"The Fire Road":
I’ve always loved the rush of pedaling through dark trails after everyone else has gone home. The quiet, the isolation, the hum of the tires beneath me—it was my way to breathe again. Around this time last year, work had me wound tight, and one evening I decided I’d had enough. I loaded my bike into the truck and drove toward the old logging roads in the hills just outside town.
Those paths twist through thick pines and dip into damp valleys where the air always smells of moss and cold water. I’d ridden them hundreds of times in daylight, could trace their curves in my sleep. But at midnight, under a starless sky with only my headlamp cutting a narrow cone through the dark, it felt like a different world.
I parked at the trailhead, clipped in, and started climbing the first rise. The gravel crunched softly under my tires. Every sound—chain clicks, shifting gears, even my own breathing—felt sharper against the silence. The night carried that wet, metallic scent of soil and pine needles.
After about twenty minutes, the trail leveled out into a long, straight stretch flanked by waist-high brush. That’s when I saw him.
A man stood dead center on the path, motionless, facing me. Jeans, dark jacket, old boots—nothing about him said “hiker.” My light washed over his face for just a second: pale skin, deep-set eyes that locked onto mine and didn’t blink.
I slowed, my pulse instantly climbing. He stepped aside, disappearing halfway behind a tangle of branches.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be. I tried to sound casual, like this was nothing unusual.
He didn’t smile. “You out here by yourself?” His voice was flat. Not curious—just knowing.
I felt a chill at the back of my neck. “Yeah, just getting some exercise,” I managed, pushing harder on the pedals without waiting for a response. I glanced back once—he was still standing there, half-hidden, staring.
The trail dove into a set of tight turns, the kind that demand full focus, and I told myself it was fine. Probably just a local out for a late walk. But then I heard it—the rustle of underbrush off to my left. Branches snapping, deliberate and heavy.
I kept my pace steady, pretending not to notice. The sound stayed with me. Then it picked up, matching my speed, closer now. My stomach dropped.
“Who's there?” I called out, the words sounding thin and far away in the trees.
No answer. Just the rhythmic crash of someone—or something—pushing through the brush.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I shifted gears, stood on the pedals, and powered through the next bend. The forest blurred past in streaks of black and silver. The noise grew louder, heavier—footsteps pounding the earth.
That’s when I realized: whoever it was, they were running.
I didn’t think—I just rode. Harder than I ever had. My breath came ragged. My light jittered across trunks and roots as I tore through the dark. “Stop! Leave me alone!” I yelled, but it came out hoarse, like I’d already been screaming for hours.
The sounds didn’t stop. They got closer. A grunt, low and guttural, echoed through the trees.
My mind spiraled—why me? What did he want? I remembered a story from the bike shop last summer—a transient who’d been harassing campers out here. Could it be him?
The trail opened for a moment, enough to build speed. My thighs burned, my hands slick with sweat. Behind me, the crashing grew uneven, desperate. Maybe he was stumbling, maybe falling—but then, his voice cut through the night.
“Come back here!”
The words ripped through me like a blade. There was fury in them, something personal, something wrong.
I hit the downhill section hard, launching off the first natural jump. The bike hung weightless for a heartbeat before slamming down. My teeth rattled, but I stayed upright. Another jump, another drop. I could hear him behind me still—tripping, crashing, but relentless.
I pulled my phone from my jersey pocket with shaking hands, thumbed the emergency call without even looking.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s chasing me on the trails!” My voice cracked between breaths. “Old fire road off Highway 12, about three miles in. Please—he’s after me!”
“Stay on the line. Are you safe? Can you reach your vehicle?”
“I’m trying,” I said. The word barely came out. My wheel clipped a rock, nearly throwing me off. “I’m on my bike—heading back now.”
“Keep moving toward the road. Officers are on their way.”
Hearing her voice kept me grounded. I focused on the sound of her calm tone, on my breathing, on not falling.
The trail straightened into the long final stretch leading back to the lot. My legs screamed, lungs raw, but I didn’t stop. The noises behind me began to fade—first a few crashing steps, then nothing.
Still, I didn’t look back. Not until I saw the gleam of my truck’s reflectors in the beam of my light. I skidded to a stop, nearly collapsing as I threw the bike onto the rack and dove into the cab, locking the doors.
