"THE HILLSIDE STALKER":
Living on our farm in the Adelaide Hills felt like the right choice for our family. The land stretched out wide, with fields for our animals and enough space to breathe easy. My dad handled most of the work, fixing fences and tending to the crops. My mom kept the house running, and I helped out after school. Our place was next to another property, owned by a guy who kept to himself at first. His name was Darren, and he had his own patch of land with some livestock. For a while, everything was fine. We'd wave if we saw him on the road, and that was it.
Things started to change when water from our side began flowing onto his yard during heavy rains. It wasn't much, but he didn't like it. One day, he came over to talk to my dad about it. "Your stormwater is ruining my grass," he said, standing at our gate with his arms crossed. My dad nodded and said, "I'll look into it. Maybe we can adjust the fence to help." Darren just stared for a moment, then turned and walked back to his place without another word. That was the first sign something was off.
After that, we noticed him more. He'd stand at the edge of his property, watching our house for long periods. I saw him once from my window, just staring toward our kitchen where my mom was cooking. It made me uncomfortable, but I thought maybe he was lonely. Then the cameras appeared. He put up security cameras on poles, pointed right at our land. "What's he think we're doing?" my dad asked one evening at dinner. "Stealing his air?" We tried to ignore it, but it felt like eyes on us all the time.
The fence became the big problem. It was old chicken wire between our properties, sagging in places. My dad wanted to replace it together, split the cost. He went over to Darren's to discuss it. I watched from afar as they talked. My dad was calm, gesturing to the fence, but Darren shook his head a lot. When my dad came back, he looked frustrated. "He says the fence is fine and doesn't want to pay for anything. Even accused me of letting our animals cross over." That wasn't true. Our animals stayed on our side.
From then on, Darren got weirder. He put up "no trespassing" signs facing our way, big red ones nailed to posts. One night, I heard noises outside my window – rustling in the bushes. I peeked out and saw a shadow moving along the fence line. It looked like a person crouching low, checking something. I told my parents the next morning, and my dad went out to look. There were footprints in the dirt, leading from Darren's side to ours. "He must be sneaking around," my dad said. "Why would he do that?"
We started locking our gates at night, something we never did before. My mom said, "I don't feel safe with him watching us like this." Dad agreed and called the local police to ask what we could do. They said without proof of a crime, it was just a neighbor spat. "Try talking it out," the officer suggested. But talking didn't help. The next time my dad approached Darren about the fence, it turned bad. Darren yelled, "Stay off my land! Your water is destroying everything!" My dad tried to calm him, but Darren shoved him. Punches flew, and my dad came home with a bruised jaw. "He's lost it," dad said. We stayed away after that.
The stalking got worse. I'd catch glimpses of Darren in the bushes near our property, binoculars in hand, observing our daily routines. One afternoon, while I was feeding the chickens, I felt someone staring. I turned and saw him through the trees, his face blank, just watching. I ran inside and locked the door. That night, we heard banging on the fence, like someone hitting it with a stick. Dad grabbed a flashlight and went out. "Who's there?" he called. No answer, but the banging stopped. The next day, parts of the fence were bent, as if someone tried to push through.
Darren started leaving notes. One was stuck to our mailbox: "Fix your water or else." No signature, but we knew it was him. My mom wanted to move, but dad said, "This is our home. We can't let him run us off." I couldn't sleep well anymore. Every creak in the house made me think he was trying to get in. One evening, as the sun went down, I saw him standing at the fence, holding something long and shiny. It looked like a tool, or maybe a weapon. He didn't move, just held it and stared at our house.
Things built up over months. The police came a few times after we reported the notes and footprints, but Darren denied everything. "They're the ones harassing me," he told them. The officers warned both sides to stay apart. But Darren didn't listen. He drove his truck slowly past our place multiple times a day, slowing down to look in our windows. Once, he stopped and yelled out, "You'll regret this!" before speeding off.
