"The Clearing":
Years ago, I experienced something in the Texas backcountry that still keeps me awake some nights. It started as a regular bow hunting trip with my close friend, a fellow who serves as a police officer in our town. We chose a stretch of public land we'd visited before, known for good deer activity but also for being vast and isolated, miles from the nearest road or house. We arrived well before first light, parking our truck off a dirt trail and hiking in with our gear. Both of us wore full ghillie suits—those camouflaged outfits that make you look like part of the underbrush—and we set up in tripod stands about twenty yards apart, elevated just enough to give us a view over the clearing.
We settled in, bows ready, sidearms holstered since we had permits to carry. The plan was simple: wait for deer to show as the sun rose. For the first hour or so, everything felt normal. Birds started calling, and the woods came alive bit by bit. But then, around the time the light turned golden, I picked up on footsteps. Not the light patter of a deer, but deliberate crunches, like boots on dry leaves. I froze, straining to listen. The steps grew louder, approaching from the thicket behind my stand.
Through a gap in my suit, I spotted him: a man in his mid-forties, scruffy with a tangled beard and worn-out jacket, carrying a bolt-action rifle slung over one shoulder. He puffed on a cigarette, the glow visible even in the growing light. He moved casual, like he owned the place, scanning the ground as if tracking something. Rifle season wasn't open yet, so right away I knew he was likely poaching. But public land attracts all types, so I stayed hidden, hoping he'd pass by without noticing us.
He didn't. He wandered right up to the base of my tripod, stopping maybe ten feet away. Up close, his eyes looked hollow, like he hadn't rested proper in weeks. He muttered to himself, words I couldn't make out, then shouldered his rifle and peered into the brush. My pulse quickened—I didn't like how he gripped that gun. Deciding to act before things escalated, I eased off my headgear and spoke up. "Morning," I said, keeping my tone even. "You hunting out here too?"
He snapped his head up, surprise turning to anger fast. In one motion, he swung the rifle around and aimed it dead at me. The black bore stared like an empty eye. "Who are you?" he growled, finger inching toward the trigger. "This ain't no place for you."
I lifted my hands slow, bow still in one. "Whoa, hold on. I'm just out for deer with my friend. No trouble intended." My voice stayed calm, but inside, fear gripped me hard. We were alone out there, no signal sometimes, and this guy looked unhinged.
He stepped closer, rifle steady. "Your friend, huh? Where's he at?" His lips curled into a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Woods like these eat people up. You hear stories? Folks go in and never come out."
Before I could answer, movement came from my buddy's stand. He'd drawn his bow full, the heavy broadhead arrow pointed at the man's side. The string creaked just enough to draw attention. "Right here," my buddy said, his officer voice cutting through. "Drop the weapon. Now."
The man's eyes darted over, widening as he realized he was flanked. For a second, he froze, then lowered the rifle gradual, setting it on the ground. "You got me," he said, but his tone mocked us. "But you don't know what you're stepping into." We climbed down swift, handguns out now. I covered him while my buddy zip-tied his wrists. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
He chuckled low as we secured him. "Just that... accidents happen. People get lost, or worse. I've seen it." His breath smelled sour, like old smoke and something metallic. We marched him back to the truck, a good half-mile hike. He didn't fight, but he kept glancing back at the woods, like expecting someone—or something—to follow. At one point, he stopped and looked me in the eye. "You think tying me up fixes anything? There's more out there. Always more."
We reached the truck, and I pulled out my phone—signal was weak, but enough to call the game warden. The warden showed up in under an hour, a burly guy we knew from past trips. He cuffed the man proper and ran his ID through the system. His face drained of color. "Boys, you just caught a big one," he said. "This fella's wanted for two murders—one in Louisiana, stabbed a guy in a bar fight, and another in Kentucky, strangled his own cousin over money. Been on the run for months."
The man just stared at the ground, no more smirks. They hauled him away, and later we heard he got life without parole. We headed back to our stands that afternoon, nerves still raw, and managed to harvest two deer before packing up. But ever since, those woods feel different. I wonder if he was alone out there, or if others like him lurk, waiting. It makes you question every rustle, every shadow. Hunting's never been the same.
