I've been slumped in my squeaky office chair, counting the
minutes until the midday heat lost its grip when the radio
crackled on the desk. One of our volunteers voices
trembled on the other end, asking for immediate backup.
They'd spotted smoke rising from somewhere near the far boundary
of our little desert park. Normally suspicious plumes of
smoke meant yet another junker set ablaze, something we saw
often enough that it barely rattled me anymore.
But the quiver in the volunteers tone gnawed at me.
Something about this situation felt off.
Without waiting for protocol or double checking any sign out
sheets, I grabbed my keys and waved my Co worker Manny over.
We piled into our dusty truck and took off down the barren
Rd., nothing but a shimmer of heat on the horizon.
My mind kept replaying worst case scenarios, a wildfire
blazing out of control, folks trapped in a gutted vehicle, or
maybe something darker. I couldn't fully process yet.
The desert seemed too quiet As we speed toward the site.
Normally I'd catch glimpses of desert hares scuttling across
the road or a hawk circling overhead.
Not this time. The entire place felt as if it
was bracing for bad news. Manny fiddled with the radio,
trying to reach the volunteers again, but all we got was static
laced with muffled crackles. Each burst of static made me
grip the steering wheel tighter. We rounded a bend and spotted
thick smoke curling into the sky.
That acrid scent of burned rubber and metal practically
tore through the trucks ventilation.
We pulled up, tires crunching on gravel, and the volunteers waved
us over, their faces drained of color.
I stepped out and got an immediate taste of heat so
intense it felt like a furnace blast.
The car in question was more of a scorched metal skeleton at
this point, the flames mostly dying down but leaving behind
angry black fumes. Manny and I exchanged uneasy
glances. We dealt with torched vehicles
before. Thieves often dump them after
stripping out valuable parts. But as we edged closer,
something caught my eye through the shattered driver's side
window. It looked like a large lump.
Leaning against the steering wheel.
I tried convincing myself it was just a mass of melted
upholstery. Stepping around for a clearer
look, I discovered it was definitely not just a ruined
seat. My stomach dropped.
I found myself staring at the remains of a person, the body
blackened and distorted, features impossible to make out.
The door handle had melted in places, and the rope, yes rope,
had fused to the metal. This wasn't a simple joyride
gone wrong. Someone had brought this car
here, bound the person inside, and shot them before setting the
entire thing aflame. The sight pressed down on me,
suffocating like the desert itself was turning hostile.
Manny rushed back to the truck to call for proper backup.
As we stood by, the smoke coiled in the sky, trailing a pungent
odor that clung to my clothes, time seemed to grind to a halt.
While we waited, one of the volunteers hovered near me,
stammering about how they'd initially assumed the car was
just another stolen husk until they peered into the driver's
seat. I remember scanning the area,
paranoid about a possible suspect lurking in the brush,
maybe watching us from behind a tumbleweed.
The fire department eventually roared in, dousing the
smoldering wreck, sending up fresh plumes of steam.
Then the police arrived. Setting up a perimeter with that
familiar yellow tape, I tried to focus on small details, like
half burned food wrappers on the ground and the bullet holes
scarring the frame. How many shots were fired?
Was the victim alive when they were bound?
I hated how my own thoughts drifted into morbid territory,
but I needed to gather facts if I ever wanted to sleep again.
Hours slipped by as investigators combed through the
ashes, taking pictures, bagging up scraps of rope.
I noticed Manny in a corner, staring silently at the wreck.
He'd told me once that he was used to gore from a past job,
but even he looked shaken. What we found here wasn't just
violence, it was cruelty. Eventually, the site was labeled
secure, and the authorities sent us on our way.
We left behind a few sheriff's deputies to maintain the
perimeter until forensics could finish up.
As Manny and I drove back, the sky had bled into a deep sun
scorched orange. My head swam with everything
we'd witnessed. The volunteers, wide eyed and
jittery, followed in their own car, still reeling from the
realization that the scene they'd stumbled upon was so much
worse than they'd feared. By the time we reached the
station, a rumor was already circulating about the haunted
site. Word travels fast in small
circles, and folks around here can't resist a good ghost story.
I overheard someone joking about how it had probably become the
park's most sought after camping spot.
Visitors love a grim legend, but there was nothing amusing in the
images still stuck in my head. The scorched seat, the twisted
rope, that unrecognizable form in the driver's seat.
I tried distracting myself with trivial tasks, sorting gear,
scribbling meaningless notes on my next shift's To Do List.
Nothing helped. Deep down, I knew I wouldn't
forget what I saw that day. The desert had always been
harsh, but I'd never thought it could be so merciless.
And we still had no clue who that poor person was or why they
ended up on that lonely stretch of sand.
That night, insomnia took hold. All I could do was stare at the
ceiling, replaying the stench of scorched metal and flesh, the
hush of onlookers too rattled to speak.
My mind refused to drift anywhere else.
Instead, it clung to the notion that something or someone was
out there, ready to do it again if they felt like it.
For the first time since I started this job, the wide open
desert didn't look like a place of freedom.
It felt like a place you go to bury your secrets, The kind that
should never see daylight. I was still reeling from the
scorched car and the horrifying discoveries tied to it when we
got another call that sent the station into a near panic.
Our supervisor, usually the picture of calm, was on the
phone, voice tight. A man on the line threatened to
end everything, claimed he had a stash of guns.
He spat out coordinates that placed him right on the fringe
of our territory. I remember standing in the
office, radio in hand, waiting to be dispatched, my mind
already leaping to dreadful scenarios.
Was I about to come across another scene as horrific as
that burned out husk? The cubicle farm chief tried to
keep the man on the line, but he was raving about regret, about
how he had nowhere else to go, that he wanted the desert to
swallow him up. My Co worker, Parker and I
exchanged glances. We both knew we were going out
there. Protocol demanded it, no matter
how unqualified we felt for a crisis involving a potentially
armed individual. We piled into the same dusty
truck I'd driven to the charred vehicle days earlier.
The sun was glaring overhead and everything in the desert looked
bleached, barren. Parker fiddled with the radio,
trying to get more updates, but the chatter was fragmented.
