"The Orange Trail":
I’d been planning this trip to Great Smoky Mountains National Park for months, dreaming of the green ridges and waterfalls. When my friends canceled—one sick, another stuck at work—I almost gave up. But I’d driven six hours, packed my gear, and taken time off. Going solo wasn’t ideal, but the Abrams Falls trail was popular, a five-mile loop. I figured I’d be fine.
At the Cades Cove trailhead, I checked my backpack: two water bottles, granola bars, a sandwich, a first-aid kit, a map, a compass, and a pocketknife. My phone was charged, though I knew signal could be spotty. A ranger approached as I locked my car, his green uniform neat, clipboard in hand. He had a weathered face and a slow drawl.
“Permit?” he asked.
I handed it over. “Got it right here.”
He scanned it, eyeing my pack. “Where you headed?”
“Abrams Falls loop. Back by evening.”
“Smart to stick to the main trail,” he said, handing back the permit. “Gets busy, but people still get turned around. Phone good?”
“Full battery,” I said, patting my pocket.
“Signal’s patchy out there. Stay on the path, and mark your turns if you’re unsure.” He pointed to a small stack of orange trail markers on a table. “Grab a few of those. Drop ‘em if you need to backtrack.”
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing a handful of the plastic markers. His advice stuck with me as I started down the trail.
The path was wide, dirt packed under my boots, ferns brushing my legs. The air smelled of pine and earth, and birds sang overhead. About a mile in, I passed a couple taking selfies by a trail sign. The woman, with a bright ponytail, grinned at me.
“Great day for a hike, right?” she said.
“Couldn’t be better,” I replied. “You guys going to the falls?”
“Yep!” the man said, adjusting his cap. “Bet we’ll beat you there.”
I laughed. “Challenge accepted.” We waved, and I kept walking, their laughter fading behind me.
The trail curved, following the faint sound of a creek. I snapped photos of purple wildflowers and a deer that darted across the path. My phone buzzed—a text from my sister checking in—but when I tried to reply, the signal was gone. I shrugged it off. I’d be back soon.
At Abrams Falls, the trail opened to a 20-foot waterfall crashing into a rocky pool. The roar drowned out the forest’s hum. I expected to see the couple or other hikers, but it was just me. I sat on a boulder, ate my sandwich, and sipped water. My map showed the return loop was longer, winding through denser woods, but marked. I dropped one of the ranger’s orange markers at the trail junction, just in case, and started back.
The return path narrowed, roots twisting underfoot, trees closing in. The light dimmed, the canopy thick. I checked my compass, making sure I was heading west, and kept an eye on the trail markers—wooden posts with arrows. But they grew sparse, and the path felt less defined. My phone had no signal, battery at 80%. I stopped, unfolding my map, but the lines seemed off, the landmarks unclear. A knot formed in my stomach. This was a popular trail. How could it feel so wrong?
“Hey! Anyone out there?” I called. My voice echoed, unanswered. I dropped another orange marker and turned back, hoping to retrace to the falls. But the path looked different, overgrown with brambles. Panic crept in. “Stay calm,” I muttered, gripping my compass. “You’ve got this.”
The forest grew denser, the air heavy with damp earth. I moved slower, checking my map and compass often, dropping markers every few hundred yards. My boots crunched on pine needles, the only sound besides my breathing. Then I saw it—a gray sneaker, muddy and alone, lying in the dirt. It was new, laces tied, like someone had just stepped out of it.
I picked it up, heart racing. “Who leaves a shoe out here?” I whispered. “Hello? Anyone lose this?” Silence. I set it down, my hands shaky, and dropped another marker. The forest felt watchful, every rustle making me jump. My phone was at 60%, still no signal. The map was useless now; I couldn’t pinpoint my location.
I heard a crunch behind me, like footsteps on leaves. I froze, listening. Nothing. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice trembling. No answer. I walked faster, glancing back, my pulse pounding. Another crunch, closer. I spun around, but the trees were empty. “This isn’t funny!” I shouted, clutching my pocketknife.
The trail was barely a path now, just a faint line through the underbrush. I dropped another marker, my hands sweating. Then I saw something carved into a tree—initials, “J.K. ’22,” jagged and deep. My stomach dropped. Was this a hiker’s mark, or something worse? I thought of the sneaker, abandoned. Had someone else been lost here?
The footsteps came again, quick and deliberate. I ran, branches scraping my arms, my backpack bouncing. My ankle twisted on a root, pain flaring, but I kept going, limping into a small clearing. In the center was a cairn, rocks stacked too neatly, like someone had built it recently. My skin crawled. I approached, spotting a scrap of red fabric under the rocks, stained dark—mud or blood, I couldn’t tell. I dropped it, my breath hitching. “What is this place?” I whispered.
