"THE LAST BEACON":
I picked up my backpack quickly, heading out to the truck when the call came in. We're way up in the mountains, out in the middle of nowhere, where the skiing trails turn into wild trails only experts are willing to attempt. My job is to make sure everybody remains safe, examine the area for potential hazards such as unstable snow, and provide assistance if anything goes wrong. On this particular morning, the call was for a group of five friends who had decided to go out skiing in the backcountry, but now found themselves lost after a large amount of snow swept down, burying the area underneath. My partner, Tom, was driving the snowmobile, while I rode back observing the white landscape through binoculars. "Hope we find them quick," said my partner over the rumble of the machines, "since it's a tricky place out there."
We arrived at the location in one hour, and there was a valley in the middle, full of high mountains. There was a mess of broken trees and ice pieces because of the avalanche. We used beacons, which emit beeps to locate buried survivors. Mine was beeping immediately, and I said, "Over here!" Tom came over, and I said to him, "Over here!" We took our shovels and probes, long sticks for digging and searching for the buried ones. We got our first victim, a guy named Alex. Alex was half buried and was waving with an arm, as if waving for help. We quickly dug him out, and when Alex took a breath of fresh air, he coughed and said, "My friends. They are down there. The snow came suddenly. We were skiing, having fun," and then 'boom.' "Where are the others?" Tom asked Alex as he took water from his own backpack. Alex pointed to the location of the buried ones with a shaky hand and said, "Spread out. Matt was hit hard," and then he continued, "And Lisa. she screamed."
We kept on looking for the other survivors. The signals took us to another place. After digging what seemed to be forever, we found Lisa. She was alive, though her leg was positioned strangely, indicating that she had broken her leg. She flinched when we worked her into a position on the flat surface. "Thanks," she said weakly. "I thought that was it for me." Tom radioed for a helicopter. The signal was weak out there. "Base, this is Tom. We have two survivors, three still unaccounted for. Send help quickly." As we continued to search, I spotted unusual marks on the surface of the snow. Not from the avalanche itself, but as if someone had walked circles around the affected area. Big boots, deeper than the ones we wore. "Tom, take a look at this," I said. "Looks like someone else was out there," said Tom. "But nobody else was reported to have been in the area."
We found the third person, Matt, deeper down. He was not breathing, and his face was blue due to the cold. We did some chest pushes and mouth-breathing for him, but he did not come back to life. "He's gone," Tom observed, covering him with a blanket from our rescue kit. I got up, my hands shaking, but Tom knew we had to keep going. We followed the beacons to another location and found another friend, this time buried faced down in the avalanche debris. He was alive but barely. "Help," he muttered. "There's someone. watching us." "What do you mean?" I asked, assisting him to his feet. "Before the snow hit," he continued, his eyes wide open, "we saw someone. Alone. He was following us up the ridge. He had no skis; he was walking." "What do we do?" Tom and I looked at each other; we didn’t know what to say. "Could be nothing," Tom observed. "Panic sets in, and people see things." We heard something; however, it sounded like someone walking through fresh snow, not far from us. We looked around, but we saw nothing but trees and snow. "Hello?" I tried to say, but no one replied.
We rushed to the final beacon. When digging, we found our fifth friend, but something was off. His face had a deep slash, but it was not from snow or rocks. It looked as if it had come from some kind of tool, perhaps an ice ax. There was blood in the snow around our friend. He was dead. "Tom, this does not look right," I said softly. "Avalanches do not cause slash wounds." Tom nodded, his hand reaching to the radio. "Base, we need the police as well. Looks like murder." The footsteps resumed, but this time they were louder, closer. They were coming from out from behind the fallen tree. I clutched my shovel tightly. "Who is it?" Tom yelled. A figure appeared from the trees. He was tall, dressed in old winter clothes, but his face was hidden from view by his hood. He carried an ice ax that glittered in the light; it had traces of blood on it, the color of the fruit. "You found your friends," the figure said flatly. "Good work." "Who are you?" I asked, taking a step back. The figure smiled, but the smile was not friendly. "I'm a hiker. I saw the avalanche and came to assist." But Alex, from his position beside me, noticed. "That is the one. The one who was following us!" The figure lunged at Tom, wielding his ax. Tom sidestepped, but his feet went sliding on the ice. I swung my shovel at the figure, striking his arm. He dropped the ax and went into the woods. We made no effort to stop him because we had just injured people to save our lives.
