I've been guiding groups through the Backcountry of southern Utah
for over a decade, but the Grand Staircase Escalante has always
felt different. Remote, expansive, and starkly
beautiful, it's a wilderness that commands respect.
I've LED dozens of expeditions safely through its slot canyons,
rocky washes, and sandstone labyrinths.
But last September's photography trek reminded me why even
seasoned guides can never fully trust the desert.
We were three days into a five day expedition.
My group was solid 2 photographers named Adam and
Jesse, a middle-aged couple, Steve and Jan from Colorado, a
quiet college kid named Ethan studying desert ecology, and
Pete, an older guy obsessed with landscape time lapses.
Each was experienced enough to handle the long, hot miles of
hiking, and that made my job easier.
After two straightforward days hiking along Harris Wash
photographing arches and rock formations, the plan was simple.
We'd loop through 25 mile Wash and explore some narrower
canyons. We were chasing good lighting
and better scenery, and the group trusted me to find it.
But what we found that morning still haunts me.
We left our second camp early, eager to make good time.
Jesse had spotted mule deer tracks just after sunrise, fresh
enough that the sand was still damp beneath their steps.
That got the photographers excited, thinking they'd finally
get their wildlife shots. But less than half an hour
later, we stumbled across something wrong, something that
didn't belong there. The tracks we'd followed ended
abruptly at a small clearing, and there, sprawled out in front
of us, was the deer. Or at least what was left of it.
It couldn't have been dead more than 15 or 20 minutes.
Steam rose off the stripped bones like fog on a winter
morning, tendrils slowly dissipating into the dry desert
air. The carcass was so meticulously
cleaned it looked like it had been carefully prepared, not
taken down by a hungry predator. The meat was gone.
Muscle fibers and tendons vanished, but strangely there
was almost no blood, just bones placed in a neat pile like
someone was leaving a warning. I didn't want to admit it then,
but I felt a chill run down my back that had nothing to do with
the early morning air. Jan quietly asked me what could
have done this, but I had no good answers.
It wasn't coyotes. They're messy eaters and their
kills never looked this intentional.
Jesse photographed the carcass silently while Adam scanned the
area with anxious eyes. We moved on quickly, but things
felt off. A mile or two later, we startled
a pair of coyotes drinking from a stagnant pool.
They bolted like they'd seen death itself.
I'd never seen coyotes run so scared, especially from humans.
The whole thing sat wrong with me, so I decided to alter our
route, heading toward a broader, less isolated Canyon I
remembered from previous trips. By sunset, we had camp set up in
a sandy wash, surrounded by towering sandstone walls.
It felt safe, with a single visible root in and out.
But as dusk turned to night, my unease grew.
I paced quietly around our perimeter, checking gear,
looking for animal tracks or anything unusual.
It was all clear, yet I couldn't shake the tension twisting in my
stomach. We turned in early, tired from
hiking and nerves frayed by the strange day.
Sleep came in patches, and then, around midnight, I awoke
Suddenly. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful,
moved along the edges of camp. They stopped frequently, as if
someone was inspecting each tent, testing our awareness.
I grabbed my flashlight, peering into the darkness, but saw
nothing. Then I heard my own voice,
calling softly from somewhere just beyond the tents.
You guys all right? It said, clear, as if I'd spoken
it myself. But I hadn't uttered a word.
A ripple of confusion washed over me.
Had I imagined it? I whispered for the others to
stay quiet. Adam's tent rustled, and I knew
he was awake too, listening just as intently.
My heart hammered as I waited, ears straining for any sound.
But nothing else came. No footsteps retreating, no
further voices. Silence wrapped around us,
suffocating and thick. I waited until dawn before
leaving my tent again. Light brought a little courage,
but when I stepped outside, something compelled me forward,
away from camp. I moved slowly at first, as if
following an instinct buried deep beneath common sense.
Before long, the camp was behind me, my feet bare against cold
stone and gritty sand. How long I walked, I don't know,
but gradually I realized I was lost.
My mind snapped back abruptly, the trance lifting, leaving me
disoriented. I stared around, trying to
Orient myself, to understand how I'd come so far.
When I finally stumbled back into camp hours later, feet
bleeding and head pounding, everyone stared at me like
they'd seen a ghost. I could only tell them one
thing, even though it made no sense.
I left because something out there was speaking to me.
I admitted shakily in my voice, and I couldn't ignore it.
After I returned to camp, everything felt fractured.
I could see it in the way the group looked at me, the
confusion and mistrust hanging in their eyes.
I didn't blame them. Hell, I hardly trusted myself.
My feet were raw, bleeding from hours of walking barefoot
through rock and sand. Every step felt like grinding
glass beneath me, but the physical pain was easier to
handle than the creeping dread that wrapped itself around us
all. Adam approached me quietly after
we broke camp, pulling me aside while the others packed gear.
His eyes darted nervously toward the junipers scattered around
the Canyon edges, their twisted shapes casting long, ragged
shadows. Rick.
He whispered, voice cracking slightly.
When you came back, you just weren't yourself.
I stared at him, a chill creeping along my spine.
What do you mean? He hesitated, eyes searching
mine for understanding. Last night, after you went to
your tent, I saw something out there.
It was standing behind a juniper.
At first I thought it was you, but then I saw your boots
outside your tent. This thing, it didn't move,
didn't blink. Its mouth hung open way too
wide. And its eyes, Rick, they were
black, completely black. My mouth went dry.
I glanced around, unease clawing at my throat.
Adam wasn't the kind of panic. He was steady, careful with his
words. I believe you, I finally said,
feeling as though a weight pressed into my chest.
Whatever it is, we can't stay here.
The original route back, the quickest route, was now off
limits in my mind. I couldn't risk passing back
through the Canyon we'd come from, back through whatever had
found us. I unfolded the map with
trembling fingers, tracing a new route northwest toward an old
cattle trail that intersected an abandoned Bureau of Land
Management Rd. We're changing course, I told
the group firmly, trying to mask my own uncertainty.
It's longer, but safer. We set out at a punishing pace.
I moved at the back, glancing constantly over my shoulder.
Each shadow, each rustle of dry brush made my pulse spike.
As evening came, the oppressive quiet of the desert grew
heavier, more suffocating. I felt as though eyes followed
our every move. But each time I turned, nothing
was there. When the sun dipped below the
horizon, I pushed us further, unwilling to camp out in the
open again. The group grumbled, but followed
without protest. Even they knew something wasn't
right. Around midnight, we paused near
a shallow sandstone alcove, my breath coming fast from nerves
rather than exertion. We'll rest here, I said, but my
voice had barely died when we heard it, someone humming
faintly from just beyond our line of sight.
Up the trail ahead, every head snapped up, tension crackling
silently among us. The melody was slow, clear,
almost inviting. I gripped my small sidearm
tightly, sweat dripping down my palm, heart slamming in my
chest. Steve moved forward
instinctively. Someone's out there.
Maybe they need help. Stay here, I snapped, surprising
even myself. Nobody moves.
He froze, startled at the sharpness of my voice.
Ethan looked at me, eyes wide and questioning.
Rick, what is that? I don't know, I answered,
forcing myself to breathe evenly.
But it's not human. We retreated into the alcove,
wedging ourselves tightly against the sandstone wall.