We heard that another Ranger outfit had arrived first, so we
speed up, hoping they'd managed to talk the man down.
A pit in my stomach warned me the outcome might be far from
ideal. As we approached the
coordinates, we spotted a couple of trucks from that other agency
parked at a crooked angle. One of their Rangers stood by,
raising a hand in a universal signal that basically said keep
your distance. We eased off the gas and rolled
to a stop. I could feel a wave of dread
pulsing from the group in front of us.
I hopped out, scanning the desert for any sign of movement.
The other agency's Ranger, a woman who looked like she'd
barely slept, walked over. Her expression was a mask of
grief, as though she'd lived through this nightmare before.
She whispered that the man we were looking for had followed
through with his threat, but hadn't perished instantly.
He'd shot himself, then staggered aways, leaving behind
a heartbreaking trail of blood until he finally collapsed.
That knowledge hit me like a weight on my chest.
While Parker stayed back with the truck, I inched forward to
where the sand turned darker. Another Ranger was kneeling
there, shaking his head, radio in hand.
I couldn't see the man's body directly.
It was behind some rocks, but the hush from everyone present
told me I didn't want to. It made me think of the new
Ranger standing off to the side, hugging her own arms.
Word around the station was that she'd lost her husband, a fellow
Ranger, to the same fate not long ago, and here she was, face
to face with another self-inflicted tragedy.
The parallels must have cut her deeper than words could
describe. Parker came up behind me, asked
if we should offer help, do anything at all.
The other outfits lead Ranger shook her head.
She said they had it under control, though her tired eyes
suggested otherwise. They told us to leave so we
wouldn't be buried in endless paperwork.
Officially, it was a matter for local law enforcement to
finalize. We lingered, unsure of our
place. Ultimately, we retreated back to
our truck, guilt and sadness trailing behind us.
Driving away felt surreal. The interior of the truck was
baking from the sun, but I was shivering inside, grappling with
the idea that these desert parks I once loved had turned into a
stage for human despair. The further we got from that
scene, the more the day's bright sky turned into a punishing
glare, as if the desert itself was tired of witnessing such
sorrow. Back at the station, the
combination of the burned car and the terrible discovery
weighed on the mood. It was as if the walls
themselves had absorbed the grimness.
I heard hushed conversations in the hall, people whispering
about how the desert had always attracted Wanderers, how some
folks came here for a spiritual rebirth while others sought an
escape. Unable to take the tension, I
decided to do something drastic. After my shift, I'd drive out to
one of our closed parks for some midnight stargazing.
I figured maybe solitude and a sky full of meteors could help
me remember the desert's beauty, give me a reason to breathe
easier. And for some odd reason, I
packed my banjo. I'm no musician, but strumming a
few off key chords had a calming effect I needed.
Under the cover of darkness, I navigated the winding roads
leading to a park that had been closed to the public for the
offseason. 30 miles of emptiness stretched behind me, not a
single car. Light insight.
I pulled up to a rusted picnic table near the border of a dried
up wash, the overhead firmament ablaze with more stars than I'd
seen in years. I climbed onto the table, banjo
resting awkwardly in my lap. Each chord I played sounded
tinny in the open space, and a breeze carried the notes away,
scattering them across the desert.
At first I found a small measure of peace in that rhythm.
Plunk, plunk, squeak, a laugh at my own poor skills.
Then my imagination flared, images of charred rope, bullet
holes, and that empty eyed Ranger discovering another
unspeakable scene. Doubts crowded my head.
This place suddenly felt like a proving ground for every dark
possibility. I glanced at the horizon,
wondering if a stranger with bad intentions lurked out there,
hidden in the shadows. Memories of the haunted sight
flickered through my mind. Why had I chosen to be alone yet
again, where night could hide anything or anyone?
A noise shattered my thoughts, quick, muffled sounds in the
brush accompanied by what almost resembled whispers.
My chest felt tight and I paused, banjo strings still
vibrating from the last chord. Something, or someone was moving
in the darkness, not even trying to be subtle.
My eyes struggled to focus, scanning the shrubs for a shape
human, animal, or worse. Those high pitched murmurs drew
nearer, punctuated by rustling leaves.
I braced for some twisted confrontation.
Maybe it was a group of Drifters or local troublemakers who'd
come upon me by chance. My pulse hammered and every
nerve wanted me to dash back to the truck.
Suddenly, 3 coyotes burst from the undergrowth.
They yipped and scampered like they owned the place, giving me
barely a passing glance as they streaked by.
My heart nearly jumped out of my throat in that moment, a bizarre
mix of shock and relief when their dark silhouettes merged
with the distant night. I stood there, blinking, banjo
clutched in a trembling grip. I couldn't help chuckling at my
own paranoia, but a heavier realization sank in.
These desert creatures roamed confidently, oblivious to my
presence and the nightmares people bring.
They weren't weighed down by haunted campsites or heartbreak
in the sand. This place was theirs, and I was
just an interloper. I put the banjo away, the final
notes of my attempt at stargazing fading into memory.
Driving back, I kept hearing those coyotes in my head, their
wild, carefree calls echoing across the dunes, a stark
contrast to the human tragedies we'd witnessed.
Looking at the vacant road ahead, illuminated by my weak
headlights, the desert didn't seem lifeless anymore.
It was alive in a raw, indifferent way, capable of
hosting scenes of cruelty, sadness, and awe.
But the fear clung to me none the less, reminding me that
while the coyotes found freedom out here, I was the one haunted
by what we'd seen. No matter how many shooting
stars lit the sky or how many chords I strummed, I couldn't
outrun that uneasy feeling that more trouble could be lurking
just beyond the next stretch of desert.
I woke up earlier than I needed to, buzzing with anticipation
for the day ahead. We piled into the car, my wife
in the passenger seat and our dog happily perched in the back,
her nose pressed against the window as if she couldn't wait
to hop onto the trail. Once we reached the parking
area, the light was still gentle, filtering through the
leaves in a way that made everything look bright and full
of promise. I'd heard stories about this
waterfall for years, how crowds flocked there to snap photos and
wade in the pool below. Part of me preferred quieter
places, but as we started walking I couldn't help but
enjoy the hum of other hikers, kids running, couples laughing,
the casual clank of water bottles in backpacks.
