I still remember how my stomach twisted and excited knots that
night. Mike and I had just finished a
simple low key dinner, one of those casual 1st dates where
you're not entirely sure if you've impressed the other
person. We were sitting in his car,
lingering in the parking lot, both of us glancing at each
other like we didn't want the night to end.
That's when he suggested it. A midnight hike up Provo Canyon.
Part of me hesitated. I knew the Canyon could be
ominous after dark, but I was riding a wave of adrenaline,
eager to see where this new connection might lead.
Without a second thought, I said yes, pretending I was braver
than I felt. We left the comforting glow of
streetlights and drove deeper into the Canyon.
With each passing mile, the usual hum of night time activity
vanished, replaced by a quiet so dense it made me lean forward.
In my seat, I caught fleeting silhouettes of towering cliffs
on either side of the road, barely outlined by Starshine.
Mike kept tapping the steering wheel, seemingly at ease, but I
caught him squinting at the unlit trailhead as we pulled
over. Watching him reach for a
flashlight gave me a small surge of reassurance, even if I wasn't
sure that little beam could do much out here.
Once we stepped out, the cold air wrapped around me.
I tugged my jacket tighter, silently second guessing my
decision. Mike took the lead on a narrow
path that cut between shadowy rock faces.
At first, the atmosphere felt almost romantic.
The crunch of gravel under our feet, the faint rustle of leaves
overhead. It felt like we had this entire
slice of nature to ourselves. But with each step, my awareness
of how isolated we were grew. My breath started coming quicker
and I found myself checking the trail behind us now and then,
half expecting something to emerge from the darkness.
Mike still hadn't admitted he was nervous, but I noticed how
he kept scanning the path ahead. He'd mentioned he was familiar
with the area, yet his pace slowed every few strides, like
he was trying to decide if we should go on or turn back.
I kept telling myself that nothing was actually wrong, that
it was just nerves playing tricks on me.
Still, I couldn't deny the strangeness in the air, the way
every sound from our footsteps to the slightest breeze felt
amplified. Eventually, we reached a stretch
where overhanging branches blocked what little Starlight we
had. Mike flicked on the flashlight
and the beam wavered, casting frantic shapes across the
ground. The path seemed narrower than
ever, and I noticed that he gripped the light so tightly his
knuckles turned white. We pressed on with careful
steps. I thought about suggesting we
turn around, but I didn't want him to think I was a coward.
Maybe he felt the same because neither of us spoke.
That's when Mike halted. I almost bumped into him.
He didn't move for a few seconds, and a sliver of panic
surged through me. The flashlight beam grazed the
dirt, illuminating a lump in our path, something that didn't fit
the usual rocks and branches. My pulse throbbed.
Mike shifted back, not daring to nudge it again.
He raised the flashlight a little and the beam flickered
over rough ground, but I still couldn't make out what was lying
there. The quiet pressed in.
We locked eyes, and I knew instantly that we both wanted to
run. Neither of us asked questions.
We pivoted and retraced our steps with hurried intensity.
Every bump of my shoe against the gravel felt thunderous.
The flashlight swung back and forth, revealing just enough to
guide us out, but I kept imagining silhouettes lurking
beyond its edge. I didn't breathe easy until we
reached the car. Even then, my hands shook so
hard I had trouble fastening my seat belt.
We drove away in a tense silence, each too unsettled to
speak. The farther we got from the
trailhead, the more my chest loosened, but a queasy sense of
unfinished business clung to me. I tried to make a joke about how
we picked a ridiculous way to spend a first date, but the
words died on my lips. Mike forced a half smile, though
his eyes stayed glued to the empty highway.
In that moment, I told myself it was just a late night scare,
some weird fluke. We were both alive, unhurt, So
what was there to worry about? But part of me couldn't ignore
the electric sense that we dodged something dreadful, a
brush with a threat that had no name.
Yet we never spoke about that shapeless lump on the trail, and
deep down, I think we both knew we'd never forget it.
For a while, we pretended nothing had happened on that
trail. Mike and I carried on with our
lives, dating, moving in together, eventually tying the
knot, and we never once brought up the memory of that strange
night. It became an unspoken agreement.
If we didn't talk about it, maybe it would fade away.
Every so often, though, I caught him glancing at me in the dark,
like he was pondering the same questions I was too afraid to
voice. Did we really bump into
something serious out there, or was it all in our heads?
Years passed in relative peace. We settled into a small
apartment, got steady jobs, even started hosting Saturday
brunches for our friends. Life felt almost normal until
the evening we came across a television program about Ted
Bundy. It wasn't the usual true crime
special. I might have tuned out.
Something about the interviewer's tone made me
pause. I can't explain it, but I felt a
chill as Mike and I looked at each other.
He froze, mid bite of his dinner, remote still in hand.
On screen, Bundy talked with a disturbing calm, as though he
was describing a casual outing. Then he was asked about the
night he almost got caught in Provo Canyon.
My heart began to pound so violently I thought it might
drown out the sound from the TV. At first I refused to believe it
could be our story, but he described luring a girl there,
disposing of her body and hearing a pair of hikers heading
up the trail. He mentioned that the man
practically stepped on the victim, and for a moment he
thought he'd been found out. But then, inexplicably, those
two people just turned around and vanished into the darkness.
I looked at Mike, waiting for him to say something, hoping
he'd crack a joke or reassure me it was a coincidence.
But he stared at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes wide, as if he'd
seen a ghost. In that silence, realization
slammed into me. I felt my pulse jump to my
temples, and a wave of nausea washed over me.
It couldn't be anyone else. We were the ones who stumbled
into that nightmare. It had to be the same night, the
same Canyon, the same detail of stepping on something that
didn't belong there. I don't remember how long we sat
in that stunned fog before one of us reached over and muted the
TV. All I recall is the weight of
what we'd learned pressing down on us like a crushing vice.