The footsteps stopped, replaced by heavy breathing, close, just beyond the trees. I gripped my knife, heart hammering. “Stay back!” I yelled, scanning the shadows. Nothing. The air felt thick, oppressive. I checked my compass—still west—and dropped another marker. I had to move.
I limped forward, the pain in my ankle sharp. The forest seemed endless, every tree identical. My phone was at 30%, dead for calls. I tripped, falling into a ditch, my hands sinking into cold dirt. Something glinted in the leaves—a rusted watch, its face cracked, stopped at 3:17. I grabbed it, then dropped it, my mind racing. Another lost hiker? I didn’t want to know.
The breathing came again, closer, from my left. I scrambled up, knife out, backing away. “Leave me alone!” I shouted. Then I saw him—a man, tall and thin, standing at the clearing’s edge. His clothes were tattered, his face shadowed under a frayed hat. His eyes gleamed, cold and unblinking. He didn’t move, just stared.
“Help me,” I croaked. “I’m lost. Please.”
He tilted his head, then raised a hand, pointing deeper into the forest, away from my markers. My blood ran cold. Was he helping, or leading me astray? “Who are you?” I asked, my voice shaking. He turned, melting into the trees, silent. I stood frozen, unsure if he was real or a trick of my fear.
I didn’t follow him. Instead, I turned back, following my orange markers, each one a lifeline. My ankle throbbed, my water was low, but I kept moving, checking my compass obsessively. The forest was dark now, the light fading. I found a stream, its water cold and clear, and drank, praying it was safe. By the bank, I saw a torn notebook page, waterlogged, with scrawled words: “Lost. Day 3. No one’s coming.” My heart sank. Someone else had been here, desperate like me.
I kept going, following the stream, my markers guiding me back. My legs shook, my vision blurred from exhaustion. Then I heard it—a distant shout, human voices. “Hello?” I yelled, my voice hoarse. “I’m here!”
The voices grew louder, and I saw flashlights bobbing through the trees. Relief flooded me. I dropped to my knees, shouting again. “Over here!”
A search team found me—rangers and volunteers, their faces grim but kind. “You’re lucky,” one said, wrapping a blanket around me. “We followed your markers. Most don’t leave a trail like that.” They gave me water, bandaged my ankle, and led me out. My phone was dead, my pack lighter without the markers, but I was alive.
Later, at the ranger station, they told me about the sneaker, the cairn, the watch, the note. They’d found similar things before, relics of hikers who’d vanished, like Dennis Martin in ’69, a boy lost near Spence Field, never found. They didn’t know who the man was—maybe a drifter, maybe my imagination. But my markers, the ranger’s advice, had saved me. I left the Smokies shaken, vowing never to hike alone again, the forest’s secrets still whispering in my mind.
"No Signal":
My boots sank into the soft earth of the trail, each step a dull thud against the packed dirt and scattered pebbles. The forest loomed around us, dense with towering pines and tangled underbrush that seemed to claw at my legs. My backpack felt heavier with every mile, the straps rubbing my shoulders raw. Lisa and Chris were ahead, their voices drifting back in snippets, sharp against the quiet hum of the woods. We’d chosen this remote state park because it promised a real escape—no crowds, no noise, just us and the wild. I’d found it online after weeks of scrolling through hiking forums, drawn to reviews that called it “untouched” and “isolated.” Now, hours into our trek, that isolation felt like a weight of its own.
“How much farther to the campsite?” Lisa asked, pausing to adjust her cap. Her ponytail swung as she turned, her face flushed from the climb.
Chris, always the navigator, checked his phone. The screen glowed faintly, no bars showing. “Map says about a half-mile,” he said, squinting at the downloaded trail guide. “We’re close to the clearing.”
We pushed on, the trail narrowing until it was barely a path, branches brushing our arms. The forest smelled of damp earth and pine, but there was something else too—a faint, sour tang that made me wrinkle my nose. Finally, we reached the clearing, a small patch of flat ground surrounded by trees that seemed to lean inward. We dropped our packs and started setting up camp, the familiar routine of pitching tents and unrolling sleeping bags grounding me. But as I drove a tent stake into the ground, my eyes caught something through the trees—a second campsite, maybe 50 yards away, half-hidden by a cluster of pines.
“Guys, look,” I said, pointing. “There’s another campsite over there. But… no one’s around.”
Chris followed my gaze, his brow furrowing. “That’s weird. Their tents are up. Maybe they’re out exploring?”
