3 Very Scary TRUE Camper Sleepwalking Horror Stories

 

"The Road Downhill":

I was on our annual camping trip with my son, Jordan, in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness in Idaho. We’d pitched our tent near a quiet dirt road below Pinyon Peak, a spot we picked for its solitude and the way the valley opened up to a sky full of stars. The day had been perfect. We hiked a rugged trail, our boots crunching on pine needles, and Jordan kept pointing out animal tracks—deer, maybe a fox. “Dad, think we’ll spot a bear this year?” he asked, grinning as we roasted hot dogs over the campfire later. The flames crackled, casting shadows on his face. “Better not,” I chuckled, poking the fire with a stick. “Let’s keep it calm, kid.” We swapped stories about past trips, laughing about the time he dropped his marshmallow in the dirt and tried to eat it anyway. By the time we crawled into our tent, I was bone-tired but content, wrapped in long johns, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, wool socks, and a light thermal layer. I hadn’t sleepwalked since I was a teenager, over fifty years ago, so I didn’t give it a thought as I drifted off.

Sometime deep in the night, my eyes snapped open. I wasn’t in my sleeping bag. I was standing in the forest, barefoot, my heart thumping like a drum. The air was sharp, biting at my skin through my clothes. Trees towered around me, their branches like dark, twisted arms reaching out. My vision was blurry without my contacts, turning the world into a smear of shadows and shapes. I blinked hard, trying to make sense of it. How did I get here? My mind was foggy, like I was still half in a dream. Up on the ridge, I saw faint lights flickering, like houses glowing through the trees. My sleepy brain latched onto them—safety, people, warmth. I started walking, my bare feet stumbling over roots and rocks, each step sending a jolt of pain through me. The ground was cold, rough, littered with pinecones that dug into my soles like tiny knives.

I don’t know how long I walked before I tripped over a log and plunged into a creek. The water hit me like a slap, so cold it stole my breath. I gasped, flailing as the icy current soaked my clothes, weighing me down. I clawed my way to the bank, dragging myself onto the muddy edge, my teeth chattering so hard my jaw ached. The lights on the ridge were gone. No houses, no people—just endless trees stretching into the dark. The truth hit me like a punch: I’d sleepwalked, and I was lost. Panic clawed at my chest, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst. I was alone in the wilderness, wet, freezing, and barefoot, with no idea where our camp was.

I hugged myself, trying to stop the shaking, but my clothes were plastered to my skin, already stiffening in the cold. My feet were numb, but every step sent a dull ache up my legs. I had to move, had to find the road. “Downhill,” I muttered, my voice trembling. “The road’s downhill.” I remembered setting up camp near that dirt road, so I started walking, picking my way through the underbrush. Thorns snagged at my pants, and sharp rocks cut into my feet, but I kept going, driven by the fear of what would happen if I stopped. The forest was alive with sounds—twigs snapping, leaves rustling, an owl hooting somewhere far off. Each noise made me flinch, my mind conjuring images of predators lurking just out of sight.

“Jordan’s waiting,” I told myself, picturing his worried face. “You have to get back to him.” But the forest seemed to stretch on forever. I walked one way for what felt like a mile, hoping to see our tent or the glow of our campfire. Nothing. I turned back, trying another direction, my legs heavy, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The moon broke through the clouds, casting a pale light that turned the trees into ghostly silhouettes. It helped me see, but it made everything feel wrong, like I was trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. My mind started playing tricks. I saw a house in the distance, its windows glowing warm, but when I got closer, it was just a boulder catching the moonlight. Later, I froze, thinking I saw an elk standing still, its eyes glinting, but it was only a gnarled tree stump. The cold was getting to me, sinking into my bones, making my thoughts sluggish.

