"The Green Jacket":
It was a warm, golden July evening in 2015, the kind that made everything feel slower, softer, like time itself had stretched out to bask in the sun. I had just returned to my small village in the English countryside after finishing university. The adjustment back to quiet life felt strange—comforting and suffocating all at once. The village, with its stone cottages, winding lanes, and fields that rolled on forever, hadn’t changed a bit. And neither had my parents, who welcomed me back with open arms—and their usual barrage of questions about my future. So I did what I always used to do when I needed to think, or not think: I went for a walk in the woods.
Evening walks had always been my thing. A bit of solitude, a bit of weed, and a lot of trees. It helped me clear my head, even when I didn’t know what was cluttering it. That evening, I set out a little later than usual—closer to seven. The sun was just beginning to sink behind the distant hills, bleeding orange and pink across the sky like a watercolor painting come to life. Shadows grew long across the fields, creeping toward the treeline where the woods began. I lit a joint as I passed the stile, took a slow drag, and stepped into the forest.
The woods near my home were more than familiar—they were sacred. I’d walked those paths since I was a kid, learning every turn, every crooked tree, every moss-covered rock. There was something comforting in that, something that made me feel invisible, untouchable. I wasn’t scared of the dark out there. The woods had never been cruel to me.
The gravel path crunched softly beneath my sneakers. Birds were still singing somewhere high in the trees, and the air was warm with the last breath of the day. As I walked, my music filled my ears, something mellow and dreamy that suited the moment perfectly. I was lost in it, in the rhythm of the trail and the rhythm of my thoughts, when I saw him—John, an old man from the village, coming toward me with his ancient golden retriever, Max.
“Evening, John!” I called, pulling out one earbud.
John smiled, the deep lines in his face folding like creased paper. “Evening, love. Bit late for a walk, isn’t it?”
“Just needed some air,” I said, crouching to scratch behind Max’s ears. The dog wagged his tail, tongue lolling.
John’s smile faded slightly. He glanced toward the trees, now darkening to deep green shadows. “Be careful out there,” he said. “Woods can feel different at night.”
I gave a light laugh. “I’ll be fine. I know these woods better than I know myself.”
He didn’t laugh. Just nodded slowly and kept walking. I stood there a moment longer, watching him go, that little seed of unease already planted in the back of my mind.
I continued along the path, now dappled with fading light. It was quiet. Peaceful. But the further I walked, the heavier the silence seemed to get. The birds had gone still. Even the wind felt like it was holding its breath.
That’s when I saw him.
A man, tall and thin, walking toward me on the path. He wore a bright green jacket—neon almost—out of place in the muted colors of the woods. His hood was up, despite the heat, shadowing his face. As he drew closer, I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They locked on mine, unblinking. His gaze was hard. Cold. There was no recognition in it—just an eerie stillness that sent a chill crawling down my spine.
I looked down quickly, telling myself not to be ridiculous. People walk in the woods all the time. Still, I slowed my pace just enough to let him pass. But when I glanced back, my stomach dropped.
He’d stopped.
He was standing still in the middle of the path, turned now to face me again. And then, slowly, deliberately, he began walking in my direction.
My mouth went dry. I looked ahead and kept walking, faster this time, trying not to panic. Maybe he was just going the same way. Maybe he’d forgotten something and was turning around. A thousand rational explanations ran through my head, but none of them quieted the alarm building in my gut.
I reached a narrow side path, barely more than a deer trail, and veered down it. It was overgrown and rarely used, winding deeper into the forest where the trees grew tighter, taller, and closer. I walked quickly, heart hammering, my ears straining for any sound behind me.
Crunch. Crunch. Faster footsteps.
He was following me.
I glanced back, and in that brief moment, I saw him again—his hood still up, that hideous green jacket slicing through the darkness like a signal flare.
Then he shouted.
“Hey! Stop running, or I’ll slit your throat!”
His voice was rough, cracked like old leather, filled with an angry, feral sort of glee. It didn’t sound like a threat—it sounded like a promise.
My body moved before my brain could catch up. I ran, the forest blurring past, branches lashing at my arms, brambles tearing at my legs. My lungs burned. My throat felt raw. I couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, couldn’t scream. Just run.
I veered off the trail, into the undergrowth, ducking under branches and crashing through ferns. The world had narrowed down to breath and fear and noise—his footsteps, his voice, my own heartbeat thudding like a war drum.
