My name is Aaron Miller, and I've hiked hundreds of miles
alone through some of America's wildest country.
Solitude never bothered me, it energized me.
I was a wildlife photographer by trade, so hiking solo was less a
hobby than a profession. I trekked through Glacier,
explored Yellowstone's Backcountry, and navigated the
Bob Marshall Wilderness without incident.
But the Continental Divide Trail had a different aura, especially
where it sliced through the rugged Bitterroot Mountains
along the Montana, Idaho border. It was wild, remote and
notoriously disorienting. I'd begun this particular
section at Chief Joseph Pass. It was early October, The air
was crisp and clear, and large trees shimmered gold amid the
dark green of the Pines. My goal was straightforward. 3
days hiking southbound toward Lem High Pass.
The first few hours passed without issue.
I adjusted my pack, kept my camera accessible, and moved at
a steady pace, feeling confident and alive as the forest
thickened around me. By mid morning, the trail had
become a relentless climb. Switchbacks carved steeply into
loose shale and gravel. My thighs burned slightly with
exertion, but I embraced it. This was why I was out here, to
push my boundaries and capture images of untouched wilderness.
I paused to check my progress on the Garmin GPS clip to my chest
strap. That was when I first felt
something was off. According to the GPS, my
elevation was exactly 7552 feet. The coordinates hadn't budged
since the last check nearly two hours ago.
That didn't make sense. I'd been steadily gaining
altitude for at least 2 miles, yet the device said otherwise.
I frowned, checking the signal strength.
Full bars, clear satellite connection, but the coordinates
stubbornly remain the same. Has to be a glitch.
I muttered, slipping the device back into its holder.
It happens sometimes in the mountains.
Magnetic anomalies, rock interference signal shadowing.
Nothing to worry about. Or so I told myself.
I glanced up at the trail ahead, still rising, still twisting
back and forth like a serpent, but the landscape was somehow
identical to what I'd already passed through.
Large boulders, twisted fallen logs, familiar clusters of large
trees. I shook off the uneasy feeling.
All forests can look similar when fatigue sets in.
By noon, the shadows deepened slightly, despite clear skies
overhead. I stopped to eat lunch, leaning
against a boulder that jutted from the ground at an odd angle.
As I bit into a granola bar, a strange feeling of familiarity
hit me. This particular rock, angular
and leaning precariously as if it would topple under its own
weight, seemed strangely recognizable.
But that was impossible. I'd been ascending for hours,
and there had been no loop on the map.
I pulled out my compass, hoping for reassurance.
Instead, the needle spun lazily, drifting between random
directions before finally settling on South.
I turned, pointed it in various directions, walked several feet.
Nothing changed South every time.
What the hell? I muttered, anxiety creeping
into my chest. Magnetic interference from
mineral rich mountains was one thing, but a compass stuck
facing S no matter where I pointed.
It was alarming. Something wasn't right.
I fumble again with my GPS. Still no change in coordinates
or elevation. Frustrated, I rebooted it,
hoping it was just a software error.
When it came back online, my stomach nodded.
Same coordinates, same altitude, no change at all.
It was as though I hadn't moved in hours, despite knowing I'd
covered significant ground. I considered backtracking, but
when I turned around, the trail I just climbed seemed foreign
and vaguely menacing. An irrational unease settled
over me. I shook my head, annoyed at
myself for letting imagination take control.
This was still the CDT, a marked, mapped, and thoroughly
explored route. I was a rational, experienced
outdoorsman, not someone prone to panicking over minor
technical issues. Pushing forward seemed the best
choice. Eventually the Ridge would Crest
and I'd have a clear vantage point, so I pressed on.
The next few hours felt like a dream, or perhaps more
accurately, a nightmare. The terrain never changed
significantly despite my climbing.
Switchbacks became monotonous repetitions of themselves.
Trees, rocks, and the steepening path appeared identical to what
I'd already traversed. I placed deliberate markers
along the trail. Stones stacked conspicuously,
distinct pieces of brightly colored flagging tape wrapped
around branches. Yet no matter how far I climbed,
I seemed trapped in the same stretch of forest.
As evening approached, darkness seeped into the valley beneath
the thick branches, shadows spreading like ink.
A chill ran through me as I radioed the nearest Ranger
station. My voice was tight and measured,
masking the anxiety I felt. This is Aaron Miller, solo hiker
on the CDT South of Gibbons Pass.
I began. My coordinates aren't updating.
My GPS is frozen. Compass is acting erratically.
Elevation unchanged despite hiking steadily uphill.
I'm not sure what's happening, but I'm going to set up camp and
reassess in the morning. Static crackled back at me.
After an unsettling pause, a distant, slightly distorted
reply came through. Copy that.
Miller coordinates received signal clear.
Keep radio handy overnight. I made camp quickly, picking a
spot beside a familiar boulder. Despite my unease by firelight,
the rocks shadow stretched out, resembling something misshapen
and ominous. The forest around me was
strangely silent. No wind rustled the leaves, no
birds called. It felt unnatural, oppressive.
Just before I turned in, I radioed one more time, my voice
dropping to a tense whisper despite myself.
I don't know if you're hearing this clearly, but something
feels off. I'll check again.
At first light, I lay in my sleeping bag, staring at the
thin fabric of my tent, heart thrumming rapidly.
Rational explanation slipped away like sand through my
fingers. Tomorrow, I promised myself,
things would look clearer. They didn't.
I awoke to daylight filtering through the tent, dim and Gray.
It wasn't the crisp mountain morning I'd expected.
It felt diluted, washed out somehow.
I rolled over, checking my watch.
Just past nine, my phone, lying beside my sleeping bag, still
read 7:12 AM. Frozen like the GPSI sat up
quickly, a surge of nausea rising.
Outside the tent, the forest remained impossibly silent.
No rustling leaves, no bird calls, no distant trickle of
water. Only a heavy, unnatural quiet.
I stepped out carefully, half expecting the landscape to have
changed overnight. But the same cluster of large
trees stood watch, and that tilted boulder was still
positioned exactly as I'd seen it yesterday.
I moved toward the campfire ring I'd hastily constructed on a
patch of flat bedrock. Ashes lay cold, undisturbed.
I crouched, running my fingers through the remnants.
No heat, as if I hadn't built a fire at all.
Yet I clearly remembered the flames, the flickering warmth
that had briefly calmed my nerves.
Pulling my GPS from its holder, I stared at the screen, still
unchanged, still mocking me with impossible numbers.
I rebooted it again, desperate now.
When it returned, the coordinates were exactly the
same as before, unchanged since yesterday morning.
A rush of anger surged through me.
I tightened my grip until my knuckles whitened, resisting the
urge to smash it against the nearest rock.
I'll figure this out, I whispered to myself, barely
audible. Methodically, I packed camp,
placing trail cameras around the area as markers.
Each camera faced outward, programmed to record any
movement. If something strange was
happening here, I'd at least capture evidence of it.
Then, with forced confidence, I set off again.
I moved uphill cautiously, careful to observe every
feature, every twisted tree limb, every angular stone.
To mark my path, I tied strips of bright orange flagging tape
around branches every 50 yards or so, counting each step
deliberately. 100 yards, 205 hundred.
Yet the elevation felt stagnant. I could swear I was climbing.
My legs ached with the effort, but the view behind me didn't
match that effort. When I glanced backward, the
trail markers glowed neon bright against the shadowed forest
ahead. The landscape never shifted
significantly. My breathing quickened, anxiety
tightening my chest. After almost two hours, dread
settled over me like a heavy cloak.