My feet were bleeding now, the soles raw and torn. Each step was agony, like walking on broken glass. I stopped to lean against a tree, my breath puffing out in clouds. “Keep moving,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “You stop, you die.” I’d read about hypothermia, how it creeps up, makes you tired, makes you see things that aren’t there. I was scared—scared I wouldn’t find the road, scared I’d collapse out here, scared Jordan would wake up to an empty tent. I pushed on, stumbling through the dark, my hands brushing against rough bark as I steadied myself. Hours passed, or maybe it just felt that way. Time was a blur, measured only by the pain in my feet and the growing weight of fear.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the trees thinned, and I saw open meadows. A dirt turnoff lay ahead, and there, like a miracle, was a camper, its windows glowing with soft light. My heart leapt, hope flaring despite the exhaustion. I staggered over, my legs barely holding me up, and knocked on the door, my knuckles stinging from the cold. It creaked open, and three guys stared at me, their faces a mix of shock and confusion. The oldest, with a gray beard and a flannel shirt, spoke first. “You okay, man? What happened?” His voice was gruff but kind.

“I need help,” I croaked, my throat dry, my voice shaking. “I sleepwalked from my camp. I don’t know where I am.” The other two, younger guys with wide eyes, exchanged looks. “Sleepwalked? Out here?” one said, his voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re soaked through.” The bearded guy pulled me inside, the warmth of the camper hitting me like a wave. “Sit down,” he said, tossing a wool blanket over my shoulders. “Where’s your camp?” I rubbed my hands together, trying to feel my fingers. “Near Pinyon Peak, by the dirt road. My son’s there. Jordan.” My voice cracked saying his name. The youngest guy, wearing a beanie, frowned. “That’s miles from here. You walked all that way barefoot?” I nodded, too tired to explain more.

“Alright, let’s get you back,” the bearded guy said, grabbing his keys. “Name’s Tom, by the way. This is Dave and Chris.” He gestured to the others. “Thank you,” I managed, my teeth still chattering. They helped me into their truck, the heater blasting hot air that felt like needles on my frozen skin. We drove down the dirt road, the headlights cutting through the dark. I kept my eyes peeled for our camp, my heart pounding with hope and fear. What if Jordan wasn’t there? What if he’d gone looking for me?

When we finally reached the spot, I saw Jordan outside the tent, pacing, his flashlight beam swinging wildly. “Dad!” he shouted, running toward the truck as I stumbled out. His face was pale, his eyes red, like he’d been crying. “Where were you? I woke up, and you were gone. I looked everywhere!” His voice broke, and he threw his arms around me, nearly knocking me over. “I’m okay, Jordan,” I said, hugging him back, my legs wobbling. “I sleepwalked. Got lost.” He pulled back, looking me over, and his eyes widened at my feet—purple, swollen, streaked with blood and dirt. “Dad, your feet… we need to get you to a hospital,” he said, his voice tight with worry.

Tom stepped forward, his face serious. “You’re lucky, man. This wilderness doesn’t mess around.” I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. “Thank you,” I said again, shaking their hands. Chris, the quiet one, gave me a small smile. “Get warm, alright? And maybe lock your tent next time.” They drove off, their taillights fading into the dark. Jordan helped me to our car, wrapping another blanket around me. “I was so scared, Dad,” he said as we started driving to town. “I thought… I thought you were gone.” I reached over, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m here, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

At the hospital, the doctor cleaned my feet, bandaging the cuts and treating early frostbite. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose any toes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Another few hours out there, and it could’ve been worse.” I lay back on the exam table, exhausted, the fear still lingering like a bad taste. Jordan sat beside me, his face still pale. “Next time, we’re tying you to the sleeping bag,” he said, trying to joke, but his voice shook. I managed a weak smile. “Deal.”

That night replayed in my head for weeks—the cold, the dark, the way the forest seemed to close in around me. I’d always loved the wilderness, felt at home in it, but that night, it was something else. It was alive, waiting, ready to swallow me whole if I let it. I still camp with Jordan, but now we lock the tent, and I keep my shoes close. Just in case.

"The Forest Was Silent—Until I Woke Up Somewhere I Shouldn’t Be":

I was on a solo backpacking trip in Colorado’s San Juan National Forest, craving the quiet of the wilderness to escape the noise of my life back home. I’d hiked these trails before, so I felt confident picking a spot to camp near a rocky outcrop by a gurgling stream. The plan was simple: three days of hiking, sleeping under the stars, and clearing my head. I had no clue that my first night would spiral into a nightmare, all because of sleepwalking—something I didn’t even know I could do.

