"The Silence Beneath the Pines":
Tom and I drove up early that morning, winding along the narrow mountain roads that twisted through thick forest and steep drop-offs. It was one of those cloudless days where the sky felt impossibly high, and the sun spilled gold across everything. The higher we climbed, the more the air thinned out into that clean, crisp sharpness you only get in the mountains. We didn’t say much—just took it in, letting the silence fill in the spaces between our conversations. When we finally reached the lake, tucked like a secret into a bowl of pine-covered hills, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away behind us. The water shimmered like glass, reflecting the jagged ridgelines above, and the scent of pine needles and campfire ash drifted on the breeze.
We found a flat patch of grass near the water’s edge, half shaded by towering evergreens. The soil was soft but not damp, and wildflowers peeked out from between patches of moss. Tom tossed the tent bag down with a triumphant grin. “Piece of cake,” he said. Of course, the setup didn’t go as smoothly. The poles bent the wrong way, and the rainfly kept flipping up in the breeze. “You’re hopeless at this,” he said, laughing as he ducked to avoid a whipping strap. “Oh, hush,” I said, chucking a marshmallow at his chest, which he caught with exaggerated flair. By the time the tent stood firm, we were both sweating and a little breathless, but proud of ourselves.
We spent most of the afternoon exploring the trails around the lake, wading into the cold, clear shallows until our toes went numb, and lying back on a sun-warmed boulder to watch dragonflies flicker over the surface. The silence out there wasn’t heavy—it was light, like the world had hit pause. No cell service, no traffic, no news—just the trees, the water, and the two of us. When we got back to camp, we dried our feet by the fire pit and cracked open a couple of beers. We roasted hot dogs over the fire, licking ash off our fingers, and made s’mores that fell apart in gooey piles. As the sky turned a bruised purple, the lake turned black, smooth as oil, and the fire popped and crackled between us.
We talked about nothing and everything—memories from college, dumb inside jokes, plans for the future that neither of us fully meant but liked to imagine. It was the kind of conversation you only have when the stars are out and the world feels small and safe. But then something shifted. As night took over, the peace changed. It was subtle at first—just a hush falling over the forest that felt unnatural. The breeze stopped. The water stilled. Even the bugs went silent. It was like everything was holding its breath.
I turned my head slowly, scanning the tree line. The shadows between the trunks seemed deeper than they should’ve been. Something moved—fast, low, maybe just beyond my vision. I couldn’t tell. I sat a little straighter. “You okay?” Tom asked, catching the change in my posture. “Yeah,” I said after a pause. “Just… thought I saw something.” I tried to sound casual. “Probably a deer,” he said, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. But my chest was tight and cold now, and the fire felt too small to hold the dark at bay.
We turned in close to midnight, both of us quieter than before. I zipped into my sleeping bag, listening to the nylon crinkle beneath me. Tom’s breathing slowed as he drifted off, but I lay there, wide-eyed, heart still ticking a little too fast. Just as I started to doze, there was a metallic clunk. Sharp. Jarring. Close. I froze. Another clunk. My eyes shot open. It was the car—definitely the car. Parked just twenty feet away.
“Tom,” I whispered urgently, shaking his arm. “Tom, wake up.” He blinked at me, groggy. “What?” “There’s someone at the car,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “I heard it.” He sat up fast, grabbing the flashlight from his pack. “Stay here,” he said. “No way,” I hissed, unzipping my bag and scrambling after him.
The cold hit me immediately, my breath puffing out in white clouds. The flashlight beam was shaky in Tom’s hand as we crept forward, our footsteps muffled by pine needles. Then we saw him. A man, crouched by the driver’s side door. Messing with it like he belonged there. His hair was matted, his jacket torn and filthy. He looked like he hadn’t slept under a roof in weeks. My stomach turned.
“Hey!” Tom shouted. The man’s head snapped up. His face was pale, sunburned, gaunt. Then he turned fully, and I saw the gun in his hand.
“Give me the keys,” he said, voice low and raw, like gravel scraping metal. Tom froze, raising his hands slowly. “Okay,” he said calmly. “We don’t want trouble. Just take what you need.” The man shook his head, eyes wild. “I need the car. Now.”
