"Gravel and Glass":
I was thrilled about this RV trip. My friend Jack and I had been dreaming it up for months, a break from our hectic lives in the city. We wanted somewhere quiet, far from traffic and crowds, just the two of us with nature. After scrolling through websites, we found this RV park that looked perfect—nestled in a valley, surrounded by towering pines, with glowing reviews about its peacefulness. The online photos showed neat rows of RV spots, a small pond, and a little office shack that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘80s. It was exactly what we needed. We rented a compact RV, nothing fancy, just enough for a long weekend, and hit the road.
When we pulled into the park, it was quieter than I expected. Only three other RVs were scattered across the lot, their awnings rolled up, no signs of life. The office was just like the pictures—a weathered wooden building with a flickering neon sign that read “Check-In.” The guy behind the counter, middle-aged with a stained baseball cap, barely glanced at us. He slid a crumpled map across the counter, circled our spot with a pen, and mumbled, “No loud music.” I nodded, but his lack of interest left me uneasy. Jack grabbed the map, and we drove to our spot at the far end of the park, right up against a dense line of trees that blocked out the rest of the world.
The spot was isolated, which I thought was great at first. No neighbors, no noise—just the pines and the faint hum of insects. We parked the RV, its tires crunching on the gravel, and started setting up. Jack unfolded our camp chairs, set up a small propane grill, and tossed a bag of chips onto the rickety table we’d brought. I checked the RV’s locks, tugging on the door and windows to make sure they were secure. It was a habit from living in the city, but out here, it felt a little silly. “This place is dead,” Jack said, cracking open a soda. “Feels like we’re the only ones here.”
“It’s peaceful,” I said, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my chest. “Just what we wanted, right?” He shrugged, and we got to work grilling burgers. The smell of charcoal and meat filled the air, and for a while, everything felt normal. We ate, talked about work, and laughed about old college stories. As the sky darkened, we built a small fire in the pit, the flames casting shadows on the RV’s white exterior. The park was silent, no voices, no cars, just the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees. We locked up around 10:30 p.m., double-checking the door. I climbed into the narrow bunk at the back, and Jack took the fold-out couch near the front. The RV creaked as we settled in, but I fell asleep fast, lulled by the quiet.
I woke up hours later, my heart hammering. Something was wrong. I lay still, eyes wide, trying to figure out what had pulled me from sleep. Then I heard it—a soft thud, like something heavy brushing against the RV’s side. My mouth went dry. I checked my phone: 2:17 a.m. The screen’s glow felt too bright, and I dimmed it, listening hard. Another thud, then a faint scrape, like metal dragging across metal. My stomach twisted. I slid out of the bunk, my bare feet cold on the RV’s floor, and crept to the nearest window. The blinds were down, but I lifted one slat, just enough to peek outside.
Two figures stood near the RV’s door, their shapes blurry in the darkness. One was tall, lanky, wearing a dark hoodie. The other was shorter, broader, his hood up too. They weren’t talking, just moving carefully, like they didn’t want to make noise. The tall one tugged at the door handle, first gently, then with more force. The RV rocked slightly, and I froze, my breath catching. They weren’t just passing by. They were trying to get in.
“Jack,” I whispered, my voice barely audible as I shook his shoulder. He groaned, half-asleep, his arm flopping over the edge of the couch. “Jack, wake up. Someone’s outside.”
His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, rubbing his face. “What?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. I pointed to the window, my hand shaking. He crawled over, lifting the blind just enough to see. His face went pale, his jaw tightening. “Who the heck are they?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “They’re messing with the door.” We heard another scrape, this time near the back window, like they were testing it. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I remembered the air horn we’d packed for emergencies, stashed in a drawer by the sink. I grabbed it, my fingers fumbling with the cold metal canister. “Should we call 911?” Jack asked, pulling out his phone.