I positioned myself at the edge, gun pointed outward, trying to
steady my trembling hands. The humming continued for
several minutes, floating gently through the still air, then
stopped abruptly, replaced by a silence that was somehow worse.
Hours passed agonizingly slow. Nobody spoke, nobody moved as
dawn finally broke, pale and Gray over the rocks.
Exhaustion and fear had etched deep lines onto everyone's
faces, but at least daylight was a shield, if only for now.
We left the alcove immediately, following the winding trail
higher and higher up the slick rock.
Adam fell in beside me, quietly pointing to the sandy ground.
My heart seized as I saw the prints clearly marked there,
some barefoot, others undeniably mine, matching the tread pattern
of the boots I'd left behind yesterday.
What the hell? Adam murmured softly, pointing
to a particular set of prints. They moved beside mine, but
travelled backward, as though something had walked parallel to
my path, but in reverse. Keep walking, I said hoarsely.
Don't stop for anything. The cattle trail came into view
ahead, a narrow slash across open rock.
Relief stirred faintly within me, overshadowed by the primal,
instinctual fear that refused to release its grip.
As we climbed the final rise. I dare to glance back down the
way we'd come. There, partially obscured by
shadows cast from the Canyon walls, something tall moved
quickly behind an outcropping of rock.
Its movement was unnatural, hunched low, gliding too
smoothly across rough terrain. I caught a brief glimpse of pale
grayish skin, stretched taut over thin bones.
Don't look back, I warned sharply, pushing everyone toward
the cattle trail ahead. We're almost there.
I knew the desert well enough to realize when it was giving a
warning, and this, this felt more like a final threat.
I urged everyone forward with a desperation I couldn't hide
anymore. My throat burned from thirst and
fatigue, and my feet had gone numb, every step mechanical,
propelled by adrenaline alone. The cattle trail twisted upward,
slick rock giving way occasionally to patches of sand
and gravel. The old route was faint but
unmistakable, marked here and there by half buried Cairns left
behind by ranchers decades ago. Adam stayed close, occasionally
glancing behind us. His eyes darted nervously to
every shadow, every rock formation we passed.
I didn't blame him, My own imagination was working
overtime. But I knew what I'd seen.
And more disturbingly, I knew Adam wasn't imagining things
either. Mid afternoon brought the first
real hope in ours. As we crested a sandstone bluff,
the sight of the faint dirt Rd. below nearly buckled my knees.
Pete let out a shaky breath. Jan and Steve held each other,
their shoulders slumping in relief.
Even Ethan, quiet and exhausted, cracked a weak smile.
Not much further. I assured them, voice hoarse.
We get to that road, we get out. Yet I felt no real comfort.
The closer we got, the stronger my sense of unease became
gnawing at my insides. I found myself constantly
glancing down at the ground, following our footprints and
those others that shadowed ours, the prints that matched mine yet
twisted and uncertain. The barefoot marks weaving
beside them haunted me. It felt like whatever had
followed us, whatever had tried to trick me into wandering
deeper into the Canyon, was staying close, just out of
sight. Then Adam stopped suddenly,
bending down to inspect the sand near the trail.
His face paled. Rick, look at these, he
whispered. I knelt beside him.
Another set of prints, but these moved backward, retracing our
exact route back toward the Canyon we'd fled.
Each step was deliberate, clear, evenly spaced, mirroring ours
perfectly. My chest tightened with dread.
Keep moving, I said quietly, fighting the tremor in my voice.
Don't stop. Again we pressed on, silence
heavy between us as we approach the final 100 yards toward the
dirt Rd. A flicker of motion to my left
caught my attention. I spun around sharply, hand
tightening on my sidearm. For a split second, I saw a
figure slip behind an outcropping.
Its movements were fluid, disturbingly graceful, hunched
low as it disappeared behind rocks.
In that momentary glimpse, its skin looked too pale, almost
translucent, stretched over long bones.
Then it was gone. My heart slammed in my chest.
I swallowed hard, mouth dry as sandpaper.
Jan touched my shoulder, her eyes wide and frightened.
Rick, what did you see? Just go, I urged, pushing them
onward. The roads right there.
We stumbled onto the dirt Rd. gasping, hollow with exhaustion.
I scanned the area desperately, terrified we'd see something
emerge from the brush again, but nothing moved.
Silence settled around us, thick and oppressive.
Then the distant rumble of an engine cut through the quiet.
Moments later, a battered 4 Wheeler appeared, driven by a
local cattleman. He looked surprised, then
concerned as he saw our ragged condition.
You folks all right? He called, slowing to a stop.
I felt relief flood my veins, legs almost collapsing beneath
me. We're not hurt.
I managed, but we need help. He nodded gravely, and we piled
into his truck bed. Gratefully, no one spoke much on
the ride into Escalante, each of us lost in thoughts we couldn't
articulate. By the time we reached town,
exhaustion overtook fear. I found myself sitting numbly in
a diner, holding a cup of coffee I barely tasted.
Later that day, I made an unofficial report to the local
BLM office. The Ranger there listened
politely, nodding occasionally, but his skepticism was clear.
There'd been no similar wildlife reports, no disturbances,
nothing to corroborate our experience.
Officially, they considered it dehydration and panic.
No more, no less. I didn't push.
There was no way to explain the things we'd felt, the way my
voice had called me from the darkness, or the impossible
figure Adam had described. Within weeks, I quietly resigned
from guiding Desert Tours. Grand Staircase, Escalante, once
my home, a place I loved deeply, now felt haunted, irrevocably
changed. I knew I'd never return.
Months passed and the memory faded but never left.
Adam called me once, late one night.
He sounded rattled. Rick.
I went through my notes. He said softly.
From that morning. You came back barefoot.
What about them? I asked warily.
There were two sets of prints that morning.
He continued slowly. I remember clearly now.
One was yours, coming back toward camp.
But there was another set next to yours, identical in shape and
size. They mirrored yours exactly,
step for step, then just stopped.
I closed my eyes, the sickening feeling returning instantly.
What do you mean, stopped? They ended abruptly.
Adam said, voice shaking as if whoever or whatever was walking
beside you just vanished into thin air.
Neither of us spoke for a long moment, then Adam broke the
silence one last time. I don't know what we encountered
out there, Rick, but it wasn't human.
It wasn't anything that belongs in this world.
He hung up shortly after, leaving me alone in the dark,
wondering if I'd ever truly left that Canyon behind.
I've spent more summers than I can count guiding tourists
through the deserts of Joshua Tree.
Most guides prefer the crowded trails around Hidden Valley or
Barker Dam, places with clear paths and plenty of foot
traffic. But I've always liked the remote
corners, the forgotten roads winding through Pinto Basin.
Out there, it's just you, the sand, the heat, and your
instincts. No distractions, no mistakes.
At least that's how it always was before I took John and Marta
out into the basin last July. We headed out from the Jeep at
sunrise. Pinto Basin was already
shimmering with waves of heat, the early sun promising A
blistering day ahead. John, a Dutch guy in his 30s,
looked fit and confident, already snapping on his hat and
adjusting his sunglasses. Marta, quiet and German, moved
carefully checking and double checking her gear.
I'd guided hundreds of tourists, but these two felt capable,
experienced. I like that.
Less babysitting, more adventure.
