"Lake Bodom":
My name is Nils, and I’ll never forget that night by Lake Bodom.
It was June 4, 1960, a perfect summer evening in Finland. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and the last golden light of the sun stretched across the sky, refusing to disappear completely. In the long northern twilight, the lake shimmered like glass, reflecting the fading daylight. It was the kind of night that made you feel young and invincible, as if nothing bad could ever happen.
The four of us—Maila, Anja, Seppo, and I—had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. We were all eighteen, full of plans for the future, eager for one last adventure before adulthood caught up to us. The idea had been simple: a night away from town, just us, no parents, no rules. We packed light—some sandwiches, a few beers, and a big green tent that barely fit all of us. Seppo, the most daring of us, had insisted on bringing his motorcycle, while Maila and Anja followed behind on their bicycles.
By the time we reached the campsite, the evening had settled into a quiet calm. The lake stretched out before us, dark and still, surrounded by towering trees that made it feel as if we had stepped into another world. Anja, ever the dreamer, twirled in the grass, taking in the beauty around her.
“Hey, guys, isn’t this place incredible?” she said, spinning to face us.
I dropped my backpack onto the ground and grinned. “Yeah. Let’s make it a night to remember.”
Maila laughed. “As long as Seppo doesn’t snore too loud!”
Seppo rolled his eyes and playfully tossed a small stick at her. “I don’t snore.”
“You definitely do,” I added, making everyone laugh.
The sun dipped lower as we set up camp. The tent was old, a hand-me-down from my uncle, and the fabric smelled musty from months in storage. Seppo and I struggled with the poles while the girls unrolled the sleeping bags. Eventually, we got it standing, even if it wasn’t the most stable-looking setup.
With the tent ready, we sat by the water, eating sandwiches and sipping beer. The lake reflected the last streaks of orange and purple in the sky. The air was warm, but a faint breeze rustled the trees, whispering through the branches.
We talked about everything—our futures, our dreams, even silly things like which one of us would get married first.
“I’m gonna travel the world,” Seppo declared, stretching his arms behind his head.
Maila smirked. “Sure you are. You’ll get lost before you even leave Finland.”
We all laughed, and Seppo pretended to be offended, but the truth was, we all knew he probably would.
Time slipped away as we talked and watched the stars begin to appear. Eventually, exhaustion set in. The excitement of the day, the fresh air, and the lull of the lake made us drowsy.
“Alright,” Anja yawned, stretching her arms. “I’m calling it a night.”
One by one, we crawled into the tent, squeezing into the cramped space. The fabric rustled as we settled in, the sound of crickets filling the night air. I closed my eyes, listening to the distant ripple of water against the shore.
For a while, everything was peaceful.
Then something woke me up.
At first, I wasn’t sure what it was. The air inside the tent was still, warm from our breath. My mind was groggy, caught between sleep and wakefulness. Then I heard it again—a faint rustling outside.
I held my breath, listening. Probably just an animal, I told myself. A fox or a bird moving through the underbrush. But then I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
I turned onto my side, my heart beginning to race. The sound wasn’t close—yet—but it was moving toward us.
Then the tent shook.
Not from the wind. Not from one of us shifting in our sleep. Something—or someone—had grabbed it.
I sat up, my breath caught in my throat. My first instinct was to tell myself it was just Seppo playing a prank. But Seppo was right next to me, still asleep.
Then, before I could react, the tent flap tore open.
A figure stood there, silhouetted against the dim light of early dawn. Tall. Cloaked in black. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but something about him—his presence, his stillness—sent a wave of cold through me.
His eyes.
They were red—or at least, they seemed to be. Maybe it was a trick of the light, maybe my half-asleep brain was playing tricks on me. But in that moment, they glowed, like embers in the dark.
I wanted to move, to wake the others, to do something. But fear held me frozen.
Then, suddenly, everything erupted into chaos.
There was shouting, scrambling. I felt a sharp pain as something struck my head, and the world spun. My vision blurred, and before I could process what was happening, darkness swallowed me.
When I came to, I was lying on the cold ground outside. The early morning sky was a washed-out gray, the world eerily silent. My head throbbed, my body heavy.
I forced myself up, my limbs shaking. Then I saw them.
Maila. Anja. Seppo.
They weren’t moving.
My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
But the silence told me otherwise.
I felt like I was moving in a dream as I stumbled away from the campsite. My legs barely carried me forward, every step a battle against exhaustion and shock. I didn’t know where I was going—only that I had to get away.
Then, in the distance, I saw them—two fishermen, walking along the shore.
