"The Watcher":
The Trip Begins
Eighteen years ago, I embarked on a solo backpacking trip into Desolation Wilderness, an isolated expanse of rugged terrain near Lake Tahoe. It was my first long solo trek—three days and nights completely alone, surrounded by nothing but towering pines, jagged mountain ridges, and the eerie silence of untouched nature.
I had been looking forward to the solitude. Something about escaping into the wilderness, disconnecting from everything, had always drawn me in. But from the moment I set foot on the trail, I felt... off.
It wasn’t anything obvious. Just a subtle, nagging discomfort. Maybe it was the stillness, the way the wind refused to stir the trees, the absence of any bird calls. Or maybe it was the way I kept feeling watched.
Every so often, I would stop and glance behind me, half-expecting to see someone peeking out from behind a tree. But each time, I saw nothing.
I told myself I was being paranoid. There was no one out here.
Right?
The First Night: Footsteps in the Dark
I set up camp by a small, mirror-still alpine lake. The water was so still that when I looked at my reflection, it almost seemed wrong—like I was looking at another version of myself, one that wasn’t quite right.
That night, I built a fire and ate my simple meal, listening to the distant rustle of branches in the wind. I felt uneasy, but I convinced myself it was just nerves.
Until I went to bed.
I must have dozed off, but at some point in the night, I woke up suddenly.
Something wasn’t right.
I held my breath and listened.
Crunch.
A footstep.
Crunch.
Another.
Someone—or something—was walking outside my tent.
I lay there, frozen, my heart hammering so loud I thought whoever was out there could hear it. I wanted to reach for my flashlight, but I was afraid to move.
Then, silence.
Minutes stretched on.
Slowly, I reached for the zipper of my tent, took a deep breath, and yanked it open.
Nothing.
The forest was empty. The night was too still. But I knew what I had heard.
Trying to shake the feeling, I convinced myself it had been an animal and forced myself back to sleep.
I shouldn’t have stayed.
The Second Night: The Shadow
The next day, I hiked deeper into the wilderness, trying to shake the paranoia that had taken root in my chest. I told myself I was just spooking myself, that the isolation was getting to me.
That afternoon, I came across something odd.
A cabin.
It was old, rotting, completely abandoned, but something about it felt... wrong. The door was missing, and inside, I saw a small wooden chair facing the window—as if someone had been watching.
Watching what?
I stepped inside, the wood groaning beneath my boots. The air was thick with the scent of damp rot. Something about it made my skin crawl.
And then I saw the journal.
It was sitting on a small table, coated in dust. I flipped through the pages, my stomach twisting as I realized someone had been writing about me.
"Saw him today. He doesn’t see me yet."
"Follows the same trails. Predictable."
"He felt me last night. He doesn’t know I’m watching."
I slammed the book shut.
I wasn’t alone.
I grabbed my pack and hiked faster than I ever had before, trying to put as much distance between me and that cabin as possible.
That night, I set up camp again, but I couldn’t relax. My body was screaming at me to leave, but night was falling fast, and the idea of hiking through the dark was worse than staying put.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined someone standing just outside my tent, watching.
The Picture
I made it back to civilization the next day. Relief flooded me as I finally reached my car, tossing my pack into the backseat and speeding away from that cursed wilderness.
A week later, I picked up my developed film.
At first, it was normal. Stunning mountain views, peaceful lakes, shots of my campsite.
Then, my heart stopped.
One picture stood out from the rest.
It was a picture of me. Asleep. Inside my tent.
The angle was slightly tilted, as if someone had been crouching outside, holding the camera low to the ground.
But I hadn’t taken this picture.
Someone else had.
A cold chill ran through me. My stomach twisted into knots.
I remembered waking up that first night, feeling like someone was outside.
I hadn’t imagined it.
I brought the photo to a camera shop, desperate for some kind of logical explanation. Maybe a mistake, maybe a double exposure—anything but the alternative.
The clerk studied the photo, then frowned.
"You see that?" he muttered, handing me a magnifying glass.
I hesitated, then brought it close.
And that’s when I saw it.
In the reflection of my tent, barely visible but undeniable, was a face.
Someone had been right outside my tent, watching me sleep.
The Final Discovery
That night, I barely slept. Every sound made my heart pound. I felt like I had brought something back with me, like whoever had been watching me was still out there, waiting.
And then, two nights later, I woke up to something that made my blood run cold.
On my bedside table, where I had left the photograph, was something that hadn’t been there before.
A new picture.
Shaking, I picked it up.
It was a photo of me, lying in my bed.
Taken from inside my room.
I scrambled out of bed, turned on every light, checked every door and window—all locked. There was no sign of a break-in.
But someone had been inside.
Watching me.
Taking pictures.
I never went back to Desolation Wilderness.
And to this day… I still don’t know who was watching me.
Or if they ever really left.
"A Lone Camper":
Arrival at the Secluded Campsite
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the dense forest was the silence.
Not the peaceful, tranquil kind that made you feel at ease, but the wrong kind—the kind that feels like something is waiting.
