"The Forgotten Trail":
Hiking had always been my escape. The world felt smaller in the city—tight streets, crowded stores, constant noise. Out here, I could breathe. The steady rhythm of my boots on dirt, the rustling leaves, the scent of pine and damp earth—everything about hiking cleared my mind.
That morning, the air was crisp, the kind that made every breath feel fresh. I had picked a lesser-known trail in the Marin Headlands, north of San Francisco, known for its ocean views and rugged hills. It was supposed to be a moderate loop, nothing too challenging, just a few hours of solitude before heading back to reality.
When I pulled into the parking lot, it was mostly empty. A couple of bikers were loading up their gear, an older man was stretching next to his car, and a pair of hikers were adjusting their packs near the trailhead. I liked that. Enough people to know the trail wasn’t completely isolated, but not so many that it felt crowded.
I took my time getting ready—double-checking my water, tightening the straps on my backpack, making sure I had my knife clipped to my belt. Not that I expected trouble, but habits like that had kept me safe before. I had hiked alone for years and had learned that preparation was everything.
The first part of the trail was perfect. Wide, well-maintained, and easy to follow. The early morning sunlight cast long golden shadows across the dirt path, the occasional burst of wind sending leaves fluttering down like lazy confetti. I passed a few hikers heading the opposite direction, nodding at them in that unspoken hiker’s acknowledgment.
About an hour in, I reached a fork. The left path was clearly the main trail—well-trodden, marked with a wooden post, continuing up toward the ridge. But the right path was something else. It was narrower, partly overgrown, and looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time. No signs, no markers. Just an opening in the trees.
I paused, pulling out my phone. No service. That wasn’t unusual out here. I checked my paper map, but it didn’t show anything about an unmarked path.
I hesitated.
Everything I had learned about hiking told me not to take an unknown trail. There was a reason it wasn’t maintained. Maybe it was unsafe, maybe it led to private property. But there was something about it—something quiet, something untouched. I figured I could follow it for a bit, see where it led, and turn back if it didn’t feel right.
As soon as I stepped onto the path, the atmosphere changed. The air felt cooler, the canopy overhead blocking most of the sunlight. The sounds of the main trail faded, replaced by something quieter, heavier. I moved carefully, stepping over thick roots and ducking beneath low branches.
The deeper I went, the less it felt like a trail. The dirt path became uneven, winding between dense trees, twisting in ways that didn’t feel natural. There were no footprints, no signs of human activity. The only sound was my own breathing, my own footsteps.
Then I saw the cabin.
It sat just off the trail, half-hidden by the trees. The wood was dark and rotting, the windows shattered, the roof sagging in the middle. The door was slightly open, swaying gently in the breeze.
I didn’t want to go inside.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to get back to the main trail. But there was something about it—something unsettling. It didn’t look like a ranger’s station or an old hunting lodge. It felt… wrong.
I stepped onto the porch. The wood groaned beneath my weight.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wood and decay. Dust covered everything. There was a table with one leg broken, a rusted metal-framed bed, a few scattered cans on the floor. Newspapers littered the room, their pages yellowed with age.
And then I saw the photograph.
It was pinned to the wall with a rusted nail. A group of hikers, smiling at the camera. Handwritten at the bottom: August 1979.
A cold weight settled in my stomach. I had read about the Trailside Killer. He had stalked hikers in this area in the late ’70s, luring them away from the main trails. Some were found buried in shallow graves. Others were never found at all.
I didn’t want to be here anymore.
Then I heard it.
A footstep outside.
I froze, breath caught in my throat. The floorboards on the porch creaked.
Slowly, I turned toward the doorway.
A man stood there.
He was tall, his clothes filthy and torn, his beard wild. His eyes were dark, sharp, locked onto mine. He hadn’t made a sound walking up, and now he just stood there, blocking the exit.
“Didn’t think anyone came up here anymore,” he said. His voice was low, almost amused.
I forced a swallow. “I—uh, I was just hiking,” I managed.
He took a slow step inside.
“You took the wrong path.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded quickly, trying to keep my face neutral. My heart was pounding, my mind racing.
He tilted his head slightly. “Most folks stick to the main trails.”
I tried to smile. “Yeah, I must’ve gotten turned around. I should probably get back before it gets dark.”
His eyes flicked to the photograph on the wall.
“Good times,” he murmured.
The blood drained from my face.
I forced myself to stay calm, taking a slow step toward the door. “Well, nice meeting you.”
