"The Summer of Fear":
Back in the summer of ’97, when I was just a teenager, my friends and I set out on what we thought would be our last grand adventure together before college sent us all in different directions. It wasn’t just about camping—it was about clinging to those last few moments of true, reckless freedom before the real world came knocking. We wanted something real, something to remember, something that would stick with us long after we left home. So, we chose Yellowwood State Forest.
Yellowwood was the perfect place—vast, untouched, a place where civilization seemed to disappear, swallowed up by towering trees and thick undergrowth. It was beautiful, but it had its fair share of strange stories. Campfire legends told of hikers who wandered off the trails and never came back, of strange lights moving through the trees at night, of whispers carried on the wind when no one else was around. But we weren’t superstitious, and besides, we wanted an adventure, not a tame vacation at some overcrowded park with RVs and picnic tables.
The first day was perfect. We found a spot near a lake, a small clearing just big enough for our tents, with soft ground and a breathtaking view of the water. The lake was so still it looked like glass, reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun. It was the kind of place you’d see in a postcard, so peaceful and untouched that it was hard to believe anything bad could ever happen there. We set up our tents, built a fire, and cooked dinner as the sky darkened above us. The air smelled like pine and smoke, and we felt invincible, like the world belonged to us.
As the night settled in, we sat around the fire, talking about everything and nothing, about the future, about what we’d miss about home, about stupid high school memories we swore we’d never forget. We stayed up late, watching the stars, laughing, feeling like nothing could touch us. That was when we heard the voice.
At first, it was faint, almost blending into the wind and the rustling leaves. But then it came again, clearer this time. A man’s voice, raspy, urgent.
"Turn back now."
The laughter died instantly. We looked at each other, waiting to see if anyone else had heard it. No one spoke. The fire crackled, filling the silence.
Then it came again. Closer. "Turn back now."
Jake, always the bravest, stood up and grabbed a flashlight. "Did you guys hear that?"
We all had. But none of us wanted to be the first to admit that something felt wrong. Logic told us it was probably another camper messing around, maybe some local trying to scare off city kids. But something about the voice—it wasn’t playful. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d hear as a joke.
Curiosity got the better of us. Against our better judgment, we grabbed our lights and followed the voice into the woods. The deeper we went, the quieter everything became. No crickets, no wind, just the sound of our own footsteps crunching through the underbrush. The trees seemed taller, closer together, like they were leaning in, listening.
And then we saw him.
He stood just at the edge of the light, wearing a park ranger’s uniform. At least, it looked like one. His hat was pulled low over his face, casting it in shadow, but when he shifted slightly, the moonlight caught his eyes. Something about them made my stomach twist. They were too wide, too alert, like an animal that’s been cornered.
"Who are you kids?" His voice was rough, slightly slurred.
"We’re just camping, sir," Jake said, his confidence still intact. "Is everything okay?"
The ranger took a step closer, and that’s when the smell hit us. Alcohol, thick and sour. Sweat. Something else, something I couldn’t name but made my skin crawl.
"You shouldn’t be here," he muttered. "Not safe."
My mouth felt dry. "Why?"
He looked around, as if he was afraid someone else was listening. Then he leaned in just slightly and whispered, "There are things in these woods. Not animals. Men. Sick men."
A cold chill ran through me. I wanted to ask more, but before we could, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the trees as quickly as he had appeared.
We stood there, unsure of what to do. There was something about the way he had spoken, the way his eyes had darted around like he was afraid of being overheard, that made my stomach twist. He was drunk, sure, but there was something real in his voice. He had been afraid.
We turned back toward camp, trying to shake off the unease, but the night had changed. The trees seemed taller, the darkness heavier. The trails blurred together, looking less familiar. By the time we finally found our way back, the relief was short-lived.
Our camp had been destroyed.
Our tent was slashed open. Our backpacks had been emptied, their contents strewn across the dirt. Food was trampled into the ground, and one of our sleeping bags was missing entirely.
Someone had been here.
Fear settled over us, thick and suffocating. We scrambled to gather what we could, the panic making our hands clumsy. That was when we heard them.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Not coming from the direction of the lake, but from the trees behind us.
We barely had time to react before two men stepped into the dying glow of our fire. They weren’t rangers. They weren’t campers. Their clothes were dirty, mismatched, their eyes dark and unreadable. One of them had a long, greasy beard. The other was stockier, his face twisted in a grin that made my skin crawl.
