"Spence Field":
I was nine years old that summer, and my little brother Dennis was almost seven. Every Father’s Day weekend, our family had this tradition of heading up to the Great Smoky Mountains for a camping trip. It was always the same group—Dad, Grandpa, Dennis, and me—packing up the old station wagon in Knoxville before sunrise and driving into the hazy blue ridges that felt like another world.
That year, another family joined us, friends of my parents with two boys around our ages. We hiked a long way up to a place called Spence Field, a wide meadow hemmed in by thick woods. The grass shimmered under the sun, and a light wind carried the scent of pine and earth. We set up our tents, cooked lunch over the camp stove, and spent the day exploring the trails that spidered off into the trees.
By midafternoon, the grown-ups were sitting near the trail talking, while Dennis and I started whispering with the other boys about playing hide-and-seek.
“Come on, let’s do it,” Dennis said, his eyes shining. He had on his red shirt and green pants—the outfit Mom insisted on for the trip so he’d be “easy to spot.”
“Yeah, let’s hide and jump out at the dads,” one of the other boys, Tim, whispered. His brother Alex grinned. “But don’t go too far, or we’ll get in trouble.”
We waited until the adults were distracted, then slipped off toward the edge of the clearing. Dad noticed us and called out, half-smiling, “You boys stay close!”
We giggled and ducked behind the trees. Dennis tugged at my sleeve. “Doug, where should I hide?”
I pointed to a thick patch of brush a little downhill. “Over there. We’ll all hide and meet back here after.”
He nodded and ran off, his shoes crunching in the dry leaves. The others scattered too, while I crouched behind a tree trunk.
After a minute, Tim whispered, “Now!” and we all leapt up, sprinting toward the grown-ups, shouting at the top of our lungs. They jumped, laughed, and Dad ruffled my hair. “Good one, boys.”
Then I looked around. “Hey—where’s Dennis?”
Tim shrugged. “He was right over there.”
Alex pointed toward the bush. “Maybe he’s still hiding.”
Dad frowned a little and called out, “Dennis! Come on, buddy, game’s over!”
No answer.
We started laughing nervously, calling his name again. I pushed aside the branches of the bush where he’d hidden. Empty. “He must’ve gone deeper in,” I said, my stomach tightening.
“Dennis!” Grandpa’s voice echoed through the trees. “This isn’t funny!”
We spread out, checking behind logs and rocks. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Dad’s tone changed—sharper, strained. “Dennis!”
I ran ahead, shouting, my voice bouncing off the trees. The woods swallowed the sound. Everything felt suddenly still, as if even the birds were listening.
We hurried back to the tents, thinking maybe he’d looped around, but there was no sign of him. Mom wasn’t with us on that trip—just the guys—and I remember wishing harder than ever that she was.
Dad ran down the trail, checking the switchbacks while the rest of us waited. When he came back, he was out of breath, eyes wide. “Nothing,” he said quietly.
Grandpa put a hand on his shoulder. “We’d better call the rangers.”
By then, it had been about half an hour.
When the rangers arrived, they asked questions and took notes. One of them crouched to my level. “Tell me exactly what happened, son.”
I told him everything—the game, the hiding spots, the last place I saw Dennis. “He was wearing a red shirt,” I added, like that could make all the difference.
They nodded and started organizing search teams. “We’ll find him,” one said, but I could tell from the way Dad looked at the ground that he wasn’t so sure.
That night, flashlights moved through the woods like fireflies. I remember the sound of boots on the dirt, the static of radios, and the low murmur of men calling my brother’s name over and over. At one point, a ranger froze. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
We all stopped.
Faint, far off—something like a cry.
“Could be an animal,” someone muttered, but it made my heart pound.
“Dennis!” I screamed into the dark, my voice cracking. No reply.
By morning, more searchers arrived—volunteers, soldiers, even helicopters sweeping the ridgelines. The forest that had felt so fun and open yesterday now seemed endless, heavy with mist and silence.
Dad kept asking me the same question: “Doug, did Dennis say anything before he hid? Anything at all?”
“No,” I said again. “Just where to hide.”
At one point, a ranger found small footprints leading toward a creek—one shoe print, one bare. My heart leapt. “That’s him!” I said.
But the prints vanished at the water’s edge.
That’s when I first saw the fear in my father’s eyes.
Later, a family hiking nearby reported hearing a scream around the same time Dennis disappeared. They told a ranger they’d seen a man moving quickly through the woods, carrying something—something wrapped in red cloth. The man was unshaven, dirty, his clothes torn.