Lisa stepped closer, shielding her eyes. “Their stuff’s just sitting there. Doesn’t look right. Should we check it out?”
I hesitated, a prickle of unease creeping up my spine. But curiosity won out. “Yeah, let’s take a look.”
We crossed the clearing, the ground uneven underfoot. As we neared the other campsite, that sour smell grew stronger, sharp and unpleasant, like rotting food mixed with something acrid—urine, maybe. The site was a mess: two tents, one with a torn flap hanging loose, flapping softly. A cooler sat open, its lid askew, and nearby, a couple of camping chairs lay tipped over, one with a broken armrest. A fire pit held charred logs, surrounded by a pile of trash—empty cans, plastic wrappers, and a half-eaten apple swarming with ants.
“This place stinks,” I said, covering my nose with my sleeve.
Lisa, braver than either of us, stepped toward the larger tent. She crouched, peered inside, and jerked back, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god, it’s awful in there. Smells like urine… and something worse.” She pointed, her voice shaky. “There’s a sleeping bag with dark stains on it. Looks like blood.”
My heart lurched. “Blood?” I stepped closer, peering into the tent. The sleeping bag was crumpled, the stains dark and splotchy, spreading across the fabric like spilled ink. The air inside was thick, the smell so bad I gagged.
“Let’s check the other tent,” Chris said, his voice tight. He was already moving toward the smaller one, a faded green dome half-zipped shut.
Inside, it was less chaotic but no less unsettling. A duffel bag sat in the corner, stuffed with clothes—a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, socks spilling out. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste lay on the ground, as if dropped in a hurry. Then Chris knelt and pulled something from under a sleeping pad: a small leather journal, its cover worn but intact.
“Found something,” he said, holding it up.
We took it back to our campsite, the weight of what we’d seen settling over us. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Chris opened the journal, its pages crinkling. “It’s a woman’s,” he said, scanning the first page. “She was here with her partner.” He started reading aloud, his voice steady but low.
“Day one: Got to the park late. Set up camp by the stream. The forest is so quiet, it’s like we’re the only ones here. Excited for the hike tomorrow.”
“Day two: Hiked to the ridge today. The view was incredible, but we got into it over the map. He’s so stubborn, always thinks he knows best. Brushed it off, but it stung.”
The entries grew tense. “Day three: Things are off. He’s moody, snapping at me over nothing. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. The forest feels too big, too empty.”
“Day four: Met some other hikers today, a group of guys. They were nice, offered us some food and a drink. He got jealous, accused me of being too friendly. We fought again. I’m starting to feel trapped.”
Lisa shifted, hugging her knees. “This is creepy. It’s like things were falling apart.”
Chris nodded and kept reading. “Day five: I can’t take this anymore. He’s controlling, yelling over stupid things. I want to leave, but we’re miles from the trailhead, no signal. I’m scared to say anything. The woods feel different now, like they’re watching.”
The final entry, dated yesterday, made my skin crawl. “Day six: We had a huge fight last night. He screamed, said I’d regret crossing him. This morning, he was gone. His pack, his clothes—everything’s still here. I hear noises at night, like animals moving, or maybe something else. I found names in his phone: Jake, Mark, Steve. Don’t know if they’re friends or what. I’m too scared to leave the campsite. I don’t know what to do.”
Chris closed the journal. The air felt heavy, the forest too still. “She was alone when she wrote that,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lisa’s eyes were wide. “Where did she go? And where’s her partner?”
“Maybe she got lost,” Chris said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Or… something happened to them.”
I swallowed hard. “We should look around. See if there’s anything else.”
We spread out, searching the area around the campsite. I found footprints near the edge of the clearing, pressed into the soft dirt, heading into the woods. They were small, maybe a woman’s, but they stopped abruptly after a few yards, swallowed by a patch of pine needles. Chris checked the stream nearby but found nothing—no tracks, no signs. Lisa stayed near the tents, poking through the trash. “There’s a broken watch here,” she called, holding up a cracked wristwatch, its hands frozen at 3:17.
“AM or PM?” I asked.
She shrugged. “No way to tell.”
As the light faded, a low growl rumbled through the trees, deep and guttural. My heart jumped. “What was that?” I whispered.
Chris froze. “Bear, maybe. Or a mountain lion. We need to get back to our site.”
We hurried to our tents, the growl echoing in my ears. That night, we barely slept. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves made my pulse race. Around midnight, Lisa’s voice came through the tent wall, shaky. “You guys hear that? It’s closer now.”
I listened, my breath shallow. Another growl, low and menacing, not far off. “Stay in your tent,” I whispered. “Don’t move.”