Eventually, I threw myself behind a thick oak and crouched low, pressing my back to the bark. I held my breath, listening.
The footsteps slowed. Then stopped. Silence.
“I know you’re here,” he called out. His voice had changed. Quieter now. Calm. Almost tender. “Come out, and maybe I’ll go easy on you.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying to silence the gasp that slipped out. I could hear him breathing. Could feel the tension in the air, thick and pressing down on me.
I looked around desperately, spotted a rock half-buried in the dirt, and with trembling fingers, I pried it loose and threw it to the left. It clacked against a tree.
He lunged toward the sound, crashing through the brush. “You think you’re clever?” he snarled.
I didn’t wait. I ran in the opposite direction, my legs screaming in protest. The trees pressed in on me, the fading light now almost completely gone. I stumbled, fell, got up again. At some point, my phone slipped from my pocket, vanishing into the undergrowth, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
Eventually, I stumbled into a stream, its cold water shocking against my burning skin. It cut through the woods like a silver ribbon, glinting faintly in the rising moonlight. Something my dad had once said flashed in my mind—follow a stream, and you’ll find your way out. It was the only thread of hope I had.
I followed the stream for what felt like hours, trudging through the icy water, slipping on stones, branches slapping at my face. My body ached. My clothes were soaked. I was scratched, bruised, terrified, but I didn’t stop.
Every rustle in the bushes sent panic shooting through me. I kept expecting to hear him again, to see that hideous green jacket break through the trees. I whispered to myself like a mantra, over and over: Just keep going. Just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
Then, finally, a flicker of light. Soft, golden, distant—but real.
Village lights.
My legs found one last burst of strength, and I ran—tripping, staggering, tears blurring my vision—until I broke through the edge of the trees and tumbled onto the road.
Home.
I don’t even remember crossing the lawn, just that I was banging on the door, screaming.
My mum flung it open. Her face turned white. “Oh my God, where have you been?” she cried, grabbing me, pulling me inside.
My dad appeared seconds later. “What the hell happened?” he asked, his voice rising with panic.
I collapsed onto the hallway floor, sobbing, shaking. The words tumbled out between gasps. The man. The chase. The threat. The woods.
“He said he’d slit my throat,” I whispered.
My mum held me, arms wrapped so tightly I could barely breathe, her own tears wetting my hair. “You’re safe now,” she kept saying. “You’re safe now.” But her voice trembled.
The police came within the hour. I told them everything, from the jacket to his voice, to the last place I’d seen him. They searched the woods that night, and again the next morning. But there was nothing. No footprints. No jacket. No trace. Not even my phone.
Just silence.
I never saw him again. But I still hear his voice sometimes, when the house is too quiet or the trees sway a certain way in the wind.
That night changed something in me. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I still walk in the woods now and then, but never alone—and never after dark. My neighbor’s pitbull, Rusty, comes with me. He doesn’t leave my side, and I don’t go without him.
I don’t know who that man was. I don’t know why he chose me. Maybe it was random. Maybe it wasn’t. But I’ll never forget that cold stare. That voice. Or the feeling that I was prey.
The woods never felt quite like home again.
Aric and I had been camping in Mount Hood National Forest for two days, but it wasn’t the peaceful, soul-soothing getaway I’d imagined. The idea was to unplug, reconnect, let the sounds of the forest and the scent of pine needles melt away our stress. But reality rarely lives up to expectations. We’d been bickering since the morning—petty stuff that spiraled into bigger things. Whose turn it was to clean the mess kit, why he packed the instant oatmeal I hated, how he’d completely forgotten the bug spray despite promising twice that he wouldn’t. I’d had enough.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the tops of the trees in golden light, my patience had worn thin. I could feel the storm building in my chest, that pressure of words unsaid and old wounds reopened.
“I need some space, Aric,” I snapped, yanking my water bottle off the camp chair. My fingers trembled with frustration. My shorts and tank top, fine for the warm afternoon, were already giving me chills in the cooling dusk, but I didn’t care.
Aric stood by the tent, arms crossed, his expression tight but pleading. “Pam, come on. I’m sorry, okay? Just—don’t go walking off. It’s getting dark.”