“Red cloth?” Dad repeated, his voice trembling. Dennis’s shirt had been red.
That detail burned into me. Suddenly the forest felt alive, watching.
Dad began to believe someone had taken him. “Those footprints stopped at the creek,” he said that night, staring into the fire. “Whoever it was knew what he was doing.”
I lay awake, listening to the crackle of the fire and the wind brushing the tent walls. Every sound out there felt like footsteps. I kept thinking about Dennis’s laugh, the way he’d looked back over his shoulder before running to hide. I should’ve gone with him. I should’ve kept him close.
The days stretched into weeks. The rangers left, then the volunteers. Eventually, we went home without him.
For months, I’d look out the window every time a car slowed near our house, half-expecting to see him walking up the drive, smiling, dirt on his shoes, proud of how well he’d hidden. But he never came back.
Years later, they found bones somewhere deep in the Smokies. People said they might be his, but nothing was ever proven.
Dad never stopped searching in his own way—calling park offices, writing letters, driving up there once or twice a year. He’d stand at the edge of the meadow, staring at the tree line.
I still dream about that day sometimes—the red shirt vanishing into the green. The laughter fading. The woods holding their breath.
The Smokies took my brother. Or someone in them did.
And the worst part isn’t that we lost him. It’s that we never knew how.
"Petals and Shadows":
That Mother’s Day morning began like so many others in our family—warm smiles after church, the faint smell of Mom’s perfume mixing with the scent of polished pews, and the promise of a picnic in the country. I was eleven then, old enough to button my own dress and help with my little sister, Marjorie. She was four, a bundle of freckles and red curls that never seemed to stay brushed for long. Dad used to call her “his little spark.” My brother Allan, seven, sat between us in the back seat, kicking his shoes against the seat, humming some tune from Sunday school.
“Settle down, Allan,” Mom said gently, turning to smile at us. She wore her cream hat with the little blue ribbon, the one she only took out for church. Dad was at the wheel, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of a hymn as the road wound through the forest near Bradford. Sunlight flickered through the trees, bright and alive, and the windows were cracked open just enough to let in the pine-scented air.
We met the Akerlinds at a clearing near the road—a quiet place Dad favored for picnics, with a stream running nearby and a patch of open grass dotted with wildflowers. Mr. Akerlind was already unpacking his fishing gear, while his wife helped Mom spread the checkered blanket. I remember the sound of laughter, the rustle of paper wrapping, and the smell of ham sandwiches mixed with the earth’s cool breath.
Marjorie tugged at my sleeve. “Dottie,” she chirped, “let’s pick flowers for Mama.” Her little hand felt small and warm in mine. I looked at Dad, who was talking with Mr. Akerlind about the trout in the stream, and then back at her eager face. “Okay, but not too far,” I said.
We skipped toward the tree line, our patent-leather shoes slipping a little on the damp grass. The woods were gentle there, open enough that sunlight poured through in long, golden ribbons. Violets carpeted the ground in spots, bright purple against the green. Marjorie laughed as she plucked them, her curls bouncing. “I’m gonna make the biggest bunch ever,” she declared.
The game started then—half pretend, half play. “Let’s play hide and seek with the trees!” she said. I closed my eyes, pressing my hands over them dramatically. “One, two, three…” She giggled, the sound like wind chimes. When I “found” her behind a rock, she squealed and ran to hug me. Mom’s voice floated from the blanket. “Don’t go too far, girls!”
Dad and Mr. Akerlind headed off to the stream with their poles. “Watch for snakes,” Dad called over his shoulder. Mom leaned back against the car, shading her eyes. “I’ll rest a bit. The sun’s making me drowsy.” Allan stayed near the food, busy with a cookie. The day felt still, slow—one of those afternoons you think will last forever.
Marjorie darted behind a clump of bushes. “You can’t find me this time!” she said, her voice teasing. I counted to ten and then looked up. “Ready or not…” I found her easily, crouched and grinning. “You’re too easy,” I laughed. “Now it’s your turn to count.” She covered her eyes with her tiny hands. I slipped behind a rock, just a few steps away. When she “found” me, we both laughed until our sides hurt.
We’d gathered a pretty pile of violets by then. “Let’s take them to Mama,” I said. But Marjorie shook her head, smiling slyly. “You go. I’ll hide really good this time.” I hesitated. “Okay, but don’t move till I get back.” She nodded solemnly, curls bobbing.
I jogged up to the car. “Here,” I said, holding out the flowers. “From me and Marjorie.” Mom smiled, brushing them with her fingers. “They’re lovely, sweetheart. Where’s your sister?”
