"Face to Face":
I’ve always loved the woods. The smell of pine, the crunch of leaves under my boots, the crisp morning air that fills my lungs with a sense of freedom. But more than anything, I loved the thrill of capturing wildlife through my camera lens. The chance to snap the perfect photo of a grizzly bear in its natural habitat—that’s what kept me coming back to Yellowstone year after year.
My name’s Jim, and on May 23, 2007, I set out alone, camera in hand, chasing that perfect shot. What I didn’t know was that, on this particular day, I wouldn’t find a bear first. One would find me.
It was a cool morning, the kind that makes you zip your jacket a little higher and pull your hat down a little lower. Sunlight trickled through the towering pines, painting long golden streaks across the forest floor. Birds chirped, the wind whispered through the trees, and every now and then, a distant rustle hinted at unseen creatures moving in the underbrush.
I was about two miles from the road, off-trail, in a quiet spot where I knew grizzlies liked to roam. I’d been here before. Heck, I’d even survived a bear attack back in ’93. That time, a grizzly got my scalp and wrist, but I managed to escape with my life—and a whole new respect for these creatures. I knew the rules: make noise, stay alert, don’t startle them. So, as I hiked, I sang softly to myself, a habit I’d picked up over the years.
“Hey bear, hey bear,” I called, my voice bouncing off the trees.
I wasn’t afraid. Not really. I’d spent enough time in the wild to understand the risks. But nature has a way of humbling you when you least expect it.
I was pushing through a thicket of bushes when my boot landed on something soft.
Before I could even look down, a roar split the air—a deep, guttural sound that rattled through my bones. My stomach turned to ice. A massive shape erupted from the ground in front of me, fur bristling, teeth bared.
A grizzly.
A mother grizzly.
And behind her, barely visible through the foliage, was her cub.
I’d done the one thing you never want to do in bear country—I’d stepped right on her while she was resting. I was the threat.
Before I could even react, she struck.
Her paw slammed into the side of my face, the force so strong it knocked me off my feet. A white-hot explosion of pain tore through me as her claws ripped into my skin. I hit the ground hard, blood pouring into my eyes.
She came at me again, faster than I could comprehend. Her weight pressed down on me, her breath hot and meaty, thick with the scent of the wild. Her growls were deep and primal, a mother’s rage unleashed on the fool who had dared to get too close to her child.
I curled up, instinct taking over. Hands over my neck. Knees tucked in. Play dead.
But playing dead doesn’t stop the pain.
Her claws raked across my head, my shoulders, my back. My left eye went dark. My body screamed in agony, but I didn’t move, didn’t fight. Any movement could make her attack worse.
I could hear the cub now, mewling softly behind her. That sound—the sound of her baby—was what saved me.
Just as suddenly as she had attacked, she stopped.
She huffed, sniffed, hesitated. Then she turned, lumbering off into the brush, her cub scrambling to keep up.
I didn’t move. I barely breathed. I lay there, listening, waiting.
Was she really gone?
Was I still alive?
Minutes passed. Maybe more. The pain was unbearable, but I forced myself to move. Slowly, shakily, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. Blood dripped from my face, soaking the dirt. My head throbbed so hard I thought it might burst.
My camera was gone, somewhere in the chaos of the attack. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out of there.
The road was miles away, and I was bleeding too badly to wait for help. If I didn’t move, I’d die out there, alone.
“You can do this,” I whispered, my voice raw and shaking. “Move, Jim. Move or die.”
I staggered forward, every step sending a fresh wave of agony through my body. The woods felt different now—less familiar, more menacing. Every rustle, every snapped twig made my pulse hammer in my ears.
Was she following me?
I kept checking over my shoulder, expecting to see her massive shape emerging from the trees. But the only thing behind me was my own blood trail.
Time blurred. I stumbled through the wilderness, sometimes upright, sometimes crawling, fighting the dizziness, the exhaustion, the fear.
I thought about my wife, my friends. The people who would never know what happened if I didn’t make it.
That thought kept me going.
Finally, I saw it.
The road.
I staggered out of the trees, legs giving out beneath me. My knees hit the gravel, and I collapsed.
Tires crunched. A car slowed. A voice, distant and frantic, shouted, “Oh my God! Hey, you okay? Oh man, your face—”
I tried to answer, but my throat was too dry, my mouth too full of blood. I forced out one word.
“Help.”
The man grabbed his phone, yelling into it, “Get an ambulance! Now!”
