Red River Gorge was always our family's favorite escape.
Growing up in Lexington, Caleb and I spent countless weekends
camping there, racing down muddy trails and trying our luck
fishing the twisting creeks. But it had been years since
either of us made time for an extended trip.
Work, life and everything else had gotten in the way.
This time was different, though. We needed it, especially Caleb.
His breakup had been rough, and I figured a weekend fishing deep
in the quiet of Clifty Wilderness would clear both our
minds. I'd found an old Forest Service
map with a promising isolated fishing spot marked on Swift
Camp Creek. It wasn't near any official
trails, but that was part of the appeal.
We set out early from Coomer Ridge trailhead.
The air was damp, still cool from morning fog.
Caleb was in good spirits for the first time in weeks,
cracking jokes and recounting stories from our childhood as we
walked deeper into the forest. Familiar landmarks disappeared
behind us as we veered off the main trail, pushing through
dense brush and across narrow deer paths.
After a few hours, the map indicated we were close, the
faint roar of distant water confirming our approach.
Then we saw it, A large fallen log spanning A narrow ravine
about 20 feet across. The ravine walls were steep, the
bottom tangled with thick brush and dead branches.
The log looked old but sturdy, wedged neatly between the banks
as though carefully positioned there.
Caleb didn't hesitate. He swung his backpack onto his
shoulders and walked right across, arms slightly
outstretched for balance. I paused, eyeing the drop below,
then followed carefully, keeping my gaze locked firmly ahead.
Halfway across, I felt Caleb stop abruptly in front of me.
I glanced up, nearly stumbling into him.
He was frozen, staring down into the ravine.
What? I whispered sharply, pulse
quickening as I adjusted my balance.
Caleb didn't answer immediately. His eyes were wide, locked on
something below. Finally, without moving, he said
quietly. Did you see that?
I followed his gaze, but saw nothing, just shadows tangled
among dense bushes and branches. See what a man?
Caleb muttered, his voice unsteady, Barefoot.
He was down there, staring right up at us.
My heart speed up, the thought unsettling.
Where? He pointed toward a dense patch
directly below the midpoint of the log.
My eyes scanned again, adjusting to the shadows.
The forest below was still empty.
There was no movement, no sound, nothing.
Are you sure? Positive.
Caleb finally moved forward, swiftly crossing to the other
side. I joined him quickly, stepping
onto solid ground with relief. Without speaking, we dropped our
packs and scrambled carefully down the slope, pushing branches
aside, searching. I felt a chill run through me as
we reached the bottom. Nothing.
No tracks, no disturbed brush, no evidence anyone had ever
stood there. I looked at Caleb, whose face
had turned pale. He shook his head slowly,
clearly unsettled. I swear, man, he was looking
right at us. The feeling was uncomfortable,
but daylight was still strong and rational explanations were
easy enough. Maybe just shadows?
I offered weekly, trying to ease the tension.
Caleb didn't respond, just nodded slowly.
We climbed back out and continued hiking.
Neither of us talked much. Soon we reached our destination,
a wide, shallow bend and swift Camp Creek.
After setting up camp, I organized the fishing gear while
Caleb got a fire going. The silence was uneasy at first,
but as we settled in, the atmosphere slowly returned to
normal. Still, I couldn't shake the
feeling we weren't alone. I was organizing tackle when I
noticed something strange. The clasp on my tackle box hung
loose. I distinctly remembered locking
it earlier. Glancing toward Caleb, who
seemed absorbed, and tending the fire, I decided not to mention
it. As darkness gathered around us,
the comforting crackle of the fire and the familiar murmur of
the Creek eased my tension. Eventually we relaxed, trading
old stories again until exhaustion set in.
Crawling into my tent, I pushed away lingering anxiety.
But even as I lay there, eyes heavy with sleep, I couldn't
escape the image of that empty ravine, no matter how I
rationalized. It felt as if something had
begun out there, something quietly watching us from the
shadows beneath the log. Sleep came slowly, unevenly.
I drifted in and out, tangled in my sleeping bag, restless from
the day's strange encounter beneath the log.
Eventually, though, exhaustion one out.
I fell into a shallow, dreamless sleep, broken only when I sensed
something shifting nearby. My eyes snapped open, and I
stared at the nylon ceiling of the tent, listening carefully.
At first, all I heard was the distant murmur of the Creek and
the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Normal sounds, familiar, comforting.
But then something else reached my ears.
Faint but distinct. A quiet shuffling noise came
from across the water. I held my breath, straining to
catch it again. Silence returned, heavy and
tense, until a soft voice drifted across the Creek, a
whisper unmistakably clear. Mason.
I sat up quickly, heart hammering.
Beside me, Caleb slept heavily, breathing slow and steady.
I nudged him urgently. Caleb, wake up.
I hissed, my voice low but tight.
He stirred sluggishly, eyes barely opening.
What? He murmured, half asleep.
There's somebody outside. I whispered sharply, eyes fixed
on the tent door across the Creek.
Listen. Caleb paused, waiting in sleepy
silence. Moments passed.
Nothing. Probably just animals, man.
Caleb finally muttered, irritated.
He rolled onto his side, pulling his sleeping bag higher.
Go back to sleep. Frustration bubbled up inside
me, but I said nothing more. I sat rigid, listening as
minutes dragged by. Just as I started convincing
myself it had been my imagination, the voice returned,
clear and measured, carrying through the darkness again.
Caleb. My pulse raced as I recognized
the voice. An imitation.
My voice echoed back at me, exact in pitch and tone.
Caleb shifted uncomfortably now, eyes wide open.
What was that? He whispered, now fully awake.
That's what I heard earlier. I replied quietly.
It called my name first. Caleb pushed himself upright,
suddenly alert. Is someone messing with us?
His voice shook slightly as he moved slowly toward the zipper
of the tent door. Wait.
I whispered urgently, reaching out to stop him.
Just listen. We stayed still, hearts
thudding. The silence stretched on
painfully, punctuated only by the Creek and the faint rustling
of trees. Minutes passed.
Nothing more came. Eventually my muscles relaxed,
exhaustion creeping back to spite my nerves.
Maybe just campers downstream? Caleb said hesitantly, trying to
convince himself. More than me.
Maybe. I replied, unconvinced.
We lay down again, but I knew neither of us slept.
Dawn finally broke. After what felt like hours, the
pale morning light brought relief and courage to exit the
tent. We emerged slowly, scanning the
opposite bank. It was quiet still, no signs of
disturbance in the brush or along the water's edge.
Then Caleb's voice broke through sharply.
Hey, look at this. I turned.
He was standing beside the fire ring, staring down.
I joined him quickly, dread pooling in my stomach.
