“Off the Map”:
I hope you brought your flashlight, because it’s time to get comfortable and let the darkness take control.
A couple of years ago, my girlfriend and I decided to take a road trip through the Pacific Northwest. It was one of those spontaneous ideas that started over coffee and quickly spiraled into a full-blown plan. We were going to drive from San Francisco to Portland, weaving through the coastal ranges, the redwood forests, and the misty, pine-drenched wilderness that blankets the upper reaches of California. We’d camp along the way, living out of a rented SUV, following backroads and scenic highways, chasing sunsets and campfires. It was early October—the leaves had just started to turn gold and red, the air was crisp with that unmistakable scent of damp earth and cold pine. The kind of weather that feels adventurous but still warm enough to be cozy, the perfect time for a camping trip.
We had our route loosely mapped, but we left a lot of room for spontaneity. That first evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon and the golden light filtered through the trees, we pulled off the highway and followed a narrow forest road toward a campground we’d found online. It was supposed to be remote, quiet, nestled between tall firs and hidden beside a creek. When we arrived, though, our stomachs sank—the place was shut down. A rusted gate blocked the road, and a weather-beaten wooden sign dangled on a chain, swaying slightly in the breeze. CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
We sat there for a minute, idling in the car. The sun was fading fast, bleeding orange and purple across the sky. The shadows in the trees were getting longer, darker. We checked the website again. It had definitely said open. I remember thinking it was strange—there hadn’t been any warning signs on the road in, and the closure looked like it had been that way for a while. But there we were: twilight approaching, nowhere to sleep, and a whole lot of wilderness surrounding us.
We didn’t want to get stuck in the dark, so we pulled up Google Maps and looked for other nearby sites. The roads we followed got narrower and more twisted, winding like veins through thick forest, the trees pressing in on either side. Fog had started to rise from the underbrush, curling low across the pavement. It felt like the woods were swallowing the light. Every turn made us more anxious, more aware of how isolated we were.
That’s when we spotted a clearing with a few trucks and a small building—some kind of fire lookout or forest service outpost. We pulled in and found a couple of forest firefighters sitting outside on folding chairs, sharing a thermos. They were surprisingly friendly, given the hour. When we asked about nearby campgrounds, one of them scratched his beard and said most of the area was closed this time of year. But then he mentioned a few old campsites, “off the books,” so to speak. Places that used to be official campgrounds but had fallen out of use. Not exactly maintained, but technically still public land. One of them even pulled out a paper map—creases and coffee stains all over it—and circled a spot with his finger.
Grateful for any lead, we thanked them and drove off again, deeper into the woods, guided only by that vague spot on a crumpled map. We drove for maybe another thirty minutes before we saw it: a half-collapsed wooden sign barely poking out of the weeds. The name was unreadable, but the clearing beyond it looked like it had once been a campsite. Overgrown, sure—but not abandoned. A few tents dotted the trees, scattered in awkward clusters. No picnic tables or bathroom facilities, but a handful of old fire rings and flattened ground patches gave it away.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
We parked the car and started unpacking, both of us aware of how dark it had become. No cell service. No ranger station. Just the two of us, surrounded by trees and the slow rustle of wind through branches.
Then, as we were setting up the tent, two guys walked right through our site—unannounced, unbothered. They didn’t even look surprised to see us. One of them wore a zip-up hoodie with no shirt underneath, ribs practically showing through his pale skin. The other had a rat’s nest of hair and wide, twitchy eyes. Both of them looked like they hadn’t bathed in days. Maybe weeks. Their clothes were torn, filthy. One of them grinned too hard when he spoke.
“Hey, you guys camping here?” he asked. His voice had a strange lilt to it, like he was trying to sound casual but couldn’t quite keep the edge out.
We nodded. He said they were seasonal workers—picking or planting or something—and they were staying here to save money. “Lotta folks come through,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” They lingered for another few seconds, eyes darting around our setup like they were casing the place. Then they vanished back into the trees.
We exchanged looks. That wasn’t normal. But maybe they were just high. Or maybe they really were seasonal workers. It was weird, sure—but it was late, and we were tired. We tried not to overthink it.
Then, maybe twenty minutes later, a beat-up white Mercedes creaked into the clearing. All the windows were down, and bass-heavy rap music blasted from inside. The car looked like it had survived a demolition derby—dented sides, a cracked windshield, one headlight busted. The driver and passenger looked... wrong. Gaunt faces. Deep eye sockets. Hair wild and greasy. They scanned the clearing in a jerky, twitchy way, like they were expecting someone—or running from someone. They didn’t speak. Just lingered for ten seconds, then peeled out, tires spitting gravel.