It all felt safe, like some big outdoor gathering.
The trail leading to the waterfall was wide and well
worn. Our dog led the way, ears
pricked and tail wagging so hard I thought she might propel
herself off the ground. Every so often she'd pause to
sniff at a suspicious looking rock or patch of Moss.
I couldn't help but laugh when she stared down a squirrel that
chattered back at her from a branch.
Once we reached the waterfall, the scene looked like something
out of a nature documentary. Sunlight caught the spray,
creating a faint rainbow right where the water thundered into
the pool below. Families were splashing,
ignoring the chill of the water, and the air was full of the
sounds of excited voices. My wife suggested we take a
quick break and dip our toes, but I was itching to explore
farther. Something about heading beyond
the popular spot seemed appealing.
I wanted to find a slice of wilderness away from the noise.
We started climbing a narrow path that snaked around the
waterfall, leaving the others behind.
It was a bit of a scramble, and we had to watch our footing on
the damp stones. My wife joked about how each
step took us further from cell phone reception.
At one point, we paused on a ledge overlooking the falls.
The people below looked so small, like tiny figures in an
illustration, their shouts and laughter reduced to muffled
echoes that barely reached us. Up ahead, the trail dipped into
a denser section of forest. The canopy overhead grew
thicker, letting in only thin ribbons of sunlight that
flickered on the ground. It got quieter, too.
I remember noticing how the sound of the waterfall faded
behind us until the dominant noise was our dogs panting mixed
with the crunch of our boots. I glanced at my wife.
She was soaking in the scenery, looking a bit wary, but still
eager for the adventure. Something about that transition
from the cheerful chatter at the base of the waterfall to the
stillness under looming branches made me strangely vigilant.
Not exactly scared, but definitely more aware of every
twig and route. The air felt different too,
cooler, maybe a little heavier. Our dog, oblivious to my sudden
watchfulness, tugged forward, following invisible sense that
seemed all important to her canine nose.
I tried to shake off any doubts, reminding myself that we'd hiked
plenty of times before without incident.
But as the path narrowed and more shadows draped over us, I
couldn't deny a slight edge creeping into my mood.
My wife tossed me a look that suggested she felt it too,
though neither of us said it out loud.
The plan was to enjoy a quiet trek, and for the most part, it
still was. Trees rose high all around the
undergrowth damp from recent rain.
We pressed on, coaxed by the thought of a secluded viewpoint,
or maybe a hidden pool we could call our own.
Yet every step took us further from the easy security of the
crowd at the base. At some point, my wife asked if
I heard any birds. That's when we both realized
they'd either gone silent or we'd left them behind.
The hush in the forest felt almost deliberate, like the
entire place was holding on to secrets it didn't want to share.
Even then, our dog seemed happy as ever, bounding along in her
own world full of curiosity. Neither of us had the heart to
turn around with the day still wide open in front of us.
Besides, a voice in my head insisted there was nothing to
worry about. Eventually, we found ourselves
on a slight incline, the trail twisting between thick trunks.
We were well out of sight from anyone else.
I paused to catch my breath, glancing back to confirm we
hadn't lost our bearings. My wife set a hand on my
shoulder, her expression somewhere between excitement and
concern. Our dog barked once.
Somehow it echoed more than it should have.
Then she continued sniffing around, tail wagging.
I thought we were alone out there, free to discover parts of
the forest few others bothered to see.
Little did I know the sense of calm would vanish soon enough.
If I'd guessed what was coming, I might have insisted we turn
around then and there, though I doubt I could have convinced our
dog to leave while she was still so curious and upbeat.
We were stepping deeper into territory that felt untouched by
the crowds. I should have understood that
untouched doesn't always mean safe.
I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the forest shifted from
peaceful to unnerving, but it happened fast.
One minute our dog was happily padding along the narrow trail,
nose in the dirt, tail wagging. The next she froze.
Her leash jerked in my hand so abruptly that I nearly stumbled.
I stopped short, scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
My wife stood a few paces behind me, breathing heavily, and the
only sound I caught was the rush of blood in my ears.
The path ahead looked unremarkable, just more tangled
roots and thick undergrowth, but our dog's body language was
unmistakable. Her legs were locked stiff, and
a quiet whine escaped her. She refused to move forward,
pulling at the leash so forcefully that I worried she'd
slip out of her collar. I whispered her name, coaxing
her like I might a frightened child.
She took a half step backward, eyes still locked on whatever
lay up ahead. My wife came closer, her voice
hushed. We exchanged a look that said
this isn't just a dog being stubborn, something's not right.
Time felt distorted. The silence carried a strange
weight pressing down on us as we tried to decide what to do next.
I strained to pick up any sound, whether it was a twig snapping
or underbrush rustling. Nothing.
No sense of a bear rummaging, no telltale scuffle of smaller
animals darting away. It was that total absence of
noise that unhinged me. Our dog let out a trembling
whine, and I realized she was actively tugging us back the way
we'd come. She'd never acted like this
before. Usually she's the one urging us
onward, tail flapping like a banner of confidence.
Something unseen had spooked her in a way I had no desire to
challenge. My wife murmured we should head
back, and I couldn't disagree, though a part of me wanted just
one glimpse to confirm if there really was anything or anyone in
that darkness. My curiosity didn't stand a
chance against the look in my dog's eyes.
She was petrified, and the longer we lingered, the more I
felt a subtle panic building. We had no guarantee what might
happen if we pressed on. The forest had somehow
transformed into an alien place, one that felt predatory in its
silence. I gave my wife a slight nod and
we both carefully turned around, doing our best not to make
sudden movements. Our dog practically dragged us
downhill, as though the path behind us was the only place she
trusted. My pulse galloped faster than my
legs could carry me, and I couldn't shake the creeping
sense that we were being watched.
Each step away felt like escaping some hidden threat we
had no business confronting. Within a few minutes, we caught
the faint roar of the waterfall again.