Our firewood, carefully stacked and covered last night, was
completely gone. Nearby, the rope we'd hung to
dry our wet socks had been cleanly cut, the ends hanging
loose, swaying in the breeze. What the hell?
Caleb said quietly, anger masking his obvious fear.
A few feet further away, I spotted something even stranger.
One of my boots lay upside down in the dirt, about 20 feet from
our tent. I picked it up, noticing
immediately the faint imprint of bare toes pressed into the soft
earth beside it. We need to leave.
I said firmly, my voice steady but tight.
Caleb nodded without argument. We quickly packed our gear,
glancing nervously around the quiet woods.
We retraced our steps through the dense undergrowth, moving at
a brisk pace. Neither of us spoke as we
approached the ravine, desperate to put distance between
ourselves and whatever had found us in the night.
The morning was brighter now, reassuringly normal, until we
reached the edge of the deep ravine and froze.
The fallen log we'd crossed only yesterday afternoon was gone.
It wasn't simply shifted or broken.
It had vanished entirely, leaving a wide gap that looked
impossible to cross. My chest tightened, panic
rising. Caleb looked as shaken as I
felt, pacing nervously along the edge.
It was here, right here, he insisted, voice rising.
I glanced down at the soft earth where the log had rested,
searching for any sign it had ever existed.
There was nothing. No indentation, no scattered
bark, not even broken branches below.
It was as if it had never been there.
Then my eyes landed on something that turned my blood cold.
Near the edge, clear and fresh, were bare footprints pressed
deeply into the damp soil. Beyond them, older and partially
obscured by leaves, was another set of tracks, worn boot prints
that vanished into a dense cluster of bushes.
Caleb's breathing grew rapid as he pointed toward the brush.
Someone's watching us. They've been following us since
yesterday. I didn't respond.
I simply tightened my backpack straps, fighting back my fear as
I turned away from the gap. There was no going back the way
we'd come, not anymore. We were still miles from safety,
with no clear path forward, and the quiet woods suddenly felt
impossibly close, hiding eyes we couldn't see.
We moved quickly, urgency overriding caution, trying to
put as much distance between ourselves and the vanished log
as possible. Every rustle of leaves behind us
sent our heads snapping backward, eyes wide, scanning
for anything or anyone following.
Caleb kept muttering nervously, glancing at me every few
minutes. We need to move faster, Mason.
I know. I replied tightly, my own voice
tense. The familiar landmarks had
vanished, swallowed up by thick brush and unfamiliar terrain.
We were lost, moving by instinct now, hoping to stumble onto the
main trail before sunset trapped us here another night.
By late afternoon, the forest had thickened, darker and
denser. We broke through tangled
branches and emerged into a small clearing edged with thick,
thorny undergrowth. There was no clear path forward,
and daylight was quickly fading. Caleb dropped his backpack
heavily, frustration plane on his face.
We'll never make it back tonight, he said bitterly.
Not like this. I knew he was right, but dread
filled me at the thought of spending another night in this
place. Reluctantly, we agreed to set up
camp, where we stood hidden among tall bushes and twisted
saplings. We didn't speak as we set up the
tent, both unwilling to admit our shared fear.
There was no fire this time. We sat silently, chewing cold
trail mix knives resting at our sides, eyes constantly scanning
the shadows around us. Night fell quickly, heavy and
suffocating the surrounding darkness.
Absolute sleep wasn't an option. I sat upright, alert, listening.
Beside me, Caleb shifted constantly, breathing unevenly.
Time stretched endlessly until sometime around midnight, I
heard something approaching the tent.
Soft, slow footsteps, clearly audible on the forest floor.
I reached silently for my knife, gripping it tightly, my heart
pounding painfully in my chest. Caleb sat up abruptly, fully
awake now. He opened his mouth, but I
raised a finger sharply to silence him.
Outside, I heard quiet breathing close.
Someone was standing directly beside our tent.
Then a zipper moved. Slowly, carefully, as if someone
was testing it. Caleb lunged forward, grabbing
his knife, eyes wide with terror.
I reacted instinctively, gripping the zipper from our
side, and tore it downward in a swift motion, bracing myself to
confront whoever was outside. But no one was there.
I stepped out cautiously, knife extended, scanning the clearing
rapidly. Darkness surrounded us, dense
and silent. My eyes adjusted slowly, drawn
downward where the soft earth clearly revealed fresh
footprints. Bare feet had circled our tent
repeatedly. Caleb stood beside me, pale and
shaking visibly. We need to leave right now, he
whispered harshly. Wait, I whispered back, eyes
fixed on something else. A second set of tracks, heavy
boot prints, LED away into the darkness toward a gentle slope.
Instinctively, we followed, flashlights trembling as we
moved through the brush, stepping quietly but urgently.
We emerged moments later on to a dirt embankment beneath Tunnel
Ridge Rd. A rusted metal drainage pipe
loomed ahead, opening like a dark mouth beneath the road.
The boot prints continued directly inside, disappearing
into the blackness. Caleb stopped, staring at me in
disbelief. We can't go in there.
I took a hesitant step forward, peering inside.
From somewhere deep in the pipe, there was a faint wet sound,
something shifting softly in the darkness.
The noise sent a chill straight through me, and I stepped back
quickly. Let's get out of here, I
whispered. We backed away rapidly, turning
our backs to the drainage pipe and scrambling up the
embankment, racing toward Tunnel Ridge Rd.
We didn't slow until we reached pavement, breaking into open air
just as dawn began to break, weak Gray light creeping through
the trees. The distant rumble of an engine
brought relief. A forest ranger's truck rounded
a corner slowly and we waved frantically, stepping out onto
the asphalt, desperate to be seen.
The vehicle slowed to a stop and the Ranger stepped out, frowning
deeply as he approached us. You boys OK?
He asked, glancing at our disheveled clothing and pale
faces. We began speaking
simultaneously, words spilling out chaotically, describing the
strange voices, the missing log, and the figures stalking us.
The Ranger listened quietly, his face growing increasingly grim.
Finally, he raised his hand gently, signaling us to stop.
Boys, you're not the first ones, he said, his voice low and
serious. There have been stories for
years. People go missing out here.
The crossing log you mentioned, I've heard about it from others,
always the same. He paused, looking away as if
debating something silently. Then he spoke again,
reluctantly. Come on, show me.
An hour later we stood back at the ravine with two more
Rangers, sunlight illuminating the impossible gap before us.
The ravine was far wider than it had been 2 days ago, and there
was no sign, no mark or indentation that any log had
ever bridged it. I swear it was here.
Caleb insisted desperately. We know, The Ranger said
quietly, examining the earth with a troubled look.
Like I said, you're not the first.
Finally, we brought them to the drainage pipe.
It sat quiet and empty in the daylight.
