"Missing Person":
I still remember that camping trip like it was yesterday. It was supposed to be a simple weekend getaway—just me and my buddy Mike out in the Oregon wilderness. We’d been talking about it for months, ever since one of those rare afternoons when we both had time to catch up over beers. Life had been relentless lately, for both of us.
Mike was neck-deep in work, drowning in deadlines and endless emails. I wasn’t much better off, juggling a job that felt more like a treadmill and a pile of responsibilities I couldn’t seem to shrink. “Man, we need a reset,” Mike had said, leaning back in his chair. “Just a couple of days away from all this noise. No phones, no stress. Just trees, sky, and quiet.”
He was right. We’d both grown up camping, and some of our best memories were made around a fire, swapping stories under the stars. It felt like a chance to reconnect—not just with nature but with ourselves, to hit pause and remember there was more to life than emails and to-do lists. We settled on Mount Hood, drawn by its postcard-worthy scenery and the promise of solitude. The plan was simple: hike, fish, and maybe climb high enough to catch the sunset from the peak.
The trip felt like it would be exactly what we needed—until it wasn’t.
The first day was everything we’d hoped for. We set up camp near the river, reeled in a couple of trout, and spent the evening reminiscing about old times. The air was crisp, the kind that makes you feel alive, and the sky was a canvas of stars. It was perfect—until the shadows started to grow.
As the fire burned low, we sat back in companionable silence, listening to the symphony of the forest. Then Mike broke the stillness. “Did you hear that?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it.
I strained my ears. At first, all I caught were the usual sounds: the hoot of an owl, the whisper of leaves in the breeze. But then, faint and far away, there was a crack, like a branch snapping underfoot.
“Just the woods,” I said, trying to sound casual. But my skin prickled, and I found myself glancing into the shadows more than once.
The morning brought sunlight and a false sense of reassurance. That was, until we saw the footprints. They circled our campsite—deep, heavy impressions in the soil, larger than either of ours. Mike stared at them, his brow furrowed. “Maybe a ranger,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Not far from the tent, we found a piece of red fabric caught on a thorny bush. It was frayed and faded, but definitely not ours. Mike turned it over in his hands. “Could be from a lost hiker,” he suggested. Again, his tone betrayed his doubt.
We shrugged it off and decided to move closer to the river. But as the day dragged on, an eerie silence settled over the area. The usual forest sounds seemed muted, like the wilderness itself was holding its breath. By evening, the unease was impossible to ignore.
We were cooking dinner when it happened. A sharp crack echoed from the trees, louder and closer than the night before. Mike grabbed the flashlight. “Stay here,” he said, his voice firm.
“Like hell I’m staying here alone,” I muttered, grabbing another flashlight and following him. The beams of light carved through the dark, illuminating gnarled roots and tree trunks. It didn’t take long to find the source of the noise.
An abandoned campsite lay ahead. The tent was partially collapsed, belongings scattered as if someone had fled in a hurry. A kettle dangled precariously from a branch, swaying in the wind.
“Hello?” Mike called, his voice cutting through the stillness. No response.
I spotted something on the ground and picked it up. It was a small, leather-bound diary. The entries told the story of a couple celebrating their anniversary. They wrote about the beauty of the forest and the joy of disconnecting. But the last entry chilled me: “We heard noises last night. Sounds like someone’s watching us. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Before I could show Mike, another sound shattered the silence. This time, it was closer—a rustle, a snap. We turned our lights toward the noise, catching a fleeting glimpse of something—or someone—slipping deeper into the woods.
We bolted back to our campsite. Every shadow felt alive, every sound a potential threat. Inside the tent, we locked the zippers and huddled together, weapons of opportunity—a camping knife and a heavy flashlight—within reach. The hours stretched endlessly, each creak of the forest twisting our nerves tighter.
Dawn brought a sliver of hope, but it was short-lived. As we packed up, ready to abandon the trip, a man emerged from the trees. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—his clothes disheveled, his eyes wild.
“You saw my campsite,” he rasped. His gaze darted between us. “Did you find her?”
Mike stepped forward. “Who’s ‘her’?”
“My wife,” the man croaked. “We were camping here. Someone… someone took her.”
His name was Chris, and his story was grim. He and his wife had been camping nearby when they were attacked in the middle of the night. He managed to escape, but in the chaos, they got separated. He’d been searching for her ever since.
Without hesitation, we helped him retrace his steps, leaving markers for the authorities. When we finally got a signal, we called the police. They arrived hours later, bringing with them an air of calm professionalism that felt like a lifeline.
Days passed before they found her. She was alive but shaken, her ordeal etched into her eyes. The man responsible—a local with a history of violent crimes—was caught not far from where we’d camped.
The experience left its mark. What had begun as a carefree adventure turned into a chilling reminder of how quickly serenity can give way to chaos. Now, whenever I step into the wilderness, I do so with a sharper awareness of its dual nature: breathtaking beauty and lurking danger. And I always, always listen to the sounds of the forest, just in case they’re trying to tell me something.