Morning light brought no comfort. We crawled out to find our cooler scratched with deep claw marks, the plastic gouged like it had been clawed by something big. Our trash bag was torn open, food scraps scattered across the clearing. “That’s it,” Chris said, his face pale. “We’re reporting this and getting out.”
We packed up, moving fast, the journal tucked into my bag. The hike to the ranger station felt endless, every shadow making me flinch. When we got there, the ranger, an older man with deep lines on his face, listened as we spilled the story. I handed him the journal. “We found this abandoned campsite,” I said. “Tents, gear, blood on a sleeping bag. And this journal. It’s… disturbing.”
He flipped through it, his expression unreadable. “We’ve had reports of missing hikers in this park before,” he said, his voice flat. “Couple went missing last year, never found. I’ll send a team to check the site. Thanks for letting us know.”
We left the park that day, piling into the car in silence. The drive home was heavy, none of us wanting to talk about what we’d seen. I kept picturing the torn tent, the stained sleeping bag, the journal’s last words. Later, I searched online for news about the park. There was a brief article about a missing couple, last seen near our trail, but no updates, no answers. The ranger’s words stuck with me—missing hikers, never found.
I haven’t gone hiking since. Every time I think about it, I see those footprints vanishing into the trees, hear that growl in the dark. I wonder about the woman, alone, scared, writing in that journal. Did she try to leave and get lost? Did an animal get her? Or were those names—Jake, Mark, Steve—more than just names in a phone? The forest knows, but it’s not telling.
"The Valley That Watches":
I’ve been hiking for years, always drawn to the quiet of the wild. There’s something about leaving the city behind—Melbourne’s constant hum of traffic and screens—that makes me feel alive. This time, I picked Wonnangatta Valley, a remote stretch in the Australian Alps, where the air feels thick with silence and the trees stand like sentinels. I’d read about people vanishing out here, like Russell Hill and Carol Clay, a couple who went missing a few years back. Their story lingered in my mind—an eerie footnote about their burnt-out campsite and no trace of them since. But I wasn’t worried. I’m careful, always prepared with my topographic map, compass, multi-tool, and enough food and water for a week. My pack was heavy, but I liked it that way. It felt like control.
The first day was perfect. I trekked deep into the valley, following a winding trail along a creek that bubbled over smooth stones. I set up my tent on a flat patch of earth, the ground soft with pine needles. The valley was alive with small sounds—birds chirping, leaves rustling, the faint gurgle of water. I cooked a simple meal on my portable stove, the smell of instant noodles mixing with the earthy scent of the forest. That night, I fell asleep to the hum of insects, my sleeping bag snug, my flashlight close. I felt safe, like the valley was mine.
Day two started easy. I packed up, checked my map, and headed north toward a ridge I’d marked for its view. The trail was narrow, overgrown in places, with roots snaking across the dirt. My boots crunched steadily, and I kept a rhythm, my walking stick tapping the ground. Around midday, I stopped to refill my water bottle at a stream, the water cold enough to make my fingers ache. That’s when I noticed something off the trail, half-hidden by thick ferns—a campsite.
It wasn’t mine. The tent was still standing, a faded blue dome with its flaps unzipped, swaying slightly. A fire pit sat in the center, piled with ashes that looked fresh, like someone had been here recently. A metal coffee pot lay tipped over beside it, a few grounds scattered in the dirt. My pulse quickened. “Hello?” I called, my voice sharp against the quiet. “Anyone here?” Nothing answered, just the echo of my words fading into the trees. The silence felt heavier now, like it was pressing down on me.
I stepped closer, my boots sinking into the soft earth. The campsite looked too neat, like it had been abandoned in a hurry. A backpack leaned against a tree, its straps tangled. A pair of hiking boots sat outside the tent, laces undone, soles caked with mud. I crouched by the fire pit and touched the ashes—they were warm, maybe a day old. My stomach twisted. People don’t just leave a campsite like this, not with gear still here.
Inside the tent, I found a sleeping bag, unrolled but empty, and a small journal tucked into a side pocket. The cover was worn, with “Russell Hill” scrawled in black ink. My breath caught. I knew that name—Russell Hill and Carol Clay, the hikers who vanished. Their campsite was found burned, but this one wasn’t. It was intact, like they’d just stepped away. I opened the journal, my hands unsteady. The last entry was dated two days ago: “Carol saw someone last night, standing at the edge of the camp. Too dark to see clearly. She’s scared. We’re packing up tomorrow.” The words stopped there, the rest of the page blank.