Then he moved.
His hand shot out, grabbing my arm. His grip was like iron.
“Stay a while,” he said, voice almost too casual. “It’s been a long time since I had company.”
Panic surged through me. I yanked my arm free and bolted.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t stop.
Branches whipped at my face as I tore down the path, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Somewhere behind me, I heard heavy footsteps—he was following me.
I pushed myself harder, sprinting through the trees, barely registering the pain in my legs. I didn’t know if I was heading toward the main trail or deeper into the unknown. All I knew was that I had to run.
Then, suddenly, voices.
The main trail.
I burst onto the path, nearly colliding with an older couple.
“Are you alright?” the woman asked, her face full of concern.
I turned, gasping for breath. The narrow trail was empty. He was gone.
I stumbled back to the parking lot, constantly checking over my shoulder. The whole way home, I kept replaying the encounter in my head.
Who was he?
A drifter? A squatter? Or something worse?
That night, I searched online for missing hikers. Then I found it.
An article from 1981. The Trailside Killer’s last known victim was a woman who had disappeared on an unmarked trail near the Marin Headlands.
Her body was never found.
I don’t hike alone anymore. And I never, ever leave the marked trails.
"The Trailside Killer":
It was a brilliant day in late March 1981, the kind of day where the sun shone just enough to warm your skin, but the air still carried the crisp edge of winter’s fading grasp. A perfect day to be anywhere but a classroom.
That was exactly why Ellen Hansen and I decided to ditch studying and go hiking instead. We were both twenty, students at UC Davis, and drowning in midterms, papers, and the endless pressure of exams. But none of that mattered today. We needed fresh air, open space, something beyond the walls of the library and the hum of fluorescent lights. Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park was an easy choice—close enough to make a day trip, but deep enough into the wilderness that we could pretend we weren’t just students.
I packed my old green backpack with the basics: a water bottle, a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in foil, my favorite film camera—a battered Canon that had survived road trips, dorm parties, and everything in between. Ellen, always the artist, stuffed granola bars and her sketchbook into hers.
“Let’s make it a good day,” she said, grinning as we climbed into my rusted-out Toyota Corolla.
I turned the key, and the engine groaned before sputtering to life. “It’s already a good day,” I said, pulling onto the highway.
The drive out of Davis was easy—long stretches of road, flat fields giving way to rolling hills, the windows rolled down to let the wind tangle our hair. We didn’t bother with the radio. Instead, we talked, bouncing between class gossip, summer plans, and whatever nonsense popped into our heads.
“I totally aced that bio test,” Ellen announced at one point, stretching her arms behind her head.
I glanced at her. “Yeah? I thought you said it was hard.”
She smirked. “Not for me. You, though—you might be doomed.”
I laughed. “You’re supposed to be supportive.”
“I am. I’m supporting you by being honest.” She nudged me with her foot. “You owe me ice cream.”
“Fine. But only if we get pizza first.”
“Deal.”
The road curved, bringing us closer to the park. I breathed in the scent of pine drifting through the air, already feeling lighter. A whole day with no deadlines, no stress—just trees, fresh air, and trails stretching out ahead of us.
When we pulled into the small dirt parking lot at the trailhead, there were only a handful of cars. A couple loading up backpacks, a lone hiker adjusting his boots. It was quiet, the kind of quiet you only find deep in the woods, where the only sounds are birds and the rustling of wind through leaves.
We grabbed our things, locking the car before heading toward the entrance. The Ridge Trail stretched ahead, a narrow dirt path winding between towering redwoods. The moment we stepped onto it, the world changed. The trees rose like ancient guardians, their thick trunks disappearing into the canopy above, blocking out most of the sky. Shafts of sunlight cut through the branches, illuminating patches of moss-covered ground. The air smelled like damp earth, pine needles, and something older—something untouched.
Ellen walked a few steps ahead, her boots crunching against the dirt. She turned, smiling. “Tell me this isn’t better than studying.”
I raised my camera, snapping a picture of her standing in a patch of sunlight, her blonde hair almost glowing. “Way better.”
She laughed, pulling out her sketchbook as she walked. “I’m gonna draw so many trees today.”
We wandered, taking our time, stopping when we found something interesting—a cluster of mushrooms, a fallen tree covered in moss, a squirrel darting up a trunk. At one point, Ellen pointed to a large rock half-buried in the dirt. “That looks like a turtle.”
I tilted my head. “I guess?”
