"Nowhere to Run":
I’d always wanted to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. It was more than just a dream—it was an escape. A way to outrun the small life I’d been living in California, where every day felt the same. It was March 2018. I was 62, living off disability checks, tired of staring at the same four walls. The trail stretched from Mexico to Canada, wild and free, and I thought maybe—just maybe—it could fix something inside me.
I started near the border, my boots kicking up dust, my backpack heavy but my heart light. The first few days were brutal. The desert sun beat down without mercy, my shoulders ached under the weight of my pack, and the loneliness was sharper than I’d expected. I knew the first hundred miles would be the hardest. My body wasn’t used to this kind of work—walking for miles every day, carrying everything I needed on my back, sleeping on the cold, uneven ground. The hunger, the thirst, the exhaustion—it all hit me fast.
But it was good pain. The kind that meant I was doing something, moving forward. Every night, I pitched my little tent under the stars, listening to the wind rustle through the dry bushes. Some nights, I heard coyotes yipping in the distance, their cries sharp and eerie in the dark. Other nights, the silence was so deep it felt like I was the only person left in the world.
I ran into my first trail angels in Julian, a tiny town 77 miles into the hike. Carmen’s Garden was a well-known stop for thru-hikers, a place where you could get a hot meal, rest for a while, maybe even pick up some extra supplies. I sat at a wooden picnic table, stretching out my aching legs, shoveling eggs and toast into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in days. And maybe I hadn’t—not properly, anyway.
That’s when he sat down across from me.
He was tall, maybe in his early 50s, with a scruffy beard and sharp blue eyes that never quite seemed to settle. He had that kind of easy confidence, the kind that made people listen when he spoke.
“Hey, I’m Jim,” he said, flashing a grin. “Retired Navy SEAL. Just sold my house for 4.5 million—waiting on the cash.”
I liked him right away. He had stories—wild ones about missions overseas, bar fights, women who had loved him and left him. I didn’t care if they were true. I wasn’t hiking for honesty—I was hiking to feel something again.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Company’s nice.”
We left Julian together the next morning. At first, it was easy, even enjoyable. We walked through the dry, endless stretches of sand and rock, the sun a merciless force overhead. I liked listening to him talk. His stories made the miles go by faster. He made me laugh sometimes, and I hadn’t laughed in a long time.
Nights were better with someone else around. There was something comforting about sitting by a fire, watching the stars stretch forever over the vast emptiness. He was good at making fires. I remember thinking that the first night. He had that ex-military way about him—efficient, calm, in control. I admired it.
But things changed.
It happened near Big Bear, maybe 200 miles in. I took a picture of us and posted it on Facebook—a quick shot, nothing special. Just a way to let people back home know I was still alive. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.
That night, we camped by a dry creek bed. I was cooking a pot of instant beans when he grabbed my phone from my hands.
“Why’d you post my picture?” His voice was low, like a growl.
I blinked. “Just thought it was a good shot.” My stomach twisted at the way he was looking at me—like I was something small, something stupid.
He stared a moment longer, then smirked. Tossed the phone back. “Don’t do it again,” he said.
That smirk stuck with me. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t friendly. It was like he’d been waiting for something.
After that, he got possessive. If other hikers passed, he’d step closer, put an arm around me. “They don’t need to know you,” he’d mutter. If I tried talking to someone, he’d cut in, redirect the conversation. His world had only room for one voice—his.
I told myself I could handle it.
I was wrong.
The first time he hit me, it was May. We were camped in the scrubby woods, off-trail, away from the other hikers. I’d spilled water trying to fill my bottle. A small thing. A nothing mistake.
“You’re useless,” he muttered.
Before I could blink, his fist slammed into my shoulder.
I fell hard, dirt in my mouth.
“Get up,” he barked.
I did, shaking. Tasting blood where I’d bitten my lip.
He just watched me, that smirk back on his face.
Like this was fun for him.
The beatings got worse. It wasn’t just fists—it was control. He took my phone’s SIM card one night, said I didn’t need it.
“You’ve got me now,” he said. His voice was cold. Final.
We weren’t even on the trail anymore. He dragged me deeper into nowhere, saying it was “better this way.”
I was cut off. Trapped.
I told myself to wait. To be smart. If I fought back, he’d hurt me more. I saw it in his eyes—he could kill me if he wanted. And part of me thought… maybe he would.
By September, I could barely walk. My ribs ached constantly—later, an x-ray would show four were fractured.