“Give him the keys,” I whispered, gripping Tom’s arm. My voice shook. But before Tom could even reach for them, the man lifted the gun and fired.
The crack of it split the air like lightning. Tom let out a strangled grunt and went down hard, clutching his side. “Tom!” I dropped to my knees, hands scrambling to help him, but there was so much blood. Too much.
The man pointed the gun at me. “Don’t move.”
I moved.
I ran.
Branches clawed at me as I sprinted into the forest, every breath a knife in my throat. I didn’t care which direction—I just ran. Behind me, I could hear him crashing through the undergrowth, yelling, cursing. “Come back!” he shouted. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wasn’t even thinking—my body just knew to get away.
I don’t know how long I ran. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been two hours. I tore my pajama pants on thorns, sliced my palms on sharp rocks when I fell. The woods became a blur of tree trunks and shadows. I was sobbing, whispering Tom’s name, begging under my breath for someone, anyone, to help.
And then—light.
A small golden glow between the trees. A window. A cabin.
I stumbled toward it, almost crawling by the time I reached the porch. I hammered on the door with everything I had left. “Please! Please help! Someone!”
The door opened with a creak, and an older woman stood there in a bathrobe, gray hair tied back, eyes full of alarm. Behind her, a man stepped into view. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “What happened?”
“My boyfriend—he’s hurt. Shot. A man with a gun—please, call the police!” I sobbed.
They moved fast. She pulled me in and locked the door. The man handed me a blanket. She called 911. I sank onto their couch, still trembling, barely able to breathe. I told them everything between gasps. The man’s face darkened. “We’ve heard stories,” he muttered. “There’ve been problems up here. People hiding out. Running from the law.”
The flashing red and blue lights arrived what felt like moments later. I jumped when they knocked, but relief crashed over me. I led them back. The woods were darker now, full of flashing lights and moving shadows. When we reached the campsite, the car was gone. Tire tracks tore deep through the dirt. But Tom—Tom was there. Pale, unmoving. Blood everywhere.
“He’s alive!” an officer shouted.
Paramedics rushed in. I fell to my knees in the dirt, sobbing so hard my chest ached. They worked fast, stabilizing him, shouting commands I couldn’t follow. I watched until they lifted him into the ambulance and disappeared down the road.
Tom survived. Barely. It took weeks in the hospital, multiple surgeries, and even then he came out scarred—physically and otherwise. But he pulled through.
The man who shot him? Caught three days later, hiding in an abandoned ranger station two valleys over. A wanted fugitive. Robbery, assault, escape from a prison bus months before. He’d been surviving out here for weeks, stealing from campsites, watching from the woods.
Sometimes, I still hear the shot. Still feel the air turn cold and the forest go silent. That stillness—I'll never forget it. It's the quiet before the world tilts sideways, and everything changes.
"The Reservoir Watcher":
Work had been nonstop, and the city noise was drilling into our skulls. Every honk, siren, and screech of brakes felt like a reminder we needed out. We were frayed, tired of late nights and early meetings, tired of traffic and crowds. So one night, curled up on the couch with our laptops open, we started looking for escape routes. We stumbled on Boysen Reservoir almost by accident—just a few photos on a travel blog: still, glassy water reflecting the sky like a mirror, empty stretches of beach, and mountain silhouettes fading into dusk. It looked untouched, quiet. That was enough for us. We booked the closest spot to the water, a beachfront site with no nearby campers. It felt like a miracle.
We left early, drove all day through winding highways and long empty stretches of Wyoming road. It was late afternoon by the time we pulled off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as we approached the reservoir. The light was golden, the sun just beginning to dip, casting long shadows over the water. Everything shimmered. The reservoir looked exactly like the photos—peaceful, wide open, with the smell of pine and freshwater thick in the air. Our site was even better than we imagined. Tucked away at the edge of the beach, surrounded by low shrubs and tall trees, it was completely isolated. The next site was easily a quarter mile away. There was no hum of other campers, no music, no kids shouting. Just wind, water, and the occasional rustle of leaves.
