fire, eating canned ravioli and
passing around a cheap bottle of fireball like it was liquid
gold. It felt like freedom, like our
own little world. So yeah, I remembered Ledgeview,
and against better judgement, I said we should go back.
We picked a weekend later that month.
I requested time off and got approved surprisingly quick.
Ryan said he could take a long weekend.
And Mike. Mike never had to ask anyone for
time off. He just kind of showed up, or
didn't. We all agreed to pack light but
smart. This time we weren't kids
anymore. Sleeping pads, tarps, headlamps,
good boots. I picked up some freeze dried
meals from REI and even a compact stove.
Ryan said he'd bring his dad's old weatherproof tent.
Mike was on firewood duty. He had a bunch of pre split logs
in his garage. We met up in the morning just
outside the forest and convoyed in with two cars.
It was about a 45 minute hike to the ledge, maybe more now that
we were older and a little heavier.
The trailhead was barely marked and we had to bushwhack for a
bit. But when we got there, man, it
hit me. That weird mix of nostalgia and
something else. Not dread exactly, just
discomfort. Like walking into an old house
that used to be full of people, but now it's just empty and
stale and quiet. The fire ring was still there,
blackened stones half sunk into the dirt.
We stomped down the overgrowth and laid down a fresh tarp, set
the tent up, got a fire going, cracked a few beers.
It didn't take long for it to feel normal again.
Familiar. The first night was great.
We didn't stay up quite as late as we used to, but we had music,
stories, dumb jokes. Mike brought a Bluetooth speaker
and a handle of whiskey and got real emotional for a minute
about how much he missed us. I remember laughing until my
stomach hurt. It was the next morning that
things felt off. I woke up early, maybe 6 or 630,
and crawled out of the tent to take a piss.
The fire had burned out to cold ash, and there was this thick
mist rolling over the ground. The air smelled weird.
Not smoky, not woodsy, just wrong.
Like stagnant water and metal. The stream nearby was barely
moving. I remember crouching down to
splash some on my face and thinking it looked too dark,
like the water wasn't reflecting right.
When I got back to the tent, Ryan was sitting up, rubbing his
eyes. I told him about the mist and
the water and he just shrugged, said maybe a storm was rolling
in. Mike didn't get up until almost
10. He stumbled out of the tent
looking like hell, pale eyes sunken.
Said he hadn't slept well, that something kept waking him up.
Said he kept hearing noises like crunching footsteps outside the
tent, but he assumed it was one of us.
We told him we hadn't moved all night.
That afternoon, we decided to explore a bit like we used to.
We hiked along the Ridge, past the stream and into a thicket of
dead pine trees. The deeper we went, the quieter
it got. I know people say that a lot in
these kinds of stories. The woods got quiet, but this
wasn't just birds or bugs going silent.
It was everything. The kind of silence that presses
on your eardrums and makes your heartbeat sound louder than it
should. We found something back there to
a structure. Sort of looked like a hunting
blind at first. Old plywood nailed to trees,
camo tarp strung across, but it was all rotted and sunken into
the earth. When we got closer, we realized
it was a shelter. Someone had lived out there a
long time ago. There were bones in it, animal
bones, probably, but they were piled up strangely, arranged in
circles, loops, shapes that didn't make sense.
Ryan didn't say a word. Mike just laughed, this dry,
hollow sound, and said we should get the hell out of there.
We didn't argue. That night was different,
heavier. The woods felt tighter, somehow,
closer. We kept the fire going long past
midnight, nobody really wanting to be the first to crawl into
the tent. Ryan eventually passed out in
his camp chair. Mike said he had a weird
headache and went to lie down, and I followed soon after.
I don't know what time it was when I woke up, but it was still
dark and I was freezing like the temperature had dropped 20°.
The tent felt damp and the air smelled wrong again, sweet and
rotting, like wet dog fur and mold.
Ryan was gone. His sleeping bag was there,
empty and cold. His boots were gone too.
I checked my phone, but there was no signal, no GPSI nudged
Mike awake and he groaned before realizing something was wrong.
We unzipped the tent and stepped out into the dark.
The fire was out. No coals, no smoke, just dead.
We called for Ryan, quietly at first, then louder.
No answer. Mike grabbed a flashlight and I
followed with my headlamp. We circled the site, calling his
name, shining lights into the trees.
Still nothing. Then we found the first thing.
It was Ryan's hoodie, just lying in the dirt, sleeve ripped.
A little farther, we found his socks, then his jeans.
They were all laid out in a perfect line, Not torn, not
thrown, just left. Mike kept muttering what the
hell under his breath like it was a prayer.
Then we saw the flashlight. It was Ryan's still on,
flickering. And then something moved just at
the edge of the beam. A figure.
It ducked behind a tree. We froze.
Mike whispered Ryan, but got no response.
Just silence. Then the light died.
We ran. We didn't even make it back to
the tent. We just ran straight toward the
ledge. The way we came in the forest
was pitch black. Branches whipped our faces, the
ground sloped, roots tripping us every few feet.
Somewhere behind us, something moved heavy, fast.
I swear I heard breathing. When we got to the ledge, we
stopped. Mike doubled over, gasping, and
I turned back with the headlamp and I swear to God I saw someone
standing there, just beyond the trees.
Not Ryan, too tall, too still, eyes like pale glass, just
watching, then gone. We didn't sleep, just sat on the
ledge till sunrise. At first light we went back.
Ryan wasn't there, neither was his gear, but our stuff had been
disturbed. The tent was half collapsed, the
logs from the fire pit strewn in a circle around it like a
ritual. There were marks in the dirt,
bare feet but not human. Toes too long, heels too narrow,
like hands almost. We left everything and hiked out
in silence. We didn't stop till we hit the
road. We went straight to the local
police station, told them everything.
They took notes, asked questions, then told us Ryan was
probably just lost, maybe wandered off drunk or
disoriented. They sent A-Team out, found
nothing, not even the shelter in the woods.
A week later, Ryan's mom called me.
She said someone had mailed her his wallet.
No return address, just postmarked from a town 3 states
away. Inside was his ID and a photo of
the three of us standing by the stream, one I'd never seen
before. We weren't smiling, we looked
scared. And in the background, between
the trees, something was watching.
Ryan's mom said the envelope was sealed with tape and had no
fingerprints. She'd taken it to the police,
but they didn't do much. We'll follow up, they told her,
but she knew the look in their eyes.
Same one me and Mike got from the Ranger that night.
The look that says you're wasting our time.
This is already over. But that photo, I can still see
it. Three of us by the stream, heads
turned slightly like we heard something.
I don't remember it being taken, none of us did.
Mike asked if maybe Ryan took it with a timer or something, but
that didn't make sense. The angle wasn't from a rock or
tree stump, it was from higher, like someone or something was
standing over us when they took it.
I didn't sleep the night she sent me that image.
I sat on the floor of my apartment with the lights on,
staring at my phone screen until the battery died.
I kept zooming in, checking every shadow, and when I saw it
it in the trees behind us, something inside me just
snapped. It wasn't clear, blurry as hell,
like a smudge in the shape of a figure, but the outline was
tall, too tall, and the eyes, barely visible, were like drops
of milk in pitch, pale, wet, wrong.
