Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2024: Day 8 - Off the Beaten Path & What Really Happened to My Father

Episode Date: April 29, 2024

Off the Beaten Path***Written by: Michael Whitehouse***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Off_the_Beaten_Path***What Really Happened to My Father***Written by: XL MOTOCAMPER and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/What_Really_Happened_to_My_Father***These stories are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License***Support the show and get limited edition merch at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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And since April ends in the middle of the week, I've decided to extend our Mardi Gras promotion until next Saturday, May 4th. But that's it. So if you haven't signed up and you've been thinking about it, now is the time. All new paid patrons at any level will receive their own limited edition creepy logo Marty Grapeeds. Just don't forget to add your address when you sign up so we can get those shipped out to you. To see how you can support the show and be rewarded for it, please check out the donation to us at patreon.com slash creepypot. The final day of Creepaway Camp 24 starts... Now is a podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world.

Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. John. John, you're still here? Jimmy? Is that you? Yeah.

I thought you were dead. Why would you think I was dead? I gave you near a state the last time I saw you. I don't think it was that much of a stretch. Oh, don't remind me. Of what? All those hand grenades you drank? Or the shark attacks?

Or the... Oh. Please stop. Sorry. What are you doing out here? Where's the bus? I took a taxi. Taxis still exist?

For now. Well, won't this be a nice little moment in time for someone in the future? Why'd you take a taxi? The others were packing up the bus. They should be along later. I think everyone wanted to see how camp turned out, but... But... There...

There's nothing here. Yeah, I know. Okay. At this point, I think it would just be easier to go find a shack in the woods and bring it here to at least call it a camp. First of all, no, you don't take stuff out of the woods, ever. Are you kidding me? Look around. There's no one here to even notice. I don't care. It doesn't matter if it's the most popular park in the world or off the beaten path. Sitting at his table, illuminated by a small bedside lamp, Robert Francis poured over a map, jotting down notes each time his eyes fell onto some point of interest.

It was 10.30 p.m., and he reckoned that, if he set off at 6 in the morning, he'd be able to avoid the early traffic and catch the first train to Milgave before cycling from there, making it to Aberrofoil Village in a couple of hours. His itinerary was set and he was filled with excitement at the thought of finally being on holiday. He'd been 11 months since he'd so much just taken one day off from his work. So the thought of spending eight whole days cycling through the Scottish wilderness with only his backpack and tent for company was frankly exhilarating. He owned a number of bikes, but for this adventure, he'd take his favorite and most trusted one. with a custom paint job reading Rob in large white letters across a frame of black.

This was a bike which had never failed him. No bumps, no bruises, not so much as a punctured tire. In the morning, Robert woke filled with excitement, starting the day with purpose. Negotiating the little traffic there was in the city with glee. Before he knew it, he was hopping off the train in Mungavi and making his way along, quiet country roads towards Aberfoyle. Scottish summers are notoriously unpredictable, and it was cold than Robert had expected. But he didn't care.

As he made his way through the open countryside, passing the occasional car or rural household, a smile crept across his face. Cycling was his passion, and Robert was in his element. A couple of hours passed as the sparse yet rolling. green hills soon gave way to a more imposing and altogether impressive setting. Slight hills soon became domineering mountains. Pockets of woodlands soon gave way to thick and visually impenetrable forests, and wide-open roads soon made way for their narrower and less-trodden counterparts. It was not long before the welcome site of the village of

Aberfoil came into view, flanked on one side by a steep incline dotted with picturesque cottages. And on the other, a wide open plain stretching out towards a mountain range in the distance. A childish excitement grew in the pit of Robert's stomach. Habrefoil was the last evidence of humanity which he wished to see for the next eight days. And on leaving it behind, he would truly be alone, able to relax in the serene beauty of the Scottish countryside. It was now on to Queen Elizabeth Park, when a Scotland's largest nature reserve. and into the true wilderness which it contained. After stretching his legs on the unusually deserted Aberfoyle Main Street,

Robert embarked on the last leg of the journey for the day. Within minutes he was out of that small innocuous town and into the unknown. For the past three months, he'd been in a quandary about where to go on his adventure. But when he passed over an old stone bridge with a babbling stream underneath like a, thousand voices whispering for attention. He found himself face to face with a forest which covered the hills, mountains, and valleys like a blanket, for as far as the eye could see. He knew he had made the right decision.

A dirt rogue cut through the labyrinth of trees and it occurred to Robert that, as he cycled further into the reserve, the sun seemed to diminish with each mile, blocked by the huge pine trees on either side as if lighted itself were an unwelcome visitor. By six o'clock, the sun was dipping towards a line of Craigie Mountains on the horizon, whose time for Robert to find a suitable place to camp for the night. He continued onward, struggling over uneven hills and patches of wet mud, scanning his surroundings for a suitable location to camp in. Finally, he spotted a small clearing in the forest not far from the road. Clambering through some thick underfoot and entangle bushes, Robert managed to haul his

bike through the tree line and then into the clearing. There was a small pocket of grass, and several fallen trees were spread across the area, trees which Robert assumed had created the clearing in the first place. After finding a flat patch of grass, he set his tent up for the night, gathering some dry wood nearby, which he gleefully turned into a campfire with the aid of some lighter fluid and matches. Building fires was one of Robert's favorite parts of camping in remote areas. He often thought that there was something of the arsonist about himself, but that was a fact he only kept for his trips into the wild.