We set up our tent quickly, placing it just high enough on the slope to avoid any waves or rising water. I remember pausing, looking out at the water as the sun dipped low enough to turn the entire reservoir orange. It felt surreal. For the first time in months, the tension in my chest let go. I could breathe again. We got a fire going just as twilight set in. The logs crackled and snapped, sparks spiraling into the dark. The air cooled fast—one of those dry Wyoming chills that creeps up on you even in summer. We wrapped ourselves in jackets and passed around mugs of hot chocolate, steam rising in front of our faces.
We talked about nothing and everything. Plans for hiking, what kind of fish we might catch, what it would be like to swim out into the middle of that vast, quiet reservoir. The stars started to appear, and then multiply until the whole sky was dusted in silver. I had never seen stars like that—not through city smog and light pollution. It was beautiful. We leaned back in our camping chairs, staring up in silence.
Then I noticed it. A vehicle, parked in the trees just up the hill, about 100 yards away. Black. An SUV with tinted windows. It hadn’t been there earlier—we would’ve seen it during setup. Now it was just sitting there, barely visible between the tree trunks, like it was watching.
“Mike,” I said quietly, tapping his arm. “You see that car?”
He leaned forward, squinting through the firelight. “Yeah. That’s odd. There’s no site up there.”
I nodded, heart beginning to thump. “Why would they park like that? It’s not a trailhead, is it?”
He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe they got lost. Or they’re just taking photos. It’s probably nothing.”
Maybe. But it didn’t feel like nothing. No one got out. No camera flash. No lights inside. It just sat there. Silent and still. We kept glancing at it, trying not to be obvious. Eventually, after finishing our drinks, we doused the fire, zipped ourselves into the tent, and tried to sleep. The forest sounds returned—the hoot of distant owls, the rustle of wind in the trees, the lapping of water on the shore. But all I could think about was the black SUV. I lay still, eyes open, ears straining for the sound of footsteps, a door creaking open, someone walking closer. Every little noise made me flinch. It was hours before sleep finally took me.
When the sun came up, I was groggy and stiff, and the first thing I did was unzip the tent and peek outside. The SUV was gone. No tire tracks in the sand, no sign it had ever been there. I let out a shaky breath.
“See?” Mike said, already boiling water for coffee. “Just some random person. Probably drove off last night.”
“Yeah. Probably,” I said, though the unease hadn’t left. I forced down a granola bar and tried to shake the feeling.
We spent the morning on the trail, and it helped. The sun was warm, the air crisp. Pine needles crunched beneath our boots, and we passed no one on the winding path. At one point, a deer burst out of the brush ahead of us and darted across the trail. We both jumped, then laughed. We even spotted an eagle overhead, circling lazily. It was the kind of hike you dream about. Peaceful, wild, quiet.
By the time we got back, we were sun-tired and smiling. We sat by the water skipping stones, eating snacks, watching fish ripple beneath the surface. That night, we made another fire. Hot dogs sizzled over the flames, marshmallows burned on the outside and melted on the inside. We joked and teased each other about who made the better s’more, trying to recreate that perfect first-night feeling.
Then I felt it. That crawling sensation on the back of my neck. I turned my head, and my heart froze. The SUV was back. Same spot. Same dark windows. Like it had never left.
“Mike,” I whispered, barely moving my lips. “It’s that car again.”
He turned slowly, saw it, and his whole face changed. His mouth tightened into a line, and his eyes narrowed. “That’s not okay,” he said, voice low. “They’re not camped. They’re just... sitting there.”
“What do we do?” I asked. My voice trembled, though I tried to stay calm. “Do we go check it out?”
“No,” he said, sharper than I expected. “No way. We don’t know who they are. We’re isolated. Let’s pack up. Now.”
My hands were already shaking as we jumped into action, tossing gear into duffels and cramming things into the car haphazardly. The fire still crackled behind us. We didn’t bother to douse it properly. I kept glancing back at the SUV, expecting someone to get out, to walk toward us.
Then the headlights blinked on.
Bright beams cut through the dark, right at us. My chest seized.
“Mike—they’re watching us. They turned on their lights.”
“I see it. I’m moving, just get in!” he said, slamming the trunk shut with a bang.
We dove into the car, doors slamming. Mike started the engine and spun the wheels in the sand, spraying dust as we shot out of the site and onto the gravel road. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I twisted in my seat to look back. The SUV was moving. Turning onto the road. Following us.