Mike called the next morning. He'd seen it too.
We need to go back, he said. His voice was hoarse, like he
hadn't slept either. I told him he was out of his
mind. We barely made it out alive, I
said, but he just repeated it. We need to go back, I told him
no, hung up on him even. I couldn't go back there.
I wouldn't. But the thought kept worming its
way through me like a sickness. What if Ryan was still alive
somehow? What if that photo was proof he
wasn't dead? What if something else was out
there? A week later, Mike disappeared.
I found out from his sister he'd packed a backpack, taken his old
truck and left a note saying I'm going back to find him.
If you don't hear from me in three days, call the cops.
I didn't know what to do. I paced my apartment, watch the
rain slide down the windows, and tried to convince myself to stay
out of it. But deep down I already knew I
wasn't going to let this happen again.
So I packed my gear, flashlight, knife, first aid kit, a compass
and a handgun. My dad's old revolver with five
rounds still in it. I'd never fired it before, but
it felt heavy and cold in my bag.
Solid. I didn't tell anyone where I was
going, just left a note on the fridge that said gone for a few
days. Don't worry, I don't know who I
thought would read it. I reached the trailhead by
nightfall. It was exactly like I
remembered. Quiet, overgrown, barely there.
The moment I stepped onto it, I felt that same pressure in my
chest, like the woods were leaning in on me, watching.
I hiked for nearly an hour before I saw the first sign.
A piece of fabric, red and torn, nailed to a tree.
It was Mike's hoodie, the one he always wore.
I stared at it for a long time, then I kept going.
The sun was long gone when I reached Ledgeview, and it wasn't
the same. The fire ring was gone, just a
bare patch of dirt now, with long, deep gouges dug into the
earth like something had clawed at it.
The tent we'd left behind Ryan's was still there, shredded and
collapsed. The other gear was gone, and
there were symbols now, carved into the trees, circles with
lines through them, jagged XS Something like an eye.
I stood there, my breath fogging in the cold night air, and
whispered. Mike.
Something answered. Not a voice, not words.
A clicking sound, like bone tapping on wood.
I turned, flashlight sweeping the trees.
Nothing. Then a rustle.
I raised the revolver. I'm armed, I shouted.
Come out. Silence.
Then a voice. Not Mike, Not Ryan.
You came back. It came from the trees.
Low, dry, like wind scraping over a corpse.
I ran. Not toward the car, not toward
the trail, toward the shelter. I don't know why.
Instinct, maybe. Something in me said that's
where I'd find them, or what was left of them.
It took me another 20 minutes of tripping, cutting through
branches and climbing over roots, but I found it.
The same shelter, the same bones, only now they were
arranged in a pattern, a spiral leading to the center, where
something lay bundled in cloth. I crept forward, revolver
shaking in my hand, and pulled the cloth back.
It was a camera, old film based, covered in dust and pine
needles, but intact. There was a note beside it you
wanted to see. Now you will.
My fingers moved before my brain could stop them.
I opened the back of the camera. There was a single roll of film
inside. I should have left it, I should
have, but I didn't. I took it the second I put it in
my pack. I heard it again, that clicking
closer this time, louder. I turned and saw it.
Not clearly, not all at once, just shapes, movement.
But I knew it was tall, almost scraping the branches above it.
It's limbs were too long and they bent the wrong way.
It's skin was the color of tree bark, soaked in blood, and it's
head, if you could call it that, was just a smooth Oval with
slits where the eyes should have been.
I ran screaming. The forest closed around me,
branches clawing, roots grabbing.
I don't remember how long I ran. At one point I tripped and
rolled down an embankment, slamming into rocks.
I tasted blood. My arm burned, but I kept
moving. Eventually, I saw the ledge,
that same ledge we'd named the place after.
And standing there, at the edge, was Mike.
I almost cried, but something was wrong.
He was barefoot, shirtless, covered in dirt.
And his eyes, they didn't look like his any more.
I slowed. Mike.
I called out. He didn't answer, just stared.
I stepped closer. He smiled wide, too wide.
Then he spoke, but it wasn't his voice.
You brought it back. I took out the revolver.
His smile dropped. I don't know how I did it.
I didn't aim, didn't think. I just pulled the trigger.
The blast echoed through the woods.
Mike dropped like a rag doll. I fell to my knees, sobbing.
A second later, the forest screamed.
Not with a voice, with sound, with pressure.
The air pulsed like a drum beat, like the earth itself was in
pain. And the thing, the thing came
crashing toward me through the trees.
I raised the gun and fired again.
And again. The third shot hit it.
I think it shrieked, high and piercing, and then vanished into
the dark. I didn't wait.
I grabbed Mike's body, or what was left of it, and ran.
Somehow I made it to the car, drove without stopping until I
hit the highway. I don't remember most of it.
I think I blacked out at one point.
I turned the film into a private lab I knew, paid cash, told them
I found it in my late uncle's attic.
A week later, the tech called me, said I needed to come in.
There were only a few photos. Most were of trees, blurry
shapes, nighttime shots. But 1/1 showed the three of us,
me, Mike, Ryan by the stream. Only we weren't standing.
We were tied to trees, eyes closed, blood on our faces and
behind us, arms draped around our shoulders.
Was that thing grinning. The photo was dated 3 days
before we arrived. I moved across the country after
that, changed my name, got a new job.
I don't talk to anyone about what happened.
Ryan's body was never found. Mike's was identified and
buried, though I still don't know what really happened to him
out there. I keep that photo in a locked
drawer. Sometimes I take it out just to
remind myself it was real. And at night, on the really bad
nights, I hear it again, that clicking.
And I remember what it said in Mike's voice.
You brought it back. So now I wonder, is it still in
those woods or did I bring it out with me?
I'd been itching to get away for a while.
Between work, bills, and just life in general kicking me
around, a weekend in the woods sounded like the perfect reset.
Just me, my brother Nate, and our friend Jordan.
No phones, no emails, no noise. Just trees, fire and stars.
We settled on a spot out in New Mexico, not the touristy parts.
This was deeper, far from cell towers near the reservation
line, but not quite on it. Nate knew the area from a
hunting trip years back. He swore it was beautiful and
quiet and I didn't really care as long as it was far away from
everything else. The drive took forever.
Dirt roads that weren't really roads anymore, just gravel, tire
ruts and dust for miles. We finally pulled up around 4:00
in the afternoon. It was hot, the kind of dry heat
that soaks through your shirt but doesn't make you sweat, and
quiet. Eerily quiet.
Not even birds, just the soft whine of wind through dry trees
and brush. We set up camp fast, one big
tent between the three of us, a little fire ring made of rocks
and coolers stuffed with beer and junk food.
Typical guy stuff. We weren't trying to survive off
the land or anything, just trying to relax.
The first night was fine. We made burgers over the fire,
drank a little too much, and sat up telling dumb stories from
high school. It was calm.
I remember thinking how good the stars looked out there, like you
could fall into them if you stared too long.