The worst night came in September. Dad had been out with his friend, having a few drinks at the local pub. They came back late, laughing as they pulled into the driveway. I was in bed but heard the car. Then voices – dad's friend saying, "Hey, what's that?" I looked out my window and saw dad walking toward the bushes. "Get off my land!" dad shouted. There was movement, and then a struggle. I heard grunts and a yell. My mom woke up and ran to the door. "Kevin? What's happening?"
I followed her outside. Dad was on the ground, blood on his shirt. His friend was yelling, "Call an ambulance!" Darren stood there, knife in hand, breathing heavy. "He charged at me," Darren said, his voice flat. "I had to." But dad wasn't moving. The friend grabbed a stick and kept Darren back until help came. Police arrived, and Darren told them three drunk men attacked him, but it was just dad and his friend. They arrested Darren.
Dad didn't make it. The knife went right through his heart. We learned later Darren had hidden in the bushes, waiting with the knife and an air rifle. He dragged dad's body after, trying to make it look like something else. In court, he said it was self-defense, but the jury didn't believe him. He got life in prison, with at least 19 years before parole.
Our farm doesn't feel the same. We see the fence every day, a reminder of how a small problem turned into something deadly. That neighbor took my dad from us, all because he couldn't let go of his anger. I still check the bushes at night, wondering if anyone else is watching.
"UP BLUE MOUNTAIN":
Our little spot in Wilseyville felt like the edge of the world, with dirt roads winding through thick pines and not much else besides a few scattered houses. I fixed fences and cut wood for folks around here, living in a small place down the hill from that old cabin the Balazs family owned. When the new guy showed up in early '83, he introduced himself as Alan, said he came to fix up the place for his in-laws. He drove an old truck loaded with tools and supplies, and he waved friendly enough when he passed my gate.
I bumped into him first at the general store in West Point, picking up nails and wire. "Hey, neighbor," I called, since I recognized his truck outside. He turned, tall with a neat beard, and shook my hand firm. "Name's Alan Drey. You live close by?"
"Yep, Jim here. Down the road a bit. Need a hand unloading anything?" I offered, figuring new folks always appreciated help in these parts.
He smiled quick. "Appreciate it, but I got it. Building a workshop out back. Keeps me busy." His eyes darted away, like he had more to say but held back. I nodded and went on my way, but I noticed he bought a lot of chain and locks, more than a man needs for a simple shed.
Over the next months, Alan kept to himself mostly, but he stopped by once to borrow my shovel. "Digging a trench for water lines," he explained, standing on my porch with a coffee I poured him. "This place needs work. Remote like this, a man has to be prepared for anything."
I handed over the shovel. "Sure, take it. Just bring it back clean." We talked a little about the area, how quiet it stayed, no police for miles. He asked about folks who came through—hikers, hunters. "Anyone ever get lost out here?" His question hung odd, but I shrugged. "Sometimes, but they find their way."
A week later, he returned the shovel spotless, and handed me a six-pack as thanks. "Good neighbor," he said. "Appreciate the trust." Something about his grin made me uneasy, but I pushed it aside. People out here had their reasons for privacy.
Then his buddy showed up that summer of '84. Short guy, quiet, named Charlie. Alan introduced him when I drove up to check on a fence line near their property. "This is my partner, Charlie Ng. Helps with the heavy lifting." Charlie nodded, barely spoke, just stared with dark eyes. They worked on that structure next to the cabin—a low building with no windows, like a root cellar but bigger. Hammering echoed down the hill at odd hours.
Visitors started coming after that. First, a young couple with a baby pulled in one afternoon. I saw their van from my yard, heard laughter as Alan greeted them. "Come on in, got the video gear all set," he called. They vanished inside, and the van sat there overnight. Next morning, it was gone, and no sign of them. I asked Alan about it later when he came by for gas cans. "Friends from the city," he said casual. "Helped with some filming. Headed back home." But his voice tightened, like he rehearsed the words.
More cars appeared over time. A guy on a motorcycle roared up one evening, talked with Charlie outside. "Got the job for you," Charlie said loud enough for me to hear from the trees where I walked my dog. The rider went in, bike stayed. Days passed, no one left. I spotted Alan riding that same bike into town later. "Where's the owner?" I asked when we crossed paths at the store.