Relief mingled with lingering dread as we recognized that
familiar sound. A trickle of hikers was visible
in the distance, a group of teenagers chatting loudly, a
family toting beach towels. Normal life existed only a short
distance from where we'd been. Meanwhile, I half expected to
glance over my shoulder and see someone or something peering
through the trees. When our dog finally relaxed
enough to trot with her usual bounce, I let out a shaky
breath. My wife and I exchanged only
brief words, neither wanting to voice the heavy questions
rattling in our minds. Were we simply paranoid, or had
we been a few steps away from something far worse?
As we made our way back to the packed parking area, the mood
among the day hikers felt almost jarring.
Laughter and idle chatter floated around, oblivious to the
quiet horror we'd escaped. I tried to convince myself the
forest beyond the waterfall was just an ordinary stretch of
wilderness, but every time I looked at my dog, I remembered
how intensely she'd tried to pull us out.
On some level, I knew we'd never hike that section the same way
again. The memories were now stamped
with a kind of dread I couldn't quite shake, an echo of a close
call with something I never even got the chance to see.
I pulled off the dusty Hwy. into Big Bend with a plan so ordinary
it almost felt naive in hindsight.
Get a few scenic shots of Santa Elena Canyon, maybe find some
wildlife tracks to photograph, and then settle in for the
night. You'd think after all my years
guiding in the outdoors, I'd have been prepared for every
possibility. But as I eased my van into that
rough parking lot near the Canyon, the quiet pressed in on
me like a heavy blanket of dry air.
It was that specific hush that you sometimes get in the desert,
the kind that makes you question your own breathing.
Stepping out, I noticed the sign.
That red trailhead, though, The wooden plank looked like it had
seen better days. In front of me, the Canyon walls
soared upward, dark silhouettes against the late afternoon sky.
The sun hung low, casting oblong shadows that seemed to stretch
and twist across the ground. A park ranger's SUV had passed
me about an hour before, and the Ranger mentioned something about
unusual wildlife activity in the area.
At the time, I brushed it off. Sometimes they like to keep
visitors on their toes. Still, I felt unsettled.
I took a swig from my water jug, trying to shake the tension
humming in my thoughts. A few 100 meters from the van,
the trail was nothing more than patches of rock and shrubs
scattered in the dry soil, occasionally dotted with desert
flowers that thrived in the unlikeliest conditions.
This part of Big Bend was infamous for the Rio Grande's
shifting flow, especially lately.
I'd heard talk about drought and irrigation issues, so I wondered
how wide the river would actually be.
The moment I left sight of my van, it felt as though the land
had its focus fixed on me. Every step I took seemed
magnified. My boots scraped loose gravel
with each move, creating a rasp that made me jumpy.
More than once, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder,
swearing I heard something behind me, though nothing ever
appeared. Telling myself it was just
nerves didn't calm the tightness in my chest as I approached the
Canyon mouth. The grandeur of the rock walls
made me forget my worries for just a second.
The layered stone was ancient. Implacable sunlight caught in
the crags, illuminating specks of dust that floated in the air.
I was here to capture that majesty for my presentation, but
part of me just wanted to stand there, soaking in the bizarre
mix of awe and foreboding. I was about to frame my first
shot when a flicker of movement across the Rio Grande stopped me
Cold. At first it looked like a large
shape, Slytherin across the ground, something lying on its
side. Pushing forward.
My mind tried to fit it into any logical category, but nothing
made sense. I shuffled a little closer to
get a clearer line of sight. That's when I realized it was a
Mountain Lion. Not just any Mountain Lion, this
thing was enormous, easily bigger than any cat I'd
witnessed in the wild before. Its fur was the dull tan of a
white tailed deer, which was probably why I mistook it at
first glance. It crept low, moving with
effortless grace, as if gravity barely had a hold on it.
I felt my breath catch. I'd read stories about Big Ben's
big cats, but reading is nothing like seeing one up close.
The cat seemed locked onto something behind a scrubby
tangle of brush. Maybe a Jack rabbit or a stray
deer. Or it might have been stalking
something else entirely. I couldn't see.
For a moment. I was mesmerized by how smoothly
it glided over the dirt, nearly silent, every muscle coiled in
readiness. Then it turned its head and
stared right at me. My insides twisted.
I'd never quite understood the phrase predator's gaze until
that instant. Its eyes were bright, reflecting
the last rays of sunlight, and in them I saw a trace of
calculation, like it was deciding if I was worth the
trouble. The river separated us, but the
water was shallow, shallow enough that crossing wouldn't
have been too hard, especially if desperation or curiosity
spurred it. I didn't know if I should look
away or maintain eye contact. Some part of my brain warned
that running might trigger a chase reflex, and I wasn't keen
on testing that theory. So I just stood there, camera in
hand, feeling the weight of primal panic settle in my
stomach. My feet shifted automatically,
stepping backward at a painstakingly slow pace.
The cat's ears flicked, and it glanced toward whatever it had
been stalking. Then its attention came back to
me. In that second or two, I felt
every nerve in my body tighten, bracing for the worst.
Would it plunge into the river and come straight for me?
My pulse hammered as I readied to bolt if it decided I looked
easier to catch than its original target.
But either the water was too wide, or I just didn't appear to
be worth the risk. The cat's gaze lingered.
One more heartbeat, then it swiveled away.
I could almost imagine it. Sighing in annoyance, like I was
a distraction it didn't have time for, I seized the
opportunity with shaky hands. I inched back a few more steps,
then turned and hurried along the path.
Glancing over my shoulder with every stride, I half expected to
glimpse a tawny shape bounding up behind me.
Instead, all I got was the monotonous hush of a desert
evening. By the time I made it back to
the van, my entire body buzzed from an adrenaline overload.
The sun hung even lower, bleeding colors across the sky
in brilliant oranges and Reds. Stunning, if not for the dread
still tightening my nerves. Leaning against the side of the
van, I gulped down water, trying to steady myself.
Part of me wanted to leave right then and there, yet the other
part of me refused to bail on the reason I'd come all this
way. This was Big Bend, after all.
People came here for rugged, unpredictable experiences.
But there was a difference between seeking adventure and
tempting fate. Standing there in the gloaming,
I felt the desert's gaze on me again.
