"The Unknown Caller":
I sell cosmetics online—lipsticks, serums, skincare products, that sort of thing. It’s a small but growing business, and like any online seller, I occasionally deal with customer complaints and refund requests.
One evening, while I was wrapping up my work for the night, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
"You sent me the wrong products, and I am not happy about it."
I checked my records, but there was no order linked to that number. Maybe they had ordered under a different name, or maybe this was some kind of scam. Either way, I responded with my usual customer service approach:
"Okay, send me the products back, and I’ll refund you."
No response. Hours passed, then days. The person never replied. I figured they either got bored or realized they had the wrong seller. Eventually, I forgot about it.
Months later, I decided to take a break from work and go on a much-needed camping trip. I had always loved the idea of escaping into the wild, away from notifications, emails, and the constant hum of daily responsibilities.
I packed my truck with supplies—food, water, camping gear, and a brand-new teepee-style tent I had ordered online. I wanted something roomy and sturdy, and this one seemed perfect. My plan was simple: drive far enough to be surrounded by nothing but nature, set up camp, and let the world fade away for a little while.
That evening, after hours of driving, I found a remote spot that seemed ideal. It was tucked away in a valley, far from the nearest highway, with no artificial lights to compete with the stars. The air was crisp and still, carrying the scent of pine and dry earth.
I could see another campsite in the distance, but it was far enough away that I could barely make out the shape of their vehicle. I liked the solitude. It was exactly what I had hoped for.
As night fell, I built a small fire, cooked a quick meal, and enjoyed the quiet. The sky above me was a vast, glittering expanse, untouched by city lights. It was the kind of peacefulness I had been craving for months.
Eventually, I climbed into my tent, zipped the entrance shut, and settled onto my cot. The fabric of the tent rustled slightly in the breeze, but other than that, everything was perfectly still.
Then, at some point in the middle of the night, I woke up.
At first, I didn’t know why. My body was tense, my breath shallow. I listened.
A faint, dragging sound brushed against the fabric of my tent.
It was slow, methodical, like fingertips running along the surface. My pulse quickened. I stayed perfectly still, ears straining in the silence.
The sound circled my tent.
I tried to convince myself it was the wind, but the movement was too deliberate, too steady. It didn’t stop. It kept going, moving around me, slow and unhurried.
Then came the whisper.
It was so soft I almost thought I imagined it. A hushed, unintelligible voice just beyond the thin walls of my tent.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe evenly. I didn’t want to make a sound.
The whispering continued, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was almost as if someone was talking to themselves just outside my tent.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sounds stopped.
Silence.
I waited, counting the seconds, then the minutes. Nothing. The night stretched on, heavy and still.
Just as I started convincing myself it had been my imagination—
The tent collapsed.
Something struck the central support pole, sending the whole structure crumpling in on itself. The fabric pressed down against me, trapping me in a tangle of nylon and mesh.
Panic surged through me. I clawed at the entrance zipper, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. As soon as I forced the flap open, I bolted.
I sprinted to my truck, my only thought being to get inside and lock the doors.
The moment I was inside, I slammed the lock down, breath coming in ragged gasps. I reached for my firearm, gripping it tightly, my eyes scanning the darkness outside.
Nothing moved.
I stayed like that for the rest of the night, my body rigid with tension, barely daring to blink. The fire had died down to embers, leaving the night even darker. The hours crawled by. Every shadow, every gust of wind sent another spike of adrenaline through me.
Finally, as the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon, I forced myself to move.
Cautiously, I stepped out of the truck. My tent was still partially collapsed, one of the poles snapped in half. But that wasn’t what made my stomach turn.
Footprints.
Dozens of them, circling my tent in loops.
They weren’t mine.
I bent down, examining them closer. They were smaller than my own boots. Narrow, pointed. Whoever had been out here had been wearing cowboy boots.
I scanned the area, but the footprints trailed off into the valley, disappearing into the landscape.
A sinking feeling crept over me as I pulled out my phone.
One new message.
"How do you like that?"
It was from the same unknown number.
I stared at the screen, my hands feeling suddenly ice-cold.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some wandering stranger. Someone had been watching me. Waiting. And somehow, they knew exactly where I was.
I didn’t waste another second. I packed up my things as fast as I could, tossing my collapsed tent and gear into the truck bed without bothering to organize anything. My only thought was to get the hell out of there.
I drove for hours, barely stopping, barely looking back.
