I've always found solitude in the wilderness comforting rather than frightening.

Maybe that's why I took the Bear Valley assignment as a guide and scout.

My job was straightforward.

Find a suitable route for next summer's trekking group.

After years hiking the Sierra Nevada, I knew Stanislaus National Forest like the back of my hand.

Or at least I thought I did.

The terrain around Bear Valley was rugged but manageable.

Dense cedar stands mixed with towering granite outcrops.

It wasn't Yosemite level popular, but that's what appealed to me.

Remote, peaceful, reliable.

I started my trip on a clear Tuesday morning from Lake Alpine Trailhead, leaving my Jeep park near Hwy.

4.

The register showed a few hikers had been through the area recently, but by the second day I hadn't seen a single soul.

Just me, my gear.

In the silence of the woods, everything seemed routine, familiar.

On the third day, I followed the Ridge east of Macalumne Peak, double checking the root notes I'd prepared weeks ago.

It was hot but pleasant, the midday sun cutting between trees and casting bright patterns on the forest floor.

Around noon, I stopped to catch my breath, scanning my map for the next landmark, a Creek crossing at the foot of the Ridge.

But when I looked up, something caught my eye off trail, just beyond a cluster of Cedars.

At first it was subtle, thin slashes carved into the bark, each marking about waist height, evenly spaced.

Not animal claw marks.

They were too clean, too uniform.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I stepped off the trail, pushing gently through underbrush to inspect them more closely.

The marks continued in a line stretching deeper into the woods.

Every 20 or 30 feet another cedar had been marked identically.

They had to be man made trail markers maybe, but none I'd seen before, and certainly nothing mapped.

Even more strange was the absence of any human footprints below them.

I walked on cautiously, feeling the map crumble slightly in my tightening fist.

After a quarter mile, the markings changed.

Small piles of river stones appeared at the base of certain trees, stacked deliberately by someone.

I glanced again at the map.

Nothing.

No trails, old logging roads, or known hunting paths.

The afternoon shadows began stretching longer, and I hesitated.

Part of me knew better.

Part of me urged caution, whispering it was time to turn back and find my intended path.

But I didn't.

The strange trail markers felt like a puzzle, one I convinced myself was worth unraveling.

I pushed onward, rationalizing that if the path didn't loop around soon, I'd turn back.

Before dusk, yet another tree appeared in front of me, this one bearing a carved pattern of intersecting diagonal lines, deep and recent enough that fresh saps seeped from the cuts.

My gut twisted.

This wasn't normal, but my curiosity outweighed caution.

Just a bit farther, I told myself, before I realized the sun had dipped behind the Ridge.

It grew dark fast under the heavy canopy.

Too fast.

I was miles off my planned route, and new backtracking would be foolish in this fading daylight.

So I made camp near a shallow, dry Creek bed, gathering firewood quietly as my ears strained against the heavy silence around me.

The evening slipped into night.

I sat by the small fire, chewing jerky slowly, eyes straining into the darkness just beyond the flickering light.

That's when the noise started.

A rustling of brush, faint at first, then heavier, clearer.

Twigs cracked methodically, rhythmically, as if something large were walking carefully, deliberately, around the edge of my camp.

I held my breath, adrenaline shooting through me, my hand inching slowly toward the knife strapped to my hip.

The sound continued, stopping suddenly every time I shifted my weight.

I strained to see past the ring of firelight, searching desperately for a hint of movement.

There was nothing, only thick darkness pressing in from all sides.

It stayed that way, the movement invisible yet unmistakable, circling me until the early hours when the first Gray hints of dawn filtered through the trees.

The sounds stopped as abruptly as they had begun.

My back ached from holding myself rigid for hours.

Exhausted, I packed quickly, eager to return to the familiar safety of the main trail.

But something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The Creek bed I'd camped by now stretched indistinguishably in both directions.

No landmarks, no clear incline or decline, nothing but repeating timber and stone.

My compass needle spun properly, pointing N, but N felt meaningless.

I tried to backtrack to the marked Cedars I'd seen yesterday, but each direction looked identical.

Endless trees, repeating slopes, the sense of disorientation closing around me like fog.

By midday, frustration turned to a creeping dread.

Bear Valley, a place I once found comfortingly familiar, had shifted subtly overnight into something utterly alien.

I pressed onward, ignoring the gnawing sense that each step was taking me farther from safety and deeper into whatever strange trail I'd foolishly chosen to follow.

That was my first real mistake, not listening to instinct and returning immediately to known territory, and it was a mistake I'd soon come to regret far more deeply than I could imagine.

I struggled onward, hoping the strange confusion of the morning would wear off as the day progressed, but each Ridge I crested and each Gulch I descended looked just unfamiliar enough to gnaw at my confidence.

By midday, my water was running low and my nerves were frayed thin.

I'd navigated wilderness terrain my entire adult life, yet somehow Bear Valley had twisted itself into something unrecognizable.

Ahead, through a break in the dense forest, I spotted a small clearing.

My heart quickened.

Open spaces meant better visibility.

Perhaps a chance to Orient myself.

I hurried forward, nearly stumbling in relief when I saw the outlines of an old campsite, hoping desperately it might give me bearings.

But as I stepped into the clearing, my relief turned to wary discomfort.

The camp was abandoned, but not in the way old forest camps usually are.

There was a makeshift lean to, partially collapsed beneath the weight of rotted branches and windblown debris.

Next to it sat a pair of worn leather boots, upright and untouched, placed side by side as if waiting patiently for their owner's return.

The soles were thick with mud, but the leather wasn't cracked from age.

They hadn't been here more than a few seasons at most.

A rusted hunting rifle leaned against a log near the boots, barrel pointed skyward.

I knelt carefully to inspect it.

The metal was pocked with rust, the wooden stock brittle with moisture damage.

I pulled the lever gently, and the empty chamber confirmed what I suspected.

It hadn't been fired in years.

Beside the rifle lay an overturned canteen, its contents long evaporated and a scrap of a topographical map torn in half and now a legible from exposure to the elements.

A chill crept slowly up my spine.

The silence around the clearing suddenly felt oppressive.

I'd stumbled into abandoned camps before, but this was different.

It wasn't the rusting rifle or the inexplicably upright boots that unsettled me most.

It was the feeling that someone had intended to return, yet simply never did.

I stood slowly, backing away from the items as though distance could erase the unease gnawing at my gut.

Dark clouds were building quickly above the ridgeline, bringing the smell of impending rain on the mountain wind.

I had to move, find shelter, and regain my bearings fast.

Staying in that clearing felt deeply wrong, as if I'd intruded somewhere I shouldn't be.

I forced myself onward, climbing upward through thick brush until I reached a higher, rockier plateau.

The terrain grew slick and treacherous as rain began falling in cold, heavy sheets.

The storm descended without mercy, cutting visibility to mere feet.