The plan was a 2 day loop through the maze of dry washes
east of Pinto Mountain. It's easy terrain to
underestimate. People think deserts are empty
and predictable, but every Arroyo looks alike, and the heat
can erase your tracks and hours. I navigated by landmarks most
visitors never notice. Scorched rocks left by wildfires
decades ago, twisted branches of dry ocotillo, certain rock
outcrops shaped by centuries of wind.
We hiked quietly that first morning, the rhythmic crunch of
boots on sand filling the silence.
By noon, temperatures pushed toward 100°, so I LED us to a
shaded overhang where we rested, rationing our water.
I glanced at John, who wiped sweat from his face with a
steady hand. Marta sipped water slowly,
carefully, her eyes scanning the horizon as if memorizing it.
After our break, we pushed deeper into the wash, where the
sand hardened into baked earth, cracked and flaking under foot
as the sun rose higher. Even breathing became an effort.
I kept the pace slow, methodical, until something in
the distance caught my eye and uneven shape jutting awkwardly
from a drift of sand at the base of a bluff.
As we got closer, I felt an uneasy tightness in my chest.
It was an old shack, half collapsed, roof buckling inward,
rusted metal panels hanging loosely like broken teeth.
It looked completely out of place, even in a desert that had
swallowed whole towns. I'd walked this basin dozens of
times, but I had never seen or heard mention of anything like
this. Russ, what is this?
John asked, already moving ahead for a closer look.
I hesitated. No clue.
Must be an old prospector camp. John circled it slowly,
fascinated. Marta lingered back, quiet as
always, studying the bones scattered around the shack,
small animal bones, bleached white by the sun.
Then I saw something else, partly hidden in the shadows,
cast by warped wooden planks. Longer bones, straighter and
thicker than any desert coyote or Jack rabbit.
John nudged one with his boot. What animal has bones like this?
I didn't answer right away. I knew bones.
I'd come across plenty over the years, but these looked
unsettlingly familiar, almost human.
A cold feeling ran down my spine despite the heat.
Let's keep moving, I said, finally breaking the silence.
We don't want to linger here. John didn't argue, just glanced
toward Marta and nodded. She was already backing away
from the shack, her face tense. We camped several 100 yards
away, near a narrow rise with good visibility in every
direction. I picked the spot on instinct,
as though the distance could somehow erase what we'd seen.
Nightfall brought no relief from the heat.
My tent felt like an oven, the air so still it seemed to press
down on me. Sleep was impossible.
I lay staring at the thin fabric ceiling, listening to John and
Marta shift uneasily in their tents nearby.
Then something else caught my attention, a soft rustling
outside. My muscles tensed as I strained
to hear better, expecting footsteps or whispered voices,
but there were none. Just silence, punctuated by my
racing pulse. Unable to shake the feeling, I
slowly unzipped my tent flap, peering out into the darkness.
My heart nearly stopped in the faint Starlight.
About 10 feet from our tents, a figure sat cross legged, utterly
motionless. It faced us, head slightly
bowed, completely still. Hey.
I barked, my voice cracking from dryness and adrenaline.
I grabbed my flashlight, flooding the area with red
tinted light. The figure was gone.
My breath came in short, rapid bursts as I scanned the area,
expecting to see footprints or someone retreating into the
darkness. But the sand was smooth,
untouched, as though no one had ever been there at all.
I stayed awake the rest of the night, hand tightly gripping my
flashlight, ears straining against the silence, waiting for
something that never came. Dawn finally came, offering thin
comfort after the longest night of my life.
The memory of that silent figure haunted me, but the morning
brought immediate distraction. Marta's voice, edged with panic,
snapped me out of my exhausted stupor.
Russ, look. She held her hydration bladder,
the water dripping steadily into the sand from a clean slash
across its side. John stood beside her, holding
his own bladder, similarly damaged.
The cuts weren't ragged or chewed through by desert
critters. They were straight and
deliberate, clearly made by something sharp.
My stomach tightened as I surveyed the campsite.
Someone or something had done this silently, inches from our
sleeping forms. I swallowed hard, forcing calm
into my voice. We'll redistribute my water.
It's enough to get us back if we're careful.
But then I noticed something else.
Just beyond our tents, neatly arranged in a perfect grid
pattern, thin sticks stood upright in the sand.
Each was pushed several inches deep, impossibly precise.
At each corner lay a small blackened stone, charred like
charcoal. My pulse quickened as I stared,
the pattern alien and unsettling.
John cursed under his breath. Someone's messing with us.
Maybe squatters? I offered weekly, though I
didn't believe it myself. Squatters in the desert meant
scavengers or prospectors, people who valued solitude more
than anything. They wouldn't risk
confrontation. Marta watched me quietly,
reading doubt clearly. In my hesitation, I brushed sand
over the sticks with my boot, erasing the pattern.
But the unease lingered, thick as the heat building with the
rising sun. We need to move, I said firmly.
We'll cut east and pick up a Canyon.
I know it'll bring us back toward the Jeep.
We'll be fine if we don't waste time.
Neither argued. We packed swiftly, silence
hanging heavy between us. Every shadow now felt ominous,
each rock formation a possible hiding place for whatever had
visited in the night. As we hiked, temperatures
climbed relentlessly, the sun burning into our skin.
My route followed narrow washes and old fire scars, but my mind
raced with thoughts of the figure, the sticks, the slashed
water. I had walked these desert paths
countless times, yet now they seemed hostile, unfamiliar.
Near noon, we paused briefly beneath a sandstone overhang,
the shade barely enough to ease our misery.
Marta passed John my water bottle without a word, each
carefully rationing their sips. We had to keep moving.
This desert had a cruel way of punishing the slow.
After another grueling hour, Marta abruptly stopped, eyes
wide. Wait, where's John?
My heart plunged into a sickening drop.
Turning quickly, I scanned the trail behind us.
Nothing. He'd vanished without a sound.
No struggle, no shout, not even a footprint out of place.
John. I called sharply, fear edging my
voice. Only the quiet vastness replied.
Marta stood frozen, her expression shifting from
confusion to terror. Stay here, I ordered.
Don't move, drink sparingly, I'll find him.
She nodded mutely, eyes never leaving mine, pleading silently
not to abandon her too. I jogged back down the wash,
eyes scouring every crevice, every shadow.
Then I noticed subtle signs. The scrape of boots, the bent
limbs of dry okotio, faint impressions in the sand leading
toward a narrow shoot between two boulders.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I followed the tracks.
In the shadows. My foot kicked something
metallic hidden under a thin layer of sand.
Kneeling quickly, I brushed it clear, A heavy length of rusted
chain, half buried, bolted into solid rock.
The other end had snapped, leaving it empty and useless.
The sight sent chills through me, despite the blistering heat.
Russ. John's voice startled me.
He emerged unsteadily from behind a rocky ledge, his face
pale beneath layers of dust and sweat.
You all right? I asked sharply.
He nodded shakily. I thought I saw someone watching
from those rocks. He pointed vaguely behind him.
Then everything went blurry. I passed out.
Heat exhaustion. I lied confidently, clapping his
shoulder reassuringly. Drink slowly.
We have to get back to Marta. We hurried back, my anxiety
rising again when I didn't immediately see her.