That first night I slept like a rock.
The second night, not so much. It started weird right after
sundown. We were sitting around the fire
again, Nate throwing pine needles in just to watch them
spark, when we heard something move out in the brush.
Not an animal sound, not really. It sounded like shuffling, slow,
methodical, like footsteps, but heavier somehow, like something
dragging. We all froze.
Nate grabbed his flashlight and pointed it toward the noise, but
it didn't reach far, just caught the trees and made shadows
dance. Probably a deer.
Jordan muttered, but he didn't sound convinced.
I tried to shake it off too, probably just the dark and a
little beer messing with us, but the mood had shifted.
It was like the woods had changed around us, heavier
somehow, like they were watching.
Later that night I woke up to a sound I still can't describe
properly. Not fully.
It was like breathing, but not human, raspy and broken, coming
from just outside the tent, low and close, like someone was
crouched down right behind the fabric, just listening, just
waiting. I didn't say anything at first,
just stayed still, eyes wide open in the dark, trying to
convince myself it was nothing. I thought maybe Nate or Jordan
had gotten up to take a piss, but when I turned slightly I
could see their shapes on the floor beside me.
Both still, both asleep. The breathing went on for a full
minute, then zip the sound of our tent zipper pulling down
slow as hell, tooth by tooth. I couldn't move.
My body locked up completely, my mind screaming at me to grab the
flashlight or yell anything, but I just lay there, eyes locked on
the little entry flap, but it never opened.
Eventually the breathing faded and I heard it again, that
dragging shuffle as it moved away from the tent and
disappeared into the brush. I didn't sleep after that, just
laid there staring at the ceiling, counting every
heartbeat in the morning. I didn't say anything right
away. I figured I was just overtired,
or maybe still a little buzzed from the night before.
But then Jordan stepped outside and called for us in this weird
voice, tight and sharp. You guys need to see this.
We came out and there it was. Footprints all around the tent,
dozens of them, bare feet, wide and long and misshapen, like
someone with a limp had been pacing around the tent over and
over again. Some were smeared drag marks.
And in the dirt near the fire pit, something had been drawn.
A symbol. Just a crude stick figure carved
into the dust, with a long vertical body and weird antlers
or horns curling off the top. The limbs were long and bent out
like a spider. Did you do that?
Nate asked Jordan, half laughing but with his voice cracking a
bit. Jordan shook his head.
I thought one of you did. No one said anything for a
while. We packed up breakfast quick
that morning and decided maybe just one more night, then we'd
head back in the morning. The place was giving off bad
vibes now. Something didn't feel right.
The third night was the worst. We didn't drink that night,
didn't really talk much either, just sat around the fire in
silence, throwing in wood and trying not to jump at every
Creek or gust of wind. It was past midnight when we
heard it. A voice.
At first we thought it was someone yelling from far away.
Just one word screamed into the trees.
Help. We froze.
Then it came again, but it wasn't farther away.
It was closer. Help, please.
But the voice, it was off, like someone trying to imitate a
human. The cadence was wrong.
It sounded like it was coming from a throat that wasn't used
to speaking. Nate stood up, grabbed the
flashlight, and aimed it toward the sound.
That's when we saw it. A shape just at the edge of the
fire light. It looked like a man at first.
Tall, naked, hunched forward. But its limbs were too long.
Its arms dangled nearly to the ground.
The skin was pale and patchy, like something half rotted, and
it's head, It was tilted wrong, like it had no control over its
own neck. It opened its mouth again.
Help, help me. It croaked, but now we could all
hear it clearly. That wasn't a person's voice.
It sounded like one, but it was warped, like it was pushing the
words through a broken speaker. Nate dropped the flashlight.
Jordan screamed and the thing, whatever it was, took one long
step forward. We didn't think.
We just ran, grabbed what we could, and bolted for the truck.
Branches slapped our faces, thorns ripped at our clothes,
but I didn't care. I just kept running.
I don't even know how I got to the truck or found the keys, but
somehow we did. Threw ourselves inside, slammed
the doors, and I floored it. We didn't stop until we hit a
gas station about an hour out. It was one of those rundown
places with a flickering sign and nobody inside except a tired
looking guy behind the counter. We must have looked crazy.
Three guys covered in dirt, sweat, and terror.
The cashier didn't say anything at first, just stared.
Finally I told him, maybe stupidly, what happened.
I didn't use the word skinwalker or anything, just said there was
someone or something out there in the woods that didn't seem
human. That's when his face changed.
He looked us over real slow and said.
You boys weren't camping near Black Hollow, were you?
We looked at each other. That's exactly where we'd been.
He just nodded. Y'all lucky?
Lucky. Jordan asked, still shaking.
The man leaned in, voice low. Ain't supposed to be up there
this time of year. That's when they walk.
He wouldn't say more, just gave us this look like a warning and
rang us up for water and snacks without another word.
We stayed in a cheap motel that night, didn't talk much, just
lay in our separate beds trying to pretend none of it happened.
But none of us have been the same since.
Jordan won't go near the woods anymore, says he hears things
outside his window at night. Nate moved back east, got rid of
all his camping gear and doesn't talk about the trip at all.
Just shuts down if you bring it up.
As for me, I keep thinking about that voice, that warped, broken
imitation of a cry for help, like something trying to lure us
out, something that had watched us all weekend, maybe even
longer. I don't know what it was, I
don't want to know. All I know is we weren't alone
out there, and I don't think we ever will be again.
I didn't think about it much that first week back.
Not because I wasn't scared. I was.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that thing at the edge of
the firelight, the way its limbs didn't move right, that voice
like a puppet learning human words.
But I figured it was over. We'd gotten away.
We'd left whatever that was behind in the trees, buried in
the dust of some cursed stretch of wilderness.
But then things started happening.
Little things at first. The kind of stuff you'd brush
off if it weren't for what we'd seen.
The first night I was home, my dog wouldn't stop barking at the
backyard, Just stood there at the sliding glass door, ears
back, growling at nothing, hackles up.
Didn't move from that spot for hours.
I figured it was a raccoon or something.
I didn't go out to check, just close the blinds and turn the TV
up louder than normal. The next night I found muddy
footprints on the porch. Bare feet and I live alone.
I tried to stay rational, told myself maybe it was a prank or
some neighbor's kid messing around.
Still, I locked all the doors, checked the windows twice before
bed. Then the tapping started.
It was around 3:00 in the morning, maybe later.
I'd fallen asleep on the couch, too wired to stay in bed.
I woke up to this soft tap, tap, tap against the glass.
Not loud, not urgent, just deliberate.
I didn't move, just sat there, breathing shallow, listening.
After a minute, it stopped. I waited another five, then 10.
Nothing. Eventually I stood up and peeked
through the blinds. The porch was empty, but the air
felt heavy again, that same pressure I remembered from the
woods. Like something was near, just
out of reach. I turned every light on in the
house that night, Slept with a kitchen knife under my pillow
like an idiot. Told myself it was just my
nerves. Until Nate called the next day.
He hadn't spoken to me or Jordan since the motel.
I figured he needed space, but when he called his voice was
different, strained, dry, like he hadn't slept.