“She’s hiding,” I replied. “I’ll go get her.”
When I returned to the spot, I called softly, “Marjorie? Game’s over.” No reply. I checked behind the rock—empty. Behind the bushes—nothing. The woods, once filled with chirping birds, suddenly seemed too quiet. “Marjorie!” I called again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Allan came running when he heard me. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find her,” I said, trying to sound calm. We searched together, parting bushes, checking behind trees. The stillness made my skin prickle.
When Dad and Mr. Akerlind returned from the stream, their laughter died when they saw my face. “She was just here,” I told them, breath quick. Dad’s expression hardened. “Spread out,” he ordered. “Call her name.”
Mom’s voice cracked as she shouted, “Marjorie! Come to Mama!” Mrs. Akerlind hurried toward the road, calling too. The forest echoed with her name, bouncing off the trees. Then someone found her little bouquet of violets, crushed near the rock. The stems were broken. I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
Dad drove into Kane to alert the police. I remember the station’s smell—coffee, ink, and cigarette smoke. “Little girl, red hair, freckles, red hat,” Dad told the officer. “She couldn’t have gone far.” The officer nodded. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”
By evening, the forest blazed with lanterns. Men from nearby towns came, boots crunching, voices calling into the dark. “Marjorie! Marjorie West!” Women brought food, and I sat beside Mom, watching her twist her hands in her lap. Rain began to fall, soft and cold. The searchers pressed on until midnight.
At dawn, they came back with bloodhounds. The dogs sniffed her dress, then bounded uphill toward an old cabin. Inside, nothing—just dust and silence. The trail ended at the road. A man mentioned a dark Plymouth seen speeding away that afternoon. The thought of it made my heart thud painfully.
Days passed, then weeks. The woods were combed over and over. Wells checked, streams dragged, fields turned upside down. Flyers went up everywhere: Missing – Marjorie West, age 4. The picture showed her smiling, the curls bright as copper.
But she never came back.
The FBI came, asked questions, took notes. Rumors spread—some said she’d fallen into a well, others whispered about bears or strange men on the road. Dad barely slept, roaming the woods with a lantern night after night. Mom sat by the phone, waiting for a call that never came.
Years blurred together. The posters yellowed. The volunteers stopped coming. We moved houses, but not far. “Just in case she finds her way home,” Mom said once, voice trembling. Allan stopped talking about her. I tried to grow up, but a part of me stayed in those woods, counting to ten.
I married, had children of my own, but I never stopped wondering. Did someone take her? Or did she simply wander too far, chasing a butterfly into the trees?
Sometimes, when I visit that forest, I swear I can still hear her laugh—soft, quick, fading between the pines. The scariest part isn’t what might have happened. It’s what we’ll never know.
Because somewhere, out there, the woods still keep their secret. And I still listen for her voice in the wind.
"Twenty Counts":
It was October of 2006, one of those crisp Oregon mornings where the air smells of pine and cold stone. My son Alex and I had driven out to Crater Lake National Park for a weekend together—just the two of us. He was eight, small for his age, all restless energy and curiosity. He’d been obsessed with rocks and minerals lately, collecting them like treasures and labeling them in old mason jars at home. I thought the trip would do him good—let him run free, explore, maybe calm that intensity that sometimes came with his autism.
We stopped at a pullout near Cleetwood Cove, a quiet overlook where the volcanic soil rose sharply into a tangle of pines. The lake shimmered far below, a deep, impossible blue. The wind carried that sharp scent of wet bark and distant snow.
“Dad, look! Yellow rocks!” Alex shouted, pointing up the slope. He started climbing before I could say a word, his red sneakers flashing against the dark earth.
I laughed under my breath. “Hey—slow down, buddy. We’ve got all day.”
He turned, grinning, freckles bright against his pale skin. “Can we play hide-and-seek? Just one game!”
I hesitated. It was late afternoon, and the sun was already beginning to dip toward the treeline. But he was so eager—eyes wide, body vibrating with excitement. “Alright,” I said finally. “You hide. I’ll count.”
He gave a little cheer and darted uphill, small stones scattering behind him. I leaned against the car and started counting, voice echoing into the trees. “One… two… three…” I could hear him laughing, branches snapping as he climbed higher. By the time I reached twenty, the sound had faded.
“Ready or not, here I come!”
The woods were still, except for the wind. I started slow, checking behind the boulders and fallen logs at the base of the slope. “Alex?” I called out. No answer. I grinned a little, thinking he was trying to outsmart me. He was good at that. “You picked a good spot, huh? Well, I’ll find you.”