Alan paused, then laughed soft. "Traded it fair. Guy needed cash, headed south." Charlie stood behind him, watching me close. I let it go, but sleep came harder after that.
Whispers spread among the few locals. Old man Harris down the road mentioned a family who stopped at his place asking for directions to Alan's. "Said they answered an ad for baby clothes," Harris told me over fence mending. "Never saw them come back down." I nodded, but inside questions built. Why so many folks up there, none leaving?
One night in late '84, cries echoed faint through the woods. High-pitched, like a woman scared. I sat up in bed, listened hard. It stopped quick, replaced by silence. Next day, I hiked up casual, pretending to look for a stray cow. Alan met me at the gate, rifle casual over his arm. "Jim, what brings you?"
"Heard noises last night. Everything okay?" I kept my tone light.
He stared long, then smiled. "Just the wind, or maybe animals. Charlie and I handle things fine." Behind him, smoke rose from a pit out back, smell like burning cloth. I backed off, but my hands shook driving home.
More disappearances piled up. A man from San Francisco, Paul, came looking for his car—he'd sold it to someone matching Alan's description. I directed him up the hill. He never came back down. Weeks later, Alan drove that same Honda around. "Good deal," he said when I asked. "Owner moved on."
By spring '85, two more groups vanished. A young woman, Kathy, showed up alone, said Alan offered her a place to stay. "He's nice, right?" she asked me at the store. I wanted to warn her, but what could I say without proof? She drove up, and her car sat empty days later. Then a family—man, woman, little boy—pulled in for what Alan called "help with moving." Laughter at first, then nothing. Their truck stayed parked.
I called the sheriff anonymous from a payphone in town. "Check the cabin up Blue Mountain Road. Folks go in, don't come out." The deputy promised to look, but days passed with no visit. Remote like this, calls got lost easy.
Suspense grew thick. Every engine rumble made me peek out windows. Alan stopped by less, but when he did, his eyes held something dark. "You hear anything lately, Jim?" he asked once, leaning on my fence. Charlie stood back, sharpening a knife slow.
"Just the usual," I lied. "Quiet as ever."
He nodded. "Good. Quiet keeps us safe." The way he said it sent ice through me.
Then in June, word came fast. Police raided after catching Charlie stealing in the city. Alan killed himself in jail with poison. They dug up the property—bones everywhere, videos of horrors, journals detailing plans. Women tied, begged, while Alan and Charlie laughed. One tape showed Charlie cutting clothes off a scared girl: "Cry all you want, won't help. We're cold-hearted." Another had Alan warning a bound woman: "Cooperate or we end you quick."
Bodies identified slow: brothers, friends, whole families. The dungeon held chains, tools for pain. Neighbors like me pieced it together—visitors we saw were victims, lured with lies, never left alive.
Sheriff questioned everyone. "You notice anything?" he asked me.
"Too much, too late," I admitted. Told him about the cries, the cars, the smokes.
They caught Charlie in Canada, tried him years later. Convicted for eleven killings, maybe more. Bones still turn up sometimes.
I sold my place after, moved closer to town. But nights, I lock doors extra, listen for cries in the wind. That cabin taught me: even quiet neighbors hide monsters. One wrong visit, and you're gone forever.
"FRESH START":
I had just settled into our new home out in the country with my wife, Emily. The place sat on a big piece of land, far from the busy city we left behind. We wanted peace and space to start our family. Our house had solar panels and a well for water, so we could live without needing much from the outside world. Next door, lived a couple named John and Anna. Their cabin was even more cut off—no wires for power, just a generator that hummed sometimes. John built it himself, he told us once. He and Anna kept to themselves mostly, but we waved when we saw them.
At first, everything felt right. Emily and I spent days fixing up the garden and painting rooms. One evening, as we sat on the porch eating dinner, we heard raised voices from their direction. It carried over the field between our places. "You stay put!" John yelled. Then Anna's voice, softer, pleading something we couldn't make out. Emily looked at me. "Should we check?" she asked. I shook my head. "It's their business. Couples argue." The shouting stopped after a bit, and we went inside.
