Horror Stories - 4 Scary Camping in Alaska Horror Stories You Shouldn’t Hear at Night

Episode Date: January 19, 2026

☕ Support the show, send your own horror stories, and help shape future episodes. 🎧 Join the darkness here: ⁠https://buymeacoffee.com/horrorstoriesnetwork⁠ Something Was Outside the Tent — 4 Scary Camping in Alaska Horror Stories shares chilling true accounts from campers who ventured into Alaska’s vast wilderness and encountered something they weren’t prepared for. These stories explore extreme isolation, endless darkness, strange sounds beyond the firelight, and moments when help was impossibly far away. Told through calm, immersive narration, each story builds slow psychological tension as the Alaskan wild reveals how small and vulnerable humans truly are. If you enjoy realistic horror rooted in nature, survival, and the fear of the unknown, this collection is perfect for late-night listening. Listener discretion is advised. #TrueHorrorStories #AlaskaHorror #CampingHorror #WildernessHorror #ScaryStories #RealHorror #NightHorror #PsychologicalHorror #StorytimeHorror #SurvivalHorror 4 scary camping in alaska horror stories, alaska camping horror stories true, scary alaska wilderness stories, disturbing camping horror stories, true alaska horror camping, wilderness horror stories alaska, real camping horror experiences, alaska night horror stories, psychological wilderness horror, true scary camping stories, isolated camping horror alaska, forest and tundra horror stories, horror stories told by campers, realistic wilderness horror, alaska survival horror stories, true disturbing alaska encounters, horror podcast camping stories, fear in the wild alaska, something outside the tent horror, true night camping terror, remote wilderness horror stories, alaska nature horror, scary stories to hear at night, real life camping horror, survival gone wrong alaska, true scary wilderness encounters, alaska forest horror stories, camping isolation horror, realistic survival horror stories, alaska night terror, horror youtube camping stories, true outdoor horror stories, camping fear tales, wilderness night horror, disturbing true camping stories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Also, don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. Story 1. I was 31 when it happened. I'd been out there a handful of times before, always with friends. Always just one night or two. But that summer I wanted something quieter, something longer. I had two weeks off. And for once I didn't want airports or phone screens or even conversation. I just wanted stillness. Five days out there, completely alone. No signal, no cars humming along some nearby road, just the forest in me. I wasn't some survival expert or anything like that.

I knew how to pack light, but smart. I brought my canvas tent, a stove, a water filter, and a bear canister with just enough food to last. I didn't bring anything fancy. No GPS. Just a paper map and a compass I'd used a hundred times. That trail had plenty of branches to explore, but it always fed back into the main path eventually, so I wasn't worried about getting lost or turned around.

I set up camp about five miles in. I found a flat spot near a bend in the river. There was nothing built out there, nothing set up. Just packed dirt, a little grass, a line of trees on three sides, and that open curve of water. It was the kind of place that felt hidden, but still open enough that I didn't feel trapped. I pitched the tent right along the tree line and stacked the rest of my gear where the ground wasn't so soft. It was hot during the day and cold at night, exactly the way I like it. The first two days were exactly what I needed.

I spent most of my time by the water, resting, feeling. fishing, watching the sky move slowly overhead. Every so often I'd hear birds, or maybe a rabbit hopping through, but nothing bigger than that. No other campers, no voices, the kind of silence that sinks into you so deeply it feels like a reset. I started thinking maybe I'd stay longer than five days. Then on the morning of the third day, I stepped out of the tent and saw it. A small stack of stones, just three rocks, flat and gray, carefully placed one on top of another like someone had taken their time. It was maybe eight inches tall, and it sat just a foot from the edge of my tent.

It hadn't been there the night before. I would have noticed it. It was right where I walked to go get water. It was weird, yeah, but I told myself it had to be some animal messing around with them. Or maybe they'd shifted into place somehow, even though I knew I was really stretching. to make that make sense. Still, I didn't want to scare myself over nothing. I kicked the little stack over with my boot, didn't think about it any more than that, and went on with my day. I fished, cooked, wrote in my journal. Same routine. That night I woke up around three,

not because of a sound, I just opened my eyes, like my brain had flipped a switch for no reason. At first I didn't move. I lay there trying to figure out what had pulled me out of sleep. Everything sounded normal, a breeze moving through the trees, the tent fabric giving a soft flutter now and then. But something in my stomach tightened anyway. Slowly I sat up and looked out through the mesh at the entrance. And there it was again. Another stack of rocks. Same size, same spot.