Neither of us knew what to say. It was a minute, maybe 2, but it
felt like an hour. We just stared at each other,
grappling with the nauseating certainty that we had been yards
away, mere steps away from one of the most vicious predators in
modern history. From that night on, our memory
of the midnight hike changed forever.
Up until then, we could treat it like an odd camping story gone
wrong, something we'd over inflated in our imaginations.
But with the truth out in the open, I started having these
jolting flashbacks. In the middle of the night, I
dream I was back on that trail, surrounded by blackness, hearing
phantom footsteps behind us. In my nightmares, Mike and I
turned around, and we weren't alone.
I'd wake up gasping, unable to shake the possibility that Bundy
had been mere inches behind a tree watching us, maybe even
considering how easily he could take us both.
Mike became quieter in the weeks that followed.
He stopped going to the climbing gym, lost interest in the
adventure sports he used to love.
One day, he admitted he couldn't stand the sound of gravel
anymore because it reminded him of our rush to the car that
night. That confession actually made me
feel less alone in my fear. I wasn't the only one consumed
by it. We never reported anything to
the police because by then it was long in the past.
Bundy was already locked away, no longer a threat to anyone,
but that sense of helplessness stayed with us.
We'd been so clueless, so close to tragedy, and it was pure luck
that we stumbled out unscathed. There's a certain guilt that
comes with surviving when someone else obviously didn't,
and that guilt settled over us like a heavy shroud.
Even now, if the topic of late night hiking comes up at a get
together, Mike and I exchanged knowing looks.
Our friends have no clue about the dark secret we share.
Sometimes they'll ask if we want to go on a group camping trip,
but we always find an excuse. They don't understand why we
refuse, and I hope they never have to.
These days I don't think about it constantly, but every once in
a while, something like a news story or a flicker of movement
in my peripheral vision will jolt the memory back.
I'll be transported to that moment on the trail, the
darkness pressing in my stomach, nodding in a sudden surge of
alarm as my foot grazes something indescribable.
And I'll recall the stark truth. In those moonless hours, a
twisted mind lurked just out of sight, watching our every step
we left with our lives. Someone else never made it out.
We'll carry that knowledge with us silently for the rest of our
days. I crawled out of my bunk at the
Ranger station hours before sunrise, feeling a flicker of
anticipation in my chest. Early mornings in Yellowstone
usually give me a calm kind of thrill, like the park is mine.
Alone for just a little while, I did a quick gear check under the
buzzing fluorescent light. Water, snacks, my radio, a small
first aid kit, everything seemed in order.
A couple of colleagues were sipping coffee nearby, but we
just nodded at each other. We all had our own plans for the
day, and I was already focused on getting out to the Lamar
Valley. The drive to the trailhead was
quiet. No tourists at that hour, no
long lines of cars, just the open road and the promise of
solitude. When I finally parked and
started walking, the sun began its slow climb, painting the sky
with gentle streaks of pink and gold.
The air tasted fresh, and a few bison dotted the far edges of
the valley. I remember thinking, this is
what I love about this job. Everything felt peaceful in that
moment. I covered the first few miles at
an easy pace, scanning the horizon for wolves or elk.
The grass was long, shifting in waves that made the landscape
look almost alive. Normally I find that movement
comforting, but something nagged at the back of my mind, a kind
of tension I couldn't quite name.
The only sounds were my own footfalls and the soft rustle of
wind. No faint hum of other hikers, no
distant vehicles. It felt like the valley and I
were the only two things in existence.
Around 11 miles from the nearest Rd. the trail opened up into a
wide clearing. That's where I saw it.
At first I assumed it was a large rock half buried in the
dirt, but stepping closer revealed the unmistakable shape
of a deer's head. A doe to be exact.
It lay right in the middle of the path, as if it had been
placed with precise intention. My pulse thudded heavier in my
ears as I moved in for a better look.
I'd seen plenty of wildlife remains over the years,
carcasses torn apart by wolves or bears, half eaten by
scavengers. This was different.
No blood pooled around it, and the neck ended in an
unsettlingly smooth line. The doe's eyes were wide open,
appearing almost alive if you didn't stare too hard.
No marks, no ragged fur, nothing.
Just a head that looked untouched by teeth or talons or
anything else. Even the local Ravens, which
would normally swoop in, were nowhere to be seen.
I crouched down, trying to keep my voice steady in case I needed
to radio back to headquarters, but my radio only hissed static,
the valley blocking out a clear signal.
My hands trembled a bit as I snapped a few photos, the camera
lens focusing on every unsettling detail.
Part of me wanted to check for the rest of the body, but the
logical side of my brain knew it would be close by if a natural
predator had been responsible. There wasn't a single track, no
drag marks in the dirt, no sign of a struggle.
Stepping around the area felt like I was tiptoeing through
some kind of forbidden zone. The sun was still shining, but
the scene radiated a strange darkness all its own.
I glanced toward the tall grass, half expecting to see movement,
maybe a lurking animal or a person crouched out of sight.
My unease swelled with every second.
Eventually, I decided I'd gathered all I could.
My radio still crackled uselessly, and the notion of
returning to a better vantage for a clear signal felt urgent.
Before I left, I took one last long look at that severed head
burned the image into my mind. I'd handled my share of bizarre
situations as a Ranger, but this one felt beyond bizarre.
There was a deep sense that something wanted me to see this,
as if the valley itself had decided to show me something it
kept hidden from everyone else. I turned away, heart pounding,
and started back along the trail, wrestling with too many
questions and too few answers. My usual comfort in the solitude
had evaporated. The wide open landscape felt
oddly suffocating, and I knew as I moved further from that
horrifying sight that I wouldn't rest until I found some
explanation, no matter how impossible it seemed.
I made my way back along the winding trail with a knot in my
stomach, replaying every moment I'd spent crouched beside that
severed deer head. The air felt colder than it had
an hour ago, even though the sun still glared overhead.
Each step kicked up dust that settled on my boots, but I
hardly noticed. My eyes were glued to the
horizon, scanning for any sign of movement.