To this day, I don’t know who it was. I don’t know how they found me or why they chose to mess with me that night.
I never went back to that area.
And I never forgot the feeling of lying there in the dark, listening to someone whisper just beyond the thin fabric of my tent.
"Unwanted Guests":
The forest was quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of my boots against the dirt path. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, the coolness of the night settling into my skin. It had been a long but fulfilling day—hours of hiking, exploring, and just soaking in the solitude of nature. The kind of trip I had been craving for months.
I had chosen this campsite carefully—Campsite 42. It was tucked away, just far enough from the other campers to feel truly alone but not so remote that I was completely cut off. Perfect for a solo camping trip. I had spent the last two days here, and by now, it felt like my space. My tent, my little fire pit, my chair placed just the way I liked it.
But as I stepped into the clearing, my stomach dropped.
Something was wrong.
A second tent loomed in the firelight—large, dark-colored, not mine.
Two men stood near the picnic table, their figures partially illuminated by a flickering lantern. Tools were scattered around them. A shovel leaned against the bench. A hatchet glinted in the dim light. Bags, coolers, and plastic containers covered the table—far more supplies than anyone would need for just a night or two.
I froze, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Who were they?
Why were they in my campsite?
My tent was still there, my chair still set up, my gear untouched—meaning they had knowingly moved in while my things were right in front of them.
A chill ran down my spine.
I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Hey—this is my campsite. I’ve been here for two days."
Both men turned to look at me.
The one closest to the table was older—mid-forties, maybe. Broad shoulders, thick beard, sharp eyes that studied me without a hint of surprise. The other was leaner, younger, late thirties with an angular face and restless energy, shifting from foot to foot.
They didn't look confused.
They didn't look apologetic.
They just... stared.
Finally, the older one spoke, his voice slow and deliberate. "Didn’t see your stuff when we got here."
I glanced at my tent, my gear—all of it clearly visible. My registration permit was still clipped to the campsite post, just like it was supposed to be.
I shook my head. "No, my stuff was here. My permit is right there. You had to have seen it."
The younger man shifted again, eyes flicking toward his companion.
A tense silence hung between us.
I gripped my flashlight tighter. "Look, this is a national park campsite. These spots are reserved. You need to move to a different site."
The older man let out a slow breath. "We just figured we’d stay here tonight."
My heart pounded.
There was something off about the way he said it. Not a request. Not a misunderstanding.
A statement.
Like he expected me to back down.
I swallowed hard. "No. You can’t stay here. This is my site."
Another beat of silence.
Then, finally—reluctantly—they started gathering their things.
They didn’t rush. They didn’t apologize.
They moved deliberately slow, shoving items into bags, rolling up their tent with an air of irritation, making sure I felt how inconvenient this was for them.
I didn’t turn my back on them. Not for a second. My instincts screamed at me to stay alert.
Something about them—their silence, their movements, the way they had spread their gear out across my space—unsettled me to my core.
I backed toward my car, keeping them in my sight, one hand resting near my pocket where my phone was. My keys jingled in my other hand.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they finished packing up.
But as they passed by my car, just before disappearing into the darkness, the younger one whipped his head toward me—and yelled the C-word.
The word no woman ever wants to hear.
Spat with venom, cutting through the quiet night air.
I flinched but held my ground, refusing to let them see my fear.
Then they were gone. The forest swallowed them up, their footsteps fading into the distance.
But I didn’t feel safe.
I climbed into my car, locking the doors, my breath coming fast and shallow. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone.
I needed to report this.
The campground host’s site wasn’t far, maybe a two-minute walk, but in that moment, it felt like miles. I forced myself to step out of the car, flashlight in hand, and head toward the host’s RV.
When I knocked on the door, an older man with graying hair and a weathered face answered. His expression shifted to concern as I told him what had happened.
"You did the right thing coming here," he said, reaching for his radio. "Let’s get the ranger involved."
Within ten minutes, a park ranger arrived—a tall, serious man with a no-nonsense demeanor. His uniform was crisp even in the dim lantern light. He listened intently as I described the men, their supplies, the shovels, the hatchet, the way they acted like they belonged there.
The way they didn’t want to leave.
The ranger’s expression darkened. "That’s not something we take lightly."
He flipped open his notebook, scribbling details as I spoke. "We’ll patrol the area tonight. If you hear or see anything—anything—call this number immediately." He handed me a card with the park’s emergency contact line.
