"The Mission":
I was 12 years old, living in a small RV park in Pocatello, Idaho, with my family in 1974. Our RV was cozy, parked among a dozen others, a tight-knit community where everyone knew each other. We’d moved there temporarily while my dad’s store was being renovated. The park felt safe, with kids playing in the open spaces and neighbors sharing dinners. Robert, a family friend, lived in an RV nearby with his wife and kids. He was charming, always telling stories about UFOs and adventures, making us laugh. My parents trusted him completely, and so did I.
On October 17, after my piano lesson, Robert stopped by our RV. He was wearing his usual plaid shirt, his smile wide. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Want to go horseback riding? My son’s coming too. It’ll be fun.”
I looked at my mom, who was washing dishes. “Can I go?” I asked, excited. I loved horses, and Robert’s trips were always a treat.
Mom hesitated, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’s a school night,” she said, glancing at Robert.
He chuckled. “I’ll have her back before dinner. Promise.”
Mom sighed but nodded. “Okay, but be careful.”
We climbed into Robert’s car, just the two of us. His son wasn’t there, which felt odd, but I didn’t question it. As we drove, he handed me a small white pill. “For your allergies,” he said, his voice calm. “It’ll help with the dust at the ranch.”
I swallowed it with a sip of water from his thermos. I trusted him. He was like family. But soon, my head felt heavy, my vision blurry. The world spun, and everything went black.
When I woke, I wasn’t at the ranch. I was lying on a narrow bed in a moving RV, the hum of the engine vibrating through the floor. My wrists were tied loosely with a soft cloth, not tight, but enough to scare me. I sat up, heart racing, and saw Robert at the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. The RV smelled of stale coffee and gasoline, and the curtains were drawn tight, blocking the outside world.
“Robert?” My voice trembled. “Where are we?”
He glanced back, his face serious, not the warm smile I knew. “You’re awake,” he said. “Something incredible happened while you were out. Aliens contacted me. They’ve chosen us for a special mission.”
My stomach dropped. “Aliens? What are you talking about?”
“They’re real,” he said, his voice steady, like he was explaining homework. “They spoke to me through a device in my head. They said you and I are special, chosen to save the planet. We have to do something important.”
I tugged at the cloth on my wrists, my mind racing. “What do we have to do?”
He turned, his eyes locking onto mine, cold and intense. “We need to have a child together. It’s the only way to complete the mission. If we don’t, they said terrible things will happen—to your family, to everyone.”
Tears stung my eyes. I was only 12. I didn’t understand what he meant, not fully, but his words made my skin crawl. “I don’t want to,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
He softened, but it felt forced. “I know it’s scary, but I’ll take care of you. We’re in this together. You trust me, don’t you?”
I nodded, not because I wanted to, but because I was trapped. The RV kept moving, the hum drowning out my thoughts. I looked around, noticing a small table with a radio buzzing softly, a stack of sci-fi magazines, and a map pinned to the wall with red marks circling places I didn’t recognize. Where was he taking me?
Days blurred together. He drove us to Mexico, to a small town I’d never heard of. He untied my wrists but kept me close, always watching. One afternoon, he took me to a tiny chapel, its walls peeling with old paint. A man in a suit spoke in Spanish, and Robert handed him papers. “We’re getting married,” Robert said, his hand on my shoulder. “It’s part of the mission.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding. “Married? But I’m just a kid.”
“It’s what they want,” he said, his voice firm. “It’s to protect you, to protect everyone.”
I felt sick, but I didn’t know how to fight him. He was the adult, the one my family trusted. The ceremony was quick, and I clutched my dress, a simple one he’d given me, feeling like I was in a dream I couldn’t wake from.
Weeks later, the police found us. I don’t know how. One minute, we were in the RV, Robert telling me about the aliens again, and the next, sirens wailed outside. Officers burst in, shouting for Robert to step away. I was shaking, confused, as they led me to a car. “You’re safe now,” one officer said, a woman with kind eyes. “We’re taking you home.”
Back at the RV park, my parents hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. “We were so worried,” my mom said, tears streaming down her face. “What happened?”
I tried to explain. “Robert said aliens chose us. He said we had to save the world.”
My dad frowned, glancing at my mom. “Aliens? Honey, that doesn’t make sense.”