For a moment, there was only silence. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Then headlights—two police cruisers rolling in. I got out slowly, legs trembling. They swept the treeline with flashlights while I told them everything—what he said, how he chased me, how close he’d been.
They listened carefully, took notes. One of them, older, looked toward the darkness and said, “You did the right thing. These woods draw all kinds. Could’ve been a squatter, could’ve been worse.”
They searched for nearly an hour, found boot prints that followed my tire marks for half a mile before veering off into the brush. Later, I saw a story on the local news—a man matching that description had been caught a week later. Escaped from a halfway house. History of assault. He’d been living rough out near the ridge.
I haven’t ridden alone at night since. Now I go with my brother or a group, and we stick to well-traveled paths. But sometimes, when the house is quiet and the wind moves through the trees outside my window, I hear that voice again—rough, angry, echoing from somewhere in the dark.
“Come back here.”
And I remember just how close he was when I almost did.
"The Descent":
I decided to tackle the steep switchbacks after a long day, figuring the cool night air would help clear my head. My legs pumped in a steady rhythm as I climbed, the chain clicking softly beneath the weight of my effort. The forest around me pulsed with familiar sounds—the hum of crickets, the whisper of wind through pine needles, the occasional hoot from something unseen deeper in the dark. I’d ridden these trails so many times I could almost do it blindfolded. But tonight, the shadows seemed thicker. The woods felt… different. Closer somehow, as if the trees themselves were leaning in to watch.
The trail forked ahead—one narrow and rutted, the other smoother but twice as long. I didn’t even hesitate. I took the narrow one, standing on the pedals to grind through the incline. My breath fogged the beam of my headlamp. Then, up ahead, faint lights appeared—headlamps, bobbing slowly in the dark. Hikers, maybe. Three or four of them, descending the same narrow stretch I was climbing.
“Coming up!” I called out early, voice echoing off the trees.
No response. Just the sound of scuffling feet and muffled voices.
I slowed slightly. As I rounded the bend, a woman’s sharp voice cut through the dark. “Watch it!”
I veered right, giving space where the trail allowed. The lead hiker—a broad man with a heavy pack—stepped directly into my line. “Move over,” I said, braking hard. My front wheel slipped on loose gravel, the bike fishtailing before I steadied it.
But he didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer, his headlamp glare stabbing straight into my eyes. “You bikers think you own the path,” he said, voice like gravel. Then he grabbed my handlebars and yanked.
“Hey—!” I shouted as the bike bucked. My clipped pedals trapped my feet and I toppled sideways, hitting the dirt shoulder-first. Pain flared hot and immediate. “What the hell are you doing?”
He loomed over me, face half-shadowed, the light making his eyes look pale and cold. “You rammed into me,” he said flatly. Behind him, two women hovered, uncertain. One fumbled with a phone. “He came out of nowhere,” she said, voice shaking. “Call someone.”
I tried to stand, but the man shoved me back down, his knee pressing into my chest. “Get off me!” I gasped, grabbing at his leg. We rolled, tangled in my bike, fighting for leverage. Dirt filled my mouth, my hands slipping on his jacket.
“Stop it!” one woman yelled, but he didn’t hear her. His face was inches from mine, breath sour and hot. “You started this,” he hissed.
“Let go!” I shouted, twisting. My fist connected with his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. Then, he reached into his jacket.
The faint metallic click froze everything.
He pulled a knife. The blade flashed once in the headlamp beam, clean and sharp.
“No—wait—”
He slashed. The edge tore through my sleeve, nicking skin. Pain bloomed, warm blood spreading down my arm. “Help!” I screamed toward the women. One stepped back, the other shouted, “Put it down! Stop!”
He swung again. I rolled, but the blade bit deep into my leg. White-hot pain exploded through me. I kicked out, my boot connecting with his wrist, sending the knife spinning into the dirt. “You’re insane!” I yelled.
“You asked for it!” he spat, diving for the weapon. We scrambled in the underbrush, leaves and twigs snapping beneath us. He got there first. The knife gleamed again.
I blocked with my forearm, but the steel tore through skin and muscle. I felt the heat of blood spatter across my chest. “Why?” I gasped, stumbling backward.
His voice came low, steady, almost detached. “Self-defense. You attacked me.”
Behind him, the women stood frozen. One nodded uncertainly, repeating, “He did come out fast…” Her words twisted like a knife of their own.