I climbed higher, boots slipping in the loose cinder. The trees thickened, their roots twisting like ropes across the ground. “This is fun, but we’ve got to go soon!” I shouted. Still nothing.
By the time I reached the crest, my grin had faded. I scanned the clearing ahead—a few scattered pines, some rocky outcrops. The air was quiet, too quiet. I called again, louder this time. “Alex! Game’s done!”
Only the echo answered back.
I began searching in earnest, weaving through brush, peering under logs, behind stumps. “Buddy, come on. You win. Let’s go.”
Five minutes passed. Ten. My heart began to hammer. He’d hidden before, refusing to come out until he decided the game was over. But this—this felt different. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, and the slope dropped steeply toward the lake. I called again, voice cracking. “Alex! Answer me right now!”
Nothing.
I jogged back down toward the car, lungs burning, scanning the treeline. The car door was still locked, no sign he’d returned. I fumbled for my phone—barely a bar of signal. I tried calling anyway, pacing. “Come on, come on…”
Finally, the call connected long enough for me to reach park dispatch. “My son’s missing,” I said, my voice shaking. “We were playing hide-and-seek. He ran up the hill and didn’t come back down.”
Within an hour, two rangers arrived—calm, professional, trying not to show the urgency I could already feel rising like a tide. “How long has he been missing?” one asked.
“Forty minutes,” I said. “He’s wearing a blue coat, cargo pants, red shoes.”
They nodded and started scanning the slope, radios crackling. Soon, more arrived—volunteers, search dogs, flashlights cutting through the trees as the sun bled out behind the mountains.
We followed his tracks, small prints pressed into the volcanic soil, leading upward. Then, abruptly, they stopped where the ground turned rocky. “He went this way,” one ranger said, shining a light ahead. The beam disappeared into the dark.
I called his name again and again until my throat went raw.
Night fell hard. The temperature dropped fast, the forest turning cold and unfamiliar. Helicopters circled overhead, their spotlights sweeping the ridges. I remember sitting on a rock for a moment, breath fogging, whispering to no one: “He wouldn’t go far. He knows better.”
But deep down, I wasn’t sure anymore.
The next morning brought hundreds of searchers—rangers, deputies, volunteers with dogs and heat sensors. “We’ll grid the area,” the lead ranger said, spreading out a map. I stood beside him, nodding numbly. I barely slept. I just wanted to move.
We scoured miles of terrain—up slopes, down gullies, through dense pine and over fields of jagged rock. People called his name from every direction, voices echoing across the park. “Alex! It’s Dad! Come on out!”
Nothing.
A dog picked up a faint scent trail that curved toward the west, near a drainage leading toward the lake—but it vanished where the rocks began. “Could mean he changed direction,” the handler said quietly.
Rain started that afternoon, washing away what few tracks we had left.
My ex-wife arrived later that day. She looked at me like I was someone she didn’t recognize. “How could he just disappear?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We were playing.”
Rumors began swirling among the searchers—a hiker who’d seen a lone man wandering the road earlier, a parked vehicle nobody recognized. Someone mentioned cougar tracks nearby. Each theory hit like a blow to the chest. I imagined him hurt somewhere, or… something worse.
Days passed. Reporters showed up, asking questions I couldn’t answer. “Tell us about your son,” one said, thrusting a microphone forward. I stared past her, toward the ridgeline. “He’s smart,” I said softly. “He loves hiding. Please… if anyone knows anything…”
By the fifth day, snow began to fall—thin flakes drifting down through the trees. “We’ll have to suspend ground search at night,” a ranger told me. “It’s getting dangerous.”
I begged them to keep going. “He’s out there. I can feel it.”
But by the end of the week, the official search wound down. Volunteers went home. The rangers packed up their gear.
I stayed.
For weeks, I walked those same trails alone, calling his name into the wind. I returned year after year, checking the same ridges, the same gullies. Nothing ever turned up—not his jacket, not his shoes, not a scrap of clothing.
Some nights, even now, I dream I hear his voice—faint, from far away. I wake up and listen to the quiet, half expecting to hear him laugh, to see him step out from behind a tree, saying he’d won the game.
But the forest keeps its secrets.
And somewhere in those vast, silent woods above Crater Lake, my son is still hiding—waiting for me to find him.
"Count to Fifty":
Emily, Jack, Lisa, and Tom all lived on the same street. Every afternoon after school, we’d be out there until dark—climbing the old oak, building forts from fallen logs, daring each other to explore the far edge of the woods where the light dimmed early and the air always felt a little colder.
