I’d been living in my RV for nearly a year, chasing the open road and the promise of freedom it brought. The lifestyle suited me—simple, quiet, no ties to anyone or anything. I’d heard stories about creepy encounters in remote campgrounds, but I always thought I was careful enough to avoid trouble. That changed when I pulled into a secluded spot near Prospect, Oregon, a place I found on a free camping app. It was an old logging site, just a gravel clearing surrounded by towering pines and overgrown trails, with rusted metal scraps half-buried in the dirt. The isolation felt perfect at first, a chance to unplug, but a nagging unease settled in my gut as I leveled my RV near a small creek.
I spent the afternoon setting up, dragging out my folding table and portable stove, arranging my solar lantern for the evening. The creek’s soft gurgle was the only sound, but it did little to calm the odd feeling that I wasn’t as alone as I thought. As I tightened the straps on my awning, I heard the low rumble of an engine. A rusty, faded van rolled into the clearing, about a hundred yards away, kicking up dust as it parked near a cluster of weathered trailers tucked behind a wall of trees. Two men climbed out. The shorter one had a scruffy beard and wore a stained flannel shirt, his hands fidgeting like he was nervous. The taller one, in a faded denim jacket, moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, his eyes scanning the campground. They locked onto my RV, and for a moment, our gazes met. I raised a hand in a polite wave, but neither acknowledged it. Instead, the taller man’s stare lingered, cold and unblinking, before they turned and walked toward the trailers.
My stomach twisted. Something about their silence, their focus on me, felt wrong. I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was just the isolation making me paranoid. I finished setting up, but I kept glancing toward the trailers, half-expecting to see someone watching. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, though I ate my dinner—a can of chili heated on the stove—inside the RV instead of at my table. I locked the door early, checked every window latch, and drew the curtains tight. The quiet outside was heavy, broken only by the occasional snap of a branch or the distant call of an owl. Each sound made me jump, my nerves fraying as the hours ticked by.
Around 10 p.m., I was reading by the dim glow of my lantern when I heard it: slow, deliberate footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. They weren’t random, like someone passing by—they circled my RV, pausing every few steps. My heart thudded in my chest, loud enough that I worried whoever was out there could hear it. I set my book down and crept to the nearest window, easing the curtain back just enough to peek outside. In the faint glow of my exterior light, I saw the shorter man from earlier, standing just beyond the edge of my campsite. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, but his head was tilted, staring at my door like he was studying it. His face was unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down my spine.
I held my breath, praying he’d leave. Then another voice broke the silence, low and gravelly, coming from the darkness beyond my light’s reach. “Hey, you in there?” It was the taller man, his tone deceptively friendly but carrying an edge that made my skin crawl. “We’re just checking if you’re okay. Saw you’re alone out here.”
The word “alone” hit me like a punch. I hadn’t told anyone I was traveling solo. How did he know? My mind raced, replaying our brief encounter earlier. I’d waved, nothing more—no conversation, no hints about my situation. I stayed silent, my hand hovering over the flashlight on my counter. The shorter man stepped closer, his boots scraping the gravel. “Come on, man, open the door. We just want to talk,” he said, his voice sharper now, less patient.
I didn’t move. The RV felt like a fortress and a trap all at once, its thin walls offering little protection if they decided to force their way in. The taller man knocked, three slow, heavy thumps that echoed in the small space. “Don’t make this hard,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “We know you’ve got stuff in there. Food, gear… maybe more.”
My blood ran cold. This wasn’t just curiosity—they were after something. My supplies? My RV? Or worse? I glanced at my phone on the counter—no bars, no signal. This part of Oregon was a dead zone, and I was cut off from help. The taller man knocked again, harder this time, rattling the door in its frame. I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer, its weight cold and reassuring in my hand, though I prayed I wouldn’t need it.
The knocking stopped, and for a moment, I thought they’d given up. Then I heard a new sound—a faint, metallic scrape, like someone was messing with the door lock. My heart leapt into my throat. They were trying to get in. I backed away from the door, clutching the knife, my mind scrambling for options. Run? Hide? Fight? The RV’s engine was my only real chance, but starting it would give me away, and I’d have to get to the driver’s seat without them noticing.
Before I could decide, a woman’s voice cut through the night, sharp and frantic. “Stop it! Leave him alone!” I risked another glance outside and saw a woman standing near the men, her thin frame tense, her stringy hair falling loose around her shoulders. She wore a worn jacket and clutched her arms like she was cold, her eyes wide with fear. “You’re going too far,” she hissed at the taller man. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”
“Shut up, Karen,” the shorter man snapped, stepping toward her. “You’re in this too.”