“Who’s gonna come out here?” I said, my voice tight. “The office guy didn’t even care we were here. Let’s try scaring them first.” Jack nodded, grabbing a flashlight from under the couch. His hands were shaking too, but he tried to look calm. I moved to the door, air horn in one hand, phone in the other. “Ready?” I whispered. He gave a quick nod, aiming the flashlight at the window.
I took a deep breath and pressed the air horn. The sound was like a scream, a sharp, ear-splitting wail that tore through the silence. I heard a shout outside, then the crunch of gravel as footsteps scrambled away. Jack flicked on the flashlight, the beam slicing through the dark. It caught two figures sprinting toward the trees, their hoods up, one of them stumbling over a root. Then they vanished into the shadows.
We stood there, frozen, the air horn still buzzing in my ears. “Are they gone?” Jack whispered after a minute, his voice hoarse.
“I think so,” I said, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I kept the air horn ready, my eyes darting to every window. We sat in the dark, the flashlight off to save the battery, listening for any sound. The RV felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. “What if they come back?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jack swallowed hard. “They won’t. That horn probably scared them off for good.” But he didn’t sound sure. We debated calling the police, but the signal was weak, and the idea of waiting for help in the middle of nowhere felt risky. “Let’s just stay awake,” I said. “If we hear anything else, we call.”
Jack nodded, but his eyes kept flicking to the windows. I sat by the door, air horn in my lap, checking my phone every few minutes. The minutes dragged on, each one heavier than the last. Jack tried to stay awake, but his head kept nodding, his breathing slowing. I didn’t have the heart to wake him again. I just sat there, listening to the silence, my nerves on edge.
Around 3 a.m., it started again. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching on the gravel. My blood ran cold. I shook Jack awake, my hand gripping his arm. “They’re back,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together. He jolted upright, grabbing the flashlight. We heard a low voice outside, too muffled to make out words, then a loud thud against the RV’s side. The whole vehicle shook. Another thud, harder, and then a sharp crack—glass breaking near the back window.
“Hey!” a voice shouted, rough and angry. “Open the door, now!” My heart stopped. Another bang, like something heavy slamming into the RV. I pictured a crowbar, a bat, something meant to break through. Jack fumbled with his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed 911. “Police, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “We’re at Pine Valley RV Park, spot 27. Someone’s trying to break in.”
The banging got louder, more desperate. I heard the crunch of glass underfoot, like they’d shattered the back window completely. “Stay away!” I yelled, my voice breaking. I hit the air horn again, the sound blasting through the RV. The banging stopped for a second, and I heard cursing, then more footsteps—closer now, circling the RV. My hands were sweating so much the air horn nearly slipped from my grip.
Jack whispered into the phone, giving details as fast as he could. “Two guys, hoodies, they’re breaking the window,” he said, his voice trembling. The operator told him to stay calm, that help was on the way, but it felt like forever. Another loud crash came from the back, and I saw a hand reach through the broken window, fumbling with the latch. I hit the air horn again, holding it down until my ears rang. The hand jerked back, and I heard more shouting, then footsteps running.
In the distance, sirens wailed, faint but growing louder. My knees felt weak, but I kept my eyes on the windows, waiting for another shadow. The red and blue lights finally flashed through the trees, and the sirens screamed closer. The footsteps didn’t come back. When the police arrived, two officers with flashlights searched around the RV. They found footprints in the dirt, a dented crowbar tossed near the trees, and shards of glass from our broken window. “You’re lucky you had that horn,” one officer said, scribbling in his notebook. “This park’s had trouble before—break-ins, theft. You did the right thing staying inside.”
They searched the woods but found no one. The men were gone, melted into the night. We taped up the broken window with duct tape, the cold air seeping through the cracks. We didn’t sleep, just sat there, watching the windows until dawn. At first light, we packed up, the RV’s interior a mess of glass and duct tape. Jack looked at me as we pulled out, his face tired. “No more empty parks,” he said, his voice flat.