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I said over my shoulder, not even meeting his eyes. I couldn’t. If I did, I might cry, or worse, back down. My pride wouldn’t let me. My feet carried me into the woods before I could think about where I was headed, the crunch of dry pine needles and twigs underfoot drowning out whatever he said next.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. No rustling of animals, no chatter of nearby campers—just a faint breeze weaving through the evergreens and the distant caw of a raven. The deeper I went, the thicker the trees grew, their trunks rising like sentinels, watching me, judging me. The canopy above dulled what was left of the light, casting everything in cool shades of blue and gray. I walked fast, blindly, trying to burn off my anger. I just needed distance. Some room to breathe.
That’s when it happened.
My foot caught on a root. I lurched forward, flailing for balance, but the ground didn’t meet me. It dropped. A hidden slope disguised by brush and shadow. I tumbled, careening down an incline so steep it felt like a trapdoor had opened beneath me. Branches whipped my arms and legs, rocks slammed into my hips and back. I barely had time to scream before a sickening crack echoed through my body—and then everything stopped.
I landed hard. The air rushed out of my lungs. My ears rang. I couldn’t breathe for a moment, just gasped and blinked up at the jagged patch of sky through the canopy above. My left leg throbbed with a white-hot intensity that made my stomach turn. I tried to move it. I screamed. It wasn’t just pain—it was wrong. Bent in a way no leg should be. I reached down and touched it. Hot, swollen, and unnaturally angled. Broken, definitely.
My back ached too, sharp and deep, like something inside had been wrenched or torn. The air was growing colder by the second. I was deep in a ravine, crumpled between rocks and roots, a hundred feet away from the path I’d stormed off of—and a million miles from help.
“Help!” I yelled, my voice cracking. I waited. Nothing. “Aric!” I tried again, weaker this time. The forest answered only with the rustle of wind through leaves and the occasional flutter of wings. No footsteps. No voices.
I was alone.
The sun sank fast, and night crept in like a tide. I could feel the temperature drop with each passing hour. Goosebumps crawled across my arms, and my sweat turned cold. My tank top clung to me like ice. I tried to shift, dragging myself toward a patch of moss near the rocks. I gathered it in trembling hands and pulled it over myself like a blanket, but it offered little protection—damp, earthy, smelling of rot and decay. My teeth began to chatter.
I thought of the granola bar I’d eaten hours ago, of the water bottle now lost somewhere in the ravine. My stomach gnawed at itself. My throat felt dry and raw.
“Stay calm, Pam,” I whispered through chattering teeth. “You can do this. Help will come.” But the words felt like a lie. Did Aric know which direction I went? Had he even seen me leave the trail? Was he calling for help—or was he assuming I’d just walked off in a huff, needing time to cool down?
The sounds of the forest changed as night deepened. The trees creaked like old bones. Something rustled nearby—too large to be a bird. I gripped a broken branch beside me, knuckles white. Shadows moved, and every one of them looked like a bear, or worse. I forced myself to hum, then sing softly, breathlessly. Beatles songs. “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…” My dad used to play that one when I was little. The melody grounded me, kept the panic at bay. Barely.
I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. Every time I drifted, the pain jolted me awake, or a noise would snap my eyes open. By dawn, I was shaking uncontrollably, my body stiff and sore. My leg was swollen, a deep purple hue beneath the bruises and blood. My back felt splintered, like every movement drove a knife into my spine.
But I was still alive.
I spotted a glimmer through the trees—water. A creek. It was only twenty or thirty feet away, but getting there felt impossible. I gritted my teeth and started to crawl. Inch by inch. My knees scraped raw. My palms bled. My whole body trembled with the effort. But I made it. I collapsed by the water and drank greedily, ignoring the grit and metallic taste. It was life. It was everything.
My hunger clawed at me next. I scoured the bushes nearby and found berries—dark, waxy ones. Oregon Grapes. Tart and sour, but edible. I shoved them into my mouth. It wasn’t enough. My eyes landed on a fat green caterpillar. Disgust rose in my throat. But so did desperation.
I ate it.
It burst with a bitter, slimy texture that made me gag, but I kept it down. Next was a slug. I tried, but it was too much. I spat it out, tears of revulsion and helplessness burning in my eyes.
By the second night, I was almost numb. I curled under a cedar tree, wrapping myself in layers of moss and leaves. The cold seeped into my bones. My breaths were shallow. I could barely move my leg without wanting to scream. I thought of my art students back in Portland, their laughter, the way they’d tease me when I wore mismatched socks or told them to "feel the paint, not just apply it." I pictured their faces, and I ached with longing. I whispered into the darkness, “Don’t die here. Don’t die over a stupid fight.”