I think something followed me, he said.
I didn't say anything, just let him talk.
He told me he'd been hearing things around his property at
night, whispering, scratching, found claw marks on the side of
his shed, his dog had gone missing 2 days before.
And the worst part, I saw it, He whispered.
I looked out my bedroom window last night and I saw it in the
yard, standing there. Same thing from the woods.
I swear to God I didn't want to believe him, not really, but I
did, because that night it was my turn.
I was brushing my teeth, just getting ready for bed, when I
heard a voice, faint from outside.
Help. My stomach dropped.
I walked to the window above the kitchen sink, and for a second,
just a second, I saw a shadow move across the backyard.
A tall, crooked silhouette, hunched and slow.
Then it was gone. The lights flickered.
My phone glitched, just went black for a minute, then came
back on. The next morning, I found the
back gate open. I always lock it.
Always. The grass looked trampled,
flattened, like something had circled the house over and over
again. I called Jordan, he didn't
answer. I tried again an hour later,
still nothing. That night he finally messaged
me. Bro, are you seeing it too?
Outside my window? Right now it's just standing
there. I called him.
No answer, just a text. A few minutes later.
It said my name, it said it in my voice, and then nothing.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat in my living room with all
the lights on, front door dead bolted, shotgun across my lap.
My fingers were trembling the whole time.
The next morning I drove to Jordan's place.
His front door was locked, but his car was in the driveway.
I knocked, rang the bell, pounded on the door.
Nothing. I walked around to the back and
looked through the window. That's when I saw the living
room completely torn apart. Couch cushions shredded, the
coffee table split in half. Deep gouges in the floor like
claws. Not dog claws, not anything
normal. Deep, uneven slashes, like
something had raked the ground in a frenzy.
And in the center of the room, sitting upright in the corner,
was Jordan's phone, just sitting there, screen cracked, still on.
I didn't go in. I called the cops.
They took it seriously, I guess, especially after seeing the
state of the place. But Jordan was gone.
No blood, no signs of a break in.
Just gone like he'd been taken. They asked me questions.
I lied through most of them. I wasn't about to start talking
about monsters from the woods or voices mimicking your name in
the dark. They listed him as missing.
That was it. Nate and I didn't talk for a few
days. Then he called again, said he
was leaving, moving, going to stay with his uncle in Montana,
off grid. I can't be here anymore, he
said. I don't think we're safe.
I don't think anywhere's safe. But maybe if I'm far enough out,
it won't find me again. I didn't argue.
I understood. But I wasn't going to run.
I wanted to know what it was. I wanted to understand why it
was doing this, why it waited until we were home safe before
it started tearing us apart. I started digging forums,
Reddit, weird Facebook groups, native folklore sites, and I
kept seeing the same thing over and over.
Skinwalkers, shape shifters, witches and animal form.
Creatures that can steal your voice, that can mimic people you
love. They stalk, they haunt, and they
punish those who wander where they shouldn't.
Some stories said they attached to people.
Follow them, mark them. I remembered the symbol in the
dirt that morning near our camp, that stick figure with the
twisted limbs. Maybe that wasn't a warning.
Maybe it was a claim. A week later, I started hearing
scratching on my windows. It came every night at the same
time, around 3:12 AM. Just this slow, deliberate
screech, screech across the glass.
I recorded it once. Listen back the next day.
It wasn't just scratching. There was whispering underneath,
barely audible. My name over and over whispered
in my own voice. That was the night I almost lost
it. I packed a bag, threw it in the
truck, and just started driving. Nowhere in particular, just
away, but two hours out of town, in the middle of nowhere, my
truck died. Lights went out, engine
sputtered, just died. I sat there on the side of the
road, pitch black outside, and I swear to God I could see
something in the trees watching. I turned the key over and over
and it finally started again. Roared back to life like nothing
had happened. I didn't go home after that.
I crashed at a friend's place out of state for a few days.
Slept on the couch, kept the lights on.
Nothing happened while I was there.
No tapping, no voices. Just peace.
But I couldn't stay forever. Eventually I came back.
And now, every night the lights flicker.
Every night the porch camera glitches.
And every night, at exactly 3:12 AM, the motion sensor by the
back door lights up, but there's never anyone there.
I don't talk to anyone about it anymore.
I tried once, a friend at work. He gave me this look like I
needed help, like I was unraveling.
Maybe I am, maybe it's just trauma, some part of my brain
cracking from stress. But deep down, I know the truth.
That thing from the woods, it chose us.
It's not just some Cryptid or old story.
It's real. And it wants something not to
kill, not at first. It wants you to see it.
It wants to be known, to be feared, to be inside your life.
Nate won't answer my calls anymore.
I don't think he made it to Montana.
Jordan's still missing, No leads, no updates.
And me, every time I close my eyes, I hear that voice.
Help. Not from far away now, from
inside the house. And I don't know what to do
anymore. All I know is this.
I didn't bring it back, it followed.
I've always loved the desert. Not in the way tourists love it,
snapping selfies under arches or posing next to dusty trail
signs. I mean the real desert.
The stretches that look untouched, or you can drive for
hours without seeing another car.
The kind of land that makes you feel like you've slipped out of
time. That's why I said yes when Eric
pitched the trip. It was supposed to be our annual
camping tradition. Four of us, me, Eric, Marcus and
Caleb, had been doing this since college.
Pick a remote spot. Drop off the grid for a few
days. Drink some whiskey, talk about
how much we hated our jobs, and maybe do a little stargazing if
the clouds didn't roll in. It was predictable, comfortable,
the kind of thing that reminded us we were still the same guys,
even if our lives were drifting in different directions.
This year, though, Eric wanted something different.
He said he'd found a place. Not a park, not a campsite.
Just a place somewhere out past the Navajo Nation in southern
Utah. Reel off grid, he called it.
A guy I met in Moab told me about it, said there's this
basin tucked between two ridges, totally secluded, no trails, no
campsites, no people. I remember asking how we were
supposed to get there if there weren't any trails.
He just grinned and said that's the point.
I should have said no, but I didn't.
I wish to God I had. We met up in Salt Lake on a
Thursday morning. The plan was simple, grab
supplies, make the five hour drive South and set up camp
before dark. The drive was uneventful at
first. Miles of Hwy. then smaller roads
winding through red rock cliffs and sagebrush.
We passed fewer and fewer signs of civilization the deeper we
went. By the time we turned off onto
the dirt Rd. Eric had marked on the map, my
phone had already lost service. Caleb joked that it felt like we
were driving off the edge of the earth.
Nobody laughed. The road was more like a dry
wash. It twisted between rocks and
dipped into shallow gullies. Eric's Jeep could handle it, but
barely. The sun was starting to sink
when we finally pulled into the basin and I swear the second we
stepped out of the car, it got quiet.
Not peaceful quiet, not night time quiet.
It was wrong, like the whole place was holding its breath.
No birds, no bugs, no wind, just this heavy, pressing silence.
Still, the spot was gorgeous. Red cliffs rising on all sides,
scattered boulders, and a wide, flat stretch of land perfect for
tents. It felt untouched, sacred
almost. Eric was practically glowing.