I thanked him, but my stomach was still in knots as I made my way back to my site.
The fire had burned down to embers, casting flickering shadows against the trees. My tent stood there, untouched, but suddenly it didn’t feel safe anymore.
I debated sleeping in my car.
Instead, I locked everything down—double-checking the zippers on my tent, keeping my flashlight within reach, my phone fully charged beside me. I listened. Every snap of a twig, every rustling leaf sent a fresh wave of tension through me.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
And when the sun finally rose, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.
The men never came back.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that they had never planned on leaving—until I made them.
"Into the Silence":
The forest was quiet, the kind of deep, untouched silence that only existed far from civilization. A gentle breeze rustled through the pines, carrying the crisp scent of sap and earth. The fire had burned down to little more than glowing embers, casting a faint orange glow over the campsite.
The tent was nestled between the trees, perfectly positioned to keep out the wind while offering just enough of an opening to see the stars overhead. The sleeping bags were laid out, and the dogs were curled up close, their slow, rhythmic breathing blending with the soft hum of the night.
There was no one else in sight. At least, not directly.
Earlier that evening, distant figures had moved between the trees. Another group had set up camp not far away, but they hadn’t approached. There were two separate groups—one made up of a pair of friends, the other a family, speaking in a language that wasn’t quite familiar. They’d kept to themselves, their voices barely audible through the thick brush that separated the camps.
The night had been calm. Peaceful.
Then the yelling started.
At first, it was just a single voice, raised in frustration. Maybe it wasn’t even an argument, just someone venting. But within minutes, it became clear that this wasn’t just a disagreement—it was something worse.
Another voice, louder. More forceful.
Then a third, urgent, pleading. A woman trying to de-escalate, but failing.
The words weren’t clear, but the tone said everything. Something about respect. Something about someone not backing down. Something about things going too far.
There was movement—quick, aggressive. Sticks snapping underfoot, leaves crunching.
A metallic sound. A scrape.
Then, a voice dripping with anger.
"You wanna do this? Let’s do this!"
A breath of silence.
Then the pounding of footsteps. Someone was running.
A surge of adrenaline hit hard, muscles locking in place. The dogs, sensing the shift in energy, let out a low growl. A firm hand pressed against their collars, willing them to stay still. Every instinct screamed to not move.
Then, gunfire.
The first shot rang out, echoing through the trees. A second later, another. Then another.
At least a dozen.
Each one a deafening crack in the stillness of the night.
A rush of fear, cold and sharp, washed over everything. Every breath felt too loud, every rustle of fabric against skin unbearable. The ground felt unsteady beneath the weight of the moment.
Then—silence.
A heavy, unnatural silence that stretched for what felt like forever.
Finally, a voice.
“Put it down.”
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
A small opening in the tent flap offered a narrow view of the clearing. Two figures stood near the dim glow of a lantern. One of them was holding something metallic, the shape unmistakable.
A gun.
In the other hand, something longer. Heavier.
A machete.
The other person stood rigid, their chest rising and falling too fast. Their hands were clenched into fists. Their friend hovered nearby, their posture tense, uncertain whether to move closer or back away.
The moment stretched.
One of them took a step forward.
“I’ll go,” they said, their voice shaking slightly. “Just—give it back.”
A bitter laugh.
“No.”
The tension snapped.
The one with the gun moved first, stepping forward too fast, too suddenly.
A blur of motion. A sharp crack rang out.
The other person collapsed.
The friend gasped, a sharp, startled sound. Their body tensed, but for a moment, they didn’t move.
Then they ran.
The sound of frantic footsteps. A car door slamming open. The engine stuttered, roared to life.
Headlights cut through the trees, illuminating the motionless body sprawled in the dirt.
The friend didn’t hesitate. They reached down, grabbed their unconscious companion by the arms, and heaved them into the passenger seat. The body slumped awkwardly, legs still dangling out when the car lurched forward.
The door slammed shut, tires spinning in the loose gravel.
And then—they were gone.
The night fell silent once more.
The fire at the other campsite flickered weakly, barely clinging to life. No voices. No movement.
Then, softly—
“What now?”
A pause.
“Nothing.”
A figure turned, stepping back toward the shadows of their tent.
By morning, the campsite was gone.
No sign that anything had ever happened.