It felt like something could be watching from behind the swaying
grass. The path began to climb
steadily, and I fought the temptation to pick up the pace.
It wasn't just the shock of what I'd found, it was the weight of
all the unanswered questions crushing my nerves.
The dull crackle of static on my radio finally began to morph
into a faint buzz of chatter. As I cleared the Ridge.
My heart gave a leap, grateful for even a sliver of connection
to the outside world. I paused on a rocky outcrop,
steadying my breath, and lifted the radio to my lips.
Bass, this is Ranger Shelton. I said, my voice trembling more
than I wanted. Come in.
The silence was agonizing, punctuated by a hiss of static.
Then a voice crackled through low and cautious.
Shelton, this is bass. We read you.
Everything OK out there? I almost laughed at the
question. I, I need to report something
unusual. I managed.
My mouth felt dry, my tongue thick.
How could I possibly describe what I saw?
There's a deer head, a doe. It's been cleanly severed.
No blood, no tracks, no body. 11 miles in.
A heavy pause stretched over the connection.
Say again? The voice asked, clearly
uncertain. I took a deep breath, doing my
best to sound calm. A severed deer head intact.
It's right in the middle of the trail.
There's no evidence of a predator.
All right, the dispatcher finally replied.
Copy that. We'll send someone to check it
out. Stand by for further
instructions. The click of the radio going
silent rattled me more than I expected.
I'd hoped for an immediate explanation, some kind of
logical solution, but nothing came.
Instead, I had the echo of my own words in my head, sounding
more absurd by the second. I continued up the Ridge, the
silence closing in again. The bright sunlight felt at odds
with the dark unease that clung to me, and I realized I'd been
walking with my shoulders hunched tight, as if bracing for
something behind me. My mind wouldn't quit circling
the same questions. What could sever a head so
neatly out here in the middle of nowhere?
Who would go to such lengths just to leave it on a path?
And why a doe with no antlers or anything of worth to a poacher?
By the time I reached my camp that evening, I could barely
keep from pacing in the soft glow of my flashlight.
I scrolled through the photos I'd taken, zooming in on each
bizarre detail. The eyes still looked alive.
I found myself staring at the smooth cut, hoping to see some
clue that might have escaped me out in the field.
Every angle just drove home how unnatural it was.
My mind darted back to fireside. Rumors I'd heard from fellow
Rangers in the past, Stories of strange figures glimpsed at the
edge of the woods, unearthly sounds echoing through canyons
at night. I'd always thought they were
tall tales, something to spook new hires, but tonight I found
it harder to dismiss them. I called it an early night, but
sleep refused to come. I kept tossing, half lost in
nightmares of severed animal parts scattered around the park.
Each time I drifted off, I jerk awake with the sensation that
something had brushed past my tent.
The wind outside rustled the branches, but it might as well
have been claws scratching at the fabric.
The next morning, despite feeling like I'd barely slept, I
was wide awake before dawn. A colleague, Ranger Peters, had
overheard my radio call and offered to come along for a
second look. We set off together, pack slung
over our shoulders, the sky a weak Gray that hinted at
sunrise. Peters was taller than me, broad
shouldered and calm, just the kind of presents I needed after
my rattled night. We hiked briskly, barely
talking, as though words might invite some unseen force into
our conversation. It took a solid couple of hours
to reach the spot I'd marked on my map.
I led the way, my heart hammering in my chest with every
step. I waited to smell that metallic
scent of fresh kill or see a flash of white fur in the grass.
Nothing. When we finally reached the
exact location, my breath caught in my throat.
The deer head was gone. The trail was empty, the grass
unruffled, Not a single trace of anything unusual.
I even recognized the same twisted tree trunk I'd used as a
landmark, but the path before it was spotless.
I knelt and ran my hand over the ground.
No stains, no scuffs. It looked like nothing more
gruesome than a gentle morning breeze had passed through here.
Peters frowned and glanced at me.
I saw doubt flicker across his face, but I quickly pulled out
my phone and showed him the photographs.
He studied them intently. Could it have been a coyote or
something dragging it off? I shook my head.
There wasn't a single footprint when I found it, and it was too
clean. If something dragged it away,
I'd expect signs of that too. Peters exhaled, scanning the
horizon. The valley stretched out, calm
as ever, bison ambling in the distance like this was just
another quiet day. But now that I'd witnessed that
disturbing spectacle, the idyllic scene felt like a facade
I couldn't shake the sense we were trespassing in a place that
didn't want us here. We spent the better part of the
morning searching the immediate area, peering into every hollow
and patch of grass. I even walked a wide circle
around the spot, hoping to find something broken twigs, fur,
hidden bones. Absolutely nothing turned up.
The further we looked, the more oppressive the silence grew.
Peters finally broke it. Look, he said quietly.
I believe you. This is weird.
Let's get back and see if anyone else has come across anything
like this. He shot me a worried glance, and
for the first time since I'd found that head, I felt a sliver
of relief. At least I wasn't alone in how
unsettled I felt. We started our trek back to the
Ridge, exchanging uneasy theories.
Maybe there was an unknown predator or some deranged
individual roaming the park. Even as we spoke, our words felt
hollow. None of it explained how the
scene was so meticulously clean or why the head had vanished
without a trace. By late afternoon, I was back at
camp, my boots dusty and my mood tenser than ever.
Peters had gone on to file a report with Base while I
lingered, unsettled by the nagging feeling that this was
only the beginning. I knew I wouldn't rest easy that
night, or any night soon, until I found an answer.
But the truth seemed to be buried somewhere in those
rolling hills, hidden by the endless sway of grass and an
unsettling hush that said some things are meant to stay
unknown. I tried to tell myself it was a
freak occurrence, an unexplainable quirk of nature
I'd stumbled upon. But as the sunset behind the
mountains, washing the sky with orange and Crimson, I felt the
weight of a darker possibility. One that whispered maybe, just
maybe, we'd stepped into territory far beyond our
understanding, and that was a reality I didn't know how to
face. I was 15, just trying to bag a
few squirrels on a crisp October morning.
