"Beneath the Zucchini":
I’ve lived off-grid for years, just me and my garden. Rows of potatoes, lettuce, and zucchini grow strong in the rich soil, my pride and joy. Out here, far from town, the silence is my companion. No neighbors, no noise, just the earth and me. But my garden holds secrets, ones I buried deep, thinking no one would ever find them.
It started three years ago. A hiker, some guy named Daniel Carter, wandered onto my land. He was lost, he said, asking for water and directions. I didn’t like his tone, the way he eyed my cabin, like he was sizing it up. I gave him water, sure, but when he started asking questions—why I lived so far out, what I did all day—my patience ran thin. I told him to leave. He laughed, said he’d camp nearby and be gone by morning. Something in me snapped. No one comes onto my land and stays.
I waited until night, followed him to his campsite, and hit him with a shovel. One swing, clean and quiet. His body was heavy, but I dragged it back to my garden. The soil was soft from recent digging, perfect for hiding him. I buried him deep under the zucchini patch, where the earth was loose and no one would look. For three years, my garden flourished, fed by his remains. I thought I was safe.
But last week, I noticed something off. Footprints near the garden, not mine. They were smaller, with a strange tread, circling the zucchini. My heart pounded. Someone had been here, poking around my land. I set up tripwires with old cans, something to warn me if they came back. I started carrying my knife everywhere, its weight a comfort in my pocket.
The next morning, one of my traps was triggered—cans scattered, wire cut. I scanned the woods, but saw nothing. My stomach twisted. Whoever this was, they were careful, watching me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every rustle outside made me grip my knife tighter. I kept thinking about Daniel, his body under the zucchini, and what would happen if someone found him.
The next day, I checked the garden and saw the soil was disturbed. Someone had been digging, not deep, but enough to make my blood run cold. I smoothed it over, packed it down, but my hands shook. I couldn’t stay still. I grabbed my shovel and dug up the spot myself, just to be sure. His bones were still there, the skull grinning up at me. I reburied them, deeper this time, my breath ragged.
That afternoon, a truck pulled up. A woman in a park ranger uniform stepped out, her face serious. “Got a report of someone trespassing out here,” she said, her eyes scanning the garden. “Mind if I look around?”
My throat tightened. “No need,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just me here. No trouble.”
She didn’t buy it. “Got a call about someone digging on your land. You see anything strange?”
I shook my head, my hand brushing the knife in my pocket. “Nope. Just tending my garden. Must’ve been an animal.”
She nodded, but her eyes lingered on the zucchini patch. “Alright. I’ll check the perimeter. Stay safe out here.” She walked off toward the woods, and I watched her every step, my pulse hammering.
That night, I found a note slipped under my door. In messy handwriting, it read, “I know what you did.” My knees buckled. Someone was closing in, someone who’d seen too much. I tore up the note, burned it in the fireplace, and sat with my knife, listening to the dark.
At midnight, I heard footsteps outside, slow and deliberate. I crept to the window, knife ready, and saw a shadow moving near the garden. It was her, the ranger, holding a flashlight, digging where Daniel was buried. She’d come back, sneaking around like a thief. I couldn’t let her find him.
I slipped outside, silent as I could, and approached from behind. The flashlight beam danced over the soil, inches from the truth. I raised my knife, my heart pounding so loud I thought she’d hear it. “Stop,” I said, my voice low.
She spun around, eyes wide. “You,” she whispered. “What’s under there?”
“Nothing,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re trespassing.”
She backed up, hand on her radio. “I’m calling for backup.”
I lunged before she could, the knife flashing. She screamed, but out here, no one would hear. It was over fast. I dragged her to the garden, my hands shaking, and buried her beside Daniel. The soil was soft, welcoming, like it knew my secrets.
For two days, I thought I’d gotten away with it. No more trucks, no more rangers. I planted new zucchini over the fresh grave, patting the earth flat. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every shadow in the woods seemed to move, every sound a threat. I checked my traps twice a day, my knife always close.