The day had been grueling. I’d trekked eight miles up steep, winding trails, my pack heavy with gear. My legs ached, and my shoulders burned from the straps digging in. By the time I found a flat spot to camp, I was wiped out. The site was perfect, or so I thought—a small clearing surrounded by towering pines, with the stream nearby and a rocky slope dropping off about 20 feet to a jagged ravine below. I didn’t think much of the drop; it was far enough from my tent, maybe 10 yards. I set up my one-person tent, hammering stakes into the hard ground, and cooked a quick meal on my camp stove—noodles with a packet of tuna, washed down with a protein bar. Sitting by the stream, I watched the water ripple over smooth stones, the sound calming my nerves. I felt alone, but in a good way, like the forest was mine.

Before crawling into my tent, I double-checked everything: stove off, food bag tied high in a tree to keep bears away, flashlight tucked in my pocket. I changed into a thermal shirt, long pants, and thick wool socks, then zipped myself into my sleeping bag. The tent’s nylon walls felt like a cocoon, safe and snug. I didn’t bother zipping the door all the way, leaving it half-open for air. My last thought before drifting off was how peaceful it was, the stream’s murmur lulling me to sleep. I had no idea my body was about to betray me.

I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke to a jolt of pain so sharp it stole my breath. My face was pressed against cold, jagged rocks, grit digging into my cheek. My hands burned, scraped raw, and my left ankle screamed like it was trapped in a bear trap. My head throbbed, and something warm trickled down my temple—blood, I realized, touching it with trembling fingers. It was pitch black, the kind of dark where you can’t see your own hands. My heart hammered as I tried to make sense of where I was. I wasn’t in my tent. I was outside, sprawled on a rocky slope, the ground uneven beneath me. Panic clawed at my chest. Had I sleepwalked? I’d never done it before, not even as a kid. The idea was absurd, but there was no other explanation.

I tried to sit up, but my ankle buckled under me, sending a fresh wave of pain up my leg. I gasped, collapsing back onto the rocks. My socks were gone, my feet bare and stinging from the cold. My thermal shirt was torn at the elbow, and my pants were damp, clinging to my legs. I fumbled for my phone in my pocket—gone. My flashlight, too. No light, no way to call for help. “Help!” I shouted, my voice hoarse. “Is anyone there?” The sound echoed off the rocks, swallowed by the vastness of the forest. Nothing answered but the stream’s faint gurgle and a rustle of leaves somewhere nearby. I was alone, injured, and had no idea how far I’d wandered from my tent.

My mind raced, pulling up a story I’d read years ago about a guy in Kentucky, 2014, who sleepwalked off a 60-foot cliff while camping in the Red River Gorge. He’d survived by pure luck, landing in a bush. The thought made my stomach lurch. I felt around, my hands shaking as they brushed over loose gravel and sharp stones. I was on a slope, steeper than I’d realized, with the ravine below me. If I’d taken one more step in my sleep, I could’ve plummeted further. The drop wasn’t as high as that guy’s, but 20 feet onto rocks was enough to kill me. My breath hitched as I imagined my body broken at the bottom, unseen in the dark.

“Stay calm,” I muttered to myself, my voice trembling. “You’re alive. Find the tent.” I forced myself to crawl, dragging my bad ankle, each movement sending fire through my leg. My hands groped the ground, feeling pine needles, cold dirt, and more rocks. Every few feet, I stopped to listen, hoping for a sign of my camp—the stream, maybe, or the rustle of my tent. But the forest was disorienting, every shadow blending into the next. I kept talking to keep the panic at bay: “You’ll find it. Just follow the stream. It’s close.” But doubt crept in. What if I was crawling deeper into the wilderness? What if I was nowhere near my camp?

The cold was sinking in now, my fingers numb, my clothes damp from the ground. My teeth chattered, and I started to shiver uncontrollably. I knew enough about hypothermia to be scared—alone, injured, and wet in the middle of the night wasn’t good. I tried to focus on moving, but my mind kept conjuring threats. A branch snapped somewhere to my left, and I froze, heart pounding. “Just an animal,” I whispered, but my imagination painted worse—bears, mountain lions, things I’d dismissed in daylight. Another sound came, a low grunt, far off but close enough to make my skin crawl. I held my breath, waiting. It didn’t come again, but the silence felt heavier, like the forest was watching me.

