"The Convoy":
I remember the day they arrived. It was a crisp autumn morning in 2002, and our small town of McCarthy, Alaska, was buzzing with excitement. A new family was moving in, but this wasn’t just any family. There were 17 of them: a man everyone called Papa, his quiet wife, and their 15 children. They pulled into town in a convoy of old trucks and vans, loaded with supplies and furniture, looking like they’d stepped out of another century.
We all gathered to watch as they unloaded. Papa was a towering figure, with a long beard and piercing blue eyes. He had a booming voice that carried across the crowd as he introduced himself. He talked about their journey from Texas, their desire to live off the land, free from the constraints of modern society. He spoke of their deep Christian faith and their commitment to self-sufficiency. We were all impressed. Here was a family living the dream that many of us had only fantasized about.
They settled in an abandoned copper mine, about 10 miles from town. It was a remote spot, accessible only by a rough dirt road that Papa had bulldozed through the wilderness. This caused some tension with the National Park Service, who claimed the land was part of a protected area, but Papa was adamant that it was his right to claim it. For the first few months, everything seemed fine. The family came to town occasionally to sell their handmade goods and to perform music. Their harmonies were beautiful, a blend of old-time gospel and folk tunes that left us all enchanted.
I got to know them a little better when I volunteered to help with their schooling. The children were being homeschooled, but I offered to tutor them in subjects like math and science, which Papa admitted they were lacking in. That’s when I first noticed something was off. The children were polite and eager to learn, but they seemed... scared. Not of me, but of something else. They would glance nervously at the door, as if expecting Papa to walk in at any moment.
One day, I was tutoring Elishaba, the oldest daughter, who was 18 at the time. She was bright and curious, but there was a sadness in her eyes that I couldn’t quite place. As we worked on a math problem, she suddenly stopped and looked at me. “Do you think we’re free here?” she asked quietly.
I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
She hesitated, then said, “Papa says we’re free, that we’re living the way God intended. But sometimes, I wonder if we’re really free, or if we’re just prisoners in a different kind of cage.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I tried to reassure her that they were lucky to have such a loving family, but she just smiled sadly and went back to her work.
Over the next few weeks, I started to hear rumors. People said that the children were never allowed to leave the compound without Papa’s permission, that they were punished severely for even minor infractions. Some even whispered about physical abuse. I didn’t want to believe it. The family seemed so happy, so devoted to each other. But then, I saw the bruises.
It was on a hot summer day when I went to visit them at their compound. I brought some books for the children and some fresh vegetables from my garden. As I approached, I saw one of the younger boys, probably around 10, chopping wood. His shirt was off, and I could see welts and bruises on his back.
I gasped, and he quickly pulled on his shirt, looking ashamed. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
He mumbled something about falling, but I knew it was a lie. When I confronted Papa later, he laughed it off, saying that boys will be boys, that they get into fights and accidents. But I wasn’t convinced.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about those bruises, about Elishaba’s words. Was there something sinister going on in that compound?
I decided to do some digging. I started by talking to the other townspeople, but most of them were supportive of the family. They saw Papa as a hero, standing up to the government and living off the land. But then, I found someone who was willing to talk. It was a former member of the family, a young man who had left a few years earlier. He told me stories that chilled me to the bone.
He said that Papa was a tyrant, that he ruled the family with fear and violence. He said that the children were beaten regularly, that the girls were married off young, and that there were even rumors of worse things—things I couldn’t bring myself to repeat. I was horrified. How could this be happening right under our noses?
I went to the authorities, but they were reluctant to get involved. The family was isolated, and there was no concrete evidence of wrongdoing. Then, things escalated. There was a standoff with the Park Service over the road. Papa refused to remove it, claiming it was his right to access his property. The Park Service threatened to fine him, and the situation became a media circus.
In the midst of all this, Elishaba disappeared. For three days, no one knew where she was. Papa said she had run away, but I knew better. Finally, she turned up at my door, battered and bruised. She had been locked in a shed for days, punished for talking to me without permission.
She told me everything: the abuse, the control, the fear. She begged me to help her and her siblings escape. I knew I had to act. I contacted child services, and together, we planned a rescue operation.
It wasn’t easy. Papa had armed guards patrolling the compound, and he had rigged the place with booby traps. But eventually, we managed to get the children out. The trial was a spectacle. Papa was charged with multiple counts of abuse and assault. The children testified against him, their stories heartbreaking and harrowing.