Then, on the third morning, I heard engines. Three police trucks rolled up, lights flashing, cutting through the quiet. Four officers got out, hands on their holsters. The lead one, a tall man with a stern face, held up a photo of the ranger. “Know her?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “Saw her a few days ago. She was checking the property, then left.”
He didn’t blink. “Her truck’s GPS pinged here last. She didn’t check in after. Where’s your garden?”
My stomach dropped. I pointed to the zucchini patch, trying to keep my voice steady. “Right there. Just vegetables.”
They didn’t wait for permission. Two officers started digging, their shovels slicing into the soil I’d worked so hard to keep secret. The lead officer watched me, his eyes like knives. “Someone saw you with her,” he said. “A hunter, out in the woods. Said he heard a scream, saw you dragging something.”
I froze. My knife was in my pocket, but there were too many of them. I thought about running, but the woods wouldn’t hide me forever. The officers shouted—they’d found something. A bone, then another. The ranger’s badge gleamed in the dirt, unmistakable. They kept digging, and Daniel’s skull came up next, his empty eyes staring at me.
“Hands up,” the lead officer barked, drawing his gun. I didn’t move. My legs felt like lead. They cuffed me, the metal cold against my wrists, and read me my rights as they pushed me toward the truck. I looked back at my garden, the soil torn open, my secrets exposed to the light.
They told me later the hunter had been watching for days, suspicious after seeing the ranger’s truck. He’d called the police, given them my description. The ranger’s radio had sent a partial signal before I stopped her, enough to lead them here. My garden, my sanctuary, had betrayed me. As they drove me away, I knew I’d never see it again. The earth keeps secrets, but not forever.
"The Bones in My Garden":
I moved to the cabin after my husband’s death. The city was suffocating—every street corner held memories of him, every familiar face asked how I was holding up. I couldn’t bear it. So, I sold everything and bought a small piece of land deep in the woods, miles from any town. No electricity, no running water—just me, the earth, and the quiet. It was supposed to be my sanctuary, a place to heal and start over.
The first few months were hard but fulfilling. I built a garden, planting potatoes, carrots, and herbs to sustain myself. There was something grounding about digging my hands into the soil, watching life sprout from nothing. The cabin was old but sturdy, and the woods around me felt like a protective embrace. At night, the only sounds were the wind through the trees and the occasional hoot of an owl. I felt safe, hidden from the world.
But that peace shattered one morning in early spring.
I was expanding my potato patch, digging deeper to make room for more plants. My shovel hit something hard with a dull thud. I figured it was a rock—common enough in these parts. But as I brushed away the dirt, my stomach dropped. It wasn’t a rock. It was smooth, curved, and unmistakably a bone.
I froze. My first thought was that it must be from an animal. Deer bones weren’t uncommon in these woods. But as I dug further, my heart started pounding harder. More bones emerged—ribs, a pelvis, and then, to my horror, a skull.
It was human.
I stumbled back, dropping the shovel. The skull stared up at me with empty eye sockets, its jaw slightly open as if screaming silently. My breath caught in my throat. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, not on my land.
I covered the bones quickly, as if burying them again would erase what I’d seen. But I couldn’t unsee it. That night, I barely slept. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle outside, made me jump. I kept thinking about the bones. Who did they belong to? How long had they been there? And why were they buried in my garden?
The next morning, I knew I had to act. But how? My cabin was off the grid—no phone, no internet. The nearest town was a two-hour drive on rough, winding roads. I had to go there to report what I’d found. But before I left, I grabbed my rifle. It was for protection against wild animals—or so I told myself—but now it felt like a lifeline.
As I walked around the property, checking the garden one last time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The woods, once my sanctuary, now seemed oppressive, like they were closing in. I hurried back inside, locked the door, and drove to town.
At the sheriff’s office, I spilled everything. Sheriff Thompson, a kind-faced man with a no-nonsense demeanor, listened intently as I described the bones, his expression growing graver with each word.
“That’s serious,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll need to send a team out to investigate. But it might take a few days to get everything together.”
I nodded, though I didn’t feel reassured. “What should I do until then?”
“Stay in town if you can,” he advised. “It’s not safe for you to be out there alone if there’s something… untoward going on.”