A few nights passed quietly. Then it happened again, louder this time. I was in bed reading when the sounds started. John barking orders, Anna crying out. Emily sat up. "That doesn't sound normal," she said. I listened closer. It went on for maybe ten minutes before it cut off. The next morning, I saw John outside chopping wood. He looked calm, swinging the axe steady. Anna's car was in their driveway, an old blue sedan. I thought about saying hello, but he didn't look up.
Days turned into a week. We didn't hear much more, but Emily noticed something odd. "I haven't seen Anna outside at all," she said one afternoon while we walked our dog along the fence line. Usually, Anna hung laundry or tended to their chickens. Now, nothing. Her car stayed parked in the same spot, tires looking flat from sitting. I shrugged it off. "Maybe she's sick or visiting family." But it stuck in my mind.
That weekend, Emily baked some muffins to be friendly. "Let's take them over," she suggested. "See if everything's okay." I agreed, though I felt a little uneasy. We walked across the field, the grass high around our legs. John answered the door after two knocks. He wore a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and smiled wide. "Hey, neighbors! What brings you here?" Emily held out the basket. "We made these. Thought you and Anna might like them." John's smile stayed, but his eyes shifted. "That's kind. Anna's not feeling well right now, but she'll appreciate it." I glanced past him into the dim cabin. No sign of her. "Hope she gets better soon," I said. He nodded. "She will. Thanks again." He closed the door quick.
Back home, Emily frowned. "Did you smell that? Like something stale inside." I had noticed it too, a musty odor. We tried to forget it, but that night the arguing started up worse than before. John's voice boomed: "You think you can just leave? I decide that!" Then a thud, like something heavy falling. Anna screamed, sharp and full of pain. Emily grabbed my arm. "We have to do something." I picked up the phone, but out here, signal was spotty. It took three tries to get through to the police. "There's yelling and a scream from next door," I told the dispatcher. "It sounds bad." They said they'd send someone.
We waited in the dark, peering out our window. No lights on at their place. An hour later, two police cars pulled up their dirt drive, lights flashing blue and red across the trees. Emily and I watched from afar. Officers knocked, John opened the door. They talked for a while, then went inside. After twenty minutes, they came out with John in handcuffs. He glared toward our house as they put him in the car. An ambulance arrived next. Paramedics wheeled out a stretcher with Anna on it, covered in blankets, her face pale and bruised. She looked right at us, or maybe just in our direction, before they loaded her in.
The police came to our door later. "You the ones who called?" an officer asked. I nodded. He explained: Anna had been locked in a back room for over a week. John kept her there after an argument, wouldn't let her out. He hit her, controlled her food. When the cops showed up, he panicked and hurt her more to keep her quiet. "She's in bad shape, but alive because of your call," the officer said. Emily covered her mouth. "Why would he do that?" The officer sighed. "Control, mostly. He's got a record for stuff like this from years ago." As they left, I asked if John would come back. "He's in custody now. But stay alert."
That should have been the end, but it wasn't. Two days later, Anna died in the hospital from her injuries. We heard from the news on the radio—internal bleeding they couldn't stop. Emily cried when we found out. "We should have noticed sooner." I held her, but guilt ate at me too. John's cabin sat empty, dark and silent. We avoided looking that way.
Then, one night about a week after, I woke to a noise outside. A soft scrape, like metal on wood. Emily was asleep beside me. I slipped out of bed, grabbed a flashlight from the drawer. Peering through the curtain, I saw a shadow moving near our shed. My pulse quickened. I opened the door quiet, stepped onto the porch. "Who's there?" I called. The shadow froze, then bolted toward the field. It was a man, tall like John. I shone the light, caught a glimpse of his face—John, out on bail somehow? He vanished into the dark.
I ran back inside, locked the door, woke Emily. "John's out there." Her eyes went wide. "Call the police." I did, hands shaking. They came quick this time. Searched the property, found footprints leading from his cabin to ours. A window on his place was broken open—he'd snuck back. "He's violated bail," the officer said. "We'll pick him up." But John wasn't at his cabin. They put out a warrant.
