"We Were Never Alone in Those Woods":
I’d always wanted to break free from the city—its endless noise, the crowded streets, the constant buzz of stress. My wife, Emma, felt the same. We talked about it for years, dreaming of a quiet life where we could grow our own food, live simply, and breathe fresh air. So when we found a cheap plot of land deep in the Oregon wilderness, it felt like fate. The realtor warned us it was remote—three hours from the nearest town, down a winding dirt road that barely qualified as a path. We didn’t care. We sold most of our belongings, bought a used RV, and moved out there with our dog, Rusty, a scruffy mutt who loved chasing anything that moved. We were ready to start our off-grid adventure, to build a cabin and live on our terms. But from the moment we arrived, something about the place felt off, like the forest itself was watching us.
The land was stunning—acres of towering pines, a small clearing perfect for the RV, and a creek nearby that gurgled softly day and night. But it was so isolated. The dirt road to our plot took 20 minutes to navigate, all ruts and rocks, and the nearest neighbor was a guy named Tom, who lived a mile away in a sagging trailer surrounded by junk. When we met him, he seemed friendly, offering us a jar of homemade blackberry jam. “Not many folks make it out here long,” he said, his eyes flicking over our RV, then back to us. “Too quiet for most. Gets in your head.” His smile was thin, like he knew something we didn’t. Emma squeezed my hand, her fingers cold. I laughed it off, thanking him for the jam, but as we walked away, I felt his stare on my back.
The first few days were busy. We parked the RV in the clearing, set up a fire pit with stones from the creek, and started clearing brush for the cabin’s foundation. Rusty bounded through the trees, barking at squirrels and rolling in the dirt. During the day, the forest felt alive—birds chirping, wind rustling the pines. But at night, it changed. The silence was so thick it felt like a weight on my chest. I’d lie awake, listening, waiting for something to break it. Sometimes, I’d hear a branch snap or leaves crunch, like something heavy moving through the underbrush. I’d tell myself it was deer or maybe a bear, but when I looked out the RV’s window, I never saw anything. Emma felt it too. “It’s too quiet,” she said one night, her voice low as she stirred soup on our propane stove. “Like the forest is holding its breath.” I hugged her, trying to laugh it off. “It’s just new,” I said. “We’ll get used to it.”
About a week in, things started getting weird. One morning, we found Rusty’s water bowl tipped over, the ground around it muddy with what looked like boot prints—big ones, too wide to be mine or Emma’s. They circled the RV, then trailed off into the trees. My stomach knotted up. “Maybe Tom stopped by,” I said, but Emma shook her head. “He’d have said something. And why spill Rusty’s water?” She was right. It didn’t make sense. We decided to keep Rusty inside at night and started locking the RV door, something we hadn’t bothered with before. That night, I barely slept, my ears straining for any sound. Around 3 a.m., Rusty growled, low and deep, his eyes fixed on the window. I grabbed the flashlight and scanned the clearing. Nothing but shadows. “It’s okay, boy,” I whispered, but my heart was pounding.
The next day, I drove to Tom’s trailer to ask if he’d seen anyone. His place was a mess—rusted car parts, a sagging tarp over a half-built shed, empty beer cans scattered around. He was sitting outside, whittling a stick, the blade of his knife glinting as it moved. “Footprints?” he said, not looking up. “Could be anybody. These woods are old. Lot of folks pass through—hunters, drifters, people who don’t like being found.” He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “Some say there’s old camps out there, abandoned shacks. People who don’t take kindly to new faces.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he was testing me. I asked if he’d been by our place. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not me. But you might wanna get a gun. Never know who’s out there.” I nodded, trying to act casual, but my skin was crawling as I drove back.
When I told Emma, her face went pale. “I don’t like this,” she said, pacing the RV’s tiny kitchen. “I keep feeling like someone’s watching us. Yesterday, when I was by the creek, I heard something moving in the bushes. I thought it was Rusty, but he was right next to me.” Her voice cracked, and I pulled her close. “We’re okay,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. “We’ll stick together, keep the doors locked, and I’ll get a signal booster for the phone.” The nearest town was too far for a quick trip, but I promised we’d go soon. For now, we’d stay vigilant.