Ahead, an orange flagging tape dangled limply from a branch,
fluttering faintly as if mocking my efforts.
It was my own tape. I recognized the sloppy knot I'd
hastily tied earlier. Somehow, despite careful
navigation and ascending steadily, I'd circled back to
the exact same place. I sat down hard on a fallen log,
pulse hammering in my ears. How is this even possible?
No mapped trail here formed such a perfect invisible loop.
I pulled out the map and unfolded it frantically, my
fingers trembling. The path was straightforward,
ascending clearly to a defined Ridge.
No loops, no intersections, nothing that explained this
impossible circuit. I'm stuck, I said aloud, my
voice sounding thin and distant in the unnatural silence.
Panic edged closer, like a predator pacing in the darkness.
I stood abruptly, determined to break the cycle.
Picking a new direction, I marched straight uphill,
ignoring the trail altogether, pushing through thick underbrush
and fallen logs. Branches clawed at my clothing,
scraped my face, but I pressed on.
After another half hour, relief swelled briefly in my chest.
I seem to be making real progress, finally breaking free.
But that relief was short lived. Ahead, the trees thinned
slightly. I stumbled into a small
clearing. My stomach lurched as I
recognized the angled boulder and the faint circle of ashes
from my morning fire. My campsite, exactly as I'd left
it hours earlier, greeted me silently, mocking my efforts.
A crushing despair settled in. This wasn't possible.
It couldn't be. The fading daylight cast
strange, elongated shadows across the campsite.
I sank down by the fire pit, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Then, somewhere behind me, a faint movement caught my eye.
My heart seized in my chest. I turned slowly, dread pooling
in my stomach. Far back among the trees, a
shape moved briefly, large, quick but utterly silent.
No sound of snapping twigs or brushing leaves accompanied it.
I squinted, trying to track it through the fading light, but
whatever it was had vanished as swiftly as it appeared.
I stepped closer, peering into the dimness.
Something deep in my bones warned me to turn away, to
retreat, to hide in my tent. Instead, I pressed forward,
desperate for answers. About 20 yards from camp, I
froze. A fallen log lay gouged by
massive claw marks, fresh, deep and disturbingly spaced.
No bear or Mountain Lion I knew could have left something like
this. Instinctively, I backed away,
returning quickly to my campsite.
I grabbed the radio, fumbling the controls as panic took hold.
This is Aaron Miller, can anyone hear me?
My voice shook uncontrollably. I'm trapped out here.
Something's wrong with the trail.
I keep looping. I, I'm being tracked by
something. Static crackled sharply, then
silence. Aaron Miller, repeat your
coordinates. A distant voice finally broke
through, distorted by static. We're trying.
The radio died abruptly, leaving nothing but the heavy silence
around me. My breathing came in ragged
gasps as darkness enveloped the forest completely.
I built another fire, hurriedly piling branches until flames
flickered high, casting shifting shadows across the campsite.
I took comfort in the illusion of safety it provided, though
deep down I knew it offered none.
Before crawling into my tent, I whispered into my trail camera,
desperation evident in my voice. If someone finds this, something
isn't right out here. I'm not alone.
I don't know what it is, but it knows I'm here.
I zipped my tent shut, clutching a knife tightly.
Sleep came reluctantly, plagued by strange half dreams of being
watched, haunted, and trapped in an endless loop.
When I awoke again, it was pitch black, and I knew instantly
something was standing just outside the tent.
My eyes snapped open in total darkness, heart hammering as
adrenaline surged through me. Outside the thin nylon walls of
my tent, something shifted slowly, weight pressing softly
against the ground, audible but unidentifiable.
I remained utterly still, barely breathing, every muscle rigid.
The cold grip of dread coiled around my spine as I strained to
pinpoint the location of the sound.
A faint scraping noise began, low, rhythmic, like stone
dragged slowly against stone. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Carefully, inch by inch, I reached toward the zipper of my
tent, my knife clutched so tightly my knuckles burned.
A thin slice of moonlight leaked through the opening,
illuminating the quiet forest beyond.
I edged closer, peering through the narrow slit.
Shadows played oddly across the familiar campsite, distorted by
faint moonlight. The fire I'd built earlier had
burned down to smoldering coals, But the sound, The scraping,
continued steadily just beyond my line of sight.
Forcing myself to move, I unzipped the tent slowly,
silently, and leaned forward just enough to look out.
At first, the darkness revealed nothing unusual.
Then my eyes adjusted, and I saw it.
Something large crouched low near the edge of my camp, barely
distinguishable from the night around it.
My breath caught sharply in my throat.
It wasn't shaped like any animal I knew.
Even crouched, it appeared unnaturally tall, long limbed
and emaciated. Its pale form was ghostly
against the shadows, hunched forward, elongated fingers
rhythmically gouging into solid stone.
My stomach tightened with nausea, the sound I'd heard.
It was digging effortlessly into bedrock, carving deep, clogged
grooves as though it were loose soil.
My breath shuddered as I eased backward into the tent, heart
pounding in pure terror. The creature paused abruptly,
its posture shifting slightly. My blood froze.
Had it heard me? Its head turned with unnatural
smoothness, revealing an elongated face marred by deep
hollows where eyes should have been.
Empty, cavernous sockets stared directly toward me, sensing,
knowing, though it had no eyes to see.
A strangled gasp escaped my lips before I could silence it.
In that instant, the creature lunged upright with unnatural
agility, towering far taller than I'd expected.
I scrambled backward, desperately kicking away from
the tents entrance. Panic blinded me as my hands
grasped wildly for anything to defend myself.
The thing's footsteps were silent, yet I felt its presence
closing in, heavy and overwhelming.
Frantically, I yanked open the back flap of my tent and
staggered out into the darkness behind me.
Abandoning gear, shelter, everything.
I sprinted wildly through dense underbrush, crashing blindly
through branches and brush. My lungs burned, breath ragged,
but terror pushed me forward. Suddenly, a jolt of recognition
and despair slammed through me. I burst through the trees,
stumbling into the clearing of my campsite again.
My feet slid to a halt, heart sinking.
I hadn't escaped. I'd looped right back.
The tent stood silent and empty, the smoldering fire ring casting
weak embers. But the creature was gone.
Only the freshly gouged stone marks remained deeper than
before, arranged like twisted handprints, clawing into the
earth itself. I staggered forward, legs weak,
head spinning. My mind screamed for logic, but
logic had no foothold here. Then a faint crackling noise
drew my attention. It came from the ground near the
fire pit, my trail camera blinking faintly, its battery
indicator nearly drained. Shaking, I lifted it, rewinding
to the last captured footage on the small, glowing screen.
My stomach turned cold. I saw myself sleeping next to
the dying fire. Then, slowly, from the darkness
behind the tent, the creature emerged.
Pale, gaunt, horrifyingly tall, it moved with alien grace.
The creature paused, looming over my sleeping form, head
tilted at an impossible angle. It seemed to study me.
No eyes, just those hollow sockets, mouth hanging slack.
Then the footage distorted, glitching wildly before cutting
to black. I dropped the camera, staggering
backward. There was no more denying it.
I was prey, trapped by something impossible in a place that
defied all understanding. Despair flooded through me,
limbs trembling, the reality crashing in that there might be
no escape from this loop. I retrieved my radio from the
tent floor, battery nearly drained, my fingers fumbling
desperately. Pressing the transmit button, I
spoke in a voice I barely recognized, raw pleading.
This is Aaron Miller. Please, I need help.