The next few nights, we barely slept. Every creak made us jump. Emily wanted to leave right away. "This place isn't safe." I agreed, but we had to pack. On the third night, I heard it again—scraping, closer now, at our back door. I grabbed the baseball bat we kept by the bed. Emily whispered, "Don't go out." But I had to check. Creeping to the kitchen, I flipped on the light. The doorknob rattled. "I know you called them," a voice muttered from outside. John's voice. "You ruined everything." The knob turned slow. I'd locked it, but it shook hard.
Emily screamed from the bedroom. "He's at the window!" I ran to her. John pressed his face against the glass, eyes wild. "You took her from me!" he yelled. I swung the bat at the window to scare him, but he ducked. Glass cracked. I yelled back, "Get away! Police are coming!" Emily was already on the phone. John pounded the frame once more, then ran off.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Police caught him hiding in his cabin's crawl space, knife in hand. He'd planned to break in, blame us for Anna's death. "Revenge," the officer told us later. John went to prison for murder and stalking.
We sold the house fast, moved back closer to town. Now, when I think about it, I wonder how long Anna suffered next door before we heard. Living isolated like that, you miss the signs until it's almost too late. But we got out alive. Not everyone does.
"THE LAST CAMPFIRE":
My grandma lived in a little house near the creek in Copper, Oregon, back in those days when folks didn't lock their doors much. She was close to my aunt Belinda and uncle Richard, who had the kids, David and baby Melissa. They all came out that Labor Day weekend in 1974 for camping, like they did sometimes. The spot was just a short walk from grandma's place, along Carberry Creek, with tall trees all around and the water running soft. Richard drove his old Ford truck, loaded with tents and food, and their dog Droopy tagging along.
That Saturday, they set up camp easy enough. Richard and David, the boy who was five, went fishing in the morning, laughing about who would catch the biggest one. Belinda stayed with the baby, humming songs while she unpacked. Grandma stopped by in the afternoon, bringing fresh bread she baked. "You all staying for dinner tomorrow?" she asked Belinda, who smiled big and said, "Sure will, Mom. Richard's grilling fish if we get lucky."
Richard nodded from where he sat cleaning his hook. "We'll be there. Kids are excited." David ran up, holding a stick like a sword. "Look, Grandma! I'm a knight!" She ruffled his hair and left them to their fun.
Next day, Sunday, grandma expected them around evening. She cooked extra, stew with potatoes. But as the light faded, no one showed. She walked over to the camp, calling out, "Belinda? Richard?" The truck sat right there on the road, doors unlocked. On the picnic table, keys lay next to Belinda's purse, open with her things inside. A carton of milk sat half full, like someone just poured a glass. The dishpan on the ground had cold water in it, and the camp stove was set up but not lit. Richard's watch, the nice one he saved for, lay in the dirt with his wallet—money still in it—and an open pack of cigarettes.
Grandma's voice shook as she called again. "David? Melissa?" No answer. The tent stood empty, clothes folded inside except for swimsuits gone. Droopy wasn't there either. She hurried back home and phoned the sheriff. "Something's wrong," she told him. "The family's gone, but all their stuff is here."
Police came quick, with lights flashing in the dark. Lieutenant Kezar looked around, shining his flashlight. "No blood, no struggle," he said to the trooper. "But this feels off." They asked grandma questions. "Did they say anything about leaving?" She shook her head. "No, sir. They were coming to my house."
That night, grandma couldn't sleep. She kept thinking about the milk on the table, turning sour. Next morning, Droopy showed up at the general store down the road, scratching at the door, skinny and whining. The store owner fed him and called the police. "Dog's here, but no family."
The search started big. Volunteers from town, scouts, even the National Guard with helicopters. Grandma joined when she could, walking the trails, yelling names until her throat hurt. "Belinda! Richard!" Folks whispered about strangers in the woods. One family from Los Angeles, camping nearby, told police they saw a pickup truck with two men and a woman acting funny that afternoon. "They stared at us like they wanted us gone," the dad said. "We packed up and left early."