That hollow had been a gold mine a few days before, so I headed
in again, feeling pretty confident.
Within minutes, I spotted a half dozen squirrels hopping from
branch to branch, chattering away and rummaging for acorns.
Everything seemed totally normal until they all froze.
Their quick barks echoed for a heartbeat, and then every single
squirrel vanished in an instant. No rustling leaves, no errant
chatter, nothing. I stood there, scanning every
tree, wondering what could possibly have spooked them so
quickly. That's when this roaring crash
echoed from a nearby gully, like someone or something tearing
through brush. Without trying to be discreet, I
glanced toward the noise and noticed a tall figure stepping
through the undergrowth. At first I squinted, thinking
maybe it was my dad who was somewhere in the area, But as my
eyes adjusted to the dimness, I realized it was towering, broad
shouldered, and moving with a casual ease most people don't
have. In rough terrain.
It was hard to tell details. Long arms, strange gait, but it
never once dropped to all fours the way a bear might.
It stayed on two legs, like a person who was perfectly
comfortable walking upright through rugged country.
My nerves were in OverDrive. I remember calling out hello
because my brain insisted this could be a lost hiker.
The figure immediately hunched low, like it was trying to
vanish behind a fallen log or thick brush.
I called again, more uncertain this time, and it whipped its
head around, locking eyes with me from a distance.
In that moment, an awful realization crept over me.
It was way too large and agile to be any normal person.
The proportions were almost human, but everything about its
presence screamed that it wasn't.
My gut told me to run, yet a part of me stayed rooted in
place, mesmerized by the way it seemed to blend into the
shadows. I took a hesitant step closer,
my mind screaming conflicting thoughts about whether to help
or flee, but the creature reacted first.
It launched into a Sprint, still upright, unbelievably fast, like
it had practiced that motion 1000 times before.
It darted away, covering ground at a pace that made me feel
absolutely helpless if it decided to turn on me.
The silence that followed was crushing.
No birds, no squirrels, not even the wind.
I realized that if that thing wanted me gone, I wouldn't stand
a chance. I scrambled out of the hollow,
constantly checking over my shoulder, heart pounding the
entire time. That experience stuck with me,
but a second incident shook me again, this time closer to home.
I was walking my dog at night in a nearby field.
The air was still, and he was off sniffing at the grass.
Out of nowhere, a roar ripped through the darkness, louder
than anything I'd ever heard, like some nightmare mixture of a
huge cat and a wild canine. It vibrated in my chest, an
unearthly sound that instantly changed everything around me.
My dog, who's usually fearless, tucked his tail and ran back to
our yard at top speed. He wouldn't come out of his
doghouse for hours. I'm not sure which rattled me
more, seeing that tall, unnatural figure, or hearing a
roar that defied explanation. Both encounters left me feeling
as if the boundaries I'd always set between the woods and
civilization had been torn down. Even now, whenever I wander
outdoors on quiet evenings, part of me braces for the unexpected.
I catch myself listening for any unnatural silence, or scanning
the treetops in case something's watching.
It's not just fear, it's an awareness that there might be
more out there than we care to believe, and once you've caught
a glimpse or heard the echo, you can't pretend otherwise.
I remember the first day I stepped into that overgrown
patch of forest feeling like I discovered a secret no one else
had ever noticed. There was this old, broken down
path, half buried in the dirt leading up to the outlines of
what must have been a fancy estate ages ago.
Most of it was swallowed up by roots and leaves, like the place
decided it belonged to nature. Now I couldn't stop glancing
around, half excited, half convinced something might jump
out at any second. I was young enough to think I
owned the world, but old enough to sense when I was trespassing
somewhere I probably shouldn't be.
My friend and I spend weekends there, mostly messing around
with sticks and scraps of tarp to build these ridiculous Fort
like structures. We treated every pile of stone
or broken bench like an invitation to explore.
A lot of the time we just ended up tearing our clothes on
brambles, but that felt like a small price to pay for the
thrill. We'd laugh about how empty the
forest was, never once spotted any other footprints in the mud
or heard any voices beyond our own.
It was just us, the rustle of branches overhead and an uneasy
quiet that pressed in if you pause to listen.
Then one day, we found something I still can't quite wrap my mind
around. Tucked behind a cluster of
rotting logs, we discovered a mess of magazines that had
definitely seen better days. The pages were all warped and
smelled like they'd been rained on a million times.
They looked decades old, haircuts and outfits, like
something out of a bad TV special.
We shrugged it off as some random stash left behind by
hikers or whoever used to live here.
Still, it made the forest feel even more like our domain, like
we were uncovering relics nobody else had bothered to touch.
Eventually, though, our gaze shifted toward this wall of
bamboo in the distance. It didn't match anything else
around it. It was far too thick and too
perfectly arranged to be natural.
We'd spent so long goofing around in the same few spots
that our curiosity was practically gnawing at us.
We'd peer through the stalks, trying to see if there was
anything behind them, but it was all shadows and green leaves.
Maybe that's what made it so intriguing.
It was the only patch of the forest that refused to let us
in. After weeks of idle talk, we
decided we were done just staring.
If nobody else claimed that area, it was time for us to
stake our claim. We grabbed a pair of heavy
garden shears from my garage, stuffing them in a backpack so
it didn't look like we were up to no good that morning.
I remember the sun was out and the air was muggy, like the
forest was trying to warn us in its own quiet way, but we
pretended not to notice. Hacking through that bamboo was
a lot tougher than we'd planned. Thick stalks resisted every snip
and old leaves whipped at our arms, leaving thin scratches.
We were sweating and covered in flecks of plant matter by the
time we made an archway big enough to crawl through.
The 2nd we slipped inside, it was like stepping onto another
planet. Gone were the tangled weeds and
random rocks. Instead a soft layer of clovers
covered the ground, looking almost staged, as if someone had
groomed the place. And then we noticed the statues,
Knee high fairy figures perched on little mushroom pedestals.