I can't escape. Something's here, something not
human. I'm trapped in a loop on the CDT
South of Gibbons Pass Coordinates frozen, Compass
useless. Please, someone.
Static crackled violently. For a brief second, a distorted
voice came through the interference.
Aaron, we hear you. Stay calm.
Sending then silence. Around me.
Darkness closed tighter. A faint scraping echoed through
the trees once more, growing closer.
Purposeful. It had returned.
It always would. With no other choice, I turned
and ran again, stumbling blindly through the darkened trees,
knowing deep down it wouldn't matter.
Whatever force had trapped me here had no intention of letting
me go. The forest stretched endlessly,
looping cruelly back upon itself.
As exhaustion overtook me, I realized the terrible truth.
I'd never leave this place and neither would anyone who
followed. I'd grown up fishing these
mountains, learning the winding streams and hidden hollers of
the Smokies from my dad long before he passed.
Now, at 32, these woods felt more like home than anywhere
else. More real, more truthful.
Ben, my best friend since elementary school, needed
something real, something true. His marriage had collapsed, his
career stalled, and the frantic pace of Knoxville life had
driven him to a place where he needed silence more than advice.
We'd chosen Hazel Creek, deep in the Great Smoky Mountains on the
Tennessee side, for two reasons. First, solitude.
Hazel Creek is remote, only accessible by canoe or a
grueling hike, shielded by a rugged, silent wilderness.
Second trout. I'd stumbled upon an old fly
fishing guidebook from the 80s at a flea market, its pages
brittle and yellowed. On a whim, I'd bought it for $3,
and in one of its margins, in faded ballpoint pen, were the
words unmarked runoff. Wild brookies.
Coldest water this side of hell. I'd never heard of it, but the
idea stuck. We paddled quietly across
Fontana Lake, our gear minimal and purposeful.
From the moment we hid the canoe among the Pines, the terrain
challenged us, unmarked and unkept.
The wilderness clawed at us with dense underbrush and tangled
rhododendrons, like hands determined to turn us away.
Ben struggled behind me, swatting at branches and cursing
softly, his frustration clear. Why not just fish Hazel Creek
itself? Ben finally grumbled.
It's right there. It's famous for trout, isn't it?
Famous trout. Mean fisherman, I replied,
stepping carefully over fallen logs.
This runoff isn't even named on newer maps.
We'll have it all to ourselves. He sighed heavily, but trudged
on. Eventually the land flattened
and threw a narrow break. In the thick woods, we saw water
glinting in the sun. The runoff was narrow, perhaps 6
feet wide, with a steady current trickling between rocks.
Despite its modest size, the water was shockingly cold,
clearer than glass, and nearly silent.
It ran perfectly straight through a shallow valley, as if
sliced by a giant's blade. Ben knelt to scoop a handful of
water, splashing his face. Jesus, he sputtered, shaking his
hands. It's like ice.
My eyes drifted to the shore. I paused.
Something wasn't right. A dead rabbit lay beside the
stream, eyes wide, fur untouched.
As I examined it closer, my pulse quickened.
Its body was strangely intact, almost peaceful.
But something crucial was missing.
Blood. No bite marks, no wounds, just
pale skin beneath the fur. A few yards upstream lay
another, A raccoon, then a squirrel, each drained the same
way. Ben approached, peering over my
shoulder. What happened to it?
I shook my head. I don't know, they all look like
this. We walked slowly upstream.
The trees pressed in tighter. The daylight faded into a muted
green. Beneath the thick canopy, the
air grew cooler, heavy and still.
Every animal we found lay bloodless and untouched by
scavengers or insects. I felt a creeping unease, like
something hidden had been disturbed by our intrusion.
This doesn't feel right. Ben whispered.
His face was pale now, eyes nervously darting to the shadows
beneath the trees. I didn't answer, pushing forward
stubbornly driven by an inexplicable urge to understand
what we'd stumbled upon. After another mile, the source
of the stream emerged abruptly ahead.
My breath caught. Embedded into the hillside stood
an unnatural concrete structure, a slab half covered by Moss and
dirt, anchored by twisted rebar rusted deep red from decades of
exposure. From beneath the structure
flowed the runoff, sliding through a thin horizontal gap
just above the ground. Ben's voice quivered, barely
above a whisper. Luke, what the hell is this
doing out here? I don't know, I murmured,
feeling the hair stand on my neck.
There aren't supposed to be buildings or dams this far into
the Backcountry. As the sun dipped lower, the
forest dimmed further, shadows growing longer, deeper.
The stillness intensified, oppressive and strange.
It wasn't merely quiet. It felt devoid of sound, as if
the woods themselves held their breath.
Ben shifted anxiously. We shouldn't camp near here.
Let's head downstream. I agreed, reluctantly, breaking
my gaze from the unsettling concrete wall.
We quickly set up camp 1/2 mile back beneath an overhang of rock
where the forest seems slightly less oppressive.
But even here the silence chased us, thickening as dusk settled
Into Darkness. As the fire crackled, Ben stared
nervously into the darkening woods, eyes reflecting the
flickering light. I keep thinking something's
moving out there, he whispered, shifting uncomfortably.
Just shadows, I replied, though I felt it too.
A constant silent pressure from the darkness beyond.
Sleep came fitfully disrupted by sudden jolts of awareness, ears
straining to hear what wasn't there deep into the night.
I woke suddenly, eyes snapping open above the gentle rustle of
wind. Something else hummed, A faint
mechanical vibration, steady and alien, echoing from upstream.
I sat motionless, heart hammering, listening until it
faded. Morning couldn't come soon
enough. Morning broke slowly, and
despite the weak daylight filtering through the dense
canopy overhead, the chill remained stubbornly in the air.
I woke to Ben, already awake, staring silently upstream, eyes
tired and dark ringed. You heard it too, didn't you?
He asked without turning toward me.
That humming sound, I stretched, stiff limbs shaking off uneasy
dreams. Yeah, I couldn't tell where it
was coming from. We packed quickly and
wordlessly, each eager to move and dispel the uneasy quiet that
still clung to the forest. The runoff stream guided our
path, its waters whispering over stones clearer and colder with
each step we took. Upstream.
The animal remains persisted. Birds.
Another rabbit, each as bloodless and untouched as the
last. The site never became easier.
My stomach churned uneasily, my mind desperate for rational
explanations. Finally, the stream narrowed
abruptly, flanked by steep rock faces tangled with roots and
Moss. Around the next bend, I froze.
Built into the side of the ravine was a stark, unnatural
concrete structure, looming silently like some forgotten
relic from a war long past. Rusted iron bars jutted from the
stone, bent and twisted, sealing whatever lay within.
The runoff trickled steadily from a narrow horizontal opening
beneath the wall. Ben stood beside me, mouth
slightly open, eyes wide. What is this, Luke?
I shook my head slowly, trying to fit this into what I knew of
the mountains. I've never heard of anything
like this being out here, not on any maps I've seen.
Cautiously, we stepped closer. My heart thumped heavily in my
chest. The structure was massive, solid
concrete, weather stained and partly covered by Moss.
Decades old, at least. A faint mechanical hum drifted
from somewhere inside, stronger now, vibrating gently through
the soles of my boots. Maybe an old dam or some kind of
waterworks? Ben suggested nervously, but the
words felt thin, inadequate. I circled the structure,
searching for a clue. Nearby trees bare of bark stood
silently, stripped smooth as bone amid thick brush.