I didn’t know what to believe. Robert was arrested, but my parents, still under his spell, didn’t press charges fully. They thought he was just confused, not dangerous. He got a short sentence, and soon, he was back in our lives, acting like nothing happened. The park felt different, though. Neighbors whispered, and I felt eyes on me when I walked to the communal showers.
Two years later, it happened again. I was 14, still in the RV park. Robert came by one evening, his smile back, but his eyes darker. “The aliens are upset,” he said, sitting across from me at our picnic table. “We didn’t finish the mission. We have to try again.”
My heart sank. “I don’t believe you anymore,” I said, my voice small but firm.
His smile faded. “You don’t have a choice. If you tell anyone, your family will suffer. The aliens told me.”
I wanted to scream, to run, but fear kept me frozen. He took me to another RV, hidden in a different park hours away. The same stories, the same lies. But this time, I noticed things—how he stumbled over his words, how his “alien messages” sounded like lines from the sci-fi shows he loved. Doubt grew, but so did fear. What if he was telling the truth? What if I was wrong?
The police found me again, weeks later, after my parents reported me missing. This time, I told them everything, even the parts that scared me to say. The FBI agent, a man with a notepad, listened carefully. “He manipulated you,” he said. “You’re not to blame.”
Robert disappeared for a while, but the damage was done. The RV park, once my home, felt like a trap. We moved away soon after, but I carried the fear with me. It took years to understand what he’d done, how he’d used lies to control me. He wasn’t just a friend; he was a predator hiding in plain sight, using our trust against us.
I still think about those days in the RV, the hum of the engine, the maps, the lies. I wonder how I believed him, how we all did. But I also know I survived. I found my strength, my voice, and I tell my story now so others might see the danger before it’s too late.
"The Vanishing at Sunizona RV Park":
I was staying at an RV park in Sunizona, Arizona, in May 1993. My family and I had rolled into town a week earlier, our old camper parked on a gravel lot surrounded by scraggly desert shrubs and cacti. The park was small, maybe fifteen RVs total, with a few picnic tables and a dusty path leading to a little store at the entrance. That store was the heart of the place, selling snacks, sodas, and camping supplies. It had a single pay phone outside, its metal glinting under the store’s flickering light. The park felt remote, miles from anything, with Highway 191 cutting through the emptiness like a scar. It was quiet, but not the peaceful kind—more like the world was holding its breath. That silence turned heavy the day Dorothy and her daughter Danielle vanished.
I’d gotten to know them a bit over the week. Dorothy was in her late forties, with short brown hair and a warm smile. She wore the same blue T-shirt and denim shorts every day, her flip-flops slapping the ground as she walked. Danielle, her teenage daughter, was lanky, with long blonde hair she kept tossing over her shoulder. She always had this heart-shaped silver pendant around her neck, a gift from her mom, she’d told me once. They were staying in a faded RV two spots down from us, and we’d chat sometimes while our kids played nearby.
That morning, May 23rd, I was outside our camper, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, watching dust swirl across the lot. Dorothy and Danielle passed by, heading for the store. Danielle was already nibbling on an ice cream cone, the chocolate dripping onto her fingers. Dorothy caught my eye and waved.
“Morning!” she called. “We’re grabbing cigarettes for my husband and some snacks. You need anything?”
I shook my head, smiling. “I’m good, thanks. That ice cream looks like it’s winning, Danielle.”
She laughed, holding up her sticky hand. “It’s a mess! Mom, you should’ve got one too.”
Dorothy chuckled, nudging her. “I’m sticking to coffee. Come on, let’s get moving.”
They kept walking, their voices fading as they reached the path to the store. I didn’t think twice about it. People were always in and out of that store, buying sodas or chatting by the pay phone. But hours passed, and they didn’t come back. By late afternoon, a knot started forming in my stomach. Dorothy’s husband, a quiet guy with a graying beard, came by our camper, his face pale.
“Have you seen Dorothy or Danielle?” he asked, his voice tight. “They went to the store around noon. They’re not back.”
I set my mug down, frowning. “I saw them this morning, heading that way. Maybe they stopped somewhere?”
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “They didn’t take the truck. Just walked. It’s not like them to be gone this long.”