They would have been whimsical if not for the damage.
Each face was shattered. Stone Chard sprinkled the Clover
like broken teeth. I felt sure we'd tripped into
some bizarre art installation. Except there was no sign of an
artist. And in the center of the
clearing stood this hulking block.
Up close, it looked like a coffin made of rough concrete or
stone vines creeping along the sides.
We ran our hands over the carvings, but they were worn
down to nonsense shapes. Of course we had to see if we
could lift the lid, because that's what impulsive kids do,
but it wouldn't budget not even an inch.
Eventually the sticky heat and the pressing hush of the place
got to us. We backed off and made our way
back through the bamboo. Once we were out, we practically
raced each other to the nearby playground.
Sitting there on the swings, breathing in the normal
afternoon air, everything felt a little less intense.
But underneath our forced laughter was that shared
awareness. We'd found something off limits,
something we couldn't just forget.
Part of me was thrilled. The other part was screaming
that we should leave well enough alone.
Even then, I knew we weren't going to stay away.
Curiosity gnawed at us, and the forest had become our personal
Kingdom. That coffin, those smashed fairy
statues, the eerie hush, it all pulled me in even though common
sense said to walk away. The day ended with me wandering
home in a daze, telling myself I'd keep it secret from the
adults like they wouldn't believe me even if I tried.
I couldn't stop picturing that broken ring of bamboo leading
into a silent circle of green, and I couldn't decide if I was
excited or scared out of my mind that we'd actually go back.
I woke up the next morning under a sky so dim it could have
passed for dusk. Low hanging clouds pressed down
on the neighborhood like the heavens wanted to warn me off,
but that only fed my sense of determination.
The images from the previous day, those broken fairy statues,
the silent carpet of clovers, that solid slab of rock had
become an obsession I couldn't push aside.
My friend and I met up at the corner of our street, each
lugging pieces of plywood and worn metal sheets, convinced we
were about to build the world's most hidden den.
The walk to the forest felt different this time.
A breeze hissed between the branches overhead and the ground
seemed soggier than usual, swallowing our feet as we
trudged along. We joked about how we were
making a fortress, but there was a tension in our voices that we
tried to hide. Every step closer sent a flicker
of dread through my mind, but I kept telling myself it was just
nerves, childish fantasies. This was our place, after all.
If anybody had a right to it, we did.
When we reached the bamboo ring, we slipped through our makeshift
opening. The clearing was exactly as we'd
left it. Thick, vibrant clovers under
foot, and those smashed fairy statues still perched in eerie
half poses on mushroom pedestals.
With the dark sky overhead, the clover's bright green looked
almost luminous, as if drawing attention to every stone Shard
on the ground. No birds, no rustling leaves,
just an unsettling hush that reminded me of a held breath.
My friend and I set down the wood and metal sheets, then
started hammering and propping things up to form a rough frame.
That clang of metal on metal clashed sharply with the
silence, echoing around us in a way that made my skin crawl.
I kept throwing sideways glances at the big stone coffin in the
center of the clearing. It still had those twisting
vines draped over it, and the worn inscription along the side
hinted at a past no one remembered.
Part of me wanted to go near it again, see if maybe I'd missed
some detail before, but I was afraid that if I touched it,
something would happen that logic couldn't explain.
We kept working, trying to keep up the bravado with forced
jokes. I remember us giggling about how
we'd never have to worry about other kids barging in.
Nobody was messing with a bamboo fortress in the middle of
nowhere. Our laughter sounded hollow.
Each time the wind gusted, the stalks of bamboo rattled like
bones clacking together, and a current of dread sparked in my
stomach. Then my friend let out a jarring
yell. Before I even turned around, the
tone of his voice told me everything I needed to know.
I dropped the rusted nail I was holding, spun on my heel, and
saw him stumbling backward. His eyes were locked on the
coffin, and I followed his gaze. The lid that had refused to
shift even a fraction the day before was now moved aside,
leaving a narrow gap. IV tendrils that had once draped
over the seam were snapped or hanging limply, as though
something had forced its way out.
For a moment, I stood frozen in place.
A stale, almost earthy odor wafted from that dark opening,
and my mind conjured all kinds of grim possibilities.
My legs practically twitched with the urge to run, but I took
a single step closer, just enough to see a slice of that
void. Inside.
Nothing was visible, just pure blackness that seemed to absorb
any light. My friend whispered something,
maybe my name, and it broke the trance I'd fallen into.
We didn't need to say a word to agree on our next move.
We bolted. The instant we dashed out of the
clearing, the sky opened up with driving rain, as if it had
waited for the most dramatic moment.
Blinded by water splashing into our faces, we tore through the
woods, thorns slashing our arms. That hush that had suffocated
the clearing vanished, replaced by a thunderous rush of wind and
our own ragged breath. My lungs burned by the time we
crashed onto the muddy path near the neighborhood playground.
Rain hammered the metal slides and swings, and the few people
walking nearby gave us odd looks.
We staggered under the shelter of an old oak, crouching like we
were being chased. Nobody else seemed alarmed.
They couldn't sense the fear we carried.
Neither of us talked for a long moment.
There was no joking about forts, no bragging about secret
hideouts, Just shaky exhales. Finally, my friend muttered that
we were done with that place. He didn't say why or argue any
further. We both knew some lines aren't
worth crossing, some secrets not worth prying into.
Whatever opened that coffin, we didn't care to find out.
We never bothered to go back for the wood or metal sheets we'd
dragged in. Even when the weather cleared
and the next weekend rolled around, we couldn't summon the
nerve anytime one of us brought it up.
An uneasy chill settle between us, like we were recalling
something that should have stayed buried in our own minds.
Our private Kingdom had turned on us, and all I wanted was to
forget the sight of that stone lid pushed aside, inviting
questions I never wanted answered.
I always thought our lake cabin was a safe place.