Maybe I imagined it, or maybe something out in the scrubland
was actually watching. Either way, I realized I'd
crossed a boundary. This wasn't a casual nature hike
anymore. I threw my camera and gear into
the back of the Van Hart, still thudding, and decided to push
deeper into that uneasy realm of twisted canyons and lurking
predators. Sometimes you have no choice but
to face the wild, especially when you've already caught its
attention. I left that makeshift trailhead
quicker than I care to admit, the last of the sun dipping
below the peaks behind me. All day I've been psyched to
take pictures and soak in the desert grandeur, but after
locking eyes with that massive cat, reality felt harsher.
My heart was still thudding from the close call and the
temperature seemed to drop fast, like the park itself was telling
me to get my act together. I headed down the main road,
scanning for a campsite that had been mentioned by a Ranger
earlier. Supposedly it wasn't more than a
few miles away, just a dirt pull off with a fire ring and a pit
toilet. Typical Big Bend accommodations,
really. While I drove, the horizon bled
from orange to deep purple and the entire desert faded into a
dark tapestry where every rock and Bush turned into ambiguous
shapes that could be anything or anyone.
I kept glancing in the rear view mirror, half expecting to see
that lion bounding after me, eyes reflecting in the
headlights. When I finally spotted the
campsite sign, it was practically pitch black.
Only one other vehicle was around, a tiny sedan that looked
about as out of place as a City car could be out here.
Their tent was zipped up tight, no sign of movement.
That left me alone with my thoughts.
After parking, I cracked open the van door and stepped onto
the rocky ground, flashlight in hand.
The glow revealed a circle of scattered stones and a gnarly
old Mesquite tree. Every shift of the wind rustled
the branches, making them scraped together in a sound that
had me on edge. Between that and the day's
adrenaline spike, I was feeling jumpy.
I rummaged around the van for some stale Oreos and a water
bottle, figuring a tiny bit of comfort food might calm my
nerves. Didn't help much.
My ears were primed for any unusual noise, and soon enough I
got one, a distant rasping scream echoing across the
desert. I nearly dropped my flashlight.
It was that distinct caterwall I'd read about, the kind Cougars
make when they call or fight, a noise somewhere between a
screech and a howl. Hearing it in the dead of night,
knowing a cat was close, made my stomach churn.
I tried to tell myself that the cat was probably miles away,
that the rocky terrain, distorted sounds.
Maybe it was hunting something far off and I was safe behind
the metal walls of my van. But I couldn't shrug off the
memory of those golden eyes sizing me up.
Just hours earlier. I found myself leaning against
the van door, scanning the darkness for any flicker of
movement, half convinced I'd spot that sinewy shape stalking
around the campsite. It's funny how your body can be
dead tired but your mind refuses to rest.
I'd been fighting a respiratory bug for days, so I finally
relented and dugout a bottle of Nyquil.
Normally, I avoid it like the plague because it can make me
hallucinate if I'm overtired, but that night, I just wanted to
knock out and forget what I'd seen.
I gulped a dose, chased it with lukewarm water, and crawled into
my sleeping bag in the back of the van, hoping for oblivion.
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that Nyquil dreams
hit me like a freight train. Within minutes, my thoughts
began swirling into bizarre shapes.
Every swirl of the wind outside turned into a scuttling
presence, creeping closer. In my half lucid state, I
imagined claws scraping against the van's exterior, the big
cat's breathing just inches away.
I could almost feel its gaze tracking me through the thin
metal. My mind painted vivid images of
a massive paw pounding on the window, a flash of teeth in the
moonlight. It was so detailed I practically
smelled the cat's breath on the night air.
I must have dozed off, though, because the next thing I
remember is jolting awake at what I guessed was around 3:00
in the morning. My throat burned, and for a
second I wasn't sure where I was.
I lurched upright, my mind still tangled in the dream headlights.
No, it was the moon casting weird shapes on the horizon,
making the jagged mountain peaks look like crouching beasts.
I must have thought it was the lion, because all of a sudden I
realized I was shouting loud, incoherent cries that carried
through the silent campsite. A flashlight flickered from the
other tent, a beam slicing the darkness.
The occupant probably wondered if I was being attacked.
My own chest felt tight, like I'd been sprinting.
I fumble for the van's door handle, but paused when I
realized I might accidentally let something inside.
The confusion and mortification clashed in my head.
Eventually, I managed to crack the door open just enough to
peer out. No lion, no giant cat.
Just a gnarled landscape warped by moonlight.
The wind toyed with me, whistling through the canyons,
making a noise that sent another shiver through my nerves.
Footsteps crunched outside. The other camper approached,
calling out are you OK over there as they shown a beam in my
direction. I wanted to apologize, to say it
was just the Nyquil messing with me, but the words came out in a
jumble. Something like I cat, sorry,
thought, until I finally managed a week.
I'm fine. They hesitated, probably unsure
whether to believe me, then asked if I needed water or help.
I stammered a quick thanks but insisted I was good, and they
retreated, though I could sense they weren't fully convinced.
After that, my heart wouldn't slow.
I tried lying back down, but every time my eyes closed, I
pictured the massive cat again, those midnight screams echoing
behind my ears. So I propped myself in the
driver's seat, arms folded tight, headlights pointed out
toward the open desert. I started the engine, just for
the comfort of hearing it purr, and turned it off again, not
wanting to waste fuel. The hours crawled.
Every now and then I'd catch a flicker of movement in the
distance. Could have been a fox, a coyote,
or just my imagination. But my nerves sparked like live
wires braced for a pounce that never came.
By the time dawn's pale light crept over the horizon, I was
exhausted. The burning orange rays cast
weird, elongated shadows across the campsite, and everything
that had loomed so large in the dark now seems small and
harmless. Climbing out of the van, I did a
quick sweep of the area, half expecting to find fresh paw
prints. Circling the vehicle, I couldn't
see any definitive tracks, but I did notice some indistinct
impressions near a cluster of rocks.
Could have been Javelina, could have been nothing.
Still, it left me uneasy. I packed up my gear in a hurry,
the events of the night weighing heavily on me.