"Look at this," the bearded one muttered, nudging a torn backpack with his foot. "They must’ve run off."
"Or they’re hiding," the stocky one chuckled.
We were crouched behind the brush, no more than a few feet away, our hearts pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. My breath was shallow, my body locked in place.
"They won’t get far," the bearded man said.
They lingered, talking in low voices about traps they had set, about "scaring off" other campers, about the people who had gone missing from the area. The way they spoke—it wasn’t just about messing with people. It was something worse.
When they finally left, we didn’t wait. We ran.
We didn’t stop until we reached the ranger station, lungs burning, legs shaking. The ranger on duty wasn’t the man we had seen before. He was different—clean-shaven, alert, concerned when we told him what had happened.
He listened carefully, his face growing more serious with every word. When we described the two men, his expression darkened.
"We’ve had problems with them before," he admitted. "Locals. They like to… scare campers. Sometimes more."
That "more" hung in the air like a stone sinking in water.
The police were called. They found the men, eventually. Turns out, they had been terrorizing campers for years. Reports of theft, of stalking. Of assaults. And in one case, a girl who had never been found.
That summer, we thought we’d be telling ghost stories around the fire, trying to spook each other with tales of the supernatural. But we learned something far worse.
Real horror doesn’t wear fangs or claws. It doesn’t lurk in the shadows with glowing red eyes.
Sometimes, it wears a smile. Sometimes, it walks on two feet, waiting in the dark, just beyond the firelight.
"Black Hollow Park":
The summer of ’95 was supposed to be about adventure. A break from the dull routine of school, TV, and riding bikes around the same few blocks in our quiet neighborhood. My parents had been talking about this trip for months—two weeks in the Rockies, camping, hiking, fishing. A full escape into nature, away from phones and responsibilities.
I was just a kid, maybe ten or eleven, old enough to feel excitement but not old enough to understand the danger that can lurk in the most unexpected places.
The drive to Black Hollow Park took nearly a day. The last stretch of road twisted through thick forests, the kind where the trees grow so tall and dense that even in the daylight, there are patches of shadow. The deeper we got into the wilderness, the more I started to feel something… not exactly fear, but unease. Like we were driving into a place that didn’t entirely belong to us.
Our campsite was near a lake, one of those crystal-clear ones where the water reflects the sky so perfectly that at night, it looks like you’re staring into the universe itself. The air smelled like pine and damp earth, and even in July, there was a chill that settled in after sunset.
We spent the first day setting up camp—pitching the tent, collecting firewood, unpacking food. My dad was the type who liked to do everything by the book, double-checking the food storage, making sure our supplies were secure in the bear-proof containers provided at each site.
We settled around the fire as night fell, the flames crackling and popping as we roasted marshmallows. I remember staring into the dark trees, feeling small under that vast, starry sky. That’s when he appeared.
A man stepped out of the forest, just beyond the reach of the fire’s glow. At first, my dad tensed—out here, miles from civilization, unannounced visitors weren’t exactly common. But then, as the firelight touched his uniform, we realized he was a park ranger.
He was tall and lanky, with a sharp face and wide, unblinking eyes. His uniform was neat, pressed even, but something about him felt… wrong. It wasn’t just his posture, slightly hunched like he was uncomfortable in his own skin, or the way he kept looking around, scanning the shadows between the trees. It was his eyes—too wide, too alert.
He introduced himself as Ranger Mark, though his voice trembled slightly when he spoke.
"Evening, folks," he said, his gaze flickering from me to my parents. "Just doing my rounds, checking in. You all know the rules here, right?"
My dad nodded. "Yes, sir. Got the pamphlet at the entrance."
Mark hesitated. "Good. Good." Then, after a pause, he added, "Make sure your food is locked up tight. We’ve had… incidents with wildlife."
That wasn’t unusual. Everyone knew the importance of keeping food secure in bear country. But then he added something that sent a chill down my spine.
"And keep your eyes open. Not just for animals."
He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain. Just tipped his hat and walked off into the trees, swallowed up by the darkness within seconds.
My mom turned to my dad, her face pale. "What was that supposed to mean?"
Dad forced a small laugh, but I could tell he didn’t like it either. "Probably just wants people to be careful," he said. "Don’t worry about it."
