"Run. Just Run.":
I woke up in that motel room in Williamstown, Massachusetts, rubbing my eyes as the weak dawn light seeped through the blinds. The clock read just past six. My body ached, but the trail was calling. After cramming gear into my pack and scribbling down the last of last night’s notes, I ate cold leftover noodles straight from the container. Not gourmet, but it would do. I had more than thirty miles to push today—Vermont by nightfall, if luck held.
The mile and a half back to the Appalachian Trail felt endless before coffee, so I stuck out my thumb on the quiet road. Within minutes, a pickup slowed beside me, the driver leaning over to pop the door open.
“Hop in,” he said. “Name’s Andre. Heading to work. You?”
“Back to the AT,” I told him, hefting my pack onto the floorboard. “Trying to make good miles today.”
He smiled, that knowing look locals give to long-distance hikers. “You’ve been at this a while?”
“About three thousand miles so far this year,” I said. His eyebrows rose. We talked about the weather, the views, the rhythm of the trail—just small, human talk that feels grounding after so much solitude. When he dropped me at the trailhead, he gave a little wave. “Stay safe out there.”
The trail met me with a cool breeze and the hush of a river running alongside. Rocks still slick from last night’s rain glistened like wet glass. The so-called rock garden lived up to its name—a jumble of boulders forcing me onto all fours, palms pressed against cold, mossy stone. Each step demanded focus, but once I hit the ridge, the terrain opened up. A single bar of service let me upload a few notes, that tiny digital connection making me feel a little less alone.
A few miles later, I caught up to Sunflower—a day hiker I’d met yesterday. Her car was parked nearby, her pace relaxed.
“How’s the trail treating you?” she asked, falling into step beside me.
“Not bad,” I said. “That rock section was brutal, though. I’m aiming for the Vermont line.”
We talked about our setups—her car camping rhythm versus my constant forward push. “You’re brave doing this solo,” she said.
“It’s freeing,” I admitted, “but it gets lonely sometimes.”
We crossed the state line together, my fourteenth of the year. I took a photo—muddy boots, the green Vermont sign—and felt that flicker of pride. As the grade steepened, I pushed ahead. “See you down the trail!”
More hikers appeared through the day—section trekkers heading south. One, a gray-bearded guy who called himself Gazer, stopped me. “Thru-hiked back in ‘03,” he said. “Think I know your friend TABA. You’re doing great, kid. Keep it up.”
His words stuck with me through the next few miles of mud and stream crossings. My phone buzzed. It was Iceman, a friend from earlier on the trail.
“Hey,” his message read, “no luck finding your pendant yet, but people are still looking—even brought metal detectors.”
The kindness of strangers hits different out here. “Thanks, man,” I replied. “You guys are incredible.”
He texted back: “Road crossing at Route 9—got food for you.”
By the time I reached it, he was there waiting, grinning beside his car.
“Surprise!” he laughed, holding out a plate of hot dogs, salad, and a cold soda.
It felt like a feast. We sat in the grass, swapping trail stories as I inhaled every bite. “You have no idea how much this means,” I said. He waved it off, but the gesture filled my chest with something like warmth after so many miles of solitude.
Around quarter to three, I shouldered my pack again. Ten miles uphill ahead—Vermont’s first big test. The initial miles flew by, adrenaline still buzzing from the food and friendship. I crossed a small bridge near Bennington, feeling strong.
Then I saw the spur trail—a sign for a shelter a short walk off-route. Nature called, so I veered that way.
That’s when I saw him.
A man sat at the picnic table, dressed in bright orange—too clean, too still. When he spotted me, he lifted his arm and waved, motioning sharply. At first I thought it was a hunter signaling.
I took out an earbud. “What?”
“Come here,” he said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
I hesitated. “What do you need?”
“Please,” he said again, tone unwavering. “Come here. Someone’s trying to poison me.”
The words sank like stones. Every instinct in me went rigid. His tone didn’t match the message. No panic, no urgency. Just… control. My gut screamed no.
Without another word, I turned and bolted.
“Stop! Come back!” he shouted, voice cutting through the forest.
Branches whipped against my arms as I tore back toward the main trail. I didn’t look back—just a quick glance over my shoulder, nothing behind me. Heart hammering. Backpack thudding. The quiet woods now alive with imagined footsteps.