Then I noticed her pack sitting beside a small rock hollow,
approaching slowly. I called her name softly, trying
not to startle her. Marta crawled out cautiously,
eyes darting nervously toward the wash we'd left behind.
Something came. She whispered, voice cracking.
It crawled out from behind that Ridge, covered in ash or dirt, I
don't know. It didn't look right.
It was crawling Russ like an animal.
Her words froze my blood. No desert prospector or squatter
would behave this way. No rational explanation fit.
My hands trembled slightly as I helped her stand.
We go, I said, voice steadier than I felt now.
They nodded. Silently.
We pushed northward toward the Canyon I prayed would lead us
back toward the Jeep and safety. Every step felt like fleeing.
Every shadow hid menace. Behind us.
The sun began its slow descent, casting longer, darker shapes
across the sand, chasing us forward towards something I now
feared waited patiently ahead. The Canyon walls closed tighter
around us as we move deeper, sandstone rising steeply on both
sides. My breath rasped in my throat,
each intake of air hot and gritty.
Marta and John kept pace behind me, their footsteps hurried and
anxious. I felt the tension radiating off
them. My eyes darted toward every
shadow, every bend ahead. The slot Canyon was familiar, at
least I thought it was. But in this late afternoon
light, it felt hostile somehow. Narrower, darker still.
It was our best shot at getting out quickly.
We'd make it to the old Jeep road and follow it back to the
trailhead. I repeated that promise
silently, like a mantra, fighting to stay calm.
I heard it first, a faint scrape of stone, then again, louder,
closer. Marta stopped abruptly, gripping
my arm, her fingers trembling. Russ, did you hear?
Yes. I whispered sharply, cutting her
off. Keep moving.
John had slowed behind us, stumbling slightly from
exhaustion. He wiped his brow, his eyes
hollow with fatigue and fear. We're being followed, aren't we?
I didn't respond, just quickened our pace.
My heart slammed inside my chest with every step.
Whatever it was, it wasn't bothering to hide anymore.
Each footfall echoed louder now, solid, steady, gaining ground
behind us. I tightened my grip on the
hatchet hanging from my belt, feeling the worn wood handle,
slick with sweat. Move.
I hissed urgently, almost jogging now.
Then a shadow detached itself from above, dropping suddenly
into the Canyon directly ahead. A figure landed in a Crouch,
dust billowing around him. My breath caught painfully as he
straightened slowly, revealing himself in full.
The man was skeletal, filthy, streaked head to toe in Gray ash
and dirt, his cracked skin raw and blistered from weeks, maybe
months, of desert exposure. In his right hand he clutched A
sharpened piece of rebar, the rusted metal gleaming faintly in
the dimming light. He said nothing, staring through
narrowed, unblinking eyes. My skin crawled beneath his
gaze. Marta's breaths came in rapid,
panicked gasps. Behind me, John began to move
backwards, slowly stumbling over loose stones, his face a mask of
disbelief. Who?
What is? The man lunged forward without
warning. No sound, no threat, Just a
sudden explosive movement. He swung the rebar in a vicious
arc toward me. Instinctively, I raised my arm
to block. Pain flashed hot through my
shoulder, and I staggered sideways against the Canyon
wall, gasping. I twisted sharply, scooping a
fistful of sand from the Canyon floor.
As the man rushed again, I threw it directly into his face,
blinding him momentarily. He staggered backward, coughing
violently, clawing at his eyes. It was my only chance.
Run, I shouted hoarsely, shoving Marta and John toward a narrow
gap behind us. They bolted, scrambling over the
rocks, fear propelling them forward faster than exhaustion
should have allowed. I followed close behind, each
pounding step in effort, listening desperately for
pursuit. We raced through twisting
passages, scraping against sandstone walls, the echoes of
our frantic breathing loud in the tight spaces.
My mind blurred, every turn looked identical.
Just as despair began creeping in, I saw it.
The rusted metal marker half buried at the mouth of the
Canyon, signaling the start of the old Jeep Rd.
This way, I shouted, leading them forward, legs burning with
every step. We stumbled out onto open
ground, the fading sun washing everything in a muted, surreal
glow. Glancing back, I saw no one
following, but I knew better than to slow down now.
We didn't stop until the familiar shape of my Jeep came
into view, parked exactly where I'd left it 2 mornings earlier.
Marta leaned against the hood, sobbing quietly.
John sank to his knees in the sand, coughing weakly.
My injured shoulder throbbed sharply, blood soaking through
my torn sleeve. None of us spoke.
Later, when I filed the report with the Park Rangers, their
faces showed confusion, skepticism, then quiet concern.
They found the shack exactly where I described, but nothing
else. No sign of the man, no tracks
leading away. Just the strange, precise grit
of sticks and that buried length of rusted chain, as inexplicable
to them as it was to me. Eventually they called it an old
prospector camp, dismissing my questions, but I knew they
didn't really believe it, and neither did I.
Something had been out there waiting.
Maybe still was. I don't guide tours anymore.
I spend most of my time indoors now, away from the heat, away
from memories that won't fade. But in a small drawer of my
desk, I keep the single rusted chain link I pulled from that
desert wash. Proof that it all happened.
Proof that the desert has secrets it's willing to keep.
For the last 6 summers, I'd guided backpacking groups deep
into Colorado's Flat Tops Wilderness, a sprawling remote
area in the heart of White River National Forest.
Unlike more crowded spots, the Flat Tops offered solitude.
Miles of wildflower filled meadows and trails untouched by
casual tourists. This three day loop, beginning
at Stillwater Trailhead, running along Skinny Fish Lake, across
Devil's Causeway and ending in Bear River Valley had become my
signature route. I knew it intimately, or at
least I thought I did. On this trip.
There were six hikers under my watch.
Two teenagers, Liam and Cody, full of energy but lacking
focus. A couple from Boulder named Greg
and Heather, both experienced but overly talkative.
A quiet first timer named Jordan and a solo traveler named Tom
from Missouri who seemed confident enough.
We had permits, clear weather forecasts and no fire alerts.
It should have been an easy loop.
It wasn't. Midway through the 2nd day,
under a blazing afternoon sun, we reached the junction that
marked the ascent toward Devil's Causeway.
I'd hiked this segment a dozen times, always admiring its
dramatic exposure and sweeping vistas.
But instead of the familiar weather beaten wooden trail
marker, we found a brand new sign.
Bright yellow wood etched with fresh black lettering.
Trail closed. Fire reroute to Deep Creek
basin. I frowned, feeling an immediate
unease. Wildfire closures weren't
unusual in July, but this felt off.
I'd heard no warnings before departure and had meticulously
checked every possible alert source.
Still, as the guide, safety came first.
Reluctantly, I motioned to the group.
Looks like we're taking a detour, I said, trying to sound
reassuring. We'll loop down into Deep Creek
Basin and cut back around. It's going to add a few miles,
but nothing we can't handle. The new trail was narrow and
steep, descending into dense stands of spruce and fir.
The shade was welcome at first, but the unfamiliar route quickly
turned unsettling. Every guy develops an instinct,
a feeling of something being off course even before confirming it
on a map. My internal compass kept telling
me we were drifting away from our intended loop.
Yet every quarter mile or so, a small red diamond marker nailed
precisely to a tree appeared to reassure us we were headed
correctly. As the sun began to dip toward
the horizon, we reached a small clearing, something unnatural
catching my eye through the underbrush, I moved closer to
investigate. Hidden among thick grass and
overgrown shrubs, a rusted metal sign lay on the ground.