I had camped alone before, so I wasn’t inexperienced. I had my GPS, a map, plenty of food, and even a satellite phone just in case. But this trip was different. I had picked a truly secluded spot, well off the usual trails, in the thick of the towering trees where no one should be.
I liked the idea of isolation. Of being completely alone.
At least, that’s what I thought.
As I set up my tent in a small clearing, the feeling settled in—a prickling, uneasy sensation at the back of my neck. The trees around me stood eerily still, despite the faint breeze I could feel on my skin.
And the air… it smelled off.
Not the usual fresh, earthy scent of the woods. There was something else, a faint metallic tang, like rusted iron mixed with damp soil.
I shook off the thought and focused on setting up camp. The ground was littered with dry sticks and crinkled leaves—perfect for hearing anything, or anyone, approach.
By the time the sun had dipped below the treeline, my tent was up, my small fire crackled in the center of the clearing, and my dinner sizzled over the flames. I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling curling in my stomach.
Maybe it was just my imagination.
Dusk and the Sudden Silence
As night fell, the forest became alive with sound.
Crickets sang. Leaves rustled. The occasional distant hoot of an owl echoed through the trees.
This was normal. This was good.
But then, almost imperceptibly, the noises began to die down.
Not suddenly. Not all at once. It was gradual—so slow that I barely noticed at first.
Until it was gone.
Total silence.
No crickets.
No rustling in the underbrush.
No wind whispering through the trees.
Just the faint crackling of my fire and the sound of my own breathing.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
I listened. Hard.
Silence.
In my experience, animals only go quiet like this when there’s a predator nearby.
But what kind of predator silences everything?
A bear? A mountain lion?
Or… something else?
I forced myself to shake off the feeling, poking at my fire to keep it going. I had no reason to feel scared. Not really.
Still, I climbed into my tent that night, zipping it shut a little too fast.
Sleep came reluctantly, with unease curling at the edges of my mind.
The Plopping Sound in the Dead of Night
I woke with a start.
A sound.
Plop.
Not a rustling. Not a snap of a twig underfoot.
Just one wet, heavy plop.
Then—nothing.
I lay still, heart pounding against my ribs, ears straining against the oppressive silence.
Had I imagined it?
I held my breath, waiting for some follow-up noise—something to explain what I’d just heard.
But there was nothing.
No scurrying of a raccoon. No shifting of leaves.
Just the same, unnatural hush.
I reached for my flashlight, hesitated, then clicked it on. The tent glowed softly, casting faint shadows along the fabric.
I listened.
Still nothing.
I swallowed, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. Maybe a branch had fallen. Maybe it was just an animal dropping something from the trees.
Still, I struggled to fall back asleep.
The Discovery
Morning light seeped through the tent fabric.
Yawning, I unzipped the tent, stepping barefoot onto the cool, damp earth—
And my blood ran cold.
There, right in front of my tent flap, lay a severed doll’s head.
A child's doll.
Its plastic was yellowed with age. Its synthetic hair was tangled and dirty.
One of its glassy blue eyes was missing, the empty socket staring at me like a black hole. The other eye—too clean, too deliberate—stared up, lifeless.
I took a step back, heart hammering in my chest.
That was not there last night.
I knew it wasn’t.
I spun, scanning the clearing, my breath shallow. No footprints. No disturbed leaves.
No sign that anyone had been here.
I forced myself to think logically. Maybe a bird had dropped it? Maybe some animal had dug it up?
But no—the placement was too perfect.
Directly in front of my tent flap.
Like someone had left it there for me to find.
And then, another sickening thought crept into my mind.
The plopping sound.
I slowly tilted my head back, eyes trailing up to the tree branches above me.
The canopy was thick, dense.
Had this thing… been dropped from above?
My stomach twisted.
I needed to leave.
The Footprints That Shouldn’t Exist
I packed up my gear as fast as possible, constantly glancing at the treeline, expecting to see someone watching me.
Fifteen minutes into my hike back to the car, my gut twisted again.
The plopping sound from last night echoed in my mind. Something falling. Something placed.
I shook off the thought and picked up my pace.
That’s when I saw the footprints.
They weren’t mine.
Human. Barefoot.
But deep, like whoever—or whatever—made them was heavier than they should be.
They ran parallel to my own path, as if something had been walking beside me the entire time.
But the worst part?
The footprints started in the middle of the path.
No leading prints. No sign of an approach.
Just a sudden, impossible beginning.
I turned around so fast I nearly tripped over myself.
Nothing.
But the air was heavier. Thicker.
Like something was waiting.
I ran.
The Final Omen
I sprinted the last stretch to my car, heart slamming against my ribs.
I barely looked over my shoulder as I threw my gear into the backseat.
Fumbling with my keys, I jammed them into the ignition, my hands shaking.
The engine roared to life.
I let out a shaky breath.
Then—
I glanced at the rearview mirror.
And froze.
Perched on the hood of my car.