I ran until my lungs burned, half a mile maybe, before ducking briefly off-trail, crouched behind a log, trying to still my breathing. Every hiker story I’d ever heard flashed through my mind—people vanishing, shelters gone wrong.
My hands shook as I fumbled my phone from my pocket. I didn’t call the police—not first. Out here, that could mean hours. I called Dad.
“Dad, it’s me,” I panted.
“What’s wrong? You sound off.”
“There was a guy—at the shelter. Waved me over, said someone’s poisoning him. He screamed when I ran. I’m okay, just… freaked out.”
He was instantly alert. “Where exactly? Shelter name? What was he wearing?”
I told him what I could—orange clothes, near Bennington, heading north.
“I’ll call it in,” he said firmly. “You keep moving. Call me if anything changes.”
The adrenaline faded to exhaustion. My legs felt heavy, shaky. When a trail runner appeared behind me, I flinched so hard I nearly tripped.
“Whoa! You good?” he asked, stopping short.
“Sorry,” I said, breath ragged. “Weird guy back at the shelter. Tried to get me to come over—said something crazy. Be careful.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said, eyes wide. “I’ll let others know.”
Calls started rolling in. First Fresh Ground: “Heard you had a scare. You okay?”
“Barely,” I said, trying to laugh it off.
Then the Forest Service officer: “Your dad called. We’re heading there now. Describe him again?”
I did, every detail etched into my mind—the calm voice, the orange jacket, the setting.
“You did right running,” he said. “We’ll check it out. Keep moving north.”
By the time I reached Goddard, snow still clung to the ground in deep drifts. Each step punched through, soaking my legs to the thighs. The post-holing was brutal—slow, cold, and endless. My feet were numb, socks squishing with icy water. Darkness crept in fast.
When I finally reached Kid Gore Shelter, it was empty. Just me, the wind, and the faint creak of trees. I dropped my pack and sat on the wooden platform, shaking—not just from cold, but from everything that had happened.
I ate a handful of trail mix, sipped from my water bottle, and wrote in my journal with stiff fingers. The man’s voice still echoed in my head: Come here. Someone’s trying to poison me.
Later, I heard through updates: they found him. Dead. Maybe poisoned, just like he’d said.
That truth chilled me deeper than anything else could. Out here, between solitude and silence, you learn fast that instinct isn’t paranoia—it’s protection.
And that day, listening to it might’ve saved my life.
"The Edge of Thirst":
I’d always loved pushing my limits. In 1994, at thirty-nine, I signed up for the Marathon des Sables — a six-day, 251-kilometer race across the scorching Sahara Desert in Morocco. It was called the toughest footrace on Earth for a reason. You carried everything on your back — food, gear, and the will to survive.
The morning I left Italy, Cinzia’s eyes said more than words ever could. She held me close, her voice trembling.
“Mauro, promise you’ll be careful,” she whispered. “The desert doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
I smiled, kissed her, and said, “I’ll be fine. This is what I’ve trained for.”
My friend Giovanni was running too, and we laughed about crossing the finish line together. I had no idea how far fate was about to push me.
The first few days felt almost glorious. Eighty of us began as one long, determined line cutting through the dunes, but soon we spread across the vast emptiness. I kept a steady pace, sipping water at checkpoints, rationing dried food, counting every calorie. By day three, I’d covered nearly a hundred kilometers and was in seventh place. Giovanni had fallen behind, but I pressed forward, feeling strong, unstoppable — like I was finally touching the edge of something greater than myself.
Then came day four — the longest stage: over eighty kilometers. I started early, cutting across a series of low dunes to save time. The sky was clear at first, the horizon endless. But by midday, the wind picked up, a whisper that turned into a roar.
Sand began to sting my face, the air thickening until I could barely breathe. I wrapped my scarf around my nose, squinting through the storm. Soon, visibility vanished — not even my outstretched hand existed anymore. I trudged forward blindly, convinced the course markers had to be just ahead.
The sandstorm lasted eight relentless hours. When it finally cleared near dusk, I looked around and felt my stomach drop. There was nothing. No flags. No footprints. No sound but the wind. Just the desert — vast, silent, and merciless.
I climbed a dune, scanning every direction. Nothing. I was lost.
I fought the rising panic. The race rules said to stay put if lost, so I did. I had a liter of water left, a few scraps of food, and my sleeping bag. I found a small bush for shelter and wrapped myself tight as the desert cooled. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the hiss of shifting sand. “They’ll find me soon,” I whispered. “They have helicopters.”