“Base, emergency!” Tom yelled out into the radio. “We have an intruder. We need everyone!” We waited with the survivors, scanning the trees. We would jump at any sound of snapping branches. The helicopter arrived at last when it was dark, its light slicing through the darkness. The police arrived after that to look for the man. They discovered that the man was a prisoner on the run, locked up in a jail far away. This prisoner chose the mountains as a refuge, seeking out solitary groups to terrorize. He stalked the skiers, caused the avalanche by yelling or kicking the snow, and finished off the ones he could reach. I feel this experience whenever I patrol the backcountry with other skiers. Now, I double-check any footprints. And I don't ski alone.
"CRY FOR HELP":
The job involved working as a ski patrol in a large ski resort in the mountains. It was the type of place where people went to have a good time, though the back areas were wild and in the middle of nowhere. One winter season, a message came through about a young man named Tom who had gone missing. He had been at a party with his friends during the night, they said, and then went for a walk back home. This walk was only a small distance away, but he never came back to his home. The next day, I went out early in the morning to ski the edges to see if there were any signs of the missing man. My radio buzzed one morning. "Patrol to David," it said. David was me. "Go to the valley trail; this is where Tom was supposed to have been last," it said. "On my way," I replied.
The trail was a bit narrow, and the trees were close on both sides. I scanned the trail for anything unusual. After a while, I noticed a hat half-buried in the snow. The hat looked like what Tom's friends said Tom wore: blue and white stripes. I picked up the hat, and I noticed that it had something on it, something dark. I hoped it was mud, not blood. I called it in. "Found a hat. Might be his." "Good," the base said. "Keep looking." Just then, my friend Paul came over to help me search. He was older, knew the mountain well. "This doesn't feel right," Paul said, looking around. "There are no footprints. He just, well, flew away."
We looked some deeper. And sure enough, back in an area where the trees got thick, we saw twigs that had been snapped off, as if somebody had pushed through in haste. Then, we saw a glove lying on the ground. Again, similar to the hat, this was Tom's brand. Paul picked up the glove. "Hey, look at this," he said. "Tear marks. Sort of like claws or fingers grabbed onto this." We continued down the path. We saw that it led to a drop-off, a small cliff that had rocks down below. We found nothing, but down below, we saw what looked like a piece of clothing snagged on a branch, red-colored, maybe from a jacket. "David to base," I radioed.
That afternoon, more patrollers showed up. Lisa was one, a muscular woman who didn't frighten easily. "I heard of a similar incident last year," she said when we rested. "Some skier went missing. They found his equipment scattered, but never him." Paul nodded. "Yeah. And before that, another. People say there's a man living out here. Lives in caves. Takes what he needs when people get lost." I snorted. "That's just one of those stories to make kids stay on the trails." But as the sun lowered, the woods seemed to grow different. Shadows twisted wrong. I heard a snap, like a footfall. "Paul? Lisa?" They were right there. "What?" Paul asked. "Nothing," I said. But up ahead I saw a shape between the trees. Tall, thin. It didn't move, then it was gone.
We called it a day. When arriving back at the patrol shack, we made ourselves a bowl of soup and talked. "What if Tom is still out there?" Lisa asked. "Hurt, waiting?" Paul replied, shaking his head. "Or what if something got him?" I didn’t fall asleep that night, and I went outside for some fresh air. It was a quiet night, and I could see the snow covered ground, illuminated by the moon’s rays. Then, I could have sworn I heard a voice on the wind. "Help. please." The voice sounded as if it came from somewhere deep within the valley. I donned my gear and radio and switched it on. "This is David. I hear something. Going to check." "Wait for backup," base replied. I didn’t wait, I continued on. The snow crunched beneath my skis, and I could hear "help" again, this time sounding a lot closer. I climbed up on top of a cliff, and I could have sworn that’s where I heard it coming from. I shone my light and could see nothing, but I could hear scratching, almost like nails on rock.
I climbed down careful. Down there was just a little opening in the rock, a cave mouth. The voice was inside. "Who's there?" I called. Nothing. I edged in. My light show¬ed me walls with marks—scratches, deep. Farther in, some old cans and wadded-up blanket. Some-body lived here. Suddenly there was a noise behind me. I turned. A man was standing at the entrance, blocking the way. Tall, clothes all dirty, face hidden in the shadow. He held a stick, sharpened at the end. "Who are you?" I asked, voice steady as I could. He cocked his head. "The mountain's mine. You take of it, I take back." "Tom? That you?" Another laugh, low. "Tom's safe. With the others." I edged backward. "Let me out." He took another step closer. "You heard the call. Now you stay." I grabbed for my radio. "Base! Emergency! Cave at cliff base!" Silence. He lunged. I dodged, hit the wall. Pain shot through my arm. I pushed him aside, ran out into the snow.