And in any case, he loved nature and was always careful not to harm it. Night fell, and unimpeded by the false light of the wild. man, the stars shone bright and bold. After a few hours of sitting next to the warm glow of the fire, Robert reluctantly turned in for the night, excited by the prospect of another day's adventure in the morning. In the early hours, the fire is still smoldering, and Robert felt refreshed and rested, more so than he had done for many years. Packing up his belongings and making sure the fire was extinguished, he set off.

once again. It had rained slightly during the night, but thankfully the road was relatively dry. After cycling for another hour, Robert noticed a change in the landscape. It had become more unkempt, less constrained. The trees seemed closer together, and any occasional gaps in the forest scenery were filled by clearings and small fields, which had obviously been left unattended for countless years. Robert realized that he had traveled far enough into the forest that he was now out of the reach of even the park rangers who would normally maintain such a place. It seemed as though, beyond this point, the land had been neglected by its carers for some reason. The thought that even those familiar with that wilderness were afraid to tread there, flirted with his attention

momentarily, before being quickly dismissed as a flight to fancy. The sky grew up. grew gray as the day wore on, and it was clear their rain of a substantial volume was well on its way. After pushing his bike up a steep incline, which he felt was too uneven to cycle on, Robert reached its peak, revealing a landscape which opened up, sprawling forward between pockets of woodland, and still stagnant pools of water slumbering in a deep-set valley below, which stretched across the land for miles. It was populated by sparse areas of long, vibrant grass, which in places gave way to the wandering boundary of the forest. With rain imminent, Robert decided that he would set up camp early in a wide circle of grass he could see at the foot of the hill.

Not half an hour later, he was there. The tent was up, and all that was left was to gather some firewood. It was important to get a fire going as quickly as possible. possible as the Scottish midges, a type of fly which feeds on blood, were out in force and the smoke would help disperse them. The only problem was that Robert had picked a camping spot dominated more so by grass, bushes, and shrubs than trees. He would have to venture out across the valley for a little while and gather from one of the wooded areas nearby. A collection of pine and fir trees, which seemed to form an isolated island.

island of woodland, about half a mile across, was close enough to his camp. And after ten or fifteen minutes trudging through the long green grass, occasionally sinking his foot unwittingly into remnants of a marshy bog below, Robert found himself at the edge of the woods. Its boundary was dominated by older trees which had long since withered, covered by thick brown hanging moss, nature's own burial shroud. The broken trunks of once beautiful and majestic pines and sycamores littered the ground, open and rotting from the inside, not unlike a poor, wounded animal. It occurred to Robert that these woods seemed somehow out of place.

The trees did not belong to the landscape as others did. The long grass which characterized the entire, entire area seemed to thin out and change from a healthy natural green color to a morbid yellow-brown. As this thought ruminated, accompanied by an increasing sense of explainable dread, Robert realized that he was looking at a large dead ring of grass which followed the tree line perfectly, encircling that pocket of woodland as if marking the limits of a tomb. On their own, in a forgotten part of the world, many would have been cautious of such a sight,

but Robert quickly shook off his initial sense of vigilance, finding the area to be an intriguing natural occurrence, and with a bold stride, stepped over the woodland threshold into the dim light within. On the forest floor he could see many relics of past trees lying on the ground, but the wood was soaked through as if it had lay for countless years at the bottom of a river, and Robert rationalized that dead wood further into the area would be drier, as a canopy above grew increasingly thicker with each step,

sheltering below from the rain. Scanning the floor, Robert looked up and suddenly realized that he had wandered quite far into the woodland interior. Indeed, while it was daylight outside, the woodland trees were now blotting the sun from the sky, and if he had not known better, he would have sworn it was dusk. At last he found a collection of broken branches and logs which were dry. Robert knew this was as far as he should go as it was becoming increasingly difficult

to navigate through the trees, which seemed to be growing closer together. Their branches often interlinked and touching, as if trying to keep those inside from escaping. What a silly thought, Robert smirked to himself. It had started to rain, and although he could hear the drops of water pelting off the leaves above, his surroundings were perfectly dry. It made sense to make his way back and get a fire started as soon as possible because once everything was wet, it would prove increasingly difficult to do so. He quickly gathered the last of the wood up in his arms.

But just as he turned to leave and follow his own tracks on the pine-covered floor out of those unnerving woods, something caught his eye. Several feet away, obscured by a ring of trees particularly close to one another, appeared to be a strange arrangement of stones on the ground. Robert being Robert, he just had to investigate. After clawing his way through a net of branches, he found, himself staring it will look suspiciously like a grave. Hundreds of uneven gray stones the size of a fist, and some substantially bigger,

had been piled on top of one another about three feet wide, seven feet long, and a couple feet off the ground. It looked as though a mourner had marked the resting place of a body. A shudder crept up Robert's spine as he momentarily experienced a feeling. as of being watched. He soon abandoned this frightened state when he noticed that lying around the stones was a collection of randomly scattered belongings. Several empty beer cans lay strewn on the floor.

A jumper covered in rotting leaves sat on the ground. While a sleeping bag, scraps of newspaper, and even some old food cans betrayed the grave for what it really was. Campsite. Robert breathed a sigh of relief and surmised from his surroundings that a few students had probably come here in the summer, got caught in the rain, moving into the woods to remain dry. The stones were probably just placed there out of boredom, or even as a prank to creep out

any passer-by in the future. University summers really were great, Robert thought, casting a fleeting eye back to memories of summer trips with his friends. One thing about the stone configuration, however, intrigued him. Sticking out between two plain gray rocks on the side of the pile was a stone which appeared to be markedly different from the rest. Triangular in shape. It was wider than a human hand, smooth in places and not dissimilar to black marble,

tapering off to a dull point at one end. Before he really considered it with any degree of scrutiny, Robert dropped at the firewood, bent over, and tugged at the stone. It felt polished and cold in his hands. But it seemed to not wish to leave its home. Wedged as it was so tightly among the other rocks. Growing slightly exasperated, Robert wrapped both his hands around the stone, and finally, with an exerted jutter backwards. It was free. staring at it intently looks suspiciously like an ancient axe head

whether it was or not Robert was not qualified to answer but it certainly looked like a man-made object and he could see the chisel marks along its side perhaps the previous campers found it nearby and then used a rock in their construction without knowing of its significance Robert was excited by the prospect and knew instantly on his return home he would ask his friends of this, who had studied archaeology at university, whether it was what he suspected. After examining the object for some time, Robert was reminded by the sound of rain above

that he really should make his way back to his campsite, pocketing the stone he bent over and picked up the firewood. But as he did so, he heard an end up. noise. It appeared as though one of the stones on the pile had slid off and landed on the ground. A creeping sense of unease slowly started to exert itself upon Robert's nerves. He quickly picked up the firewood, leaving the rest of the stones unmoved, and began to make his way back. With every step, something deep within himself was telling Robert that he was no longer alone, and in fact that he was being followed by someone in the woods. But with every glance backwards, he could see nothing.