But the night stretched endlessly, and no one came.
By morning, thirst gnawed at me like an animal. I started walking again, praying for a marker, a sign, anything. The sun rose higher, burning my skin raw. My water ran low. I filled an empty bottle with urine, staring at it in disgust, knowing I might have to drink it later. I climbed dune after dune, each one revealing only more sand.
Then — a faint thudding in the sky. A helicopter. My heart leapt. I waved, fired my signal flare — a brilliant streak of red that barely glowed under the brutal daylight. The helicopter passed overhead and kept going. It didn’t see me.
That’s when despair hit. I dropped to my knees, sand slipping through my fingers. “No one knows where I am.”
I waited out the heat, then set my compass west, thinking I might stumble back toward the route. Hours blurred into a haze of pain and heat. By late afternoon, I spotted something — a shape on the horizon. A structure. I forced my legs to move. It turned out to be an ancient marabout, a small Muslim shrine. Abandoned, crumbling, but it had shade. I collapsed inside.
That night, I faced a new reality. My last food gone, my water almost empty, I lit my stove using urine as fuel to cook the final crumbs of rations. The stench was unbearable, but I forced it down. Hunger clawed at me until I noticed bats roosting in the ceiling shadows. I caught a few with my knife, biting into the raw flesh. It was metallic, vile — but it kept me alive.
Days blurred together in that tomb-like place. I planted my small Italian flag on the roof — a signal, or maybe a grave marker. I wrote a final message to Cinzia and our children on the wall with a piece of charcoal:
“I love you. Forgive me for not coming home.”
One afternoon, I heard an engine — a plane. My heart pounded as I ran outside, arranging rocks into an SOS, lighting my backpack straps to make smoke. But then, as if mocking me, another sandstorm rose, erasing everything.
By the fourth day, my body began to shut down. My skin cracked, my urine turned thick and dark. I couldn’t think clearly anymore. I lay on the ground, tears mixing with dust. “It’s better to end it now,” I thought. “At least Cinzia will get the pension.”
I took my knife and cut my wrists. The pain was sharp but strangely distant. I waited for darkness.
But morning came. I was still alive. My blood was too thick to flow. The cuts had clotted. I stared at my wrists and laughed — a dry, broken sound. “If I can’t even die,” I thought, “then I’m meant to live.”
Something changed then. I tore strips from my shirt to bind the wounds, gathered what little strength I had left, and set out again. I walked at dawn and dusk, resting through the burning hours. I drank dew, chewed on roots, and ate insects and small snakes I caught at night. Each day became a battle of minutes — every step forward a victory.
Sometimes mirages taunted me — shimmering oases that vanished when I reached them. My feet were blistered and bleeding. My mind fractured under the silence. I talked to myself constantly.
“One more dune, Mauro. One more. Think of the kids.”
After nearly nine days, I stumbled upon a patch of green — a tiny oasis. A muddy puddle. I dropped to my knees, scooping water in trembling hands. I vomited the first mouthful, my body rejecting the shock of moisture. But I kept trying until it stayed down. I cried from relief.
Then I saw something in the sand — goat droppings. Then footprints. My heart thudded weakly. I followed them until I saw a little girl, no older than eight, herding goats.
“Water…” I croaked. “Help…”
She turned, eyes wide, and screamed, sprinting away. “Wait!” I called, my voice cracking.
Minutes later, she returned with an older woman, her grandmother perhaps. The woman eyed me warily but with pity. She gestured for me to follow. I obeyed, stumbling behind her to a small camp. They gave me goat’s milk, which I drank slowly, and then mint tea. I could barely speak. They tended my wounds and wrapped me in blankets.
When the men returned, they lifted me onto a camel and took me to a military outpost. At first, the soldiers thought I might be a spy. They blindfolded me, interrogated me in French.
“Who are you?” one demanded.
“Mauro Prosperi,” I rasped. “Italian. Lost runner.”
When they confirmed my story, they drove me to a hospital in Tindouf, Algeria. I had crossed nearly three hundred kilometers off course.
The doctors pumped sixteen liters of fluid into me. My liver was failing. I’d lost sixteen kilograms — nearly a quarter of my weight. But I was alive.
When I finally called Cinzia, her voice broke with disbelief. “Mauro? They said you were gone.”
I couldn’t stop crying. “I’m coming home,” I said. “I survived.”