The other camper waved, too polite to mention my half
coherent outburst. I tried to flash a friendly grin
and ended up giving something that probably looked like a
grimace. The terror of that cat encounter
wasn't fading. It was like it had imprinted
itself on my psyche, reminding me how quickly things can turn.
As I revved the van's engine and pulled away, a wave of relief
washed over me at the thought of leaving that haunted spot
behind. Yet the raw wonder of Big Ben
still tugged at me. There were more photos I wanted,
more vistas I needed for my presentation.
But as the road unfurled ahead, I couldn't shake one echoing
lesson out. Here were nothing but potential
prey in a world ruled by creatures and forces we can't
control. And that memory, the golden eyes
peering across the river, appraising me under a setting
sun? Well, that's the kind of thing
you don't forget. Not if you're lucky enough to
survive it. I drove out to the forest right
around the end of September, figuring I'd snag one last
peaceful weekend before the weather turned bitter.
The spot I chose wasn't anywhere special on a map, just a little
clearing I'd stumbled upon a year before.
It was small, surrounded by tall trees whose leaves were just
starting to shift to that deep red and golden hue.
I remember thinking how gorgeous everything looked under that
gentle autumn sunlight. It put me at ease in a way only
the outdoors can. The first afternoon passed
without a hitch. I pitched my tent, gathered some
firewood, and listened to the distant calls of birds I
couldn't name. The air felt cool, but not cold,
and my meal by the fire tasted like 1,000,000 bucks.
As dusk settled, nothing seemed strange.
The usual nighttime forest soundtrack lulled me into a
dreamless sleep. But the next morning, something
seemed off. It wasn't anything I could
pinpoint at first. I woke up to the sun peeking
through branches, and for a moment everything felt normal.
Then I realized I was too jumpy. My eyes kept drifting from the
coffee I was trying to make back into the tree line, like I was
expecting to catch someone staring back.
No reason to be spooked yet every step I took felt heavier.
After breakfast, I found myself wandering into the forest.
I hadn't planned on a big hike, but there was this odd
compulsion, like the trees were inviting me in.
That's the best way I can describe it.
I didn't consciously decide time for a walk, my feet just sort of
led the way. The further I went, the more I
realized that this wasn't part of my usual exploring.
I couldn't recall seeing the arrangement of trunks and
undergrowth I was now passing through.
Then I noticed something that rattled me more than any grunt
of a wild animal ever could. A perfectly smooth, rectangular
slab lying on the ground. It was glossy, reflecting the
weak sunlight. Despite a carpet of leaves all
around, I couldn't see a single scratch on it, or even a patch
of Moss. When you've camped a lot, you
know how quickly nature reclaims anything left unattended, so how
is this thing so spotless? Instinct said I should go back,
but curiosity got the better of me.
I edged closer, trying not to snap any twigs under foot.
The slab reminded me of a grave marker that had fallen over.
Except there was no carving, no engraving, and it had no
business being out here. This wasn't some well trodden
path. Nobody else was around for
miles, at least nobody I'd seen. As I stood there, a weird
heaviness took over my thoughts, like I'd wandered into a part of
the forest that didn't want me. Even though my tent was maybe 30
feet behind me, I felt unanchored, like I'd lost my
bearings in a matter of seconds. I forced myself to glance back
and there it was, my bright red tent still Insight so I wasn't
lost. Not literally, but every sense
in my body told me I wasn't where I thought I was.
Then it happened. A rush of air so cold I nearly
lost my breath. The trees stayed completely
still, leaves on the ground didn't move an inch.
Before I could process that, a thunderous crack exploded
through the area. It was a single deafening hit,
echoing out in every direction. My ears rang and when the echo
faded I looked up and realized it wasn't afternoon anymore.
The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the forest
floor. 1 moment it had been maybe 3 in the afternoon.
Now it was late. Hours had blinked by and I had
no clue how the slab was gone. In its place was just a patch of
leaf strewn earth. That was enough to jolt me out
of my trance. Every step back to camp felt
like something or someone was closing in around me, but I
couldn't see a thing. Once I reached my tent, I fumble
from my flashlight, even though there was still a hint of
daylight left. Rationally, I knew trying to
hike out of the forest right then was risky.
Darkness was settling in too fast, and I was too frazzled to
navigate unfamiliar terrain. So I told myself I'd hold out
until morning, no matter how unsettling the night would be.
And unsettling doesn't begin to describe it.
I hurried back to my tent, telling myself I just needed to
last until morning. I kept repeating that thought,
trying to stay calm, but my nerves were fraying.
The air outside was thick with silence.
No gentle rustling, no distant bird calls.
It was as though the forest had gone mute on purpose, like I had
crossed a threshold into some place I was never meant to
tread. Inside the tent, I flicked on my
flashlight a bunch of times, making sure it still worked
because the last thing I wanted was to be left in total darkness
if the batteries failed. Each flicker of that beam cast
weird shadows against the tent fabric.
Normally the soft glow from inside your shelter feels
comforting, but right then it felt like a beacon advertising
my location to whatever was lurking around.
Time dragged. My watch read barely after
sunset, but it might as well have been midnight.
Eventually I forced myself to lie down, thinking maybe I could
at least rest my eyes and wait out the terror.
That plan fell apart almost immediately.
A strange rumbling noise drifted in from somewhere beyond the
thin walls of my tent. At first I thought it was
distant Thunder, but then I realized it had a rolling
quality, like someone exhaling in a low, gravelly hum.
It reminded me, disturbingly, of snoring.
I held my breath, straining to figure out if I was imagining
it. Then it came again, slow and
deep, punctuated by a faint rasp.
It sounded close one moment, farther away the next.
That unsettled me more than anything else, because I could
picture whatever was making that noise circling around my
campsite. I'd been on enough camping trips
to know how animals move, usually accompanied by crunching
leaves or snapping twigs, but this was different.
There was no shuffle of pause, no breathy snort, just that slow
rhythmic rumble. Trying to calm my thoughts.
I told myself maybe a bear was bedding down for the night, but
the complete absence of any other sound set my teeth on
edge. Animals rustle or snort or grunt
as they settle, they don't just hover in the gloom making a
solitary snore like noise. And how could it possibly be
floating around my camp like that?