"The Last Hunt":
I had always loved the quiet of the woods, the way the trees closed in around you like old friends keeping secrets. But that changed in the fall of 1911, when I got pulled into something that still wakes me up at night. My name is Giles, and back then I was a deputy sheriff in Grays Harbor County, Washington. The Wynoochee Valley was my beat, a place of thick forests and winding rivers where folks went to hunt elk or just escape the world. I knew John Tornow from around town—he was a big man, over six feet, with a beard that made him look part animal. He kept to himself, living out in the brush, hunting with a rifle he handled like an extension of his arm. People called him odd, but harmless. Until he wasn't.
It started with a report from the Bauer family. Their boys, Will and John, both nineteen and twins, had gone out hunting near the Satsop River. They were good kids, excited about bagging a deer for the family table. When they didn't come back after two days, their folks got worried and came to the sheriff's office. "Deputy Quimby," the father said, his voice shaking as he gripped his hat, "those boys know the woods. Something's wrong." I nodded, trying to stay calm. "We'll find them, Mr. Bauer. I'll gather some men and head out at first light."
We set off early, a small group of us—me, a couple of local trappers named Louis Blair and Charles Lathrop, and the boys' uncle Fred Tornow, John's own brother. Fred was quiet, but he mentioned John had been acting strange lately, ever since he'd gotten out of the asylum a few years back. "He loves those woods more than people," Fred muttered as we hiked through the underbrush. "But he'd never hurt family. Would he?" I didn't answer, focusing on the trail ahead. The forest was dense, with ferns up to our knees and fallen logs that could hide anything.
After hours of searching, we found the boys' camp. Their gear was scattered, like they'd left in a hurry. "Look here," Louis said, pointing to the ground. There were footprints, big ones, leading away. We followed them deeper into the swampy area near a creek. That's when the smell hit us—something rotten, mixed with the damp earth. My gut tightened as we pushed through the brush. There they were, Will and John, lying face down among the roots, each with a single bullet hole in the chest. Clean shots, right through the heart. No struggle, no signs of a fight. Just dead.
"Who could do this?" Charles whispered, his face pale. Fred knelt down, touching one of the boys' hands. "John... it couldn't be." But the footprints matched the size of Tornow's boots, and we found a spent cartridge nearby that looked like it came from his Winchester. Word spread fast back in town. John Tornow had killed his own nephews. Why? Some said he thought they were poachers on his territory. Others whispered he was paranoid, seeing enemies everywhere. Gordon Godfrey, a lawyer from Aberdeen who looked into it later, thought the boys might have been sent to bring John in, and he panicked. But no one knew for sure.
We formed a posse right away, twenty men strong, with dogs and rifles. "He's out there somewhere," the sheriff told us. "Stay sharp. He's a crack shot." We combed the valley for days, finding old shanties where John had holed up—crude shelters made of branches, with bones from elk he'd hunted scattered around. But no sign of him. The forest seemed to swallow him whole. Nights were the worst. We'd camp out, and I'd lie there listening to every snap of a twig, wondering if he was watching us. "You hear that?" Louis would say, sitting up with his gun ready. "Just the wind," I'd reply, but I wasn't sure.
Months passed, and the searches died down. Loggers stopped working in the area, too scared to go in. Then, in February 1912, Louis and his trapping partner spotted fresh tracks near an old homestead. "It's him," Louis said when he reported it. "Big prints, and a fire pit still warm." We geared up again, this time with Deputy Colin McKenzie and Game Warden Al Elmer leading a team. They were tough men, used to the backcountry. "We'll smoke him out," Colin told me before they left. "He can't hide forever."
They didn't come back. A week later, we found their bodies in a shallow grave, stripped of clothes and gear, shot multiple times. John's work, no doubt—he'd taken their weapons, even their boots. The horror of it hit hard. These were friends, good men with families. The reward jumped to three thousand dollars, dead or alive. The whole county was on edge. "He's like a ghost," people said in town, but I knew he was flesh and blood, just smarter at surviving than most.
By early 1913, Louis and Charles were obsessed. They'd known the Bauer boys and wanted justice. "We're going in deep," Louis told me one morning. "Up near the swamp where he hides." I joined them, along with a few others, including bloodhounds to track. The hike was grueling, miles through mud and thickets. We talked little, saving our breath. "If we see him, shoot first," Charles said quietly. "He's not the John we knew anymore."