But we did.
The next morning started off normal enough—breakfast cooked over the fire, my dad and I skipping rocks across the lake while my mom read a book in her camping chair. We had almost forgotten about Ranger Mark’s eerie warning.
Then we heard shouting from another campsite.
We hurried over and saw another ranger—this one younger, more built, like he’d served in the military. His name tag read Jim. He was furious, yelling at a family—a man, woman, and two teenage boys.
"You didn’t lock up your food!" he snapped, hands on his hips.
"We did!" the father protested. "We made sure last night!"
But when they checked, the bear box was wide open. Their food was gone. No claw marks, no scratches, no signs of an animal breaking in. Just… open.
Ranger Jim exhaled, running a hand over his face. "You don’t get it," he muttered. "You can’t be careless here."
The way he said it—it wasn’t just about wildlife.
That night, my dad didn’t sleep. He didn’t say it, but I knew he was uneasy. He sat by the fire long after my mom and I crawled into the tent. I could hear him shifting in his chair, poking the fire, listening.
Then, around midnight, I woke up to the sound of rustling. Soft footsteps on pine needles.
I held my breath as my dad unzipped the tent just enough to peek out.
Then, suddenly, he grabbed his flashlight and flicked it on.
The beam landed on two figures standing just beyond the fire.
One of them was Ranger Mark.
The other was a man in dark clothing, slightly shorter, his face obscured by shadows. Both of them were holding something—small bags. Our bags. Our food.
"HEY!" my dad shouted, leaping to his feet.
For a moment, the figures just froze. Then, as if suddenly remembering they’d been caught, they turned and bolted into the trees. My dad grabbed his flashlight and took off after them, but they were fast—too fast. Within seconds, they had disappeared into the night.
When my dad came back, his face was pale.
"We’re leaving," he said. "First thing in the morning."
At dawn, as we were hurriedly packing, Ranger Jim showed up. His face looked even more strained than before, dark circles under his eyes.
"You saw them, didn’t you?" he asked.
My dad hesitated. "Who are they?"
Jim exhaled. "They’ve been out here for years. At first, just little things—stealing food, scaring campers. But then… people started disappearing."
I felt my stomach turn.
"They watch, they wait," Jim continued. "And sometimes, people don’t come back from their hikes."
We left immediately.
Years later, I heard the full story on a true crime podcast.
Two rogue rangers had been caught in that park. Mark and another man whose name was never released. They had been stalking campers, watching them, breaking into their supplies to make it look like animals were responsible.
But it had escalated.
One camper had been found badly injured, claiming he had been lured into the woods. That led to an investigation—one that uncovered years of disappearances connected to those two men.
Some were robbed. Some were just never found.
That summer, I learned something terrifying.
The real monsters don’t have glowing eyes or sharp claws.
Sometimes, they wear badges. And they smile like they’re there to protect you.
"Yosemite Night":
That night in 1985 still lingers in my mind like a ghost that refuses to fade. The cold bite of the mountain air, the way the trees swallowed the moonlight, the distant, rhythmic rush of the Merced River—it all felt so serene at first. My best friend, Mike, and I had set out from Fresno that morning, eager to escape the oppressive heat of the city. We were young, invincible, and ready for a weekend of camping, just the two of us, surrounded by the vast, untouched wilderness of Yosemite National Park.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder if we had noticed the signs earlier—if we had listened to that gnawing instinct that something was wrong—maybe we would’ve turned around before it was too late.
We arrived at our chosen campsite in the late afternoon, our truck rattling over the dirt path as we followed the winding road deeper into the woods. The spot was perfect, tucked away near the river but not too far from the main trails. It felt remote enough to be an escape, yet still within reach of civilization if we needed it.
The moment we stepped out of the truck, the scent of pine filled our lungs, fresh and crisp, mingling with the earthy undertones of damp soil. The golden sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows over the ground. Mike and I wasted no time setting up camp, pitching the tent near a large oak tree and gathering firewood for the night ahead.
By the time we got the fire going, the sun had started its slow descent beyond the towering peaks. The sky was a blend of deep oranges and purples, a breathtaking display of nature’s quiet beauty. We sat back in our fold-out chairs, sipping cheap beer and listening to the soothing sounds of the river. For the first time in weeks, I felt completely at ease.
And then, they arrived.