I staggered to my feet, clutching my arm. “I’m done,” I said. “I’m leaving.” But as I reached for my bike, he lunged again, blade raised.
That was it. I ran. I didn’t look back. I crashed off the trail, into the trees, branches slashing my face. My leg screamed with every step, blood soaking my sock. Behind me, his footsteps thundered.
“Come back!” he shouted, voice echoing through the woods. “This isn’t over!”
The dark swallowed me. My headlamp flickered, then died. I dropped low behind a fallen log, heart hammering so loud I thought it might give me away. The forest went silent except for my ragged breathing.
Then—a faint rustle.
A beam of light swept past, searching.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice calm now, eerily calm. “You can’t hide forever.”
I pressed a shaking hand to my wound, biting back a sound. The light paused only a few feet away. Then it moved on. Slowly, the footsteps faded.
I stayed still for what felt like hours before I finally crawled out. My body trembled from cold and blood loss. Every sound made me flinch. I followed the slope downhill, chasing the faint hum of traffic. Eventually, lights appeared through the trees—a road. Civilization.
When I stumbled out of the forest, a car screeched to a stop. A young woman rolled down the window, eyes wide. “Oh my god—are you okay?”
“Help,” I managed, voice breaking. “He had a knife.”
At the hospital, they stitched me back together—five gashes, one deep enough to sever a nerve. The cops came, took my statement, photographed the cuts. I told them everything: the man, the women, the attack.
Weeks later, they found him. He claimed I was the aggressor, that he acted in “self-defense.” The women backed him up, at least partly. But the wounds told a different story. He was charged, though the system gave him leniency—probation, counseling, some time confined to home. No real punishment.
Now, months later, I still can’t ride like before. My right hand won’t grip the bars properly, and the darkness of the forest—once comforting—feels haunted. Every rustle sounds like footsteps. Every distant light feels like a trap waiting to close.
That night took more than blood. It took the peace I used to find out there.
The forest isn’t my refuge anymore—it’s a place that remembers what happened. And sometimes, when I stop to listen, I swear I can still hear him whispering from somewhere in the dark:
“You can’t hide forever.”
"Blood on the Trail":
I still remember that night last summer when my friend Tom convinced me to join him for a midnight ride. We’d been mountain biking together for years, chasing sunrises and storm clouds across the hills near our town. But that night was different. It was late—close to 11 p.m.—and the air hung thick and still, the kind of quiet that settles after a long, hot day.
Tom called earlier, his voice buzzing with energy. “Come on, man, let’s hit the trail. The moon’s bright enough, and we’ve got our headlamps. What could go wrong?”
I hesitated. The idea of biking through the forest in the dead of night sounded reckless—and thrilling. I’d had a long week, my head a mess from work, and something about the thought of tearing through the dark woods felt like the perfect way to shake it off. So, I said yes.
We met at the trailhead just before midnight, our bikes rattling in the back of his old pickup. The parking lot was deserted, just a patch of gravel surrounded by tall pines that swayed in the faint breeze. During the day, this place buzzed with hikers and families. At night, it felt abandoned—like we’d stepped into someone else’s world.
I checked my tires, adjusted my helmet, and flipped on my headlamp. A beam of pale light cut through the dark, scattering off the dust hanging in the air. Tom grinned. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, though a nervous flutter ran through my stomach.
We started off easy, tires crunching over the dirt path. The first stretch wound through thick trees, the ground smooth and familiar. The night air felt cool on my face, and for a while, everything was perfect. The only sounds were our tires humming over packed earth and the rhythmic click of the bike chains.
As we climbed higher into the hills, the trail grew rougher. Roots snagged at our tires, and rocks caught the light like wet bones. Tom stayed ahead, his laughter echoing down the trail. “Keep up, slowpoke!” he shouted, glancing back.
“Just pacing myself,” I shot back, grinning despite the burn in my legs.
We talked about work, about the new trail opening next month, about how long it’d been since we’d done a ride like this. The forest felt alive around us—an ocean of black shapes swaying and whispering with the wind. I remember thinking it was almost peaceful, almost meditative.
Then the smell hit me.
It was faint at first—a metallic tang that cut through the scent of pine and dirt. Sharp. Wrong. I slowed, sniffing the air.
“Tom,” I called softly. “You smell that?”
He braked and turned his light back toward me. “What?”