That night, we triple-checked the locks and kept Rusty’s leash short, tying him to the bed frame. I kept a kitchen knife and a heavy flashlight by my side, useless as they’d probably be against anything serious. Around midnight, it started. A faint tapping, like someone knocking on a tree. Tap. Tap. Tap. Rusty’s ears perked up, and he growled, his fur bristling. Emma grabbed my arm. “You hear that?” she whispered. I nodded, my mouth dry. The tapping grew louder, closer, moving from the trees to the edge of the clearing. Then came a scraping sound, slow and deliberate, like something dragging along the RV’s metal side. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it’d burst.
“Stay here,” I said, grabbing the flashlight and knife. Emma’s eyes were wide with panic. “Don’t you dare go out there!” she hissed, clutching Rusty, who was now barking like mad. I cracked the window, shining the flashlight into the dark. The beam caught nothing but trees, their branches swaying slightly. “Who’s out there?” I shouted, my voice shaking. Silence. Then, from somewhere in the woods, a voice—low, gravelly, almost a growl. “You don’t belong here.” It was so clear, so close, it felt like ice in my veins. I slammed the window shut, locking it, and stumbled back to Emma. “What was that?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely steady. “But we’re not opening that door.”
The tapping and scraping went on for what felt like hours, sometimes stopping for a few minutes, then starting again, closer or farther away, like whoever it was—or whatever—was circling us, toying with us. Rusty kept growling, his teeth bared, and Emma clung to me, whispering, “Please, make it stop.” I banged on the RV wall, shouting, “Get out of here! Leave us alone!” It didn’t help. The sounds kept coming, relentless, until just before dawn, when they finally stopped. We sat there, frozen, waiting for daylight.
When the sun rose, we stepped outside, shaking, to check the RV. The sides were covered in fresh scratches—long, jagged marks in the paint, too deep to be from branches or animals. Around the clearing, more boot prints, some smudged, like someone had been pacing. Worst of all, we found Rusty’s favorite toy—a chewed-up tennis ball—sliced clean in half, left right by the fire pit. I felt sick. Emma was crying again. “We’re leaving,” she said. “Now.”
We packed in a frenzy, throwing clothes and gear into bags, not caring what we left behind. As we loaded the RV, I noticed something carved into a pine tree at the edge of the clearing—a rough symbol, a circle with three jagged lines slashed through it. It wasn’t there yesterday. My stomach churned, but I didn’t say anything to Emma. She was already on edge, clutching Rusty like a lifeline. As we drove down the dirt road, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Tom standing by his trailer, watching us. He didn’t wave, didn’t move—just stood there, his face blank, a shadow against the trees.
We made it to a motel in town and collapsed, exhausted but too scared to sleep. Over the next few days, I dug into local forums and news archives, looking for answers. There were stories—hikers disappearing, strange carvings found on trees, whispers of people living deep in the woods, territorial and hostile to outsiders. One post mentioned a group of drifters who’d been spotted over the years, moving between abandoned cabins, leaving marks like the one I’d seen. No one knew who they were, and the police rarely investigated—too far out, too little evidence. Another article mentioned a couple who’d abandoned their off-grid homestead after finding similar scratches on their trailer and hearing voices at night. It felt like we’d dodged something dark.
We never went back. The RV’s still out there, for all I know, along with our dreams of off-grid living. We’re back in the city now, in a small apartment, where the hum of traffic feels safer than that suffocating silence. Sometimes, I wake up at night, hearing that tapping in my mind. Tap. Tap. Tap. Emma doesn’t talk about it, but she keeps a light on when she sleeps, and Rusty stays close, like he knows something we don’t. I still don’t know who—or what—was out there, circling our RV, whispering in the dark. But I know we weren’t alone in those woods, and I’m not sure we ever would’ve been.
"The Man in the Trees":
I’d been living in my cabin near North Pond, Maine, for about four months, chasing a simpler life away from the city’s noise. The cabin was small, made of weathered logs, with a slanted roof and a stone fireplace. It sat in a clearing, surrounded by dense pine trees that blocked out the world. No neighbors for miles, just me and the quiet. At first, it was perfect—mornings spent chopping wood, afternoons hiking trails, and evenings reading by the fire’s glow. The air smelled of sap and earth, and I felt free. But then, things started going wrong.