I shivered as we stood at its entrance, my eyes adjusting
again to the dim interior. Something caught my attention,
scratches along the rusted metal walls.
I stepped closer, heart quickening as I made out names
etched crudely into the corroded surface.
Some were barely legible, others clearer and fresher.
I traced them slowly with shaking fingers, until my hand
stopped abruptly. I felt a rush of cold dread.
Filmy. Caleb stepped closer, his eyes
widening as he saw it too. Carved neatly, unmistakably,
into the rusted metal was my own name.
Mason. I stepped back sharply, panic
rising. I had never written it.
I didn't. I began, but my voice trailed
off, caught in my throat. The Ranger placed a gentle hand
on my shoulder, guiding me away from the pipe, expression dark
and sympathetic. We're done here.
He said firmly. Let's go.
As we walked back to the road, I knew without question that
whatever was out there had marked me.
We had escaped, yes, but not completely.
Something from those dark woods had found us, followed us, and
left behind a promise in my own name, scratched into rust and
darkness beneath Tunnel Ridge Rd.
Flathead National Forest had always been our place.
It was where my father had taught me how to hunt, fish and
survive. Every autumn we'd leave
civilization behind, heading deep into Montana's Backcountry
for elk season. My father, Dennis, was retired
now a firefighter who'd spent decades risking his life in
smoke filled buildings. Now in his 60s, he was still
tougher than most men half his age.
I'm Luke, and at 28 my job as a paramedic in Missoula kept me
close to home but far enough from wilderness that these
annual hunting trips felt essential, almost sacred.
This season we chose an area we'd never haunted before, near
the southern edge of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
Dad had heard from an outfitter friend that the bulls there were
trophy sized, and the valley itself was hardly touched.
Two days of hiking let us far from any marked trail to a
campsite at timberline, near a cold, winding stream that
murmured quietly beneath granite ridges.
After setting camp, we spent the evening planning our hunt.
Dad had a good feeling about a shallow basin a mile farther in,
nestled between thick stands of spruce and Douglas fir.
We'd glassed elk in the distance, and with luck we'd be
packing out meat by the following afternoon.
At dawn, the valley was draped in fog as we moved silently
toward the basin. I had my Winchester Magnum slung
over my shoulder, and Dad carried his trusty Remington.
We'd barely broken the tree line when we spotted a herd, the bull
massive and regal, his antlers silhouetted like skeletal
fingers in the mist. A single shot rang out, clean
and precise, and soon we stood beside the animal, marveling at
its size. We dressed the bull carefully,
lifting the heavy quarters into game bags before hoisting them
into a nearby tree to keep predators at Bay.
It was exhausting work, and the sun was low by the time we
finished that night. The forest felt different.
Even the sound of the stream seemed quieter, subdued by
something I couldn't quite define.
Just before turning in, I heard a distant crack echoing from the
direction of our kill site. Sharp, quick and unnatural.
Dad dismissed it as frost splitting wood, but I wasn't
convinced. When morning came, the chill
seemed sharper, seeping through my jacket as we returned to
retrieve our meat. We pushed through the brush,
expecting to see the white bags dangling where we'd left them.
Instead, the tree stood empty. The ropes snapped and frayed,
lying tangled on the ground beneath it.
No blood, no scraps, just gone. What the hell?
Dad whispered, circling the tree.
I followed him closely, heart thumping.
It was then that I noticed the marks, deep and distinct. 4
parallel grooves gouged into the bark, starting higher than
either of us could reach. The cuts were fresh and rough,
SAP bleeding slowly down the trunk.
Bear couldn't do that. I muttered.
Dad shook his head, lips pressed tight.
He knelt and pointed. Through the forest floor
stretched a set of drag marks, disturbed leaves and pine
needles, trailing toward darker timber beyond.
Cautiously, we followed the trail.
The drag marks faded gradually, becoming lighter, until there
was nothing but pristine ground again.
No carcass, no bones, nothing. A faint rustle sounded somewhere
ahead, so subtle that we froze. Instinctively, my pulse surged.
We watched and listened, eyes scanning the trees, but nothing
stirred. We should head back, Dad said
quietly. I nodded without argument, glad
for the excuse to retreat. Returning to camp, my gaze
constantly swept the surrounding trees.
The claw marks loomed clearly in my mind, inexplicable,
unsettling. Flathead National Forest had
always felt familiar, safe even. But now something was off,
changed in a way I couldn't understand, and deep down I knew
our hunt had become something else entirely.
We didn't speak much for the rest of the afternoon.
Dad cleaned his rifle again, carefully inspecting each part,
and I busied myself reinforcing our camp perimeter.
We knew bears roamed these woods, but I'd haunted around
them all my life without ever feeling this uneasy.
When the sun dropped behind the ridges, shadows filled the
valley quickly. A thick twilight settled around
us, deeper and heavier than usual.
As darkness crept in, we lit a small fire, letting the flames
eat slowly at the logs while we listen closely to the quiet
forest. Dad broke the silence first.
Maybe a Mountain Lion dragged the meat off?
He offered weekly, trying to convince himself more than me.
You saw those claw marks? I replied quietly.
I don't know any cat that tall. His expression hardened.
A mixture of concern and frustration could have climbed.
Neither of us believed it. Around midnight, a strange low
hooting echoed from somewhere far off in the trees.
Dad and I exchanged glances, both of us stiffening in our
seats. The calls rose and fell slowly,
an unfamiliar, haunting sound that made my gut tighten.
Ever heard that before? I whispered.
Dad shook his head slowly. No animal I know makes that
sound. We checked the fire and Dad
moved closer, gripping his rifle.
He kept scanning the darkness, eyes narrowed in concentration.
My mouth had gone dry. Every muscle in my body tensed
for something unseen. When the calls finally faded, I
stood up shakily to relieve myself, stepping behind the tent
toward the Creek. My flashlight beam skimmed the
earth near my feet, revealing deep depressions pressed into
the soft Moss along the stream bank.
I froze instantly. They were footprints, huge and
elongated, too wide and too deep to belong to a person too oddly
shaped for a bear. They stretched off into the
darkness beyond my flashlights reach.
I hurried back to Dad, pulse hammering in my ears.
I didn't need to say anything, my expression must have told him
enough. He grabbed his own flashlight
and followed me back to the Prince, staring silently at
them. He knelt, tracing their edges
with his finger, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.
What made these? I finally asked, voice strained.
I don't know. He said, standing abruptly.
We shouldn't stay another night. I agreed silently, my heart
racing. Neither of us said it, but we
knew it was too dark to hike out safely now.
We'd have to wait until dawn. We returned to the fire and sat
quietly, rifles across our knees.
Time crawled slowly forward every minute, stretching
endlessly. Occasionally, twigs snapped
softly around our perimeter, each small sound making my heart
skip and my grip tighten around the rifle stock.