Told you. He said, tossing his pack to the
ground. This place is perfect.
I wanted to agree, but something in my gut clenched when I looked
up at those cliffs. They felt too close, like walls.
We set up camp quickly. 2 tents, a circle of stones for the fire,
and a little cook area off to the side.
We didn't bother with cell phones.
No point. Caleb pulled out a speaker and
played some old rock songs while Marcus boiled water for dinner.
As the sun dipped behind the rocks, the shadows stretched
long and fast. One minute it was daylight, the
next it was dusk. That strange silence never left.
Even the music sounded muffled, like the air didn't want to
carry sound. Still, the fire helped.
We drank a little, told stories. Eric and Caleb bickered about
some old college trip. Marcus mostly listened, flipping
through a battered paperback. It was just like old times,
until it wasn't. It started around midnight.
The music had long since died. Battery gone.
The fire was low, just flickering coals and the
occasional crackle of pine. Marcus was asleep.
Eric and Caleb were still up, quietly talking about stars or
whiskey or some conspiracy theory.
I wasn't really listening. And then we heard it.
A howl, Not close, but not far either.
Somewhere beyond the Ridge. It echoed off the rocks, long
and low. We all froze.
Coyote. Eric said after a beat.
Normal out here. But Caleb was already grinning.
Want to hear a real 1? He cupped his hands and let out
a high pitched howl. It echoed into the darkness.
We waited, half expecting nothing.
Then something answered. Only it wasn't a coyote.
It was deeper, wet, drawn out in this garbled, half snarling
growl that started low and ended in something that sounded like a
laugh. It wasn't an animal.
It wasn't right. Eric's face went pale.
Caleb stopped smiling. OK.
Caleb said slowly. That was creepy.
We all stared out at the dark line of trees beyond the fire.
No more howls, no wind. Just the fire cracking and the
distant hiss of ash. Marcus sat up in his sleeping
bag, groggy. What the hell was that?
Eric stood, hand drifting toward the knife on his belt.
We should call it a night. Nobody argued.
I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of my tent.
Every little sound set me on edge.
The wind brushing the nylon, a rock settling nearby, even
Caleb's soft snoring. I kept thinking about that howl,
the way it sounded like something trying to sound like a
coyote, but not knowing how. I finally drifted off some time
before dawn, and I swear, just before sleep took me, I heard
something Walking slowly past my tent, bare feet dragging.
I told myself it was just a dream.
I'm still not sure if I believe that.
I don't think any of us said a word.
That next morning. We just sat there around the
fire pit, drinking instant coffee with shaky hands and
avoiding each other's eyes. The air felt heavier somehow,
like it had thickened overnight. I kept replaying the howl in my
head, that awful, stretched out imitation of Caleb's call.
It sounded too wet, like something dragging its breath
through a broken throat. We all tried to pretend it was
nothing, just a coyote or a bobcat, or maybe we were tired
and imagining things. But then Marcus stood up and
quietly said we need to check that structure.
Nobody argued. We set out mid morning,
following the Ridge from the day before.
The air was still, not even a breeze moving through the
sagebrush. The sun felt weak, like
something was filtering it out. It took us about an hour to
reach it. The structure was tucked in the
shadow of two massive boulders. Not a cabin, not a shack.
It was older, round, half sunken into the ground, built with
crumbling mud and wooden beams. A Hogan?
Eric said quietly. It's Navajo.
There was no door, just a wide, dark opening leading down into a
slanting interior. I didn't want to go in, None of
us did, but Eric did. He stepped inside first, ducking
low. Caleb followed, then Marcus.
I stood outside for a second longer, staring into the hole
like it might breathe. Then I stepped in.
The inside smelled like dry rot and something else, something
old and dead. Bones littered the ground, small
ones, mostly rabbits, birds, but a few were longer, thin, with
sockets at the ends that didn't look right.
There was no furniture, just packed earth, rotted wood, and
in the center of the floor something arranged carefully, a
bundle. It was made of twigs, wrapped
tightly with a length of frayed red string.
Feathers jutted out in all directions, and at the center
was a clump of black hair, knotted and twisted into the
wood. We just stood around it in a
circle, not speaking. I don't know how long we were
there before. Caleb broke the silence.
This is some Blair Witch looking crap, he said, laughing
nervously. Maybe it's like a good luck
charm. Eric didn't laugh.
It's not a charm, he said. It's a ward.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. A what?
A protective binding. Eric replied.
To keep something out or keep something in.
Then Caleb crouched down and plucked one of the feathers from
the bundle. Souvenir.
He grinned. No Eric stepped forward.
Put that back. Caleb waved him off.
Relax, it's just a feather. But as he shoved it into the
side pocket of his pack, the room felt colder, like the air
had dropped 10° in seconds. I wanted to say something to
stop him, but I didn't. None of us did.
That night, everything fell apart.
We built the fire bigger than usual.
No one said it out loud, but we were scared.
We posted up in a tight circle, backs facing outward, eyes
scanning the black gaps between the boulders and trees.
I kept my knife close. Eric had his gun in his lap.
Marcus hadn't said much since the Hogan.
Around 1:30, AMI started hearing it.
Whispers, not loud, not even clear, but definitely voices,
faint and fast moving in a circle around us.
At first I thought I was going crazy, hearing the wind and
filling in blanks, but Caleb looked at me across the fire,
eyes wide. You hear that?
He mouthed. I nodded.
Eric stood slowly, flashlights scanning the dark.
The beam danced across rocks and brush, casting long, twitching
shadows. Nothing.
Then we all smelled it. Rotting meat, like roadkill left
in the sun. Too long, mixed with something
metallic. Blood, maybe, or copper.
Then came the sound I'll never forget.
Breathing slow, heavy, wet, just beyond the fire's reach.
Eric stepped toward the edge of the circle and aimed his
flashlight. And we saw it.
It was standing about 20 feet away, Tall, emaciated, human
shaped, but all wrong. It's arms were too long, ending
in fingers that looked like broken twigs.
It's skin was mottled like leather, stretched over bone.
And it's face. It's face looked like me,
almost, but warped, like someone made a mask of my face out of
wax and let it melt in the sun. One eye was too high, the mouth
was too wide. The skin didn't move right.
It smiled at me. Then it spoke.
David. It said my name with my voice,
but strangled, like it had swallowed it and was forcing it
back out. I couldn't move.
Eric raised his gun and fired. The shot echoed through the
Canyon like Thunder. The thing didn't run, it just
collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hit the ground
hard. Too hard.
Its body twisted like it had no bones.
Then it scurried backwards, still twisted fast into the
trees. We couldn't see where it went.
We didn't pack. We grabbed what we could and
ran. We hiked the trail back to the
Jeep with only headlamps and adrenaline the whole way.
I could hear it somewhere in the trees keeping pace, sometimes on
2 legs, sometimes not. It never attacked, it just
followed like it was waiting. We made it to the car around
dawn. Eric didn't even wait for
everyone to buckle in before tearing down the dirt Rd.