My chest tightened. The store was a ten-minute walk, max. Beyond it, there was nothing but highway and desert—no houses, no gas stations, just miles of scrub and sand. We headed to the store together, hoping to find answers. The clerk, an older man with a gray beard and a faded baseball cap, was sweeping the floor. He looked up when we came in.
“You seen Dorothy and her girl?” her husband asked, his voice urgent.
The clerk leaned on his broom, thinking. “Yeah, they were here around 1 p.m. Bought a pack of cigarettes and two ice cream cones. Used the pay phone outside for a bit, then left, walking up 191. Seemed fine to me.”
“Anything else?” I pressed. “Anyone with them? Anything odd?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t see anyone else. It was quiet, like always.”
That didn’t sit right. The park was small, and strangers stood out. If they’d walked off, someone would’ve noticed. Back outside, I scanned the highway, its black ribbon stretching into the distance. The pay phone stood alone, its light buzzing faintly. Something felt wrong, like the air was too thick, pressing against my skin.
By evening, Dorothy’s husband called the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Deputies arrived, their radios crackling as they took statements. They brought search dogs, who sniffed around the store and picked up Dorothy and Danielle’s scents. The dogs led us along Highway 191, their handlers following, but after about a mile and a half, the trail stopped cold. No footprints, no dropped items, nothing. It was like they’d vanished into thin air.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Our camper felt too small, the walls closing in. Every creak of the frame, every rustle outside, made my heart race. I kept picturing Dorothy’s smile, Danielle’s pendant catching the light. Where were they? I thought about a guy in the park, Carl, who’d been staying in a rusted RV at the far end. He was in his thirties, always alone, with a habit of staring too long at people. A few nights earlier, I’d heard his truck rumble to life around 2 a.m., tires crunching gravel as he drove off. It hadn’t meant anything then, but now it gnawed at me. Was he involved? Or was I just paranoid?
The next morning, the search ramped up. Volunteers from town joined us, fanning out across the desert. I went along, my boots sinking into the sandy soil, thorns snagging my jeans. We shouted their names—Dorothy! Danielle!—our voices swallowed by the vastness. The desert felt endless, its flat expanse hiding secrets in every shadow. Around noon, I wandered near the highway, eyes scanning the dirt. That’s when I saw it: a glint half-buried by the roadside. I crouched down, heart pounding, and brushed away the sand. It was Danielle’s pendant, its silver heart scratched but unmistakable.
“Hey!” I yelled, waving over a deputy. “I found something!”
He jogged over, his face serious. “What is it?”
I held it up, my hands trembling. “It’s Danielle’s. She wore it every day.”
He took it, slipping it into an evidence bag. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I said, my throat tight. “Her mom gave it to her.”
The deputy radioed it in, but instead of relief, I felt dread. That pendant was proof something bad had happened. Why was it here, alone, without her? The highway seemed to mock us, its emptiness hiding the truth.
That night, I sat outside our camper, staring at the store’s flickering light. The pay phone stood like a sentinel, and for a moment, I swore I saw a shadow move behind it. I blinked, and it was gone, but my skin prickled. I told myself it was nothing, just nerves, but the feeling of being watched wouldn’t leave. Later, in bed, I heard a sound—a faint whisper, like a voice too soft to understand. I froze, holding my breath, but it didn’t come again. Sleep never came either.
Over the next few days, the search dragged on. We checked ditches, ravines, even abandoned sheds miles away. Nothing. The sheriff’s department said foul play was likely, but they didn’t name suspects. I couldn’t stop thinking about Carl. He’d packed up and left the day after the disappearance, his RV spot empty. I mentioned him to a deputy, who took notes but didn’t say much. Had Carl seen something? Or worse, done something? The thought made my stomach twist.
One evening, I walked to the store to clear my head. The clerk was there, restocking shelves. “Any news?” he asked, his voice low.
I shook my head. “Just that pendant. It’s like they’re gone without a trace.”
He paused, setting down a can. “This place feels different now. People are scared. You hear things at night, you know? Sounds that don’t make sense.”
I nodded, remembering that whisper. “Yeah. It’s creepy.”
He leaned closer. “I saw that Carl guy a few times, late at night, walking by the highway. Never said a word. Then he’s just gone? Makes you wonder.”
I left the store, my mind racing. The park wasn’t the same anymore. People kept to themselves, locking their doors. Dorothy’s husband stayed in his RV, barely eating, waiting for news that never came. The pendant was our only clue, but it raised more questions than answers.