“Yeah,” I said, my hands still gripping the air horn. We drove in silence, the memory of those footsteps, the shouting, the shattering glass replaying in my head. Later, we bought a proper alarm system for the RV, one with motion sensors and a siren. We got pepper spray too, and I’ve been looking into getting a dog—something big, with a bark that carries. That night changed everything. RV camping used to feel like freedom, a way to escape. Now, it’s a reminder to always be ready, to listen for those thuds in the dark.
"The Watchers at Site Nine":
I was done with the city—its blaring horns, packed sidewalks, and the constant grind of work emails piling up. I craved quiet, a place to breathe, so when a friend mentioned a small RV park buried deep in the woods, I didn’t hesitate. I packed my RV with canned food, a stack of books, my old Nikon camera, and a folding chair, picturing a week of nothing but trees and solitude. The drive took hours, winding through dense forests and rolling hills, the road narrowing until it was just a dirt path, gravel crunching under my tires. When I pulled into the park, I felt lighter, like I’d already left my stress behind.
The park was tiny, maybe a dozen sites total, surrounded by towering pines that blocked out most of the sky. A clear stream ran along the edge, its water gurgling over smooth rocks, and I picked a spot right beside it. The sound was soothing, like nature’s white noise. I spent the first hour setting up—unrolling the awning, hooking up the water, arranging my camp stove. As I worked, I noticed the only other people around: an older couple, probably in their 60s, at the site next to mine. Their RV was a hulking thing, old and battered, with chipped paint and a cracked windshield. What really stopped me, though, were the blackened, charred sausages hanging from the branches of a gnarled oak tree near their site. They dangled on twine, greasy and dark, swaying slightly. It looked wrong, like some kind of ritual or warning. I shook my head, telling myself it was just quirky camper behavior. People get weird when they’re out in the woods.
I decided to break the ice, walking over with a wave. The woman was pinning damp clothes to a sagging clothesline, her hands moving fast, like she was in a hurry. “Evening,” I said, keeping my tone friendly. She glanced up, her face etched with deep lines, eyes sharp. “Evening,” she rasped, her voice rough like she’d been chain-smoking for decades. “Nice spot, right?” I tried, gesturing toward the stream. She gave a quick nod, barely looking at me, and went back to her clothes. The man was sitting in a faded lawn chair, sharpening a knife against a whetstone, the slow scrape of metal making my neck prickle. He didn’t acknowledge me at all. I mumbled a “See you around” and headed back, feeling like I’d interrupted something.
As I unpacked my cooler, I spotted something else: a small trail camera strapped to a pine tree, its lens aimed directly at my site. It was tucked into the branches, almost hidden, but the angle was unmistakable. My RV, my fire pit, my chair—all in its view. That didn’t sit right. Why would they need to watch me? I walked back over, heart beating a little faster. The man was still sharpening his knife, the sound louder now. “Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “I noticed your camera’s pointed at my site. Is there a reason for that?” He paused, the knife hovering, and looked at me for the first time. His eyes were pale, almost gray. “Just keeping an eye on things,” he said, his voice flat. “You never know what might happen out here.” I waited for more, but he went back to his knife. “Fair enough,” I said, my mouth dry, and walked away. His words echoed in my head, vague but heavy, like a warning I couldn’t quite grasp.
That night, I built a small fire and sat outside, trying to focus on the crackle of the logs and the stream’s soft rush. But the quiet didn’t last. From the couple’s site, I heard low voices—muttering, laughing, a constant hum that never stopped. It wasn’t loud enough to make out words, but it felt deliberate, like they were talking about something they didn’t want me to hear. Every so often, a sharp, high laugh cut through—hers, I think—and it made my skin crawl. I kept glancing at their site, but their fire was just a dim glow, and I couldn’t see them clearly. The camera’s red light blinked in the dark, steady and unyielding, like an eye that never closed. Then came the rustling—soft at first, like leaves brushing together, from the bushes near my RV. I grabbed my flashlight, my pulse racing, and swept the beam across the trees. Nothing. No eyes glinting back, no movement. Probably a squirrel or a deer, I told myself, but my hands were shaking as I set the flashlight down. I stayed by the fire a little longer, but the voices, the laughter, the rustling—it all felt too close. I locked the RV door that night, something I never do when camping.