She sat on a nearby log, flipping open her sketchbook. “It definitely does.”
I snapped another photo, the scratch of her pencil filling the quiet.
Everything felt peaceful.
About twenty minutes in, we passed a man standing just off the trail. He wasn’t moving, just standing there, half-hidden behind a tree. I glanced at him, and something in my stomach twisted. He was older—maybe fifty—with thinning, greasy hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. He wore a shiny gold jacket, something embroidered on the back, and dark sunglasses that hid his eyes.
I nodded politely, but he didn’t nod back. He just watched. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, his yellowed teeth crooked and uneven.
I quickened my pace. “Weird dude,” I muttered to Ellen once we were past him.
She glanced back. “Probably just some loner.” She pointed suddenly. “Oh! Look, there’s a squirrel.”
I let it go.
The trail led us higher until we reached a wooden observation deck overlooking the valley below. The view was stunning—miles of green treetops stretching to the horizon, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows.
I leaned against the railing, breathing deep. “This is why we came.”
Ellen sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, sketching the trees. “It’s so peaceful. Let’s stay here forever.”
“We’d need a treehouse.”
“With a pizza oven.”
I laughed. “Of course.”
We sat there for a long time, eating granola bars, talking about nothing and everything. The kind of conversation that only happens when you’re completely at ease.
Eventually, the sun dipped lower, and we knew we should head back.
The walk felt different on the way down—quieter. Shadows stretched long across the path, the warmth of the day fading. I was thinking about what toppings we’d get on our pizza when I saw him again.
The man in the gold jacket.
He stepped out from behind a tree, right into our path.
I stopped so fast my breath caught in my throat.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
And in his hand—a gun. Small. Black. Steady.
Ellen grabbed my arm. I could feel her fingers digging into my skin.
I raised my hands, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Hey, whoa, we don’t want trouble.”
His lips curled. “I just want the girl.” His voice was fast, clipped. Cold.
Ellen stepped forward. “No.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Ellen—”
She didn’t look at me. “Steven, he’s gonna shoot us anyway.”
The man’s face twisted with rage. “Shut up.”
The gunshot shattered the silence.
Ellen collapsed.
Blood bloomed across her chest. Before I could move, he shot again—twice more, straight into her head.
I lunged for her, but the gun turned on me.
A sharp, white-hot pain exploded in my neck.
I hit the ground.
Everything blurred.
I heard his boots crunching away, leaving us like we were nothing.
I don’t know how long I lay there. Ellen was inches from me, her sketchbook fallen open beside her.
I forced myself to move.
Blood slipped through my fingers as I stumbled forward, my vision swimming.
“Help,” I croaked. “Somebody—please—”
A couple appeared—a woman gasped, a man shouted for help.
I collapsed against a tree. “Gold jacket… he shot us… she’s dead…”
Darkness swallowed me.
When I woke, I was in a hospital bed. A cop sat beside me. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
Later, they told me they caught him—David Carpenter, The Trailside Killer.
But that didn’t bring Ellen back.
And no matter how many years pass, I still hear that gunshot every time it gets too quiet.
"The Watcher":
I’ll never forget that hiking trip in the Great Smoky Mountains. It was supposed to be a simple outing, something fun and educational—a way to teach a group of middle schoolers about teamwork, self-reliance, and the beauty of nature. I’d led hikes before, but this was my first time on Mt. Sterling, deep in Western North Carolina. The air was crisp that morning, filled with the fresh scent of pine and damp earth, and the kids were eager, full of restless energy.
There were twelve of us in total—eight kids and four instructors. I was one of the lead guides, along with Sarah, Mike, and Lisa. The plan was to follow a well-traveled trail up to the summit, where we’d eat lunch before making our way back down. The kids, ranging from eleven to thirteen years old, were a mix of excited and impatient, some racing ahead while others lagged behind, pointing out strange-looking mushrooms or tossing pebbles at tree trunks.
Everything started out fine. The sky was a brilliant blue, with only a few wisps of white clouds stretching across the horizon. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor with patches of golden light. Birds called from the treetops, their songs echoing in the vast stillness. It felt peaceful, like we were stepping into a place untouched by time.
We hiked for hours without issue. By midday, we were making good progress, stopping occasionally for water breaks. That’s when Jake, one of the more adventurous kids, spotted something off the main path—a narrow, overgrown trail barely visible through the underbrush. It looked like it hadn’t been walked in years, the foliage creeping in from both sides.