At the edge of the clearing, something metallic caught my
eye. I stepped closer, brushing aside
vines and dirt to reveal a rusted steel hatch half buried
beneath soil and vegetation. Faded letters stenciled onto its
surface read USGS authorized personnel only.
Ben peered over my shoulder, reading aloud quietly.
US Geological Survey. What would they have done out
here? I shrugged uncertainly.
Monitoring. Maybe some old research station
or something. Abandoned.
Ben knelt and tested the Hatch handle cautiously.
It moves slightly, the ancient hinges squealing in protest.
Ben, I don't think, but he'd already wrenched the Hatch open
fully, revealing a steel rung ladder descending into absolute
darkness. Cold air flowed upward, carrying
a damp metallic odor. I'll just take a quick look.
He said hurriedly, pulling his headlamp from his pack and
clicking it on. Ben, wait, we don't know what's
down there. He waved off my concern
impatiently. I'll be back in 10 minutes, just
want to see. Before I could object again, he
swung himself onto the ladder and descended into the
blackness, his light fading quickly as he dropped down rung
by rung. A sense of dread rose steadily
in my gut as his steps echoed, then gradually fell silent. 10
minutes passed, then 20, then I called down the Hatch.
My voice bounced hollowly against unseen walls.
No answer came. The humming suddenly stopped,
the forest falling utterly silent.
I strained my ears into the silence below, listening.
A sound scraped briefly, like fingernails against concrete,
quick and sharp. Then silence again.
I knelt, peering into the darkness, heart racing.
Ben, answer me, man. Nothing.
Just the gaping, empty dark. An hour passed, panic now
clawing at my nerves. I debated following him, but
hesitated. The darkness below felt thick,
unnatural. Every instinct screamed at me to
stay put. I paced helplessly, heart
pounding, searching the clearing for any sign of Ben, praying
he'd emerge, smiling, joking about getting lost.
But he never did. As night began to fall again, my
anxiety deepened into despair. I built a fire next to the
Hatch, desperate for its small circle of flickering light.
Shadows danced wildly around the clearing, deepening the darkness
beyond. From the corner of my eye, a
flash of color broke through the gloom.
I turned sharply, squinting into the woods.
Far off between trees, a strange red glow flickered, moving
slightly, wavering like a distant Lantern.
Every hair on my neck rose. Ben.
I called weakly, but I knew immediately it wasn't him.
The glow hovered a few moments longer before blinking out
suddenly, plunging the forest back into total darkness.
My heart thundered as I retreated closer to the fire,
shivering not from the cold, but from dread.
Something watched me from the shadows, unseen but undeniably
present. All I could do was sit
vigilantly by the fire, eyes fixed upon the open hatch,
listening as the silence stretched endlessly into the
night. Dawn arrived, cold and muted,
slipping into the forest without fanfare.
I had barely slept, half dozing in fits by the dying embers, my
eyes fixed anxiously on the open hatch.
Every minute felt like an hour. Every hour felt like eternity.
Ben had vanished without a trace, leaving only unanswered
questions echoing inside that concrete darkness.
Desperation overcame my fear as daylight strengthened.
Ignoring the scream of instinct in my head, I gripped my
flashlight tightly and leaned cautiously over the edge of the
Hatch. The latter descended into black
water, flooding the space that had been empty just hours
before. My stomach turned sharply.
There had been no rain, no sound of flooding overnight.
Ben. My voice broke as it echoed down
into the water logged void. I climbed down to Rungs, holding
my breath, shining the flashlight into the murky
depths. There was nothing but dark
water, stagnant and cold. The surface still is glass.
I reached out, brushing my fingers against it.
Immediately, a cold shock jolted through my body, intense enough
to wrench a startled cry from my throat.
Panicking, I nearly lost my grip on the ladder, scrambling
desperately back up until I was safely above ground again.
Staring numbly at the Hatch, I knew something was profoundly
wrong, Unnatural. I moved instinctively upstream,
half running, half stumbling, seeking clarity or a source, or
just an escape. But the runoff abruptly stopped.
No spring, no Creek, no source. The stream bed simply ended, dry
as bones at a flat stone basin. My mind raced.
None of this made sense, geologically or practically.
The water simply appeared beneath that concrete wall.
No rational explanation fit. I felt sick.
Disoriented, I retreated downstream, but the woods
quickly became unfamiliar. Paths I was sure I'd traveled
turned unfamiliar and confusing. Hours passed.
The sun rose higher, scorching now as if mocking the earlier
cold. My head spun from thirst and
exhaustion, lips cracking painfully.
Night crept in mercilessly, settling over the forest once
more. I tried to build another fire,
hands trembling uncontrollably, but managed only the smallest
flame. I huddled close, shivering,
feeling vulnerable beneath endless dark branches.
Hours crawled by, paranoia setting in, eyes darting toward
every rustle and snap from the forest around me.
Then came a distinct sound, a dragging, stumbling noise, slow
and deliberate. My breath halted, heart thudding
painfully. From the gloom.
A figure appeared, pale moonlight illuminating just
enough to recognize a familiar shape.
Then my voice cracked again, tentative, almost pleading.
He walked stiffly, unnaturally upright, face vacant and pale,
eyes staring forward blankly. Seeing nothing, I stumbled back
in horror as he drew closer, feet dragging limply.
His mouth hung slightly open, dried blood crusted around
cracked lips. He looked drained, hollow, a
twisted imitation of my friend Ben.
I shouted desperately, hoping somehow to break him free of
whatever terrible trance held him captive.
He halted sharply, head tilting slightly as if listening to
something distant. Then, without warning, he turned
sharply away, disappearing silently into the darkness
Again. Terror surged through me.
Without thinking, I bolted blindly through the trees,
fleeing from whatever he'd become.
Branches tore my clothes and scratched my skin raw.
My ankle twisted painfully, sending me sprawling face first
into a bed of pine needles. Pain exploded up my leg.
Whimpering, I dragged myself beneath a thick Bush, lungs
heaving, heart hammering painfully.
Minutes blurred into hours as I lay hidden, terrified to move,
listening desperately for signs of pursuit.
Mourning found me dehydrated and disoriented.
The next days blurred together, wandering, staggering aimlessly,
hallucinating vividly from hunger and thirst.
Faces appeared in shadows, whispers floated from nowhere.
My sense of time and place fractured.
Somehow. After days I couldn't count, I
stumbled out onto the rocky shoreline of Fontana Lake.
Sunlight stabbed painfully into my eyes as voices called to me
urgently, the world spinning into incoherence as I collapsed
onto sharp stones. When consciousness returned, I
lay in a sterile hospital room, fluorescent lights buzzing
overhead, harsh and disorienting.
Doctors hovered, asking questions I couldn't answer.
Words tangled in my throat, too large, too painful to utter.
My tongue felt thick, my voice lost in that dark void below
ground. Eventually, someone pressed a
small pad of paper into my trembling hands, urging me
gently to write, to say something, anything.
My hand shook violently as I gripped the pen.
The image of Ben's empty, pale face burned deeply into my mind.
I stared helplessly at the paper, heart clenching
painfully. With great effort, I scrawled
one single trembling word. Drained, The nurses exchanged
nervous glances, whispering quietly.
Later, Rangers visited their questions, careful, probing.
They claim no structure existed where I described no hatch, no
runoff. Like I remembered.
They seemed uneasy, hesitant, as though my memories frighten
them. Late at night in my hospital
bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, I knew with chilling
certainty they'd never find Ben or understand what we'd
uncovered. I couldn't explain it, even to
myself. Only the emptiness remained deep
and cold inside me, a wound I feared would never heal.