Lightning cracked overhead, briefly illuminating the trees and ghostly white bursts, each flash turning shadows into looming shapes.

Fighting panic, I set my tent near a granite outcrop, fingers trembling from the icy rain.

As night swallowed the storm darkened valley.

I lay awake, alert, my ears straining for any sound beyond the deafening rhythm of rain on fabric.

Hours passed and gradually the storm eased.

But as the rain tapered off, the now familiar sounds from the previous night returned.

Slow footsteps, careful and precise, moving through the soaked underbrush.

My muscles tensed as the sounds approached the tent, then halted just beyond my limited view.

Seconds stretched agonizingly into minutes.

My hand tightened around the cold hilt of my knife.

When dawn finally came, pale and weary, I emerged stiffly from my tent, scanning for tracks or signs of movement.

At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed, but as I circled slowly around my campsite, dread tightened my throat.

Branches on nearby bushes were snapped cleanly, as though something had pressed slowly through them overnight.

More unsettling were deep drag marks gouged into the muddy earth, trailing uphill into dense forest, marks that had certainly not been there the previous evening.

The direction they pointed was opposite the one I intended to take, leading back toward the heart of Bear Valley, back toward whatever had been circling me in the darkness.

I took a step backward, shaking my head against the silent panic rising inside my chest.

I had no choice but to keep moving, to get higher and look for landmarks that could guide me back to familiar territory.

I began climbing up the rugged granite slope ahead, pushing my exhaustion aside and ignoring the screaming protest of my muscles.

My mind reeled, caught between denial and fear.

Denial that anything could actually be following me.

Fear, because every step now felt, watched, studied.

As I gained elevation, thick fog rolled in, obscuring everything in a featureless Gray shroud.

My breath quickened, my heart pounded painfully.

Even from my elevated vantage point, nothing looked as it should.

No landmarks, no familiar ridgelines, only endless layers of fog and shadowy granite.

I clung to the rock face, forcing myself to pause, trying to steady my shaking hands.

I knew Bear Valley's topography.

I'd spent days studying maps and trails.

Yet somehow, impossibly, I was utterly lost.

Every step I'd taken since following those strange carvings had led me deeper into confusion and deeper into fear.

And whatever had led me here, whatever had left those deliberate markers and abandoned that unsettling campsite, was still out there, somewhere below, waiting quietly for nightfall once more.

Night closed in with relentless certainty.

I clung to the granite summit, shivering beneath my damp jacket, eyes straining through the swirling fog.

My body ached, drained from exhaustion, but adrenaline kept my mind sharply alert.

I refused to descend blindly into that foggy maze.

From here, at least, I had the illusion of control, the possibility that when the fog cleared, I might see a way out.

The granite was cold and rough beneath my fingers.

Hours passed painfully slow, marked only by my own uneven breathing and the wind slicing through cracks in the rock.

Eventually, mercifully, the clouds began to thin.

Through the haze far off to the east, I glimpsed distant lights tracing along a gentle curve, vehicle headlights glinting off the unmistakable ribbon of Hwy.

4.

My heart leaped with fierce, sudden hope.

It was the first familiar thing I'd seen in days, a faint lifeline shimmering through endless wilderness.

I memorized the angle, mentally imprinting it like a beacon.

Then I descended as quickly as I dared, every step careful but urgent.

Below the granite summit, the trees thickened again, dark shapes crowding tightly around me.

With only the distant glow of headlights as my guide, I plunged straight through the dense underbrush, ignoring the branches clawing my arms, tearing through my jacket, scraping and cutting exposed skin.

My breathing was ragged, my throat dry, my legs trembling from fatigue.

Yet even as I move directly toward the highway lights, signs of the same strange trail reappeared.

Another freshly gouged tree.

Another small stack of stones, each one angled slightly away from my intended route, beckoning me off course.

My stomach tightened.

It felt as though something unseen were intentionally guiding me further into confusion.

I refused to follow.

Instead, I kept pushing forward, stubbornly ignoring the markings, driven by pure desperation.

I stumbled more than once, wrenching my knee hard in a deep patch of brush.

Pain radiated sharply through my leg, forcing tears to blur my vision.

But stopping wasn't an option.

Every second felt critical, the sense of being pursued growing stronger with each passing moment.

And then a movement, brief but distinct, flickered between two distant trees ahead.

Tall, shadowed, unmistakably upright, the figure darted swiftly from 1 patch of darkness into another.

My heart surged into my throat, pulse hammering wildly.

Not human, surely too fast, but no animal in these woods moved that way either.

Without thinking, I bolted forward, running despite the pain in my leg, ignoring the protesting screams from my lungs.

Panic had fully claimed me now, driving rational thought from my mind.

Branches whipped my face and tore fresh wounds along my arms, but I barely felt them.

Time lost meaning.

Minutes blurred into hours as I stumbled through endless forest, always downward, always toward that distant highway.

Eventually, my headlamp flickered weakly, nearly spent.

Still, I kept moving blindly forward through the darkness, refusing to pause or look.

Behind me, as dawn broke softly, spilling pale light through gaps in the trees, I reached a clearing of rock and low brush.

My knees buckled beneath me and I collapsed forward, gasping, eyes streaming with tears of relief.

Below me, clearly visible through a screen of sparse evergreens, was a winding stretch of pavement.

Highway 4I half slid, half crawled down the rocky incline toward the road.

My clothes hung in tatters, crusted with blood, dirt, and sweat.

My legs could barely support my weight, but I managed to drag myself onto the gravel shoulder.

Almost immediately, the rumble of an approaching engine reached my ears.

Moments later, headlights washed over me as a patrol car rounded the bend.

The Cruiser braked sharply, gravel spraying as it pulled alongside me.

The CHP officer rushed out, eyes wide with shock.

What happened to you?

He asked, crouching down beside me, his voice steady but urgent.

My voice shook as I spoke, barely louder than a whisper.

Got turned around Bear Valley, been lost for days.

He nodded sympathetically, helping me gently into the patrol car and passing me a bottle of water.

I drank greedily, throat raw and aching, while the warmth of the vehicle brought tears of exhaustion streaming down my face.

But as we pulled away from that stretch of highway, I couldn't help glancing back through the rear window toward the dense forest I'd just escaped.

In the fleeting moment before we rounded the next bend, I could swear a dark shape slipped silently back between the trees, disappearing once more into the shadowy woods.

In the months that followed, I quietly discarded every Bear Valley Trail map I owned.

I refused to speak of those days, offering vague excuses to my outfitter about the terrain being too dangerous for guided trips.

My solo hiking days were done forever.

A year later, at a trail guide gathering, someone mentioned a Ranger patrol had found a strange abandoned campsite deep in Stanislaus, boots still standing neatly by, a cold fire rifle rusting against a log.

No sign of whoever left them behind.

I kept my face blank and said nothing, but inside, a cold certainty settled into my bones.