A week later, we were packing to leave. The clerk stopped by, his hands in his pockets. “You think they’re out there?” he asked, nodding toward the desert.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I hope so, but…”
He sighed. “It’s not right. People don’t just vanish.”
But they did. Dorothy and Danielle were gone, and the park felt heavy with their absence. I kept seeing them in my mind—Dorothy’s wave, Danielle’s ice cream dripping. As we drove away, I looked back at the store, its light fading. That pendant haunted me, a tiny piece of a puzzle with no solution. Were they alive, somewhere far from here? Or was the desert keeping their secret, buried where no one would find it?
"The Shadows at Whispering Pines":
I’ve always been drawn to RV parks. There’s a sense of freedom in parking your home on wheels, setting up camp, and joining a temporary community of strangers who feel like neighbors. Whispering Pines RV Park was like that at first—rows of RVs under tall trees, kids zooming by on bikes, the smell of campfires and grilled burgers in the air. People would wave as they walked their dogs or hauled water jugs to the spigot. But after a few weeks, that cozy feeling started to fade, replaced by something unsettling that I couldn’t quite pin down.
It started with small things. I’d left my cooler outside my RV one night, filled with drinks and snacks for a barbecue. The next morning, it was gone. I searched around, thinking maybe kids had swiped it as a prank, but no one had seen it. Then there were the noises—soft footsteps crunching on gravel outside my RV after midnight. I’d flip on my porch light, peer out the window, but see nothing. Just the other RVs, their awnings swaying slightly, and the dark line of trees at the edge of the park. I told myself it was animals or my imagination, but deep down, I felt watched.
Then I heard about the first vanishing. Tom was an older guy, maybe in his sixties, with a gray beard and a habit of sitting outside his RV every morning, sipping coffee from a chipped mug and reading a worn paperback. He’d nod at me when I passed, sometimes chatting about his travels across the country. One morning, his chair was empty. His RV was still there, curtains drawn, door locked. I asked around, and a camper named Lisa, who parked a few spots down, said, “He’s been gone two days. Nobody saw him leave.”
I went to the park manager, Dave, in his cluttered office by the entrance. “What’s up with Tom?” I asked, leaning on the counter.
Dave barely looked up from his paperwork. “Probably took off. People do that sometimes. Don’t pay their fees and just split.”
“But his truck’s still here,” I said. “Keys are in it. I saw them through the window.”
He shrugged, scratching his neck. “Maybe he’s hiking or visiting someone. He’ll turn up.”
But Tom didn’t turn up. A week later, another camper vanished—a young woman named Emily. She was in her twenties, friendly, with a little terrier she walked every evening. I’d seen her the day before she disappeared, tossing a ball for her dog near the picnic area. That night, she didn’t come back from her walk. Her RV door was wide open, the dog’s leash gone, food left out on the counter like she’d been about to cook dinner. Her dog was found the next morning, wandering the park alone, leash trailing in the dirt.
The mood in the park shifted. People stopped lingering outside at night. Conversations at the communal firepit turned tense, full of whispers about what might’ve happened. I overheard Lisa talking to another camper, a guy named Ben, while they filled water jugs at the spigot. “It’s not right,” Lisa said, her voice shaky. “I saw someone last night, standing by the trees near my RV. Just watching. I turned on my light, and they were gone.”
Ben frowned, glancing toward the woods. “You sure it wasn’t just a shadow? Trees play tricks at night.”
“No,” she snapped, gripping her jug tightly. “It was a person. Tall, thin. I’m telling you, something’s off here. I’m packing up tomorrow.”
I didn’t want to believe her. People see things in the dark, get spooked. But the disappearances were real, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lisa wasn’t imagining things. That night, I dug out a cheap trail camera I used for wildlife shots on my travels. I mounted it on a pole outside my RV, angled toward the path leading to the woods. If something was out there, I’d catch it.
The next morning, I pulled the camera’s memory card and loaded the footage on my laptop. My stomach dropped as I watched. At 2:17 a.m., a figure appeared—tall, lanky, moving slowly between the trees. The footage was grainy, the night vision casting a green glow, but it was definitely human. The figure paused, facing my RV, then slipped back into the woods. No face, no details, just a shape that didn’t belong.