I remember standing there, half-holding a bundle of firewood, thinking, What the hell is this place?
As we were building a fire, trying to convince ourselves this was all just some backwoods eccentricity, an older woman walked over. She looked like she’d been smoking since she was born—sunken cheeks, yellowed fingers, leather-tough skin. She wore a flannel shirt three sizes too big and had this distant, foggy look in her eyes.
“You kids here for the horror show?” she asked, raspy voice barely audible over the crackle of our fire.
We exchanged nervous smiles. “Horror show?”
She nodded slowly. “Oh yeah,” she said, eyes glinting strangely. “Zombies, ghouls, things that crawl out of the woods when you’re not lookin’. You watch yourselves tonight.” Then she wandered off, laughing to herself and coughing—this deep, rattling hack that went on too long.
It would’ve been funny if it didn’t feel so off. The whole campsite felt... staged. Like a twisted movie set. There were tents, sure—but no sounds. No campfire stories, no music, no kids, no dogs. Just silence. Except for her cough. Over and over again. Like a metronome, reminding us we weren’t alone.
Later, just as the last bit of daylight slipped behind the trees, the two guys from earlier emerged from the woods again. No flashlight. No lantern. They just appeared, silent, and slipped into their tent. Minutes passed, then we heard arguing—short, frantic bursts of whispering. Then one of them stormed out and walked right past our fire. He didn’t even blink. Just stared at me, his pupils massive in the firelight. His mouth was slightly open, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He headed toward the older woman’s tent and climbed into a pickup parked beside it. A flicker of flame lit up inside—someone sparking a lighter. A chemical smell drifted our way. Sharp. Acrid.
That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just a weird campsite. It was a drug camp. A hideout. Meth. That explained everything—the erratic behavior, the skeletal faces, the paranoia. The silence. No one wanted to draw attention. The older woman? She was probably the dealer, or someone worse. This place wasn’t on the map for a reason.
I looked at my girlfriend. She was already shoving sleeping bags into the car. Her face was pale.
“We need to leave,” she whispered.
I nodded. We packed up as fast and quietly as we could, trying not to make a sound. I was halfway through collapsing the tent when the truck by the woman’s site suddenly roared to life. Headlights flared on—four massive white beams mounted on a rack above the cab. They cut through the darkness like prison searchlights. For a heartbeat, I thought they were coming for us. I froze, hatchet in hand, ready to defend if I had to.
Then I noticed our car wasn’t moving. My girlfriend was in the driver’s seat, panicking. I jogged over and leaned through the window.
“It won’t go,” she said, her voice shaking. “It’s not moving—”
The emergency brake. I lunged inside and released it. The car jerked forward. I waved her back while I stood guard, heart hammering, waiting for someone to make a move.
Then came shouting. Angry voices behind us, raised in a way that made the hair on my neck stand up. We didn’t wait to hear more. Gravel crunched as we tore out of that clearing and back onto the winding road.
We didn’t stop until we reached a tiny town an hour later. Found a bed-and-breakfast that looked open, rang the bell until someone let us in. The room smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, and we collapsed onto the bed, our nerves frayed and raw.
“Too close,” my girlfriend said.
I didn’t respond. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the image of that wide-eyed man burned into my mind.
We never talked about it again. Never reported it. Sometimes, I wonder what we stumbled into that night. A drug camp? A cult? Something else? I don’t know. But I do know this: the scariest places aren’t always haunted. Sometimes, they’re just forgotten. Hidden. And very real.
"The Whistler in the Pines":
I’ll never forget that night camping in the woods near Crescent City, California. It was late summer, 2016, and my girlfriend Sarah and I were midway through a long road trip from British Columbia to San Diego. We'd been on the road for what felt like ages—through rain, heat, endless gas stations, and the drone of tires on pavement. That day had started somewhere near Eugene, Oregon, and we’d pushed hard to make it down the coast before dark. By the time we crossed into Northern California, the fatigue hit us like a wall. Even Max, our golden retriever, usually a bundle of restless energy, was sprawled in the back of the truck bed, mouth open and snoring like a diesel engine.