Whatever had guided me into those woods had guided others before, and might still be there, silently waiting, watching from somewhere hidden deep within Bear Valley.

I wasn't going to post this.

My cousin still won't talk about it, and one of them hasn't spoken a word since.

But every once in a while I get a message from someone asking if I've ever heard of Black Hollow, so here it is.

This happened five years ago, back in an area of Monongahela National Forest that's not even marked on most hiking maps.

We thought it would be a cool, isolated summer camping trip, just like the ones we took as kids.

We should have known better when even the locals didn't want to talk about the place.

If you're smart, you'll read this and stay the hell away.

It was early August and humid as hell, the kind of thick West Virginia heat that sticks your shirt to your back 10 minutes after you step outside.

My cousins Kyle and Ryan had driven in from Pittsburgh.

I'd come up from Charlottesville.

We met up at a gas station in Elkins, stocked up on ice and snacks, and headed into the mountains.

Kyle was the oldest at 28, already complaining about his knees, while Ryan was the youngest, 24, and still convinced nothing could touch him.

I was 26, somewhere in between the two, still figuring things out.

Our summers together we're an old tradition.

Even as adults, we always found time to disappear into the woods and pretend we weren't getting older.

We'd done Otter Creek, Spruce Knob, Dolly Sods, you name it.

This time we wanted something different.

When we stopped for gas and asked the guy behind the counter about remote camping spots, he just laughed.

You want to disappear?

He asked.

Try Black Hollow.

Real easy to disappear back there.

We thought he was joking.

We even laughed along with him.

We wrote down his vague directions and set off our Jeep, rattling along a washed out fire Rd.

until we couldn't go any further.

We shouldered our packs, checked our gear, and stepped into the forest.

The trail wasn't much of A trail, mostly guesswork and bushwhacking through thick brush and down steep slopes until we hit a valley floor.

Everything felt instantly darker here, even though it was just after noon.

The trees were old, their limbs dense enough that sunlight came through only in patches.

We followed a stream until it widened into a rocky clearing black Hollow.

Quiet as a graveyard, Kyle said, half joking.

He wasn't wrong.

There was no birdsong, no wind rustling the leaves, just the steady trickle of water over slick, dark stones.

It wasn't comfortable, but we were stubborn and the spot seemed ideal for privacy.

We pitched our tents, gathered wood, and set up camp.

That first afternoon was quiet, just a lazy routine of setting up, cooking some burgers and tossing back beers.

But none of us mentioned the odd feeling, the way the silence seemed almost heavy, pressing down like wet wool as darkness closed around us.

Ryan joked about local folklore, monsters, and old curses.

He laughed loud and sharp, but it didn't quite cover the unease.

Sometime after midnight, I woke up, hearing Kyle shuffle around outside.

He was shining his flashlight upstream.

What's up?

I whispered, poking my head out of the tent.

He hesitated, thought I heard something moving in the water.

We stood there quietly, listening, hearing nothing but the stream.

After a minute, Kyle shrugged and climbed back into his tent, muttering something about raccoons.

The next morning, Kyle called us over to the food stash.

He looked confused, staring at the tree we'd tied our bags to.

The hell?

Ryan asked.

One of our food sacks was gone.

The rope wasn't chewed or snapped.

It was united neatly, as if someone with fingers had carefully undone the knot.

You guys screwing with me?

Kyle said, frowning.

Ryan and I shook our heads.

The ground beneath showed no animal tracks, no claw marks or signs of struggle, just an empty patch of damp earth.

Ryan cracked a nervous joke.

Maybe we pissed off your raccoon buddy.

We laughed, but not really.

It wasn't funny.

As we made breakfast, I found myself staring into the trees, imagining shapes where there was nothing but shadow.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was there, watching, waiting.

But we'd come all this way, and no one wanted to admit the place was getting under our skin.

So we stayed.

We stayed because we were stubborn, because we were cousins who'd camped 1000 times before, and because deep down, none of us wanted to be the first to admit we were afraid.

Looking back, I'd have given anything to swallow that pride and leave right then.

It was just past noon on the second day when things got worse.

We'd finished breakfast late and we're lazily cleaning up camp, arguing about who'd gather more firewood.

Ryan finally lost the argument, laughed sarcastically, grabbed his hatchet, and headed toward the thicker brush upstream.

Kyle and I relaxed around camp, sorting gear and planning dinner.

An hour past maybe 2, we'd lost track of time, caught up in reminiscing about past trips and joking about nothing important.

Kyle glanced at his watch, frowning.

Should have been back by now, he muttered.

He probably got lost chasing squirrels or something, I said, but neither of us believed it.

We called Ryan's name into the woods a few times, but nothing echoed back.

The thick canopy seemed to swallow our voices whole.

After another 20 uneasy minutes, Kyle stood up abruptly.

All right, he said, grabbing his pack.

Something's off.

Let's go find him.

I tried to hide my own unease, but I felt it heavy in my stomach.

Ryan was impulsive and reckless at times, but he'd never stayed away this long without yelling back.

We started upstream, walking along the stream bed.

The woods pressed in, dense, twisted and tangled.

Every step felt harder, as if the brush was pulling us back toward camp.

Kyle occasionally shouted Ryan's name, his voice louder now, sharp with worry.

Three hours later, we'd found nothing.

No hatchet marks, no sign of Ryan at all.

The sun had already begun its slow dip behind the ridgeline, casting long shadows over Black Hollow.

A sickening realization hit me.

We might not find him before dark.

Just as panic started creeping in, Kyle stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed my arm.

His grip was painfully tight.

Look there, about 50 yards ahead, stood Ryan, motionless in the middle of the stream.

He faced upstream, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, feet submerged in shallow water.

His shirt was torn along one sleeve, revealing pale, scratched skin beneath.

His boots were gone, and his bare feet were pale, stained from mud and leaves.

We moved quickly but cautiously toward him, calling his name.

He didn't respond, not even a twitch of his shoulders or a turn of his head.

When we reached him, I touched his arm gently.

Ryan.

He blinked once, slowly, and turned his head to look at me as if through a haze.

His eyes were vacant, unfocused, as though he were staring past me.

Ryan, buddy, you good?

Kyle asked, voice cracking.

Ryan opened his mouth slowly, but no words came.

He glanced at Kyle and then at me, confusion washing over his features.

When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, barely above a whisper.

I don't remember.

What do you mean?

Kyle pressed.

You were gone for hours.

Did you fall?

Did something happen?

Ryan stared down at his hands, noticing for the first time the deep scratches across his forearms, thin lines that crisscrossed like razor wire.

I, I was gathering wood, then, I don't know, Like I was falling forward into a blank room, just black.

We led him back to camp in silence, supporting him as he stumbled through the brush, wincing with each step.

When we finally made it back to our clearing, Ryan sank down by the fire pit, visibly shaking despite the summer heat.

Kyle wrapped him in a jacket and tried to clean his wounds while I cooked a quick, flavorless meal.