He followed, quick. I skied fast, and he was on foot, but still able to keep up. I tried to swipe away branches from my face, looked and saw that he was still coming, eyes crazy-looking in the moonlight. "Halt!" I called out, and he never did stop coming after me. I hit a part that was steep and jumped, landing awkwardly and rolling, but then I stopped, and he wasn't anywhere around me. No noise, just nothing. Finally, I was found by my backup team. Paul and Lisa. "What happened?" Paul asked me, and I say, "A man. and he was inside a cave. Told me Tom was inside somewhere too." We looked inside the cave, and it was empty. No sign of a blanket, no sign of any cans, but on the wall, someone had scratched out: "Next time, you." The search for Tom ended, never finding him, never finding his body, and the police say I just imagined the whole thing, stressed out from doing my job so long, but I know I did not imagine him, and I know for a fact that he is alive and well, living out there, lurking around, luring people deep into those wilderness areas with his calling, and taking them deep into those woods. and where I'm concerned, if I were to hear someone call out for help, you can bet I wouldn't go alone while on patrol through this place, because this place hides a lot, and this place hides things that want to.
"NINE DAYS":
That day on patrol changed everything for me. I had been working as a ski patroller for five years in the vast, isolated stretches of Mammoth Mountain in California. The remote areas are beautiful but unforgiving—deep powder hides dangers like hidden cliffs, frozen streams, and spots where cell signals die. My routine involved sweeping closed trails at the end of shifts, checking for stragglers, and handling minor rescues. But this incident pushed me into something darker, a real-life nightmare that still makes me check over my shoulder.
It began mid-morning when the report came over the radio. A group of friends had alerted the base about their missing buddy, a former hockey pro named Jack. He was known for risky runs, pushing into backcountry zones despite warnings. "Big guy, early 40s, red jacket," the dispatcher described. "Headed east toward the ridge. Friends say he seemed off, maybe partied too hard last night."
I acknowledged and geared up. The eastern ridge was my sector that day, a trek that took me far from the main lifts into quieter, wooded terrain. I skied out, the snow crisp under my blades. His tracks were easy to spot at first—straight and confident, veering off the groomed path into forbidden powder fields. But as I followed, they grew erratic: sharp turns, stops where it looked like he fell, then dragged himself up.
About two miles in, I found his discarded glove, fingers frozen stiff. "Odd," I thought. No one leaves gear unless they're panicking. Farther on, a smear of blood on a tree trunk caught my eye—fresh enough to be his. I stopped, breath visible in the air. "Base, this is Patrol 7. Possible injury on the trail. Blood spotted. Tracks descending to the lower valley."
"Roger. Proceed with caution. Support team mobilizing, ETA one hour."
One hour felt like forever out there. The valley was a bowl of isolation, ringed by dense forest and a half-frozen river. I pressed on, calling out periodically: "Hello? Ski patrol! Anyone need help?"
A faint groan answered from ahead. Adrenaline surged. I crested a small rise and saw the riverbank below, ice cracked in places like someone had broken through. Tracks led to a shallow cave-like overhang, where a figure huddled. It was him—Jack, snowboard dangling from one ankle, body shivering uncontrollably.
"Sir! I'm here to assist," I called, approaching slow. Up close, he looked wrecked: face gaunt, eyes bloodshot, clothes ripped and wet. And his feet... one boot missing, the exposed foot swollen, blackened, with raw wounds that looked chewed. My mind reeled. Self-inflicted? Animals?
He lifted his head, staring through me. "You... you're real?" His voice was hoarse, trembling.
"Yes, real. Name's not important—I'm patrol. What happened? You hurt bad?"
"Jack," he croaked. "I... I got lost. Snow everywhere. Fell in the water. Cold bit deep. Had to... had to fix it." He glanced at his foot, then away quick.
"Fix it how?" I asked, dropping my pack to grab first aid. Frostbite that severe meant gangrene, but the bites puzzled me.