Nobody said a word for the first hour, just heavy breathing and
the sound of tires bouncing off the rocky trail.
Back in Salt Lake, Marcus booked a flight and was gone before
noon. Caleb said he needed a shower
and some sleep. He didn't answer when I texted
him later that night. Eric wouldn't stop pacing.
He kept saying it had your face. As for me, I haven't slept
since. The thing is, I don't think we
left it behind. Because last night I saw it
again, standing at the end of the alley behind my apartment.
Same twisted face, same fake smile, same voice.
And this time it said my name again, but it said it closer.
I didn't even pack, I just grabbed the feather, threw a
change of clothes into a backpack and got in the car.
I drove straight through the night, Didn't stop, didn't eat,
didn't even turn on the radio. Just me, the road, and that
thing in my head whispering my name like it owned it.
Now. Every time I blinked I saw its
face again, That half melted version of me, Too wide, too
still, too hungry. By the time the sun rose, I was
already deep into southern Utah. The red dust started showing up
on the edge of the road like blood stains.
The closer I got to the basin, the worse it got.
The wind was gone, the birds were gone.
The world felt paused, like something was waiting for me to
come back. And the worst part?
I knew I had to. I reached the edge of the Canyon
just before noon. It was exactly the same.
The same cracked dirt Rd., the same cliffs, the same wide bowl
of Redstone and dust. Even the Jeeps tire marks were
still faintly there, like time hadn't moved since we left.
I parked and stepped out the second my boots hit the ground.
The silence hit me like a wall. It was the kind of quiet that
feels alive, like it's listening.
I retraced our path through the dry wash, past the boulders,
over the Ridge. My chest got tighter with every
step. My fingers went numb.
I kept telling myself to turn around, but I couldn't.
I found the Hogan exactly where we left it, half collapsed,
covered in dust like it had been waiting.
The doorway looked darker than it should have, like a mouth
waiting to swallow something. I didn't go inside this time.
I didn't need to. The center of the structure was
hollowed out, the earth disturbed where the bundle had
once been, the ward we'd broken. That's where I buried it, The
feather Caleb took, the one that had shown up on my doorstep,
wrapped in string and my hair. I knelt, hands shaking, and dug
into the dry earth with my fingers.
The ground was warm, too warm, like something below was
breathing. I pushed the feather deep into
the dirt, then flattened it out, patting it smooth.
I didn't say a prayer. I didn't know how, so I just
whispered. I'm sorry.
And then I stood, and then I heard it.
The crunch of footsteps behind me, slow, deliberate.
I turned and it was me, standing 10 feet away or something,
wearing me. Same face, same eyes, but wrong.
Its head tilted too far to one side, its smile stretched wider
than a smile should. Its arms hung low, like it
didn't understand how to carry them.
And the skin, it wasn't real skin.
It looked like paper drawn over bone.
Tight, transparent, thin enough to tear.
I couldn't breathe. It took one step closer.
Then it spoke. Why did you leave me?
Its voice sounded like mine, but drowned, like it was bubbling up
from waterlogged lungs. Slow, wet, familiar.
It stepped again. You left us in the dark.
Then the thing shivered. Its face melted right in front
of me, like wax over fire. It sloughed off.
The eyes drooped, the mouth sagged, skin peeled away in long
strips, and beneath it was Marcus, then Caleb, then Eric,
then me again. Every time it shifted, bones
cracked, shoulders popped, its body bent backward and snapped
upright like it was made of wires and meat.
The faces, each one, were off too wide, too pale, too empty.
Do you remember? It said, switching to Marcus's
voice. It stepped closer.
You ran, said Caleb's voice. You always run, said Eric's.
Then it wore my voice again. You brought it home.
I stumbled backward. The wind kicked up, full of dust
and heat and ash. Then I saw something move in the
corners of my vision. Shadows crawling up the Canyon
walls. Dozens of them, human shaped but
broken. Some on 2 legs, some crawling, 1
dragging its head sideways across the dirt.
All of them had my face, and they were watching.
Smiling, I dropped to my knees and grabbed the dirt with both
hands, trying to hold on. I could feel the earth shaking.
The buried feather pulsed under the ground like a heartbeat.
Please, I whispered. Take it back.
We didn't know. We didn't mean to.
The wind stopped. The shadows vanished.
The creature in front of me tilted its head.
It stepped closer until it was inches from my face.
Its breath smelled like rot and burned hair.
Then it leaned in it's mouth just beside my ear, and
whispered something in a language I didn't understand.
The words were low, wet, ancient, and they hurt to hear.
I felt blood drip from my nose, then nothing.
I woke up alone, flat on my back, the sky above me perfectly
clear. The Hogan was gone.
No beams, no bones, just a circle of scorched earth and
ash. The air smelled like sage and
copper and smoke. The feather was gone.
I stood up slowly, every muscle aching.
My ears were ringing. There was no sign of the
creature, but I could feel it, like something was pressed just
beneath the surface of the world, waiting to rise again.
I didn't look back. I made it back to my car by
sunset, the engine turned over on the first try.
The drive back was quiet, no shadows, no whispers, just the
road. That was 3 weeks ago, and I
think it worked. The scratching is gone, the
voices have stopped, no more footsteps outside my window.
I don't see my face smiling back at me from the alley anymore.
I sleep now, not great, but better most nights.
Then this morning, I got something in the mail.
A small envelope. No return address.
Inside was a single Polaroid photo.
It showed Caleb standing on a Cliff I didn't recognize.
His body looked wrong, slack, like a puppet without strings.
His head was twisted at an angle that shouldn't be possible.
And behind him, just out of focus, was a figure, tall, bent,
grinning, holding something. A mirror.
I burned the photo, didn't tell anyone, didn't even open the
blinds. But tonight, as I'm writing
this, I swear I just heard it again.
Not the voice, not the scratching.
Just breathing. close, heavy, familiar.
Like something just outside the walls, Smiling.
I always thought I knew what remote meant.
I'd done plenty of solo hikes before, weeks in the Ozarks, a
winter stint in the Sawtooths, even spent a few nights in Big
Bend without seeing another soul.
But nothing prepared me for Cold Water Basin.
No, I don't expect you to find it on a map.
You won't. Hell, I only learned about it
from a retired Forest Service guy named Len I met at a gun
show in Reno. We were both looking at the same
used lever action .308 and ended up talking over bad gas station
coffee afterward. When I mentioned I was looking
for an isolated place to camp and shoot without the usual
you're scaring the hikers crap, his eyes went quiet.
There's a basin east of the Sierra line, he said eventually.
Not on the wreck maps. Locals stay away.
They say the wind's wrong there. You go out.
You go out quiet and don't ask what you're not ready to know.
I thought he was full of it, Just a guy clinging to whatever
weird legends the mountains hadn't buried yet.
But two months later I found myself navigating 1/2 erased
trail with his hand drawn map in my lap, chewing beef jerky and
praying my Tacoma didn't rattle apart on the rocks.
It was early May 2018, still cool at night, bone dry during
the day. The kind of weather you dream
about for Backcountry. And I'd planned every damn
detail. Two weeks off grid, a satellite
SOS beacon, my rifle, enough freeze dried meals to feed a
platoon and just me. That was the plan.