Near dusk the following evening, Dad abruptly lifted his hand,
pointing toward the Creek. I looked up, catching sight of a
dark shape crouched low across the stream, partly obscured by
bushes, broad shoulders hunched forward.
The figure was unmoving, hair matted and dark, blending
seamlessly with the brush. I raised my rifle slowly, taking
a deep breath to steady my shaking hands.
Through the scope, I saw only darkness and shadows, no clear
outline. Take the shot.
Dad whispered urgently. I squeezed the trigger, the
rifles report shattering the stillness.
The shadow immediately erupted into motion, disappearing
silently into the dense trees. There was no crashing sound, no
breaking branches. Just silence.
Impossible silence. We both stood there, rifles
trained uselessly into the darkening woods.
Did you hit it? Dad finally asked, his voice
barely audible. I'm not sure.
I replied, breathing heavily. It was fast as night fell
completely. We retreated to the tent,
zipping it shut tightly. Neither of us mentioned sleep.
Hours passed in agonizing silence until sometime around
2:00 in the morning, when soft, heavy footsteps approached.
They circled slowly, methodically around the tent.
We listened helplessly, our breathing shallow, muscles
aching from staying so still. Then the footsteps stopped,
replaced by low, throaty grunts, almost inquisitive sounds
directly outside the thin fabric walls of our shelter.
I could hear deep breaths just inches from my head, the noise
unsettlingly close. Dad silently clicked the safety
off his rifle. We waited, neither daring to
move. Eventually, the footsteps
retreated into the night, quiet and controlled.
Dad slowly exhaled, lowering his rifle slightly.
We didn't say another word, counting the endless minutes
until dawn would finally allow us to leave.
Whatever was out there wasn't done yet, and we both knew we
had to get out before it returned.
Dawn finally broke, washing pale Gray light over our camp.
Neither Dad nor I had managed a minute of sleep.
Every muscle in my body ached from hours of rigid tension,
gripping the rifle tight enough to leave my knuckles sore.
We didn't discuss anything. Words felt pointless.
Now our only shared goal was clear.
Getting out. We packed quickly, shoving gear
haphazardly into our backpacks, barely pausing to secure our
rifles. My eyes constantly scan the tree
line, searching for movement. I caught Dad doing the same, his
face grim. The valley was utterly silent,
oppressive in its lack of normal sounds.
Climbing higher toward the granite ridges above the basin,
we sought open ground for a clearer satellite signal.
Dad held the GPS beacon, tapping it impatiently as the signal
flickered between weak and non existent.
Come on, come on, he muttered, frustration clear in his voice.
Finally, a steady green light blinked.
We immediately sent a distress signal requesting extraction.
After a few minutes of unbearable waiting, the device
vibrated softly, confirming the rescue plane was on its way from
Kalispell. Relief flooded through me, but
the tension didn't fully ease. I still felt watched.
Something followed us from below, hidden within the dense
timber. Every rustle of branches or
distant snap of twigs made me flinch.
Dad kept a tight grip on his rifle, glancing nervously
downward. As we continued climbing, the
landscape became steeper, exposed rock breaking through
patches of scrub and scattered Pines.
Each step felt heavier, slower, fatigue battling against
adrenaline. Finally, we reached an open,
rocky clearing overlooking a small Alpine lake, a suitable
landing zone for the float plane.
Dad signaled our position with his bright orange jacket, waving
it vigorously. After a few anxious minutes, we
heard the distant drone of an engine.
The sound grew louder, echoing against the mountain walls.
A small plane banked gently toward the lake.
I exhaled deeply, relief finally outweighing my anxiety.
But as the aircraft made a low Passover, the lake, my gaze
drifted back down toward the basin we just left.
Something strange caught my eye. Directly below us, clearly
visible from our vantage point, hung our missing elk carcass,
suspended high in a tree at least 15 feet above the ground.
My stomach twisted sharply. The gutted animal swayed gently,
secured by its hind legs in an impossible, disturbing display.
No bear or Mountain Lion could have done something like that.
Dad followed my stare and cursed softly under his breath.
What kind of animal does that? He murmured, almost to himself.
We didn't speak again as the plane circled once more before
gently touching down on the surface of the lake.
Slinging our packs, we hurried down toward the shoreline.
My boots splashed through shallow water as we scrambled
onto the pontoon and climbed hastily into the tiny cockpit.
The pilot, an older man named Ray, shot us a curious glance.
Clearly sensing our urgency but wise enough not to ask
questions, he pushed the throttle forward, and soon we
lifted off, leaving the haunted valley far behind.
Only once we were airborne did my shoulders finally relax, the
tension draining from me in waves.
Beside me, Dad stared silently out the window, his face set in
Stony silence. After a long moment, he spoke
quietly. It knew exactly what it was
doing, Luke. No animal does that.
Out of instinct, I nodded slowly, unable to reply.
He was right. Whatever we'd encountered back
there in the Flathead National Forest wasn't simply wild.
It had intention. Intelligence.
After landing safely in Kalispell, we reported what we'd
experienced to a Ranger station near the airport, but our
account was met with polite skepticism and nodding smiles.
No one followed up. We didn't insist.
They wouldn't believe us anyway. On the drive back to Missoula,
Dad's expression stayed thoughtful and distant.
Eventually he sighed heavily, eyes focused straight ahead.
I don't think we should ever go back there, he said quietly.
No, I replied softly, staring at the passing trees outside the
truck's window. Never again.
Weeks later, we heard through a hunting forum online that
another party had found the carcass we'd abandoned.
The elk bones were exactly where we'd left them, but the skull
was missing entirely, and fresh claw marks had appeared Higher,
deeper, more deliberate. We never talked about Flathead
again. But sometimes, late at night,
when sleep refused to come, I'd stare into the dark corners of
my bedroom, remembering that thing circling our tent,
breathing just inches away, waiting, silent, watching.
It had been six years since Dean disappeared into Olympic
National Forest. He'd vanished along the
Begachial River Trail, a popular hike near Sole Duck River known
for its rugged terrain and dense woods.
Dean spent 27 days lost before Rangers found him alive,
barefoot and wrapped in someone else's sleeping bag, nearly 10
miles off trail. He'd never explained what
happened, never answered our questions, and soon after, he
drifted away from our lives all together.
Then, out of nowhere, Dean called me.
I need to go back, Sam, he said, to face it.
I knew instantly that it meant the trail, the woods, whatever
he'd found out there. I'd spent years hoping Dean
would eventually talk, but he'd always refused.