But this time the bottom stone was darker, with a reddish tint, and it had an almost wedge-like shape. I got up, grabbed my flashlight, and stepped around the tent. Nothing. No footprints, no snapped branches, no rustling in the brush. Just that stack sitting there, like it had been waiting for me to notice it. I picked up the rocks one by one and threw them into the river. I watched them sink and vanish into the current. More than fear, what I felt was irritation. It felt like a prank, but there was nobody out there with me. The next morning I decided to move camp. It wasn't that I felt in danger exactly, but that feeling, feeling from the night before hadn't left me. I found another spot about half a mile up river,

more open, less cover, with a better view of both sides of the river. It made me feel like I had more room to breathe. That night just after the sun went down, I noticed someone on the other side of the river. At first I wasn't even sure what I was seeing, a tall figure standing still between two trees, half swallowed by shadow, too far away to make out clearly. But it had a huge, human shape. It didn't move. It just stood there watching. I called out casually, Hey, the way I would to any other hiker. No answer. I turned on my flashlight and aimed it across the water. The figure was gone. No sound. No splash. No footsteps. No movement in the brush. Just an exact empty space where seconds earlier someone had been standing. I stayed frozen,

breath, scanned the trees for a long time. Nothing. That night I stayed inside the tent until dawn, zipped up tight. I didn't turn on a light. I just listened. In the morning I crossed the river to check. The ground on that side was soft, perfect for footprints, but there weren't any. No impressions, no marks, no broken branches. It was like nobody had ever been there, like that presence had never existed at all. By that after, the clouds were already closing in, and something in my chest started to tighten. I don't know if it was instinct or panic, but I started packing in a rush. I decided I was leaving that same night. If I kept a good pace, I could reach the trailhead before sunset,

but I only made it about three miles before I stopped. Something wasn't right. My legs felt heavier than they should have. It wasn't just fatigue. It was sluggishness, clumsiness. like I'd walked twice the distance. My breathing felt off too, short, shallow. And then up ahead, the trail started to look, wrong. The trees leaned at a strange angle. The slope was way too steep. It didn't feel like the same path I'd walked in on.

I went cold all over. After a while, I turned around and went back to the original site. I felt ridiculous doing it, but I told myself I'd try again in the morning. that maybe I just needed to rest. I didn't sleep at all. At some point close to midnight I heard footsteps. They weren't fast. They were soft, deliberate. Slow steps, maybe five or six feet from the tent, then silence, and then three knocks, clear, solid, evenly spaced, like someone was striking the ground, or maybe a cooler, or a piece of gear. It wasn't a branch falling. It wasn't an animal scratching.

They were knocks. I stayed completely still. I didn't even breathe. I didn't reach for the flashlight. The fire had burned down to nothing, and I wasn't about to light myself up like a target in the middle of the dark. The footsteps circled once, and then nothing. With the first light of morning, I opened the tent.

The rocks were back, stacked again, but taller this time. Five stones. The top one smooth and round, like it had been polished, balanced in the exact same spot where I'd thrown them the first time. And beside the stack, pressed clearly into the dirt next to one of my bootprints, there was a single bare footprint. It was longer than mine. Wider, too. No shoe, no tread marks. Just the flat imprint.