On April 16, we picked up a scent. The dogs bayed, pulling us forward. Suddenly, shots rang out from the trees. Charles fell first, clutching his side. "I'm hit!" he yelled. Louis fired back, but another bullet caught him in the chest. He dropped without a word. I dove behind a log, heart racing, peering through the leaves. There he was—John Tornow, or what was left of him. His hair hung long and matted, beard wild, eyes gleaming with something feral. He looked more beast than man, crouched in his ragged clothes.
"John! It's over!" I shouted, my voice steady despite the fear. He didn't answer, just raised his rifle. I fired, hitting him in the shoulder. He staggered but shot back, the bullet whizzing past my ear. We exchanged fire for what felt like forever, the dogs howling over the bodies. Finally, I got a clear shot at his head. He went down, silent.
When it was over, we carried the bodies out—Louis, Charles, and John. Back in Montesano, hundreds came to see John's corpse at the morgue, pushing and shoving like it was a spectacle. His brother Fred looked at him and said, "I'm glad it's done. Better this way." But as I stood there, I couldn't shake the chill. Had he really killed those boys out of malice, or was it the woods that broke him? The forest holds its own kind of madness, turning men into shadows of themselves.
Even now, years later, when I think of those woods, I remember the way John's eyes locked on mine in that final moment—full of rage and loneliness. It makes me wonder what else is out there, hiding in the trees, waiting for the next hunter to wander too far.
"Flight Over Knik River":
I had always loved the thrill of hunting alone in the Alaskan wilderness. The vast stretches of forest and mountains made me feel small but alive, like I was part of something bigger. My name doesn't matter much in this tale, but back then, I was just a young woman in my twenties, working as a guide for tourists during the summer and hunting for myself in the fall. I knew the risks—wild animals, getting lost, bad falls—but I carried a rifle and a knife, and I trusted my skills. That year, I set out for a remote spot near the Knik River, planning to bag an elk or two. Little did I know, the real danger wasn't the wildlife.
I drove my old truck as far as the dirt road would allow, then hiked in with my pack. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and earth. I set up a small camp by a stream, just a tent and a fire pit. The first day went well. I tracked some prints but didn't take a shot. As evening came, I built a fire and cooked a simple meal of beans and jerky. That's when I heard the plane.
It was a small Cessna, buzzing low over the trees. Planes weren't unusual out here—hunters and fishermen used them to get in and out. But this one circled, then landed on a gravel bar not far from my camp. I watched from the edge of the woods as a man climbed out. He was average build, with glasses and a stutter when he spoke later. He waved, friendly-like, and walked over with a backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Hello there," he called out, approaching with his hands visible. "Didn't expect to see anyone this far out. You hunting?"
I nodded, keeping my rifle close but not pointed. "Yeah, elk mostly. You?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Same. Name's Bob. I fly in for the weekends. Saw your fire from the air. Mind if I join for a bit? Gets lonely out here."
I hesitated. Out in the backcountry, folks were usually helpful to each other. We shared stories, traded tips. "Sure," I said. "I'm Anna. Coffee's on the fire."
We sat and talked. Bob told me about his bakery in Anchorage, how he loved hunting big game. He had trophies, he said—moose, caribou. But there was something off. His questions got personal: Was I alone? How long was I staying? Did anyone know my exact spot? I brushed it off, saying my brother expected me back in a week. A lie, but it felt right.
As the fire died down, he stood up. "Well, better head back to my plane. Safe hunting, Anna."
He walked away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I doused the fire and crawled into my tent, rifle by my side. Sleep came slow, but eventually, I drifted off.
A rustle woke me. Not an animal—too deliberate. I grabbed my rifle and unzipped the tent flap just a crack. The moon lit the clearing, and there he was: Bob, standing at the edge of my camp, watching. My pulse quickened. He wasn't moving, just staring. Then he turned and slipped into the trees.
I didn't sleep after that. At first light, I packed up fast, deciding to move camp deeper into the woods. Something about him unnerved me. As I hiked, I heard branches snap behind me. I stopped, listened. Nothing. Kept going. More snaps. I spun around, rifle ready. "Who's there?" I shouted.