Now something had changed. Liv was skeptical when I told
her, but insisted she come along, partly out of concern and
partly curiosity. I suspect, after all, she'd been
just as haunted as I had. It was early morning when we
drove into the forest, shadows still stretching across the
narrow roads. Dean sat silently beside me,
staring straight ahead. Liv glanced at him from the back
seat, concerned. Dean had always been reserved,
but now he was barely recognizable.
He'd aged more than the rest of us, his hair thinner, eyes
hollow, face drawn and weary. Something else was different,
too, a restlessness beneath his skin.
At the trailhead, we unloaded our gear.
Dean stood for a moment, staring at the sign marking the path
toward the Bogachel River. His hands shook slightly as he
tightened his pack straps. You OK, Dean?
Liv asked quietly. He blinked, startled by her
voice. Yeah.
He mumbled, almost too softly to hear.
Let's go. The hike was difficult, but
familiar at first. Wide paths, a steady incline,
lush ferns along the trail. Liv kept up conversation to fill
the heavy silence. Dean responded briefly,
monosyllabic, his attention always somewhere else ahead or
off to the side, as though he expected someone or something to
appear suddenly from the brush. Several miles in, we reached the
spot where Dean had originally vanished.
A small wooden post marked the intersection with a disused
trail that had once cut toward Appleton Pass, but was now
overgrown and almost indistinguishable from the
surrounding forest. Dean stopped dead, eyes locked
on the narrow path disappearing into thick brush.
This was it, he said, voice flat.
Liv looked uneasy. I felt it too, a strange sense
of displacement, like standing at the edge of a great void.
Something was off about this place, something I couldn't
pinpoint. Dean crouched, tracing his
fingers along the ground as if trying to recall some crucial
detail. He glanced back toward us, eyes
darkening. We shouldn't stop here.
We continued for another hour, following the main trail deeper
towards Slide Lake. Dean moved ahead faster now,
urgent in his stride, occasionally glancing back with
a look of quiet desperation. Liv caught my arm, whispering
nervously. Sam, I don't think we should
have agreed to this. We owe it to him.
I said softly, trying to reassure myself as much as her,
but the words felt empty. At dusk, we made camp near an
abandoned fire ring, the stones half buried by years of neglect.
Liv set up her tent while I tried to convince Dean to rest,
but he shook his head sharply. I'm sleeping outside, He
insisted, voice strained. It doesn't want barriers.
This time Liv shot me an alarmed look.
I said nothing, unsure how to handle the situation.
We ate dinner silently around a small fire.
Dean hardly touched his food, staring intensely into the
trees, his eyes flicking toward shadows cast by the firelight.
Occasionally he mumbled something under his breath, a
series of disconnected words I couldn't catch.
Clearly later, sleep wouldn't come.
Anxiety pressed on my chest, heavy and inescapable.
I stepped out quietly, noticing Dean was gone from the fireside.
Fear tightened my throat as I scanned the darkness.
Finally I saw him, standing barefoot by the riverbank,
staring at the black, silent water.
He whispered urgently into the darkness, his words fragmented,
sharp edged. I strained to hear, approaching
cautiously until I was close enough to make out his voice
clearly. No, he was saying desperately.
No, I'm here now. I told you I'd come back.
I froze, afraid to interrupt, not knowing who or what he might
be speaking to. Before I could react, Dean
turned suddenly, eyes wide and glassy, illuminated briefly in
moonlight. You shouldn't be here, Sam, He
whispered hoarsely. You never should have come.
A chill crawled down my spine as he brushed past, heading back
toward camp without another word.
I stood alone, heart pounding, staring into the endless dark of
the forest around us. We broke camp early the next
morning, none of us having slept much.
Dean hadn't said another word since the strange moment by the
riverbank, but his silence was somehow worse.
The trail narrowed, the forest thickened, and each step forward
felt heavier, more reluctant. Liv moved closer to me as we
walked, casting worried glances toward Dean, who had drifted
ahead of us. Occasionally, he paused and
tilted his head, as if listening for something we couldn't hear.
The more he did this, the tighter my stomach twisted.
You hear anything? Liv whispered.
Nothing. I said, straining to listen past
the rustling leaves, my heart beating in my ears.
Just trees. By midday, the tension was
palpable. Dean was muttering again, quiet
fragments of conversation that seemed directed towards someone
we couldn't see. He spoke softly, urgently,
repeating phrases I didn't understand.
His pace quickened, each step pushing deeper into wilderness
that grew increasingly unfamiliar.
I caught Liv's anxious glance again.
Dean, maybe we should slow down. I called.
He ignored me, stepping faster. We hurried to keep pace, but
after another mile, Dean suddenly froze in place, eyes
fixed on something in the distance.
When Liv and I caught up, I saw what held his gaze.
A large, Moss covered tree marked deeply with symbols.
Jagged carvings that seemed both ancient and disturbingly fresh.
The same angular spiral we'd seen before, only larger, more
aggressive in appearance. Dean, what is this?
I asked cautiously. His fingers traced the carvings,
mouth moving silently. Liv tugged gently at his arm.
Dean, please. He jerked away violently, his
expression darkening. It's the way back.
I need to finish this. I exchanged A helpless glance
with Liv. Her eyes widened, terrified.
She mouthed silently. We need to leave.
Before I could respond, Dean walked off again, head lowered,
movements erratic. We followed carefully, but soon
realized he was leading us away from the established trail,
deeper into a maze of fallen trees, overgrown brush, and
tangled roots. Shadows lengthened around us,
sunlight fading into a muted twilight that seemed to come too
soon. Liv reached for my hand,
gripping it tightly. Sam, he's losing it.
We need to stop him. Ahead.
Dean halted again, this time collapsing abruptly to his
knees. He pressed his hands to his
head, rocking slightly. It's too loud.
He groaned. Too many voices.
I shouldn't have brought you. I knelt beside him.
Dean, we can turn back, it's not too late.
He raised his face, pale and haunted.
It won't let us. A sudden noise behind us made
Liv jump. A heavy rustling, the crack of a
branch, something shifting weight through the trees.
It moved just out of sight, circling slowly.
Dean's eyes widened, focused now with raw fear.
It followed us, He whispered, voice trembling.
I told you, Dean, what followed us?
I demanded, but he didn't answer, staring into the dim
woods around us, unblinking. Liv tugged at my sleeve
frantically, panic swelling in her eyes.
I saw something, she whispered, breathless.
It moved like a person, right there behind those trees.
Stay here, I said, stepping carefully toward where she
pointed. My pulse thundered as I peered
into the shadows, trying desperately to see clearly.
Nothing moved, nothing breathed, yet an oppressive presence
pressed down on me, heavy and watchful.
Suddenly, Dean screamed behind me.
I spun, heart slamming to find Liv struggling with him,
desperately trying to hold him back as he clawed at the ground,
frantic. Dean.