None of us ate.

By nightfall, Ryan had stopped responding altogether.

He sat blankly, staring into the dying embers of our campfire, occasionally muttering something inaudible under his breath.

We decided quickly we weren't sleeping separately again.

The three of us crowded into my tent, shoulder to shoulder, feeling safer with the closeness of each other's breathing.

But safety was a fleeting illusion.

I don't remember falling asleep.

The next thing I recall is jolting awake, my heart hammering.

I could sense movement on the other side of the thin tint fabric, a slow, deliberate pressure brushing lightly along the nylon walls, inches from our heads.

Kyle's eyes snapped open too.

His breathing quickened, but he stayed silent, listening carefully.

Ryan lay beside us, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

Whatever was out there circled slowly around the tent, the footsteps dragging slightly over dirt and rocks.

They stopped just outside the door flap.

Then a voice, clear as anything, broke the silence.

A voice that belonged to Ryan.

Let me back in.

It's cold.

Kyle and I stared at each other, eyes wide with disbelief and dread.

Ryan's breathing was still soft and rhythmic next to us, unmoving, undisturbed.

Again, the voice spoke, softer now.

Please let me back in.

We didn't move.

We barely breathed.

We sat motionless, paralyzed by a fear so deep it seemed rooted in something older than us, older than these woods.

After a long silence, the dragging footsteps receded, slowly fading into the forest.

But neither of us dared to sleep again.

When dawn finally came, it found us wide awake, shaking and desperate to leave Black Hollow.

As soon as faint morning lights seeped through the nylon tent walls, Kyle grabbed my shoulder and nodded toward Ryan.

We both understood without words.

It was time to get out.

Ryan was still unresponsive.

His face was pale, eyes unfocused, locked on some distant place only he could see.

When we tried to get him up, he resisted at first, pushing weakly against us as though we were holding him back from something important.

After a minute of careful persuasion, we managed to help him out of the tent and steady him on his feet.

Packing was chaotic.

Our gear went into packs without any order or logic.

Kyle kept nervously glancing toward the tree line, his hands shaking.

Ryan, barely able to stand, mumbled quietly about going back down to the stream.

I held onto his arm firmly, determined not to let him wander away again.

We started the hike out slowly at first, Kyle and I supporting Ryan.

Between us, the uphill climb felt torturously slow, each step dragging, our boots slipping in the muddy soil.

Ryan stumbled repeatedly, his feet dragging uselessly beneath him, forcing us to stop and adjust our grip every few minutes.

Kyle kept glancing behind us, clearly on edge.

You good?

I asked, sensing his tension.

He hesitated before answering.

I think we're being followed.

Something's behind us.

I turned quickly, scanning the woods.

All I saw were trees, brush, and shadow.

Nothing moved.

No one was there.

Still, I felt the same creeping dread, like something was matching our steps, hidden just out of sight.

We pushed on, refusing to rest until Ryan collapsed near a fallen log along a narrow Deer Trail.

Kyle bent over, breathing heavily, his face strained with exhaustion.

Ryan sank to the ground, silently crying without tears, staring at the ground beneath him.

We've got to keep moving.

Kyle whispered.

We can't stop here.

I nodded, taking a quick sip of water, watching Ryan closely as I scanned our surroundings again.

My eyes caught something beyond the dense trees, something half crouched, quiet and still.

My breath caught in my throat, fear crawling up my spine like ice.

It was a shape, vaguely human, low to the ground, half hidden in shadows.

One knee was up, an arm resting casually across it, head tilted slightly as though it were patiently waiting for something.

I blinked once, heart racing, and looked again.

Nothing.

Just shadows and branches.

You OK?

Kyle asked sharply, noticing my expression.

I forced myself to nod, unable to voice the truth.

Yeah, let's get moving.

With renewed urgency, we hoisted Ryan back up, continuing the slow March uphill.

Ryan was growing increasingly agitated, muttering quietly.

Then, suddenly, with surprising strength, he tried to wrench free from our grip, nearly causing all three of us to tumble backward down the slope.

I need to go back, he whispered desperately.

Let me go back.

Kyle grabbed him tightly, shaking him by the shoulders.

We're leaving.

Ryan, listen to me, we're getting out of here, just keep moving.

Ryan fought weekly, still muttering about needing to return to the stream, his voice breaking with frustration and confusion.

We practically carried him, half dragging him forward through the brush.

I refused to look behind us again, certain that if I did, I'd see that figure following us, just close enough to stay hidden, yet never quite losing sight of us.

When the trail finally gave way to gravel and our Jeep came into view, Kyle broke into a half run, Ryan hanging limply between us, feet dragging uselessly.

We practically threw him into the back seat, locking the doors the second they slammed shut.

Kyle jammed the keys into the ignition, engine roaring to life, tires spinning as we tore away from Black Hollow.

Ryan was hospitalized immediately in Elkins.

They said he was severely dehydrated and had experienced some kind of psychological break.

Eventually, he was transferred to a psychiatric facility near Pittsburgh.

We visited at first, but Ryan didn't speak again.

He only stared vacantly, the same lost expression he'd had since we found him standing in the Creek.

Kyle moved to Montana a month later, barely saying goodbye, cutting off contact entirely.

I stayed in Charlottesville, unable to fully process what had happened, unable to talk about it to anyone.

Eventually I went back to Elkins to speak to the gas station attendant who'd warned us about Black Hollow.

He wouldn't say much, but before I left, he leaned over the counter and told me in a low voice that a fire crew had once come back from Black Hollow, claiming they'd seen someone or something following behind them in the trees, never quite catching up, never falling behind.

I never went back.

I avoid West Virginia all together now, and if someone asks about Black Hollow, I only have one thing to say.

If you ever hear about it, ignore it.

It doesn't want you there, and if you go, you might leave part of yourself behind.

I accepted the forestry internship with the Forest Service, mostly for the quiet.

The idea was to spend a few weeks clearing trail debris and earning some much needed field experience.

Sure, I could have gone for something closer to Laramie, but Medicine Bow National Forest called to me, a wilderness where lodge, pole and spruce climbed the steep slopes, creating a kind of isolation that felt genuinely appealing.

My supervisor, an older Ranger named Garrett, told me I'd be clearing Deadfall along a stretch of trail from Rock Creek Trailhead out towards Sand Lake.

It was a forgotten trail segment, closed for nearly a decade after storms had rendered it practically impassable.

They issued me basic gear, a heavy chainsaw, enough food for four days, a temperamental handheld radio and an emergency Garmin satellite phone.

Garrett had warned that signals were spotty even on clear days.

Still, I wasn't worried.

I'd hiked solo dozens of times, and I figured trail work would be a good introduction to the Forest Service.

The first day started smoothly.

I drove out early, parked my battered Tacoma near the trailhead, and hiked roughly 5 miles to set up Camp Lodge.