And as I drifted into restless sleep, I felt an irresistible
pull toward the runoff, toward that unnatural darkness beneath
the Smoky Mountains, knowing somewhere deep inside, it wasn't
done with me yet. I've spent most of my life
wandering these forests. The Allegheny National Forest,
sprawling along the Pennsylvania New York border, has been my
backyard playground and hunting ground for as long as I can
remember. My name is Cal Mayfield, and
alongside my closest friend John Hart, I've mapped just about
every Deer Trail, fishing hole, and hidden hollow tucked among
these thick woods. John's always been the cautious
one, the guy who double check maps before heading out and pack
extra batteries every time. I tended to wing it more often
than not, relying on instinct and stubbornness to see us
through. In late October, just a week
after an unusually fierce storm had ripped through the forest,
John and I decided to scout a new deer hunting spot near
Minister Creek. Branches and trunks littered the
ground, making old trails nearly impassable.
We've been at it all morning, fighting through briars and
waist high undergrowth to map out alternative routes.
Cal, check this out. John knelt beside a gnarled
spruce, pulling away a thick layer of Moss and decaying
leaves. I stepped closer, squinting at
the rusted corner of something metal jutting from the forest
floor. Together, we scraped away years
of damp debris. My fingertips scraped against
cold steel, dislodging a clump of soil that revealed faded
lettering. US Forest quarantine zone
established 1962. Do not enter.
John frowned, running a hand over the signs.
Corroded surface. Ever heard of this?
I shook my head, scanning the woods around us.
The silence pressed heavily on my ears.
Nothing, not even old maps ever mentioned this.
Digging deeper, we uncovered 2 more identical signs, each
equally weathered. They had bolt holes punched
through the metal, as though they'd once hung prominently
from a fence or post. Cold War era, maybe?
John said, his voice low. A testing site or Fallout
Shelter. I've read about weird military
installations tucked away up here.
I shrugged, but a strange discomfort crawled beneath my
skin. Doesn't explain why nobody ever
talked about it. Folks around here usually gossip
about every old cabin or still site.
Think we should look further down?
John asked, glancing toward a shallow depression ahead of us.
I hesitated, then nodded. Curiosity was always my
weakness. We slid cautiously into the
gully, damp earth slipping beneath our boots.
It wasn't long before we stumbled onto the remnants of an
old service road, now fully reclaimed by brush.
We followed it downward, branches clawing at our sleeves
until we reached the hollows floor.
A head, partially obscured by Ivy and Moss, loomed A collapsed
tunnel mouth. It's concrete archway sagged
inward, blocked by debris and twisted lengths of iron grating.
Thick iron chains hung from rotting wooden posts nearby,
their rusted links ending in sturdy loops like restraints or
anchors. John kneeled, examining the
chains. Who the hell locks up a tunnel
this thoroughly? Unless they're trying to keep
something inside. I didn't have an answer.
Stepping closer, I peered into the darkness beyond the
collapsed entrance. The air smelled stale, tinged
with iron and mildew, heavy enough to make breathing
uncomfortable. My gut tightened inexplicably.
I don't like this, John said quietly, shining his flashlight
into the debris filled gap. Feels wrong.
As if in response, somewhere in the forest behind us, a dog
barked sharply. John startled, turning quickly.
You hear that? I nodded slowly, straining my
ears. The sound echoed faintly through
the hollow, a frantic yelping, short bursts separated by
uncomfortable pauses. But the echoes didn't seem
natural. They lingered strangely, never
fading or shifting position, trapped somewhere between trees
and stones. Sounds lost.
John whispered. Maybe a coyote?
I offered. But we both knew that wasn't
quite right. Coyotes howled, whimpered.
This barking felt mechanical, repetitive.
John glanced nervously back at the tunnel.
We've marked the spot on GPS. Let's head out.
Maybe come back better prepared tomorrow.
I didn't argue. The hollows, unnatural, quiet,
unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
We climbed back up the steep bank, neither speaking much.
I could feel John's unease as strongly as my own.
That night at camp, miles from the hollow, we huddled closer to
our small fire. Neither of us felt like talking.
The image of those quarantine signs, rusted warnings buried
and forgotten, nagged at me like an itch.
Just before midnight, as the forest pressed close around our
camp, the distant barking drifted faintly through the
trees once again. It was no closer than before,
yet it was clear and sharp, as if we hadn't moved at all.
John met my eyes, his expression haunted.
Neither of us voiced the thought that passed silently between us.
Whatever had happened in Warden's Hollow in 1962, we just
stumbled into something that was meant to stay buried.
Morning came slowly, Gray and heavy.
Sleep had avoided me for most of the night, and when I woke to
the pale dawn filtering weekly through the canvas tent walls,
John was already sitting up, pouring over an old forestry
map. Shadows ringed his eyes.
We've got to go back. John muttered without looking
up. He was tracing a finger along
faded lines, his other hand holding the rusted quarantine
sign we'd brought back. I couldn't find anything about
that place online, not even a passing mention.
I groaned softly and pushed myself upright, stretching
stiffly. Feels like maybe there's a
reason it was buried and forgotten, John.
He glanced sharply at me. Exactly.
That's why I need to know what they were hiding.
Reluctantly, I agreed. John was rarely reckless, so his
quiet urgency unnerved me even more.
Within an hour, we'd packed flashlights, ropes, spare
batteries and an air quality sensor John had borrowed years
ago from a mine safety course. He'd always insisted on being
prepared for any situation. This time, I was thankful for
his caution. The air felt colder as we
returned to Warden's Hollow. Fog settled thickly along the
gullies floor, making the twisted iron chains around the
tunnel look even more sinister. John approached the entrance
slowly, carefully probing the air inside the gap with the
sensor. He squinted at the dial and
shook his head. It's stale down there.
John said softly. But it's breathable, just not
for long periods. Let's make it quick.
I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
We crawled through the partially collapsed entrance, debris
scraping against our backs. A sense of entrapment tightened
in my chest until the tunnel opened slightly, allowing us to
stand hunched beneath cracked concrete arches.
My flashlight beam cut weakly through the gloom, illuminating
a side passage carved roughly into the Stonewall.
John edged forward 1st and I followed closely, my heart
hammering unevenly. Inside, old military crates lay
scattered, their wooden frames splintered and rotting.
Nearby, rusted oxygen tanks lay clustered, many dented as if
thrown aside in haste. A pile of twisted metal frames
resembling cots sat slumped against one wall.
This place looks like it was abandoned in a hurry.
John whispered. He lifted the air sensor again,
checking the dial nervously. 15 minutes, tops, then we're out.
I nodded, tension tightening my jaw.
At the passage's end was a junction room lined with metal
lockers, their doors hanging ajar or fallen entirely off
their hinges. John moved carefully toward 1,
still upright. He's shown his flashlight into
it, then reached inside slowly. Jesus, he breathed, lifting out
a cracked and deteriorating gas mask.
Behind it was a damp clipboard, pages stuck together from water
damage and age. Carefully, he peeled a sheet
loose. He read aloud, voice hushed,
tense. Specimens still viable.
No breach since 9/14. Rangers rotated monthly.
Do not exceed 20 minutes outside airlock.
My mouth went dry. Specimens.
John's flashlight moved restlessly, illuminating a dark
opening in the corner of the junction room.
It was narrow, smooth edged, and angled sharply downward, almost
like a chute or ventilation shaft.
It wasn't built with concrete or steel.