I shouted, running toward them. His voice cracked, breaking
apart into sobs. I promised I'd come back.
It said it would take me, but not you, Dean.
Who? Liv cried.
Who are you talking about? His eyes rolled back, mouth
opening in a silent cry. Liv gasped, releasing him as he
collapsed to the dirt, shaking violently.
Above us, the trees shuddered from something heavy, passing
swiftly overhead, branches snapping.
I couldn't see it clearly, but its movement was undeniable.
Something large, something real. Dean went still, breathing
raggedly. Slowly, he sat up, staring
blankly toward the tree line. He looked past me as if I no
longer existed. It wants you, he said in a voice
I barely recognized. I'm sorry, Dean.
But he was on his feet again, stumbling into the brush without
another word. Liv tried to grab him, but he
shoved her away, nearly knocking her down.
She caught herself on a nearby tree, breathing heavily.
He's gone, she whispered. Sam, he's gone.
Not yet, I said firmly, though my voice shook.
We have to find him. From somewhere in the forest,
Dean's voice rose again, distant, muffled, calling
urgently into the gathering darkness.
But he wasn't speaking to us. He was speaking to something
else, something hidden among the trees, something that answered
him back. Dean vanished into the dark
faster than we could follow. I called his name until my
throat felt raw, but only silence replied.
Liv stood beside me, trembling, her eyes wide and shining in the
fading twilight. We can't follow him, Sam.
She said finally, her voice thin and shaky.
We'll get lost. We can't just leave him out
here. I argued, though my own voice
sounded uncertain. Not again.
She placed a hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly.
We'll get help. He's, he's gone somewhere we
can't reach. I stared into the dark forest,
the shapes of trees blending into shadow.
I could still hear Dean's voice echoing faintly, calling out to
something neither of us could see.
The sound filled me with dread, but I knew Liv was right.
Staying longer meant risking the same fate.
Reluctantly, we turned back, tracing our steps through
tangled underbrush toward the trail we'd left hours earlier.
Every rustle in the darkness, every snap of twigs, sent jolts
of adrenaline racing through me. Liv's breathing grew ragged,
uneven, her pace faltering. The forest seemed impossibly
unfamiliar now, each tree identical to the last, our path
constantly shifting beneath our feet.
After what felt like hours, we reached familiar ground, a
barely visible marker sign pointing toward the main trail.
Liv exhaled sharply, relief clear in her expression.
We're close, she whispered. We moved quickly, spurred by
urgency and fear, but as we rounded a bend in the trail, Liv
suddenly froze, staring directly into the thick growth of brush
ahead. She grabbed my arm, her
fingernails biting into my skin. Do you see her?
She breathed, barely audible. Who?
Her hand trembled as she pointed.
My heart slammed painfully as I followed her gaze.
Standing motionless among the trees, staring directly at us,
was Liv, or something identical to her.
It's face expressionless, eyes cold and empty, skin pale and
ghostly beneath the moonlight. Liv gasped sharply, stepping
backward. That's her.
That's who I saw last night. Sam, it's me.
My pulse hammered loudly in my ears.
That's not possible. The figure tilted its head
slightly, eyes never blinking. It stepped forward once,
deliberately mirroring Liv's own fearful posture.
I couldn't speak. Terror rooted me in place.
Run. Liv whispered, voice strained
now. She turned, dragging me along as
we sprinted down the trail, branches and roots tearing at
our clothes, the darkness closing in around us.
Behind. Footsteps followed steadily,
always just out of sight, matching our pace but never
gaining ground. Liv's sobbing breath echoed
beside me, each step desperate, driven by pure instinct.
Eventually, exhausted and nearly collapsing, we emerged at a
campground just beyond the trailhead.
A faint, reassuring glow came from the distant parking lot,
our vehicle still waiting exactly where we left it.
We stumbled forward, gasping, our legs burning.
When we finally reached my car, Liv sank down beside it, shaking
uncontrollably. I fumble my phone out, relieved
when it finally caught a signal. My hands shook violently as I
dialed 911. Help, I managed hoarsely.
Our friends lost. Olympic National Forest,
Bagachial trail, Please. The dispatcher's calm voice
assured me. Help was coming, but my mind
couldn't settle. Every sound, every movement at
the edges of the parking lot made my stomach twist.
Liv remained silent, her eyes locked onto the darkness beyond
the campsite, frozen in fear. When I finally hung up, she
whispered. I'm not going back in there, not
ever. I nodded numbly, barely able to
speak. Neither am I.
In the days that followed, authorities combed the forest
thoroughly. They found Dean's pack and
jacket neatly folded at the base of an old cedar tree, miles from
any trail, but nothing else. No signs of struggle, no
footprints leading away. Dean was simply gone.
Weeks later, a park Ranger called me, his voice cautious
and unsure. We picked something up last
night on an emergency channel, He said hesitantly.
It sounded like your friend, Dean.
I gripped the phone tightly, knuckles white.
What did he say? The Ranger hesitated.
He asked for help, said he came back but didn't know why he was
still there. We traced the signal to a remote
ravine, but our team searched it thoroughly.
There's no one there. My throat tightened painfully.
What does that mean? I honestly don't know, the
Ranger admitted quietly. But we're keeping the channel
open, just in case. Days passed.
Then, on a rainy evening, my phone buzzed with a voicemail
from an unknown number. Hands trembling, I listened.
Static crackled faintly before a familiar voice whispered, tired
and lost. Don't come back.
It was Dean. Growing up in Cedar Heights
always felt suffocating. It was one of those cities where
everything moved too fast and felt too tight, like the whole
world was breathing down your neck.
I didn't mind people, but crowds gave me headaches.
Noise made me anxious. Cedar Heights was noise and
crowds distilled into their purest forms.
My little brother Luca was the opposite.
He loved attention, laughter and the constant buzz of energy
around him. Maybe it was because he was only
12, still untouched by anxiety, unscarred by the things people
could do to each other. Luca had an innocence I envied,
an optimism that drove his teachers crazy and made my
parents smile. His latest obsession was
filmmaking. He'd recently been assigned a
6th grade movie project, and he threw himself into it like he
was Spielberg himself. When my parents decided we'd
visit our cousins out in Asheville so Luca could film his
project, I felt immediate relief.
Asheville was different. Small, remote, tucked away in
the woods near El Dorado National Forest, northeast of
Sacramento. My cousins Ryan and Reese live
there with their parents on five wooded acres.
The twins were as hyper as Luca, always inventing elaborate games
and pranks. But unlike the chaos of Cedar
Heights, their antics felt contained, safer somehow,
because the thick pine trees absorbed sound and the earth
softened footsteps. As we turned onto their winding
gravel driveway, I saw Luca clutching his camcorder like it
was the key to his future. Before our parents even shut off
the engine, he leaped out, calling for the twins.