I don’t know how long I crawled—maybe an hour, maybe two. Time blurred, each second stretching into eternity. My hands were bloody now, cut from the rocks, and my ankle was swollen, the pain making me dizzy. I started seeing things—shapes in the dark, like a tent or a trail sign, but when I reached out, they were just bushes or trees. My mind was playing tricks, exhaustion and fear mixing into a haze. “You’re not going to die out here,” I told myself, but the words felt hollow. I thought about my family, my friends, wondering if they’d ever find me. The guy from that Kentucky story had been lucky. Would I be?

Then, I heard it—the stream, louder now, its steady gurgle cutting through the quiet. Hope surged, giving me a burst of energy. I crawled faster, ignoring the pain, following the sound. My hand brushed something soft—my sleeping bag, tangled in a cluster of bushes. I almost cried with relief. I followed the fabric, my fingers tracing it like a lifeline, until I felt the familiar nylon of my tent. I’d wandered maybe 50 yards, down the slope and into the brush. How I hadn’t fallen further, I’ll never know. I crawled inside, zipping the door shut with shaking hands, and collapsed onto the tent floor, my breath ragged. My ankle throbbed, my hands bled, but I was safe. For now.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I sat up, clutching my small camp knife, jumping at every sound outside. The forest felt alive, hostile, like it had tried to swallow me. I kept replaying what happened—unzipping the tent, walking out, stumbling down the slope, all while asleep. It was terrifying, not knowing what my own body was capable of. I thought about that Kentucky guy again, how he’d stepped off a cliff without waking. He’d had friends to find him. I was alone, with no one to hear me fall.

At first light, I assessed the damage. My ankle was purple, swollen to twice its size. My hands were a mess of cuts and bruises, and a gash on my forehead had crusted over with blood. I packed up as best I could, using a stick as a crutch, and hobbled back to the trailhead—a slow, agonizing mile. Every step felt like a gamble, my ankle threatening to give out. When I finally reached my car, I sat in the driver’s seat, hands shaking on the wheel, too rattled to move. I drove to the nearest ranger station, limping inside like a ghost.

The ranger, a woman with gray streaks in her hair, took one look at me and stood up. “You okay?” she asked, her voice sharp with concern.
“I sleepwalked,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Fell down a slope. I think my ankle’s sprained, maybe worse.”
Her eyes widened as she grabbed a first-aid kit. “You’re lucky you didn’t go over the edge. We had a guy a while back, sleepwalked off a cliff in Kentucky. Barely survived.”
I nodded, my stomach twisting. “I heard about that.”
“Sit down,” she said, wrapping a blanket around me. “We’ll get you to a clinic.”

They drove me to a small hospital, where a doctor cleaned my cuts and confirmed a severe ankle sprain, no fracture, thankfully. I had bruises everywhere, a mild concussion from hitting my head, and needed stitches for the gash on my forehead. “You’re lucky,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses. “People don’t always walk away from falls like that.”
“I didn’t even know I could sleepwalk,” I said, still stunned.
“New places can trigger it,” he said. “Stress, too. You need to be careful camping alone. Maybe get a tether for your sleeping bag next time.”

When I got home, I called my friend Jake, needing to tell someone.
“You could’ve died,” he said, his voice tight. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out there by yourself?”
“I didn’t think I had to,” I said. “I’ve never sleepwalked before. I didn’t know.”
“That’s creepy as hell,” he said. “Your own body just... taking over like that.”
“I know,” I said, my throat tight. “I’m not going back out there without a plan. Tether, locks, something.”

I haven’t returned to the wilderness since. Every time I think about camping, I see myself waking up on that slope, the dark pressing in, the grunt in the distance. The scariest part isn’t the fall or the pain—it’s that I had no control. My body moved without me, leading me straight into danger. I keep a tether by my bed now, just in case, and I check it every night, wondering if I’ll ever feel safe again.

"The Light Beyond the Trees":

The knot in my stomach wouldn’t loosen. My friend Alex had been sleepwalking since we were kids, wandering his house in the dead of night, but out here in the vast wilderness of the Appalachian Trail, it felt like a ticking time bomb. We’d come to camp, just the two of us, to escape the grind of city life, to breathe fresh air and reconnect like we used to. The first night was peaceful—Alex snored softly in his sleeping bag, the forest humming with crickets, and I didn’t give his old habit a second thought. But on the second night, everything turned upside down.