The same doll’s head.
Staring at me.
I didn’t think. I threw the car into reverse, tires spinning, kicking up dirt as the twisted little thing tumbled off the hood.
I sped out of there, not daring to look back.
I don’t know who—or what—put it there.
I don’t want to know.
But I will never go camping alone again.
"The Forgotten Camp":
The third day at the campsite started like any other—cold, quiet, and filled with the scent of damp earth. The sky, streaked with pink and orange, cast long shadows through the towering pines. I had come here alone, searching for solitude, an escape from the noise of the world. But the silence this morning wasn’t peaceful. It was watchful. As if the forest itself was waiting.
I stepped out of my tent, stretching stiff muscles, and moved to rekindle last night’s fire. That’s when I saw it.
A small, neatly wrapped package sat just outside the ring of charred wood. Brown paper, tied with twine. It hadn't been there when I went to sleep.
My stomach tightened as I glanced around. The nearest campsite was miles away. No one should be here but me.
My breath came shallow as I picked it up. The package was light—almost weightless. My fingers trembled as I untied the twine and peeled back the paper. Inside was an old black-and-white photograph, faded and worn. A family of four stood stiffly in front of a campsite, smiling—but their eyes were wrong. Hollow. Fearful. Behind them, barely visible in the shadows of the trees, a figure loomed.
A small note fluttered to the ground. I bent to pick it up, my pulse hammering in my ears.
"Keep this safe, or you'll be next."
A gust of wind rustled the branches, sending a shiver down my spine. This had to be a prank. But who would go through the trouble of hiking deep into the woods just to mess with me? I scanned the trees, the underbrush—nothing moved.
I shoved the photo and note into my jacket pocket and reached for my phone. No signal. Of course.
I needed to leave. Now.
I packed hurriedly, my hands shaking. Every sound—the whisper of the wind, the distant snap of a twig—felt magnified. As I slung my backpack over my shoulder and turned toward the trail leading to my car, I hesitated. A thought crawled into my mind, unbidden.
Someone had left this for me.
Which meant someone had been here. Watching me.
The thought sent ice through my veins. I quickened my pace, my boots crunching against the forest floor. The path, once familiar, now felt alien, a corridor of shifting shadows and unseen eyes.
Then, about halfway to my car, I stumbled upon something that hadn't been there before.
Another campsite.
A single tent stood in the clearing, smoke still curling from a smoldering fire. The placement was too perfect, too deliberate. I hesitated, heart pounding.
I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get out of these woods. But the eerie familiarity of the scene—the way the tent was positioned, the way the firepit was arranged—it mirrored the one in the photograph. My stomach churned.
“Hello?” My voice barely carried.
From inside the tent, fabric rustled. A shadow moved. Then, a voice—low and rough.
“Who’s there?”
I stepped closer, my fingers twitching against the strap of my backpack. “Just a camper. Found something weird back at my site.”
The tent’s zipper rasped open, and a man emerged. He was older, with a grizzled beard and deep lines etched into his face. His eyes, sharp and weary, flicked to me, then to the photograph I held out.
He took it, his brow furrowing. “Where did you get this?”
“Someone left it for me.”
His grip tightened on the photo. “This is the Miller family. They disappeared from these woods in 1983. Their campsite was exactly where you were staying.”
A cold weight settled in my stomach. “What happened to them?”
“No one knows.” His voice was grim. “One day they were here. The next, gone. No bodies. No signs of struggle. Just... vanished.”
I swallowed hard. “So why would someone leave this for me?”
His eyes flicked toward the trees. “Some folks like to play games out here. Others... others think this forest has a memory. That it doesn’t forget the ones it takes.”
My mouth was dry. “I need to get out of here.”
He nodded. “Smart.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me cold.
“Don’t look back.”
Something in his tone made my skin crawl. I didn’t ask why. I just started walking.
Faster.
Branches swayed overhead, casting flickering shadows. The trees whispered, their voices carried by the wind.
I kept my eyes forward, my breath coming fast and shallow. Every step felt like I was being watched, followed. The urge to turn around clawed at me, primal and desperate. But I didn’t.
I didn’t look back.
As I reached my car, I noticed something strange. The dirt road leading up to it had fresh footprints—ones that weren’t mine.
I scanned the area. The footprints led from the treeline to my car… and then back. Someone had been here. Someone had walked up to my vehicle, stood there, and then disappeared into the woods again.
My hands fumbled with my keys as I unlocked the door, heart pounding against my ribs. I slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned on the headlights.
In their glow, just beyond the reach of the light, stood a figure.
Tall. Still. Watching.
I slammed the car into gear and sped down the dirt road, my breath ragged. My rearview mirror showed nothing but darkness, but I knew. I knew something had been there.
Even now, weeks later, I still wake up at night, heart racing, convinced I hear whispers outside my window. Sometimes I dream of the photograph, of the hollow eyes of the family, frozen in time. And sometimes… I dream of the figure standing in the woods, just beyond the firelight.
Waiting.