It looked as if it had been burrowed or melted directly into
the rock. I approached hesitantly, peering
down. The darkness felt bottomless,
oppressive. Then I heard it, soft at first,
rhythmic, scraping deep within. It echoed up faintly, the
distant sound of metal dragging slowly across stone, deliberate
and unceasing. Did you hear that?
John's voice was strained, his flashlight trembling slightly.
I nodded slowly. Let's go, we've seen enough.
John didn't argue. As we turned back, I caught
something else in my flashlight's beam.
Small boot prints etched freshly into the dirt beside us.
Narrow, delicate prints like those of a child, leading
directly toward the shaft we just investigated.
John noticed them too, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Those weren't here when we came in, He whispered harshly.
Move. I urged, voice cracking.
Panic edged into my bones as we stumbled hurriedly through the
debris filled passage. Every step toward the tunnel
mouth felt impossibly slow. Behind us, I imagined something
unseen rising silently from that dark shaft, following quietly.
We burst into open air, gasping, sucking in clean breaths.
The sky was overcast, the afternoon oddly quiet.
John leaned forward, hands on his knees, struggling to steady
his breathing. Specimens.
John repeated numbly, staring blankly toward the gaping mouth
of the tunnel. They kept something locked down
there. The forest around us stayed
silent, a heavy, unnatural hush blanketing the hollow.
I shuddered involuntarily. We report it, I finally managed,
gripping John's shoulder. We'll head out at first light
tomorrow and tell someone at the Ranger station.
John didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the
dark entrance behind us, lost in thought as we climbed back to
camp. Dusk seeped into the forest,
shadows growing long and tangled.
By nightfall, John was mumbling quietly to himself by the
campfire, endlessly flipping through the damp clipboard
pages, eyes wild. I lay awake, staring into the
blackness of the tent, feeling a creeping certainty that we had
disturbed something long forgotten and deliberately
buried, and that John might not let it rest until he knew
exactly what it was. I jolted awake to cold morning
light filtering through the tent.
A chill prickled down my spine when I realized I was alone.
John's sleeping bag lay crumpled, his gear neatly
stacked in the corner, but John himself was gone.
My gut twisted painfully. Something felt deeply wrong.
Scrambling outside, I called John's name into the crisp dawn
air. Only silence answered.
My heart began racing as I glanced around frantically.
His shotgun was missing, along with his headlamp.
Dread gripped me. I knew immediately where he'd
gone. In desperation, I dialed the
Ranger station. A sleepy voice answered, bored
until I mentioned the quarantine signs in the hollow.
Suddenly, the line crackled strangely, then went silent.
Hello. I shouted into the phone.
Nothing but dead air. Panic surged.
Without thinking further, I grabbed my pistol, extra
batteries, and a handful of flares, then race down the slope
toward Warden's Hollow. The forest seemed to close in
around me as I approached the collapsed tunnel entrance.
John's headlamp lay abandoned just inside the gap still lit,
pointing directly into the suffocating darkness.
My breath caught, heart hammering.
John. I shouted.
Only echoes returned. Ignoring every screaming
instinct, I crawled inside, flashlight shaking in my grip.
The tunnel stretched deeper than I remembered, less obstructed.
Soon I was standing beneath cracked concrete arches, their
surfaces slick with moisture. Footprints.
Drag marks scuffed along the dirt floor, vanishing into the
shadowed corridor ahead. My throat tightened.
I had no choice but to follow. After a few careful steps, I
noticed the walls changing. Rusted rebar jutted outward,
bent strangely, while overhead ancient ductwork snaked through
the gloom. My pulse quickened as the
corridor opened into a larger chamber.
The room was lined with rusted medical equipment.
Broken monitors lay toppled, glass shattered across damp
stone. Along one wall, a shattered
observation window stared blankly into an empty space
beyond. Opposite were several heavy
containment doors, each marked with faded, torn yellow tags,
impossible to read clearly in the weak light.
John. I whispered, barely able to
speak. The air felt heavier, colder
here, thick with decades of stale decay.
A sound behind me, a faint shuffle snapped my head around.
Fear surged, hot and bitter, as I swung my flashlight toward a
narrow passage I'd overlooked. Footsteps padded softly along
stone, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of breath
filtering through masks. My blood turned to ice.
At the passage's edge, figures emerged, stiff, motionless
silhouettes in ancient military fatigues, their faces hidden
behind cracked, dirt stained gas masks.
They stood rigidly, staring in unison, head slowly turning
toward me in perfect mechanical synchronicity.
I stumbled backward, Panic overwhelming reason.
Desperation gripped me as I darted into a small side room,
slamming shut a rusted metal door.
My breath came in ragged gasps. Turning sharply, I saw John
slumped against a wall, his face pale, eyes staring blankly
ahead. John.
I rushed to him, gripping his shoulder.
He barely registered my touch, whispering incoherently.
They were never allowed to leave Cal, He rasped weakly.
His eyes flickered with frightened clarity.
They don't breathe air like we do.
They need us down here. A loud pounding echoed suddenly
against the door, shaking it violently.
My heart seized in terror. They were trying to get inside.
Come on, I yelled, dragging John upright.
He stumbled, nearly collapsing again, but adrenaline lent me
strength. Supporting him, I wrenched open
another door, escaping down a side passage I prayed would lead
out. The tunnel narrowed sharply,
oppressive stone pressing close. I half carried, half dragged
John toward a faint glow ahead. We burst outside just as dawn
bled weakly through clouds. Gasping, lungs heaving, we fell
onto damp grass. Behind us, the tunnel lay silent
and dark, exuding menace. The forest remained utterly
still, it's unnatural quiet returning immediately.
John lay trembling, staring blankly at the pale sky.
He murmured softly, lost in nightmares I couldn't see.
Two days later, after leaving John safely in the hands of
emergency responders, I returned with a team of forest Rangers.
But the hollow was unrecognizable.
The tunnel was gone, collapsed completely, buried beneath fresh
dirt and rock. The rusted quarantine signs had
vanished. Even my GPS marker had somehow
been erased, leaving no trace the place had ever existed.
When I asked 1 Ranger about the quarantine zone, he hesitated,
eyes clouded with unease. That part of the forest, he said
quietly, glancing away. It's always been off the record.
Some places are better left unremembered.
That night, alone at our campfire, I threw the faded maps
and my hunting logbook into the flames, determined to erase the
memory myself. But as the papers turned to ash,
something metallic glinted among the embers.
Reaching carefully into the cooling ash, I lifted out a
small, rusted key. My stomach twisted as I read the
inscription. Wardens, Access Zone B, staring
numbly at the key. I knew the forest would keep its
secrets, and now I was part of them.
My name is Derek Hanley and I've been working wildfires for over
15 years, long enough that the scent of scorched pine and hot
ash lingers permanently in my memory.
When lightning storms rolled across the San Juan Mountains
near Telluride, sparking small, manageable blazes, I figured it
would be routine work. Mop up operations, containment
sweeps, making sure nothing reignited.
The usual predictable stuff. Exactly how I liked it.
We just finished containing the main blaze near Trout Lake, and
we're on a mop up patrol near Black Ridge when dispatch
radioed a standard Recon task. But nothing's ever routine in
places like these, not really. By early afternoon, my crew had
split up to cover more ground, and I was alone, picking my way
through charred brush on a densely wooded ridgeline.
The fire had passed through, yet the air felt heavy and damp
instead of hot and dry, strangely cooler than it should
have been. Something about the wind felt
off too, swirling unpredictably, drawing smoke uphill instead of
letting it disperse naturally. Curiosity nudged me to follow
the odd smoke flow higher. Cresting the Ridge, I saw a
cluster of structures below, tucked beneath dense spruce and
pine. The forest here should have been
scorched to sticks, but the trees surrounding these
buildings stood untouched by flames.