No answer. I picked up my pace, heart racing now. The trail narrowed, trees closing in. Then, a voice echoed through the woods: "Anna! Wait up!"
It was Bob. How did he find me? I didn't stop. "Leave me alone!" I yelled back.
Laughter. Cold, mocking. "You shouldn't run. Makes it more fun."
Fun? What did that mean? I broke into a jog, pack bouncing. The sounds followed—footsteps, heavy but quick. He was tracking me. Like prey.
I veered off the trail, hoping to lose him in the thick brush. Thorns scratched my arms, but I pushed on. My breath came in gasps. Behind me, a branch cracked loud, close. I glanced back—saw a flash of his jacket through the leaves.
"Why are you doing this?" I screamed, not expecting an answer.
His voice came clear, closer than before. "Because I can. You're in my territory now."
Territory? This was public land. But fear gripped me hard. I remembered stories from Anchorage—women going missing, bodies found shot in the backcountry. Hunters dismissed it as accidents, but whispers said otherwise. A man who flew them out, set them loose, hunted them for sport.
No. It couldn't be. But the pieces fit. The plane. The questions. The chase.
I dropped my pack to run faster, keeping only my rifle and knife. The ground sloped down toward the river. If I could reach it, maybe flag someone. But out here? Miles from anywhere.
A shot rang out. Bark exploded on a tree next to me. I dove behind a log, hands shaking as I chambered a round. "Stop! I'll shoot!"
Another laugh. "Go ahead. But I'm better at this."
He was toying with me. I peeked over the log—saw him maybe fifty yards back, pistol in hand, scanning. He looked calm, like this was routine.
I fired once, high on purpose, to scare him. He ducked, then called out, "Missed. Your turn to run again."
This was a game to him. Sick, twisted. I scrambled up and ran, legs burning. The river rushed ahead, cold and fast. I plunged in, water up to my waist, gasping from the chill. Bullets splashed nearby. I swam, current pulling me downstream.
On the other bank, I crawled out, soaked and shivering. No sign of him. But I couldn't stop. I ran through the woods, feet numb, until I hit a logging road. Hours passed—or maybe minutes, time blurred. Finally, a truck appeared, an old logger heading out.
"Help!" I flagged him down, collapsing against the door.
He stared at my wet clothes, the rifle. "What happened, miss?"
"Man... chasing me. Shot at me. Please, get me to town."
He drove me straight to the state troopers in Palmer. I told them everything—the plane, the chase, the shots. They listened, skeptical at first. "Lots of hunters out there. Could be a misunderstanding."
But one detective, Flothe, believed me. He asked details: the stutter, the bakery. It matched a suspect they'd eyed before. Robert Hansen.
They searched his place. Found maps with X's marking spots where bodies had turned up. Jewelry from missing women. He'd confessed later—abducted over a dozen, flew them to the wilderness, stripped them, gave them a head start. Then hunted. Like animals.
I was lucky. I escaped. But those days in the woods changed me. I don't hunt alone anymore. And when I hear a plane overhead, I still look up, wondering.
"The Grow":
I set off into the woods that day with my old rifle slung over my shoulder, eager for a good hunt in the remote hills of northern California. My buddy, Alex, came along. We had hunted these parts before, miles from any road, where the trees grew thick and the ground stayed uneven underfoot. Alex carried his gear in a worn pack, and we walked quietly, eyes scanning for signs of deer.
We hiked deeper than usual, following a faint trail that twisted through the brush. After a couple of hours, I noticed something odd—thin black hoses snaking along the dirt, half-buried like they didn't belong. "Look at that," I whispered to Alex, pointing. He knelt down and touched one. "Irrigation lines? Out here?"
We followed them uphill, curiosity pulling us forward. The hoses led to a small stream, diverted with makeshift dams. Beyond that, hidden in a clearing, rows of tall green plants swayed gently. Not wild bushes—these were marijuana, hundreds of them, cultivated in neat lines. Tents dotted the edges, and tools lay scattered around a campfire pit.
Alex froze beside me. "This is bad. We need to back out slow." But before we could move, a rustle came from the trees. Two men stepped out, both holding rifles, their faces hard and watchful. One was shorter, with a mustache, the other taller and lean. They wore dirty clothes, like they'd been out here for weeks.