A few times he even fancied that he heard the sound of twigs and pines cracking underfoot. But again, no one was there. Breathing a sigh of relief, the tree line came into view, and Robert was filled with delight knowing that in a few moments he would be back out in the open. Just before he reached the periphery of the woods, he heard a crack again. This time, it was definite. It was louder than before, more pronounced, and accompanied by the hairs on the back of his neck rising in unison.

He was convinced that someone was standing just a few feet behind him, staring at him. Not between the fear of knowing and the fear of not knowing Robert finally turned around slowly. Yes, there it was. He saw it. Only for a moment, but he saw it. A shoulder or arm, something disappearing behind a tree nearby. Robert's mouth grew dry, making it difficult to swallow and his heart started to thud deep within his chest. He began to backpedal slowly, hoping that he would not trip on an unseen root or weed on the floor, leaving him vulnerable on the ground.

With each step, the forest grew lighter, and as he neared its edge, the light from outside bathed its interior in a bluish hue. He did not take his eyes off the large sycamore trunk, where that shadowy figure seemed to be hiding. Not for one moment. It was peculiar, but an overpowering sense of safety out in the open dominated his thoughts. Normally a person feels exposed and vulnerable in the open wilderness,

but not Robert, at least not in that situation. As he edged slowly towards a grassy plain outside, the subtle foreboding sound of leaves rustling and swaying, almost in anger progressed into a crescendo of noise. But there was no wind to gust, no breeze to disturb. There was only one conclusion to be reached. Something was moving. And then he was outside.

Out of the woods, away from whoever had been following. No, not following. Stalking him. Robert was not a superstitious man. He could not afford to be. when camping alone in such remote locations, as the mind tends to play tricks, twisting the benign sounds of nature into something much more malevolent. But regardless, he did not wish to stay around long enough to find out who his unwanted

companion in the woods had been, dropping all but the sturdiest piece of wood, which Robert reckoned would be a good makeshift weapon. He ran as fast as he could towards his own camp. All the while, glancing back at that strange island of trees, surrounded by dead grass, but nothing emerged from within it. Arriving at his tent out of breath and agitated, Robert packed up his belongings as quickly as possible, carrying his bike up a hill and back onto the dirt path. Waiting not one moment longer, he cycled hard and fast,

hoping to put as much distance between himself and that place. and its strange resident before finding somewhere safe and more welcoming to camp the road was now nothing but a single track of mud which covered Robert in a shower of dirt every time his bikes sloshed through an uneven depression in the ground the weather was bitter unusually so at that time of year and the rain

accompanied now by a freezing wind battered his face making each foot of progress feel like a hundred. Robert tried to continue onward for as long as he could, hoping to leave the necessity of making camp until the last usable ray of sunlight. But after a couple of hours, the skies opened further, and the rain came down in sheets. He had to find shelter, and quickly. Robert concluded that he'd put at least 15 or so miles of winding difficult track between himself and that bizarre coven of trees.

Regardless of whether it felt enough or not, it was simply impossible to continue due to the elements. On the left-hand side of the path, there was a rather steep drop which led down into a large field, but it would not provide the shelter Robert knew he required. To his right was a humble gradient of grass which rose up into another wood. Following his strange experience from earlier, some hesitancy did present itself to him.

But he again dismissed this as preposterous, and after pulling his bike up through the grass, entered the forest. The torrential rain filtered through the tree canopy, and it took a while before Robert could locate a suitable spot to camp. Finding a large bush under several tightly knit fir trees, he pitched his tent there as the area remained relatively protected from the horrible weather outside in the open.

Using some dried rits, grass, and twigs from the forest floor, he was able to start a small campfire which allowed him to cook some food while raising his spirits. Night began to close in, and as the wind and rain diminished, the sound of sausages sizzling in a frying pan on the fire provided the first sense of well-being and comfort that he had experienced since the morning. Thinking over his experience in the morning,

those woods, Robert began to rationalize the events. He had found various belongings in there, a sleeping bag, clothes, food, and beer cans. It was obvious now that he had just disturbed a fellow camper. Someone who, no doubt, became frightened seeing another human being wandering around their campsite in the middle of nowhere. That must have been it. The man, and he was reasonably sure that it was a man for. from the little he had seen of him, probably hid behind that tree because he was simply scared

or unnerved. Robert relaxed into a sigh of relief, but just as he did so, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, touching its cold black surface. He'd completely forgotten about the unusual stone he had picked up from that collection of oddly arranged rocks. Removing it from his jacket pocket and observing it in the low red light of the campfire. Robert was certain that it had been shaped by human hands. It felt old, ancient, even. But he would wait to contact his archaeologist friend before getting his hopes up too much.