Carefully, I lifted a corner, brushing away decades of grime.
Pine Ridge spur trail closed, 1984.
I glanced around, confused. This didn't match any trail I'd
ever heard of. There were no mentions of this
spur on modern maps. Unease spread quietly through
me, but I kept it hidden. What's that?
Heather asked, coming up behind me.
An old trail marker. I replied casually.
Nothing relevant. Let's keep moving.
We continued down, setting up camp as twilight painted the
valley and muted Blues and purples.
Everyone was quieter now, sensing something unspoken in
the air. After dinner, while others
settled around tents, I saw Liam staring fixedly into the
darkness beyond the campfire's reach.
You OK? I asked softly.
His face was pale. I swear I saw someone crouched
down in the bushes, just watching.
I followed his gaze into the shadows.
Nothing moved. No eyes reflected our light.
Probably just your imagination. I reassured him.
It's easy to see things out here.
But even as I spoke, my chest tightened.
I'd learned not to dismiss hiker concerns too lightly.
Instead, I double checked our bare hangs and kept my radio
clipped close to my sleeping bag.
I lay awake, listening. Around midnight, footsteps
approached camp. Slow, heavy, purposeful.
I tensed, reaching instinctively for my headlamp.
Who's out there? I called, my voice slicing
through the silence. The footsteps stopped.
I listened closely, barely breathing.
Nothing. No further sound came.
Eventually, fatigue claimed me, and I drifted into an uneasy
sleep. Morning brought Gray skies and
tension. I woke before sunrise, counting
heads silently as the group stirred.
Liam, Cody, Heather, Greg, Jordan.
No, Tom. Instantly alert, I scanned the
tents again. Where's Tom?
I called sharply. Panic flitted across faces.
Heather pointed nervously toward the trees.
I saw him walk off earlier, but I assumed he was just, you know.
We spread out, calling his name. 20 minutes later, Tom stumbled
back into camp from the opposite direction.
He was filthy, mud streaked across his clothes.
His expression was blank, eyes wide and confused.
A vivid red scratch marked his neck, fresh and bleeding
lightly. What happened?
I demanded, trying not to sound accusatory.
He shook his head slowly, blinking as if waking from
sleep. I, I don't remember.
I thought I heard something, followed it, then nothing.
The group exchanged worried looks.
My stomach twisted sharply. Trails don't vanish.
People don't wander into the woods and come back without
memory. Something was deeply wrong in
this basin. Quietly, I packed my gear and
forced myself into a facade of calm.
Whatever this was, I knew instinctively we had to move.
Trails don't just vanish, but markers can be faked, Hikers
misled. We're leaving, I said firmly.
Stay together. No wandering off.
We're getting out today. Even as I spoke, I felt a
gnawing dread, a sensation that the trail behind us was no
longer there, that returning the way we came had ceased to be an
option. We were being herded forward,
guided by markers that shouldn't exist, into places long
forgotten and left undisturbed. And something in my gut warned
me. Whatever was guiding us deeper
away from known trails and into forgotten woods didn't intend
for us to make it out easily. I led the group out of camp,
tension pulling tight at my shoulders.
I moved us quickly down the narrow trail, ignoring the quiet
murmurs and worried glances behind me.
Tom stayed in the middle of the pack, eyes glassy and unfocused,
repeatedly touching the fresh scratch on his neck.
I'd seen hikers act strange before.
Exhaustion, altitude, dehydration, but never quite
like this. The morning mist lingered,
turning the trees around us into dark shapes on all sides.
The red diamond markers we'd followed the day before we're
now conspicuously absent. I kept checking, hoping they
would reappear, but the bark on every trunk was bare.
It was as if someone had come overnight and carefully removed
every sign we'd trusted. Greg quickened his pace, coming
up beside me. His voice was tight, strained
with forced calmness. Emily, shouldn't we have hit the
trail junction by now? I nodded, but kept my eyes fixed
ahead, scanning constantly. Soon.
I lied, trying not to let my voice betray how lost I felt.
It's just a bit farther down. In truth, I didn't recognize
anything. Around us, the landscape had
subtly changed. The gentle ridges had become
steeper, the forest denser. We had somehow drifted into
terrain that bore no resemblance to the route we were supposed to
take. Just as my anxiety peaked,
Jordan stopped abruptly. Her breathing had quickened.
Does anyone else hear that? Her voice was barely audible,
fragile with nerves. We all froze, ears straining
into the quiet around us. I heard it clearly this time.
Slow footsteps tracking parallel to ours, maybe 50 yards away in
the underbrush. They matched our pace exactly,
stopping whenever we stopped. The rustling was heavy,
methodical, and human sized. Cody's voice trembled.
Something's out there. Could be wildlife.
I said, attempting reassurance. Keep moving, it'll likely lose
interest. But in my bones, I knew better.
I'd spent too many seasons out here to mistake these sounds for
an animal. Animals don't stalk.
Patiently matching a group's pace, pausing whenever we pause,
we pressed onward, each step taking us deeper into unfamiliar
ground. By midday, we reached a small
clearing and saw another wooden trail sign ahead, weathered with
faded lettering that said Ridge cut off.
Established 1969. My pulse quickened.
Another trail I'd never heard of, never seen marked on any of
my maps or guides. This isn't right, I muttered,
pulling my pack around and grabbing my laminated topo map.
I ran my finger along every line, every elevation contour.
Nothing even resembled Ridge cut off.
Heather watched me nervously. Emily, it's not on here.
My admission hung heavy in the air.
Greg stepped closer, voice low and urgent.
Then let's turn around and retrace, find our way back to
the main trail. I stared back toward the trail
behind us, noting again the unsettling lack of markers.
But Greg was right. Retracing was our only clear
option. Yet as I turned back toward the
direction we'd come from, my breath hitched.
The path we'd followed had become almost indistinguishable,
blending seamlessly into tangled undergrowth.
I swallowed hard. OK, let's head back slowly.
Watch your footing, everyone. We trudged back, every step
fueling my unease. An hour passed, then two, and
nothing familiar reappeared. It was like the trail had simply
vanished. Behind us, Liam's voice broke
the oppressive silence. Hey, look up there.
We all looked ahead, following Liam's pointing finger.
The narrow path we'd been cautiously navigating rose
upward along a narrow Ridge pinched between two steep drop
offs. On the ground, something glinted
strangely beneath patches of leaves and pine needles.
My gut twisted with dread. Wait here, I said firmly,
inching forward. Carefully kneeling down, I
brushed away leaves and immediately recoiled.
A crude trap stretched across the trail, carefully disguised
barbed wire secured between stakes with sharpened sticks
aimed directly upward. Whoever placed it clearly
intended harm. Greg approached cautiously, his
voice strained. What is it?
It's a trap. My voice sounded distant, even
to myself. And it was meant for people, not
animals. A cold silence gripped the group
as I grabbed my trekking pole, jamming it into the wire to
disarm the trap. Metal scraped loudly, sticks
broke and scattered, but in the process, the carbon shaft
splintered and snapped in my hands.
I cursed quietly, tossing the broken pieces aside.
Tom stared at the disassembled trap, color draining from his
face. Someone's out here.