Heal, arch, toes. I didn't stop to pack. I grabbed whatever I could carry, slung the backpack over one. shoulder and started walking. I didn't care how much noise I made. I didn't care how clumsy I was. I just wanted out of there. By the time I reached the trailhead, it was early afternoon. My shin was bleeding from a cut I don't even remember feeling when it happened, and my shoulder hurt like someone had swung a bat into it. There was another car in the lot, an older couple unloading their gear. I didn't even look at them. I got into mine and drove away. Back in town,

I booked a motel for two nights. I spread everything out across the bed. Story two. Milo and I had gone way out there, something like six miles off the Denali Highway. We'd both done cold weather trips before, and we took it seriously. Milo even brought extra fuel tablets he'd been testing at home. It wasn't our first trip like that, but it was the first time we'd gone that far west. And for some reason that detail stuck with me, and now it comes back hard. The day itself was fine, calm, uneventful, in the best possible way. We hiked in following a rough compass line between two small ridges, and found a shallow low spot that looked perfect for camping. It had just enough shelter to cut the wind, but it wasn't so deep that it would trap moisture. We built a fire ring

with flat stones boiled water and pulled out our freeze-dried meals while the sun drop behind the peaks like a rock, fast and sharp the way it happens up there. You don't get long sunsets. Dinner was the usual. Bland stew in a flask we passed back and forth while we sat near the fire, swapping stories we'd already told each other ten times. We talked about gear, trail rumors, and some guy Milo knew who swore he'd seen. Last winter, the body of a moose standing upright, rigid like it was on its feet. That kind of thing. Nothing stood out. It just felt like another ordinary night outside. Around ten I crawled into my tent and zipped myself into my sleeping bag.

Milo stayed outside by the fire, like he always did. He liked keeping it going even when the warmth wasn't really needed. He said the light helped him think. Our tents were about 15 feet apart, both facing north, with just enough space between them for a little privacy. I woke up later still in total darkness with no sound except the wind. I didn't have a watch but something felt off. You know that strange awareness when your eyes are closed, but you can still sense light nearby. That was what fully woke me.

I blinked, sat up slowly, and cracked open the tent zipper only a couple inches. The fire had burned down to soft red embers, almost dead. But there was a glow off to the left, higher up near the ridge line. It wasn't the moon. It had a dull orange tone, like a flashlight dying or one of those old. headlamps when the battery's almost gone. It didn't move. It just hung there, completely still, like it was floating in the same spot. My first thought was that Milo had gone up there for some reason. Maybe to pee. Maybe he'd heard something. Maybe he just needed to clear his head. It wouldn't

have been that weird, right? I zipped the tent back up and lay down again, but I didn't fall asleep. I kept staring at that glow through the tent fabric for at least 15 minutes. It didn't drift. It didn't pulse. It didn't flicker. It just stayed there, steady. There were no footsteps, no voice calling back. Eventually the tension got the best of me. I put my boots on inside the tent, which I never do. I unzipped the door all the way and stepped out with my flashlight in my hand.

The air hit me like a blade, colder than before. First I looked at Milo's tent, still zipped shut, no light, no movement. I stood there for a second, watching the ridge. The glow was still there, but now it was lower. Not like it had walked down. It was just closer to the ground somehow, maybe halfway down from where it had been. I couldn't see a body or a figure, just the shape of the light. I crouched next to Milo's tent and tapped the side with my knuckles, no response.

I pulled one corner of the zipper open and peeked in. He was dead asleep with the earplugs in. The bag pulled up to his chin. Totally unaware. I leaned back, stood up, and looked toward the ridge again. The light was gone, just like that. I swept my flashlight around, but the beam disappeared into the trees and didn't catch anything. No glow, no silhouette.

Just the low murmur of branches above me and dry pine needles shifting in the breeze. Back in my tent, I didn't even try to sleep again. I lay there fully dressed flashlight in one hand and my boots still on. Every rustle of fabric made me flinch. I kept telling myself it could have been a reflection from the fire. Maybe a trick of the angle. Something normal. By the time the sun came up, I'd almost convinced myself.

Milo unzipped his tent around seven like he'd slept in a hotel. He started boiling water with that focused morning calm, like nothing had happened. I waited until he was on his second cup of coffee before I asked. Did you go up to the ridge last night? He shook his head like he was trying to remember. No, I crashed hard around midnight. I didn't wake up for anything.