I reluctantly followed behind. They needed a cameraman, and
somehow that became my responsibility.
I'd intended to hang back inside, away from the commotion,
but Luca had begged me with eyes so wide I couldn't refuse.
Marcus, please, You're better with a camera than anyone.
So there I was, trudging behind them through a maze of shadowy
trees, half heartedly filming their fantasy epic.
Luca had draped cheap cloaks over their shoulders and armed
each cousin with plastic swords. They laughed as they ran through
the trees, yelling scripted lines and improvising ridiculous
plot twists. Watch out, evil wizard.
Reese shouted, swinging his sword at empty air.
Luca giggled hysterically, directing with exaggerated hand
motions. Ryan did his best villain
impression, raising his hands dramatically and laughing in a
voice deeper than his own. The deeper we went into the
woods, the more uneasy I became. At first it was subtle, A
prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the air growing
cooler despite the sunlight filtering through the canopy.
Shadows stretched long and uneven on the forest floor,
making every step uncertain. I tried to dismiss the feeling,
attributing it to anxiety or exhaustion from keeping pace
with three energetic kids. My breathing quickened, hands
trembling as I adjusted my grip on the camcorder, doing my best
to keep the shots steady. Finally, I called out.
Guys, let's take a break, I need something to drink.
Fine. Lucas sighed dramatically,
pretending to faint against a tree.
Marcus can't keep up. The twins laughed, tossing their
swords down. Bring us juice, too.
Ryan shouted, his voice echoing strangely.
Back inside the house, the stillness was comforting.
My heart rate slowed as I opened the fridge, reaching for the
orange juice. Just as my fingers touched the
cold carton, a scream ripped through the air from outside.
It wasn't playful or exaggerated.
It was raw, high pitched, and filled with a terror that froze
me in place. Luca.
My voice cracked. I dropped the juice carton on
the kitchen floor and it burst open, spreading a pool of orange
liquid at my feet. I sprinted out the back door, my
heart slamming against my rib cage.
Luca. Ryan Reese.
My voice was swallowed by the trees.
The clearing where they've been filming seconds earlier was
completely empty. The toy swords lay scattered,
abandoned, the cloaks fluttering softly in the breeze.
Luca. My shout was desperate now, fear
creeping into every syllable. I spun around, eyes scanning the
tree line for movement. Nothing moved.
The woods were perfectly, dreadfully still.
I sprinted back inside, slamming open doors and screaming for our
parents. Within minutes, my parents and
the twins parents joined me, their panic mirroring my own.
We shouted until our throats hurt, scoured every inch of the
five acre property and called out repeatedly.
The woods gave us nothing in return.
Police arrived within the hour, their flashlights cutting
through dusk that settled heavily over Ashe Mill.
Volunteers and search dogs followed shortly after,
methodically moving through the underbrush.
Hours passed, cold dread building with each fruitless
moment. That night, as I stood shivering
beneath the yellow porch lights, listening to the muffled sobs of
our parents speaking with officers, I looked back toward
the woods. A chill crawled up my spine, and
I had the distinct, stomach churning certainty that
something terrible had reached out from that darkness and taken
them. I just didn't know yet how right
I was. After three agonizing weeks of
waiting, the call finally came. A hiker found their bodies in
Crooked Pine State Park, 29 miles northeast of Ashe Mill.
The sheriff was careful with his words, but I knew what he was
trying not to say. Ryan and Reese were dead, their
bodies torn apart, mutilated beyond anything the sheriff's
deputies had ever witnessed. Luca, my little brother, was
found hanging from a tree limb above a shallow stream, dressed
in the same cloak he'd made for his movie.
The news broke something inside me.
Nothing felt real. Not the memorial service, the
whispered condolences, or the casseroles left on our doorstep.
Especially not the day the detective handed me Luca's
camcorder, wrapped in clear plastic, like a piece of
evidence from a nightmare. He'd said it contained footage
of the boy's last moments, that the police had already reviewed
it. But when I asked about the
details, he just shook his head and told me it was better not to
know. That night, unable to sleep, I
stared at the camcorder sitting on my desk.
The small device seemed to mock me, daring me to watch what no
one else would describe. Finally, desperate for answers,
I unwrapped it from its plastic shell and turned it on.
My hands shook as I pressed play.
The video began innocently. Luca's voice filled the
speakers, excitedly directing Ryan and Reese through the
scenes we'd filmed that day. There they were, playing heroes
and villains, laughing and charging through the trees with
plastic swords held high. I recognized each location, the
familiar clearing, the fallen log, the large pine stump they'd
pretended was their throne. Then, abruptly, the video
changed. Static crackled loudly, making
me flinch. The footage flickered, went
dark, then returned grainier and more distorted.
Luca's voice was low and fearful, whispering.
Did you hear that? My pulse quickened.
The boys turned toward the forest.
Something moved subtly among the trees, a shifting shadow, barely
distinguishable. Luca zoomed in, trying to get a
better look. I leaned closer to the screen,
eyes squinting, heart thudding. Suddenly, Reese screamed.
It was the same chilling scream I'd heard from the kitchen.
On screen, the boys bolted, the camera shaking wildly as Luca
ran. Branches whipped past the lens,
blurring into frantic streaks. The camera caught glimpses of
Ryan's terrified face, Reese stumbling, and Luca's heavy
breathing punctuated by panicked gasps.
Behind them, something followed. Silent, persistent, visible only
in flickering glimpses. The screen abruptly went black.
Words flashed onto the display. I can't save them.
A low, distorted melody began playing like a music box,
unwinding slowly in reverse. It made my skin crawl.
Then the footage resumed, clearer but more horrifying than
before. Ryan and Reese appeared tied
against trees. Both were sobbing
uncontrollably. My breath caught in my throat as
I saw them struggle uselessly against their bonds.
Behind them, something slowly moved into view.
My stomach twisted. The figure was humanoid but
grotesquely distorted, arms far too long, fingers gnarled and
crooked, its body thin enough to see ribs through mottled skin.
Its face was blank except for an impossibly wide, gaping mouth.
The camera's audio filled with a strange buzzing frequency,
overwhelming and disorienting. The creature began hurting them,
moving with jerky motions, precise yet unnatural.
It pulled, twisted, and tore. Ryan and Reese's screams cracked
the tiny speakers mixing with static.
My vision blurred with tears, nausea rising in my chest.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't.
I had to understand. Finally, the camera jerked
violently away from the scene, turning toward Luca himself.
He stared directly into the lens, face oddly calm at first.
Then, slowly, his expression distorted.
His skin seemed to stretch, jaw unhinging unnaturally, eyes
rolling backward. The screen glitched and warped,
as if reality itself was fraying.
