"Dismal Creek":
I had always loved those quiet trips into the mountains with my buddy, Tom. We grew up together in a small town in Virginia, and every spring we'd pack our gear for a weekend of fishing along Dismal Creek, right near the Appalachian Trail. It was our way to unwind from work—he drove trucks, I worked in a kitchen. That day in early May, we hiked in with our rods and tents, excited about the trout we'd heard were biting. The stream was clear and fast, and by afternoon, we'd caught half a dozen nice ones. We set up camp on a flat spot by the water, built a small fire, and started cleaning the fish for dinner.
As the light started to fade, a man wandered into our campsite. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with a scruffy beard and worn clothes that looked like he'd been out there for days. He carried a backpack and a fishing pole, nothing unusual for the area. "Caught any?" he asked, nodding at our stringer of trout.
"Yeah, a few," I replied, glancing at Tom. We were friendly types, so we didn't mind company. "You fishing too?"
He smiled and sat down uninvited on a log across the fire. "Name's Randy. Been trying my luck upstream, but no bites. Mind if I join you for a bit?"
Tom shrugged and handed him a stick with a fish on it. "Sure, help yourself. Plenty here."
We talked as we ate. Randy asked about our jobs, where we were from. He said he lived nearby, used to hike the trail a lot. "You boys come out here often?" he said, his eyes flicking between us.
"Every year," Tom said. "Best spot around. Quiet, no crowds."
Randy nodded slowly. "Quiet is good. But you never know who you might run into." His voice was calm, but something in the way he said it made me pause. I brushed it off—people say odd things sometimes.
The conversation turned to sports. Randy mentioned he liked baseball, rooted for the old teams. Tom laughed and shared a story about a game we'd seen as kids. Randy listened, chuckling now and then, but his laughs seemed forced, like he was mimicking us. He asked more questions: "You got families? Anyone know you're out here?"
"Just us," I said, poking the fire. "Wives know we'll be back Sunday."
He stared into the flames. "Smart to tell someone. Trails can be dangerous." Again, that flat tone. Tom and I exchanged a quick look, but we kept talking, figuring he was just lonely.
As the fire died down, Randy stood up. "Thanks for the meal. Appreciate it." He picked up his pack and walked off into the dark toward the trees. We watched him go, relieved but not sure why.
"Strange guy," Tom muttered as we unrolled our sleeping bags in the tent.
"Yeah, but harmless," I said, though a knot formed in my gut. We zipped up the tent and settled in, the creek's rush lulling us.
Hours later, I woke to a noise outside—rustling, like footsteps. "Tom," I whispered. "You hear that?"
He sat up. "Probably an animal."
But then a voice came from right outside the tent. "Hey, boys. You awake?"
It was Randy. My pulse quickened. What was he doing back? Tom unzipped the flap a crack. "What's up?"
Randy stood there, silhouetted against the moonlight, holding something in his hand. "Forgot to thank you properly," he said.
Before we could respond, a flash and a bang split the night. Tom jerked back, blood spraying from his face. He gasped, clutching his jaw. I scrambled up, heart racing, as another shot rang out. Pain exploded in my back, then my neck—hot, searing. I fell forward, tasting dirt.
Tom roared and lunged out of the tent, tackling Randy. Another shot, this one into Tom's chest at close range. Tom staggered but kept fighting, grabbing at the gun. I heard a click—jammed? Tom broke free and ran for his Jeep, parked nearby.
I lay there, blood pouring from my neck. It felt like fire spreading through me. Was Tom dead? Randy turned toward me, gun raised. I rolled behind a tree, pressing my hand to the wound. Blood pulsed between my fingers—artery? I had to stop it. Using my shirt, I jammed fabric into the hole, biting back a scream.
Randy cursed softly, fumbling with the gun. "Come out," he called, voice eerily calm. "It's over quick."
No way. I crouched low, slipping from tree to tree, away from the camp. My vision blurred from pain and blood loss, but I knew the trail—we'd hiked it before. Behind me, footsteps crunched. He was following.