"What you doing here?" the shorter one said in accented English, his voice low and sharp. He raised his gun just enough to make his point.
I raised my hands slowly, my rifle still on my back. "Just hunting. Didn't mean to trespass. We'll leave right now."
The taller one glanced at his partner, then back at us. "You see too much. No one comes here."
Alex spoke up, his voice steady but tense. "We don't want trouble. We're locals, out for deer. Won't say a word."
The shorter man laughed, but it held no humor. "Locals? You think we care? This our land now. You go, you tell police. Then problems."
They moved closer, circling us like predators sizing up prey. I scanned the camp—more hoses, bags of fertilizer, a generator humming softly. These weren't small-time growers; this setup looked organized, dangerous.
"Please," I said, trying to keep calm. "Let us go. We forget we saw anything."
The taller one shook his head. "No. You stay. We decide."
They motioned us toward the tents with their guns. My mind raced—stories I'd heard about cartels taking over forest land, guarding their operations with force. People vanished out here sometimes, reports of shots fired at wanderers. We sat on the ground as they tied our hands with rope from a supply pile. The shorter one kept watch while the taller rummaged through our packs, taking our knives and phones.
"Why you hunt here?" the shorter one asked, sitting on a log nearby. "Many places. Why this spot?"
Alex answered first. "It's quiet. Good for game. We didn't know about this."
The man nodded slowly. "Quiet good for us too. No eyes. But now you eyes."
Hours passed as they whispered in Spanish, glancing at us. I tested the ropes, but they held tight. The camp smelled of earth and chemicals, and distant sounds of wildlife faded as the light dimmed. Then, the taller one pulled out a radio and spoke into it quickly. His face darkened after the response.
"Boss says no witnesses," he told his partner.
The shorter one stood, gun ready. "Time to walk."
They untied our feet but kept our hands bound, pushing us into the trees away from the camp. "Move," the taller one ordered. We stumbled forward, branches scraping our arms. My thoughts spun—run? Fight? But with guns at our backs, options felt slim.
"Where are you taking us?" I asked, voice low.
"Deep. No one finds," the shorter one replied.
Alex looked at me sideways. "We can work this out. Money? We have some back at the truck."
They ignored him. The path narrowed, leading down a ravine. Suspense built with every step; I imagined what might come next, the isolation pressing in. No help for miles.
Suddenly, Alex tripped on a root, falling hard. The shorter man cursed and bent to pull him up. In that moment, I lunged at the taller one, shoulder slamming into him. His gun fired wild, echoing through the woods. I grabbed for it, wrestling him to the ground. Alex kicked at the shorter man, buying time.
"Run!" I yelled to Alex as I pinned the taller guy, punching hard.
Alex broke free and bolted into the brush. Shots rang out—the shorter man firing after him. I heard a grunt, but Alex kept going. The taller one threw me off, scrambling for his weapon. I rolled away, dodging into the trees.
Bullets whizzed past, bark exploding nearby. I ran blind, lungs burning, weaving through undergrowth. Behind, shouts in Spanish faded slowly. I didn't stop, pushing deeper into the familiar terrain I'd hunted for years.
After what seemed forever, I reached a ridge and hid behind a fallen log, listening. No footsteps followed. Shaking, I worked the ropes loose with a sharp rock, then circled wide toward our truck.
At the vehicle, no sign of Alex. I waited, hoping, but hours ticked by. Finally, I drove out, straight to the sheriff's office. Told them everything—the camp coordinates from memory, the men, the guns.
Deputies raided the site next day. Found the grow op abandoned, plants slashed, tents gone. No bodies, but blood on the trail where Alex fell. Searches went on for weeks, helicopters overhead, dogs on the ground. They caught one grower later, the shorter one, hiding in a nearby town. He confessed to cartel ties, said they cleared out fast after the escape.
Alex turned up missing for good. Investigators figured he got hit, dragged off to hide evidence. Based on what happened to others in those woods—folks stumbling on grows and paying the price—it fit the pattern.
I don't hunt alone anymore. Those forests hold secrets now, and every rustle reminds me how quick a day can turn deadly.