It began with small stuff. I left a flashlight on the porch table one night, and by morning, it was gone. I figured I’d knocked it off, maybe an animal took it. A few days later, a bag of chips vanished from the kitchen counter. I searched every cupboard, thinking I’d misplaced it, but found nothing. Then my favorite jacket—a thick green one I hung by the door—disappeared. I tore the cabin apart, checking under the creaky floorboards, behind the couch, even in the tiny loft where I slept. Nothing. My stomach churned. I wasn’t just losing things; someone was taking them.
I drove my old pickup to the general store in town, a 30-minute trip down a winding dirt road. The store was a cluttered place, shelves stuffed with canned goods and fishing gear, the kind of spot where locals lingered to gossip. While grabbing coffee and batteries, I overheard two men at the counter, their voices low. “Heard the hermit hit another cabin last week,” one said, scratching his beard. “Took a whole case of soup.” The other nodded. “Folks say he’s a ghost, but I reckon he’s just a guy who don’t like people.” I froze, clutching my basket. The “North Pond Hermit” was a local legend, a man who supposedly lived in the woods and stole from cabins to survive. Some thought he was a myth; others swore they’d seen him. A woman behind the counter, her apron stained with coffee, leaned in. “He don’t hurt nobody, but it’s creepy, knowing he’s out there, watching.” My skin prickled. Was he watching me?
Back at the cabin, I couldn’t shake the unease. The trees felt closer, their shadows heavier. I checked the windows—simple latches, easy to jimmy—and the front and back doors, both with flimsy locks. If someone wanted in, they wouldn’t need much effort. I ordered a motion-sensor alarm online, a small white box that screeched if anything moved nearby, and swapped the old locks for heavy deadbolts. It cost me half a paycheck, but I needed to feel safe. For a week, everything was fine. Then, one morning, I found a loaf of bread and a can of beans missing from the pantry. The alarm hadn’t gone off. The doors were still locked, no windows broken. It was like he’d walked through the walls. My heart raced as I realized he must’ve come while I was asleep, just feet from my bed.
I stopped sleeping well after that. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle outside, sent my pulse spiking. I started keeping a baseball bat by my bed, its smooth wood a small comfort. I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining footsteps circling the cabin. The isolation, once peaceful, now felt like a trap. I considered leaving, but I’d sunk everything into this place—my savings, my dreams of a quieter life. I wasn’t ready to give up. So, I decided to catch him.
One night, I turned off all the lights and sat in the dark living room, the bat across my lap. The cabin was silent except for the faint crackle of the fire dying in the hearth. I’d propped a chair under the front door handle and left the back door unlocked, a risky bait. If he was coming, that’s where he’d try. I waited, eyes locked on the door, my hands sweaty around the bat. The clock on the mantle ticked past midnight, then one, then two. My eyelids grew heavy, but I forced them open, sipping cold coffee to stay alert. Just as I thought I couldn’t stay awake any longer, I heard it—a soft scrape, like a boot brushing the wooden steps outside. My breath caught. The doorknob jiggled, slow and deliberate, then turned.
The back door creaked open, and a figure slipped inside, moving with a quiet grace, like he’d done this a hundred times. He was thin, his frame swallowed by tattered clothes—a frayed jacket, pants patched with duct tape. Long, greasy hair hung past his shoulders, and a scruffy beard covered most of his face. He didn’t see me in the corner, my body pressed against the wall. He moved to the kitchen, his steps silent on the floorboards, and started rifling through my pantry, pulling out a can of soup. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he’d hear it. I gripped the bat, took a shaky breath, and stepped forward.
“Stop right there!” My voice cracked, louder than I meant.
He froze, the can in his hand, and turned slowly. His eyes, wide and sunken, locked onto mine. They weren’t angry or wild—just tired, like he’d seen too much. For a moment, we just stared, the air thick with tension. I held the bat high, my arms trembling.
“Who are you?” I demanded, trying to sound tough.
He didn’t answer, just stood there, clutching the soup. His silence unnerved me more than any threat would have.
“Why are you stealing from me?” I said, stepping closer. “This is my home. You can’t just walk in!”
His voice came out soft, raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks. “I don’t mean to scare you. I just… need things to get by.”
His words hit me like a punch. He wasn’t some monster, just a man, thin and worn, surviving in a way I couldn’t imagine. I lowered the bat a fraction. “Are you the hermit? The North Pond guy?”
He nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “That’s what they call me.”
My mind raced. Part of me wanted to call the sheriff, have him hauled away. But another part saw the desperation in his hunched shoulders, the way his hands shook slightly. He didn’t look dangerous, just lost. “Why my cabin?” I asked. “Why keep coming back?”
“I know when you’re gone,” he said quietly. “You leave for town every Tuesday. It’s easier then.”
A chill ran through me. He’d been watching, learning my routine. “That’s not okay,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re making me afraid to live here.”
“I don’t want that,” he said, almost pleading. “The woods… it’s all I have. I don’t know how else to live.”
I should’ve been furious, but his words softened something in me. He wasn’t stealing for fun—he was surviving. I took a deep breath, the bat still in my hands but lower now. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t think you want to hurt me. But this has to stop. What if I leave food for you? Outside, so you don’t need to break in?”
His eyes widened, like the idea was foreign. “You’d do that? For me?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier. “But only if you promise to stop coming inside. Deal?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”
I pointed to the door. “Go. I’ll leave a box on the porch tomorrow. Food, maybe some clothes. But don’t come back in here.”
He set the soup can on the counter, slow and careful, and backed toward the door. “Thank you,” he whispered, then slipped out into the night, as quiet as he’d come. I rushed to lock the door, my hands still trembling, and sank onto the couch, the bat clattering to the floor.
The next morning, I left a cardboard box on the porch—canned beans, tuna, a loaf of bread, and an old sweater I didn’t wear anymore. By dawn, it was gone. I started doing it every week, leaving food and sometimes a blanket or socks. The break-ins stopped. Once, as I set out the box, I thought I heard a faint “thank you” carried by the wind, but when I looked into the trees, there was nothing but shadows.
I never saw him again, but the fear never fully left. Every creak of the cabin, every snap of a twig outside, made me wonder if he was still out there, watching. I kept the bat by my bed, checked the locks twice a night. The woods, once my escape, now felt alive with secrets. I stayed, though, determined to make my life here work. But I never forgot that night, or the man who lived like a ghost, surviving on the edges of my world.
"Not Alone in the Wild":
I’d been living in my cabin for nearly seven months, tucked deep in a forest where the nearest town was a 40-minute drive down a winding dirt road. I’d wanted this—solitude, a break from the noise of city life. The cabin was small, with weathered wooden walls, a slanted roof, and a stone chimney that puffed smoke when I lit the fire. My days were simple: tending a vegetable garden, chopping firewood, hauling water from a nearby stream. I’d built a routine, found comfort in the rhythm. The place felt like mine, until it didn’t.
It started with little things. One morning, I noticed footprints in the soft dirt around the cabin. They were big, heavy boots, circling the house, stopping near the windows. I told myself it was a lost hiker, maybe someone curious. But the prints showed up again the next day, and the day after, always in a loop, like someone was studying the place. I’d stand on my porch, scanning the trees, but the forest was thick, swallowing any sign of who was out there. My stomach started to knot every time I stepped outside.
Then my shovel went missing. I kept my tools in a small shed out back, locked with a rusty padlock. I searched everywhere, thinking I’d left it in the garden, but it was gone. A few days later, my hatchet disappeared too. I started to feel eyes on me, even in broad daylight. At night, things got worse. I’d hear noises—crunching leaves, slow, deliberate steps outside. I’d lie in bed, heart thumping, telling myself it was deer or a fox. But the steps had a rhythm, too careful, too human.
One afternoon, a man showed up. I was splitting wood when I saw him emerge from the trees, walking toward the cabin. He was skinny, with greasy brown hair and a stained jacket that hung loose on his frame. His eyes darted around, hands fidgeting in his pockets. “Hey,” he called, stopping a few yards away. “I’m Tom. Live a few miles out. You got any copper? Need it for my daughters, some school thing.”
His story didn’t sit right. His voice was shaky, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I gripped the axe a little tighter, keeping my distance. “No copper,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Got some old car batteries in the shed, though. You can take those.” His face twitched, a quick flash of something—excitement, maybe, or something darker. He nodded, waited while I grabbed two dusty batteries from the shed, and took them without a thank you. As he walked back into the woods, I memorized his face, the way he moved, the way he glanced back at the cabin.