“Hey, can we check that out?” he asked, pointing toward it, his eyes alight with curiosity.
I hesitated. The main trail was clearly marked and familiar, but this? This looked different. The trees seemed taller, their branches thicker, casting deep shadows despite the afternoon sun. There was something about the way the forest changed just beyond that narrow opening—it felt… denser, quieter. Still, I didn’t want to dampen their enthusiasm.
“Alright,” I said, “but we stay together. No wandering off.”
The other instructors exchanged glances but didn’t object. Mike led the way, pushing aside the branches as we veered off the main path. The deeper we went, the more the forest seemed to close in around us. The usual sounds of wildlife faded. Even the wind, which had rustled the trees earlier, seemed to disappear.
After about ten minutes, we stumbled upon something none of us expected.
The cabin stood in a small clearing, its weathered wood barely holding together. The roof sagged, the windows were shattered, and the front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges. Thick vines wrapped around one side, gripping the structure like skeletal fingers. The whole place had the look of something that had been abandoned for decades, yet there were no signs of nature reclaiming the inside. The grass around the cabin was short, the earth undisturbed, as if someone had been keeping it that way.
“Whoa,” Emily whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
“Looks… old,” Mike muttered.
“Maybe a hunter’s cabin?” Lisa offered, though she didn’t sound convinced.
“We should check it out,” Jake said, already stepping forward.
Something about it made my stomach knot, but I forced a casual tone. “Hold on. Let’s be careful.”
I moved toward the door first, the wood creaking beneath my boots. The smell hit me before I even stepped inside—damp wood, mold, and something else, something… off.
I clicked on my flashlight and scanned the interior. The cabin was a single-room structure, empty except for rusted bed frames against the walls. No mattresses, just the skeletal remains of metal frames. The wooden floor was covered in a thin layer of dirt, but there were no leaves, no signs of small animals making it their home. It felt unnatural, too clean despite its abandonment.
Then I saw them.
Shoes.
Lined up neatly along one wall.
Dozens of them, different sizes, different styles. Children’s sneakers, worn-out hiking boots, even a pair of tattered slippers. Some were caked in mud, others torn at the seams. None of them matched.
“What the hell?” Mike whispered behind me.
A cold prickle ran up my spine. I stepped closer, scanning the walls. That’s when I noticed the carvings.
Scratched into the wood were words, uneven and desperate, like someone had carved them in a hurry.
Help me.
They’re coming.
Don’t trust him.
My pulse pounded in my ears. The letters were deep, the edges rough. Someone had dug into the wood with force.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” Sarah murmured.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were intruding. That someone—or something—was watching.
“We should go,” I said quickly. “Now.”
The kids, oblivious to our unease, were still murmuring about the shoes. I herded them out as fast as I could, keeping my voice calm. My hands, however, were shaking.
We didn’t stop until we were back on the main trail. I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see someone standing at the tree line. Nothing was there. But the feeling didn’t leave.
That night, we set up camp near a creek, a few miles from where we’d found the cabin. The kids were tired, chatting quietly as they ate their dinners. The fire crackled, casting long shadows against the trees.
At around 11 PM, while the others slept, Mike and I sat by the fire, taking watch. The forest was quiet except for the occasional chirp of a cricket or the distant hoot of an owl. The wind had picked up slightly, rustling the leaves.
Then I saw him.
A man, standing just beyond the firelight.
Tall. Thin. Motionless.
He was standing under a large oak tree, his body half-hidden in shadow. He wasn’t wearing any hiking gear—no backpack, no supplies. Just a dark jacket and pants. His face was obscured by darkness, but I could tell he was staring directly at us.
“Mike,” I whispered.
He turned, stiffened. “What the fuck…”
My mouth went dry. “What do we do?”
Mike swallowed hard. “We wait.”
And so we did. For hours.
The fire crackled, the night dragged on, but the man never moved.
Then, at some point—maybe around 3 AM—I blinked.
And he was gone.
No sound. No movement. Just gone.
At dawn, I checked the area where he’d been standing. That’s when I saw the footprints.
They came from the direction of the cabin. Stopped near the oak tree.
And then turned back.
I didn’t tell the kids. We broke camp fast, hiking back without stopping. I kept looking over my shoulder, but the man never appeared again.
But I knew he was still out there.
I don’t know who he was. I don’t know what he wanted. But I haven’t hiked that trail since.
And sometimes, I still dream about those footprints. Leading back into the dark.