"The pain," he whispered. "Wouldn't stop. Voices said cut it out. Eat the bad parts. Survive." His words hit like ice water. Drugs? Hallucinations? I'd heard tales of meth users going feral in the wild.
"Stay still. I'll bandage this." I moved closer, but he flinched.
"Don't touch! You one of them?" His hand shot out, clamping my wrist hard.
"Them who?" I kept my tone even, but fear crept in. He was massive, even weakened.
"The hunters. In my mind. They chase me." He released me, rocking. "Sorry. Help... please."
I wrapped the foot fast, radioing updates. Signal was spotty, but base confirmed backup en route. "Can you move, Jack? We need to get uphill."
He nodded, but as I helped him stand, he staggered. "Legs weak. You carry?"
"We'll go slow." I supported his weight, and we shuffled up the bank. Every step, he mumbled nonsense: "Shadows moving. See 'em? Behind the trees."
I scanned the woods—empty. But the quiet felt wrong, too still. "Just focus on walking."
Halfway up, he stopped dead. "Hear that? Footsteps." I listened—nothing. Then, a twig snapped nearby. My skin prickled.
"Probably wildlife," I said, but doubt gnawed. We pushed on.
At the top, he collapsed again. "Can't. Too much." His eyes glazed. I built a windbreak from snow, covered him, and waited. Minutes ticked by agonizingly slow.
He stirred sudden, grabbing my ankle. "They're close now. You'll see." His grin was unhinged, teeth stained red.
"Let go, Jack." I pulled free, standing. Another crack in the woods—louder. "Who's there?" I shone my light, beam shaking. Eyes gleamed back—low, animal? Or human?
Jack cackled. "Told you. Come for us both."
Panic rose. I gripped my ski pole like a weapon. Footsteps crunched closer, deliberate. "Show yourself!"
Then, voices: "Patrol? That you?"
Two fellow patrollers broke through the trees, pulling a rescue sled. "We tracked your signal. What's the situation?"
I exhaled sharp. "He's delirious, attacked me earlier. Severe exposure, self-mutilation. Load him quick."
As they secured him, Jack whispered to me, "This ain't over. The hunters... they remember faces."
We evacuated, medics taking over at base. Later, reports confirmed: Jack was high on methamphetamine, wandered nine miles over days, fell in the river, suffered extreme frostbite. In his madness, he amputated and consumed parts of his own feet to "stop the poison." He survived amputation but was never the same.
For me, the terror lingers—the isolation, his paranoia turning violent, those unseen sounds in the woods. I question every shadow on patrol now, wondering if the real monsters are the ones we become when lost.
"AFTER HOURS":
I was a ski patroller at a small resort nestled away in the New York Mountains. Our little resort was nowhere near the bustling crowds—only serene trails and a main chalet for repair and holding up the day's earnings. Most nights, a few of the crew remained behind after closing to groom the trails and prepare for the dawn of a new day. My shift at Ski Park this February night was no different. I was out on the resort by snowmobile, ensuring no skier was marooned on the trails. At midnight, my radio crackled to life. It was my friend Tom, a fellow groomer. "Hey, Alex. The snow groomer is malfunctioning again. Broke down near the upper trail. Steve and I are going to head back to the chalet to fetch some equipment. You anywhere near?" I responded, "Wrapping up the perimeter check around here. I'm near the area. I'll be there in ten to lend a hand." Tom chuckled slightly on the other end of the line. "Thanks. This thing is extremely heavy. We don't want to push it around all night."
After completing my round, I turned to head back to the chalet. It was a wooden structure, windows glowing softly from the lights within. Approaching the chalet, something seemed a little out of place. The door was ajar. This was unusual, as we always made sure to lock up good when we closed up to go home. I shut the engine off as I sat in the driver's seat. There were no sounds emanating from within the chalet. Just the quiet sounds of the empty hills surrounded the ski chalet. I opened the door a little wider. "Tom? Steve? You guys around?" No response. The main room was in order, except for the fact that the tables were pushed to the side and the coffee pot was still warm. Then I saw the footprints on the floor. Mud prints, not from our ski boots. And they were leading to the manager's office in the back of the chalet. My heart was beating a little faster now. I quickly opened the flashlight attached to the hook next to the door. Following the prints to the office, the door was ajar. No lock. I kicked the door open a little wider. Inside the office, the floorboards were torn up, pieces of wood and concrete scattered everywhere. The safe was gone. We had a big safe that held the earnings from the weekend. Just a hole where the safe once was bolted to the floor. Just as I was talking to myself, seemingly out loud, though, a low voice came from the storage room area of the chalet. "Hurry up, we gotta move this thing before anyone shows."