My family had been coming here for years, enjoying the
Stillwater and the sense of isolation we never quite found
anywhere else. It's practically the middle of
nowhere, no public docks, barely any cell service.
On clear days, you can hear the echo of a loon or spot the
occasional eagle coasting on a thermal.
For me, it felt like a private hideaway.
Earlier this summer, my husband and I got restless.
We'd been eyeing the abandoned girls camp across the lake since
we arrived. It sat there like a faded
photograph, peeling paint and warped roofs just visible
through tangled foliage. Stories floated around about how
the state let the camp rot after it closed, but nobody seemed to
know the actual reason. Curiosity, or maybe a streak of
recklessness, drove us to explore.
We launched our canoe and headed across the water, the cabins
porch light fading behind us. The camp's shoreline was silent.
The wind rustled through overgrown brush and scattered
leaves across a narrow, sagging dock.
Up close, the old buildings looked worse than I'd imagined.
Windows were shattered, and the wooden steps leading up to what
looked like the main house bowed under the slightest pressure.
We climbed onto the porch, hearts thudding.
The afternoon sun barely cut through the dusty glass.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the stale,
suffocating air inside. The moment we stepped in, I
regretted it. Everything felt unsettling.
The walls were stained by water leaks, the floor squeaked with
every shift in weight, and the smell reminded me of a cellar
that had been locked up for years.
Torn mattresses lay scattered in what must have been a dining
hall, and shredded curtains hung from rusted rods.
We moved slowly, feeling an unspoken tension.
My husband tried to lighten the mood with a half hearted comment
about old camp stories, but even his voice sounded too loud, too
sharp in the hush. We poked around the 1st floor,
examining cracked doorways leading into damp corridors.
An array of footprints crisscrossed in the dust.
Some looked recent, like boots. That alone sent a warning signal
through my mind, but I kept telling myself it could be from
hikers or curious locals. As we move deeper, the place
took on an oppressive quality, as though the walls themselves
wanted us gone. Suddenly, I heard heavy thumps
above steady, deliberate steps on the 2nd floor.
My chest went tight. My husband paused.
My eyes locked on the dark stairwell at the far end of the
hall. The steps grew louder, and I
realized that whoever was up there was moving faster,
crossing the floor with force. My pulse hammered.
We both froze for a split second, not sure what to do
next. In a surge of panic, we bolted
back the way we came. The front door was our only
target. Behind us, those footsteps
thundered in our direction, as though determined to catch us.
I yanked the door open, practically throwing myself
outside. We sprinted around the side of
the building, hoping to stay out of sight if the person or
whoever it was came bounding out.
My lungs burned, and all I could think was that we'd trespassed
into something we shouldn't have.
Just then, the porch boards groaned again, louder, heavier.
We scurried into the tree line, ducking behind thick branches.
The undergrowth snagged our clothes, but we pushed forward,
hearing someone stomping just beyond the corner of the house.
I couldn't see a face, just heard an aggravated movement,
like they were hunting for intruders.
I nudged my husband to keep going, neither of us daring to
speak. We stuck to the outskirts,
making a wide loop around the lake.
Our canoe bobbed innocently where we'd left it, but we
couldn't risk drawing attention to ourselves.
We took a path through brush and mossy ground, nearly tripping
over roots and fallen logs. Every rustle in the woods made
me flinch. It felt like we were being
followed, even though I couldn't pinpoint any new footsteps.
The crackling of leaves came in irregular bursts.
Could have been an animal, could have been something else.
By the time we stumbled back to our own dock, the sun hung low
over the water. I leaned against a post,
breathing hard and staring at the far shore.
The old camp looked like a dark silhouette, silent and menacing.
My husband slumped beside me, both of us drenched in sweat.
We didn't bother with explanations at first.
The panic on our faces said plenty.
My family hurried outside, alarmed by our condition, but
all we managed to do was stammer about heavy footsteps and a
chase we never wanted. We left the canoe behind that
day. In our minds, it wasn't worth
risking another encounter. I kept thinking about those
stomping steps overhead, how quickly they transitioned from a
slow tread to a charged run. Maybe it was just a squatter,
but I can't shake the uneasy feeling that there's more to
that place than we'll ever understand.
We ended the evening holed up inside our cabin, glancing at
the windows as dusk settled in, anxious about a lake that
suddenly felt far too close to something horrifying.
I spent the rest of that afternoon glancing across the
water, hoping the abandoned camp stayed quiet.
My sister and her husband huddled inside the cabin, still
shaken. Dad paced around the porch,
tapping his foot, clearly thinking about the canoe left
behind. As evening approached, he
finally said we needed to retrieve it.
I didn't like the thought, but he insisted it was better to
handle it while we still had daylight.
We set off in our small fishing boat just as the light began to
soften. The lake was too calm, almost
like it was anticipating something.
I sat at the bow, trying not to stare at the dark outline of
that crumbling main house. Memories of my sister's story
kept bouncing around my head, footsteps pounding above that
frantic chase through brush. I told myself it might have been
a lone camper or some drifter, but that did nothing to settle
my nerves. By the time we pulled our boat
onto the shore, the place felt different.
The air was heavy and the old buildings loomed ahead like
warped silhouettes. Dad hefted a flashlight even
though we still had a little sunlight left.
We moved forward, both on edge, neither one wanting to speak.
It felt like even our voices might invite something unwanted
to come closer. The closer we got to the main
house, the more uneasy I became. Warped steps LED up to a door
that hung crooked on its hinges. The windows were dark except for
stray shards of glass that occasionally glinted in the last
of the sun's rays. A damp odor drifted out of the
building. A quick sweep of the porch
revealed discolored spots on the floorboards.
Possibly just water damage, but unsettling all the same.
Dad gestured for me to follow him inside.
We stepped over rubble, bits of broken wood, and scattered
debris that might have once been camp gear.
Every step drew out a wine from the floor, like a warning.
My thoughts were spinning with questions.
Could the intruder from earlier still be here?