He whispered, watching us. I scanned the shadows around us,
feeling vulnerable and exposed. The midday sun had slipped
behind thickening clouds, casting the forest in Gray
gloom. The darkness felt too early and
too heavy. We're moving.
I said, my voice clipped with urgency.
No more breaks. We'll hike straight through the
night if we have to. Keep your lights handy and stay
close. We pushed onward, silent,
intense eyes constantly scanning the trees around us.
Hours passed, marked only by ragged breathing and the faint
crunch of boots on gravel. Near twilight we reached another
faded junction sign. The wood warped and splintered
from decades of neglect. It read simply Trappers way, 3
miles. The name was like ice water down
my spine, another non existent trail, another ghost from
decades past. Panic threatened at the edges of
my mind, but I forced it away, locked it down.
There would be time for fear later.
Stay alert, I whispered, barely loud enough for the group to
hear. We're not alone out here.
In the creeping darkness, our headlamps flickered on one by
one. The narrow beams cast jittery
circles ahead of us, illuminating twisted branches
and tangled roots. Each shadow seemed deeper, more
ominous, and full of potential danger.
The footsteps that had trailed us earlier had returned, always
parallel, always just out of view, matching a step for step
through the darkened forest. Whatever or whoever it was
clearly had no intention of letting us go.
And now we were moving deeper into territory we should never
have entered, toward trails that had vanished decades ago, where
only forgotten threats remained hidden, waiting patiently for
hikers like us to wander too far off course.
By dawn, exhaustion weighed on each of us.
Muscles burned, our feet blistered raw, and our nerves
felt frayed to breaking. But then, at first light, the
trees began to thin. Ahead, the dark, claustrophobic
woods gave way to a narrow clearing that opened onto a
ridgeline below a stretched Bear River Valley, familiar and
beautiful, illuminated by the early morning sun.
For the first time in hours, I exhaled deeply, feeling genuine
relief. There.
I said, pointing down to a distant ribbon of gravel Rd.
cutting through the valley floor.
We just have to reach that road. There's Ranger access there.
Greg's shoulders sagged with relief.
Thank God. I pushed the group forward
quickly, every painful step downward towards civilization
ease the dread I'd carried since we'd first seen the reroute
sign. Soon enough, we reached the
road. Wide, tangible, reassuringly
familiar. Pulling my radio from my pack, I
flicked it on. The static crackled, Then a
strong voice broke through, clear and firm.
White River Dispatch, go ahead. I nearly choked with relief.
Dispatch, this is Emily Blake, Guide Permit 338.
We've had an incident. Got rerouted into Deep Creek
Basin off Devil's Causeway. We're out now on Forest Rd. 112,
requesting immediate assistance. A brief silence, then copy that.
Emily, this is Caleb with search and rescue.
You're saying Deep Creek Basin? Affirmative.
I replied. A new reroute sign was posted
yesterday morning at Devil's Causeway Junction.
There was hesitation on Caleb's end.
His voice returned, cautious. That's strange.
Sit tight, I'm on my way. Within an hour, Caleb's Forest
Service truck appeared, tires crunching on gravel as he slowed
to a stop beside us. He climbed out, looking serious
but confused, a binder of maps and paperwork tucked under his
arm. I recounted the previous day's
events in detail. The strange sign at Devil's
Causeway, the old trails we'd stumbled upon, the wire and
stick trap, Tom's disappearance, and the mysterious footsteps
that had shadowed us through the forest.
Caleb's expression darkened as I spoke.
He flipped urgently through his binder, maps rustling under his
fingers. Finally, he looked up sharply.
Emily, there's no reroute through Deep Creek Basin.
There hasn't been in years. That's impossible.
I said, voice edged with disbelief.
We saw the sign. It was brand new.
Red diamond markers let us the entire way down.
Caleb shook his head firmly. We pulled every sign out of
there decades ago. Nobody's been authorized back
there since. My stomach twisted.
I'll take you back and show you. I said.
We left the markers and the trap right where we found them.
Caleb nodded reluctantly, visibly troubled.
Show me. Leaving the group safely behind
at the truck, I retraced our path back up the Ridge alongside
Caleb. I felt confident as we neared
the spot where we'd found the trap, yet my confidence vanished
instantly as we emerged onto the narrow ridgeline.
No trap, no markers, no broken sticks, no disturbed earth.
Just dense underbrush, untouched, appearing as though
no human had disturbed it in decades.
It was right here, I insisted desperately.
I disarmed it myself, snapped my pole in the process.
Caleb stared at the spot quietly, eyes searching for any
sign of our presence. He shook his head slowly,
clearly perplexed. Emily, nothing's here.
Hasn't been for years. This is just an old logging path
reclaimed by the forest. We moved farther up the trail
toward the junction marked Trappers Way, but as we reached
the spot, my pulse quickened again in confusion and dread.
The warped wooden sign we'd seen only hours before was gone.
All that remained was Moss covered ground and a faint
indentation of a trail long abandoned.
I don't understand, I murmured, my voice small, shaken.
They were here. Caleb studied me closely.
You sure you're not just tired, Emily?
Fatigue can make anyone see things.
I bit back frustration. I know what we saw.
The entire group saw it. Those trails, the trap, it was
real. He nodded gently, leading me
back toward the truck. Let's get everyone back to the
Ranger station and get you hydrated and rested.
We'll talk more there. Hours later, showered and
sitting at a desk inside the quiet Ranger station, I flipped
through Caleb's binder of official trail maps.
Page after page, year after year, confirmed exactly what
Caleb had said. Each route we'd followed, the
Pine Ridge Spur Ridge cut off Trapper's Way, had been
decommissioned, erased from maps decades earlier.
Caleb watched me carefully, folding his arms.
None of those trails have been marked or maintained since the
80s. Nobody would bother rebuilding
trails that deep. There's no reason.
Then who placed the sign at Devil's Causeway?
I demanded. Who nailed those markers on the
trees? And who built that trap?
Caleb's eyes moved past me, fixed on a faded photograph
pinned to the wall behind my chair.
I turned, following his gaze. It showed a smiling group of
Rangers posed near an old cabin, a sign behind them reading Deep
Creek Ranger Station, 1979. He sighed quietly.
Emily, some parts of this wilderness have stories.
Even older Rangers don't like revisiting.
Trails vanish here for a reason. Maybe some things out there
aren't meant to be found. I shivered involuntarily,
looking away from the picture. Are you saying someone lured us
into that basin? He hesitated, shaking his head.
I don't know what to believe, but whatever it was, you're
lucky you got out. I stared blankly at my folded
hands, thoughts tumbling chaotically.
I knew I'd never returned to the Flat Tops wilderness, never set
foot again on those paths I thought I knew so well.
Trails don't vanish without reason, and if they do, maybe
it's because the forest is hiding something it wants
forgotten. Maybe Caleb was right.
Maybe some paths really aren't meant to be found again.
I've guided groups of teenagers into the Marble Mountain
Wilderness for the past four summers.
At 33 years old, my job isn't just about showing kids how to
pitch tents or filter water from streams.
It's about teaching them resilience.
These kids come from rough backgrounds, foster homes, inner
city apartments, troubled families.
Most have never left their hometowns, let alone hiked deep
into the rugged mountains of Northern California.