Pole trunks Criss crossed the trail, their branches dry and brittle from years on the ground.

Clearing them was exhausting but satisfying, and I worked until my arms burned.

By dusk I had a neat stretch of usable path and a fire crackling softly beside my tent.

It felt rewarding.

It was the second morning that things shifted.

After packing camp, I hiked another half mile, scouting ahead to gauge the day's workload.

The morning was cool, air crisp and damp, earth packed easily beneath my boots.

That's when I saw them clearly.

Heavy boot prints pressed sharply into the wet dirt.

I paused, comparing the tracks with my own.

They weren't mine.

These were larger, deeper, with a heavier lug pattern typical of logging boots, the kind I'd seen on career Rangers or Timber Harvesters.

But no one else had been authorized here, and the trail behind me was still largely impassable.

I keyed my radio, but after a burst of static, it cut dead.

I pulled out the Garmin phone.

The screen flashed, searching, then, no signal.

A little unnerved, I decided to follow the prints, reasoning I might catch someone illegally harvesting timber or setting traps.

People poached wood and game regularly, and Garrett had mentioned it casually in our briefing.

The tracks veered sharply off the Flag Trail, heading downhill toward unmanaged terrain thick with underbrush and fallen timber.

I hesitated at the trail's edge.

Off trail, hiking wasn't part of the assignment, but curiosity and unease pushed me forward.

I stepped over a downed spruce, sliding my chainsaw carefully ahead of me, and continued on.

After 10 minutes, the trees opened into a small clearing.

My breath caught sharply.

There, nestled against a shallow slope, stood a structure, a crude Hut or shelter, half sunken into the ground and partially hidden beneath the branches of surrounding trees.

Its walls were rough cut logs and heavy branches stacked and wedged tightly together.

Moss clung to the corners, but most of it appeared newly built.

My gut twisted.

It was clearly man made, deliberately placed, yet no one at the station had mentioned anything like it.

I edged closer, gripping the chainsaw defensively.

Inside, shadows obscured most details, but what I saw made my pulse quicken.

Bones arranged in orderly piles, bleached and stripped entirely of flesh.

From the size and shape, they looked like deer and elk, but the way they were placed, stacked, sorted, meticulously made my throat go dry.

Hanging from the ceiling beams were small wooden carvings tied with coarse twine, bundles of animal hair wrapped around them.

I felt cold dread crawling up my spine.

Who had built this place?

Why?

My thoughts shattered as a sharp crack snapped through the trees just beyond the Hut.

I whipped around, chainsaw held out defensively scanning the dense growth.

My heart thundered so hard I felt it in my throat.

Another snap, this time closer.

Not waiting to see who or what made it, I backed quickly out of the clearing, my eyes locked onto the shifting brush, until I finally turned and broke into a jog.

Reaching my campsite again felt surreal.

I sat for a few moments, struggling to regain calm.

Part of me wanted to abandon the task entirely, hike straight back to my truck and call Garrett from the road.

But embarrassment and stubborn pride stopped me.

Maybe I'd overreacted.

Squatters and survivalists sometimes built weird things in remote forests.

It was strange, sure, but I wasn't hurt.

Nothing had actually happened.

I decided to stay, but moved my tent closer to a granite outcrop, it's rocky side offering some small comfort.

I built the fire higher, keeping it burning well after dark.

That night, sleep came fitfully.

I startled awake at every snapping twig.

My fingers curled tightly around the chainsaw handle.

Sometime after midnight, with the fire nearly reduced to glowing embers, I heard it distinctly, footsteps moving carefully but audibly through the brittle leaves and fallen branches just beyond my tent.

My breath froze, limbs locking in panic.

The steps weren't hurried or cautious, just a steady, measured stride passing slowly by.

I waited, heart hammering, body rigid, expecting a voice or the sudden intrusion of someone ripping open my tent flap.

But nothing happened.

The footsteps receded, fading gradually until only silence remained, broken by my own strained breathing.

I lay there motionless, fear gripping my chest, until first light seeped into the fabric of my tent.

When morning finally came, everything looked untouched.

Nothing had been disturbed.

My food, my gear, all exactly where I'd left them.

I stepped carefully out, stomach in knots, and scan the surrounding ground.

Then I saw them.

The boot prints from yesterday, now freshly pressed right alongside my own trail from the previous day.

Whoever it was hadn't been following me.

They had been walking right beside me, step for step, unseen but present.

My resolve broke.

I hastily packed up camp, deciding to abandon the rest of the assignment and hike out the long way towards Sand Lake.

I left the trail pushing recklessly through dense brush.

Desperate only to leave the forest behind me.

But even as I moved swiftly away, panic pushing me forward, I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes watching from somewhere deep among the trees.

I moved through the forest faster than I should have, cutting across unmarked slopes, guided more by panic than logic.

The pack bounced awkwardly against my shoulders, its straps digging hard into my chest.

My chainsaw felt heavier than ever, and every few steps I had to stop and shift hands, my palms raw from gripping the worn handle.

The initial adrenaline spike faded within a few hours, replaced by a slow, heavy dread as I climbed toward the northern Ridge that separated me from Sand Lake.

My throat burned from breathing dry air too quickly, and dehydration made every uphill step feel twice as difficult.

I kept glancing back, half expecting someone to emerge from the trees, but saw nothing except endless rows of spruce trunks and dense underbrush.

Despite my exhaustion, I pressed on relentlessly, reasoning that putting more distance between myself and whatever had built that structure was worth the pain.

As the afternoon wore on, I finally crested the Ridge.

The forest opened slightly, revealing scattered granite formations, dry grass, and scrub.

I paused to catch my breath, looking down toward the distant glimmer of sand lake.

I tried the radio again, desperate for contact, but got only static.

The Garmin still refused to find a signal, no matter how high I climbed.

Frustration clawed at my nerves.

I knew Garrett would eventually come looking if I didn't check in, but how long would it take him to realize something was wrong?

A day 2?

By then it might be too late.

Leaning against a boulder, I glanced back down the slope I'd climbed and felt my heart slam into my ribs.

Movement Down among the spruce, a figure moved swiftly between gaps in the foliage.

It was distant enough to appear small, but even at this range I recognized the shape of a person.

Heavy jacket, wide shoulders moving silently uphill.

Not an animal, not a trick of shadow.

Someone was following me.

Panic surged again, raw and urgent.

I scrambled down the opposite side of the Ridge, slipping on loose gravel and dried grass.

The chainsaw suddenly seemed impossibly heavy, pulling me off balance.

Anger and frustration collided, and without hesitation I set it down, leaning it upright against a pine.

I told myself it was to mark the route in case Garrett found my trail, but truthfully, I knew I couldn't keep carrying it.

My only hope now was speed free of the saw's weight.

I jogged faster, stumbling recklessly through the thinning trees.

Each breath felt like fire, lungs constricted by altitude and exhaustion, but fear pushed me forward.