"Tom?" I hissed into the dark, hoping he'd made it. No answer. Panic rose—had he been hit worse? I tripped over a root, slamming my knee, but kept moving. The Jeep's engine roared to life ahead. Thank God.
I burst from the trees, seeing the headlights. Tom was in the driver's seat, face swollen, blood everywhere. "Get in!" he yelled, voice muffled.
I dove into the passenger side as Randy emerged, gun up. Another shot cracked, shattering the rear window. Tom floored it, tires spinning on gravel. We careened down the mountain road, a narrow, twisting path with drops on one side. "Hold on," Tom grunted, one eye shut from swelling.
My neck throbbed; I felt weak, like I might pass out. "You're hit bad," I said, seeing the hole in his chest.
"You too," he replied. "Just keep pressure."
The road blurred. We hit potholes, nearly sliding off edges. Randy—would he follow? I glanced back, but no lights. Minutes felt endless. "If we don't make it..." I started.
"We will," Tom cut in. "Think about home."
Finally, lights—a house. Tom swerved into the driveway, horn blaring. A woman came out, phone in hand. "Help! We've been shot!" I yelled.
She called emergency services, her face pale. "Ambulance is coming. Stay with me."
We waited, leaning on each other. Blood soaked the seats. I worried about Tom—his breathing was ragged. "Hang in, buddy," I said.
Helicopters arrived, medics rushing us. In the air, everything spun. Doctors said later a bullet nicked my artery; another lodged near my spine. Tom's jaw was shattered, bullets in his sinus and chest. Surgeries, weeks in hospital, scars forever.
They caught the guy—turned out he'd killed before, years ago on the trail. He crashed trying to escape in my truck, died from injuries. We never got why he did it. Maybe just evil.
Tom and I still fish sometimes, but not there. The wilderness feels different now—empty one moment, full of hidden danger the next. I wake up some nights, hearing those footsteps. But we're alive. That's what matters.
"Cabin Escape":
I rented a small cabin deep in the forest for a weekend getaway, hoping the quiet would help me sort through some tough times at work. It was my first time going solo like that, but the place looked peaceful online—a simple wooden structure with a porch, surrounded by tall trees and a narrow dirt road leading in. I arrived late afternoon, unpacked my bags, and settled in with a book and some tea. The isolation felt good at first, like a blanket wrapping around me.
As evening came on, I cooked a quick meal on the stove and ate at the table by the window. That's when I noticed something odd. Out past the trees, a shape moved. At first, I thought it was a deer or maybe a branch swaying, but it lingered too long, low to the ground like someone crouching. I stared hard, but it vanished. Shaking it off, I locked the door and drew the curtains, telling myself it was nothing.
Later, as I lay in bed listening to the night sounds—crickets chirping, leaves rustling—a soft knock echoed from the front door. My pulse quickened. Who could that be out here? No one knew I was staying, and the nearest town was miles away. I sat up, pulling the blanket close, and waited. The knock came again, louder this time.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice steadier than I felt. "Who's there?"
A man's voice answered from outside, muffled but clear. "Ma'am, sorry to bother you. My car broke down on the road. Can I use your phone? Mine's dead."
I hesitated. The cabin had no landline, and cell service was spotty at best. I checked my phone—no bars. "I don't have service here," I replied. "The road's that way. You can walk to the highway."
"Please," he said, his tone shifting a bit, more insistent. "It's dark out. Just open the door for a second. I won't come in."
Something about his words made my skin crawl. Why not just leave if I couldn't help? I crept to the window and peeked through a crack in the curtain. There he was, a tall figure in a dark jacket, face hidden under a hood. He stood too close to the door, hands in his pockets. No sign of a car nearby.
"Go away," I said firmly. "I'm not opening the door."
He didn't move. Instead, he chuckled softly, a low sound that sent ice through me. "Come on, lady. I know you're alone in there. Just trying to be friendly."
How did he know I was alone? Had he been watching? My mind raced. I grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter and backed into the bedroom, heart pounding hard. The knob rattled as he tested it. "Open up," he muttered. "Or I'll make you."