Two park rangers walked into our campsite without a word of greeting. Their presence was abrupt, almost unnatural, as if they had materialized from the shadows of the trees themselves.
The first one was tall and wiry, his uniform neat, his posture stiff. His face was sharp, angular, with deep-set eyes that held no warmth. The second man was shorter, stockier, his round face partially hidden beneath the brim of his ranger hat. But it wasn’t their appearances that unsettled me—it was the way they looked at us.
Their gazes weren’t casual, weren’t the kind of routine inspection you’d expect from park officials. They studied us, scrutinized us, as if trying to determine something.
"Good evening, gentlemen," the tall one finally said, his voice flat and devoid of friendliness. "You boys aware of the wildlife out here?"
Mike and I exchanged a glance before I nodded. "Yeah, we’ve camped before. Got our food in the bear locker and everything."
The second ranger tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into something that might’ve been a smirk—or a sneer. "Good," he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added, "Some campers don’t come back."
Mike let out a nervous chuckle. "Uh, that supposed to be a joke?"
The two rangers didn’t answer. They just stood there for another few seconds, their eyes still on us, before turning and walking away. The firelight flickered against their backs as they disappeared into the forest, swallowed by the darkness.
For a long moment, neither Mike nor I spoke. There was something about the encounter that felt... wrong.
"That was weird," Mike muttered, poking at the fire with a stick. "They could’ve at least cracked a smile or something."
I forced a laugh. "Maybe they take their jobs too seriously."
"Or maybe they’re just messing with us," he suggested. "Trying to freak us out for fun."
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
But something about the way the second ranger had spoken, the way he had said those words—some campers don’t come back—didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a warning.
As the night wore on, we tried to shake off the encounter. We roasted hot dogs over the fire, cracked a few more beers, and talked about everything from college to old girlfriends to where we saw ourselves in ten years. For a while, it felt normal again.
Then, just as we were about to turn in for the night, we heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft, measured, crunching over the dried leaves just beyond the firelight’s reach.
Mike froze, his beer halfway to his lips. "You hear that?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"Probably just an animal," he muttered, but his voice wavered.
And then, out of the darkness, a sudden beam of light flashed in our faces, blinding us.
I threw up a hand, squinting against the glare. "What the hell—?"
The light shifted slightly, revealing a silhouette.
It was the shorter ranger from before.
"You left your trash out," he said, his tone eerily neutral. "Bears will come if you’re not careful."
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. "We were just about to clean up."
For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t respond. He just stood there, his flashlight trained on us, his face a dark mask in the glow.
Then, finally, he turned and walked away. The light bobbed with his steps, disappearing into the trees.
Mike let out a shaky breath. "Okay, that was definitely weird."
I couldn’t argue. My stomach was twisted in knots.
We cleaned up quickly, packed away every scrap of food, every stray wrapper, and made sure the bear locker was tightly sealed. Then, still on edge, we crawled into the tent.
But sleep didn’t come easy.
Every sound outside had me on high alert—the rustle of the wind through the branches, the distant hoot of an owl, the occasional creak of the trees.
And then, around midnight, I heard it again.
Voices.
Low. Whispering. Just outside our tent.
"Think they’re asleep?"
A pause.
"Doesn’t matter," came the reply. "We do this quick."
My blood turned to ice.
I turned my head slightly, locking eyes with Mike. He was already awake, his face pale in the dim moonlight filtering through the tent fabric.
He mouthed one word: Run.
Slowly, carefully, we unzipped the tent just enough to peek out.
And what I saw made my breath catch in my throat.
The two rangers stood near our campsite. One of them was holding a shovel.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
We didn’t wait.
As quietly as we could, we slipped out the back of the tent and into the forest. The cold night air stung my face as we ran, our boots barely making a sound on the soft earth.
Behind us, I heard movement.
"They’re gone," one of the voices hissed. "Find them."
Terror surged through me, and we ran harder.
The forest blurred around us as we sprinted for our lives, weaving between trees, ducking under low-hanging branches. I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare.
When we finally saw the faint glow of the ranger station up ahead, a wave of relief nearly made me collapse.
We burst through the door, gasping, shaking, barely able to get the words out.
The ranger on duty listened, his expression growing more serious with every word.
By dawn, the two men were caught.
They weren’t rangers at all.
They were killers.