One night, he beat me worse than ever.
We were somewhere in California, nowhere near the trail. I asked about going back, and he snapped.
“You don’t get to ask!” he yelled, fists coming down hard.
I curled up, arms over my head.
He stood over me, breathing heavy.
“You’re mine,” he said. “Don’t forget it.”
That’s when I knew.
If I didn’t get away, I was going to die.
September 26.
We’d been moving west. He took me to Morro Bay for groceries. My ribs screamed with every breath. He told me, “Pick out food. Don’t talk to anyone.” His voice was a warning.
I nodded, but my heart was pounding.
This was my chance.
I grabbed some cans, moving slow, watching him. He was at the counter, chatting with the clerk.
I slipped toward the back.
A payphone.
My hands shook as I dialed 911.
“Help me,” I whispered. “He’s going to kill me. Please hurry.”
“Where are you?” the operator asked.
“Morro Bay. Grocery store on Main. He’s right here.”
“Stay on the line—”
I couldn’t. I hung up, grabbed a bag of rice, and walked back.
Jim glared at me. “Took you long enough.”
Then—sirens.
His head snapped up. His hand closed around my arm, hard.
“What did you do?” he hissed.
Adrenaline took over.
I yanked free and ran.
Cops burst in.
“Hands up!” one shouted.
Jim froze.
And then… he smirked. Like this was just a game he’d lost.
They cuffed him. Took me outside.
I was shaking, crying, trying to tell them everything—how he’d kept me, how he’d hurt me in ways I couldn’t even say out loud.
A paramedic checked my ribs. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said.
I didn’t feel lucky.
They let James go a few days later.
Not enough evidence, they said.
I moved into a trailer in Bethel Island, trying to disappear. But he’s still out there.
And I still wake up at night, gasping, feeling his hands on me.
Wondering if he’s looking for me.
If next time…
I won’t be so lucky.
"The Brown Blazer":
I’ve always loved hiking. The silence of the woods, the rhythmic crunch of dirt beneath my boots, the way the trees seemed to close in and block out the world—I found peace in it. There’s something freeing about being out in the wild, relying on nothing but your own strength and instincts. It was my escape, my way of resetting.
In the summer of 2019, I planned a solo hike through a section of the Appalachian Trail. It wasn’t my first time alone, and I wasn’t inexperienced. I packed light but smart—water, protein bars, a first-aid kit, a physical map, a GPS, and a small hunting knife. I always carried a knife when I hiked alone. I wasn’t naive. I knew accidents happened. I knew people went missing. But I wasn’t planning on being one of them.
My family wasn’t thrilled about me going alone. My sister, in particular, made her opinion clear.
“Why do you have to go by yourself?” she asked as I packed my bag.
“Because I like it,” I said. “You know that.”
She crossed her arms. “You know people disappear out there, right? Have you read the stories?”
I had. Strange disappearances, unsolved murders, hikers who were there one moment and gone the next. But I told myself it was just bad luck. The trail was over two thousand miles long. Accidents happened. People got lost. And sometimes, yeah, bad people did bad things. But what were the chances I’d run into one of them?
“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I’ve done this before.”
She didn’t look convinced.
The first few days were perfect. The weather was warm but not unbearable, the trail was quiet, and I passed just enough hikers to remind me I wasn’t completely alone. We’d exchange a few words—where we were coming from, where we were headed—then move on. That was the unspoken rule of the trail. Some people liked company, but most of us were out there for the solitude.
It wasn’t until my fourth night that I started to feel uneasy.
I had set up camp in a small clearing, just off the main trail. It was a good spot—flat ground, dry leaves, and a thick canopy overhead to block out the wind. After setting up my tent and eating a quick meal, I sat by my small fire, listening to the sounds of the forest.
Then I heard footsteps.
At first, I thought it was an animal. But the sound was too deliberate. Too heavy. A person.
I tensed, my hand instinctively going to my knife.
“Hello?” I called out.
Silence.
Then, a man stepped out from between the trees.
He was tall and lanky, his clothes mismatched—hiking pants and boots, but a brown blazer over a dirty t-shirt. His hair was unkempt, his beard patchy, and his eyes... there was something off about his eyes. They darted around, scanning my camp, my gear.
“Evenin’,” he said, his voice dry and raspy.
I forced myself to relax, keeping my expression neutral. “Evening.”
He stepped closer to the fire, hands outstretched toward the warmth. “Mind if I sit?”