Days turned to weeks. Police interviewed everyone around. There was this man, Dwain Little, who lived in Ruch, not far. He was out on parole after doing time for a bad crime years back—hurt a girl real young. Folks knew his family; they had a place nearby. Grandma remembered Belinda mentioning him once. "That Little boy from down the way waved at us last time we camped," she'd said casual like. But now, it made grandma uneasy.
One evening during the search, a neighbor stopped by grandma's. "Saw Dwain's truck near the creek that weekend," he muttered. "Had a .22 rifle in the back, I think." Grandma asked, "You tell the police?" He nodded. "They talked to him. Said he was hunting with his folks."
The woods felt different after that. Searchers found nothing—no clothes, no tracks. Infrared from planes showed no dug-up spots. Grandma put up posters in town, offering reward money. "Please help find my family," it read. She wrote a letter to the newspaper: "Hunters, check for fresh earth turned over." Over two hundred people signed a paper asking for FBI help, but it got turned down. "No proof they crossed state lines," the letter back said.
Months dragged. Fall came, leaves falling thick. Grandma visited the empty campsite often, sitting on the table, touching the spot where the milk had been. "Where are you?" she whispered. Police linked it maybe to missing women up north, but that led nowhere.
Then, in April 1975, two men looking for gold hiked up a steep hill near the creek, about seven miles from camp. They spotted something odd—a body tied to a tree, rotted bad. It was Richard, hands bound behind. Nearby, in a small cave, they found Belinda and the kids. David and Melissa curled up, Belinda over them like protecting. Dental checks proved it. Doctors said gunshots from a .22 killed Belinda and David. Melissa's head was smashed hard. Richard's death unsure, but likely there too.
Grandma broke when police told her. "How could someone do that?" she cried. The cave was tiny, hidden. Someone local must've known it. A man from Grants Pass said he'd checked that same cave back in September—no bodies then. So the killer moved them later? No gun found, no other clues.
Police eyed Dwain hard. His girlfriend said he had a .22 gun around then. Witnesses matched his family's truck to the one at camp. A guestbook at a miner's place had their names signed the day after the family vanished. And a prisoner later said Dwain bragged about it in jail. "Told me he did the Cowdens," the man claimed.
But Dwain and his parents denied it all. "We were just out," they said. No hard proof—no fingerprints, no blood match. Police couldn't charge him. Years later, Dwain hurt another woman bad, went back to prison for life. But for the Cowdens, nothing.
Grandma never got over it. She'd sit by the window, staring at the woods. "That man knew the area," she'd say. "Watched them, waited." The emptiness of the camp, the bodies hidden away—it scared everyone. Folks locked doors now, avoided deep trails. The killer walked free, maybe still out there in those quiet mountains.
I think about it sometimes, how a simple camp trip turned to horror. The family just gone, like snatched away. And the cave, dark and cold, holding secrets. Makes you wonder who's really in the shadows, close by, waiting.
"GOLD FEVER":
I live in a small spot near the edge of the Nevada desert, where houses sit far apart and folks keep to themselves. My place is simple, just a little home with a porch where I sit and watch the land stretch out forever. I work fixing trucks in town, which is about an hour's drive away. Most days are quiet, but that changed when I noticed the man digging holes out by the hot springs.
At first, I thought he was just another drifter passing through. People come to the desert to look for gold or hide from life. I saw him from afar one afternoon while driving back from work. He was bent over with a shovel, making what looked like a deep pit. He had wild hair and wore old clothes that hung loose on him. I didn't think much of it then.
A week later, I met him by accident. I was out walking my dog, Buster, near the springs because Buster likes to sniff around the rocks. The man popped up from his hole like he had been waiting. His eyes were sharp, and he held a knife in one hand, the kind for skinning animals. His other hand was missing fingers, just stumps.
"Hello there," I said, trying to sound friendly. "You new around here?"
He stared at me for a long moment. "This is my land," he said in a low voice. "I'm the general. Army sent me."
I nodded slowly. "Okay, well, I'm just walking my dog. Name's Tom."