Karen shook her head, her voice trembling as she took a step toward my RV. “I’m sorry,” she called out, loud enough for me to hear through the door. “I didn’t want this. They’re… they’re not good people. Please, you have to help me.”
I froze, torn between fear and pity. Her voice sounded genuine, desperate, but letting her in meant opening the door—and risking everything. The taller man grabbed her arm, yanking her back so hard she stumbled. “Keep your mouth shut,” he growled, “or you’ll regret it.”
Karen pulled free, her voice rising. “No! I’m done with this. You said we were just scoping places out, not hurting anyone!”
“Scoping places out?” I thought, my stomach churning. They’d been watching me, maybe others too. I caught snippets of their argument, the men’s voices growing louder: “easy target,” “no one’ll know,” “stuff in that RV.” My fear turned to dread. These weren’t just drifters—they were predators, and I was their prey.
I slid into the driver’s seat, keeping low, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the keys. The knife lay on the passenger seat, within reach. I turned the ignition, and the engine roared to life, louder than I’d hoped. The men’s voices stopped abruptly, replaced by a shout. “He’s starting it!” the shorter man yelled. I slammed the RV into gear, my tires spinning on the gravel as I lurched forward. In the rearview mirror, I saw the men sprinting toward their van, Karen standing frozen, her face pale and conflicted.
The narrow dirt road twisted through the forest, branches scraping the sides of my RV as I pushed it as fast as it could go. The van’s headlights appeared behind me, growing closer with every second. My heart pounded so hard I could barely think. The men were chasing me, and I had no idea how far they’d go. I kept my eyes on the road, dodging ruts and praying I wouldn’t get stuck. The van was faster, its engine growling as it closed the gap. A loud thud echoed from the back of my RV—something had hit it, maybe a rock or a tool. I flinched, gripping the wheel tighter.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered, my voice shaking. I checked my phone again—still no signal. The van was so close now I could see the taller man’s silhouette in the driver’s seat, his face lit by the dashboard. Another thud, this time louder, and I heard a crack, like something had dented the rear hatch. My RV wasn’t built for this, and I wasn’t sure how much more it could take.
Then, up ahead, I saw a faint glow—a paved road, maybe a highway. Hope surged through me. If I could reach it, I might find help, a gas station, anything. The van’s headlights were blinding in my mirrors, but I kept my foot on the gas, weaving through the final stretch of dirt. Suddenly, red and blue lights flashed in the distance—a police car, parked on the shoulder of the paved road. I leaned on my horn, the sound cutting through the night like a scream.
The van’s headlights veered sharply, its tires screeching as it swerved onto a side trail and disappeared into the trees. I pulled over near the police car, my hands trembling so badly I could barely turn off the engine. The officer, a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, approached my window. “What’s going on?” he asked, his flashlight sweeping over my RV.
I spilled everything—the men, their creepy behavior, the scraping at my door, Karen’s plea, the chase. My words tumbled out in a rush, and I realized I was shaking. The officer listened, his face serious, jotting notes in a small pad. “You’re lucky you got out,” he said when I finished. “We’ve had reports of thefts and assaults in these remote campgrounds. Folks take advantage of RVers, especially ones traveling alone. Stay here while I call for backup.”
I waited in my RV, the knife still on the passenger seat, my eyes darting to the tree line. The officer returned after what felt like forever. “We’ll check the campground,” he said. “But don’t go back there tonight. Head to a rest area or a town with more people.”
I nodded, too shaken to argue. I drove to a brightly lit rest area an hour away, but sleep never came. Every creak of the RV, every shadow outside, made me jump. I kept replaying the night—the men’s cold stares, the scrape of metal on my door, Karen’s desperate voice. What had they planned? Theft? Something worse? And what about Karen? Had she gone back to them, or had she escaped?
The next day, the officer called with an update. They’d found the van abandoned a few miles from the campground, its interior littered with empty beer cans and drug paraphernalia. The trailers were empty, the occupants gone, like they’d known the police were coming. Karen was nowhere to be found, and I couldn’t shake the guilt of leaving her behind, even if I’d had no choice.
I left Prospect that morning, my love for RV living tainted by fear. I sold the RV a few weeks later, trading freedom for safety. I still think about that night, the way the men’s voices carried through the dark, the look on Karen’s face as she begged for help. I’ll never know what they wanted, or how close I came to finding out. But I know one thing: I’ll never camp alone in the middle of nowhere again. Somewhere out there, those men might still be watching, waiting for the next lone RVer to cross their path.
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