I tried to call out, but my voice was weak. Somehow, they heard me. Their heads turned, their faces shifting from confusion to shock as they saw me.
One of them ran toward me, grabbing my arm as I swayed on my feet. “What happened?”
I could barely get the words out. “Someone… someone attacked us.”
The other man took off running toward the road, shouting for help.
The police came not long after. They wrapped me in a blanket, asked me questions. I told them everything—the figure in black, his red eyes, how everything happened so fast. They searched the area, but found nothing. No footprints. No weapon. No sign of the attacker.
The newspapers called it the Lake Bodom Murders.
Weeks passed. The whispers never stopped. Some people believed me. Others didn’t. They called it a mystery, a tragedy. But for me, it was something else. A nightmare that never ended.
Then, in 2004, they arrested me. Said maybe I had done it. That I had somehow been responsible. They claimed the evidence pointed to me, but there was never enough proof. I was released in 2005.
But even now, I still don’t have answers.
I still wake up at night, my jaw aching, my mind replaying that night over and over.
Who was he? Why us?
I’ll never know.
But I do know one thing.
He’s still out there.
"The Night She Disappeared":
My name’s Tom, and I was eight years old when it happened. It was my birthday—July 29, 1995—and everything felt perfect. The air smelled like sun-warmed grass, and the distant sound of waves crashing on the shore mixed with the laughter of my family. We lived in Llandudno, Wales, a seaside town where tourists filled the promenade in summer, eating ice cream and strolling along the Victorian pier. But that day, none of that mattered. My cousin Sophie had come to stay for the weekend, and that made everything better.
Sophie was seven, a year younger than me, with curly blonde hair that bounced when she laughed. She had this infectious energy, the kind that made you feel like anything was possible. My little sister, Ellie, was five, quieter than Sophie but just as eager to be included. The three of us spent the whole afternoon running barefoot through the garden, chasing bubbles and splashing in the inflatable pool Dad had set up. The sun was warm on our backs, and the air carried the scent of barbecued burgers and sunscreen. Mum kept saying, “Tom, you’re a big boy now!” and I’d puff out my chest, feeling every bit of my new age. I remember thinking life couldn’t get any better.
That evening, when the sky turned a soft purple and the air cooled, we begged to sleep outside in the tent. It wasn’t a grand adventure—just our backyard, a patch of grass bordered by a wooden fence with a bridle path running behind it. But to us, it was as exciting as exploring a jungle. The tent was blue and white striped, a Coleman one, with a zipper that always got stuck. Dad set it up near the apple tree, close enough to the house that Mum wouldn’t worry. “Alright,” he said, wagging a finger, “but no messing around.” We promised.
Just before we crawled into the tent, I saw something that made my stomach twist—a man on a bicycle, stopped on the bridle path just beyond our fence. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t adjusting his bike or drinking water like most cyclists would. He was just… watching. His dark hair was slicked back, his face long and pale, his eyes fixed on us through the gaps in the fence. A strange, studying sort of stare.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Sophie, nudging her arm.
She glanced over and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe he’s lost.”
Mum called us in for cake before I could think about it too much. The glow of candles, the taste of chocolate frosting, the sound of everyone singing—it was enough to push the man from my mind. I wish I hadn’t.
That night, as we huddled in our sleeping bags, the world felt small and safe. The tent smelled like plastic and fresh grass. Sophie wore pink pajamas covered in tiny hearts, and Ellie kept giggling about how we were “camping like explorers.” I made up stories about pirates and buried treasure until Ellie’s breathing slowed into soft snores.
“Tom,” Sophie whispered.
“Yeah?”
“This is the best birthday ever.”
I smiled in the dark. Outside, the wind rustled the apple tree, and the distant sound of the sea mixed with the occasional hoot of an owl. Everything felt peaceful.
At midnight, Grandma peeked into the tent, her silver hair messy from sleep. “You lot okay?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
She smiled, leaving the back door open just a crack. “Just in case you need the loo.”
I woke up at 2:30 AM. The glowing green numbers on my watch told me so. My bladder ached, so I unzipped the tent quietly, careful not to wake Sophie and Ellie. Sophie’s blonde hair was splayed across her pillow, her breaths slow and steady. Ellie clutched her teddy bear close. Everything seemed normal.
The grass was damp and cold against my bare feet as I tiptoed inside, the house silent except for the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen. After using the bathroom, I hurried back, shivering slightly in the cool night air. I crawled into my sleeping bag, zipped the tent back up, and fell asleep fast.
Morning came too soon. Birds chirped loudly, and sunlight filtered through the thin fabric of the tent. I rubbed my eyes, stretching. Ellie sat up, yawning and rubbing her nose.