Marble Mountain was perfect for our mission, Remote, untouched,
a landscape wild enough to challenge anyone.
This particular trip had five teens under my supervision, 3
boys, Jason, Caleb and Devin, and two girls, Elena and Mia.
Elena, 16, was quiet and observant, always a step behind
the group but acutely aware of her surroundings.
Caleb, 17, constantly joked around, covering his own
insecurities with laughter. Devin, 15, and Mia, 16, were
friends, confident enough to take the lead on the trail but
inexperienced enough to underestimate the mountains.
Jason, also 17, was the quiet one, often lost in thought,
rarely engaging unless spoken to directly.
We'd entered from Lovers Camp Trailhead, a well marked spot
near Aetna, and planned a six day route looping through Sky
High Lakes, Russian Lake and Big Elk Lake.
It was late July, warm during the day but crisp at night.
No phones, no GPS, just maps, compasses and instincts.
By our second evening we'd climb to nearly 6000 feet, setting
camp at the largest of the sky high lakes.
We pitched our tents near the lakes western shore in the
shadow of steep granite cliffs. Dinner was straightforward,
dehydrated pasta cooked over portable stoves.
The kids had settled into a rare moment of silence, spooning food
from metal bowls, when Elena suddenly froze mid bite.
She turned her head, eyes narrowing.
Did you guys hear that? I glanced up from my map.
Hear what? A scream, she whispered, looking
toward the northeast Ridge behind our campsite.
I swear it sounded like a woman. The group listened, and a low
murmur began. Uncertain laughs.
Shrugs. Devin dismissed it first,
suggesting it was probably just a Mountain Lion, or maybe the
wind blowing through the rocks. I was inclined to agree.
Sounds traveled strangely out here, amplified and twisted by
rocky cliffs and valleys. But then, just as we were
starting to relax again, it happened.
A scream pierced the evening quiet, a shrill cry that cut
through the thin mountain air. It sounded human, a woman in
pain or panic, short but unmistakable.
Caleb jumped up from the log where he'd been sitting.
That, that was close. No, I said, standing up slowly.
It sounds close, but it's up there, high on that Ridge.
Is someone hurt? Elena asked softly, her face
pale. I studied the jagged outline of
the Ridge, shadowed now by the setting sun.
Nothing moved. If someone was hurt, they
wouldn't scream. Just once, they'd shout or call
for help. Besides, there's no other
permits out here right now. Mia shifted nervously.
Should we go check it out? No, I said firmly.
The Ridge is steep and unstable, and it's almost dark.
Whatever it is, we'll listen out.
If we hear it again, we'll reassess.
The group slowly settled back into dinner, but the mood had
shifted. I caught Jason scanning the
Ridge repeatedly, eyes narrowed, fists clenched tight. 47 minutes
later, the scream came again, exactly the same pitch, exactly
the same length, but from slightly farther east along the
Ridge. We froze.
Even Caleb, usually quick with a joke, went quiet.
That's not normal. Devin murmured, shifting closer
to Mia. No, it's not.
I agreed softly, trying to hide my own unease.
Over the next two hours, the screams continued exactly 47
minutes apart, always from different points along the
ridgeline, each time the same voice, identical pitch, as if
recorded and replayed. But there was no echo, no
distortion, just a pure single scream slicing through the
silence. Elena finally broke down, voice
shaking. Someone's in trouble, we can't
just ignore it. I felt torn.
She wasn't wrong, but something about this screamed wrongness to
me. Yet I knew they looked to me as
their guide, the adult who had the answers.
I'll go take a look. I said finally.
Stay here, stay together. Devin, you're in charge, keep
everyone close. I grabbed my binoculars and
flashlight and climbed quickly up a rocky Knoll near camp,
scrambling onto a large Flat Rock to get a better view.
Darkness was gathering, but there was still enough twilight
to scan the area. I swept the binoculars slowly
along the ridgeline, following the jagged peaks, searching for
any sign of movement. A flicker of motion caught my
eye. Instinctively I turned back,
adjusting the focus. My heart stilled.
A figure, human shaped but moving low to the ground,
crawling rapidly across a talus slope on all fours, darted from
1 rocky shadow to another at least 300 yards away.
Even from this distance, I could see it was too fast, too agile
for someone injured or lost. I lowered the binoculars slowly,
my throat tight. What kind of person moved like
that? Returning to camp, I forced
myself to remain calm, conscious of every word.
I didn't see anyone needing help.
I said carefully. It's probably an animal.
Sometimes Cougars or bears make weird noises.
Let's just stay alert and quiet tonight.
Nobody seemed convinced, but the group reluctantly accepted my
answer. As darkness settled fully, I
extinguished the campfire and ushered everyone to their tents.
Sleep never came as I lay awake fully clothed, listening to the
rustle of nylon as the teens shifted nervously.
The scream returned every 47 minutes, again and again, like
clockwork, until dawn. I stayed awake, gripping my
knife, eyes fixed on the thin fabric walls of my tent.
Whatever was out there, I knew two things for sure.
It wasn't an animal, and it certainly wasn't lost.
Dawn brought a tense silence. We emerged from our tents,
groggy and pale, each of us pretending not to notice how
exhausted we all looked. The screaming had stopped
shortly before sunrise, and its absence was somehow worse.
At least when it echoed through the night, we knew where it was.
Now we faced an uncertain quiet, and that put everyone on edge.
I quickly got the group packed, deciding we'd head northeast,
cutting through a saddle toward Russian Wilderness.
I didn't tell the kids why I chose that direction, but it was
the quickest route toward lower ground and an eventual fire Rd.
I knew existed near Little Elk Lake.
We need a distance in daylight. We broke camp at first light,
the teens following silently behind me, eyes wary and feet
heavy. Even Caleb, normally light
hearted, walked stiffly, mouth pressed into a tight line.
Elena stayed close, eyes scanning nervously with each
step. It was mid morning by the time
we crested a granite Ridge that overlooked a steep basin.
Below us lay the remains of a campsite, clearly visible
against the pale stone and sparse vegetation.
Charred tent fabric fluttered loosely in the breeze, and gear
was scattered haphazardly across the ground.
What happened there? Jason asked quietly.
Maybe a fire? Devon offered hesitantly.
Could be. I said, scanning the area
carefully. We'll check it out, but stay
close and don't touch anything. We descended cautiously into the
basin. My heart sank the closer we got.
This wasn't just a campfire accident.
The damage was too precise, too violent.
The tents were shredded, fabric torn apart in ragged strips.
The sleeping bags looked as if they had been attacked, stuffing
spilling out in white clumps across the ground.
A portable camp stove lay twisted and crushed, as though
something heavy had slammed down on top of it.
Mia knelt beside one of the shredded sleeping bags.
Owen, what could do this? A bear?
I shook my head slowly. A bear would have left claw
marks, chewed through food bags and dragged things away.
This, this feels wrong. Elena stood frozen near the edge
of the campsite, pointing silently towards something
tangled in a low Bush. I stepped closer and immediately
saw it. A backpack, fabric ripped,
straps dangling loosely. Carefully, I pulled it free,
open the main compartment, and felt my stomach churn.
Inside was a blood stained shirt, dark patches crusted
stiff and dry. Caleb muttered softly.
Whose is that? Not ours.
I answered grimly. Wrong color, wrong size.