Nine days alone in the desert changed me forever. The Sahara stripped me of everything — pride, strength, fear — until all that was left was the instinct to survive. I walked through hell, but I came back. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still hear the wind of that endless, burning sea of sand — and remember how close I came to becoming one with it.
"Ten More Steps":
I’d hiked those trails more times than I could count—the ones winding through the valleys and forests just minutes from home. That afternoon, I felt the pull again, that restless need to move, to breathe quiet air and feel the ground under my boots. I packed light: some food, a towel, my pepper spray clipped to my belt. The reserve was familiar, a tangle of green hills and a river cutting through the lowlands. No real dangers there—no bears, no cougars—just birds, wind, and silence.
I signed in at the entrance, followed the dirt road, and parked at the trailhead. The descent began steep, zigzagging through tall grass into denser woods where sunlight broke into shards. I walked slow, breathing in the forest’s damp scent, the rustle of leaves echoing like whispers. A side path drew me off the main trail—the one leading to that old wooden lookout on stilts, long abandoned. Its empty windows always unsettled me, staring out like hollow eyes, but curiosity won again. I passed it, crossed to the river, and stripped down to swim in the cold pools.
The water shocked my skin awake. Beneath the surface, it was clear and quiet—just the ripple of my breath. I floated a while, then sat on a smooth rock eating an apple, watching the current slide past. Two people appeared on the far bank and kept going, and when their footsteps faded, I had the place to myself again.
After drying off and dressing, I started back along the river’s flat trail. The forest was still, shadows lengthening. When I turned toward the path up to the ridge, I stopped. Two men stood ahead.
They weren’t hikers—no packs, no proper boots—and they had dogs running loose. Dogs weren’t allowed here. When they saw me, they turned quickly, heading off in the opposite direction. My first thought was poachers. They’d been a problem lately, sneaking in to chase deer or snare whatever they could.
I waited a few minutes to give them distance, then continued. The trail curved through a stand of trees—and there they were again, waiting.
They smiled as I approached, too casual. I forced calm into my voice.
“I hope you’re not poaching,” I said.
One shook his head. “No, we’re looking for our dog. Lost one somewhere.”
I didn’t believe him. Still, I nodded and walked past, planning to reach my car fast and report it at the gate. The trail narrowed, hemmed by brush. I heard footsteps behind me—then the soft panting of a dog. When I glanced back, it was right at my heels, sniffing close.
“Call your dog,” I said over my shoulder. No response.
Then a low voice, closer than I expected: “Give us your bag or you’ll die here.”
My hands went cold. I didn’t turn. I reached for the pepper spray, still clipped at my side. My mind ran fast—don’t run, don’t freeze, think. The crunch of footsteps quickened.
The second man moved up beside me. His tone was almost gentle. “I want sex,” he said. “Please, I want sex.”
“No.” My voice was sharp. “I don’t know you. Leave me alone.”
He reached for me, fingers brushing my arm, then lower. Something inside me snapped tight. “Go,” I said, pointing past them. “Go before I hurt you.”
They grinned. The look in their eyes wasn’t play anymore.
I started walking again, heart hammering, every nerve alive. The next sound was a rush of boots behind me—then impact. A body slammed into my back, arms clamping around my waist. I twisted, refusing to fall, years of boxing reflexes kicking in. I elbowed hard, spun free.
“Give us sex or we’ll kill you!” one shouted.
The first blow came fast, his fist cracking against my cheekbone. White pain burst behind my eye. I hit back, my left hook connecting solidly with his jaw. He stumbled. I yanked out the pepper spray and fired, but the mist drifted wide. The second man knocked it from my hand, and then they both came at me.
It was chaos—shoving, fists, grunts. I aimed for throats, eyes, anything soft. One caught my arm, wrenched me down hard. My face hit dirt, and his boot pressed on my cheek, grinding me into the earth.
“Don’t scream,” he said.
I hadn’t. Not yet. But now I did—loud, raw, tearing my throat. The sound vanished into the valley, swallowed by distance. The other man knelt between my legs, fingers tearing at fabric, his intent unmistakable. Terror hit deep, cold and clear.
Something primal surged up—a refusal, pure and bright. I drew my knee back and kicked him full in the chest. He flew backward, gasping. The boot on my face lifted; I rolled, kicked again, scrambled to my feet.
“Let’s just go,” one hissed. “Forget it.”