In the end, he was sentenced to prison, and the family was torn apart. But for me, the horror didn’t end there. I still have nightmares about that place, about the things I saw and heard. And sometimes, I wonder if there are other families like that out there, hidden away in the wilderness, living in fear and darkness.
"The Wolves in the Shadows":
I never thought I’d end up here—living in a tiny cabin deep in the woods, miles from the nearest town. But after losing my job and going through a messy divorce, I needed a fresh start. Somewhere quiet, where I could be alone with my thoughts. Somewhere I could rebuild my life on my own terms. That’s how I ended up buying this place—an old hunting cabin on 20 acres of dense forest in Oregon. No electricity, no running water, just me, my dog Max, and the wilderness.
It was spring when I moved in, and everything felt fresh and full of promise. The air was crisp, the birds were singing, and the sun filtered through the trees like something out of a painting. I spent my days chopping wood, fixing up the cabin, and planting a small garden. At night, I’d sit by the fire, reading or just listening to the sounds of the forest. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful.
But as the weeks turned into months, I started to notice things. Little things at first. Like how the animals seemed to go quiet at certain times of the day, as if they were hiding from something. Or how Max would sometimes stare into the woods, his ears perked up, growling low in his throat. I’d call him inside, but he’d hesitate, like he was waiting for something to appear.
One night, about three months in, I heard it for the first time. A low, guttural growl, coming from somewhere near the edge of the clearing. I froze, my heart pounding. Max was already at the door, barking furiously. I grabbed the rifle I kept for protection and stepped outside, shining my flashlight into the darkness.
Nothing. Just the trees swaying in the wind. I stood there for a while, listening, but all I heard was the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. I told myself it was probably just a coyote or a bobcat. They’re common out here, after all. But something about that growl stuck with me. It didn’t sound like any animal I’d heard before.
The next morning, I found tracks near the chicken coop. Big tracks, bigger than any coyote’s. They looked like they belonged to a bear, but bears don’t usually come this far down from the mountains. Not unless they’re desperate. I checked on my chickens—they were fine, thank God—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me.
I started taking extra precautions. I reinforced the chicken coop with heavier wire, set up a motion-sensor light near the cabin, and kept Max inside at night. But the feeling of being watched didn’t go away. Every time I stepped outside, I felt eyes on me, hidden in the shadows of the trees.
Then came the night that changed everything.
It was late August, hot and humid, the kind of night where you can feel the storm brewing in the air. I’d been working all day, clearing brush and fixing a leak in the roof. By the time the sun went down, I was exhausted. I made myself a simple dinner—beans and rice—and sat down to eat. Max was restless, pacing back and forth by the door.
“Settle down, boy,” I said, tossing him a piece of chicken. He caught it but didn’t eat it, just kept staring at the door.
That’s when I heard it again. The growl. Louder this time, closer. It wasn’t just one animal; it sounded like several, communicating with each other. My stomach twisted. I grabbed the rifle and loaded it, hands shaking.
“Max, come here,” I whispered, but he ignored me, his hackles raised.
The growling grew louder, turning into a chorus of snarls and snaps. Then, something heavy slammed against the side of the cabin. The whole structure shook. Max went ballistic, barking and throwing himself at the door.
I backed away, aiming the rifle at the door. “Who’s there?” I shouted, trying to sound brave. “Get away from here!”
No answer, just more growling. Then another thud, this time against the window. I spun around, heart racing, and saw a shadow move past the glass. It was big—too big to be a coyote or even a bear. What the hell was out there?
I grabbed my phone, but of course, there was no signal. I was completely on my own.
The attacks on the cabin continued, one after another. Thuds, scratches, even what sounded like teeth gnawing at the wood. I fired a shot through the door, hoping to scare whatever it was away. The growling stopped for a moment, but then it started again, even angrier.
I was terrified. I’d never felt so alone, so helpless. The cabin felt like a flimsy box, not a safe haven. I thought about running, but I knew I wouldn’t make it far in the dark. And Max—he wouldn’t leave my side.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The growling faded into the distance, and the forest went silent. I waited, barely breathing, for what felt like hours. When dawn finally broke, I cautiously opened the door.
The clearing looked like a war zone. Deep gouges marked the sides of the cabin, and there were tufts of fur caught on the porch railing. The motion-sensor light had been ripped clean off its mount. And there, in the mud, were tracks—dozens of them, overlapping each other. They weren’t bear tracks or coyote tracks. They were something else, something I couldn’t identify.
I spent the rest of the day fortifying the cabin as best I could. I boarded up the windows, reinforced the door, and set up a perimeter of noise makers—cans tied to strings that would rattle if anything crossed them. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t enough. Whatever was out there wasn’t afraid of me or my rifle.