Another voice, a little rougher. "Shut it. I think I hear a snowmobile outside." I backed away, my boots scraping the floor. They must be hearing it too, because soon the feet came my way, fast and heavy. I ducked into the coat closet across the hall and closed the door just a little bit, enough for a peephole. Two men came into my line of sight, both wearing dark jackets and ski masks low over their eyes. One carried a crowbar, and the other lugged a saw with a coat of dust on it, as if they'd just been through concrete. The safe was nowhere to be seen, and it looked as if they had hauled it out the back door, or perhaps into a truck around there somewhere. "Where was the noise?" the crowbar wielder asked the other one. "Don't know," the other guy said. "Probably nothing. But let's go check the front door anyway. Can't let loose ends hang around either." My hand was shaking as I clutched the flashlight tightly in my hand. Loose ends? That doesn't sound good. Not good at all. I wondered where Tom and Steve were, and whether these two had run across them. The two men divided their attention and began searching different parts of the warehouse. One went to the front door, and the other went back into the office again. I held my breath as I watched the man in front of me. He paused, and then moved in my direction. His hand was reaching for the doorknob when suddenly a radio voice came from my pocket. Tom's voice, and it was a little frantic. "Alex, are you coming? We need those tools right now!"
The man froze, and I spun the flashlight around and swung it hard at him. It hit him on the arm. He grunted and released the saw. He grabbed at my jacket nonetheless. "Got one!" he shouted. I managed to break free and ran to the back door. I shoved through a pile of shelves as they came down behind me. "Help! Intruders!" I called into my radio. I hoped someone would pick up and come to my assistance. The second man also ran into the room. "Stop him!" I ran out the back door and into the night. My snowmobile was parked outside, but I knew theirs would be too—a truck with chains on the tires, the safe safely ensconced in the bed of the truck under a tarp. I jumped onto my own and turned the motor over. I sped off into the night and through the trails. I did not dare to look back. I worried about where Tom and Steve might be. I turned off onto a trail I was very familiar with—a small trail that wound up a steep mountain. Their truck would not be able to follow me this way. I sped up as I turned around a curve and saw lights flashing back there. A missile of some sort shot past my ear. A bullet? This man was armed. I weaved through the trees as I sped through the woods. "Base, this is Alex. Emergency at the chalet. Burglars, armed. Tom and Steve may be injured." I do not know if anyone could hear me. Maybe the signal was too weak here in the woods.
After what seemed like an eternity, I lost their lights. I tucked the snowmobile behind a thicket, hunkering low and listening hard. Footfalls crunched nearby. One of them had followed on foot.
"Come out, patroller. We only want the cash. We don't need no trouble."
His voice sounded calm, too calm. I did not move and hardly breathed. He passed close, his boots spraying snow. Then he stopped, almost on cue, as if his instincts told him of my presence. I clutched a branch, ready to fight if needed.
But a far-off siren wailed-back in town, perhaps. He cursed and turned, running back toward the truck.
I waited until the sounds faded, then crept back toward the chalet on foot, sticking to the shadows. When I got there, police lights flashed in the lot. Officers were inside, and an ambulance too.
An officer spotted me. "You Alex? We got your radio call. You alright?
I panted, nodding. "The burglars-they took the safe. Chased me. But Tom and Steve. did you find them?"
His expression darkened. "Son, I am so sorry. We found your friends in the office. They didn't make it. Shot during the break-in."
The world spun. Tom and Steve, gone just like that. Good guys, always joking around about the next big snowfall. The police told us it looked like the groomers walked in on the thieves and got caught off guard. The janitor was late getting to work and called them, likely saving my life and scaring the thieves away. They did find the safe, busted into a river nearby, dumped and empty. Eighteen thousand dollars, gone. The police thought they were locals, knew the place, where the safe was, our shifts, everything. But no one was ever arrested. Leads fell through, and I quit the patrols altogether, unable to go back to the quiet nights, wondering who might be hiding. Years later, I drive by places and wonder about what might have been. One minute, you're fixing a machine, the next minute. you don't want to know. That's all I can say. Be careful out there, everyone. Places like that, you don't want to make assumptions. They're not always as peaceful as they look.