One second it was to my left, the next directly behind me,
though behind meant the thin nylon wall of my tent might be
all that separated us. I was too terrified to unzip the
door and look. I clutched my flashlight, but it
felt useless. What was I going to do, shine a
beam in some enormous creature's face and hope it got scared?
Every minute seemed to stretch, turning into an hour of me lying
there, barely breathing, listening to that rasping sound
shuffle around. Occasionally it paused
completely, and a thick silence fell.
Those pauses made my nerves spike because I couldn't tell
whether it was gone or just watching.
Waiting. Sleep was impossible.
My eyes were gritty from exhaustion, but every time my
lids drooped, the noise started up again, jerking me awake.
I remember mentally begging the sky to start lightening up.
Dawn felt like salvation that might never come.
It was the worst waiting game of my life, too paralyzed by dread
to move, too on edge to sleep. Sometime near morning, maybe 1/2
hour before actual sunrise, the snoring tapered off and vanished
in a heartbeat. That sudden quiet felt somehow
even more menacing. With the flashlight clutched in
my hand, I listened for any hint of movement.
A twig snap, a branch creak, anything, Nothing.
It was like the forest was trying to pretend it hadn't just
been invaded by something deeply unnatural.
When the first beams of daylight finally filtered through, I
wasted no time. My hands were trembling as I
packed up, my ears hyper attuned to every rustle in the brush.
The entire forest was still unnervingly silent.
It took me a fraction of the time it normally would to break
down my campsite, stuff my gear any which way, and haul it on my
back. That walk out was pure tension.
Each step on the trail made me feel like I was trespassing in a
domain that didn't welcome outsiders.
The trees, which had seemed so beautiful when I arrived, now
seemed to loom overhead like silent onlookers.
Occasionally I whipped my head around, convinced something was
about to bolt from behind a trunk and block my way.
Of course, nothing did. At least, nothing I could see.
By the time I reached the first signs of civilization, a beaten
gravel Rd. that led back to my parked vehicle, my shoulders
were knotted up and my mind was a scrambled mess of questions.
I glanced back only once, half expecting to catch a glimpse of
that polished slab again, or at least some hint of a shape
slinking through the woods. But all I saw were the same
autumn trees standing in eerie stillness.
I didn't feel safe until I was behind the wheel, engine running
and speeding away from that area.
Whatever had occurred out there had no explanation I could wrap
my head around. 1 moment, time vanished like I'd been ripped
out of reality. The next I was stuck in a tense
vigil, listening to something that shouldn't exist.
I wish I could save my mind, let it go after that.
But the memory clung to me. Those vanished hours, the silent
watchers among the trunks, that bizarre breathing in the
darkness, it stayed with me well beyond the forest.
Even at home, I'd jerk awake at night.
Sure, I heard that low rumble echoing from some corner of the
room. The rational side of me tried to
brush it off as a weird nightmare or a trick of my
senses. But deep down, I suspected I'd
stumbled onto something in those woods, something that I was
never meant to find, and it refused to leave me alone, even
when I was hundreds of miles away.
I remember piling into the beat up car with three of my friends,
excitement brimming just beneath the surface.
We didn't have a particular plan.
We rarely do, and that makes everything feel twice as daring.
The road leading to the forest was a patchwork of crumbling
asphalt and weeds poking through the cracks.
My buddy Jeff kept cracking jokes about missing hikers and
unexplained sightings, trying to set the tone.
Nobody really laughed, but we pretended it was all in good
fun. By the time we reached a spot
where we felt like we could hide the car and not get towed, the
sun was hovering low, painting the fields around us in muted
gold. Corn stalks stood tall on either
side of the narrow path, almost like a corridor inviting us in.
We shouldered our packs and walked straight through them, my
legs brushing against the rough leaves as my eyes darted from
row to row, half expecting someone to jump out.
Nothing did, of course, just the occasional breeze bending the
stalks in unison. Eventually the fields gave way
to trees and we started following a faint trail that
snaked through undergrowth and fallen branches.
My boots kept catching on twisted roots, but I pressed on.
Being the one who suggested this trip, I didn't want anyone
thinking I was spooked already. Behind me, Nicole was breathing
heavily, swatting at bugs that kept buzzing near her ears every
time she flinched. My grip on the shoulder straps
of my pack tightened. I tried to shrug it off and
chalk it up to nerves. After an hour or so, we found
what passed for a clearing. Just a patch of ground less
choked by shrubs. It felt secluded, perfect if you
wanted to really get away from everything.
We set down our gear. Jeff wasted no time fumbling
with the tent poles, grumbling under his breath whenever a
snake refused to go in. Meanwhile, I wandered around the
perimeter, kicking aside dead leaves and peering into the
distance where the tree trunks gathered more thickly.
Even in daylight, the woods seemed to swallow up sound.
No birdsong, no rustling branches, just a pressure in the
air as though the forest was ready to whisper something if
you stop to listen. Once the tent stood and the fire
pit was built, we sat around watching as the day slipped
away. That golden hour glow vanished
quickly and the temperature dipped.
I tried focusing on the crackling of the small fire we'd
managed, but there was a sense that something out there had
taken notice of our intrusion. Jeff and Nicole joked about old
campfire stories. Our friend Charlotte just kept
scanning the tree line, lost in her own thoughts.
I found myself wishing the night would either hurry up and pass,
or reveal whatever was lurking in the shadows.
When darkness settled, the air turned still.
Every small noise felt close, yet impossible to pinpoint.
There'd be a crunch in the leaves a few yards away, then
silence. A twig snapped and everyone's
head turned in unison, straining to see something, anything
beyond that feeble circle of firelight.
I tried calming my breathing, reminding myself that forests
have wildlife, it's normal to hear animals scurrying about,
but the noises felt timed, stalking around us in wide arcs.
Hours later, my nerves were shredded.
There was a flicker of movement behind Jeff, but when I focused
my flashlight, nothing was there.
That was the tipping point for all of us.
Charlotte muttered something about heading back.
No matter how late it was. Nobody argued.