I didn’t want him to, but I also didn’t want to provoke him. Out here, you never knew who you were dealing with. Sometimes, it was safer to be polite.
“Sure,” I said.
He lowered himself onto a log across from me, the fire casting long, flickering shadows over his face. In the dim light, I noticed the dirt under his fingernails, the way his lips cracked when he spoke.
“You hiking alone?” he asked.
A warning bell rang in my head—never tell a stranger you’re alone.
“No,” I lied. “My buddy’s a few miles back. We split up for the day.”
He smirked, like he didn’t believe me. “That so?”
I shrugged, acting like it didn’t matter. “Yeah.”
For the next half-hour, he talked. Or rambled. He spoke about government conspiracies, how the world was ending, how the trail was a gateway to another dimension. He laughed at strange moments, his eyes flicking toward the darkness beyond the fire.
I pretended to listen, but my mind was elsewhere. I was planning. If he tried something, I’d have the advantage. My knife was within reach. I wasn’t big, but I was strong. I could fight if I had to.
After a while, he stood up abruptly. “Well, better keep moving. Long way to go.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching as he disappeared into the woods.
I barely slept that night.
The next day, I pushed forward, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every rustling leaf, every snapping twig made my pulse quicken. I told myself it was just paranoia, but I couldn’t shake it.
That evening, I came across a small cabin. It was old, the paint peeling, the roof sagging, but it was shelter. I decided to spend the night inside.
The interior was dusty, abandoned. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and the air smelled of damp wood. I set up my sleeping bag in a corner and, after a quick meal, lay down.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I heard a noise.
A faint scratching sound.
I sat up, heart pounding. The scratching was soft, deliberate. It was coming from beneath the floorboards.
Then—a voice.
Weak. Desperate. “Help... please...”
My blood ran cold.
I grabbed my flashlight, scanning the room. In the far corner, half-hidden beneath a rotting rug, was a wooden trapdoor.
I hesitated, my breath coming fast. Then, slowly, I knelt down and pried it open.
A narrow staircase led into darkness.
I descended cautiously, my flashlight beam flickering across the dirt walls. At the bottom, in a small, windowless room, was a woman.
She was pale, her face streaked with dirt and dried tears. Her clothes were torn, and her ankle was shackled to the wall.
She flinched when she saw me, eyes wide with fear.
“Please,” she whispered. “Get me out of here.”
I rushed to her side, working frantically to break the chain. When it finally snapped, she collapsed into my arms, sobbing.
“We have to go,” I whispered. “Now.”
We ran. We didn’t stop.
Hours later, we stumbled into a ranger station, breathless and shaking. I told them everything.
They found him two days later.
His real name was Richard Mercer. But on the trail, they called him “Brown Blazer.” He had a pattern—he’d befriend hikers, gain their trust, then lure them to his cabin. Some were never found.
Sarah, the woman I saved, was lucky. She had only been there for a few days.
Me? I never hiked alone again.
I still love the woods. But now, when I hear a twig snap behind me, I don’t assume it’s just an animal.
Because out there, hidden in the vast wilderness, are people.
And some of them are monsters.
"The Man in the Trees":
Hiking had always been my way of escaping the noise of everyday life. There was something about being out in the wilderness, surrounded by nothing but trees, dirt trails, and the sounds of nature, that made everything else feel small and manageable. My brother, James, shared the same passion. We weren’t extreme hikers, but we loved a challenge, and that’s why we planned a week-long trip along a section of the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania.
We spent months preparing. James was the one who mapped out the route, double-checking every possible exit point and making sure we had enough supplies. I focused on gear—good boots, lightweight tents, and plenty of food and water. We both trained by going on smaller hikes, testing our endurance. By the time we set out in early June, we felt ready.
The first two days were everything we had hoped for. The trail was tough but beautiful, winding through thick forests and steep inclines. The air smelled fresh, the way it does when you’re deep in the woods, untouched by cars or concrete. We passed a few hikers along the way, exchanging nods and brief conversations about trail conditions. For the most part, though, we were alone, and that was exactly what we wanted.
On the third morning, we woke up early, packed up our small campsite, and got moving before the sun was fully up. The weather was perfect—cool but not cold, the sky clear. We had planned to cover around fifteen miles that day. It was an ambitious goal, but we felt good.
A few hours into the hike, we reached a fork in the trail. The main path continued to the left, well-worn and wide enough for two people to walk side by side. To the right was a narrower, less-traveled path, overgrown in some spots but still visible.