That night, I barely slept. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle of leaves, set my nerves on edge. Max stayed close, his eyes fixed on the door. Around midnight, I heard it again—the growl, faint but unmistakable. It was back.
I grabbed the rifle and whispered to Max, “Stay here.”
I crept to the door and slowly opened it, peeking out. The moon was full, casting everything in a pale, eerie light. At first, I saw nothing. Then, movement caught my eye—something slinking through the shadows near the tree line.
I raised the rifle, but before I could aim, it charged. It was fast, faster than anything I’d ever seen. I fired, but it dodged to the side, disappearing into the darkness. Then another one came from the left, and another from the right. They were surrounding me.
I slammed the door shut and barricaded it with everything I could find—chairs, tables, even my mattress. The cabin shook as they threw themselves against it, over and over. I could hear their claws scraping at the walls, their teeth snapping.
“Max, get back!” I shouted as he lunged at the door, barking furiously.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t fight them all off. I couldn’t run. I was trapped.
Then, just when I thought it was over, I heard a different sound—a human voice, shouting from somewhere in the distance.
“Hey! Get away from there!”
The attacks stopped. The growling faded, and I heard footsteps running away. I waited, heart pounding, until I was sure they were gone. Then I opened the door a crack.
A man stood at the edge of the clearing, holding a flashlight. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with a weathered face and a rifle slung over his shoulder.
“You okay in there?” he called out.
I stepped outside, still clutching my rifle. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Tom,” he said, approaching slowly. “I live about five miles up the trail. Heard the commotion and figured I’d check it out.”
“What were those things?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He shone his flashlight on the ground, where the tracks were still visible. “Wolves,” he said grimly. “Pack of them. They’ve been getting bolder lately, coming down from the mountains because of the drought.”
Wolves? I’d heard of them in this area, but I’d never thought they’d come this close to a human settlement, even one as remote as mine.
“They’re not usually this aggressive,” Tom continued. “Must’ve been desperate for food.”
I looked at the cabin, at the damage they’d done. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.”
Tom nodded. “You’re not safe alone. Come stay with me for a while, until we can figure out what to do.”
I hesitated, but I knew he was right. I couldn’t face another night like that. So I packed up what I could carry, grabbed Max, and followed Tom into the woods.
As we walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were still being watched. The forest was silent now, but I knew they were out there, waiting.
That was two years ago. I never went back to that cabin. Tom let me stay with him for a few months, and eventually, I moved to a small town nearby. I still think about those nights sometimes, about how close I came to losing everything. Living off-grid was supposed to be my escape, my chance to start over. Instead, it nearly cost me my life.
I’ve learned that nature doesn’t care about your dreams. It’s indifferent, sometimes cruel. And when you live alone in the wild, you’re never truly alone.
"The Last Walk with Anita":
I’ve always loved walking in the countryside around Brantham. The fields stretch out wide, the river glints in the distance, and everything feels calm, like the world takes a deep breath. My dog, Max, loves it too, bounding ahead, sniffing every bush. We have our usual paths, and one takes us past the sewage works, along the railway line. It’s quiet, tucked away, not many people come this way, which is why I like it.
That morning felt no different. The sun was just up, painting the sky gold. I saw Anita Rose ahead, walking her springer spaniel, Bruce. She was a familiar face in the village, always smiling, always kind. We waved, like we often did.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” she called, her voice bright.
“Gorgeous,” I answered, grinning. “Bruce looks happy.”
“He’s always chasing something,” she said with a laugh. “See you around!”
Her pink jacket stood out against the green fields as she walked on. I didn’t think twice about it, just kept going, Max tugging at his leash. That was the last time I saw her alive.
Later that day, the village buzzed with news that turned my stomach. Anita had been attacked on that very path, beaten so badly she was fighting for her life in the hospital. She died four days later. The shock hit Brantham hard. Who could do this? Why Anita? She was a mother of six, a grandmother, loved by everyone.
The police didn’t say much at first, but whispers spread. Someone mentioned a man living off-grid, hiding in the woods, someone who didn’t belong. I started looking closer on my walks. I noticed things I’d missed before—piles of branches under hedges, like someone had made a shelter, empty food cans half-buried, footprints that weren’t mine or Max’s. The quiet paths didn’t feel so peaceful anymore.