But I couldn’t leave my cabin unattended. I had chickens and a goat to care for, and it was my home. “I’ll be careful,” I promised, my voice barely steady.
Back at the cabin, I tried to go about my routine, but the dread lingered. That evening, as I fed the chickens, I heard a twig snap in the woods. I froze, listening. Another snap, closer this time. My heart raced.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice trembling.
No answer, just the wind rustling through the trees. I hurried inside and locked the door, barricading it with a chair for good measure. That night, I slept with the rifle beside me, jumping at every sound.
The next day, I couldn’t stay away from the garden. I had to know more. With trembling hands, I dug again, carefully this time. And that’s when I found it—more than just bones. There were fragments of clothing, a rusted watch, and then a wallet.
I opened the wallet with shaking hands. Inside was a driver’s license, faded but legible. The name was John Doe, and the photo showed a man in his thirties. The address was from a town not far from here, but the license was expired—dated ten years ago.
John Doe? That couldn’t be his real name; it was probably an alias. But why was he buried here? Who killed him? And why in my garden?
I put the wallet back and covered everything up again. I needed to tell the sheriff about this new discovery. But when I drove back to town, the sheriff’s office was closed—it was Sunday. I’d have to wait until Monday.
The weekend stretched on endlessly. Every sound made me jump—a branch scraping the window, an owl’s hoot that sounded too close. On Sunday night, as I prepared dinner, there was a knock on the door.
I froze. No one ever came to my cabin unannounced. I peeked through the window and saw a man standing there—tall, gaunt, with a hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Who is it?” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Ma’am, I’m looking for my brother,” he said through the door. “He went missing about ten years ago, and I heard there might be some news.”
My blood ran cold. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“John,” he said. “John Doe.”
I hesitated, then opened the door just a crack. “I think you need to talk to the sheriff. They found some remains on my property.”
His eyes narrowed, and he pushed the door open before I could stop him. “Remains? What kind of remains?”
“Human,” I said quietly, backing away.
He stepped inside, his gaze darting around the cabin. “Where are they?”
“The sheriff took them,” I said, my voice shaking. “They’re investigating.”
He looked at me with wild eyes. “You don’t understand. My brother was involved in some bad business. If they find out who he was, they’ll come after me too.”
“I think you should leave,” I said firmly, though my heart was pounding.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he pulled out a gun. “You’re going to tell me everything you know, or I’ll make sure you end up like my brother.”
I screamed and lunged for the rifle, but he was faster. He grabbed me, pressing the gun to my head. Just then, there was another knock on the door.
“Ma’am, it’s Sheriff Thompson. We need to talk.”
The man hesitated, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered, then slipped out the back door.
I ran to the front door and opened it, shaking uncontrollably. “Sheriff, there’s a man here—he has a gun—”
The sheriff and his deputies rushed in, but the man was gone. They searched the property but found no trace of him.
“Ma’am, you need to be careful,” the sheriff said gravely. “This might be more dangerous than we thought.”
That night, I packed my things and left. I never went back.
Later, I learned that John Doe was involved in criminal activity, and his brother was wanted for questioning in several cases. But by then, I was far away, trying to forget the cabin and the bones buried in my garden.
Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that man’s voice in my dreams: “You don’t understand.” And I wonder if I ever will.
"The Watcher in the Trees":
I chose to live off-grid to escape the noise and stress of city life. My cabin in the woods was my haven, where I could tend to my garden and live in peace. I grew my own vegetables—tomatoes, carrots, beans—and collected rainwater in barrels. Solar panels powered my lights and a small radio. It was a simple life, just me and the land, miles from the nearest road. I thought I had found freedom. But freedom, I learned, comes with a price.
It started with a feeling, like a cold finger brushing the back of my neck. I’d be in my garden, pulling weeds or checking the ripeness of a tomato, and suddenly, I’d feel it—eyes on me. I’d stop, look around, but there was nothing. Just the trees, their branches swaying, and the birds calling to each other. I told myself it was just the quiet playing tricks on my mind. Living alone makes you jumpy sometimes.