The further I drove, the more the world peeled away.
The road thinned out, turned to gravel, then dirt.
Around the last bend, even the trees gave up, just jagged rocks
and Gray dust like the land had been burned clean.
I parked under a rock overhang for shade and stepped out into
silence. I don't mean peace and quiet
silence. I mean dead silence.
No wind, no bugs, not even the high pitched wine you get in
your ears when it's really quiet.
Just nothing. I tried to shake it off, grabbed
my pack, locked the truck, and started the hike in.
The map set about 6 miles to the basin, following a dried up
Creek bed and a ridgeline with a big lightning split pine.
It was just past noon when I passed that tree.
Half of it was blackened from the strike.
It felt like a warning someone had nailed into the dirt.
The first weird thing I noticed was the animal bones scattered
here and there along the trail. Nature's cleanup crew is
efficient, but they weren't old, still had some dried sinew,
Tufts of fur, and they weren't chewed.
No bite marks, just torn. Then came the deer.
I found it maybe a quarter mile from where I set up camp, lying
half submerged in a patch of red dirt.
No blood, no flies. Its neck was bent too cleanly,
like someone had snapped it. Its eyes were gone, but not
pecked out. Removed.
The sockets were weirdly clean. I didn't want to admit how much
that shook me. Still, I made camp, forced
myself to follow the motions. Tents stake near a Rockwall for
wind cover. Fire pit dug and ringed, water
boiled. Rifle loaded and cleaned.
I told myself it was probably just a Mountain Lion kill, even
if I knew damn well that wasn't how lions kill.
By sunset, the sky lit up in oranges and deep purple.
I roasted a pouch of chicken teriyaki and sat by the fire,
feeling the nerves settle a little.
That first night was calm still. No wind, just the stars
watching. I left the rain fly off the tent
and lay there, watching satellites blink overhead.
At some point, I drifted off. Then I heard it.
Not a noise, exactly, more like a presence.
I bolted upright, heart in my throat.
The fire had died to coals. My rifle was still beside me,
untouched. I scanned the dark.
Nothing. I did a slow circle around the
camp, flashlight in one hand, rifle in the other.
No Prince, no movement, not even a stirred up bit of dust.
It was just a dream. Had to be.
I crawled back into the tent, laid there staring at the nylon
roof, eyes wide, waiting. Then I felt it.
The sensation that you're being watched, not imagined, not
anxiety. It was there, just outside the
fire light, like something was perched on the edge of the dark,
waiting for me to close my eyes again.
I didn't. I stayed awake until the sun
started bleeding into the sky, rifle across my chest, ears
tuned to every crack and rustle, but nothing came.
When daylight finally arrived, the feeling vanished like smoke.
Still. I should have left then, Packed
up, walked away. But I didn't, because I hadn't
even fired the damn rifle yet, and because I'm an idiot who
thought fear was something you could ignore if you acted tough
enough, and because I still thought I was alone out there.
I wasn't, and the next day was going to prove that in ways I
still can't forget. The 2nd morning came with a sky
so clear it almost looked fake. I rolled out of my tent slowly,
every muscle stiff from sleeping in 1/2 alert sprawl.
The fire had burned down to a pile of Gray ash, and the air
had that dry, charged stillness that always comes right before a
storm. But there were no clouds, just
heat and silence. I made coffee, forced down a
granola bar, and tried to shake off the unease from the night
before. I'd managed to convince myself
that the rustling I heard outside the tent was just an
animal. A fox, maybe, or even a deer
curious about the smell of food. Nothing worth panicking over.
But the truth was, I hadn't slept.
Not really. I kept waking up every 20
minutes, heart thudding, convinced someone or something
was standing just beyond the edge of the fire light.
I thought about packing up. There was still time to hike out
before the sun got too high, before the heat made the return
brutal. But then I looked at the rifle
resting beside my pack and told myself I was overreacting.
I'd come out here to shoot, to clear my head.
I wasn't about to leave just because I got spooked by some
twigs snapping in the dark. I set out around midday, heading
back toward the dry wash I'd found the day before.
It was perfect for shooting natural walls to trap sound,
plenty of space, good visibility.
I brought a box of rounds, a couple of empty cans, and a
battered old road sign I dragged out from a brush pile.
As I set up my targets, I remember feeling not calm
exactly, but distracted. Focused.
The smell of hot dust and gun oil grounded me in a way nothing
else had since I'd arrived. I fired off maybe a dozen rounds
before I heard it. Not an echo, not a ricochet
gunfire coming from deeper in the basin.
At first I paused, waiting to see if it repeated, half
thinking I'd imagined it. But then it came again.
Rapid bursts, different rhythms, definitely more than one weapon
being fired. Some sounded sharp and high
caliber, others duller and faster, like handguns.
It wasn't some other camper messing around.
This sounded coordinated, like a live fire drill or something
much worse. I crouched low, adrenaline
flooding my system. The shots were erratic, but they
weren't moving away. If anything, they seem to be
fanning out, echoing off the Canyon walls in weird patterns
that made it impossible to tell how close they actually were.
One moment it felt like they were miles off, the next like
they were just over the next Ridge.
I packed up in record time and started back toward camp,
staying low and keeping off open ground.
Every now and then the gunfire would stop for a while, then
start again, always just far enough to keep me guessing, but
close enough that I felt like I was being tracked.
Once I caught a whiff of something foul on the wind.
It passed almost as quickly as it came, like old blood or
rotting meat left in the sun, and I couldn't tell if it was
real or just my nerves twisting my senses.
By the time I reached camp, my shirt was soaked through, my
hands shaking slightly as I slung my rifle over my shoulder.
The shooting had stopped, but the air still felt tight, like
something was holding its breath.
I sat with my back against the Rockwall, watching the perimeter
of my little clearing as the sun started to sink behind the
jagged skyline. My stomach twisted in knots, but
I forced down a meal anyway. Beef Stew from a pouch and a
lukewarm bottle of water. It tasted like sawdust.
As night rolled in, I did what I'd done the night before.
I cleaned my rifle, restacked some of the firewood.
Anything to keep from sitting still too long.
But the dread hadn't passed. If anything, it had thickened,
like fog crawling in from the lowlands.
My instincts were screaming at me to leave, to just grab my
gear and hike out through the dark.
But my logic kicked back just as hard.
Hiking in pitch black, possibly injured, possibly being
followed. That was asking for a twisted
ankle, a fall, or worse. So I stayed.
One more night, I told myself. Just until sunrise, around 2:00
in the morning, I heard the first scream.
It started as a sharp cry, distant but unmistakably human.
Then came a second one, longer, hoarse, filled with panic, a
woman's voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
I shot upright, rifle already in my hand, scanning the trees.
Then I heard it again. Someone help me, please.
Closer now, and not just louder, but frantic.
That voice. It didn't sound like an act.
It was raw, broken, gasping between sobs.
He's going to kill me. Please, I see your fire.
I stepped out past the ring of firelight, flashlight flicking
from tree to tree. My finger hovered near the
trigger. I couldn't see anyone.