James pulled out the map and traced a finger along the lines. “This way is shorter,” he said, pointing to the right. “Cuts off about two miles.”
I looked at the path. Something about it made me hesitate. It wasn’t marked as dangerous, just… different. The trees on this side seemed taller, their branches weaving together overhead, blocking out more sunlight.
“You sure?” I asked.
James nodded. “It connects back. Just not as many people take it.”
It didn’t take much to convince me. We’d been trying to push ourselves, and shaving off some time didn’t seem like a bad idea. So we stepped onto the narrow trail, ducking under low-hanging branches as we walked.
The deeper we went, the quieter it became. The usual sounds of the forest—birds, rustling leaves, the distant hum of insects—seemed muted here. I told myself it was nothing, that we were just in a denser part of the woods. But something about it put me on edge.
We had been walking for about an hour when I saw it. A dark shape up ahead, hanging from one of the thicker tree branches. At first, I thought it was some kind of large animal caught in a trap, but as we got closer, my stomach dropped.
“Hey,” I said, stopping in my tracks. “Do you see that?”
James followed my gaze. His face shifted from confusion to something darker. “What the hell…”
Hanging from the tree was a man.
His body swayed slightly, moved by the faintest breeze. He was wearing jeans and a dark shirt, both dirt-stained. His head was tilted forward, chin resting against his chest. The rope around his neck was thick, tied high up in the branches.
For a few long seconds, neither of us moved. It was like my brain refused to process what I was seeing. Then instinct kicked in.
I ran forward, reaching up to grab the man’s waist, trying to lift him, as if somehow that could undo what had already happened. His body was heavier than I expected, dead weight. The moment my hands touched him, I knew. His skin was cold. Too cold.
“Help me get him down!” I shouted.
James was already fumbling with his pack, pulling out his multi-tool. He unfolded the small saw and started cutting through the rope, his hands shaking. I kept my arms around the man’s waist, trying to keep him steady.
The rope finally gave way, and we lowered him to the ground. I immediately pressed two fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse, but there was nothing. His face was sunken, his eyes slightly open but empty. A terrible smell lingered in the air—not fresh death, but something worse. Something that had been left too long.
James took a step back, rubbing his face with both hands. “Shit. He’s been here a while.”
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. Who was he? Had someone been looking for him?
“We need to call for help,” I said, reaching for my phone. My stomach sank when I saw the screen—no signal.
James checked his own phone, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
We looked at each other. The thought of leaving the body alone didn’t sit right with me, but we had no choice. The nearest marked exit was at least five miles away.
“We’ll mark the spot on the map,” I said. “Then we go get help. Fast.”
We hurried back the way we came, moving faster than we should have on the uneven ground. Every sound made me jump. My nerves were shot. I kept thinking about the man, about how long he had been hanging there, alone in the woods.
It took nearly two hours, but we finally made it back to the main trail. By some stroke of luck, we ran into another hiker—a middle-aged guy with a large pack and a walking stick. He listened to us, his face growing serious, then pulled out a satellite phone.
Within hours, park rangers arrived. We led them back to the site, retracing our steps with a growing sense of unease. When we got there, they examined the scene carefully. One of them, a tall man with a stern face, turned to us.
“You guys did the right thing,” he said. “We’ve been looking for him.”
James frowned. “Who was he?”
The ranger sighed, glancing at his notes. “Reported missing last week. His family said he was struggling. Depression. Money problems. Looks like he came out here alone.”
I didn’t know what to say. We had come out here looking for adventure, for a break from the stress of everyday life. This man had come out here for something else entirely.
That night, back at our campsite, neither of us could sleep. We ate in silence, staring into the flickering flames of our campfire.
James finally spoke. “Do you think we could’ve saved him?”
I exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe if we’d been there sooner… but I think he made up his mind before we ever got close.”
James shook his head. “It’s just messed up, man. To die alone like that.”
The rest of our hike didn’t feel the same. The excitement was gone. The trail, which had once felt like a place of freedom, now felt heavy with something we couldn’t quite name.
When we finally finished the trip and returned home, I thought I’d be able to forget about it. But I never did. The image of that man, hanging in the silence of the forest, stayed with me. I thought about the people he left behind, the ones who had been searching for him. And I wondered how many others were out there, alone, making the same choice.
Hiking was never the same after that. I still loved the wilderness, but I knew something now that I hadn’t before—some people go into the woods to find peace, and some go in because they don’t plan on coming back.