"The Trail":
My buddy, Jake, and I decided to hit the trails near the old logging paths, a place where the trees grew so thick you could barely see the sky. It was the kind of wilderness where nature swallowed the world whole—no city noise, no streetlights, just the whispers of the wind through the towering pines. We thought it would be a perfect escape, a chance to breathe fresh air, stretch our legs, and maybe even catch some fish in the nearby streams.
We set out early, our packs heavy with supplies—probably more than we needed. But Jake always said it was better to be over-prepared than caught without something crucial. The first stretch of the trail was easy, well-trodden, with clear signs of hikers who had come before us. But soon, civilization faded behind us. The trail narrowed, the air thickened with the scent of damp earth and pine needles, and the sounds of birds and rustling leaves replaced the distant hum of cars.
"You sure this is the right way?" I asked, adjusting my pack. My breath formed little clouds in the crisp morning air.
Jake, always the confident one, nodded without hesitation. "Yeah, it's just up ahead, remember? The old campsite by the river bend."
Hours passed as we walked deeper into the wilderness. Our footsteps crunched against the forest floor, twigs snapping beneath our boots. Occasionally, we’d pause to take a drink or listen to the sounds of the woods, but there was something... off. It was too quiet. The usual chatter of birds seemed muted, and the wind barely stirred the branches overhead.
Then, we saw it.
A piece of bright, torn fabric fluttering from a low-hanging branch.
Jake reached out and pulled it free, holding it up to the dim light filtering through the trees. It wasn’t just any fabric. It was a piece of a small shirt, the kind a child might wear. A faded cartoon character grinned from the tattered cloth, its once-vivid colors dulled by time and exposure.
"Looks like someone else had the same idea," Jake remarked, though his voice lacked its usual certainty.
A chill crawled up my spine, but not from the cold. Something about this felt wrong. Too deliberate.
"Let's keep moving," I muttered, tucking the fabric into my pocket.
The mood had shifted. Every rustling leaf, every snapping twig made us flinch. We pressed on, keeping our voices low, our eyes scanning the trees as if expecting something—or someone—to emerge from the shadows.
Then we heard it.
A faint, distant cry. High-pitched. Weak.
Like a child calling for help.
Jake and I froze, exchanging a look.
"Could be an echo," Jake whispered, though I could hear the doubt in his voice.
"Or it could be real," I countered.
We had no choice but to find out. Veering off the main trail, we pushed through the undergrowth, branches clawing at our clothes, the uneven ground threatening to trip us with every step. The cry grew louder, more desperate. My pulse pounded in my ears.
And then we found it.
A small clearing, littered with signs of a makeshift camp. Old, damp blankets lay in tangled heaps. Empty cans and plastic bottles were scattered around, half-buried in the dirt. But the thing that made my stomach clench was the small, empty child’s shoe lying near the remains of a fire pit.
"This isn’t right," I whispered, barely able to find my voice.
Jake’s face was pale. "We need to call for help."
Before we could reach for our phones, a rustling in the bushes made us both whirl around.
A man stumbled out, ragged and gaunt, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. He held a knife—not brandished as a weapon, but clutched in a shaking grip, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
"Stay back!" he hissed, his voice cracked and raw.
Jake raised his hands. "Hey, man, we don’t want trouble. We heard a kid—"
The man’s face crumpled, his body sagging as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him.
"He’s gone," he rasped. "They took him."
The story that unfolded was worse than anything we could have imagined.
He was a father, camping with his son for what was supposed to be a quiet weekend away. Then, in the dead of night, they were ambushed. Two men, strangers lurking in the woods, looking for easy targets. They took the boy and left the father behind, beaten, with nothing but his knife and the unbearable weight of his helplessness.
"We have to call the police," I said, urgency and fear twisting together in my gut.
The father nodded, but his haunted eyes never stopped scanning the trees. He looked like he expected his son to come running back at any moment.
We guided him back toward the trail, Jake leading the way, phone in hand, trying to find a signal. Every step felt like a race against time, every distant sound like a threat closing in. The moment we found a bar of service, Jake made the call.
The authorities arrived fast. The quiet woods were soon swarmed with search teams, their flashlights cutting through the shadows. Hours passed in a blur of tense waiting. And then, finally—
They found him.
Miles away, alone, scared, but alive.
The men who took him were caught not long after, but that part didn’t matter to us. What stuck with us was the feeling of being out there, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing firsthand how even the deepest, most peaceful woods could hide something terrible.
We never went back to those trails.
Some places, once you’ve seen what they can harbor, you leave them to the shadows.