We put out the fire as quickly as possible, grabbed our packs,
and left half of our things behind, figuring we'd come back
when we had more light and maybe more courage.
As we hurried away, our intended path melted into thick rows of
corn, and we realized we'd taken a wrong turn.
The walls of tall stalks scraped against our arms and faces,
turning us around until we couldn't tell which direction
was which. The ground felt soft beneath our
boots, damp and full of fallen husks.
We shouted to keep track of each other more than to ward off
anything else. Still, something kept pace with
us, never closer than a few yards, like it was hurting us
toward the edge. My chest felt tight by the time
we finally stumbled onto a rough gravel Rd.
The corn rustled one last time and then everything was quiet,
almost politely letting us escape.
None of us spoke as we marched to where the cars were parked.
It felt bizarre how that looming threat vanished so abruptly.
We crammed ourselves into the car and Jeff started the engine
with shaky hands. The headlights illuminated the
mouth of the trail for a moment, showing nothing but rows of
stalks, standing perfectly still as if nothing had happened.
Nobody said a word the entire ride home.
I kept replaying every flicker of light and every sound in my
mind, trying to convince myself it was all wildlife, that
nothing was truly wrong with the place.
But deep down I was convinced we'd attracted unwanted
attention. And the worst part was knowing
that come morning, we'd have to go back for the gear we left
behind. Sunlight changes everything, Or
so I thought. The next morning, Jeff banged on
my door at sunrise, determined to head back for the tents and
gear we'd left behind. Neither of us could pretend the
night before hadn't gotten to us, but we wanted to save face.
So we rallied the others and climbed back into the car,
acting like daytime would strip away whatever lurked out there.
It felt almost serene when we arrived.
The dew glistened on tall grass. Birds chirped like they had no
idea how unnerving things had been hours ago.
We took the same rough path into the woods, stepping over broken
twigs and scuffed patches of dirt we recognized from last
night's frantic escape. The place felt strangely
smaller, tamer. My shoulders relaxed a notch,
like maybe our imaginations had run wild.
Jeff started joking, tapping a tree trunk with a grin.
Remember this? One could have sworn it was
moving in the dark. We all forced a laugh.
Nicole was still a bit on edge, but at least it wasn't pitch
black anymore. We moved along, teasing each
other about bravery, as if the daylight really had chased off
all the shadows. Then, out of nowhere, someone
yelled Marco, and laughter rippled through the group.
It was just a spur of the moment thing, like we were trying to
tease each other's jitters away. We kept walking, waiting for a
sign of anything out of place. And then we heard it, faint and
distant, a voice cutting through the stillness.
Polo. We froze.
It didn't sound close, but there was an edge to it, calm but just
beyond normal earshot. Nobody spoke at first, and then
Jeff, with a nervous chuckle, hollered Marco again.
The response came once more. Polo.
Something about it felt unsettling in the daylight, like
we'd gone from being watchers to being watched.
And yet we couldn't resist investigating.
Step by step, we followed that voice, weaving deeper into the
woods than we'd gone before. Overhead, the canopy grew
thicker, filtering the sun into ribbons of light.
The deeper we went, the quieter everything else seemed.
Even the birds stopped singing, as if they decided to keep their
distance. We finally hit a rusted barbed
wire fence, twisted and slumped, almost completely swallowed by
vines. Beyond it lay the foundation of
a building, just weathered stone and old boards.
It looked as if whoever had built it vanished a lifetime
ago, leaving the skeleton behind.
In our hometown, we'd seen abandoned houses and barns, but
this one had a distinctly unpleasant air.
The ground was littered with broken glass and rotting beams.
The fence posts had deep scars, as though an animal or something
with claws had been scraping them.
The voice went silent. We paused, scanning the area,
half expecting to spot a figure ducking behind a wall.
Nothing moved. The wrecked foundation stared
back at us, daring us to step closer.
My nerves prickled as we approached the gaping doorway
that led to what had once been an interior.
Chunks of wood and stone formed eerie shapes, casting shadows
even under bright sunlight. Nicole called out Marco, one
last time. Silence.
We advanced a bit farther, unsettled by what looked like
dried dark streaks on a couple of the fallen boards.
Some part of me wanted to dismiss it as dirt or Moss, but
it glistened in places that made my stomach twist.
The air smelled stale, maybe tinged with mildew or something
worse. We spread out, trying to figure
out where that voice could have come from.
Nobody found footprints or fresh signs of a person living or
hiding there, yet each of us felt cornered, as if eyes were
tracking every movement. Jeff kicked at a broken beam and
muttered about how messed up this was.
Charlotte kept a close watch behind us, like she sensed a
present slipping between the trees.
All our bravado from earlier evaporated.
We decided we'd had enough exploring for one day.
The tents were nowhere to be seen anyway.
Either we'd gone off in the wrong direction, or they were
deeper in the woods than we realized.
And after seeing the ruin up close, none of us wanted to
linger. As we made our retreat, the
silence felt thicker than before.
Every snapped twig behind us made me flinch.
We were trying to keep calm, but it was like walking on glass,
expecting something to lunge at us at any second.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears and I was glad we were still in
a group. It took effort not to Sprint for
the car. When we finally got clear of the
fence and saw the broader stretch of forest thinning out,
relief washed through me. The sun felt warmer somehow.
I could breathe again, but a quick glance over my shoulder
caught a blur. Maybe a figure or just the sway
of foliage. Hard to say.
Either way, it was enough to make me hurry up.
We reached the trailhead with a collective sigh, vowing not to
come back. We had started this trip to
prove we could handle anything the forest threw at us, but
something else was there, something we couldn't pin down.
Whatever had beckoned us with that Polo either lost interest
or had moved on to some other game.
Our tent might still be out there, but I felt safer leaving
it behind. Sometimes it's better to just
walk away, especially when you can't be sure what or who you're
dealing with. We drove off, refusing to speak
until we hit the main road. Our uneasy glances said
everything. Daylight might have made the
woods look friendlier at first, but it only peeled back a layer,
revealing an even deeper, more unsettling truth.
There's something about that place that plays by its own
rules, and we were lucky enough to leave while we could.