Then the footage cut sharply once more, Toluca hanging from
the noose. The image lingered silently for
several seconds, swaying slightly.
The video stopped abruptly, plunging the room back into
suffocating silence. My body trembled uncontrollably.
I stumbled from my desk and vomited into the trash can by my
bed. My mind spun, overwhelmed by
what I just witnessed. Frantically, I rewound the
camcorder, desperate to confirm what I'd seen.
But now the footage was gone. The screen displayed only
static, white noise filling the room.
That night, I didn't sleep. I sat curled against the wall,
staring at the now silent camcorder, haunted by images I'd
never be able to erase. Days passed in a blur.
Driven by restless desperation, I began searching online for
similar cases around Ashe Mill. The authorities wouldn't
acknowledge any connection, dismissing my questions as
paranoia or grief. But after digging through local
forums, news archives, and old records, I found a retired game
warden named Dale McKinney who lived near Sly Park.
Reluctantly, he agreed to talk to me.
Sitting in his dim living room, Dale spoke quietly.
Over the past 50 years, five other children had vanished from
the woods around Sly Park. Each disappearance mirrored what
had happened to Luca and the twins.
Children playing alone recovered days or weeks later near water,
their deaths brutal and inexplicable.
But what chilled me most was Dale's final confession. 2 cases
involved recovered footage. Both videos disappeared,
confiscated by investigators and never released.
Families were told the tapes showed nothing.
The police buried the truth to avoid panic.
No one had ever pushed further. I left Dale's house numb and
hollow, the weight of reality pressing down.
Whatever I'd seen on Lucas camcorder wasn't just a random
tragedy. It was something older,
something hidden. I decided right then that I
couldn't ignore it. I owed it to Luca, to Ryan, to
Reese. I owed it to myself.
And I was going back. I couldn't let it go.
Weeks passed, and every day the memories of that footage clawed
deeper into my mind. My parents watched me with
concerned eyes, whispering about therapy and medication, but they
didn't understand it wasn't something a therapist could fix.
It was something I had to confront.
Late 1 evening, without telling anyone, I packed a backpack with
a flashlight, a backup camcorder, and a hunting knife
from the garage. Then I took my parents car keys
and drove the familiar route back to Asheville.
The night was clear but oppressive.
The forest loomed on either side of the winding Rd. my headlights
barely piercing the dark. The further I drove, the more my
anxiety grew. A tight knot forming in my
stomach, I parked at the trailhead leading into Crooked
Pine State Park. The area was deserted, lit only
by moonlight filtering through the trees.
I grabbed the backpack and stepped onto the narrow path,
flashlight shaking slightly in my hand.
Each step forward felt heavier. I retraced the route from Luca's
video, recognizing each twisted root and jagged stone.
The forest was quiet except for my breathing, quick and uneven.
My mind raced with fragments of memory.
The creatures gaping mouth, Ryan and Reese tied and helpless.
Luca's distorted face. A high pitched hum filled the
air, soft at first, barely audible as I move deeper into
the woods. It intensified into a harsh
buzzing that made my teeth ache. My flashlight flickered and I
slapped the handle nervously, desperate to keep it steady.
The path narrowed, branches scratching at my arms and face.
I stumbled forward, driven more by instinct than logic.
Then I saw the stream ahead, the same shallow Creek where Luca's
body had been found. My heart thudded violently.
I stopped at the stream's edge. Everything felt wrong here.
The air seemed colder, heavier, charged with an uncomfortable
tension. I scanned the area, flashlight
beam shaking as I moved slowly along the bank.
A whisper floated past my ears, almost inaudible, Luca's voice
distant and afraid. I spun around, pointing the
flashlight wildly, but saw nothing.
My pulse hammered relentlessly. I called his name, my voice
cracking in desperation. Then, in the trees beyond the
stream, something moved. My flashlight beam froze on the
spot. The tall, thin figure from the
footage stood motionless, half hidden behind a tree trunk.
Its face was blank, empty, aside from that same impossibly wide
mouth stretching open silently. Terror shot through me, freezing
me in place. The flashlight shook violently,
the beam bouncing erratically across trees and ground.
The creature shifted closer in short, unnatural jerks,
movements that defied normal rhythm.
A nauseating wave of dizziness rushed over me as the humming
intensified, the sound now painfully loud.
The backup camcorder in my bag suddenly activated itself, a
mechanical whir startling me. With trembling hands, I pulled
it from my backpack. The screen showed an impossible
scene. The forest clearing illuminated
like daylight. I watched as Luca, Ryan, and
Reese ran past the camera, screaming in horror.
My own figure appeared on screen too, standing exactly where I
stood, now holding this very camcorder.
Confusion overwhelmed me. I glanced frantically around the
clearing, seeing only darkness, but the camera screen clearly
showed the daytime horror unfolding right here, right now.
The figure continued its jerking approach on the screen, rapidly
closing in behind the boys, reaching toward Luca's shoulder.
No, I shouted reflexively, voice raw with panic.
I hurled the camcorder at a rock, watching as the screen
shattered and sparks burst from the plastic casing.
The harsh humming stopped immediately, plunging the forest
back into total silence. The creature stood only feet
away, now, motionless and watching.
My flashlight steadied on it for a fraction of a second,
illuminating its twisted limbs and gaunt frame.
Then, suddenly and silently, it vanished back into the trees,
leaving only emptiness. I collapsed onto my knees,
gasping, my entire body trembling.
I stayed there for what felt like hours, unable to move,
listening to my own ragged breathing.
As dawn broke, a Ranger found me collapsed beside the stream.
I must have blacked out because I had no memory of the hours in
between. I was brought home weak and
dazed, my parents faces a mixture of relief and worry.
The Ranger called it exposure, exhaustion, grief, but no one
pressed me further. Days passed quietly, then weeks.
I noticed something had changed inside me.
The nightmare still came, but weaker now, easier to shake off.
I no longer felt the weight of unseen eyes following me
everywhere I went. One afternoon, while sorting
through things in the garage, I noticed the old camcorder from
Luca's disappearance, still lying in a cardboard box on a
dusty shelf. I felt a brief rush of panic,
recalling it's grainy images and distorted screams.
Hesitantly, I picked it up, considering keeping it as some
kind of twisted memorial. As I held it, a faint whisper
rose from the speakers, Small, distorted, almost mocking.
You can't save anyone. Without another thought, I
carried it straight to the curbside trash can and dropped
it inside. I slammed the lid shut and
walked away, refusing to look back.
For the first time, I felt lighter.
Not healed, exactly, but lighter.
The woods near Asheville still held secrets I would never fully
understand, but whatever had haunted Luca, Ryan, and Reese
wouldn't haunt me anymore. Because this time, I'd chosen to
let it go.