It was unnatural. The blackened earth abruptly
ended a few feet from wooden cabins and a central lodge, all
perfectly intact. Ash drifted lazily downward,
like Gray snowflakes settling in silence.
There were no signs or trail markers leading into this camp,
just the remains of an old wooden gate.
My gut tightened. Camps in these mountains were
logged with the Forest Service for emergencies and fire
prevention, but I knew every registered site in this region.
This wasn't one of them. I approached cautiously, boots
crunching ash under foot. The cabins looked old, untouched
by modern maintenance, yet sturdy, as if the fire had
avoided this place intentionally.
It made no sense. Wildfires don't discriminate.
A faded wooden plaque hung above the largest buildings entrance,
Camp Black Ridge. The paint peeled away, weathered
and forgotten. Pushing open the lodge door, I
stepped inside, instantly greeted by the stale scent of
musty canvas, wood smoke, and something faintly sour.
Sunlight filtered through ash dimmed windows, revealing a room
arranged as a dining hall, tables and chairs neatly aligned
as if campers might file in at any moment for lunch.
Children's drawings were still pinned to the far wall,
fluttering gently as I passed. Yellowed paper curled at the
edges, scribbled pictures of mountains, stick figure campers,
and bright, smiling Suns. Then my eyes settled on one
picture set apart from the rest. It was crudely drawn by a
child's unsure hand, a bear engulfed in flames, orange and
red scribbles encircling its body.
But the eyes unsettled me most. They weren't animalize, They
were human, staring out with startling realism.
They look directly at whoever observed the drawing, as if
trying to communicate something unspoken.
The hair on my arms rose, a chill tracing down my spine.
I turned quickly, scanning the room as a creeping unease
settled over me. Everything felt wrong.
The place was like a snapshot, frozen in time, waiting.
Unnerved, I reached for my radio.
Dispatch, this is Hanley on Black Ridge.
I found some kind of abandoned camp here.
No fire damage to structures, but the location wasn't marked
on our maps. Looks untouched.
Static crackled before the dispatcher's voice emerged,
hesitant and unusually tense. Repeat your location.
Camp Black Ridge, West side of the Ridge near Trout Lake.
It's intact, but looks like it's been abandoned for decades.
Any records on this place? Silence stretched uncomfortably.
Just as I was about to repeat myself, the voice returned,
cautious. Hanley confirm again, Black
Ridge confirmed dispatch. Black Ridge names on the lodge
here. Another pause, longer this time,
as if a conversation happened far from the Mike.
When the dispatcher spoke again, their voice was low, almost
hesitant. Hanley, we've, we've warned
teams not to go near that Ridge since the late 1980s.
I stared at the radio, baffled, warned.
Why was this area quarantined? Again, silence.
Then static filled my ears, layered thickly, drowning out
the dispatcher's voice. Beneath it, barely audible but
clear enough, I heard what sounded like choking, coughing,
strained, raw. Then it cut off completely.
Dispatch, I said sharply. Can you repeat?
No answer. Suddenly, the Lodge felt
tighter, the dimness oppressive. I turned to head back outside,
intending to regroup with my crew, when I caught movement in
my peripheral vision, a brief flicker near the window.
I turned sharply. Nothing.
But the shadows outside seemed to shift subtly, whispering
between the untouched trees. Anxiety tightened my chest.
I hurried back toward the trail I had followed in, but froze.
At the edge of the camp. The path was gone.
Before me, there was only dense, unburned forest where charred
ground should have been. I spun around, searching
desperately for the trail I knew I'd taken, but it had vanished
as completely as if it had never existed.
The air was too still, the silence profound, broken only by
my own heavy breathing. Joe, Mike, anybody copy?
My voice echoed uselessly through the trees.
The radio crackled, still transmitting only faint static
and the occasional cough. I stared helplessly at the
forest surrounding Camp Black Ridge, swallowing down my rising
panic. There had to be a rational
explanation, There always was. But logic faltered here in the
cold quiet beneath the ashes, where something long forgotten
had started to wake. I stood frozen at the edge of
Camp Black Ridge, staring into the trees where my trail should
have been. Every instinct screamed at me to
stay calm, to breathe and reassess.
But the landscape had betrayed me entirely, shifted into
something unrecognizable. The scorched earth I'd walked
through minutes ago was lush, thick with untouched trees and
tangled undergrowth. Nothing made sense.
Shaking myself loose from paralysis, I pulled out my GPS,
desperate for some tangible anchor to reality.
The coordinates were stuck, numbers frozen in place as
though etched permanently onto the screen.
I tapped it harder, panic creeping into my chest, but the
digital numbers remained unchanged, mocking my disbelief.
My compass spun slowly in my palm, indifferent to direction.
N became SE rotated lazily to West, the needle wobbling as if
magnetized by something invisible nearby.
I checked my watch. 3:12 PM. But shadows were deepening too
quickly, the daylight retreating faster than nature allowed.
I needed another route, another landmark, anything to ground
myself. The camp seemed to be drawing me
inward, though every bone in my body resisted going back.
Still, curiosity pulled me back toward the cabins.
Maybe I'd missed something, some clue to my situation, something
logical. Near the edge of the largest
cabin, an old clipboard hung crookedly from a rusted nail,
faded paper curling at the edges.
I lifted it carefully, the yellowed sheet dated and faded
blue ink. July 1987.
A roster of children's names filled the paper, each neatly
handwritten in shaky script. Halfway down the list, one name
was violently scratched out over and over, nearly tearing through
the page. Colby.
My pulse quickened. Colby.
Something about the repeated destruction of the name felt
deeply personal, angry, disturbed.
I set the clipboard down, turning toward a nearby cabin
labeled Counselors. The door creaked open, hinges
protesting sharply. Inside, the cabin was small,
cramped. A dusty mattress sagged against
the far wall. I spotted an old journal
discarded on a makeshift shelf, its cover cracked and brittle.
Flipping through brittle pages, I paused at an entry mark.
July 16th, 1987. Ink smudged by hurried
handwriting. More kids missing today.
It started when Colby began feeding that bear.
We told him to stop, but he insists the bear talks to him.
He says it knows things. The kids believe him.
They're curious. But the bear, it's not right.
Something's changed out there. I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
Suddenly, the absurdity of being trapped here felt darker, more
dangerous. Behind me, somewhere outside the
cabin, faint laughter drifted in a child's high, ringing laugh,
playful yet distant. I move swiftly toward the sound,
stepping outside, pulse drumming in my ears.
Footprints, small, barefoot, appeared in the thin layer of
ash leading away from the cabins toward a shack I'd not noticed
before, nestled further back under thick trees.
The laughter had stopped. I approached cautiously, my
boots crunching softly. The shack was crude, wooden
planks hastily nailed together, the door ajar.
Inside, the air smelled stale, heavy with decay.
Dozens of teddy bears sat arranged neatly in a circle on
the floor. Soot covered their button eyes,
dull and unblinking. They surrounded a dark hole in
the wooden planks, gaping downward into the earth.
My breath quickened. Near the edge, I spotted a faded
Polaroid, curled and half melted.
Children sat smiling in this exact shack, clutching those
same bears. One face centered, had eyes
scratched out violently, revealing rough white paper
beneath. I leaned closer, heart thudding.
Then, from beneath the shack came a low growl, slow and wet,
a guttural sound resonating through the planks.