We weren’t looking for anything fancy. Just a place to stretch, eat, and sleep. Somewhere quiet. Sarah found a small clearing on her camping app, not far off Highway 101, just a few miles south of Crescent City. It wasn’t an official campground—just a turnout with a rough dirt loop road and a handful of weathered fire rings scattered among the trees. A few other tents were pitched, but the place felt sparse and forgotten, tucked among towering pines that caught the late sun in bands of gold. The silence was thick and calming. We parked at the far edge of the clearing where the tree line thickened and the air felt cooler, sharper. It felt perfect.
We set up our Tepui rooftop tent on the truck. I always loved that thing—being off the ground, away from bugs, closer to the stars. There was something about unzipping that mesh window and looking out at the trees that made me feel like a kid again, like we were explorers tucked into a nest above the wild. Sarah pulled out our little propane stove, but I insisted on building a real fire. The forest floor was damp enough that I didn’t worry much, and the pit had clearly been used dozens of times. We roasted hot dogs over the flickering flames, the scent of charred meat and pine smoke mingling in the air. Sarah cracked open a beer and passed one to me. “Cheers to no traffic tomorrow,” she said, nudging her can against mine. I laughed. “And to Max not stealing our dinner.” We watched him drool from the shadows, tail wagging each time a piece of hot dog fell.
The sun dipped below the horizon around 8:30, and the darkness came fast after that. No streetlights, no ambient glow—just pitch black forest swallowing everything beyond the fire’s orange bubble. We climbed into the tent, zipped up the heavy canvas, and settled in under the blankets. Max curled between us, snorting as he turned in place a dozen times before finally settling. Sarah fell asleep quickly, her breathing slow and even. I lay there a while longer, listening to the gentle rustle of leaves outside, an owl hooting far off, maybe a mile away. The air felt still.
I don’t know what woke me—maybe a shift in the air, a sudden silence. It was around 1 AM, and I opened my eyes to the murky outline of the tent interior, the dim blue of moonlight barely seeping through the canvas. Then I heard it. A sound I couldn’t place at first. A faint whistling. Low, breathy, like someone trying to whistle a tune through cracked lips. It was coming from beyond the tree line, somewhere in the thick black woods. I held my breath and listened harder. The melody was wrong. Familiar, but off—like hearing a beloved song mangled by someone tone-deaf. I felt the hair on my arms stand up. It was When the Saints Go Marching In, but dragged out, off-key, and strangely halting, as though whoever was doing it was either drunk or… disturbed.
Sarah stirred beside me. “Do you hear that?” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, tight and brittle. I nodded in the dark. Max let out a low growl, almost a whisper himself, a vibration more than a sound. His ears were perked, his body rigid.
The whistling grew louder, closer. Still not fast, not urgent—but deliberate, insistent. Each note hit wrong, like a mocking echo of what it should’ve been. Then it stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Sarah grabbed my arm, squeezing it hard enough to hurt. We waited. The night held its breath.
And then it came.
A voice—low, rough, full of fury. It boomed through the trees like a megaphone, though it was clearly just someone shouting from their chest. “When you sleep here, you disrespect me!” it bellowed. “And when you disrespect me, you disrespect the US Marines!”
The words didn’t make sense. They were nonsensical, angry, jarring. But something about the way he said them—so forceful, so raw—sent a bolt of fear through my chest. Then he began to chant. “F.L.E.E.! F.L.E.E.!” Each letter screamed individually, like a drill sergeant barking commands, except it didn’t feel like military discipline—it felt unhinged, like something coming apart. “F.L.E.E.! You disrespect me!”
I could hear twigs snapping. Footsteps. Moving erratically, crunching leaves in a zigzag pattern, not steady like someone walking a trail, but wild, staggered, circling. My mouth was dry. Max was growling louder now, hackles raised. Sarah’s fingers dug into my arm. “We need to go,” she hissed, her voice trembling.
I grabbed my phone and tapped on the flashlight, shielding it with my hand to avoid drawing attention. I leaned toward the tent zipper, slowly and quietly undoing it while Sarah gently nudged Max. He didn’t like being moved but somehow stayed quiet, sensing the tension. I climbed down first, boots crunching softly on the earth, and reached up to catch Max as Sarah lowered him down to me. He whimpered once but stayed still in my arms, heavy and warm.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. Sarah dropped from the tent and crouched beside me. The chanting kept going, echoing off the trees. “F.L.E.E.!!! F.L.E.E.!!!” I was sweating despite the cold, my hands shaking as I collapsed the ladder and roughly shoved the tent closed. I didn’t bother securing it. Just grabbed it and threw it into the truck bed. Sarah opened the door and jumped in, pulling Max onto her lap. I slammed the door behind me, jammed the key into the ignition.