They ran, grabbing my backpack, their dogs tearing after them. I dropped to my knees, shaking, dirt caked to my face, blood in my mouth. My eye throbbed, my ribs burned. I crawled into thick brush, curled small, every sound amplified—the snap of a twig, the hiss of wind through reeds. Were they coming back? I didn’t know.
Minutes—or maybe hours—passed in a blur of heartbeat and panic. I couldn’t stay. They’d said they’d kill me, and I believed them.
I forced myself up, found a slope tangled with thorns and vines, and began to climb. My hands bled where I gripped rock and root, but I didn’t stop. Inside, two voices warred—the small one whispering, I’m tired, I can’t, and the other, calm and motherly: You can. Keep going. Ten more steps.
I counted those steps like prayers. At the top, I stumbled onto a clearing—fresh timber shelters, a water tap gleaming in the sun. I hid first, listening. Nothing. Then I drank, slow gulps, the water tasting like salvation.
I wanted to collapse, but I knew better. The sun was sinking. I followed the faint trail upward through dry grass until it broke onto a dirt road. My body screamed now, every bruise awake. My keys were gone with my bag, but I walked anyway—down the road’s center, gripping a pointed stick like a spear.
An engine approached from behind. I turned, waving. A car slowed—a couple inside. The woman rolled down the window, eyes widening at the sight of me.
“Please,” I said. “I’ve been attacked.”
She gasped. “Did they—did they rape you?”
“No.” My voice cracked. “But they tried.”
They helped me in, drove me home to my mother’s house. I had a spare key there; later, they retrieved my car. At the hospital, doctors traced the marks—boot tread on my cheek, finger-shaped bruises along my arms. Police took my statement, my description. I remembered every detail of their faces, those grins turning predatory.
For days, I barely slept. Showers came in threes, sometimes fours. Crowds made my chest tighten. But I forced myself back to the reserve—this time with friends. We climbed the cliffs above the same valley, and for a few moments, I felt the fear loosen its hold.
They’d taken something from me that day—peace, safety—but not everything. I fought. I walked away.
Now, years later, the memory still flickers: the dog’s breath on my legs, the dirt in my teeth, the sound of their laughter. The sharp stone in my palm as I climbed. The shock of cold water on my tongue.
It’s frightening, how fast peace turns to terror—how one bend in the trail can change a life. But when I think back, I don’t remember the fear most. I remember the climb. The voice that said: Keep going.
And I did.
They ran.
I walked home.
"The Follower":
I’d been looking forward to that solo camping trip for weeks. Work had been draining, the kind that leaves you staring at walls, feeling the need to disappear for a while. So I decided to unplug completely—head deep into the Washington backcountry, to one of those forgotten forest pockets where no one ever goes.
I packed light but smart: tent, food, a map, compass, and a small knife clipped to my belt. Drove out before sunrise, the road twisting through miles of pine and fog until it narrowed into an old, half-overgrown logging track. I parked by a pull-off, stepped out into silence so pure it almost rang in my ears, and started hiking.
By midafternoon, I’d gone about ten miles in. The trail faded into mossy forest and damp soil, the kind that smells ancient. I found a flat clearing near a small stream, tucked between tall firs—a perfect camp spot. The air was cool, clean, still. I built a small fire, cooked some beans, watched the flames crackle low as the forest dimmed into darkness.
When I finally zipped into my tent, the quiet was absolute—no cars, no planes, just the faint trickle of water nearby. I drifted off fast.
Sometime after midnight, I woke to a sound. Rustling. Soft but deliberate, close. At first, I thought it was a raccoon or deer nosing around. I listened—steady steps, slow, crunching leaves just beyond the tent.
I unzipped the flap an inch, flicked on my flashlight.
There—sitting where my fire had been—was a man.
He was crouched low, poking at the ashes with a stick, his face faintly lit by the beam. Jeans, dark hoodie, no pack, no camping gear. Just… sitting there. His head turned toward the light, eyes catching the reflection, wide for a heartbeat—and then he bolted. Shot up and vanished into the trees, crashing through the dark.
“Hey!” I shouted, voice cracking. “What are you doing?”
Nothing. Only the sound of branches settling.
I sat frozen, flashlight darting over shadows, the silence pressing in again. Eventually, I convinced myself it was nothing—maybe some drifter, lost or high, wandered by mistake. Still, I barely slept the rest of the night.