I took my laptop to Dave’s office. “You need to see this,” I said, playing the clip.
He watched, leaning forward, then sat back with a sigh. “Could be a camper taking a late walk. Or a deer standing funny. These cameras aren’t great at night.”
“That’s no deer,” I said, my voice tight. “And who walks in the woods at 2 a.m.? Something’s happening here, Dave.”
He rubbed his face, looking tired. “Look, don’t go spreading this around. People are already jumpy. I’ll call the sheriff, have them do a patrol, but it’s probably nothing.”
I left, frustrated, his dismissal gnawing at me. That night, I set up two more cameras—one facing the main path, another toward Lisa’s RV, since she’d seemed so scared. I stayed up, watching the live feed on my laptop, a baseball bat by my side. Around 11:45 p.m., the feed from Lisa’s RV flickered. The same figure appeared, moving with that same slow, deliberate gait. They stopped at her door, knocked softly, and waited. My heart raced as Lisa opened the door, her silhouette barely visible. They talked—too quiet for the camera’s mic to pick up—then she stepped outside, following the figure toward the woods.
I didn’t think. I grabbed my phone, dialed 911, and whispered, “Someone’s luring a woman into the woods at Whispering Pines RV Park. I’m watching it on my camera. Send help now.” The operator told me to stay put, but I couldn’t just sit there. I snatched my flashlight and bat, slipped on my boots, and followed the path into the woods, my breath loud in my ears.
The trail was narrow, branches scraping my arms as I moved. My flashlight beam bounced, catching glimpses of footprints in the dirt—two sets, one smaller, probably Lisa’s. After what felt like miles, I reached a clearing. An old shed stood in the center, its wood weathered, windows cracked. A faint light glowed inside, flickering like a lantern.
I crept to the side, heart pounding, and peered through a grimy window. Lisa was inside, sitting on the floor, hands tied with rope. A man stood over her, muttering to himself, his back to me. He was tall, thin, his clothes filthy and torn. Then he turned, and I froze. It was Tom. Not gone, not vanished, but here, his gray beard matted, his eyes wild and unfocused. He held a hunting knife, its blade catching the lantern light.
Lisa was crying softly. “Please,” she said. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
“You shouldn’t have followed,” Tom muttered, pacing. “This is my place. My home. You people keep coming, ruining it.”
I gripped my bat, my mind racing. I banged on the door, shouting, “Tom! Let her go! The police are coming!”
He spun toward the door, eyes wide. “You!” he snarled. “You don’t belong here. This is my sanctuary!”
I pushed the door open, bat raised. “Lisa, get ready to run,” I said, keeping my eyes on Tom.
He lunged, knife slashing toward me. I swung the bat, hitting his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor, and he howled, clutching his arm. Lisa scrambled up, fumbling with the ropes until they loosened. “Go!” I yelled. She stumbled out the door, disappearing into the dark.
Tom came at me again, tackling me to the ground. We wrestled, his hands clawing at my face, his breath hot and sour. I kneed him hard, rolled him off, and pinned him down, my bat across his chest. “Stay down!” I shouted, my arms shaking from adrenaline.
He kept muttering, “My place, my place,” like a broken record. I held him there, my knees digging into his ribs, until I heard sirens in the distance. Flashlights swept through the trees, and deputies burst into the shed, pulling Tom off the ground and cuffing him. Lisa was outside, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing as she told another officer what happened.
The police searched the shed and found a stash of stolen items—my cooler, Emily’s backpack, a dozen other things from campers over the years. They told me Tom had a history of mental illness, diagnosed years ago. He’d stopped taking his meds, dropped out of society, and started living in the shed, convinced the RV park was his territory. He’d been watching us, stealing, and—when he felt threatened—luring people into the woods. They didn’t find Emily, but her backpack was a bad sign.
The park shut down for a month after that. When it reopened, they installed security cameras, hired a night guard, and put up signs about staying on marked trails. I didn’t go back. I hitched up my RV and drove to a new park, far away, but I couldn’t shake what happened. I keep my cameras charged now, always watching the edges of wherever I park. I think about Tom, how he seemed so normal at first, just another camper with a story. And I wonder how many others are out there, hiding in plain sight, waiting in the shadows for someone to step too close to the dark.
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