The engine roared to life, loud and jarring. The chanting stopped for a split second. Then the voice came again—closer. “F.L.E.E.!!! You’re too late!” I threw the truck into reverse, spun the wheels, and peeled out of the clearing, gravel spitting beneath us. In the rearview, I saw nothing. Just darkness and the suggestion of trees. But I swear I could feel eyes on us.
We didn’t speak the entire drive back to Crescent City. Just ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. The town’s sodium lights looked like salvation. We pulled into the first motel we found, a dingy place with a flickering neon sign. I remember the buzzing of the light, the way the front desk clerk didn’t even look up as I handed him my card. We took the key, stumbled into the room, and locked every bolt on the door.
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around Max, her face pale. “Who the hell was that?” she whispered. I had no answer. We didn’t sleep much. Every creak, every gust of wind outside made us jump. I kept replaying the voice in my head, the way it had yelled “You disrespect me!” like it wasn’t just talking to us, but through us. Like it had known we were there all along.
The next morning, we forced ourselves to go back. We had left our cooler, a couple folding chairs, and some gear behind. The clearing looked almost serene in daylight—sunlight piercing the canopy, birds singing like nothing had ever happened. But something about the place still felt off. The other campers were packing up. A man with a weathered ballcap waved us over. “You folks here last night?” he asked. I nodded. “You hear that chanting? Scared the hell out of us. My wife didn’t sleep a wink.”
His wife stepped forward, arms crossed. “It was like… hours of it. That same voice. We almost left, too.”
Their son, a young boy, tugged on his dad’s shirt. “I thought it was a monster.” The dad gave a nervous laugh. “Probably just some homeless vet or something. This area’s got problems.”
We nodded, said our goodbyes, and left quickly. I didn’t want to linger. Crescent City’s always had a rough underbelly—meth, transients, and Pelican Bay State Prison sitting not far inland. Maybe it was a vet. Someone fractured by trauma, howling into the night. Or maybe a tweaker playing a sick game. I’ll never know.
But sometimes, even now, years later, when I’m camping in the woods, lying in a tent with the stars above me and silence all around, I swear I can still hear that broken whistling, just on the edge of sound. And then, from deep in the dark, that gravel-thick voice spelling it out like a curse.
F. L. E. E.
"Echoes in the Pines":
I’d always loved the idea of camping alone. The quiet, the stars, just me and nature—no emails, no traffic, no crowds. Just silence and space. For years, it had been a daydream I entertained during office meetings or while sitting in gridlock, imagining myself surrounded by nothing but trees and the hush of the wild. Last summer, I finally decided to make it happen. No more excuses. I cleared a weekend, packed my gear, and chose a remote forest a few hours from the city—a place I’d found on an old forum, mentioned briefly in a thread about forgotten trails and old logging roads. No cell service, no designated campsites, no people. Just wilderness.
My friend Sarah wasn’t thrilled when I told her. She stood by my car as I loaded up my gear, her arms crossed and her expression tight. “What if something happens out there?” she asked, her voice edged with concern. I grinned, trying to wave off her worry. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a weekend. Nothing I can’t handle.” She didn’t smile. “Seriously. It’s not a movie. No signal means no help.” I gave her a hug and promised to text her the moment I got back. “Famous last words,” she muttered as I pulled out of the driveway.
The drive took nearly five hours. The last stretch was on a rutted dirt road that twisted through dense forest, barely wide enough for one vehicle. I passed no other cars. The farther I went, the darker the woods became. Towering pines lined the road, their thick canopies blotting out the sun until the whole landscape was soaked in cool, green shadow. The occasional ray of sunlight pierced through, highlighting floating dust motes and the glitter of dew on moss-covered trunks.
I found a small clearing near a narrow, meandering stream. It wasn’t marked on any map—I’d only spotted it by chance through a break in the trees. The spot felt untouched, the way you imagine the world looked before people got involved. The air smelled like damp earth, pine needles, and the metallic tang of water. I set up my one-person tent on a soft patch of moss, surrounded by ferns and low shrubs. Birds chirped in the distance. The world was quiet, but not silent—there was a rhythm to it. The rustle of wind in the leaves, the gurgle of the stream, the distant call of some unseen bird. I built a small fire using dry wood and pine cones, and cooked beans and rice in a dented tin pot I’d had for years. I sat by the fire, eating slowly, watching the flames dance. As the sun set and the sky turned violet, then inky black, the stars emerged like glitter on velvet. I leaned back on my sleeping pad, staring up through the gaps in the trees. I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—peace. I’d escaped the noise. I was free.