Sleep didn’t come easy. Every creak of the RV, every snap of a twig outside, made me bolt upright, listening. By morning, I was exhausted, my eyes gritty. I stepped outside to make coffee, hoping daylight would shake off the unease. That’s when I heard it: a chorus of loud, frantic crow calls, harsh and urgent, like they were screaming. I looked toward the couple’s site, and my stomach dropped. Under the oak tree, where those sausages had been hanging, there was a dead crow on the ground. Its body was twisted, one wing bent at a sickening angle, feathers scattered like confetti. The sausages were gone—not a single one left, no scraps, no twine. Just the crow, lifeless, and that trail camera still pointed at my site, its red light glowing. I stood there, frozen, my coffee mug trembling in my hand. Had an animal taken the sausages? Had the crow gotten caught somehow? My mind raced, but none of it added up. The camera felt like it was taunting me, recording every second of my fear.
I didn’t want to stay another minute. I started packing up, moving faster than I ever had. I folded the chairs, rolled up the awning, unhooked the water line, my hands clumsy with adrenaline. As I tossed my cooler into the RV, I saw the man standing at the edge of my site, just watching. He wasn’t whittling now, just standing with his hands in his pockets, his face blank. “Leaving already?” he asked, his voice low and even. I swallowed hard, trying to sound calm. “Yeah, think I’ll try another park. Got some friends waiting.” It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to know I was alone. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Be careful,” he said, and the words felt like ice down my spine. I climbed into the driver’s seat, my heart hammering, and started the engine. As I pulled onto the dirt road, I glanced in the rearview mirror. He was still there, standing in the same spot, watching me go. A small smile curled his lips, just enough to make my skin crawl.
I drove for hours, not stopping until I was far from that park, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I kept checking my mirrors, half-expecting to see their battered RV behind me. I don’t know what was going on with that couple—the sausages, the camera, the crow—but it wasn’t right. I’ve camped all over, but I’ve never felt that kind of dread before. I haven’t been back to an RV park since, and I don’t think I ever will.
"Lot 12":
I rolled my camper into the RV park just after dusk, the tires grinding over cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts and bottle caps. The place was a mess—faded awnings sagged over rusty trailers, picnic tables were splintered and stained, and a neon “Vacancy” sign buzzed and flickered like it was on its last legs. I’d lost my job two months back, then my apartment when the rent piled up, so this rundown park, tucked off a lonely highway, was my only option. It was cheap, out of the way, and home to a mix of travelers passing through and folks who looked like they’d been stuck here for years. Something about it felt wrong, though, like the air was thick with secrets nobody wanted to share.
I parked in Lot 12, next to a sagging trailer with a crooked porch light that cast a sickly yellow glow. A guy named Joe, maybe 60, with a gray beard and deep lines etched into his face, sat outside in a folding chair, smoking a cigarette. He gave a half-wave, his eyes scanning me like he was sizing me up. “New here?” he called, his voice gravelly.
“Yeah, just getting settled,” I said, trying to sound friendly as I unhitched my camper.
He took a long drag, exhaling smoke that curled in the dim light. “Keep to yourself. Safer that way. Folks here don’t like nosy types.” His tone was low, almost a warning, and he flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt before heading inside. I stood there, keys in hand, wondering what he meant, a knot forming in my stomach.
That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The park was too quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it’s hiding something. My camper smelled of mildew, and the thin mattress creaked every time I shifted. Around 2 a.m., a low rumble broke the stillness—a car engine, slow and deliberate. I sat up, heart thumping, and peeked through the blinds. Headlights swept across the lot, pausing on Lot 10, where a young woman lived. I’d noticed her earlier that day, maybe 20, thin as a rail, with stringy brown hair and bruises on her arms that looked fresh. She moved like she was scared of her own shadow, always glancing over her shoulder. An older man, heavy-set with a shaved head and a mean stare, was always near her, barking orders like “Move it!” or “Don’t make me tell you twice.”