But something was wrong.
Sophie’s sleeping bag was empty.
“Where’s Sophie?” I asked, my voice croaky with sleep.
Ellie blinked at me, still groggy. “Dunno. Maybe she went inside?”
I unzipped the tent and poked my head out. The garden was still. The apple tree stood silent, the bridle path beyond the fence empty. No Sophie.
A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. “Sophie?” I called. No answer.
Heart pounding, I ran inside, my feet cold on the kitchen tiles. “Mum! Sophie’s not in the tent!”
Mum, still in her robe, frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s gone!”
Dad came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. “She’s probably in the bathroom or something.”
We checked. The bathroom was empty. So was the living room, the cupboard under the stairs, even the space behind the sofa where Ellie liked to hide.
Grandma appeared at the top of the stairs, her face wrinkling with concern. “I saw her at midnight. She was fine.”
Mum’s face went pale. “Tom, did you hear anything last night?”
I shook my head. “No… I got up at 2:30, and she was still there, sleeping.”
Dad went outside. His voice was tense when he called back, “The fence. One of the boards is loose.”
Mum’s breath hitched. We all rushed to the garden. The wooden slat near the tent hung slightly open, like someone had pushed it aside. My skin went cold.
“Maybe she went for a walk?” Ellie suggested, but her voice was small, uncertain.
Mum grabbed the phone. The police arrived fast—two officers, their radios crackling. One was a woman with short brown hair. “What time did you last see her?” she asked.
“2:30 AM,” I said. “She was asleep.”
The other officer, a big man with a mustache, wrote things down. “Did you hear anything? Footsteps? Voices?”
“No,” I whispered.
Neighbors gathered, whispering. Then Mrs. Evans from next door said, “I saw a man on a bike yesterday, hanging around.”
Ice crept up my spine.
“I saw him too!” I blurted. “He was watching us before we went in the tent!”
Mum’s hands gripped my shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was sharp, scared.
“I didn’t think it mattered…”
By lunchtime, an officer returned. Her face was tight, unreadable. “We found her,” she said.
Mum gasped. “Is she okay?”
A heavy pause. Then— “I’m sorry.”
They found her on West Shore Beach, bruised, broken. The man who took her—Howard Hughes—had watched us, waited for the right moment. He slipped through the fence and took Sophie while we slept. He killed her down by the water.
A year later, I had to speak in court. “Did you see the man?” the lawyer asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Hughes sat there, staring at the floor. He got life in prison. But that didn’t bring Sophie back.
Now, when I hear a tent zipper, my hands sweat. I still see Sophie’s empty sleeping bag. I still wonder—why didn’t I say something sooner? Would it have changed anything?
The police say no. But I don’t know.
All I know is that night started with laughter. And ended with a nightmare.
"All I Could Do Was Run":
My name is Arlo. I’m nine years old—or at least, I was back then, when everything happened.
It was July. Hot, sticky, the kind of summer where the air hums with the sound of cicadas, and the breeze smells like dry grass and sunscreen. My family—Mom, Dad, my little sister Lula, and me—had been planning our camping trip to Maquoketa Caves State Park for weeks. We’d counted down the days, packed and repacked, made lists of things we wanted to do. Mom said we’d make s’mores and tell ghost stories. Dad promised to show us the caves, the hidden tunnels that twisted underground like a secret world. Lula, only six, kept giggling about sleeping in a tent. She thought it was the grandest adventure in the world.
I did too.
The drive to the campground felt endless. Lula kept kicking her feet against the back of my seat, humming off-key to the radio. I stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, tall and endless, their green so deep it looked almost black in the afternoon sun. Finally, we pulled in, the tires crunching over gravel.
“Here we are, campers!” Dad announced, shutting off the engine.
Our campsite was perfect. Nestled between towering oaks, with just enough space between us and the next group of campers to feel private. The air smelled of pine needles and distant campfire smoke. I helped Dad hammer the tent stakes into the dry earth, the thunk-thunk of metal against wood making me feel strong. The tent rose up, our little shelter under the open sky.
Inside, Mom spread out our sleeping bags—mine was blue, dotted with tiny white stars. Lula's was pink with unicorns. She flopped onto it immediately, rolling around and giggling as dust puffed up around her. I rolled my eyes.
“Lula, you’re gonna get it dirty before we even sleep in it.”
She just stuck her tongue out at me.
As the sun dipped lower, the woods changed. The bright, cheerful green of the leaves turned shadowy and mysterious. Crickets began their song, and fireflies flickered in the dark like tiny stars come to visit. We sat around the fire, our faces glowing orange in the flickering light. Dad told us the story of the time a squirrel stole his entire sandwich right off his lap during a picnic.