Glancing over my shoulder every few minutes only increased my paranoia.

I caught brief glimpses of movement through the trees, always distant, never clear enough to identify.

As sunset approached, shadows stretched across the terrain, turning familiar shapes into ominous silhouettes.

By dusk, I reached a small clearing on the Ridge overlooking Sand Lake, its dark water shimmering faintly in the fading light.

I chose a sheltered spot beneath a cluster of dense spruce trees, hidden from sight, and hastily set up camp.

There was no fire tonight.

I couldn't risk the smoke giving away my position.

I sat silently in my tent as darkness fell, sipping sparingly from my canteen, ears straining for any sound beyond the fluttering leaves and my own unsteady breathing.

Every snap or rustle outside sent jolts of adrenaline through my limbs.

Sleep felt impossible, yet exhaustion finally dragged me into fitful bursts of unconsciousness.

Hours later, I jerked awake in pitch black silence, a cold sweat coating my back.

For a moment I lay frozen, unable to pinpoint what had startled me.

Then, from somewhere down the slope, a rhythmic sound drifted softly upward.

A steady, slow, thumping wood striking wood, repeated deliberately.

It wasn't frantic, wasn't random.

Each impact echoed slightly up the hillside, a steady tempo, like a heartbeat.

I sat upright, muscles tensed, barely breathing.

The noise continued.

Thump, pause, thump, consistent and unwavering.

My mind raced, picturing someone standing in the darkness, hammering against a log, aware I was up here, trapped, alone.

I had no weapons besides a small hatchet and a folding knife, nothing capable of real defense if they came closer.

Eventually, the thumping stopped.

The silence afterward felt worse.

I remained awake, sitting rigidly, eyes wide, listening, until the sky shifted gradually from ink black to muted Gray.

Only then did I pack silently, each movement careful, cautious, as though the watcher might hear even the slightest rustle of nylon or ipper.

As dawn broke, I forced myself back onto the trail, trembling with exhaustion but determined to reach Sand Lake and beyond it, the road to safety.

Whatever or whoever had followed me would have to chase me into daylight now.

Still, I couldn't shake one terrifying thought.

Whoever was out there wasn't hiding.

They knew I was aware of them, they simply hadn't chosen to show themselves yet.

I stumbled from the tree line onto the cracked blacktop of Sand Lake Rd.

just after midday, my legs trembling and eyes blurry with dehydration.

Relief flooded me when I heard the deep rumble of tires on asphalt and saw the white Forest Service truck rounding the distant bend.

Waving my arms wildly, I nearly collapsed into the dirt when it stopped.

Garrett climbed out, eyes wide with concern.

Caleb, you OK, son?

He asked, gripping my shoulder.

What happened?

I shook my head weakly.

Someone out there?

Garrett, something wrong?

I left the saw, didn't have a choice.

His expression darkened, and after getting me into the passenger seat and handing me a fresh bottle of water, he radioed the district station, informing them he'd found me safe.

The drive back was quiet.

Garrett didn't press me for details, sensing my exhaustion and fear.

At headquarters, after drinking enough water to steady my hands and thoughts, I told them everything.

The strange Hut, the bones arranged inside, the wooden effigies, the footsteps circling my tent in the dark, and the unseen figure following me all the way to the Ridge.

I was prepared for disbelief, but Garrett listened closely, nodding gravely.

Poachers or squatters sometimes move in.

He finally said, trying to reassure me.

We'll send a team, we'll find out what's out there.

Two weeks passed, and my nerves slowly calmed.

I didn't return to Medicine Bow, not yet, and instead work desk shifts back at the main station, pouring over maps and logging trail data.

Yet my thoughts rarely left those four days in the wilderness, haunted by memories of unseen eyes tracking me through the trees.

Then Garrett approached me quietly.

1 morning, we found your chainsaw, He said carefully.

Exactly where you said you left it.

Strange thing is, it was standing upright, fuel cap off, like somebody placed it there intentionally.

I stared at him, dread pooling in my chest.

And the structure, the bones.

His face tightened, reluctant to speak.

Gone completely.

No shelter, no bones, nothing but bare earth.

Whatever you saw, they cleared it out.

My heart sank, a hollow feeling spreading through my stomach.

But you believe me, right?

You know it was there.

Garrett nodded solemnly.

Yeah, son, I do, no question.

You saw something, and I don't doubt someone else was there with you.

They knew the woods, too, better than any of us covered their tracks.

But whoever it was, they're gone now.

But that night, lying awake in my rented room in town, I couldn't accept Garrett's reassurances.

There was something else, a detail I hadn't shared, something that had haunted me from the moment I left the woods.

When I first followed those heavy boot prints into the clearing, they had sunk deeply into the soft soil, clearly visible in the daylight.

But on the trail out, retracing my steps, those same prints had appeared even deeper, as if the one who left them had carried something heavy on their way back.

The realization chilled me to the bone, because the only extra weight leaving that clearing would have been me if they'd caught up.

The forest went quiet after that.

I heard from Garrett that hikers returned to the newly cleared trails near Sand Lake.

Nobody reported strange footprints, hidden structures, or unseen watchers.

Yet I never stepped foot on those trails again.

The internship ended and I took a safer desk job, analyzing GIS data far away from isolated wilderness assignments.

But I never forgot the slow, rhythmic thumping in the dark, the silent footsteps pacing past my tent, or the unseen figure shadowing me through medicine bows, endless trees.

Some nights, when the wind picks up and shadows shift in dim corners, I think about the old Garmin phone still sitting in my desk drawer, the one I used those four days in the forest.

I think about the single accidental image captured as I stumbled through the underbrush, A distorted reflection caught in rainwater pooled on stone.

A blurred, looming shape standing right behind me, watching silently and waiting.

I never showed it to anyone.

I don't usually share this kind of thing online, mostly because I don't like the attention.

But what happened to us last summer in Alaska hasn't let me sleep right since.

Maybe if I put it out there, it'll stop gnawing at my head.

My name's Kyle.

It was late June, and three friends and I had planned a trip out to Tongass National Forest.

My cousin Jared set the whole thing up.

He'd found this fishing forum online where someone mentioned pristine spots deep in the forest, off the marked trails, far enough inland to make the average tourist turn back.

Jared and I had been camping together for years.

We knew how to handle ourselves in the Backcountry, and we've been fishing in remote areas plenty of times.

Dean and Thomas were good outdoorsman, too, both fit and experienced, so none of us had any hesitation.

But Alaska was different, bigger, older and Wilder than anything we'd faced before.

That first night in Ketchikan, the locals at the bar joked about bears and moose, even wolves.

None of it worried me much.

Animals followed predictable rules.

You respected their space, and they generally respect yours.

At least that's what we thought.

The first two days went exactly as planned.

We followed the trail along the Unuk River and camped out each night beside a rocky stream, fishing and enjoying the untouched landscape.