“Mike—they’re following us!”
“I know! Hold on!”
The gravel road was narrow and uneven. The car bounced and rattled, the tires skidding in loose dirt. Mike gripped the wheel hard, trying to keep control. Behind us, the SUV’s headlights bobbed with the terrain, staying close.
“Why are they following us? What do they want?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
“I don’t know, but we’re not stopping,” Mike said, eyes locked ahead.
The road felt endless, the trees pressing in from both sides, making us feel boxed in. Every turn, every bump, every second, I expected them to ram us. We finally hit pavement, and Mike floored it, the car roaring as we climbed past 70, 80. The SUV was still behind us, but it began to shrink in the mirror. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, its headlights faded into the distance.
We didn’t slow down. We drove another thirty minutes until we hit town, and when we saw the neon sign of a gas station flickering in the night, it felt like a lighthouse in a storm. We pulled in fast, parked under the harsh fluorescent lights. We sat there for a long time, both of us breathing hard, not saying anything. Then:
“What the hell was that?” I finally asked.
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m not sticking around to figure it out.”
We didn’t even gas up. We just kept driving. Straight back to the city. Every time headlights showed up behind us on the highway, I tensed. We checked the mirrors constantly, half expecting the SUV to reappear. It never did.
I posted about it later. Shared our story online. It blew up—people horrified, others sharing similar tales of being watched, followed in the wilderness. It chilled me, how many stories were out there like ours. That night changed everything.
I still love camping. But I check every car I pass. I take note of license plates. We stick to busier campgrounds, and I always park the car facing the exit. I want to go back to Boysen one day—it’s beautiful. But I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking about that SUV, those headlights in the dark, and the creeping fear of not knowing who—or what—was out there with us.
"Shadows in the Sonoran":
There’s a particular kind of silence you find only in the desert. It’s not just the absence of noise—it’s a stillness that settles into your bones, where time feels stretched thin and every sound echoes louder than it should. That’s what we were looking for—me and my buddies—just a break from the city, a few days without phones buzzing or sirens wailing, a moment to breathe. Tucson had always been a sort of unofficial halfway point for us, a manageable drive but remote enough to feel wild. This time, we’d picked a new spot—an unmarked clearing off a dusty, forgotten service road an hour southeast of the city, known for its pitch-black night skies and endless views of craggy hills and saguaro forests.
There were five of us: me, my girlfriend Sarah, my best friend Jake, his younger brother Ryan, and our other friend David. We were all burned out from work, college stress, and the usual grind. This trip was supposed to reset everything.
We arrived in the late afternoon, just as the sun began to smear orange and gold across the horizon. The terrain was harsh but beautiful, jagged rocks and hardy desert plants bathed in the soft glow of twilight. We picked a relatively flat spot to pitch our tents, carefully setting up away from obvious animal trails. The air smelled faintly of creosote and dust, warm with the last breath of day.
By sundown, the fire was crackling, our gear was set, and a few cold beers were cracked open. We roasted marshmallows, told the same stories we’d always told, and laughed like we hadn’t in months.
“Remember that time we got lost on that hike in Colorado?” Jake laughed, nudging the fire with a long stick.
“Yeah, and you swore up and down you knew the way back,” I said, grinning.
“Hey, we made it out alive, didn’t we?” he shot back, mock offended.
The stars began to reveal themselves one by one, dazzling against the ink-black sky. Out there, it felt like you could touch the Milky Way if you stood on your toes. Coyotes howled in the distance. Nothing felt wrong. Nothing felt out of place. Not yet.
We all turned in around midnight. Sarah and I zipped ourselves into our tent, warm inside our sleeping bags, listening to the chirr of insects and the occasional whoosh of wind brushing over the desert floor. There was a peacefulness to it—until the peace shattered.
It must’ve been around 3 a.m. when I woke up. Something had pulled me from sleep. Not a sound exactly, more like an instinct. I lay still, breath held, trying to identify it. Then I heard it. Sniffing. Slow, deliberate, almost human. The kind of sound a dog might make when searching for something—but deeper. Wetter.
It was right outside our tent.
My heart thudded against my ribcage. I turned my head toward Sarah. She was awake, her eyes wide, staring at me.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered, barely audible.