Would they be watching us? Deciding whether to confront us
again, we explored a few decaying rooms.
Kitchen counters rotted through cabinets torn off hinges.
A corridor led to smaller bunk areas with sagging bed frames
and ancient mattresses covered in dust.
I kept feeling like something watched us from behind a doorway
or a corner, just out of sight. Dad pushed open each door
carefully, shining the flashlight around the gloom.
Every so often he'd pause listening, but no footsteps
emerged from above. Still, the silence itself was
unnerving. My pulse throbbed in my ears,
and I kept turning around, convinced something might be
creeping closer. When we reached the stairs to
the second floor, a loose board shifted beneath my foot with a
loud crack. My heart hammered at the noise.
Dad gave me a look that said we need to be quick.
We ascended, the air growing mustier as we climbed.
The hallway up there was lined with empty rooms.
Peeling wallpaper hung in strips, and the odor of mold was
stronger. Each step caused dust to float
around us in lazy swirls. A sliver of light came through a
shattered window at the far end, illuminating scattered papers.
Old camp schedules, maybe? Dad's flashlight flicked over
the floor, revealing footprints in the dust that didn't seem
recent but definitely weren't ours.
We found no signs of the heavy tread that had spooked my
sister, yet the idea that someone had roamed this hall
remained. My stomach twisted imagining
that person sprinting in these cramped corridors.
After we finished scanning the 2nd floor, we hurried back
downstairs. A faint echo reached our ears
from somewhere outside, a metallic clang, or maybe just a
piece of loose siding flapping against the wind.
Dad muttered. It was probably nothing, but
neither of us believe that. We were too on edge.
Once we stepped onto the porch again, relief washed over me
momentarily. At least we were out of that
stale darkness. We made our way across the weed
choked lot toward the canoe. My sister had tied it off to a
small tree, but it looked like the rope had been shifted
around. Possibly the wind or changing
water levels did that. At least that's what we told
ourselves. Dad gave me a quick nod, and we
wasted no time lifting the canoe, tossing in our life vests
and dragging it toward the water.
That's when a branch snapped somewhere behind us.
We both whipped around. The yard was full of tangled
growth and crumbling structures, casting odd shadows as the sun
dipped lower. No movement, no immediate
silhouette. Dad motioned for us to keep
going, so we lowered the canoe into the shallows and shoved
off. My breath felt tight, like I
couldn't get enough air. I refused to turn around until
we were several yards out, but curiosity made me glance back.
Eventually that lonely main house stared at us with broken
windows, its porch sagging. Nothing moved among the trees.
As soon as we paddled into deeper water, the tension eased
a fraction. Dad and I spoke in hushed tones
about how the camp looked even more decrepit than before.
He said it was best if we stayed away, maybe alerted the local
authorities if we got the chance.
Honestly, I was too rattled to argue.
The last thing any of us wanted was another run in with whoever
or whatever had roamed those halls.
By the time we reached our cabin's shore, the sun was
slipping behind the tree line, painting the lake in bronze and
purple streaks. My family was waiting on the
dock, anxious expressions confirming they'd been worried.
We hauled the canoe up onto our grass, forcing shaky smiles
while recounting what happened. We told them we hadn't seen
anyone, just heard odd noises and found things slightly out of
place. Deep down, I knew the
uncertainty would keep me on edge for the rest of the trip.
Something about that camp felt like a locked door we'd opened,
inviting a question of what or who lived inside.
We'd taken back our canoe, but a sense of dread clung to me all
evening. When night finally fell, I
couldn't help glancing at the black silhouette of that
abandoned structure across the water, half certain I might spot
a shape moving, watching, or waiting for another chance to
chase intruders through its ruins.
I'll be honest, it started out as the kind of night you'd brag
about to your buddies. Carefree, a little impulsive.
Exactly what we both needed. After dinner and a movie, we
decided we wanted something that went beyond the usual routine,
so we hopped in my truck with this shaky plan to escape the
city lights and find a hideaway under the sky.
The highway was empty, and the further we drove, the more
isolated everything became. I remember rolling down the
windows at first, relishing that cool rush of air against my
face. She and I were talking about
anything and everything, how suffocating our week had been,
how nice it was to have a real night off.
There was this spark of excitement that only grew each
mile we put behind us, like we were secretly running from
everyday life. But there was another feeling
creeping in, too, a sense that once we left the main roads,
there was no easy turning back. Eventually, we spotted a dirt
path off to the side. No markers, no lights, just a
narrow gap in the trees. We exchanged that quick, giddy
look that says let's do it, and I took the turn.
My tires crunched over gravel and dirt, and the deeper we
went, the more ominous it felt. The headlights carved out an
eerie tunnel ahead of us. The forest pressed in tight on
either side, like it didn't want us intruding.
We finally reached this small clearing.
I pulled over, cut the engine, and in an instant we were
surrounded by darkness. There was a moment when neither
of us spoke, just took in how quiet it was.
It's that kind of quiet that almost messes with your head.
You can hear your own breaths, your own heartbeat, and it's
suddenly magnified 1000 times. A part of me wanted to drive
right back out, but of course I didn't say that.
We were here for a reason and neither of us planned on
chickening out. Climbing into the back seat felt
like stepping into a private world where we could forget
about all the daily grind. I could almost laugh now,
thinking how nervous we were while also being so eager.
She teased me for fumbling with my coat, and I joked back that
her shirt buttons must have been made for Houdini just to keep it
light. For a few minutes, we just
forgot everything all around us. The night pressed in, but we
were too focused on each other to dwell on it.
Then those headlights appeared. At first, they were just a faint
glow bouncing through the trees, distant enough that I couldn't
quite tell if it was headed toward us.
My entire focus shifted. I remember sitting up, trying to
peer out the back window while she scrambled to fix her shirt.
The lights kept growing brighter, cutting through the
night, and I realized the vehicle was definitely on the
same dirt path we were on. An awful sense of panic settled
over me. I had no clue who it could be.