Jason's voice came low and controlled.
Then where are they? I didn't have an answer.
My mind flashed back to the figure I'd seen crawling across
the slope, fast, inhuman, and silent.
Whatever had attacked this camp was no ordinary animal, and I
was certain it wasn't any lost hiker either.
I marked the campsites coordinates on our map and stood
abruptly. Let's go, we don't want to stay
here. We climbed out of the basin
quickly, the teens moving with new found urgency.
Behind us. The wind rustled through the
shredded fabric, a sound that raised goosebumps on my arms.
By afternoon, fatigue began to set in.
We'd covered ground quickly, and I knew the group needed rest.
As we paused briefly near a rocky stream, the scream erupted
again, louder, closer. It echoed down the slope,
slicing sharply through the stillness.
Elena flinched, her voice tight. It's following us.
The group fell silent. I checked my watch.
Exactly 47 minutes since we'd stopped at the destroyed camp.
My pulse quickened with anxiety. I had no explanation, only a
growing certainty that we were not alone and that something was
deliberately stalking us. Keep moving, I urged, fighting
to keep the urgency out of my voice.
We'll get down to that fire Rd. by tonight.
Stick together. No one argued.
Our pace quickened as daylight began to fade, shadows creeping
out from beneath the trees, swallowing up the thin sunlight.
Caleb stopped suddenly, staring at something ahead.
I followed his gaze. On the trail directly in front
of us sat a crude stone figure. Rocks and branches were stacked
into the shape of a person, arms outstretched as though reaching
for us. Jason stepped back
involuntarily. What is that?
Mia's voice trembled. I felt a chill run through my
chest. It wasn't a typical hikers
Cairn, it was intentional, carefully placed.
Someone or something wanted us to see it.
Don't touch it, I warned we. Go around it, stay alert.
We skirted the Cairn cautiously, but within minutes we
encountered another, then another. 5 stone figures blocked
or lined our path, each one larger, more imposing than the
last. The final one blocked the switch
back ahead, forcing us off the trail and into the thicker
woods. It was dusk now, light nearly
gone. I took a slow breath, realizing
I'd have to make the choice I dreaded.
We're leaving the trail, I said finally.
We'll cut E through the trees and head straight down toward
the Fire Rd. It's rough, but it's safer than
staying on this path. No one spoke.
They simply nodded, eyes wide, trusting me despite the growing
terror. As we stepped off the trail, the
forest pressed close around us, darkness enveloping the group.
My heart pounded steadily in my chest, each beat marking my
growing fear that whatever had destroyed the campsite and
followed us with inhuman persistence was somewhere very
close now, watching us move deeper into the darkening woods.
Night fell hard and the forest closed in around us, dense and
suffocating. The trees grew closer, branches
scraping our arms and faces as we stumbled through the brush.
I led the group forward by compass alone, flashlight held
low, barely illuminating our immediate path.
The teens moved in a tight line, each gripping the backpack of
the person in front of them, careful to stay within reach.
Every few minutes I checked over my shoulder, hoping I wouldn't
see anything trailing us. Yet each time I glanced back, my
imagination filled in the shadows with shifting shapes and
unseen threats. Then came the scream again,
louder, closer, far too close this time.
It echoed off the rocky slopes behind us, distorted slightly by
distance and terrain. Mia yelped in terror, stumbling
forward against Elena, nearly knocking them both down.
It's right behind us. Elena gasped, her voice thin and
brittle. Keep moving.
I urged, desperate to sound calm.
Don't stop, no matter what you hear.
It's trying to scare us. Don't let it.
But my own confidence had eroded.
Each scream came at shorter intervals, now 20 minutes apart,
then 15. Worse yet, it shifted positions
constantly, sometimes behind, sometimes beside us, and once
even ahead. It felt as if the sound itself
was hurting us, steering us deeper into the darkness.
Whatever this thing was, it was playing with us as we struggled
on. Jason suddenly stopped, jerking
Devon to a halt. Behind him.
I saw something. Jason whispered, his voice tight
there between those two trees. I spun around, sweeping my
flashlight across the trees. Nothing.
No movement, no shapes, just dense forest and silence.
But Jason stood rigid, staring wide eyed.
I swear, Owen, it was tall, standing upright.
My pulse raced and I scanned again.
Nothing moved. We have to keep going, I
whispered harshly. We're almost at the Fire Rd.
let's not slow down. Jason didn't argue, but his
breathing quickened, betraying his panic.
We pressed on, stumbling downward through thick
underbrush, scratching ourselves raw.
My map showed we should have reached the Fire Rd. by now, yet
it still eluded us, hidden by darkness and dense vegetation.
My mind raced. Had I miscalculated?
Did we veer off course? I couldn't let doubt seep in,
not now. Not when these kids relied on
me. Minutes stretched into hours, or
at least it felt that way. Exhaustion slowed us, legs heavy
and clumsy, until suddenly, mercifully, the thick brush
opened onto a faint trail of packed earth.
An abandoned fire Rd. narrow and overgrown, but clear enough for
us to follow. Thank God.
Caleb muttered breathlessly. Relief surged through me.
Though short lived, we weren't safe yet.
I checked the compass again, guiding us eastward along the
dirt Rd. My ears strained for any sign of
danger. Then headlights pierced the
darkness, twin beams of salvation slicing through the
trees ahead. We froze, momentarily stunned,
then waved our arms frantically, shouting and stumbling forward.
The vehicle slowed, tires crunching gravel.
A battered trail maintenance truck rolled to a stop, and the
driver leaned out, confusion on his face.
What the hell are you folks doing out here?
He asked sharply, eyeing our ragged appearance suspiciously.
We need help. I answered urgently.
Something's following us. We've been off trail for hours.
There's been screaming, destroyed campsites, stone
markers. Please, these kids need out.
The man's eyes softened at our desperation, and he quickly
nodded. All right, get in hurry.
We piled gratefully into the truck bed, collapsing against
the hard metal, trembling with relief.
The truck lurched forward, rumbling slowly down the uneven
Rd. toward the distant lights of civilization.
I sat with my back against the cab, eyes fixed behind us, half
expecting to see something emerge from the shadows,
something tall, fast and wrong. But the darkness stayed still,
unmoving. The only sounds now were the
engine's steady hum and the soft sobbing of relief from Elena and
Mia. The following morning I
accompanied a small crew of Forest Service personnel back
into the wilderness, determined to show them what we had seen.
But the stone figures were gone, dismantled or simply vanished.
We found the destroyed camp again exactly as we left it, but
the blood stained backpack had disappeared, as if someone had
returned overnight to remove the evidence.
The Rangers noted everything, carefully photographed the
campsite, but ultimately shrugged helplessly.
No permits out here for weeks, Owen, one of them finally told
me. And no reported missing hikers,
either. We'll investigate further, but
there's not much else we can do right now.
Days passed. The teens went home, shaken but
safe. And me.
I stayed awake nights, searching online and local news
obsessively for any mention of disappearances or sightings, any
explanation at all. I never found a thing.
I never guided another group back into Marble Mountain.
I tell myself I'll eventually forget, that the nightmares will
fade, but deep down I know better.
Whatever was out there didn't just want to scare us, it wanted
us to remember, to always carry the fear of something unknown
waiting in the dark. It succeeded.