I woke to a faint rustling outside the tent, like leaves being crushed underfoot. My eyes snapped open, my pulse already racing. I reached for Alex’s sleeping bag, expecting to feel his shoulder, but my hand met empty fabric. “Alex?” I whispered, sitting up so fast my head spun. No answer. The air felt heavy, the kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

I fumbled for my flashlight, my fingers clumsy with panic, and unzipped the tent. Stepping out, I swept the beam across the campsite. The fire pit was cold, our gear neatly stacked, but Alex was gone. “Alex!” I called, louder now, my voice sharp against the silence. The trees seemed to swallow the sound, their shadows shifting in the flashlight’s glow, making every branch look like a claw reaching out.

I scanned the ground and froze. There, in the soft dirt near the tent, were footprints—bare, uneven, unmistakably Alex’s. He hadn’t even grabbed his boots. My heart sank. The forest floor was a minefield of jagged rocks, thorny vines, and hidden roots, not to mention the drop-offs and streams that lurked beyond our clearing. Sleepwalking here wasn’t just dangerous—it could be deadly.

I followed the tracks, my flashlight trembling in my grip. The beam caught glints of dew on leaves, making them shimmer like eyes in the dark. Every step felt like wading deeper into a nightmare. “Alex, where are you?” I shouted, my voice cracking. The forest didn’t answer, but every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, made my heart lurch. Was it an animal? The wind? Or just my imagination, twisted by fear?

The footprints led deeper into the woods, away from the safety of our camp. I stumbled over a root, catching myself on a tree, the bark rough against my palm. My breath came in short gasps, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Then I heard it—a soft, mumbled voice, barely audible, like someone talking in their sleep. I pushed through a tangle of branches, ignoring the scratches on my arms, until I saw him.

Alex stood by a gnarled oak, his bare feet sinking into the mud, his t-shirt and boxers clinging to his shivering frame. His arms hung limp, his head tilted slightly, staring into the darkness with glassy, unfocused eyes. He looked like a stranger, not the friend I’d known for years.

“Alex,” I said, keeping my voice low, remembering you’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker too suddenly. I stepped closer, the ground squishing under my boots. “It’s me. Let’s go back to the tent.”

He turned slowly, his movements jerky, like a puppet on strings. His eyes locked on mine, but they weren’t seeing me. “I need to find it,” he mumbled, his voice low and eerie, like it was coming from somewhere else.

“Find what?” I asked, my throat tight. I glanced around, half-expecting to see something in the shadows.

“The light,” he said, raising a trembling hand to point into the black void of the forest. “It’s calling me. Can’t you hear it?”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. There was no light, no sound, just the endless maze of trees and shadows that seemed to shift when I wasn’t looking. “Alex, there’s nothing there,” I said, stepping closer. “Come on, let’s go back.” I reached for his arm, my fingers brushing his cold skin. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t move either, his body rigid, like he was still caught in a dream.

I gently tugged his arm, guiding him back toward the camp. His bare feet dragged, stumbling over roots and rocks, and I winced every time he stepped on something sharp. “Almost there,” I said, more to myself than to him. The walk back felt endless, the forest pressing in, every shadow a threat. When we finally reached the tent, I helped him into his sleeping bag, tucking it around him like he was a kid again. He mumbled something incoherent, his eyes fluttering shut. I sat there, flashlight still in hand, watching his chest rise and fall, my mind racing with what could have happened. What if I hadn’t woken up? What if he’d wandered into a stream or off a cliff?

Morning came, and Alex woke up groggy, rubbing his eyes. “What’s with the face?” he asked, noticing my tense expression as I stirred instant coffee over our small camp stove.

“You sleepwalked last night,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You were out in the woods, barefoot, talking about some light that wasn’t there.”

His face fell, a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I thought I was over that,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s fine,” I lied, handing him a mug. “Just… scared me, is all. You were so far out there.” I didn’t mention how my heart was still pounding, how the forest felt different now, like it was watching us.

We stayed close to camp that day, sticking to safe tasks like gathering firewood and boiling water. But Alex was quieter than usual, his eyes darting to the tree line every so often. As evening fell, we sat by the campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows that danced across the clearing.