"The Scout":
I’ll never forget the Scout camping trip that changed everything for me. It was supposed to be fun—just a weekend in the woods with my best friend Jack and a group of other kids, learning how to tie knots, build fires, and maybe even earning a badge or two. But instead, it became the single most terrifying experience of my life, something that still creeps into my nightmares years later.
The trouble started on the first day. We arrived at the campsite, unpacked our gear, and were assigned tents. Jack and I were paired with this kid named Ethan. Now, Ethan was... weird. There’s no other way to put it. He wasn’t just the kind of kid who didn’t fit in—he actively made people uncomfortable. He had this habit of staring too long without blinking, and he had a temper that flared up at the slightest provocation.
By the time we’d set up camp, Ethan had already gotten into two arguments—one over who got to start the campfire and another because someone bumped into him and didn’t apologize fast enough. But the thing that really freaked me out was his obsession with knives. Most of us had small pocket knives, the kind you’d use to whittle wood or cut rope. Ethan, on the other hand, had an entire collection of knives: a hunting knife, a butterfly knife, even a machete. He kept showing them off, flipping them open and grinning like he loved how uncomfortable it made people.
Jack and I exchanged nervous looks, but what could we do? We were stuck with him.
That night, after dinner, we all gathered around the campfire. The Scout leaders told us some cheesy ghost stories, and we roasted marshmallows until it was time for bed. Back at the tent, the three of us tried to settle in for the night, but Ethan wouldn’t shut up. He kept talking about how he could survive alone in the woods if he wanted to, how he didn’t need anyone else. It was unsettling, but Jack and I tried to ignore him.
“Let’s play something,” Jack suggested, trying to break the tension.
We didn’t have a deck of cards, so we improvised a game using sticks. We’d each collect a pile, then take turns throwing them into a small circle we drew in the dirt. Whoever got the most sticks inside the circle won. It was silly but fun—at least, it was until Ethan started getting competitive. Every time he lost, his face would twist with anger.
At one point, I made a joke—something harmless like, “Looks like you’re not as sharp as your knives.” I didn’t mean anything by it, but Ethan froze, his hand tightening around one of his sticks like he was imagining it was something else.
“What did you say?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Jack quickly stepped in, laughing nervously. “Relax, man. It’s just a game.”
Ethan didn’t respond. He just stared at me for a long moment before finally lying down in his sleeping bag. The tension in the tent was unbearable, but eventually, we all drifted off.
At least, I thought we did.
I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but the first thing I noticed was how heavy the air felt. My throat was dry, and I struggled to breathe. Then I realized why. Ethan was on top of me, his hands wrapped around my neck. His face was inches from mine, and he was grinning—a wild, unhinged grin that made my blood run cold.
“You think you’re funny?” he whispered, his voice almost playful. “Let’s see how funny you are when you can’t breathe.”
I thrashed and clawed at his hands, but he was strong—much stronger than I expected. Panic set in as I struggled for air. My vision blurred, and the edges of the tent seemed to close in, the darkness pressing against me like a living thing.
I thought I was going to die. My chest burned, my head pounded, and all I could hear was Ethan’s laughter echoing in my ears.
Then, out of nowhere, I heard Jack shout, “Get off him!”
Jack tackled Ethan, knocking him off me. I rolled to the side, coughing and gasping for air, while the two of them wrestled on the tent floor. Jack managed to pin Ethan down, but Ethan was thrashing wildly, his face contorted with rage.
“Help!” Jack yelled, his voice cracking. “Somebody help us!”
The commotion must have woken the Scout leaders, because within moments, the tent was unzipped, and two adults burst in. They dragged Ethan away, their faces pale with shock when they saw the red marks on my neck.
“What the hell is going on here?” one of them demanded.
Ethan didn’t say a word. He just sat there, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on me. There was something in his expression that terrified me more than anything else that night—something calm, almost satisfied.
The leaders separated us immediately. Ethan was moved to a tent right next to theirs, where they could keep an eye on him. Jack and I were put in a tent with my older brother, who stayed up most of the night to make sure we were okay.
But I wasn’t okay. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ethan’s face, felt his hands around my neck. I woke up three times that night, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.
The next morning, Ethan was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t even argue when the leaders told him he’d be riding home early with one of the parents.
When we got back from the trip, the Scout leaders told Ethan’s parents what had happened. He was banned from Scouts, and word must have spread, because he was kicked out of several other activities as well. My mom was furious when she found out—so much so that I thought she might drive over to his house and confront his parents.
For a while, I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d see him again. Every time I walked into a room, I’d glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to find him standing there, grinning that same awful grin.
Even now, years later, I still wake up from nightmares of being choked or suffocated. I’ll feel phantom hands on my neck and hear his voice whispering in the dark. That camping trip was supposed to be a fun adventure, but it left me with scars I’ll carry forever—scars that remind me how close I came to losing everything.