He would have to admit, though, that the idea of finding a relic from the past was something which thrilled him deeply. Since he was a child, he had always been obsessed with hidden or undiscovered history. which perhaps explained his fascination with exploring the Scottish countryside, a land steeped in stories and myths of strange and forgotten people. Above all else, he hoped that it was a Pictish origin,

the mysterious indigenous people who vanished without a trace over a thousand years ago, something which historians still ponder and puzzle over. Of course, in all probability, it was a modern replica. but the romantic side of Robert's personality hoped that it was so much more and enjoyed entertaining that hope. As he stared at the relic, something unusual began to filter into his awareness, something different. Above the crackling sound of the fire, the now subtle wind and the occasional rustle of a woodland

animal nearby, came a noise. It was distant. how far Robert could not tell what had echoed out through the ridges and valleys nearby scattering through the trees in the dark it repeated again and again with only a moment's pause between utterances and it was an utterance of some description

in animal perhaps Robert could not identify it despite his impressive knowledge of the local wildlife The sound possessed strange characteristics of a creature unknown to him. In some ways it was reminiscent of a bird of prey, parts high-pitched and shrieking. But under this lay a painful, wretched noise, more akin to that of a fox crying in the night looking for its young. That was it exactly. It sounded like it was looking for something.

For the next three hours, Robert lay awake, listening. Listening to the screeching noise ebb and flow as whatever was producing it moved closer than further away. As he eventually drifted towards sleep, the thought occurred to him that the movement of the sound was not unlike that of a search party, yelling and shouting, looking for someone lost in the wilderness. Following a distinct search pattern, in the cold light of day, the noise was gone, and while Robert had accepted, that what had scared him yesterday was simply a timid camper cautious of a stranger nearby. He still could not shake a feeling of impending dread deep from the pit of his stomach. The day passed quickly, and while Robert made good progress, he did not do so with the delight

he had previously exhibited. Something toxic lay in his mind, just outside of his awareness, something which suffocated his spirits. That night again he camped in a clearing. And yet again, that same horrible shrieks screamed out across the wilderness looking for something lost, something precious, shrieked with one subtle difference from the night before. It was closer. Sleep did not come easy once more,

and Robert fancied that during the night he had heard footsteps nearby. but attributed these to the simple nocturnal wanderings of a lonely deer or stag. While the following day remained overcast in gray, and the wind and rain were gone, both the distant memory but for the occasional accumulation of water on the dirt track. Robert moved onward, negotiating a network of paths while realizing that he had strayed from his intended route at some juncture. He was confident, however, that he knew where he was,

and that this change would simply be a small detour and nothing more. At times he made great progress when the ground was even enough, stopping occasionally to take in a variety of deep-set valleys and rising peaks. Uncharacteristically, however, he kept his distance as much as he could from the woods and forests, which often accompanied the road. While dismissing it is merely his imagination. At times he felt like there was something. something within them, peering out from the dark, watching.

It was late afternoon, and Robert was beginning to feel tired, most probably due to a restless night combined with the unrelenting pace he had set himself throughout the day. In the back of his mind, he was still somehow running from something. The path he had been on for the past couple of hours have been rather predictable for the most part, but now it curved sharply around a grassy hill to reveal a change in the landscape, which had been previously hidden from view. A long stretch of dirt and uneven track penetrated a thick forest of fir trees. What Robert found interesting about the path was that it was unnaturally straight, and what he found oddly frightening about it was that it was so narrow,

only a couple of feet across. Spreading your arms, you could touch both sides of the forest, This proximity provoked a deep feeling of overexposure and claustrophobia. If he had been a soldier in a war zone, Robert would have highlighted this narrow path as a perfect place for an ambush. Standing with his mountain bike only a few feet from the beginning of both forest and track, he felt uneasy about the current situation. It was clear that the path was the only way forward, and while it appeared as though it exited the forest a few miles of it, onward. There's something inherently dubious about it. What? Robert could not tell, but he did feel that he did not wish to traverse it. Weighing up to pros and cons, he realized about the way he came and the unknown land ahead provoked trepidation in him. For that reason, he dismissed the sense of dread as a

figment of his overactive imagination, and with measured movement, slowly set off down the long, straight track, hoping to quickly pass in and out of the forest without incident. A black cloud hovered above, and as Robert negotiated the overly uneven path as quickly as he could. The feeling of foreboding which he had so nonchalantly dismissed began to ferment in his stomach, rising up through his body, forcing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. He kept his head down for the most part, occasionally glancing ahead at what he assumed was his exit in the distance.

He just wanted to be through and out of that place as quickly as possible. Just over halfway down the path, an unnerving yet unwelcome familiarity overtook him. A sensation which had accompanied him for days, but now seemed to be sharper, grating more profoundly on his nerves, filled Roberts every thought. The feeling of being watched. Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, he tried as best as he could to shake the unmovable sensation that he was not alone. The path stretched out ahead, and as is common among those who attempt to reach a goal or threshold, without thinking, he looked back to measure his own progress.

He had managed to cover a substantial amount of the track's length and was quite confident that in a short time you had escaped that narrow stretch of dirt. But just as he turned to continue to. you onward. Something caught Robert's eye further down the path in front of him. He immediately wished that he had not taken the route he had chosen, that he had turned back and started homeward. It was there. Unmistakable, unwavering, and utterly paralyzing. Some distance away in the direction he was headed stood a figure. Robert could not entirely define or make out. the discrete features of the person because they were standing to the side of the path between

a cluster of trees covered in shadow. But this was certainly not his imagination. Someone was standing there, watching, and while Robert was a distance away, it felt to him as though the figure's presence was almost on top of him. Its stare, accompanied by an uncommonly potent sense of, well, malice. was the best way that Robert could describe it to himself. Then it was gone, disappearing back into the forest. But the feeling of danger, of the necessity to flee, did not diminish or decline, but grew in intensity.