He didn't give his name. Instead, he pointed the knife toward the horizon. "Strangers bring trouble. You stay away from my springs."
Buster growled a bit, but I pulled him back and walked away. That night, I told my wife, Lisa, about it over dinner. She was making stew, and the smell filled our kitchen.
"Who do you think he is?" she asked, stirring the pot.
"Some loner," I replied. "Probably harmless, but he gave me an odd feeling."
Lisa frowned. "Maybe we should tell the sheriff. People like that can be unpredictable."
I shook my head. "No need yet. Desert's full of odd folks."
But things started getting strange after that. One morning, I found tracks around our shed. Big boot prints, like someone had poked around. Nothing was missing, but it made me uneasy. I put a new lock on the door.
Then, a couple from out of state showed up in town. Their names were Rick and Julia. They were friendly, always smiling. I met them at the gas station where I fill up my truck. Rick had a map in his hand, folded carefully.
"We're looking for old mining spots," he said. "Heard there's treasure out here from way back."
Julia nodded. "My husband's family has stories about gold lost in the desert. We're camping near the springs to search."
I thought about the man in the hole. "Be careful out there. There's a guy living rough by those springs. Keeps to himself."
Rick laughed. "We'll be fine. We have our dog with us, a little poodle named Spot."
They drove off in their truck, loaded with gear. I watched them go, hoping they'd stay clear of the hermit.
That evening, Lisa and I heard distant sounds. Pops, like firecrackers, but sharper. I stepped outside, but everything looked normal. "Probably hunters," I said to Lisa when I came back in.
She looked worried. "Or something else."
The next day, I drove out to check on my fence line near the springs. That's when I saw the hermit's place up close. He had built a whole underground room, with dirt walls and a roof made from scraps. Plants grew around it, like he was farming in the middle of nowhere. He wasn't there, but I saw cans from the dump scattered about, and bones from animals he must have eaten.
As I turned to leave, he appeared from behind a rock. His face was dirty, and he carried a rifle now.
"You spying on me?" he asked, his voice angry.
"No, just fixing my fence," I said, raising my hands. "Didn't mean to bother you."
He stepped closer. "Everyone wants my secrets. The army knows. I'm protecting this land."
"What secrets?" I asked, trying to keep him talking.
"The gold. The map. It's mine now." His eyes darted around.
I backed away slowly. "Okay, I believe you. I'll go."
He watched me until I got in my truck and drove off. My hands shook on the wheel. That night, I couldn't sleep. Lisa held me close. "We need to do something," she whispered.
"I know," I said. "Tomorrow, I'll talk to the sheriff."
But before I could, more trouble came. Two days later, a pair of rock collectors from town found bodies near the springs. I heard about it on the radio while eating breakfast. Three people dead, shot. The couple, Rick and Julia, and an old man named Paul who lived in a cabin not far away. Paul was a quiet guy, soaked in the hot springs for his sore joints. Their dog was gone too.
Lisa gasped when she heard. "That's them. The ones you met."
I felt sick. The sheriff came to our house that afternoon. He was a big man with a mustache, named Deputy Harris.
"Did you see anything?" he asked, notebook in hand.
I told him about the hermit, the knife, the rifle, the talk of gold and maps.
Harris nodded. "We've heard stories about that guy. Calls himself Wolf or something. Lives in a hole. We'll check it out."
They found him trying to leave on a funny three-wheeled bike he built himself. He didn't fight much when they caught him. In his underground home, they discovered all sorts of things: old food from dumps, knives, and guns. No treasure map, but folks said the couple had one. Maybe he took it, thinking it was real.
At the trial, I had to go and tell what I saw. The hermit sat there, looking wild, saying he was a general and the land was his to protect. Doctors said he had a sick mind, seeing things that weren't there. But the jury decided he knew what he was doing. He got life in prison, no chance to get out.
Even now, years later, I think about those nights. The way he popped up from nowhere, his eyes full of secrets. Lisa and I still live here, but I check the locks every evening. The desert holds onto its darkness, and sometimes I wonder if there are more like him out there, digging holes, waiting.