The car, a dark sedan with tinted windows, idled by her trailer. The older man stepped out, his boots crunching gravel, and yanked the woman out of her trailer door. She stumbled, her hands up like she was bracing for a hit. Her face, lit by the headlights, was pale, eyes wide with fear. He shoved her into the back seat, slamming the door so hard it echoed. The sedan peeled out, tires spitting dirt, and the park went silent again. I stood frozen, my breath shallow, unsure if I’d just seen something I shouldn’t have. I thought about calling the cops, but what would I say? I didn’t even know her name.
The next morning, I made coffee in my tiny camper kitchen, the image of her scared face stuck in my head. Joe was outside again, tinkering with a rusty bike. I walked over, mug in hand, trying to act casual. “What’s the deal with that girl in Lot 10?” I asked, leaning against a tree.
Joe didn’t look up, just kept twisting a wrench. “What do you mean?”
“Saw her last night. Looked like she was in trouble. Some guy pushed her into a car.”
He stopped, wiping his hands on a rag, and glanced around like he was checking for listeners. “Listen,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “best not to get involved. Things happen here. People come and go. You start asking questions, you’ll wish you hadn’t.” He pointed the wrench at me, not threatening, but firm. “Keep your head down, you’ll be fine.” He turned back to his bike, conversation over.
His words stuck with me, but so did her face. Over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The park felt creepier each night—car engines growled at odd hours, shadows moved between trailers, and I’d hear muffled arguments, voices sharp but words unclear. I started noticing the woman more. She’d sit on a plastic chair outside her trailer, head down, picking at her nails while the older man loomed nearby, yelling things like “Hurry up, we’re late!” or “Stop whining, you’re lucky to be here.” Once, she dropped a bag of groceries, apples rolling into the dirt, and he grabbed her arm so hard she winced. Our eyes met for a second, and I saw desperation, like she was silently begging for help, but she looked away fast when he noticed.
By the fourth night, I was jumpy, checking my locks twice. I woke up to a faint scratching sound outside. Heart pounding, I grabbed a flashlight and peered out. Nothing but empty lots and that buzzing neon sign. In the morning, I found a note tucked under my windshield wiper, scrawled in black pen: “Mind your own business. Or else.” The words sent a chill down my spine. I scanned the park, but it was just Joe in the distance, hosing down his trailer, and a couple of kids riding bikes. Someone knew I’d seen something. My truck’s tires were fine, but I noticed fresh scratches on the driver’s side door, like someone had dragged a key across it. I crumpled the note and shoved it in my glovebox, hands shaking.
I tried to follow Joe’s advice, to stay out of it, but I couldn’t. That evening, I saw the woman alone, lugging a trash bag to the dumpster at the edge of the park. She looked worse—pale, a new bruise blooming on her cheek, her eyes red like she’d been crying. I grabbed a bag of my own trash as an excuse and walked over. “You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, like I was talking to a scared animal.
She froze, the bag slipping from her hands. Her eyes darted around, checking for the man. “Please,” she whispered, voice trembling, “help me. They’re coming back for me tonight.”
“Who’s they?” I asked, stepping closer, my pulse racing.
“The men,” she said, barely audible. “They… they take people. I didn’t know when I came here. They promised work, but it’s a lie. I can’t stay.” Her words spilled out fast, like she’d been holding them in too long. Before I could ask more, the older man’s voice boomed from her trailer: “Get back here, now!” She flinched, grabbed her bag, and hurried off, leaving me standing there, my mind racing.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I turned off my lights and sat by the window, watching Lot 10 through a crack in the blinds. Around midnight, the dark sedan rolled in, its engine a low growl. The older man dragged her out, her wrists bound with a zip tie. She was sobbing, pleading, “Please, don’t do this!” He slapped her, hard, and shoved her toward the car. I grabbed my phone, hands sweaty, and slipped out the back door of my camper, crouching low in the shadows.