Everything felt perfect.

The air smelled fresh and sunlight filtered down through thick canopies of cedar and spruce.

On the morning of the fur day, we left the established route entirely, following Jared's printed map.

He said it was simple navigation, a straight shot through dense forest, aiming to reach a remote estuary.

Dean and Thomas took the lead, machetes cutting back branches and heavy growth Every step away from the main trail, the forest grew thicker, wetter and darker.

Moss blanketed fallen logs, muting our footsteps, and the tangled vegetation gave the sense that nothing else had passed this way in years.

We'd been bushwhacking a few hours when Thomas stopped short, pointing ahead through a break in the trees.

There was a clearing, perfectly circular and oddly bare, devoid of the lush greenery we've been trudging through all day.

Standing dead center in the clearing was a rough wooden figure, taller than me, like some kind of distorted scarecrow.

We approached slowly, stepping into the sunlight.

Up close, it looked even stranger.

The figure was carved from a single gnarled trunk, with hollow eyes and crude mouths hacked unevenly into the wood.

Driftwood formed its outstretched arms, bound to the body by cords.

Bones, small animal bones, mostly, hung from its limbs and neck, tied into place with string.

Shells, beads and bits of feather dangled from these cords, swinging gently as we circled it.

Jared chuckled nervously.

What is this, some Blair Witch thing?

Thomas laughed and walked right up to it.

It's probably just some old native marker.

He said dismissively, nudging the base with his boot.

Dean shot him a warning glance, but Thomas was already committed, giving it another hard shove.

With a creak, the thing toppled over, hitting the ground with a dull thump.

The shells clattered and tangled.

Dean sighed, shaking his head.

Seriously, man.

Dean muttered, glancing around nervously as if someone might be watching from the woods.

Thomas shrugged.

Relax, it's just some weird statue.

Let's go.

We left the clearing quickly, but even as I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling we disturbed something important, that we crossed some unspoken boundary.

I didn't say anything.

Looking back, maybe I should have.

We camped about a mile away, near a stream as planned.

We were all quiet, tense without openly acknowledging it.

Something about that encounter had left us edgy.

Still, we joked and ate, trying to brush off the unease.

Eventually, we settled into our tents.

That night, I woke suddenly, disoriented, in pitch black darkness.

Before I could sit up, a piercing scream erupted just outside our tents.

Not animal, not like anything I'd ever heard.

Raw and impossibly loud, it shook the air and vibrated through my chest.

Jared scrambled out of our tent with his flashlight, but the beam only illuminated empty darkness and swaying branches, no sign of anything living.

What the hell was that?

Jared whispered hoarsely.

He was pale, shaken.

Dean and Thomas emerged slowly from their tent, faces equally drained of color.

No one answered Jared's question.

We just stared at the woods, waiting, ears ringing.

At dawn, I stepped outside to inspect the ground around camp.

The soft mud near the stream was covered with tracks, deep impressions unlike any I'd seen before.

Wide, splayed toes, each tipped with long curved marks that looked like claws.

Thomas tried to laugh them off as bare tracks, but we all knew he was lying.

Jared didn't speak, and Dean just shook his head, looking sick.

As we packed up to leave, I took one last glance back toward the clearing.

Nothing but thick forest behind us now.

Yet even in daylight, I could sense eyes on my back, unseen and watching.

We should have turned around right then, but we didn't.

It didn't take long for us to realize we'd screwed up.

We headed back toward the main trail, but everything felt off from the start.

Jared kept pulling out his compass, muttering angrily.

I stepped closer and noticed the needle spinning aimlessly, never settling.

That happened before?

I asked, trying to keep the concern out of my voice.

He shook his head, jaw clenched.

Nope, it was working yesterday.

We stopped and Thomas pulled the satellite phone from his pack.

He flicked the power button, tapping it repeatedly, harder each time.

Dead.

He finally admitted it was fully charged yesterday.

This doesn't make sense.

A creeping unease settled over us.

The forest stretched in every direction, dense, tangled, dripping wet.

No landmarks, just endless green shadows and patches of muted sunlight filtering through Moss covered branches.

The ground beneath our feet was spongy, soaked, clinging to our boots.

Dean suggested, pushing on anyway.

We've got enough gear and food.

He reasoned, trying to keep his tone casual.

It's probably just moisture messing with the electronics, but we all knew electronics weren't that fragile.

Still, arguing wouldn't help, so we marched forward, trying not to dwell on how silent the forest had become around us.

No birds, no rustling animals, just the sound of our breathing and the squelching mud beneath our boots.

About halfway through the afternoon, Jared suddenly stopped and dropped his pack, frantically digging through his gear.

He straightened slowly, eyes dark, and narrowed.

My knife's gone.

You probably dropped it back at camp.

Thomas offered no chance.

I packed it away myself.

It was secured.

Jared insisted, A slight edge of panic in his voice.

The silence that followed hung heavy between us.

None of us wanted to admit what we were all thinking.

Something had taken it.

We moved on wordlessly, more tense than ever, ears straining at every faint sound in the undergrowth.

Several times I heard faint cracking behind us, just far enough away to dismiss as paranoia, but close enough to keep me glancing nervously over my shoulder.

When we finally stopped for the night, we chose a spot in a tighter cluster of trees, hoping the natural barriers would shield us from whatever might be following.

But even as we set up camp, we felt exposed, vulnerable.

Thomas lit a fire, struggling to keep it going.

The flames were weak and hesitant, flickering low despite the dry wood we'd carefully gathered from under dense overhangs.

Twice it's buttered out as if suffocated, leaving us in unsettling darkness each time.

On the third try, it finally caught, but the weak orange glow only accentuated the impenetrable dark, pressing in on us from every direction.

We forced ourselves to eat, talking in low murmurs.

Thomas tried cracking jokes, but no one laughed.

Eventually we crawled silently into our tents, our small, fragile bubbles of comfort.

But sleep wouldn't come.

I lay awake, alert, waiting.

Sometime well after midnight, Thomas's voice tore through the silence.

He wasn't shouting, he was screaming.

Dean and I scrambled out first, stumbling, half asleep into the dark.

Thomas was thrashing violently in his tent, eyes wide and blank, feet kicking furiously.

Thomas.

Dean shouted, grabbing him and pinning his arms down.

Jared unzipped the tent completely, and I turned my flashlight on Thomas's feet.

My stomach twisted in horror.

His souls were shredded, bleeding heavily.

Deep gashes sliced across the bottom, long and raw, like he'd been dragged barefoot over sharpened rocks.

The blood soaked the sleeping bag, pooling beneath him.

What happened?

Jared demanded, voice trembling.

Did you see anything?

Thomas only shook his head, eyes wide and terrified, breathing in ragged gasps.

Nothing, he finally croaked.

I felt nothing.

I just woke up like this.

We dressed his wounds silently, wrapping his feet tightly in bandages.