No movement, no crunching leaves or snapping twigs.
Just the voice, growing louder with each desperate cry.
And then, as I stood frozen, halfway between camp and the
tree line, the voice repeated itself, word for word.
Same tone, same volume, same pauses.
He's going to kill me. Please, I see your fire.
It looped again and again. I backed away slowly, chest
tight, bile rising in my throat. It wasn't real, it couldn't be.
Something was mimicking her. I don't know how long I stood
there, locked in place, but then the scream stopped.
A few seconds later, there was a single gunshot.
Short, controlled, distant, but not far enough.
Then silence. No wind, no birds, no footsteps.
Just the fire crackling and my own pulse pounding in my ears.
I stayed up the rest of the night, sitting cross legged
beside the flames, rifle across my lap, listening to the dark
press in from all sides. I didn't move, didn't speak,
barely breathed. And just before dawn, as the sky
began to shift from black to Gray, I heard it one last time.
Faint, off to the West. Please help me.
Same cadence, same pattern, like a broken record buried in the
trees. The voice never got closer
again, but it never left either. I left as soon as the light was
strong enough to see the trail. No coffee, no food, just a flask
of warm water and my gear barely stuffed into my pack.
I wasn't careful about noise. I didn't even try to stay quiet.
Something inside me had snapped, and all I could think about was
putting as much distance as possible between myself and that
place. Every time I looked over my
shoulder, I expected to see someone or something standing
there in the fading shadows, watching me leave.
The hike out should have taken most of the day.
On the way in, I'd stopped often, checked my bearings,
taken notes. This time I didn't stop at all.
I barely blinked. I moved fast, pushing myself
harder than I probably should have, legs burning, lungs tight,
heart pounding in my chest like it was trying to break free, And
still I felt haunted. I kept imagining I'd hear it
again, that voice fraying at the edges, chasing me like an echo
that didn't want to be forgotten.
At one point, near a split in the trail, I spotted something
that made my skin crawl. A footprint, just one, fresh,
pressed into the fine Gray dirt like it had been made minutes
ago. It was booted, but smaller than
mine, narrow, possibly female. I didn't stop to investigate.
I just ran. By the time I reached my truck,
the sun was already slipping behind the Ridge.
I tossed my gear into the bed without ceremony, jumped into
the driver's seat and peeled out, sending up clouds of dust
in my rear view. I didn't look back, not once.
I didn't want to see if someone or something was standing at the
tree line, watching me disappear.
It wasn't until I hit the first gas station an hour out that I
realized I'd been gripping the steering wheel so hard my
knuckles were bloodless. I parked, stumbled inside,
bought a sandwich I didn't eat and a bottle of water I barely
touched. A teenager behind the counter
asked if I was OK, said I looked messed up.
I nodded, smiled, told him I'd just gotten back from a long
hike. I didn't tell him what I'd
heard, what I'd felt, and I wouldn't tell anyone else for a
long, long time, For weeks, the screaming echoed in my ears.
At night, I'd wake up covered in sweat, convinced I could still
hear her calling for help just outside my bedroom window.
My hands would reach instinctively for the rifle that
wasn't there, heart hammering like it had all started over
again. The worst part wasn't the fear,
though. It was the shame.
That woman had begged me, begged, and I'd done nothing.
I told myself 100 times over that I couldn't have known, that
it could have been a trap, that maybe the voice wasn't even
real. I convinced myself that rushing
into the dark would have gotten me killed.
That logic had saved me. But every time I closed my eyes,
I saw that campfire flickering on her voice and felt my body
frozen in place, paralyzed by fear and indecision.
I wanted to report it, I really did.
I pulled up the Sheriff's Department contact page more
times than I could count. But what would I say?
That I heard a scream somewhere out in the wilderness?
That I thought a woman might have been killed near Coldwater
Basin. But I had no proof, no location,
no names. They'd laugh me off, or worse,
think I was insane. So I didn't tell them.
And that guilt stayed with me, settling in my chest like a
second set of lungs that never fully let me breathe.
Months passed. I buried it as best I could,
push the memory down deep and pile distractions on top of it.
Work, friends, projects. But late at night, it always
clawed its way back up. Then one evening, a story popped
up on one of the hiking forums I'd been part of for years.
Just a simple thread. Anybody hear what happened near
cold water basin last spring? My stomach turned before I even
clicked it. It was a short post.
Someone had been hiking near the area weeks after I'd been there
and stumbled across a collapsed campsite tent.
Shredded, gear still scattered. The post mentioned blood.
Not a lot, but enough to make someone concerned.
The user had reported it, and eventually law enforcement got
involved. I read every word three times
before clicking through the links and that's how I found her
name. Danielle Suarez, 27, solo hiker,
last seen April 30th. She'd been reported missing by
her brother when she failed to check in after her trip.
The search had started late and was called off quickly due to a
lack of leads. But by some impossible stroke of
luck, a rancher found her nearly a week later, barely alive.
She had been crawling through the brush near the southern
Ridge, miles from the nearest Rd.
She was dehydrated, in shock and had a gunshot wound just below
her shoulder. One lung had collapsed.
She spent two weeks in the hospital.
The full story came out later, buried in the local papers and
fringe blogs that still covered this kind of thing.
Danielle had been abducted by a group of squatters living in a
concealed dugout near the basin. Four of them, three men, one
woman, armed, paranoid and strung out on meth.
They've been using the Canyon as a hideout and occasionally
luring in isolated hikers. Danielle had wandered too close.
They grabbed her on her second night and kept her tied up,
beaten, half starved. She managed to escape when one
of them passed out drunk, ran through the dark screaming for
help. They'd shot at her as she fled.
One round hit her, the others missed.
I remember reading that sentence over and over.
She screamed for help as she fled into the trees and thinking
how close I had been, how real it all was, how she'd nearly
died while I was crouched by, a fire, rifle in hand, doing
absolutely nothing. The squatters were arrested
within the month. They found the dugout buried in
a thicket of juniper and debris. Inside were weapons, supplies,
blood stained rope, and traces of other people, people they
hadn't identified. Two of the men had prior
warrants in other states. One had killed before.
Danielle survived. She recovered, gave her
statement, and vanished from the news cycle not long after.
I never reached out, I never came forward.
What would I have said? That I was there, That I heard
her? That I didn't help, That I could
have done something and didn't? No, that was her story to
survive. Mine was something else,
something darker, something I'll carry to the end.
I'm not writing this for sympathy or forgiveness.
I'm not interested in some stranger patting me on the back
and saying you did what you had to do.
I know what I did, or rather, what I didn't do.
I'm writing this because there's a dangerous lie people like to
tell themselves, that it's better not to get involved, that
it's safer to stay silent, that someone else will take care of
it. But I've been that someone else.
I've been the only person within shouting distance and I froze.
I stayed alive, but I didn't live after.
Not really. If you ever find yourself out
there and you hear something, someone crying for help, just
know there's a cost either way. If you go, you might not come
back, But if you don't, if you walk away, you might still lose
something. And some things don't grow back.