Panic surged. I barricaded the bedroom door with a chair and searched for anything useful—a window in the back, small but maybe I could squeeze through. Outside, footsteps crunched around the cabin, circling slow. He was checking for weak spots. A window shattered in the living room, glass tinkling to the floor. He was breaking in.
I forced the bedroom window open, scraping my hands on the frame, and tumbled out into the underbrush. Thorns scratched my arms as I ran, barefoot, into the trees. Behind me, the front door crashed open. "Where are you?" he yelled, his voice echoing. "You can't hide forever!"
I darted deeper into the woods, breath coming in gasps, dodging roots and branches. The ground was rough, stones cutting my feet, but I didn't stop. His footsteps followed, crashing through the leaves, getting closer. "I see you!" he called, laughing again. Was he playing with me?
Hiding behind a thick trunk, I tried to quiet my breathing. He paused nearby, listening. "Come out, pretty one. We can talk."
Minutes stretched like hours. I heard him mutter to himself, words I couldn't make out, then his steps moved away, back toward the cabin. Was he giving up? Or setting a trap? I waited, shivering in the cool air, until silence returned. Slowly, I crept farther, following what I hoped was the direction of the road.
Hours later, scraped and exhausted, I stumbled onto the dirt path. A car passed in the distance—headlights! I waved frantically, and it stopped. The driver, an older couple heading home, saw my state and drove me straight to the police station.
The officers took my statement, and later they found the cabin trashed, my things scattered. The man had vanished, but they linked him to other break-ins in the area—a drifter named Jake Patterson, who'd targeted remote homes before. He'd killed a family nearby months earlier, taking their daughter captive in his own isolated place up north. She'd escaped after weeks, leading to his arrest, but he'd gotten out on bail somehow and gone on the run.
They caught him days after my ordeal, hiding in the woods not far from my cabin. Turns out he'd spotted my car on the road and followed, waiting for nightfall. If I hadn't run when I did, who knows what would've happened.
That weekend changed me. The forest no longer feels peaceful—it's full of hidden dangers. But I survived, and that's what matters.
"The Poison Claim":
I had been on the trail for months, pushing my legs through mud and roots, one foot in front of the other. That day started like any other—up early, pack on my back, aiming for a long stretch to make up time. I was in Vermont now, the woods thick with trees that blocked out most of the light. My friends had gone ahead or fallen behind, so I walked alone, listening to the crunch of my boots and the occasional bird call. It felt good at first, that quiet freedom, but as the climb got steeper, a strange unease settled in my chest.
I needed a break, somewhere to sit and catch my breath. There was a side path leading to a shelter, and I figured it might have a spot to rest. I turned off the main trail, following the narrow dirt line through the brush. The air grew still, like the forest was holding its breath. Up ahead, through the branches, I spotted a man sitting at a wooden table. He wore bright orange, the kind hunters use, and at first, I thought he was just another person out here, maybe checking maps or eating lunch.
He looked up as I approached, his eyes locking on mine. I stopped about thirty feet away, not too close. Something about his stare made me pause. He started making gestures with his hands, waving me over. "Come here," he said, his voice flat, not loud but clear enough to carry.
I pulled out one earbud—I had music on low to keep me company—and asked, "What do you need?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Come here," he repeated, still sitting, his hands motioning again. "Please, come closer. I need help."
I didn't move. My mind raced through possibilities—was he hurt? Lost? But he didn't look injured. His clothes were clean, his posture straight. "What's wrong?" I called back, keeping the distance.
He stood up slowly, taking a step toward me. "Someone is trying to poison me. Please, you have to help." His tone was calm, almost casual, like he was asking for directions. But his eyes—they were intense, fixed on me in a way that made my skin prickle. No shaking, no sweat, nothing to show real fear or pain. Just that steady gaze, pulling me in.
My stomach tightened. Out here, miles from the nearest road, no one around. I thought of all the warnings I'd heard—stay alert, trust your gut. "I can't help you," I said, backing up a step. "I'll call someone when I get signal."