“It looked me in the eyes,” he said, voice serious, “and I swear it laughed before it ran off.”
We laughed so hard my stomach ached.
When Mom finally said, “Time for bed,” her voice was soft, like always.
We crawled into the tent, the air inside still warm from the day’s heat. Lula curled up next to me, her tiny feet icy against my legs. I wrinkled my nose but didn’t push her away. Outside, the wind rustled the trees, leaves whispering secrets to each other. In the distance, an owl hooted. It was peaceful. Safe.
I fell asleep fast.
Then I woke up.
Not to the sun rising. Not to the sound of birds.
To loud bangs.
Sharp, cracking sounds that didn’t belong in the quiet of the forest. My eyes snapped open. My heart pounded, the sound filling my ears.
Then—Mom screamed.
Short. Sharp. Cut off too soon.
I sat up so fast I felt dizzy. The tent was dark, but I could see Lula’s wide, sleepy eyes blinking at me.
“Arlo?” she mumbled, rubbing her face. “What’s that noise?”
Before I could answer, another bang split the air. Then—movement. A shadow outside.
The tent zipper ripped open.
A man stood there.
All in black—shirt, pants, gloves. A hood covered most of his face, but I saw his mouth, set in a hard line. And in his hand, something gleamed in the faint moonlight.
A gun.
“Dad!” I yelled, scrambling backward.
Dad lunged. I saw his arms reach, his body tense. There was a flash—bright, blinding. A crack of sound so loud it made my ears ring.
Then—Dad fell.
I saw the red blooming across his shirt before I understood what had happened. He hit the ground, not moving.
Mom screamed again.
The man turned. Another flash, another crack.
Mom crumpled.
Lula started sobbing, her tiny body shaking. I grabbed her arm, my fingers digging into her skin.
“Run, Lula!” I said, voice shaking.
But she was frozen. Terrified. The man moved fast—too fast. His gloved hand grabbed her, yanking her back. She screamed, but it cut off too soon, like the sound had been stolen from her throat.
I didn’t look back.
I couldn’t.
I turned and ran.
Bare feet on dirt, sticks snapping beneath me.
The night swallowed me whole, the trees closing in, their shadows stretching long and dark. I didn’t know where I was going. I just ran. My heart pounded, my breath came in sharp gasps, burning my throat. Behind me, I heard footsteps—heavy, fast.
I wasn’t alone.
I pushed forward, my legs moving on instinct, my body running before my mind could catch up. Then—a light.
A glow in the distance.
A lantern, hanging from a wooden post.
A campsite.
I stumbled toward it, tripping over my own feet. A woman sat by the fire, a coffee mug in her hands. She looked up, her face shifting from calm to confusion to alarm.
“Help!” I screamed. My voice cracked. “A man—he—he killed my family!”
The mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the ground.
“What?” she breathed. “Oh my God—are you okay?”
I shook my head so hard my vision blurred. “He’s got a gun! He—he shot them—Mom, Dad, Lula—they’re gone!”
Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone. “Yes, hello? Police? There’s a kid here—he says someone attacked his family. Maquoketa Caves campground. Hurry.”
She pulled me close, wrapping a blanket around me. I was shaking so bad my teeth clattered. She kept saying, “You’re safe now.”
But I didn’t feel safe.
All I could hear was the bang, bang, bang. See the shadow in the tent. Feel the cold earth under my feet as I ran.
Minutes passed.
Then—sirens.
Flashing lights turned the trees red and blue. Police came, their voices serious, their footsteps loud. One knelt in front of me.
“Son, can you tell me what happened?”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “We were sleeping. Then there were loud bangs. A man in black came in. He—he shot my dad, my mom… Lula too. I ran.”
“Did you see his face?”
I shook my head. “It was dark. He wore black. I just saw the gun.”
They took me away after that. Put me in a car, wrapped in a warm blanket. The woman who helped me stayed behind, talking to the police.
Later, I heard them say they found the man.
Dead.
Shot himself not far from our tent. His name was Anthony. He was camping nearby. I don’t know why he did it. I don’t think anyone does.
Now I live with my aunt. She’s nice. But it’s not the same.
Every night, I close my eyes and hear those bangs. I see the shadow in the tent. I feel the cold dirt under my feet as I ran.
I miss Mom’s soft voice.
I miss Dad’s stories.
I miss Lula’s cold feet next to mine.
I wish I’d stayed.
Fought harder.
Saved them somehow.
But I was just a kid.
And all I could do was run.