One afternoon, about a week after the attack, I found something that made my skin crawl. Near the path where Anita was hurt, tucked behind a tree, was a pair of muddy walking boots. They looked worn, like they’d been through miles of dirt. I didn’t touch them, but I called the police. An officer came out, bagged them up, and thanked me. Later, I learned those boots belonged to Roy Barclay, the man they’d arrest for Anita’s murder.
Barclay was a fugitive, on the run for two years to avoid going back to prison. He’d been living in makeshift camps, moving from one spot to another, staying out of sight. They said he was cunning, good at disappearing. He’d been in trouble before, attacked an old man years ago, left him with a broken face. Knowing someone like that was out there, so close to my home, made my walks feel different. I kept Max closer, my eyes scanning the trees.
One evening, as the light was fading, I saw something that stopped me cold. A figure stood near the sewage works, half-hidden by bushes, wearing dark clothes. He was still, watching me. My heart started pounding, and I gripped Max’s leash tight. “Come on, boy,” I whispered, walking faster. When I glanced back, he was gone, like he’d melted into the shadows. I told myself it was nothing, maybe a hiker, but deep down, I wondered if it was him.
I mentioned it to my neighbor, Tom, a retired policeman who’d seen his share of trouble. We sat on his porch, sipping tea, Max sprawled at my feet.
“You need to be careful,” Tom said, his face serious. “If that was Barclay, he’s dangerous. Don’t go out there alone, especially not at dusk.”
“Do you think he’s still around?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant.
Tom leaned back, frowning. “Could be. He’s been hiding for years. The police are searching, but he knows how to stay out of sight.”
I nodded, a chill settling in my bones. “What kind of person does that to someone like Anita?”
“Someone with nothing to lose,” Tom said. “Stay sharp. Tell someone where you’re going, always.”
From then on, I only walked in daylight, and I let my sister know my route. But the fear stuck with me, like a shadow I couldn’t shake. The woods felt alive, watching, waiting.
A few weeks later, I was at the village pub, the Red Lion, grabbing a pint with friends. The talk turned to Anita, as it often did. Dave, the barman, leaned over the counter, wiping a glass.
“Heard they found his camps,” he said. “Two of them, one near the Orwell Bridge, another right by the sewage works.”
My stomach tightened. “What did they find?” I asked.
“Stuff he used to survive—tents, cans, tools,” Dave said. “And some of Anita’s things. Her phone case, her pink jacket. Kept them like trophies.”
I felt sick. “That’s awful,” I managed to say.
“Creepy, right?” Dave shook his head. “They say he was obsessed with staying hidden, even shaved his head to change his look.”
I left the pub early that night, the image of Anita’s jacket in some filthy camp haunting me. I kept thinking about how close I’d been to those places, how I might’ve walked right past him without knowing.
The police caught Barclay in October, in Ipswich, of all places. He’d been using the library, leaving reviews on Google Maps, acting like he wasn’t a wanted man. They found Anita’s things in his camps, and his boots had her blood on them. He’d even searched online about DNA, trying to figure out if he’d left traces behind.
I went to the trial at Ipswich Crown Court, sitting in the public gallery. The details were worse than I’d imagined. The prosecutor, Christopher Paxton, described how Barclay had followed Anita down the path, attacked her with kicks and stamps, leaving her with injuries like she’d been in a car crash. Her dog’s lead was wrapped tightly around her leg, something he’d done in another attack years before, like a signature. Bruce, her dog, stayed by her side, loyal even as she lay dying.
The jury took just two and a half hours to find him guilty. Barclay sat there, stone-faced, no remorse. The judge said he’d get life in prison, a long sentence. I felt relief, but it didn’t erase the sadness. Anita’s daughter, Jess, spoke outside the court, tears in her eyes, saying her mum was a vibrant woman who lit up everyone’s life.
Now, when I walk with Max, I stick to the main paths. I tell my sister where I’m going, every time. The countryside is still beautiful, but it’s different now. The memory of Anita, of that morning, lingers. I keep thinking about Barclay, how he hid in plain sight, living in those camps, watching us. I wonder if there are others like him out there, tucked away in the woods, waiting. It’s a thought that makes me look over my shoulder, even on the brightest days.
"The Watchers":
I never thought I’d end up here, living in a small cabin deep in the woods, miles away from any town. But when you’re running from a past that could land you in prison for life, you don’t have many choices. My name—well, it doesn’t matter anymore. The name I was born with is dead to me now. I’m someone else now, someone who doesn’t exist on paper, someone who can’t be found.
It started three years ago when I was accused of embezzlement at my job. I was innocent, but the evidence was stacked against me. My lawyer said it didn’t look good, that I might be facing years behind bars. I couldn’t face that, so I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.