The sound of something moving between the trees rang out across the emptiness, increasing in volume as it neared. Robert panicked, turned, and cycled as quickly. as he could in the direction he had come. So eager was he to escape that narrow passage flanked on all sides by the impenetrable forest that he did not see the deep hole in the ground. The front wheel of his bike crashed into the depression sending Robert flying over the handlebars scraping along the ground. Dazed for a moment, the shambling sound of broken branches and displaced leaves which were

nearly upon him quickly brought Robert's mind into focus. Blood dripped from a wound in his leg, and his arm was badly bruised from the impact. But all he cared about was escaping from that suffocating path, away from whoever seemed to be moving in the woods. Robert's beloved paint job across the etched letters ROB on the bike's frame had been scratched slightly in the crash. But that did not concern him. The two spokes on the bike's front tires were broken, and that most certainly did.

The last thing Robert needed was to be completely stranded there, so he would have to ride carefully and hoped that the wheel would not buckle, lasting long enough to carry him home. Home. That was exactly where he intended to go, as quickly as possible. And as he was now facing in the direction he'd been traveling for days, there was no time like the present. The moving sound in the trees continued, and as Robert carefully, yet at pace, negotiated the broken ground.

He hoped above all else that his trusted mountain bike would get him out of there. Despite his obvious advantage of speed, the sound seemed to be only moments behind, as he came closer to the end of the forest path and out into the open, he heard a noise which chilled him to his very core. From within the forest spewed the same, shrieking, torture, cry from the nights before. echoing out, piercing Robert's ears and scratching through his nerves like a shredder, was it that figure who'd been wandering near Robert's camp at night? Surely no human could make such a sound.

Panicking, he increased his speed, as front tire of the bike wobbled and creaked under the pressure and strain. Finally, he was out of that narrow place, but Robert did not stop, cycling for hours without once looking back. and when sure that his pursuer could not have followed, did he stop the rest? Night was once again drawing in, and now every sound, every smell, every part of what had always made the countryside fascinatingly inviting to him, took on a new, ominous, and menacing form. He decided that tonight he would not set up camp. No fire, no tent.

Robert was sure that the person following him had been able to do this. so because of the noise and light which he had made from night to night. It would not be pleasant. It would be cold, wet, and uncomfortable. But Robert wanted to make sure that he could not be tracked. There were various paths and dirt tracks in the area that he could have taken. But hopefully this man who was stalking him, for whatever reason he was doing it, would not be able to find him. Robert knew, of course, that his tire tracks could easily betray his location if his pursuer was smart enough to follow them.

The bike marks were obvious. For this reason, Robert backed tracks slightly off the path in an attempt to confuse anyone following should the need arise. The worst thing he could do would be to sleep next to where his tracks ended. finding a large bush with space underneath to sleep, which was satisfactorily far enough from where his treadmarks ended. Robert hit himself and his bike for the night, with one question on his mind.

If this stalker was able to keep up with his progress each day, he must have been using a bike or vehicle of some description. But where were the tire tracks? Sleep did not come at all that night. But around three in the morning, that wailing, inhuman noise, dead, moving around the area, searching. But now Robert was beginning to suffer from lack of sleep and rest. But in spite of this, at the first sight of daylight, he quickly uncovered his bike from its

hiding place and started on his way once again. Not one foul noise was heard that day, nor any evidence that the stalker was anywhere nearby. rationality began to overtake Robert's fear as night once again settled in. He covered much ground throughout the day and had managed to take care as best he could of his bike's front wheel, which bar the occasional creak or groan, was performing admirably. Robert concluded after much soul-searching that he had allowed himself to get carried away by the isolation of his surroundings and the admittedly unnerving person he had seen in the forest over the past few days. But surely it was preposterous to believe that he was really being followed.

Perhaps the individual he had seen was not the same from that strange island of trees. It would make more sense that it was, in fact, just another camper. Maybe there were a few of them, and that explained the noises. And as for the unfamiliar animals screech at night, it must have just been a species of bird in the area, which he'd never heard before. That night, Robert would set a campfire. He would cook his food, eat well,

and enjoy the solitary countryside he had intended to for such a long time since planning his holiday. After locating a suitable spot in the forest, this is exactly what he did. He cooked on a roaring campfire and sat for hours gazing at the night's sky through the branches of the trees above. There were no noises, no strange shrieks, no shambling footsteps in the darkness. Nothing, confident that his unwelcome traveling companion had been left far behind. Robert retired to his tent, exhausted, in much need of a well-earned rest.

Two paltry hours of sleep later, however, Robert woke to the sound of something stirring outside of his tent. He had left the campfire burning as he was uncomfortable in spending another night in darkness, and its flames seemed to dance, shifting and changing shape in the night air, casting shadows all around onto the thin canvas of Robert's tent like a naturally occurring cinema screen. casting one shadow in particular. The shadow of someone sitting by the fire. Robert froze. His mouth went dry and his breathing became shallow and anxious.

He could not believe that he'd been so stupid to persuade himself that no one was following him. In lighting another fire, he had led them directly to where he slept, and now they had the upper hand. God knew what they wanted. After a moment of utter terror, Robert realized that he needed to defend himself, sitting up slowly and pulling his sleeping bag off and out from under him as quietly as possible. He scanned the tent, looking for something he could cannibalize as a weapon, but anything of any weight was in his backpack, a metallic torch, the wood he'd taken days earlier, a glass bottle, etc.

And he'd stupidly left that outside of the tent. He cursed himself for being so reckless. He could scarcely believe that he'd left his bag outside when he always kept it inside, away from rain and wild animals. Exhaustion was the only explanation. But that did not help his current circumstances at all. Then he remembered the old axe head, the black rock he had found at the stranger's camp.

Indeed, if it was a hand, end acts as he suspected, Robert reckoned it could still deal a nasty, perhaps even fatal blow. Running his fingers along its once sharp ridges, Robert composed himself, never for a second taking his eyes from the shadow projected by the fire onto the tent wall. The door to the tent was luckily unzipped, but the two flaps from the outer fly sheet were draped over the entrance obscuring his view. With one eye, he peeked through the slip between the two flaps of canvas slowly. It was.