I nodded slowly. The sniffing continued, moving around the tent. It wasn't rushing—it was methodical, deliberate, like whatever was out there was inspecting us. I could hear the crunch of gravel under slow-moving feet or paws. And then… it moved away from our tent.
It headed toward Jake and Ryan’s.
We both held our breath, straining to hear. The sniffing grew louder near their tent, and then came a sudden rustling—Jake or Ryan shifting inside.
Then Jake’s voice, sharp and loud in the dead stillness:
“Hey! Who's out there?”
Silence.
A heartbeat passed.
Then, as if it had been waiting to be noticed, the sniffing stopped.
I heard the zipper of Jake’s tent slide open. He stepped out, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel. A flashlight beam swept through the darkness, cutting sharp lines through the sagebrush and shadows. He held his pistol low and steady, his voice stern.
“Show yourself!”
For a few seconds, there was nothing. Just firelight embers and the creak of the wind. Then, from behind a mesquite tree, a figure stepped into the light.
It was a man.
He was barefoot, filthy, his clothes shredded and caked in dust and dried blood. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken, mouth slightly open as if he couldn’t remember how to speak. He stared into the flashlight like a deer, unmoving.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Jake barked, gun raised.
Still, no answer.
And then, without a sound, the man turned and bolted into the darkness.
Jake chased after him, flashlight beam bouncing wildly. We all scrambled out of our tents, adrenaline pumping. I grabbed Sarah’s hand tightly as we waited, hearing only Jake’s fading shouts.
Five minutes later, he came back alone, panting and pale.
“He’s gone,” he muttered. “Ran straight into the brush. I couldn’t catch him.”
We didn’t wait to discuss it. In ten minutes flat, we tore down the tents, shoved gear into duffels, and were speeding down that dirt road with dust trailing behind us like smoke from a fire. None of us said a word until we hit the main road. No one slept that night.
Months passed, and that night became one of those stories we told cautiously, as if speaking it aloud might summon it again. But eventually, the memory dulled, and the itch to escape returned. Maybe we were just unlucky that first time, we told ourselves. A one-in-a-million fluke.
A year later, we planned another trip—still in Arizona, but far from where that incident had happened. This time, we’d be smarter. We’d sleep in our vehicles. It felt safer, somehow—metal doors, locks, glass between us and the wild.
We arrived early, set up a fire pit, cooked some food, and even managed to enjoy ourselves. The sunset was glorious, painting the sky in fiery reds and purples. Coyotes howled again that night, but it sounded distant, harmless.
Around 2 a.m., I was sleeping in the back of my SUV with Sarah, the rear seats folded flat beneath a mess of blankets. The windows were cracked just enough to let in cool air. I stirred slightly, still half asleep—until I saw it.
A beam of light, steady and searching, sliding across the window.
Not moonlight. It was too direct, too calculated.
I froze. My blood ran cold. The flashlight moved from our vehicle to the next, pausing on each window. Through squinted eyes, I watched the silhouette of a man. He wasn’t stumbling. He wasn’t confused. He was observing.
He stood outside Jake and Ryan’s vehicle for a long moment, the light held high.
I could see Jake’s face inside—eyes just barely open, watching but unmoving, same as me. None of us wanted to confront this stranger again.
And then… just like before… the figure turned and walked off into the night. No words. No rush. Just gone.
We waited a full ten minutes before moving. No one wanted to be the first. Then I slowly sat up and whispered to Sarah, “Did you see him?”
She nodded, pale as the moon. “Who was that?”
I didn’t have an answer.
We roused the others, and no one argued when I said we should leave. Engines roared to life one by one, and we peeled out of that makeshift camp, headlights cutting through the black emptiness as we sped toward civilization.
To this day, I still don’t know who those men were—if it was the same man both times or different ones. If they were living out there… or if they were watching.
But I do know this: the desert doesn’t give up its secrets easily. And sometimes, you stumble into things that weren’t meant to be found. Things that watch from the shadows. Things that wait.
And now, even years later, every time I see the desert stretching out under a blood-red sky, I wonder if they’re still out there. Watching. Waiting for the next group who just wanted a little peace and quiet.