“Like blood. Or something dead.”
He inhaled and frowned. “Yeah… I smell it too. Probably a deer. Coyote might’ve gotten to it.”
We rode on cautiously, our lights sweeping across the trees. The air grew thicker, the smell stronger, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The trail forked, and Tom pointed left. “This way—it loops back toward the creek.”
We’d taken that route plenty of times, but tonight it felt different. The forest seemed to press in tighter, the shadows heavier. Then came the sound—rustling off to the right. Not the wind. Heavier. Deliberate.
Tom raised a hand, signaling me to stop. We froze, straddling our bikes, the only sound our shallow breathing.
There it was again—footsteps. Then, voices. Low. Male. Too far to make out words, but close enough that my pulse spiked.
“Hunters?” I whispered.
Tom shook his head. “Hunting season’s over.”
We pushed our bikes off the trail and crept closer, hearts pounding. The voices grew clearer as we neared a small clearing.
“…got a good one this time.”
“Yeah, keep it down.”
We crouched behind a thick patch of ferns, peering through. Flashlight beams danced across the clearing. Three men stood over something on the ground. One of them had a knife. The blade glinted red.
For a moment, I thought they’d caught a deer—but then I saw it. The animal’s body, gutted open, blood pooled in the dirt, steam rising faintly in the night air. Empty beer cans lay scattered around. Rifles leaned against a tree nearby.
Tom’s voice was barely a breath. “Poachers.”
My mouth went dry. We both knew we had to get out of there, but as I shifted my weight to back away, my boot snapped a twig.
The sound cracked through the forest like a gunshot.
The men froze.
“What was that?” one barked.
A flashlight beam swept toward us, slicing through the dark.
“Hey! Who’s there?” another shouted.
Tom’s voice was a sharp whisper: “Run.”
We burst from the brush and jumped on our bikes, tearing back down the trail. Shouts exploded behind us. “Get ‘em!” one yelled. I risked a glance over my shoulder—two of them were chasing on foot, lights bouncing wildly. The third stayed back, probably grabbing a gun.
“Faster!” Tom yelled ahead of me. Our tires slipped on loose gravel as we flew downhill. Branches whipped my arms, stinging my skin. My breath came ragged, my legs burning. Every root and rock threatened to throw me off balance.
“They saw us!” one of the men yelled behind us. “Can’t let ‘em go!”
The trail dropped steeply, twisting hard left. My bike jolted as I barely made the turn. Pain flared through my knee when I clipped a branch, but I didn’t dare stop.
Then I heard it—a low growl of an engine starting up somewhere behind the trees. Headlights flared in the distance, cutting through the forest.
“They’ve got a truck!” I shouted.
Tom’s voice came back, panicked. “We’ll lose them by the river—follow me!”
We veered off onto a narrow side path, one barely more than a deer track. Thorns clawed at my legs, and my headlamp flickered, weak and dying. I kept my eyes locked on Tom’s light ahead, the only thing guiding me through the chaos.
The roar of the truck grew fainter, maybe lost on another trail. Then we reached the river—a shallow stream glinting in the moonlight. Without hesitating, Tom plunged in, water splashing up around his tires. I followed, the cold biting my legs.
On the far bank, we hid behind boulders, switching off our lights. The forest swallowed us whole.
Minutes crawled by. No voices. No headlights. Just the slow, steady trickle of water and the pounding of my heart.
“Think we lost them?” I whispered.
Tom listened for a long moment. “Yeah. Maybe.”
We stayed hidden until the sounds of the night returned—the chirp of insects, the whisper of leaves. Then we climbed back onto our bikes and rode in silence.
The trail back to the lot felt endless. Every rustle sent adrenaline surging again. Every distant sound felt like pursuit.
When the trees finally opened and the gravel lot appeared, I nearly cried with relief. Tom’s truck sat alone, untouched. We threw the bikes into the bed and jumped in. He floored it, gravel spitting from the tires as we tore down the road.
Neither of us said much on the drive home. When we reached my place, Tom finally spoke. “We should call it in. Anonymous.”
I nodded. “Yeah. No names.”
He agreed, and that was that.
I still think about that night—the smell of blood, the sound of footsteps in the dark, that snap of the twig that nearly got us killed. I still ride, but never after dark. Not anymore. And when I catch even the faintest metallic tang on the wind, I turn around. Every time.