But as night fell deeper, the forest began to shift. The air got colder, heavier. That gentle breeze became still, and the soft rustle of leaves faded. Even the animals seemed to stop moving. The familiar night sounds—crickets, frogs, owls—gradually disappeared, like someone had turned the volume knob down to zero. It didn’t happen all at once, which made it worse. I noticed it slowly, like waking from a dream. One moment I was at ease, the next, I was sitting up, heart beating a little too fast, wondering why the silence felt so thick.
I zipped myself into my sleeping bag and told myself it was just unfamiliarity. City guy syndrome. Too many years of background noise. My brain just wasn’t used to stillness. But then I heard it—a distinct snap. Like a dry twig breaking underfoot. It came from maybe twenty feet away, somewhere in the trees behind my tent. I held my breath and listened. Another snap. Closer this time. My heart began to pound in my chest. Not like a deer bounding through the brush—this was slower. Measured. Almost cautious.
I sat up, fumbling for my flashlight. My hands were clammy. I clicked it on and aimed the beam toward the tent wall, but it barely pierced the darkness beyond the thin fabric. “Hello?” I called out, my voice unsteady. “Is someone there?” Silence. I waited, straining to hear. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting faint orange light just beyond the tent. I told myself it could be an animal—maybe a raccoon or a deer. But then I heard footsteps. Not the random rustle of an animal. These were heavy, deliberate, crunching slowly through the dead leaves around my tent. My skin prickled.
I reached for the small knife in the side pouch of my pack. My fingers trembled as I wrapped them around the hilt. “Who’s out there?” I shouted, trying to sound tough, trying to sound like someone not worth messing with. The steps stopped. I held my breath. Then, a voice answered. A low, raspy whisper, so quiet I almost thought I imagined it. But I didn’t. It was real. It echoed back to me, mimicking my words in a breathy, mocking tone. “Hello? Is someone there?”
I froze. My mind scrambled to process what I’d just heard. It wasn’t the echo of my own voice—it was someone else. Someone copying me. I clutched the knife tighter, my heartbeat loud in my ears. “Leave me alone!” I yelled, more panic in my voice than I wanted. Silence followed. The kind that presses against your eardrums and makes you feel like you're underwater. Then, just as I began to think it might be over, something touched the tent. A hand. I saw the outline of fingers through the fabric, pressing gently against the wall right beside my face. I screamed and lurched back, the sleeping bag tangling around my legs. The flashlight beam jerked wildly as I tried to crawl away. The hand slid away, and I heard quick footsteps, crashing through the brush, fading into the trees.
I sat there, paralyzed, my back pressed against the far end of the tent, the knife shaking in my grip. The flashlight buzzed softly, the beam jittery with every tiny tremble of my hand. I didn't sleep. I couldn’t. Every rustle, every creak of the trees felt like a footstep. Every gust of wind sounded like a whisper. I kept expecting that hand to return, to press against the tent again. I kept hearing that voice, that mocking whisper repeating my words in the dark.
When the first light of dawn bled into the sky, I didn’t hesitate. I threw everything into my backpack—didn’t fold the tent, didn’t even check to make sure I had all my gear. My fingers fumbled with the zipper, my breath shallow. I glanced once toward the tree line, just once, and that was enough. A figure stood there, half-hidden behind the pines. Not moving. Not speaking. Just... watching. Too far to see his face, but close enough to know he was real. My blood ran cold. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed my keys and bolted to the truck, tires skidding on the loose dirt as I sped back down that winding road. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the wheel.
I never found out who he was. No one else was supposed to be out there. The forest had no marked trails, no nearby cabins, no campsites. Just wilderness. Maybe he was a drifter. Maybe he’d been living off-grid, hidden from the world. Or maybe it was something worse. Something I still don’t understand. When I told Sarah, she went pale. “You’re lucky you got out,” she said quietly. “Don’t ever do that again.” I haven’t. I still love nature. Still crave that solitude. But I don’t go alone anymore.
And some nights, when it’s too quiet, when the house creaks and the wind brushes against the windows just right, I still hear that voice in my head—low, breathy, mocking. “Hello? Is someone there?” And I think about what might’ve happened if I hadn’t screamed. If I hadn’t woken up. If I’d answered.
Did you know that deep wilderness areas are sometimes used by people hiding from society—runaways, hermits, or even criminals—making remote solo trips riskier than most people assume?