Someone sitting at the campfire. By his build, Robert was certain it was a man. The backlight of the campfire made it difficult to decipher any of his features. But the shoulders were broad, strong, and it was clear that this man had been in the wilderness for some time. It appeared that he was wearing rags of course. cloth which hung loosely around him. His head was covered in long strands of black, wet hair, which had clumped together in places, presumably because it had not been washed for some time. Staring at the back of the man's head, Robert tried as best he could to subdue his fear.

He thought he could conceivably sneak up behind him and knock him out with a blow to the back of the head with a black stone. But that could be murder. And Robert did not. even know if the man was violent. Perhaps he was a nomadic type. Traveler? Yes. Maybe he was best to wait. Maybe he would just wander off into the woods.

Although that seemed unlikely. Just as Robert affirmed to himself that if the man made a move towards a tent, he would rush out into the open and fight him head on. He noticed something. Something was odd about the way the man was sitting. First of all, he was sitting still, so still that you'd be forgiven for mistaking him for a statue. Not the slightest movement was made, nor was there any indication of life at all. No subtle shifting of weight, no rising and falling of breath.

Nothing. Well, this stillness was unnerving. It was Robert's second observation which bothered him the most. The man was sitting forward, facing the fire. But the shape and position of his upper body and head was somehow off. They did not seem to quite add up. His frame seemed unnaturally positioned. A crackle from the fire followed by a wayward flicker of light revealed the truth.

The flames lit up the area momentarily, the light bouncing from tree to tree, even under Robert's tent, and reflected back. onto what surrounded it. Two pinpoints of light momentarily shone in the night through black clumps of matted hair. Yes, the man's legs were facing the fire, but his body and head were horribly contorted, twisted into an inhuman posture. The man's legs were indeed facing the fire, but his head and body were facing Robert. This was no man. at all, how long it had sat there, staring at Robert in that tent waiting he did not know. But a creak of movement from its neck was enough to send Robert out of the tent into the woods, consumed by a terror so profound that it could be likened to madness.

He did not know how long he'd been running, nor if he'd been screaming the whole time. But his feet were cut in several places, and the first rays of sunshine were peeking out through the still thick branches of the forest. In the distance, Robert could see the flame from his campfire still burning bright, and despite his terror at the knowledge of being stalked by something entirely inhuman, he had to get to his bite to stand any chance of escape. For a while, he hid behind trees under bushes. His nerves absolutely shattered, refusing to go near that fire.

His perceptions were broken. But Robert was of strong character, and after a time a modicum of composure returned to him. Step by cautious step, he neared his own camp. There was no sight of whatever had been sitting at that fire staring at him. But now daylight illuminated the entire area, and after much self-bargaining, Robert decided to reclaim his belongings, grab his bike and continue as quickly as he could on his way out of Queen Elizabeth Park. Everything seemed to be accounted for, and Robert even allowed himself a smirk at the thought of that creature, at least not being a thief.

That smile soon vanished at the sight of his bike. Unharmed, yes, but strands of some black putrid liquid covered the seat in front wheel. This was not the time to be concerned with sludge on his bike. It was still working, and that was all that mattered. Had it been a week earlier, Robert would have been angry about the slightest scratch on his beloved mountain bike. But now he just cared about it getting him home, or at least back to Aberfoyle Village, to civilization. After cleaning the liquid off and packing his tent, Robert once more continued onward as fast as he could. Robert reckoned with a hard push

that he could be out of that horrid place in a day and a half as long as he took minimal rests and cycled for the duration of the available light. The weather was not exactly ideal but while rain occasionally came it quickly disappeared leaving long stretches of the journey clear from the wearing effects of the elements. As a day progressed,

so did Robert's unease. He felt, felt depressed on all sides, as if he was running from something terrible, it nearing an undefined danger. A horrible realization bubbled up from his subconscious. What if that thing followed him all the way home? As this thought swirled around in his mind, he passed over the crest of a hill and down again, suddenly realizing what was wrong and why he was feeling so much unease about what lay ahead. A gulf in the land opened up before him. Pockets of stagnant water lay strewn between stretches of marshland and long grass, and

in the center there it lay that horrible island of wretchedness. It was the woods where Robert had first seen his pursuer, and then in a flash it all made perfect sense. Call it superstition, call it blind stupidity, whatever you would call it, Robert knew that he did not wish to see that twisted man again. As a child, he'd been told ghost stories of people disturbing graves and the ghosts of dead rising up to haunt the living, but he never took that much stock in such things. Not until now.

What he did know was that he had inadvertently triggered the whole terrifying ordeal. He had taken something which did not belong to him. After hiding his bike in the long grass, Robert trudged towards that isolated pocket of woodland where what he now knew to be a grave lay, lainess one oddly shaped black stone. He half expected for that thing to be sitting next to its resting place. But while there were a number of strange noises and movements between the trees, there was no sign of Robert's unwelcome guest. He assumed it was still out there looking for him.

Finally he fell in the grave, that elongated pattern of stacked rocks and stones. After locating the gap where he had torn the black stone from, Robert wedged it back in as hard as he could. A noise echoed from the other side of the woods and Robert did not wish to hang around to find out what it was. Running as fast as he could over roots, mud, leaves, and fallen branches, he jumped out of that dark place, into the open outdoor. doors, filled with a sense of accomplishment and utter relief. It was not long before he was back on the dirt path, moving forward on his bike in search of one more place to sleep for the night, then home the next day. A weight had been lifted from Robert's shoulders.