In the morning, I checked around. No clear footprints—the ground was too dry. I broke camp quickly and hiked deeper into the wilderness, maybe five miles farther, off any marked trail. Found another spot by a ridge, with a sweeping view of endless forest. It felt better there—open, bright, far from wherever that man had come from.
The day passed quietly. I explored, picked some berries, read by the stream. The forest felt peaceful again, almost kind. I started to believe I’d overreacted.
That night, I built another small fire and sat until the last glow faded. The stars came out sharp through the branches. Around midnight, I heard it again—soft movement in the dark. But this time, it wasn’t random. It circled. Twigs snapped, a branch creaked, deliberate steps shifting around my camp.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
For a moment, silence. Then, a man’s voice from the dark—steady, low, and too calm.
“You know the way to Eagle Pass?”
I froze. “What?”
“Eagle Pass,” he said again. “You know how to get there?”
“I don’t,” I said carefully. “You lost?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “You been out here long?”
My throat tightened. “Couple days. You need help?”
“No,” he said. “Light bothers my eyes.”
My flashlight scanned the trees. Nothing but trunks and shadows.
“You seen any old cabins out this way?” he asked next. “Ones with red doors?”
I didn’t answer at first. The question was too strange, too specific. “No cabins around here,” I said finally. “Why?”
He didn’t reply. Just shifted, closer now.
Then, again: “What about the river fork with the big boulders? You know how to get there from here?”
Each question came slow, measured, like he was testing me. My skin crawled.
“You alone out here?” he asked.
I hesitated. “Yeah,” I said, instantly regretting it. “But friends know where I am.”
A soft chuckle floated from the dark. “Good to have friends.”
That broke something in me. I raised the flashlight and swept it hard across the trees—and there he was. Twenty feet away, half hidden behind a trunk. Same jeans. Same hoodie. The same man from the first night.
My stomach dropped. How the hell had he found me? I’d hiked random directions, no trail, no markers. There was no way.
He flinched as the beam hit his face, then darted off again, vanishing into the black.
I shouted, “Stay away from me!” My voice echoed uselessly. I tore down my tent in minutes, hands shaking, ready to leave—but it was pitch dark. No moon, no clear path. I sat up all night beside the dying fire, knife in my hand, listening.
Nothing came. But I didn’t sleep at all.
At dawn, I packed up and started back toward my car—moving fast, doubling back, stopping to watch the treeline every few minutes. The woods no longer felt vast and peaceful. They felt claustrophobic, every rustle turning my heart over.
Eight miles in, I stopped to rest, then set up a bare camp in a thicket—no fire this time. I lay there in the dark, waiting, listening.
Around two in the morning, I heard footsteps again. Slow, steady. Circling my tent.
I whispered, “I know you’re there. Leave me alone.”
Silence—then movement, deliberate, around and around. My pulse pounded so loud I could barely hear. He was playing with me.
I gripped the knife tighter, barely breathing, until the sound finally drifted away.
The next day was worse. Every step, I imagined him behind me. My legs burned, lungs ached, but I didn’t stop. “Just get to the car,” I kept muttering. “Get to the car.”
That night, I tried to rest once more, too exhausted to go on. But this time, it wasn’t footsteps. It was a sound in the distance—an owl call. Only wrong. Too drawn out, too human. Then a whistle, echoing faintly from another direction. Then again, closer.
He was mimicking birds now. Signaling.
“What do you want?” I yelled. My voice cracked in the dark.
No answer—just that same warped call, softer, almost playful.
Before dawn, I was already hiking. My legs felt rubbery, but I didn’t stop. When I finally broke through the trees and saw the glint of metal—the roof of my car down the logging road—I almost cried.
I ran the last half mile, stumbling, heart hammering. When I reached it, I threw my gear in, slammed the doors, locked them all. Then I drove—fast, not looking back, dust rising behind me like smoke.
In the rearview mirror, the forest slid away. I half expected to see him step out from the trees as I left, watching me go.
I didn’t stop until I reached a town an hour later. Checked into a motel, locked the door, and finally let myself breathe.
I never went back to those woods.
Told a friend later that I’d had a weird encounter—left out the rest. What could I even say? That some man hunted me through the forest for three nights, asking about places that don’t exist? There’s no proof, no harm done.
But I know what I heard. I know what I saw. And I know, if I’d stayed just one more night out there, I wouldn’t have made it out at all.