That night, the noises were louder. Crunching gravel, a faint scrape near the back door. I grabbed my flashlight, hands trembling, and checked every window. Nothing but darkness. I barely slept, my mind replaying Tom’s visit. The next morning, I found pry marks on the back door’s frame, deep scratches in the wood like someone had tried to force a crowbar through. My chest tightened. I started locking everything—doors, windows, even the shed. I dug out my old shotgun from a trunk, cleaned it, loaded it, and kept it by the bed. I didn’t want to use it, but the thought of someone out there, watching, made my skin crawl.
A few days later, I drove to see John, a neighbor who lived a few miles away. His place was bigger, with solar panels and a chain-link fence. He was older, maybe 60, with a gruff voice and calloused hands. We stood by his gate, sipping coffee he’d brewed on a camp stove. “You look spooked,” he said, squinting at me.
“Something’s not right,” I told him. “Found footprints around my place, tools missing. Back door’s got pry marks. Met a guy, Tom, asking for copper. Seemed off.”
John’s face hardened. “Tom? Never heard of him. Folks out here don’t just wander up asking for stuff. You gotta be careful. We’re too far from town for quick help. Get some motion lights, maybe a satellite phone. Check your place every day.” He paused, then added, “We watch out for each other. You need me, you call.”
His words helped, but the fear didn’t leave. Back home, I checked the cabin twice a day, looking for new footprints, more pry marks. I found a few—faint scratches on a window latch, like someone tested it. I started sleeping in fits, waking at every sound. One night, around 1 a.m., I heard it—a creak, not outside, but inside the cabin. My heart stopped. I lay still, ears straining. Another creak, then a soft shuffle, coming from the living room.
I grabbed the shotgun, my hands slick with sweat, and slipped out of bed. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I moved slowly, avoiding the boards I knew squeaked. In the living room, moonlight spilled through the window, and there he was—Tom, hunched over my desk, rifling through drawers. Papers were scattered, my flashlight knocked to the floor, its beam cutting across the room. He was muttering to himself, low and frantic, pulling out anything metal—a screwdriver, a small knife, even a spoon.
I stepped forward, the floor creaking under me. His head whipped up, eyes wide, glinting in the dark. For a second, we just stared, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Get out,” I said, my voice shaking but loud, raising the shotgun. “Now.”
He froze, hands half-raised, a screwdriver still clutched in one. “I—I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” he stammered, voice high. “Just needed stuff. For my girls.”
“Out!” I shouted, stepping closer, the gun steady now. He stumbled back, eyes locked on the barrel, then turned and bolted for the back door. He fumbled with the lock, cursing under his breath, before yanking it open and sprinting into the night. I ran to the door, slamming it shut and bolting it, my hands trembling so bad I dropped the key. I stood there, listening to his footsteps fade, the forest swallowing him.
I didn’t sleep after that. I checked every inch of the cabin, found the window he’d gotten in through—one I’d forgotten to lock, the latch bent open. He’d left a trail of dirt, a few papers crumpled on the floor. My stomach churned at how close he’d been, how long he might’ve been inside while I slept. At first light, I called John. He came over, his truck rattling up the path. “You’re lucky,” he said, inspecting the window. “Could’ve been worse. You did good, standing your ground.”
“Doesn’t feel good,” I said, my voice tight. “What if he comes back?”
“He might,” John said plainly. “Get lights, cameras, something to call for help. We’ll keep watch too. You’re not alone out here.”
The next week, I poured everything into securing the place. I installed motion-sensor lights that flooded the yard with a harsh glow. I bought a cheap security camera, set it up to record the porch. I got a satellite phone, kept it charged by my bed. I started visiting John and other neighbors more, trading eggs from my chickens for their advice or spare tools. They told stories—others who’d had intruders, people drawn to cabins like mine, thinking we’re easy targets. One guy had a truck stolen; another found a stranger sleeping in his shed. It wasn’t just me.
I still live here, but it’s different now. The forest doesn’t feel like a refuge anymore. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, makes my heart race. I check the camera footage daily, scan for footprints, lock everything twice. The shotgun stays loaded, leaning by the door. I wanted freedom out here, a life on my terms, but I learned the truth: out in the wild, you’re never as alone as you think. Someone’s always watching, waiting for you to slip.
Tags:
Story