One Saturday, Jack got that mischievous glint in his eyes and said, “Let’s play hide-and-seek out here. The woods are huge—no one’ll get found for hours.” We all laughed, thinking it sounded like an adventure. I offered to be “it” first.
Lisa grinned. “Close your eyes and count to fifty. No peeking.”
I leaned against the rough bark of a big oak, covering my eyes with both hands. “One... two... three...” Their laughter and footsteps crunched over dry leaves, fading into the distance. By the time I reached fifty, everything had gone still except for the rustle of wind through the branches.
“Ready or not, here I come!”
I started slowly, scanning the patches of sunlight breaking through the canopy. The forest smelled of earth and pine sap, and the quiet pressed in thick around me. I checked behind fallen logs and low bushes until I spotted Tom behind a pile of rocks, shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.
“Got you!”
He groaned and joined me, brushing off his jeans. “Let’s find the others. Emily always hides up high—probably in a tree somewhere.”
We searched together, calling out now and then. I caught a flash of Lisa’s pink sweater behind a trunk, and she squealed as we tagged her. “You two are too good,” she said, half annoyed but smiling.
Jack, though, was nowhere. We wandered farther, down where the ground sloped toward a creek, the air damp and cooler. The laughter was gone now. Only the distant trickle of water and the caw of a crow somewhere overhead.
“Jack!” I shouted. My voice echoed faintly through the trees.
That’s when I saw it—a patch of soil darker than the rest, mounded unevenly as if someone had been digging recently. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.
Lisa frowned. “Probably an animal burrow.”
But when we got closer, a sour, heavy smell hit us. Rot, thick and unmistakable. Tom bent down and nudged the dirt with a stick. “This looks weird,” he muttered. As he stirred the soil, something pale broke through—smooth and still.
At first, I thought it was a root. But then I saw the shape. Fingers.
Lisa’s gasp cut through the silence. “Is that... a hand?”
Tom stumbled back, face pale. “We need to go. Now.”
But I couldn’t move. My brain wouldn’t catch up with what my eyes saw—the stiff curve of fingers, the dull, gray skin. The air around us felt heavy, suffocating. I whispered, “Who could that be?”
We’d heard the stories—people gone missing from nearby towns—but they’d always felt distant, like ghost tales told to scare kids. Now it was real.
Lisa grabbed my arm. “Alex, come on.”
Then—crack. A branch snapped somewhere behind us. Loud. Intentional.
Tom froze. “Did you hear that?”
Another snap, closer. Heavy footsteps on dry leaves. Not the quick scurry of an animal, but deliberate—like boots.
“Someone’s coming,” Lisa whispered.
We started backing away from the mound, our hearts pounding in sync. Through the trees, a figure emerged—a man, tall and broad, his face hidden by shadow. He was walking straight toward us.
“Run,” I hissed.
We bolted. Branches whipped our arms and faces, the forest suddenly alive with noise—our panicked breaths, the pounding of feet, the man’s heavy steps chasing after us.
“Hey! Stop!” he shouted, his voice rough, angry, close.
We didn’t dare look back. Tom tripped, yelping as his knee hit a rock, but Lisa and I grabbed him, dragging him up. “Keep going!”
“Stop, kids!” the man yelled again, closer now. My lungs burned, but the sight of sunlight ahead—the edge of the woods—gave me just enough strength to push harder.
We burst out into Emily’s backyard, stumbling into the open. She stood up from where she’d been hiding behind a shed, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“There’s a body!” Tom gasped. “And someone’s chasing us!”
We sprinted the last stretch to my house, slamming the door shut and locking it. My mom turned from the kitchen, dropping a plate when she saw our faces.
“What on earth—?”
We all talked over each other—about the smell, the hand, the man in the woods. Her hands trembled as she grabbed the phone. “Yes, officer, my son and his friends found something—something terrible,” she said.
Sirens came fast. Blue lights flashing against the trees, voices on radios, officers moving carefully down the trail as I led them back. I pointed to the mound of dirt. They dug, slowly, and uncovered what we already feared—a human body, wrapped in sheets, buried shallow.
It was someone missing from a nearby town. And the man who’d chased us—he was caught later that afternoon, hiding not far from where we’d found the grave. He confessed.
The police told us we’d done the right thing. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made me sit up and check the window, half-expecting to see a shadow watching from the tree line.
Sometimes, even years later, I still think about it—that while we played games in the woods, laughing and hiding, he might have been out there too. Watching. Waiting.