I crept closer, hiding behind a rusted pickup truck parked nearby. The man was talking to the driver, a tall guy with a shaved head and a snake tattoo curling up his neck. “She’s the last one for this run,” the driver said, lighting a cigarette. “Boss wants her gone tonight.”
“Pay up, then,” the older man growled, pocketing a thick wad of cash from the driver’s hand.
My fingers shook as I dialed 911, whispering my location and what I’d seen. “Please hurry,” I said. The operator told me to stay safe, that police were on the way, but the car door slammed, and the engine roared to life. I couldn’t wait. I ran to my truck, parked at the lot’s edge, and followed the sedan, keeping my headlights off and staying far enough back to avoid notice.
They drove to an old warehouse a few miles away, surrounded by a sagging chain-link fence and overgrown weeds. I parked behind a cluster of trees, my heart hammering. The sedan’s taillights glowed red as they pulled her inside, her muffled cries echoing in the quiet. I grabbed a flashlight and my pocketknife, not sure what I was planning, but I couldn’t just sit there.
I crept to the warehouse, sticking to the shadows. The main door was locked, but a side window was cracked open, smeared with grime. I peered inside. The woman was tied to a metal chair, head slumped, while the two men argued near a stack of crates. “Get her ready,” the driver said. “Truck’s here in an hour. We’re behind schedule.”
My phone buzzed—low battery, 5% left. No time to call again. I noticed a fire alarm on the wall outside, its red casing chipped but intact. It was a long shot, but I pulled it. A piercing wail shattered the silence, red lights flashing inside. The men cursed, one shouting, “What the hell is that?” They scrambled, one running to check the door.
I used the chaos to slip inside through a side entrance, staying low behind a pile of old tires. The woman saw me, her eyes widening with hope. I crawled over, whispering, “I’m getting you out. Stay quiet.” I cut the zip tie with my knife, my hands clumsy with adrenaline. She rubbed her wrists, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
We moved toward the side door, but footsteps pounded closer. “Someone’s here!” the driver yelled. I pulled her behind a crate, holding my breath as a flashlight beam swept past. When it moved away, we ran, her hand gripping mine so tight it hurt. We burst out the side door and sprinted for my truck. A shout rang out behind us—“Stop them!”—but I didn’t look back.
I fumbled the keys, started the engine, and peeled out, tires kicking up gravel. She was curled in the passenger seat, sobbing. “They were going to sell me,” she said, voice breaking. “They’ve been doing it for months, using the park to find people.”
“Who are they?” I asked, checking the rearview mirror for headlights.
“Traffickers,” she said. “They promise jobs, a place to stay, then trap you. I was running from my ex, thought the park was safe. They got others, too. I heard them talking.”
I drove to a 24-hour gas station, its fluorescent lights a beacon in the dark. I parked near the entrance, where a clerk was visible inside, and called 911 again. She told the cops everything—names, descriptions, the warehouse, even the sedan’s license plate she’d memorized. I gave my statement, the note from my windshield still in my pocket, its words burned into my brain. The cops took her to a safe place, promising to follow up.
The next morning, I packed my camper, every creak in the park making me jump. Joe watched from his porch, shaking his head like he’d expected this. “Told you to stay out of it,” he muttered as I drove past. I didn’t reply.
A week later, I saw a news report about a police raid at the warehouse. They’d busted a trafficking ring, arrested six men, and rescued three others who’d been held there. The park was mentioned, a “hub” for their operation, luring desperate people with cheap rent. I threw out the note from my windshield, but I still check my locks at night. Every engine rumble, every flash of headlights, takes me back to that park, wondering who’s out there, waiting in the dark.
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