Something large stirred, breathing heavily, labored and
moist, as though struggling through fluid filled lungs.
My blood ran cold. I stumbled backward, nearly
falling over a pile of burned wood stacked by the entrance.
Fear surged, primal and raw, bursting out into the open
again. I raced toward higher ground,
away from that shack and whatever lingered below it.
My breath tore at my throat as I climbed, desperately seeking
clarity or escape. When I finally risked a glance
back, a figure moved at the camp's edge, a shape that
chilled me to the bone. It stood partially hidden by the
shadows of spruce branches, silhouetted and motionless at
first glance. A bear, I thought at first, but
it wasn't right. Its limbs were elongated,
awkwardly proportioned. Patches of its fur were missing,
revealing burned flesh beneath, raw and modeled.
And the eyes, those horrible human like eyes, watched me with
a dreadful intelligence. The creature took a slow step
forward, upright, it stance disturbingly human, another step
shambling stiffly toward me, arms hanging limp, long and thin
at its sides. I dove behind a tree, heart
pounding in my ears, pulse frantic.
I waited, pressed against rough bark, praying for silence,
forcing myself to slow my ragged breathing.
The minutes stretched painfully. When I finally risked another
glance, the creature was gone. But darkness had swallowed the
valley, and down at Camp Black Ridge, faint flickers of orange
light danced from cabin windows, as though lanterns had been lit
by invisible hands. My chest heaved.
Shadows shifted between the trees, amorphous shapes drifting
silently, purposefully behind me, close enough to feel breath
on my neck. A familiar voice whispered
hoarsely, unmistakably my teammate Joe's voice.
Derek. I spun, stumbling backward,
ready to shout with relief, but the darkness stared emptily back
at me. Joe nowhere to be seen.
Only fresh footprints in the ash, small and bare, LED
silently away into the trees. And again I was alone.
My watch read past midnight, the glowing digital numbers a pale
beacon in the oppressive darkness.
I hadn't slept, couldn't sleep. Not here, not now.
My throat felt raw, parched from hours of shallow breaths and
whispered curses. I'd ration the last of my water,
sipping sparingly as the shadows thickened around me.
I was exhausted, nerves frayed, senses heightened to every
rustle and snap of twigs in the blackness.
Desperate to ground myself in some semblance of reality, I
stumbled back down toward the old dock area, hoping for a
clearer route back to familiar terrain.
Near the collapsed dock, something caught my eye, a
rusted metal sign partially buried beneath rotted timber and
ash. Kneeling down, I scraped away
dirt with trembling fingers. The faded lettering emerged like
an accusation. US Forest Quarantine Area, July
1987. A chill crept up my spine.
Quarantine. There had been no records of any
quarantine in these mountains, not officially.
Yet here it was, stark and undeniable.
Someone had buried this place, deliberately, kept it hidden.
Why? Dragging myself upright, I
turned toward the nearest cabin. Perhaps answers lay somewhere
inside. Anything to unravel this
madness. Pushing open the swollen door,
hinges creaking, I stepped cautiously into a dusty
interior. In the corner was an old
footlocker, its latch rusted but unlocked.
My pulse quickened. Lifting the heavy lid, I peered
inside. There were three VHS tapes,
labeled neatly in faded ink, Feeding one, Feeding 2 and shut
down. Beside them lay an ID card in a
cracked plastic sleeve. I held it closer to my
flashlight, my breath hitching as I read the name.
Supervisor Richard McAllister, US Forest Service, missing, July
1987. My gut tightened, nausea rising.
This place had taken people before.
I shoved the card into my pocket, grabbing the tapes as
evidence, though they felt useless without a way to view
them. I moved swiftly back outside,
the cool night air only slightly easing my tension.
Then my radio crackled softly from its holster, startling me.
I hurriedly pulled it out, adjusting the knob, hopeful for
clarity. Dispatch, this is Hanley.
Do you copy? Please confirm.
The static surged, replaced by a strange modulation, tones
shifting slowly, methodically. Then a distorted voice, strained
and deliberate, emerge from the static.
Return to line. Do not acknowledge them, do not
follow. I stared, dumbfounded at the
radio, the transmission fading back into silence before I could
respond. Movement caught my attention, a
subtle shifting in the darkness near the shack I'd fled earlier.
Shapes moved through the trees, small and hesitant, pale figures
stepping cautiously from behind trunks.
Children dressed in outdated summer clothing, untouched by
ash or fire. Their faces were expressionless,
eyes blank, unseeing. They watched me silently,
forming a rough semicircle around the shack.
My throat tightened painfully. I staggered backward, limbs
trembling, unable to speak. They did not advance, only
observed with empty stairs, a silent congregation guarding the
darkness. Panic surged.
I turned and bolted downhill, crashing through brush and
branches, desperate for escape. Breath ragged, pulse roaring in
my ears, I nearly collapsed when distant lights pierced through
the trees, headlamps unmistakably modern.
Hey, hey. I shouted hoarsely, stumbling
out onto a cleared firebreak where a hotshot crew stood in
astonishment, their gear scattered around them.
Derek One shouted, stepping closer, his face shocked and
confused. What the hell?
We thought you've been missing 2 days?
I grabbed his shoulders, dizzy with relief.
Two days? No, I just got separated a few
hours ago. The camp, Black Ridge, it's just
up there. They exchanged uneasy glances.
Camp Derek, there's nothing up there, Just trees and ash.
We saw your flair about an hour ago.
We thought you were hurt or delirious.
No, I insisted, voice shaking. I found buildings, an old camp
from the 80s. Kids went missing there.
A quarantine. Derek, there's nothing, another
firefighter said quietly. We swept the area twice.
It's empty. I turned, determined to prove
them wrong, leading them back uphill through tangled brush,
retracing my steps precisely. But as we crested the Ridge, I
stopped cold, my chest clenching painfully.
The camp was gone. There was nothing.
No cabins, no lodge, no burned, bare drawings.
Only ash covered rocks, fire, scorched earth and quiet, empty
forest. I swear it was here.
I whispered, my voice breaking. They watched me with sympathetic
eyes, murmuring reassurances, gently guiding me back down the
trail. At base, I filled out the
incident report, meticulously documenting everything in
careful detail. Two days later, the record
vanished completely, wiped clean from the system.
My attempts to follow up were met with silence or dismissive
shrugs. Finally, an older fire captain
approached me privately, his eyes heavy with unsaid history.
Derek let it go. He muttered quietly.
Black Ridge. It's closed for a reason, Always
has been. Days passed quietly, but my
sleep remained fractured by nightmares of dark woods and
silent children. Then, one evening, I received an
unmarked envelope in the mail. Hands trembling, I slid out a
single photograph, aged, yellowed, showing smiling
children in front of the Camp Black Ridge Lodge.
At the center stood a small boy, his eyes grotesquely large,
filled with a haunting familiarity.
In his hand he clutched A tattered teddy bear, one arm
missing. My blood froze as I flipped the
picture over, reading words scrawled roughly across the
back. He stayed.
You didn't. Heart pounding, I shoved the
photo into the fireplace, hands shaking violently.
Flames curled around it hungrily, paper blackening
swiftly as the image crumbled into ash.
From behind me came a faint sound, drifting from my kitchen
speaker. Coughing raw and tortured,
identical to the static filled transmission on Black Ridge.
I spun around, staring at the darkened speaker.
It was off, unplugged. Yet the coughing continued,
echoing softly through my home. Impossibly familiar.
Impossibly real.