He knew he had unwittingly disturbed something unimaginable, unfathomable. But by returning that which he had taken, he had named him. narrowly escaped what he assumed would have been a terrible fate, death, or perhaps worse. There was no explanation of this feeling of elation and survival. He just knew deep down that he had righted his wrong. That night Robert lay in his tent. It was dark. He had decided against the campfire just to be on the safe side.

He was confident that he would be left alone, however, and took great comfort to knowing that he was safe. safe. While looking forward to the next day and the comfort of home, that was a funny thought. A man who had always adored the countryside, detesting the humdrum of daily city life, looking forward to a couch, a television, a beer, and a warm bed. Next year he would holiday at a sunny resort, lie on a beach for a couple of weeks, one preferably far removed from his homeland. Robert closed his eyes with a smile on his face. The noise which he had suddenly heard outside for so many nights suddenly screeched at a blood

curdling and overpowering volume. Without having to open his eyes, Robert knew. The sound did not come from the woods. It came from inside the tent. Robert Francis was never seen or heard from again. Scotland is old. It has an ancient and hidden history of peoples and places long forgotten, but perhaps some trace remains, isolated and alone in the bitter wilderness. So should you ever wish to wander the hills, forests, or locks of this old country?

Bear one thing in mind. If you find a collection of stones heaped together not unlike a grave, and they are surrounded by trinkets of modernity, A sleeping bag, food cans, or perhaps even an old bike with the name Rob etched into it. Walk on. Do not touch anything, whether it's an unusual black stone or a simple piece of forest wood. Above all else, most certainly never take a souvenir. For those who lie and slumber nearby may just take one from you. You know I wasn't really saying that we should steal things right. At what point are you going to realize that I take everything literally?

The same time you realize the rest of us don't? Good luck with that. Okay, well, can we get going? The bus isn't even here yet. We can't walk. Jimmy, I've been out here for almost a month. We can make it a few more minutes, don't you think? There's stuff out here that I do not want to mess with.

Jimmy, please. I handled a yautja all by myself. You'll be fine. A what now? You casual. Stop being so paranoid. You wouldn't be saying that to me if you knew. If I knew what?

What really happened to my father. No one believed what happened to my father. Even after that famous YouTuber went missing for a week in the same stretch of woods. But Dad was the first to be taken. My father and I had decided to go camping to help celebrate his promotion at work. He was a seasoned camper, but I was relatively new to it all. We spent most of the day riding our dirt bikes through a few of the trails toward the bottom of the mountain. But when the sun started to set, we decided to make up camp for the night.

We set up our tents and I gathered some firewood with Dad. We got a pretty decent-sized fire burning before even. dinner and toasting some marshmallows. The sun was completely gone. I was genuinely afraid of how many stars there were. Being from the city meant I only used to see a few stars in the night sky, but out there, away from civilization. It was as if I could see the entire galaxy. And it was unsettling. Further putting me on edge, the sounds of the various nocturnal insects buzzing and chirping was a lot louder than back home. There weren't any howling wolves, but there was an occasional owl hoot.

The trees even groaned a little, swaying in the gentle breeze that blew between them. Dad decided it would be fun to tell a ghost story, and for one of the stories, he had to act out a scene. He stood beside a tree, but as he acted out the scene, I noticed. something was carved into the park. What do you think that is? I asked Standing, pointing at the symbols. He frowned a little. Disappointed I wasn't very interested in his ghost story.

He turned his attention to where I was pointing and continued to frown. I'm not sure. I kind of noticed it before, but I guess my brain automatically assumed it was just one of those Jack Loves-Jane's messages. Kids like to carve into the trees. He leaned down a little and stood in a way that allowed. out the light from the fire to flicker off the tree. I followed suit. The symbols had been organized into a diamond pattern, carved a few inches deep into the bark. And it looks like a

tool was used to carve this. Dad said running his finger along the inside of one of the larger symbols. It's extremely... Dad jerked his hand back and sucked on the tip of his finger. He chuckled a little. Well, I was going to say smooth, but it cut me, so I guess I'm a little wrong. As Dad spoke, the insects stopped buzzing and chirping. The owl stopped hooting, and the gentle breeze that blew through the trees turned into a strong gust. The wind blew some dust into both of our eyes, and we tried to clear them with the back of our hands. We went back to the fire and sat down, but Dad didn't stop rubbing his eyes.

We didn't speak for a few minutes. But when Dad stopped rubbing and looked at me, I gasped and almost scooted back. I can't see, he said, blinking a few more times. Your eyes. I started pointing at him. I had expected his eyes to be a little red from irritation, but instead, both of his eyes were completely black. At first I thought they were gone.

But as he moved them around trying to look at things, I could tell that they were still there. just completely devoid of color. Dad, I think we need to get to the hospital or something. Your eyes are completely black like they're covered in soot. That would make sense, I guess. Maybe that gust of wind blew something into my eyes. I can't see a thing.

Okay, here, I'll help you. I started standing up and moving towards him. I grabbed his arms and helped him to his feet. My mind raced with possibility. when it came to getting help. Since we rode separate dirt bikes to the campground, there was no way he'd be able to ride without vision. It was possible we could walk the bikes out,

and I could guide him, but that would take forever. Dad, maybe we can walk the bikes out? I can help you so you don't run into anything. Does that? But before I could finish, I glanced at the tree with the symbols and was petrified. There, on the bark, about a foot above the symbols, was a set of eyes glaring at us.

There were no eyelids, just two eyeballs wedged into the bark as if someone had carved out two holes and pushed them in. What? What is it? Dad said, bending down to rub his leg. Why did you stop? but it took me a minute or so to formulate a response I took a few steps back and pulled him with me and the gaze of the eyes followed us on the tree I whispered as if the eyes would hear me and get angry like potato eyes like little white things that sprout on potatoes before I can answer dad winced and dropped to the ground

he started rubbing his leg even more and I lifted up his pant leg. Sure enough. Like his eyes. His leg was pitch black, including the hair that would normally have been brown. I looked at the tree again into my horror. I saw that it now had a leg toward the base of the trunk.