Day three. I was out of strength. The berries were gone. The cold felt like it was inside me now. I lay beside the creek, too tired to move, too broken to try. My eyes stared at the sky, hazy with morning light, and I felt myself start to drift. Maybe this was it. Maybe I’d become one of those stories you hear on the news, about a woman who walked into the woods and never came back.
Then I heard it.
A faint buzz. Insects? No. It was deeper. Louder. A rhythmic chop through the air. I blinked, trying to focus. A helicopter. I sat up too fast and cried out in pain, but I didn’t stop. I waved my arms, screamed with what little voice I had left.
“Help! Over here!”
The chopper circled. Slowed. Hovered.
A figure descended on a rope—helmet, harness, the sun flashing off his visor. He landed near me, crouched low, his voice booming over the noise.
“Hi, I’m here to help! Can you tell me your name?”
“Pamela,” I gasped, sobbing now. “Pamela Salant.”
“We’ve got you, Pamela,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “You’re gonna be okay.”
They strapped me into a stretcher, lifted me skyward as the forest dropped away below, a beautiful, terrifying sea of green that had nearly claimed me. At the hospital, they told me I had a shattered tibia, two cracked vertebrae, a lacerated knee. Three days alone. Over a mile crawled. And I’d survived.
Lying in that hospital bed, I thought of Aric. I didn’t know where we stood, or if we even had a future, but I knew one thing for certain: I was stronger than I’d ever imagined. The woods had stripped me bare, broken my body, tested my will—and I’d endured. I’d go camping again someday. But next time, I’d bring a map, a satellite phone, better gear... and I’d never, ever walk away angry again.
Not without a damn good reason.
It was supposed to be just a chill weekend—me, Jake, and Mike, three friends since middle school, finally getting some time away from our busy lives. We’d been talking about it for months—this weekend trip into the woods, no cell service, no traffic, no work stress, just the three of us and nature. Jake found this spot online—a remote campground tucked away in a sprawling forest about an hour and a half from our town. According to the blog he’d read, it was “untouched, serene, and totally disconnected,” with towering old-growth trees, miles of hiking trails, and these crystal-clear streams that ran like silver veins through the woods.
It sounded perfect.
We packed our gear into Mike’s SUV—tents, sleeping bags, food, a cooler of beer, and way too many marshmallows—and hit the road around noon on Friday. As we left the paved highway and turned onto a winding gravel road, the canopy overhead thickened, sunlight filtering through in shifting beams of gold and green. The temperature dropped noticeably. Even though it was late spring, there was a crispness in the air that made me pull on a hoodie.
“Creepy beautiful,” Mike muttered as he drove, glancing at the dense woods through his window.
“Just beautiful,” Jake said with a grin. “Come on, man, where’s your sense of adventure?”
We arrived at the site in the late afternoon. The trees were massive—some of them looked hundreds of years old, their trunks wide enough that three of us together couldn’t wrap our arms around one. Moss hung in shaggy curtains from low branches, and the ground was soft with pine needles. We picked a spot near a clearing, close to a narrow stream that sang quietly over rocks and fallen branches.
It was… peaceful. But not in the usual way. The air felt thick somehow, like the silence here had a weight to it. We chalked it up to being far from civilization. Still, I remember having this weird feeling even then, like we were stepping into somewhere we didn’t entirely belong.
We set up our tents—Jake and Mike shared one, and I had mine just a few feet away. Then we started a fire and got dinner going: hot dogs on sticks, half-burned marshmallows, and beer straight from the cooler. The sun dipped behind the trees faster than we expected, plunging the forest into a dusky twilight that turned pitch black in a matter of minutes. The fire crackled and popped, sparks floating up into the canopy like fireflies.
Jake, as always, steered the conversation into creepy territory.
“You guys ever hear about the disappearances around here?” he asked, voice low, eyes flickering with the firelight.
Mike groaned. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious,” Jake continued. “There was this guy—hiker, solo trip, last year—vanished without a trace. They sent out dogs, drones, dozens of people combing the woods. Never found a thing.”
“You read too many Reddit threads,” Mike muttered.
“I read enough,” Jake replied. “And I’m telling you, this area has a reputation. Locals say people go missing out here more than they should. Like… way more.”
I laughed, trying to shake off the tension creeping up my spine. “Maybe there’s just bad cell service and people get lost. Doesn’t mean it’s cursed or something.”