Cops. Maybe?
An angry local who'd caught us trespassing?
We started this frantic search for clothes that had practically
vanished in the dark. Shoes, shirts, everything seemed
to have found the worst possible hiding spots.
It was ridiculous and terrifying at the same time.
My hands felt clumsy, my brain shouting at me to hurry up
before those headlights rolled right into our clearing.
By the time we managed to throw on enough clothing to look
halfway decent, the lights were nearly upon us.
I killed any idea of turning on my own headlights or starting
the engine. Instinct said keep quiet, keep
still. Whoever it was, they pulled into
the open space maybe 50 feet away, not quite facing us.
My truck's black paint worked like camouflage in the shadows.
I prayed that was enough. My eyes flicked over to her and
I could tell she was just as tense, her breath coming in
shallow spurts. I could sense we were both
thinking the same thing. This was a mistake.
We never should have come out here.
And that's where the night lurched from a fun little secret
to something I still can't shake from my thoughts.
We waited, hushed and rigid, watching those headlights burn
through the darkness while time seemed to stretch out painfully.
I forced myself not to move, not to even breathe too loudly,
completely unsure of what this stranger would do if they
realized we were there. Suddenly, our romantic getaway
felt like the worst decision we could have made, and there was
no telling what would happen next.
I stayed low in the back seat, barely daring to peek over the
window's edge. The headlights illuminated a
jagged outline of pine and brush just beyond the clearing.
The old truck parked about 50 feet away from us, angling
itself so that its own beams swept across the dirt.
My ex was crouched beside me, clutching at my arm, and I could
practically taste her. Tension in the stale cabin air
and eerie stillness settled in, as if the entire forest had
paused to see what would happen next.
Then I saw him step out. He moved like he had all the
time in the world, shutting his door with a muted thud.
My heart thudded in my ears. I couldn't tell if he'd spotted
us, but he sure didn't act like it.
Instead, he walked around to the bed of his truck and reached in
for something. When he emerged with a shovel, I
felt my stomach not up so tight it hurt.
He eased himself down onto 1 knee to test the ground, the
dull scrape of metal meeting dirt louder than I would have
believed possible. Every scoop felt like a jolt to
my system. I wanted to whisper to my ex to
see if she was handling this any better than I was, but I kept my
mouth clamped shut. Every warning in my head was
telling me not to make a single sound.
He continued digging, systematically carving out a
hole. Dirt kept piling around him,
creating a ring like mound. I counted each thrust of the
shovel 123 like a twisted lullaby that refused to end.
There was something cold and mechanical about how he worked.
No hesitation or wasted movement, as if he'd done this
100 times before. I silently hoped maybe he was
burying tools or some random junk, but my gut told me we'd
stumbled onto something far worse.
After what felt like an eternity, the stranger stopped.
The shovel clanged against something in the ground.
Wood, metal, I couldn't tell. A nasty grinding noise made me
grit my teeth. He dropped to his knees and
began prying at whatever was hidden underneath the surface.
My mind spiralled. Could it be a sealed container?
A bag of contraband, or something that would keep me
awake for months if I ever found out the truth?
He finally tore it free. The shape was heavy enough that
he strained to lift it. Letting out a ragged breath, I
caught even through the windows glass.
He staggered toward his truck bed, hauling this ominous shape
along. When he hoisted it in, the
weight landed with a grotesque thump.
My pulse pounded so fiercely I thought the vibrations alone
would give us away. Then came the moment I'd feared.
He leaned in close, rearranging it as if to make sure it was
secure for the ride. If he looked just a bit to his
right, he might notice the silhouette of my parked truck.
Part of me braced for the shock of seeing him whirl around,
shovel in hand. But he never did.
He tossed the shovel in next, slammed the tailgate and slid
back into the driver's seat without glancing in our
direction. The truck's engine grumbled.
For a tense moment, it stayed there, headlights still, glaring
at the gaping hole in the ground.
I couldn't breathe. I feared he might step out
again, maybe to double check. But then the truck lurched
forward, backing up in a clumsy arc before it crept down the
dirt path and away from our clearing.
I didn't move. I didn't speak.
She didn't either. We sat motionless for at least a
handful of minutes. My eyes stayed locked on the
spot where he'd been digging, the newly upturned soil shining
under the moonlight. I couldn't stop imagining 100
different nightmares he could have unearthed.
The crunch of tires faded in the distance and the forest returned
to its usual night time hush like everything had snapped back
into place. When we finally found the
courage to stir. I reached for the key in the
ignition. My palms were slick with sweat
and that faint click of shifting into gear felt magnified 1000
times. I eased the truck onto the path,
terrified our headlights would announce us to anyone waiting
just around the bend. The thought of him doubling back
or having some accomplice lurked in the back of my head.
I kept checking the mirror, convinced I'd see those same
headlights rush up behind us, but it was just emptiness and
trees. Once we hit the main road, the
tension inside the truck was suffocating.
We didn't speak for a while, we just let our breathing steady.
Eventually she asked if we should call the cops, but the
question kind of hung in the air.
What would we even say? We watched this guy dig up
something in the middle of nowhere.
That's not exactly a solid lead, and honestly, I was afraid of
inviting more questions than I had answers for.
The whole drive back, my mind replayed the moment he lifted
that strange object. I tried to rationalize that
maybe it was just contraband, but my gut wouldn't settle.
We'd glimpse something way beyond ordinary.
By the time we got near civilization, the night sky had
shifted to a lighter shade, threatening dawn.
It felt like we'd been in another world entirely, one
where each step you take could lead you into a place you never
wanted to see. Even now, every bump in the road
or stray car in the distance makes me jumpy, like a reminder
of how quickly a situation can turn.
That guy might be miles away, living his life without a second
thought. But for me, those 30 odd minutes
in the dark changed everything about how I view a lonely patch
of dirt in the woods. Because sometimes you drive out
searching for a bit of freedom and instead find a single moment
that will never let you go.