I looked at the eyes again. And though it was hard to confirm due to the low lighting and distance, I swore they were my father's eyes. but instead of being filled with love and compassion like my fathers usually were, these eyes were devoid of emotion, just staring at me, like a spooky wooden doll. Dad started rubbing his other leg and I stood up, stepping back. I felt guilty about it later, but my thoughts shifted towards personal preservation, as if I questioned whether whatever was happening in him was going.

He started rubbing his torso in arms. A few seconds later, the tree took on those body parts as well. No, no, no. I started saying his dad started rubbing at his face and scalp. Then he stopped moving. Becoming a completely black, motionless figure beside the campfire. My heart was racing a mile a minute as I looked at the tree. Embedded in the trunk was the image of my father, complete with his face which was now twisted

into a morbid grin. I shook what used to be my father a few times just in case, never taking my eyes off the tree. When he gave no response, I grabbed the keys to both bikes and hopped on mine. I didn't care about our camping supplies or bothered putting out the fire. Instead I turned the key in the ignition, sighing in relief when it started. Movement on the tree caught my eye, and I watched in terror as the embedded body strained against the bark.

It pulled most of itself out, only connected at its back by a few twigs and bits of bark for a while before breaking free. It never blinked, glaring at me and smirking. When I took a step forward, I twisted back the throttle and sped off. Daring a glance every second or so, but happy I'd taken both keys, so at least it couldn't pursue me on the bike. I almost bifted a few times, but managed to make it back onto the main road, and then back to my house a couple of hours later. It was the middle of the night, but I banged on the door until Mom opened up. She brought me inside and calmed me down.

enough for me to try and formulate what I had just witnessed. I tried explaining exactly what happened, but it was too far-fetched for her to believe. She kept shaking her head and saying I was in shock, asking why I had left my father at the campsite. A firm knock at the front door pulled both of our attentions, and Mom opened it. There, at the threshold,

was the beast from the forest that had assumed my father's identity. It didn't say a word, but mom fell on it, embracing it, as if she hadn't seen her husband in years. It locked eyes with me and my heart nearly beat its way out of my chest. I kept trying to convince my mom that dad was dead, and that the thing that had come home that night was a monster with unknown intentions. But she refused to listen. I even managed to to take the cops up to the can't site in the next morning, but Dad's body was gone. Symbols were still carved into the tree, but now there was an additional symbol above the others. Since the cops found nothing, and Mom refused to believe me, I had no choice but to move out.

Few others have gone missing, and I know they were taken by the same creature. One day I'll figure out. out of way to fight them. Until then, best thing I can do is spread awareness. You couldn't have told me that before we planned all this? You never tell us when you're going to do this sort of thing.

Just assume that I'm always looking for some way to exploit. I mean, utilize our talents in new and exciting ways. Gotta keep the lights on somehow. Oh, thank God. Don't sound too thrilled. You're still a lot.

live. Well, there's 50 bucks I'll never see again. Wow, dude, you really didn't accomplish anything this month, did you? Even with all that stuff I left? What are you talking about? Uh, okay, gang, does, does John think there's a summer camp here? Just so you know, I can hear you every time y'all do that. And no, of course I don't think there's a summer camp here. The soil here is terrible for building foundations. Sinking rebar and pylons is all but useless. I built it over there. I'm sorry, what? Yeah. Camp's all set up there about 100 yards. Bull shit. Danielle! Swear a jar! Oh, please. I filled that fucker weeks ago. Just show us your delusion so we can go home. I'd love nothing more than to spend the next month or so showing you all all my delusions.

but Tadda I don't believe it That's not possible Did John somehow dose us with those mushrooms? I don't recommend that But yeah Welcome to Creep Boy Camp

No way! There's a dock Oh and look there's an archery range And cabins! Holy crap, you built cabins Oh and a craft area. I'm going to make a wallet out of duct tape. Wait, how did you build all this yourself? Myself? Are you kidding me?

This is supposed to be a team thing. We were all going to build all this together. But once I came down from my trip, defused a thermonuclear bomb, found land, and figured out how power tools work. I just came down to getting some day laborers

and voila. I still don't get how you did all this in a week. I really just supervised. Okay. Anyway, enough all that. Let's go. What?

What? What? Are you crazy? I'm like really tired. Plus, I'm about 99% sure that I forgot to tell my wife and kids that I'd be gone all month and they're probably pissed.

How can you just leave after we spent all this time making it happen? We. you all were eating grilled oysters for the last month. I, on the other hand, came to the realization that I'm not exactly in a position to move down here to run a summer camp. So I'm leaving. This was a lot of work, but nothing compared to running an actual camp.

John, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you can't leave. Why not? You literally have a tattoo about it. I'm not sure how my tattoo of cash, grass, or ass no one rides. for free applies here. Not that one. The other one. I think I break for Chumbawamba

makes even less sense in this. How many sayings do you have tattooed on you? Three. And of those three, you thought I was referring to either cash grass or ass or Chumbawamba? I thought you liked a party.

Listen, I've had a lot of time to think about it. And if at some point in the future I get my stuff together, we can come back and make a go of it. Wow. That was anticlimactic.

I prefer the term cliffhanger. It's only a cliffhanger if an episode ends and leaves people in suspense. Noted. Now, last one on the bus says to hold me as I cry myself to sleep. What?

No. Are you crazy? Hmm. Just once, I wish someone would volunteer. Huh. I had my phone set to vibrate. Oh, man. I should really change my ringtone.

Anyone familiar with deep cuts might get ideas. And I'm just sadistic enough to leave them hanging for 11 months. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this. podcast are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written

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