I looked around, scanning the trees. The valley felt different now, like it was watching me. Then I saw it—a smear of blood on a flat rock near the fire, not much, but enough to make my throat tighten. It was dry, dark red, streaked like someone had wiped it in a hurry. “Okay, calm down,” I whispered to myself. “Maybe they got hurt. Maybe they went for help.” But the warm ashes, the open tent, the blood—it didn’t add up.
I stuffed the journal into my pack, telling myself I’d show it to a ranger later. I needed to keep moving. The trail was supposed to lead to a ranger station about ten miles north, so I adjusted my pack and started walking, checking my map every few steps. But the path felt wrong, like it was twisting in ways it shouldn’t. The trees looked the same, their trunks blending into a wall of green and brown. I checked my compass, but the needle spun lazily, like it couldn’t decide north. My map said I was on track, but the landmarks didn’t match—no ridge, no stream, just endless trees.
That’s when I heard it—a low growl, deep in the bushes to my right. I froze, my hand tightening on my walking stick. “Just a dingo,” I muttered, trying to steady my breathing. But it didn’t sound like an animal. It was too rhythmic, too close, like it was pacing me. I called out, “Who’s there?” My voice sounded small, swallowed by the valley. The growling stopped, but the silence was worse. I started walking again, faster, my boots slipping on loose dirt.
The trail seemed to loop, bringing me back to the same crooked tree I’d passed an hour ago. My heart was pounding now, my shirt damp with sweat. I stopped to drink from my water bottle, and that’s when I heard footsteps—crisp, deliberate crunches behind me. I spun around, my knife already in my hand. “Show yourself!” I shouted. Nothing. Just shadows moving in the trees, or maybe it was my eyes playing tricks. I backed away, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Hours blurred together. I was lost, my map useless, my compass spinning. The valley felt alive, its silence mocking me. I stopped to catch my breath, leaning against a tree, and noticed a piece of paper tucked into a low branch. My hands shook as I pulled it free. In messy, smudged handwriting, it read, “Leave now, or you’ll be next.” The words hit like a punch. Someone was out here. Someone who knew I was here.
“Who wrote this?” I yelled, my voice cracking. The bushes rustled nearby, and I gripped my knife tighter, its handle slick with sweat. “I’m not afraid!” I lied, shouting into the trees. The footsteps started again, closer, circling me like a predator. I ran, branches snapping against my face, my pack bouncing hard. My legs burned, but I didn’t stop, not even when I tripped over a root and hit the ground, scraping my palms raw.
I scrambled up, my breath ragged, and kept running. The footsteps followed, always just out of sight. I don’t know how long it went on—maybe an hour, maybe more. My lungs ached, my vision blurred. Finally, I stumbled into a clearing and saw a dirt road, a ranger’s truck parked at the edge. I pounded on the door, shouting, “Help! Someone’s out here!”
The ranger, an older man with a gray beard and weathered face, opened the door, his eyes wide. “What’s going on?” he asked, stepping out, his hand on a radio clipped to his belt.
I was panting, barely able to speak. “There’s a campsite back there. Blood on a rock, a journal with Russell Hill’s name. And this—” I pulled the note from my pocket, my hands shaking. “Someone’s following me. I heard them.”
He took the note, his face tightening as he read it. “Where was the campsite?” he asked, his voice low.
“A few miles back,” I said, pointing down the trail. “It’s fresh, like someone was there yesterday. And the journal—it said they saw someone watching them.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at the trees. “Get in the truck,” he said finally. “We’ll sort this out.”
I climbed into the passenger seat, my legs weak. As he started the engine, I asked, “You know about Russell and Carol, don’t you? The missing hikers?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah. Their camp was found burned, a few miles from here. No trace of them since. But you’re not the first to find something strange out here. This valley… it’s got a way of keeping secrets.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced at me, his face grim. “People go missing. Campsites turn up empty. Sometimes we find gear, sometimes nothing. Last year, a hiker found a backpack with a name in it, just like you. Never found the owner.”
My stomach dropped. “And the note? Who’s doing this?”
He shook his head. “Could be someone messing around. Could be worse. We’ll search, but this place is big. Things disappear.”
He drove me to a ranger station, where I gave a statement. They sent a team to look for the campsite, but they never found it—not the tent, not the journal, not the blood. It was like the valley swallowed it whole. I went home the next day, my pack still heavy with the weight of that journal I’d kept. I don’t hike anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I hear those footsteps, feel those eyes on me. I don’t know who was out there, or what happened to Russell and Carol. But I know one thing: Wonnangatta Valley doesn’t let go of its secrets, and I’m lucky it let go of me.
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