I barely heard the rest. My vision swam. My body felt cold.
Was I dying?
Hands pressed against me, voices urgent and sharp. “Severe trauma to the face.” “He’s losing a lot of blood.” “Stay with us, buddy.”
The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and pain. At the hospital, I drifted in and out as doctors worked on me for seven hours.
My jaw was shattered. My eye was gone. My face—well, let’s just say I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror when I finally saw it.
Recovery was brutal. Days turned into weeks of pain, surgeries, therapy. Nights were worse—dreams of growls and claws, waking up drenched in sweat, heart pounding.
But here’s the thing.
I never blamed that bear.
She was just a mother protecting her baby. I was the one who made the mistake.
Months later, when I could finally talk again, a friend asked me, “So, are you ever going back out there?”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Of course. Gotta keep shooting those bears—on camera, not with a gun.”
He shook his head, laughing. “You’re crazy, Jim.”
Maybe I am.
But the woods still call to me, even after they nearly killed me. And I can’t help but listen.
"The Ones Who Stay":
It was supposed to be a weekend of peace. Just the two of us—me, my girlfriend Sarah, and the quiet solitude of the Oregon woods. We had spent weeks planning, carefully choosing a remote spot off Highway 26, far from the usual campgrounds. No tourists, no noisy families, just the wind through the trees and the crackle of our campfire. “No distractions,” I had promised her. “Just nature.”
By nightfall, I’d regret every word.
The first sign of trouble came at dusk. We had just finished setting up our tent, the fire burning low, when an engine rumbled in the distance. The sound of tires crunching over dirt and dead leaves grew louder until a beat-up pickup truck rolled into the clearing. The headlights flickered like dying fireflies, illuminating the gnarled tree trunks before the truck shuddered to a stop.
Two men stepped out. Even in the dim light, something about them sent a ripple of unease through me. They were wiry, with greasy, unkempt hair, their clothes hanging loose as if they hadn’t eaten in days. The taller one had a frayed hoodie unzipped over a bare, bony chest, and he scratched at his arm so hard I thought he’d peel the skin off. His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, darted over our camp like he was taking inventory of everything we had.
His companion, stockier with a thick neck and jittery fingers, leaned against the truck door, his gaze locking onto Sarah. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
The tall man tilted his head toward our fire. “Mind if we borrow a lighter?” His voice was hoarse, like someone who smoked too much or hadn’t had water in days.
Sarah’s fingers curled around my elbow, nails pressing into my skin.
“Sure,” I said, keeping my voice steady as I tossed him a box of matches.
He caught them easily but didn’t move right away, just stood there grinning at us. Then his friend spoke, his voice a low, amused murmur.
“Y’all here for the show?”
Sarah hesitated before answering. “What show?”
The stocky man let out a wet, phlegmy chuckle. “The horror show.”
No one spoke. The fire popped, embers floating into the cooling night air. The men lingered just a second longer, then turned and disappeared into the tree line, vanishing like ghosts into the dark.
Sarah let out a breath she’d been holding. “I don’t like this,” she whispered. “I don’t like this at all.”
I forced a laugh, but even I could hear the thinness in it. “They were probably just messing with us.”
She shook her head, staring at the trees. “I don’t care. Let’s go.”
The thought of packing everything up and driving an hour back down those winding, narrow roads in complete darkness wasn’t exactly comforting either. The woods stretched for miles, and civilization felt impossibly far away. I tried to convince her—and myself—that we were overreacting.
We sat by the fire a while longer, forcing small talk, trying to drown out the sense of unease that had settled like a heavy fog around us. We cooked dinner, made dumb jokes, tried to laugh. But something about the forest felt wrong. The air was too still, the usual nighttime sounds—chirping crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl—felt muted. As if the trees were holding their breath.
Then, around midnight, we heard it. A hacking, wet cough from somewhere nearby.
Sarah sat up, her breath shallow. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded, my stomach twisting into knots.
The cough came again, closer this time. A figure emerged at the edge of the clearing, stepping into the dim glow of our fire. An older woman, wrapped in a tattered shawl, her face gaunt and lined with deep shadows. She brought a cigarette to her lips with shaking fingers, the tip glowing as she inhaled.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she rasped.
Something about her tone sent a chill racing down my spine.
“Why not?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
She exhaled a thin stream of smoke, her eyes dark hollows in the firelight. “This place… it’s theirs.”