One afternoon, while weeding near the edge of my garden, I saw something glinting in the grass. I brushed the dirt aside and picked it up. A pair of binoculars, small but heavy, with a worn leather strap. My stomach twisted. I didn’t own binoculars. I held them up, hands trembling, and looked through them. The lenses were scratched, but they worked. I scanned the woods, then turned toward my cabin. It was clear as day—my porch, my windows, my life laid bare.
Someone had been watching me.
I stood there, heart pounding, trying to make sense of it. Who could it be? The nearest neighbor was a day’s walk away, and I rarely saw anyone. Hikers didn’t come this far into the woods. I tucked the binoculars into my pocket and hurried back to the cabin, locking the door behind me. That night, I barely slept, jumping at every creak of the old wooden walls.
The next day, I decided to act. I couldn’t just wait for whoever it was to come back. I made a plan to catch them. In the morning, I grabbed my backpack, locked the cabin, and walked into the woods as if I were going on a long hike. But I didn’t go far. I doubled back, staying low, and hid behind a cluster of pines near my garden. I had a clear view of the cabin and waited, barely breathing, for hours.
The sun climbed higher, then started to dip. My legs cramped, and I began to feel foolish. Maybe the binoculars belonged to a lost camper. Maybe I was imagining things. Just as I was about to give up, I heard it—footsteps, slow and careful, coming from the trees.
A man stepped into the clearing. He was middle-aged, with a scruffy beard and a faded jacket. A camera with a long lens hung around his neck. He glanced around, then crept toward my cabin. My blood ran hot. He tried the door, found it locked, and moved to the windows, peering inside. He raised the camera, snapping photos of my living room, my kitchen, my life.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped out, my voice sharp. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He froze, eyes wide, and nearly dropped the camera. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice shaky. “I’m a birdwatcher. I was taking pictures of the wildlife. I got turned around.”
“Birdwatcher?” I said, stepping closer. “With a camera like that? And why are you looking in my windows?”
He backed up, hands raised. “I thought this place was empty. I didn’t mean to bother anyone.”
“It’s not empty,” I snapped. “This is my home. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his eyes darting to the woods. “I’ll go. I won’t come back.”
“Leave the camera,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my chest.
He hesitated, then slowly set the camera on the ground. Without another word, he turned and ran, disappearing into the trees. I waited until I was sure he was gone, then picked up the camera. My hands shook as I turned it on and scrolled through the photos.
There were pictures of birds—sparrows, hawks, a blurry owl. But then I saw them. Photos of me. Me in my garden, kneeling by the beans. Me carrying a bucket of water. Me sitting on my porch, reading in the evening light. Dozens of photos, taken over days, maybe weeks. He had been watching me for a long time.
I felt sick, like the ground was falling away. This wasn’t a lost hiker. This was someone who knew exactly what he was doing. I locked myself in the cabin and sat there, staring at the camera, wondering how many times he had been out there, hidden in the shadows.
The next morning, I drove to the nearest town, a bumpy two-hour trip down a dirt road. I went straight to the police station and handed over the camera. I told them everything—the binoculars, the feeling of being watched, the man and his photos. The officer listened, took notes, and promised to investigate. A few days later, they called me. They had identified the man from the camera’s metadata. He was a known voyeur, someone who had done this before in other remote areas. They arrested him, and I was told he wouldn’t bother me again.
I went back to my cabin, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. The garden, once my pride, now felt exposed, like a stage under a spotlight. I installed new locks, set up motion-sensor lights, and even got a dog—a scrappy mutt I named Scout. He barked at every squirrel, but his presence made me feel a little safer.
Still, the fear lingered. Every time I worked in the garden, I glanced at the woods, half-expecting to see a glint of light or a shadow moving. At night, when Scout’s ears perked up at a sound I couldn’t hear, my heart raced. I told myself it was over, that the man was gone, but the feeling of being watched never left.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I’d hear a twig snap outside or a rustle in the leaves. Scout would growl, low and steady, and I’d grab my flashlight, shining it into the darkness. I never saw anything, but I couldn’t shake the thought that someone, somewhere, was still out there, watching.
I had wanted a life of peace, but I learned that even in the middle of nowhere, you’re never truly alone.