"No, wait," he said, louder now, taking another step. "Come here. You have to listen." His voice shifted, a edge creeping in. He moved faster, closing the gap.
That's when panic hit. I turned and ran, my backpack bouncing hard against my spine, branches whipping my arms. Behind me, his shouts echoed through the trees. "Stop! Come back! You can't leave!" His voice grew frantic, angry, like I'd betrayed him. I heard footsteps crashing through the leaves—was he chasing me? I didn't dare look back. The trail twisted, roots snagging my feet, but I kept going, breath burning in my lungs.
I burst back onto the main path, heart racing so fast it hurt. I glanced over my shoulder—no sign of him, but the woods felt alive, every rustle a threat. What if he knew these paths better? What if he circled around? I started jogging, phone in hand, checking for bars. Nothing yet. The climb ahead was endless, mud sucking at my shoes, but I couldn't stop. Images flashed in my mind: him grabbing me, dragging me off the trail, no one to hear.
After what seemed like forever, maybe half a mile, I slowed enough to pull out my phone again. One bar flickered. I dialed my dad, fingers trembling. "Dad," I gasped when he answered. "There's a man—he tried to lure me over, said someone was poisoning him. I ran. I'm scared he's following."
"Whoa, slow down," Dad said, his voice sharp with worry. "Where are you? Describe him."
"Vermont, near that shelter on the climb. Orange jacket, maybe forties, short hair. He kept saying 'come here.' It felt wrong, Dad. Really wrong."
"Okay, stay on the line," he said. "Keep moving. I'm calling the police right now."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see, and kept walking fast, phone pressed to my ear. The forest closed in tighter, every snap of a twig making me jump. "What if he finds me before help comes?" I whispered.
"You're strong," Dad said. "You've hiked thousands of miles. Just keep going. Tell me if you hear anything."
Minutes dragged. My legs ached, but fear pushed me. Then, up ahead, snow patches appeared—deeper than expected for this time. I slogged through, cold seeping into my boots. The man's words replayed in my head: "Someone is trying to poison me." It didn't add up. No signs of illness, just that eerie calm. Was it a trick? To get me close enough...
A noise—a branch breaking? I spun, scanning the trees. Nothing. But the feeling lingered, like eyes on my back. I picked up pace again, breath coming in short bursts. "Dad, I think I hear something."
"Police are on it," he said. "They're alerting rangers. Describe the spot again."
I did, voice shaking. The trail leveled some, but the isolation hit harder. No other hikers, no sounds but my own. What if he was waiting at the next bend? My mind spun dark scenarios: him hiding, jumping out, his hands reaching...
Finally, after another mile, I reached a small clearing with a shelter. A couple of hikers were there, packing up. Relief flooded me. "I'm at Kid Gore," I told Dad. "People here."
"Good," he said. "Stay with them. Police will follow up."
I hung up, explained bits to the others without scaring them too much. "Saw a weird guy back there," I said. "Be careful."
One nodded, a tall man with a beard. "We've heard stories. Stick together if you can."
I nodded, but inside, the fear didn't fade. That night, in my tent, every wind gust sounded like footsteps. I lay awake, replaying the encounter. His voice, so insistent. What would have happened if I'd gone closer? The thought made me shiver.
The next day, word spread. Rangers found the man later—he had issues, they said, but no arrest since he hadn't touched me. But knowing he was out there, wandering the same woods... it changed everything. I kept hiking, but slower, more alert. Calls came in from friends, worried. "You okay?" one asked.
"Yeah," I lied at first, then admitted, "It shook me. But I'm not quitting."
Online, my story blew up. Support poured in, but so did the hate. Messages accusing me of overreacting, calling me weak. "Just a guy asking for help," one said. "You ran like a coward." It hurt, like a second attack. Strangers doubting my fear, as if they were there, feeling that pull in his eyes.
But I knew the truth. Out in those woods, alone, instinct saved me. The trail teaches you that—listen, or pay the price. I finished my hike, but that day stays with me, a shadow in the trees, reminding me how close danger can lurk, even in the quietest places.