Sarah swallowed hard. “Whose?”
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze drifted past us, toward the tree line. Slowly, I turned to follow her stare.
That’s when I saw them.
A dozen figures, barely visible in the darkness, standing just beyond the reach of our fire’s glow. Silent. Watching.
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs. My mind scrambled for an explanation—other campers? Hikers? But they didn’t move. They didn’t speak. Just stood there, motionless. Waiting.
I shot to my feet, nearly knocking over the camping stove. “We need to go,” I whispered to Sarah.
She was already yanking the tent’s zipper open, stuffing things into her backpack with trembling hands. I moved fast, heart hammering, my hands shaking as I pulled the stakes from the ground. Every second felt like an eternity. The figures hadn’t moved, but they were still there. Watching.
Then, blinding light flooded the clearing.
Headlights.
The pickup truck.
The tall man stepped out first, his grin still plastered across his face. “Leaving so soon?” His voice was thick with amusement, but his hand rested casually on the hilt of a knife strapped to his belt.
Sarah stiffened beside me. “We—we just need to get home.”
The stocky man moved closer, blocking the car door. “Road’s dangerous at night,” he murmured. “Why don’tcha stay?”
A lump formed in my throat. My fingers curled into fists. I didn’t know what to do—fight? Run? The woods suddenly felt too big, too empty. We were alone out here.
Then, a sound. Another engine.
Headlights cut through the trees, bouncing off the branches. A Jeep.
The two men stiffened, their gazes snapping toward the approaching vehicle. The Jeep rolled closer, and I could finally make out the emblem on the door.
A park ranger.
The men scattered like roaches, vanishing into the trees without another word.
The ranger stepped out, his gaze sweeping over our half-packed gear. “You kids okay?”
I nodded, too rattled to speak.
He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “These woods… they attract bad folks. Real bad.” He tapped the dashboard, where a folded newspaper clipping was taped. I could barely make out the words, but the photo was clear.
A missing hiker.
Sarah leaned in. “Who’s Ivan?”
The ranger’s jaw tightened. “Ivan McCall. Real piece of work. Picked up hitchhikers, brought them out here… never seen again.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. The face on the newspaper wasn’t just some old mugshot.
It was the man from the pickup.
We followed the ranger’s Jeep all the way back to the highway, our hands locked together in silent fear. When we finally reached a motel, Sarah pulled out her phone and started searching. Her face turned pale.
“He’s real,” she whispered. “He’s killed before.”
The same smirk stared back at us from the screen. The man from the truck.
We never camped again.
Months later, the news broke. A hiker found bones near our site. The ranger called it a “hunting accident,” but we knew better.
Some places aren’t haunted by ghosts.
They’re haunted by people.
"The Forest Went Silent":
It was May 1988, and my girlfriend, Rebecca Wight, and I had been looking forward to a weekend away from everything. We needed it. I was in architecture school, buried under deadlines, and she was deep into business school, constantly juggling coursework and internships. Life in the city could be overwhelming, but out in nature, we could breathe. The noise, the pressure, the expectations—they all faded into the background when we were surrounded by trees, fresh air, and the steady rhythm of our footsteps on the trail.
This trip was more than just an escape. We were celebrating three years together. Three years of whispered secrets, of late-night talks under tangled sheets, of stolen kisses in places where we had to keep our love hidden. We wanted to be somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Just the two of us.
Michaux State Forest seemed perfect. It was remote, beautiful, and peaceful. The Appalachian Trail cut through it, winding between towering trees and rocky outcrops, following streams that glimmered in the sun. We packed up our gear, threw it in the car, and made the drive out, eager to leave behind the city and its crowded sidewalks, its judgmental stares, its suffocating expectations.
The moment we stepped onto the trail, the tension in my shoulders melted away. The air smelled like pine and damp earth, thick and fresh. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the ground with shifting patches of gold. Birds called to one another, their songs overlapping, a constant, cheerful background noise. Rebecca reached for my hand, squeezing it. “Feels good to be back out here,” she murmured.
I nodded. “Like we can actually hear ourselves think.”
We hiked for miles, taking our time, pausing now and then to admire the view or listen to the wind rustling through the leaves. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.
By late afternoon, we found a beautiful spot near a gently running stream. The water was so clear we could see smooth stones at the bottom, scattered like pieces of the sky—blues and grays and soft browns. It was perfect. We set down our packs, pitched the tent, and changed into swimsuits, eager to cool off. The water was freezing, but it didn’t matter. We splashed each other, laughing, the sound echoing between the trees.