"Woods Turned Against Us":
I remember the night like it just happened. Even now, years later, the memory has a sharpness that refuses to dull. It was supposed to be a simple getaway—a chance to unplug, unwind, and reconnect with nature. Dave and I had chosen a secluded spot just outside Yellowstone National Park, far from the crowded trails and tourist hubs. The kind of place where you could feel completely alone with the world, where the only noises were the whisper of the wind through the pines and the occasional call of distant wildlife.
The day had been perfect. We’d hiked for hours, marveling at the untouched beauty around us. By the time we set up camp, the sun was sinking low, painting the horizon in shades of orange and violet. The crisp mountain air smelled of pine and earth, and as night fell, the stars emerged, so vivid it felt like you could reach out and touch them.
We built a fire, the warmth and flickering glow a comfort against the creeping chill of the evening. Dave stirred the flames with a stick, a grin plastered across his face. "Man, this is perfect," he said, leaning back against a log. "We should do this every year."
"Yeah," I agreed, sipping on a cup of coffee from the tin mug in my hands. "Feels like we’ve got the whole world to ourselves out here."
For a while, it was perfect. We laughed, traded stories from college, and talked about the hike we had planned for the next day—a route that would take us deeper into the wilderness. But as the fire burned low and the night grew darker, something changed.
It started with a rustling sound in the underbrush. At first, we didn’t think much of it. This was the wilderness, after all. Animals were bound to be out and about. But the sound didn’t stop. It moved, circling our campsite, the noise deliberate, almost purposeful.
"Probably a raccoon," I said, more to reassure myself than Dave.
"Raccoons don’t sound like that," Dave replied, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the dark tree line just beyond the firelight.
He grabbed his flashlight and swept the beam across the woods. The light cut through the darkness, revealing only trees and shadows. "Hello?" he called out.
The rustling stopped. For a moment, the forest was unnervingly silent, as if holding its breath. Then, the sound came again—closer this time.
We zipped up the tent not long after, the illusion of the wilderness as a peaceful haven now shattered. Inside, the light from our camping lantern cast long, distorted shadows on the nylon walls. Every creak of the trees, every snap of a twig outside seemed amplified, each sound clawing at my nerves.
And then, we heard it.
It started low, a guttural growl that sent shivers down my spine. It wasn’t far from our tent.
"Was that a bear?" Dave whispered, his voice tight.
"I don’t know," I replied, my mouth dry. "But stay quiet."
The growling came again, deeper this time, resonating in the stillness. Then, a loud thump against the side of the tent. We both froze, our heads snapping toward the sound.
"What the hell was that?" Dave hissed, his hand inching toward the revolver he’d brought along for emergencies.
I was about to respond when another sound broke through the night—a laugh. Low, raspy, and undeniably human.
"You think you can just take what’s ours?" a voice drawled, slow and deliberate, each word dripping with menace.
I felt my stomach drop. This wasn’t an animal. This was far worse.
"Who’s out there?" I called, trying to sound braver than I felt, though my voice cracked slightly.
Silence.
Then, another thump, this time from the other side of the tent.
Dave’s hand was trembling as he gripped the revolver. "We need to get out of here," he whispered.
"We can’t," I said, my mind racing. "Whatever’s out there… they’re circling us. If we run, we’re exposed."
The footsteps started then, slow and deliberate, crunching through the dry leaves. They circled the tent, pausing every few steps as if to remind us they were still there. I held my breath, gripping the camping knife in my hand so tightly my knuckles ached.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped. The footsteps faded, retreating into the darkness.
We sat there in silence, straining to hear anything—anything at all. Minutes turned into hours. The growling didn’t return, nor did the footsteps. But neither of us could shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
When dawn finally broke, we unzipped the tent cautiously, the morning light spilling in like a lifeline. The campsite was a mess. Our fire pit had been scattered, the ashes and embers strewn about. But what caught my attention was the boot prints—large, heavy, and unmistakably human. They were everywhere, some so close to the tent it made my skin crawl.
As we packed up in a hurry, Dave noticed something a little further down the trail—a makeshift campsite. We approached it warily. There was a tattered sleeping bag, crushed beer cans, and a hunting knife stabbed into a tree. A piece of paper fluttered beneath the blade.
Dave pulled it free and read it aloud, his voice shaking. "This is our land. Leave, or next time we won’t be so nice."
We didn’t stick around to find out what "not so nice" meant. By the time the sun was fully up, we were already back at the car, the sense of relief almost overwhelming.
We debated reporting the incident to the park rangers, but in the end, we didn’t. What would we say? That we’d been harassed by unseen figures in the night? That someone—or something—had left a warning meant to scare us off?
That night changed everything for me. The wilderness, once a place of solace and adventure, now felt like a trap, filled with unseen dangers. I still wonder about that night—whether the growls were a setup, a tactic to unnerve us, or if we had truly stumbled into something far darker than territorial campers.
I’ve replayed it in my mind countless times, analyzing every sound, every moment. The rational part of me wants to believe it was just a cruel prank, but deep down, I know it was something more. Something I can’t explain.
I haven’t been camping since. And every time I think about going back, I remember the voice outside the tent, the growl, the boot prints, and that note. Some things are better left as memories—or nightmares.