None of us voiced the obvious that this wasn't natural.

Animals didn't unzip tents quietly, inflict injuries, and disappear without leaving a trace.

Jared kept glancing at the surrounding trees, eyes twitching toward every shadow.

We packed up quickly, deciding we had no choice but to push through the brush toward the coast.

Dean mentioned, seeing a boat ramp marked somewhere near the shoreline on Jared's original map.

Jared agreed immediately.

Thomas didn't speak.

He just stared vacantly at the ground, shivering.

Just as we finished breaking camp, Jared pulled out his phone again.

His hand froze halfway to his pack.

He stared down at the screen, color draining from his face.

What?

Dean demanded, sensing his fear.

Something recorded last night.

Jared said quietly, voice memo.

But your phone's been dead.

I reminded him, voice hollow.

Apparently not.

We crowded close, holding our breath as Jared pressed play.

Thomas's voice filled the tense silence, but it wasn't right.

It was deeper, guttural, broken, like someone mimicking English without fully understanding it.

The words crawled out slowly, thick and heavy.

Bones in trees, waiting.

Find bones.

He waits.

Thomas stared at the phone, his breath hitching in his throat.

That's me.

He finally whispered, disbelief mixing with horror.

But I was asleep.

Nobody spoke after that.

Nobody needed to.

We moved quickly, cutting straight into the tangled forest, toward the distant sound of the ocean, hoping desperately we could outrun whatever we'd unleashed.

We stumbled blindly forward, forcing our way through the relentless brush.

Branches clawed at our jackets and roots, caught our boots with every frantic step.

Thomas limped along between Dean and me, his torn feet wrapped tightly but still seeping through the bandages.

Jared, usually strong and calm, seemed lost, eyes wide, breathing ragged.

We didn't have much of A plan beyond making it to the coast.

Jared had mentioned seeing a Forest Service boat ramp on the map, the map we'd now lost somewhere behind us.

We moved mostly by instinct, aiming toward the distant, faint sound of waves that occasionally broke through the forest noise.

Every hour or so we'd pause, gulping air, ears straining at every faint snap or rustle behind us.

Each time, the sounds grew closer, clearer, unmistakable the snapping of branches dragging sounds across the damp earth.

Something was tracking us.

Late in the afternoon, Jared slipped on a Moss covered rock near a narrow ravine, twisting his ankle sharply.

He hissed through gritted teeth, gripping a tree trunk for support.

You OK?

I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded stiffly, eyes clenched shut.

Just keep moving, I'll be fine.

But he wasn't fine.

None of us were.

Thomas's eyes were distant, unfocused lips moving silently as he limped forward.

I leaned closer, trying to catch his words, but all I heard were fragments of the twisted recording repeated in his low, exhausted voice.

Bones waiting in trees.

The forest began to darken rapidly around us, the setting sun vanishing somewhere behind the dense clouds overhead.

Mist settled low among the trees, closing in like a wall of damp Gray.

Dean slowed, glancing back nervously.

We have to stop, he said reluctantly, eyes scanning our surroundings.

We'll never make it through this in the dark.

We reluctantly set up a makeshift camp beneath a tight cluster of thick cedar trees, hoping their trunks might offer some cover.

We hung a tarp low, keeping the space tight, comforting ourselves with the false sense of security it gave.

Nobody spoke as we ate a handful of trail mix.

Thomas refused food, sitting with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, staring blankly into the darkening forest.

Darkness fully set in and we took turns keeping watch, each of us gripping a flashlight and knife, eyes glued to the shadow tree line.

Around midnight, during my watch, something large move just beyond the tarp, pressing heavily against the brush, exhaling in deep, rough breaths.

My pulse quickened as my grip tightened around the knife handle.

Whatever it was circled us slowly, methodically, never stepping into view, its presence undeniable but invisible.

I didn't wake the others.

I feared any sudden movement would provoke whatever waited just out of sight.

Dean relieved me at about 3:00 AM, nodding silently as we switched places.

Exhausted but unable to sleep, I lay awake, listening to the dripping moisture off leaves and the muffled sounds of Dean shifting uncomfortably.

Then Dean's breathing suddenly froze.

He leaned forward, tensed, unmoving.

Something stood inches from him, separated only by the thin, flimsy tarp.

A deep, heavy breath rasped audibly, so close I could almost feel its weight.

We stayed frozen like that for what felt like hours, until at last it moved away into the trees.

Dean didn't move, didn't speak, until dawn's weak light finally broke through the mist.

When we finally emerged, drained and numb, we saw thin marks in the mud surrounding the tarp, long dragging tracks with deep punctures spaced evenly apart, claw marks unmistakable and fresh.

We gathered our things silently, eyes hollow, moving quickly toward the growing sound of surf ahead.

Just before midday, the trees thinned abruptly, revealing a narrow gravel shore.

We pushed through the last tangled branches and stumbled onto solid ground, breathing hard.

A rusted sign stood crookedly by the shore.

Forest Service boat ramp.

Relief flooded me.

There was no boat, but a weathered emergency call box stood near the chained off dock.

Jared rushed to it, pressing the faded call button repeatedly until a crackling voice answered.

Jared gave our location in a hoarse voice, barely coherent, begging urgently for a Ranger pickup.

We waited, huddled together, eyes trained warily back toward the trees.

None of us spoke, each locked in our own thoughts.

Thomas sat on the gravel, rocking slightly, eyes distant.

Jared watched the trees, knife still clenched in his hand.

After what felt like an eternity, we heard the low drone of a boat engine.

A Ranger boat rounded the corner, cutting quickly toward us.

The Ranger helped us aboard without many questions, sensing our exhaustion and urgency.

As the boat pulled away from shore, I finally felt my body relax.

I turned to face the Ranger, an older man with a weathered face and serious eyes.

What were you boys doing out here?

He asked quietly, eyes narrowed.

We got lost.

Jared lied, voice flat.

The Ranger glanced at Thomas, his bloody, bandaged feet now clearly visible.

His eyes hardened.

Lost, huh?

Jared hesitated, then finally showed him the phone.

The Ranger listened once, expression unreadable, before quietly deleting the file and handing it back without comment.

You boys were lucky.

He said finally, voice low and measured.

We don't patrol this side much anymore.

That part of the forest hasn't been mapped right in years.

People stay away for good reason.

We rode back in silence, letting his words hang heavily between us.

None of us wanted to know more.

None of us ever wanted to set foot in Tongass again.

A year later, things still aren't right.

Thomas never hiked again, won't even talk about it.

Jared left for Arizona, needing distance from the forests all together.

Dean cut contact entirely, moving somewhere back east.

And me?

I still wake up hearing that breathing outside the tarp, feeling the oppressive dampness and the burning stare of unseen eyes.

We shouldn't have mocked that totem.

Whatever it was marking, whatever boundary it represented, we'd broken it.

And I don't think any of us will ever fully escape what followed us home.