And then I saw him.
A man stood on the opposite bank, partially hidden by the trees. He was tall and thin, his clothes worn and dirty. His hair was unkempt, hanging in greasy strands around his face. And he was holding a rifle.
My stomach twisted. Something about him felt wrong. The way he stood there, silent. The way his eyes locked onto us, unblinking. I nudged Rebecca.
She followed my gaze and frowned. “Probably just a hunter,” she murmured. “Let’s ignore him.”
But I couldn’t ignore him. His presence felt intrusive, unnatural, like he didn’t belong there. He muttered something about looking for his dog, but his voice was low, strange. He lingered a moment longer before turning and disappearing into the trees.
Even after he was gone, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. The air felt heavier. The trees, which had seemed comforting just moments ago, now felt like they were closing in.
I exhaled sharply. “I don’t like this.”
Rebecca studied me, then nodded. “Let’s move. Just to be safe.”
We packed up and hiked another mile, pushing deeper into the woods. Finally, we found another clearing, this one surrounded by tall trees with a small waterfall nearby. It felt hidden, protected. Better.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, we built a fire. The flames crackled, sending up occasional sparks that danced against the darkening sky. The smell of smoke mixed with the scent of our dinner—hot dogs and canned beans, simple but comforting.
Rebecca nudged me. “Remember our first hike together?”
I grinned. “How could I forget? You tripped on a root and twisted your ankle.”
“And you had to carry me all the way back,” she teased.
“You kept demanding snacks the whole way.”
She laughed, leaning in to kiss me. Her lips were warm against the cool night air. For a little while, I forgot about the man, about the unease gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. It was just us, the fire, and the sound of water trickling over rocks.
Night settled in fast. We doused the fire, crawled into the tent, and curled up together. The forest had a rhythm of its own at night. The chirping of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the breeze. It was soothing, a lullaby of the wild.
At some point, I drifted into sleep.
Then I woke up.
Something was off. The air felt different—tense. Then I heard it.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Leaves crunching under careful steps.
My pulse pounded.
I squeezed Rebecca’s hand. “Do you hear that?” I whispered.
She was already awake. Her eyes met mine in the dark. “Shh.”
We held our breath, listening. The footsteps stopped. Silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. Maybe it was an animal. Maybe—
BANG!
A gunshot split the night.
The tent shuddered as bullets tore through fabric. Fire burned through my arm, my neck. Blood sprayed across my skin, hot and sticky.
I heard Rebecca gasp, then go silent.
I turned, reaching for her. “Rebecca—”
She wasn’t moving.
A dark stain spread across her temple, her body slack, her breathing gone.
The tent flap ripped open.
He was there.
Stephen Roy Carr.
His face was twisted with rage, his rifle still aimed. His voice was full of hate. “You’re unnatural.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Pain pulsed through me, my arm shattered, my neck wet with blood. I was waiting for him to finish it.
But he didn’t.
He just spat on the ground and walked away, vanishing into the trees.
I lay there, shaking. Rebecca’s hand was still in mine, but it was cold now. The forest, once alive with sound, had gone deathly silent.
Time lost meaning. I drifted in and out, pain blurring the edges of everything. The night stretched on forever.
Then—voices.
“Help… please…” My own voice sounded distant.
A group of hikers rushed toward me. Someone gasped. A woman knelt beside me, pressing her hands to my wounds. “Hang on. Stay with me.”
Sirens. Flashing lights. Hands lifting me. The cool rush of air as a helicopter carried me away.
At the hospital, they told me I had been shot five times. My arm was shattered. The bullet in my neck had missed a major artery by mere millimeters. I had survived.
Rebecca hadn’t.
Later, I learned that Carr had been living in a cave nearby. He had watched us that day at the stream, seething with hatred. He believed we didn’t deserve to live.
He was caught. He confessed. At the trial, I sat there, scars still fresh, listening to him say it again.
“They were unnatural.”
The forest used to be my sanctuary. Now, every shadow, every footstep in the dark, sends me back to that night.
I carry scars on my skin. And scars no one can see.
I started a foundation in Rebecca’s name. Wrote a book, Eight Bullets, trying to turn the pain into something meaningful.
But some nights, I still wake up in the dark, heart pounding, ears straining for the sound of footsteps.
And in those moments, I feel her hand in mine. Cold. Still. Gone.