But Jake’s face was serious now. “I’ve seen posts from people who camped out here and left early because they felt like they were being watched. One guy swore he heard whispering at night—right outside his tent—but when he looked, there was nobody there.”
The fire crackled. An owl hooted somewhere far off. A gust of wind rustled the branches above, and suddenly the forest didn’t feel so still anymore. The night noises were louder now—crickets chirping in uneven rhythms, something scuttling in the underbrush, a distant snapping branch that echoed too loud.
We turned in eventually, though sleep didn’t come easy. I stayed by the fire a little longer, the dying flames casting long shadows that seemed to move even when I didn’t. I kept glancing into the woods, expecting to see… something. I don’t even know what. Just something.
After a while, I grabbed my flashlight and stepped away to relieve myself. I walked about twenty or thirty feet from the campsite, not too far, just enough for privacy. The stream babbled nearby, and the forest was dark—really dark. My flashlight barely pierced it.
And then I saw him.
At first, I thought it was just a log or a pile of leaves, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized it was a person—lying flat on the ground, maybe seven or eight feet away. He was covered head to toe in a ghillie suit, the kind military snipers use. Strips of green and brown fabric draped over his body, making him look like part of the forest floor. But what froze me were his eyes.
He was staring at me.
Wide, unblinking, unafraid. Just watching. Not hiding anymore. Not flinching.
My mouth went dry. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My flashlight trembled in my hand, the beam quivering over the forest floor and that motionless, watching figure.
Then he moved.
Not slowly. Not cautiously. He sprang to his feet in one fluid motion, taller than I expected—over six feet easy—and took off into the woods without a word, vanishing into the undergrowth like he’d melted into it.
I stood there for a second, heart slamming in my chest so hard it made my ribs ache. My legs barely worked as I turned and bolted back toward the campsite.
“Guys!” I shouted, stumbling into the clearing. “Guys, wake up! Now!”
Jake unzipped his tent groggily. “Dude, what the hell—”
“There was someone out there,” I gasped. “A guy in a ghillie suit. He was lying on the ground, watching me. Just… staring.”
Mike emerged too, now wide awake. “Are you serious?”
“I saw him. He ran off when I spotted him.”
Jake was already grabbing his flashlight. “Show me.”
We walked out together, my hands shaking as I pointed out the spot. But there was nothing now—just the soft forest floor and trees swaying gently in the wind. No tracks, no sign of anyone.
“Maybe you imagined it,” Mike offered, though his voice had lost some of its usual sarcasm.
“No way,” I said. “He was real. He looked right at me. That wasn’t some animal or shadow. That was a man.”
Jake looked around uneasily. “Why the hell would someone be out here in a ghillie suit at night?”
I suddenly remembered something. “Last time we came here—remember how Tom’s boots went missing? And we thought animals dragged them off?”
“Yeah,” Mike said slowly.
“What if it wasn’t animals?”
We all stood there in silence, the fire crackling behind us.
“Maybe we should leave,” Jake finally said.
But we didn’t. It was too late, too dark, and honestly, we were too scared to trek back to the car in the middle of the night. Instead, we decided to take shifts watching the camp. I took first watch.
I sat with my flashlight and a poker from the fire, staring into the woods, every sound amplified in my ears. Leaves rustling. Sticks cracking. Once, I thought I saw movement—just a flicker of something low to the ground—but when I shone the light, there was nothing. Just trees. Always just trees.
I woke Jake after a few hours, then crawled into my tent. I didn’t sleep. Not really. I kept dreaming of eyes in the dark. Wide. Unblinking. Silent.
The next morning, we packed up fast. We barely spoke. It wasn’t like we agreed to leave—we just knew we weren’t staying another night. Not after that.
On the drive back, we tried to laugh it off. Mike suggested maybe it was some reclusive hunter, or some guy messing with campers for fun. Jake mentioned those off-grid folks who live in national forests. “Maybe he’s one of them,” he said. “Watching us like we’re trespassing.”
But I wasn’t convinced.
There was something in that stare. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t curious. It was cold, calculated, studying me. Like he’d been there a long time. Like he knew we’d come before we even arrived.
I haven’t been camping since. Every once in a while, I think about that forest. About how quiet it was. About how easily someone could live out there, hidden, unseen. Waiting.
I still don’t know who he was. Or how long he’d been there. Or what he wanted.
But I think about those eyes more often than I care to admit.
And I know he’s still out there.