“Did you hear that?” Alex said suddenly, his voice low, his body tense.

I froze, listening. The fire popped, and an owl hooted in the distance, but nothing else. “Hear what?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

“It’s like… whispering,” he said, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the firelight. “Like it’s saying my name.”

I strained to hear, but there was nothing—just the usual forest sounds. “It’s probably the wind through the trees,” I said, though I wasn’t sure. The wilderness had a way of messing with your head, making you hear things that weren’t there. “Let’s just keep the fire going and stay calm, okay?”

He nodded, but his hands gripped his knees tightly, and I could tell he wasn’t convinced. We turned in early, the tension between us thick. I didn’t want to take chances tonight. I dug through my pack and found a small bell, the kind you’d tie to a dog’s collar, and looped it around Alex’s ankle with some cord. “This’ll wake me if you move,” I explained, trying to sound casual.

He gave a weak smile. “You’re babysitting me now?”

“Something like that,” I said, forcing a laugh. But as I zipped up the tent, the unease settled deeper. Sleep came in fits, my dreams filled with shadows and cliffs.

A faint jingle yanked me awake. My heart lurched—Alex’s sleeping bag was empty, the bell still tinkling faintly in the distance. “No, not again,” I muttered, scrambling for my flashlight. I unzipped the tent and plunged into the darkness, the beam cutting through the night. The bell’s chime was moving away, fast, deeper into the forest.

I ran, my boots pounding the uneven ground, branches snapping against my face. The forest felt alive, every shadow shifting, every sound amplified. Then I heard it—a low, guttural growl, close enough to make my blood freeze. It wasn’t human. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. The wilderness was full of predators, and Alex was out there, oblivious, wandering in his sleep.

“Alex!” I shouted, my voice raw with panic. The growl stopped, replaced by a heavy silence that pressed against my ears. I followed the bell’s faint jingle, my flashlight shaking so badly the beam danced wildly. The ground grew rockier, the trees thinner, and I realized we were nearing a ridge. My stomach dropped—I’d seen it on the map, a steep drop-off that plunged into a ravine below.

I pushed through a final cluster of bushes and saw him. Alex stood at the very edge, his bare feet inches from the drop, his body swaying slightly. Beyond him, the ground fell away into a black void, too deep for my flashlight to reach the bottom. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.

“Alex, don’t move!” I yelled, sprinting toward him. He turned, his eyes wide and glassy, and mumbled, “I have to see it. It’s down there.”

“There’s nothing there!” I shouted, my voice breaking. He took a step forward, his foot hovering over the edge. “No!” I lunged, grabbing his arm and yanking him back. We crashed to the ground, my flashlight rolling away, its beam spinning wildly. I held onto him, my chest heaving, adrenaline burning through me. “Wake up, Alex, please.”

He blinked, his face shifting from blank to confused, then horrified as he saw the drop-off. “What… where are we?” he stammered, his voice trembling. He looked down at his muddy feet, the bell still tied to his ankle, and then at the cliff’s edge. “I was… I almost…”

“You were sleepwalking,” I said, my voice shaking as much as his. “You were about to walk off that cliff.”

His face went pale, his hands trembling as he clutched my arm. “I didn’t know. I could’ve… oh God.”

“We’re leaving,” I said, pulling him to his feet. “We’re packing up and getting out of here. Now.”

We stumbled back to camp, the bell jingling with every step, a haunting reminder of how close we’d come to disaster. We packed in silence, our movements frantic, the forest looming around us like a living thing, indifferent to our fear. As we hiked back to the trailhead, every snap of a twig, every rustle in the bushes, made me flinch. The wilderness didn’t care about us—it was vast, unforgiving, ready to swallow us whole if we let our guard down.

We reached the car just as dawn broke, the sky lightening but doing nothing to ease the weight in my chest. Alex was quiet, staring out the window as we drove away, his face etched with guilt and fear. I kept seeing him on that cliff, his foot hovering over the edge, the growl echoing in the dark. We’d escaped, but the memory of that night—of the forest’s silent threat, of Alex’s blank eyes—would stay with me forever, a reminder that even the simplest things, like a walk in your sleep, could lead you straight into danger.