I used all my savings to buy this cabin and some supplies. It’s off the grid—no electricity, no running water, just me and the wilderness. I grow my own food, collect rainwater, and chop wood for heat. It’s hard work, but it’s better than being locked up.
At first, it was peaceful. The silence was deafening, but I got used to it. I even started to enjoy it. The days were filled with chores—tending the garden, checking traps for small game, fixing things around the cabin. The nights were quiet, just the sound of the wind through the trees and the occasional hoot of an owl. I felt safe, hidden away from the world.
But then, things began to change.
It started with small things. I’d find my traps emptied, the wire cut clean. At first, I thought it was animals—foxes or raccoons—but then I noticed footprints. Not paw prints. Human footprints. They were faint, but they were there, circling my cabin, getting closer each time.
I tried to brush it off. Maybe it was just someone passing through, a hiker or a hunter. But then I started hearing voices. Not whispers, but clear, low murmurs, too far away to make out the words. They came at night, when the world was still, and they always stopped when I stepped outside with my rifle.
“Who’s there?” I’d shout into the darkness. Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant howl of a coyote.
I set up cameras around the cabin, old ones I’d brought with me. But when I checked the footage, there was nothing. No movement, no shadows, nothing. It was like whoever—or whatever—was out there knew exactly where the cameras were.
Then, one day, I saw him. A man, standing at the edge of the clearing, watching me. He was dressed in ragged clothes, his face hidden by a hood. When he saw me, he turned and disappeared into the trees. I ran after him, rifle in hand, but he was gone. No trace, no footprints, nothing.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat by the window, watching the trees, listening for any sound. And then I heard them again—the voices. Clearer this time. “She doesn’t belong here,” one said. “She needs to leave.”
My heart raced. I grabbed my rifle and stepped outside. “Who’s there?” I shouted again. No answer. Just the wind.
The next morning, I found a note tacked to my door. It was written on a scrap of paper, the handwriting messy but legible: “Leave, or else.”
I froze. Who were they? How did they know I was here? I’d been so careful—never going into town, always wearing a disguise when I had to buy supplies from the nearest gas station, 20 miles away. But somehow, they knew.
I burned the note and tried to forget about it, but I couldn’t. Every night, I’d hear the voices, getting closer, more distinct. They weren’t just talking about me; they were planning something. “We can’t let her stay,” one said. “She’s too close.”
I started to feel like I was being hunted. My water supply was contaminated one morning—muddy and undrinkable. My food stores were raided, my canned goods opened and spoiled. I couldn’t stay here, but where could I go? They knew who I was, they knew where I was. There was no escaping them.
One night, I decided to confront them. I waited until dark, then snuck out of my cabin, following the sound of their voices. They were faint, but I could hear them clearly now. “She’s still here,” one said. “We need to do something.”
I crept closer, my heart pounding in my chest. Through the trees, I saw their camp—a small clearing with a fire pit and a few tents. There were three of them: two men and a woman, all dressed in camouflage, their faces smeared with dirt. They looked like survivalists, but there was something off about them. Their eyes were cold, calculating.
I hid behind a tree, listening. “She’s not going to leave,” one of the men said. “We might have to make her.”
“Or worse,” the woman added, her voice low and menacing.
I felt a chill run down my spine. They weren’t just trying to scare me off—they wanted me gone, permanently. I didn’t know why. Maybe they were protecting their territory, or maybe they had their own secrets to hide. Either way, I was in danger.
I backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound. When I got back to my cabin, I barricaded the door and sat up all night, rifle in hand, waiting for them to come. But they didn’t. Not that night.
The next morning, I knew I had to leave. I packed what I could carry—a backpack with some food, a water bottle, and my rifle. I left everything else behind. I couldn’t stay here anymore. It wasn’t safe.
I set out at dawn, heading deeper into the wilderness. I didn’t know where I was going, but I couldn’t stay in one place. Not with them watching me.
I’ve been on the move ever since. I sleep in caves, under overhangs, anywhere I can find shelter. I hunt for food, scavenge for water. It’s hard, but it’s better than staying put and waiting for them to find me.
Sometimes, I hear them in the distance—voices carried on the wind, footsteps crunching through the underbrush. I don’t know if they’re still looking for me, but I can’t take that chance.
I miss my old life, but I know I can never go back. All I can do is keep moving, keep surviving, and hope that one day, I’ll find a place where I can finally be safe.
But for now, I’m just another shadow in the wilderness, running from the watchers.