We didn't talk about it again after that, not directly. We packed up around noon and moved farther west to our second sight. This one was maybe two miles ahead, near a frozen flat creek. It was a wide clearing, more exposed with fewer trees, probably less comfortable, but Milo said it would be perfect for stargazing. We didn't say much while we set everything up. It wasn't exactly tension, but something felt off. That silence that shows up when two people are choosing, on purpose, not to mention something. That kind of nervous quiet where even small talk feels heavy.

That night Milo went to sleep first. I stayed by the fire checking the map over and over, watching the flames sink lower. I turned off my headlamp right before midnight so my eyes could adjust. The stars were out truly bright. There was no wind, just still air, like everything had been paused. And then I heard a single sound, a crunch in the snow, a deep slow compression, like the weight of someone stepping onto a freshly formed patch. It came from maybe 30 feet away, beyond a strip of thick brush.

I froze. There wasn't a second step. No movement. Just that one sound. I switched my headlamp on, stood up slowly, and swept the beam toward where the noise had come from. Nothing. No shape. No motion.

Just white, black and shrubs. Hey, I called out in a steady voice, loud enough to carry, but not a shout. Everything okay? Nothing. I stood there a few more minutes. The fire popped once. From the trees. Nothing. I took a few steps toward the edge of the clearing, and then I saw it, just beyond the reach of the firelight, half buried in untouched snow. A footprint. Not a bear track. A human footprint. Long toes slightly spread. The heel angled inward like whoever it was had turned a little as they put their weight down. no sock, no boot, and there weren't any other prints, no incoming steps, no trail leading away.

Just that one mark, clean, undeniable. I took a step back. My heart was already racing, my breath sticking in my chest. I backed up to Milo's tent, turned and shook him awake. He sat up half asleep, and instead of a flashlight he had a knife in his hand. I pointed toward the clearing. There's something you need to see. We walked back out together. He looked at the footprint and crouched down. He didn't touch it. He just stared at it. Then he stood and looked toward the tree line, scanning slowly. After a long pause, he said, we're tearing down right now. And that was it. No argument. No wait, let's think. No hesitation. We packed in about 10 minutes, barely speaking. We rolled everything tight.

We didn't even heat water. We just shouldered our packs and started walking back east. We skipped the next leg of the trip completely, and we never, ever looked back. Story three, I decided to take a solo camping trip near the southern edge of Canlow Ridge. Early September, right before the temperatures start dropping for real. I needed a break from everything. I hiked in through Croft Pass. It took me about half a day with a full pack, but it was a straightforward trail.

No complications. Nothing technical. Just me, my canvas tent. Three days' worth of freeze-dried food and my dad's old field notebook. He used to hike out here alone in the late 70s. Back when doing that was less of a statement and more just normal. No GPS, just top-o maps and compass bearings. His notebook was packed with sketches.

and notes, little personal landmarks, strange trees, unusual rocks. I followed one of the roots he'd drawn by hand. There was something really steady, really grounded about that. The spot I chose was almost perfect, a flat stretch right beside a glacial creek, open enough that I could see any movement coming from far away, but also tucked against a ridge rise that gave me a bit of protection from the wind. I set the tent facing east, filtered a few liters of water, and made boiled coffee that tasted like burnt coins. But out there it still felt like a luxury. The first night was normal, cold but manageable. I left the little stove going in the vestibule until I fell asleep. I heard wind far off, maybe a fox somewhere across the water,

but nothing unusual. I've camped in remote places enough to know what normal feels like, and that was exactly it. Nature doing its thing and me simply being there with it. On the second day, I decided to hike a few more miles deeper in, following the ridge. I wanted to find a ravine my dad had sketched several times

in the back of the notebook. He'd marked it with a strange symbol, three short lines and a dot. I had no idea what it meant. The terrain got rough pretty fast. I dropped elevation sharply going down into a dry hollow, then climbed up the other side, grabbing exposed roots like they were handles. About three miles in, I found it.

A narrow opening in the ground exactly like it appeared in the drawing. Vertical walls maybe 15 feet down to the dry creek bed. Down there were old driftwood branches, twisted and piled like someone had thrown them there years ago. It didn't look like a place anyone had been through in a very long time. I sat on a rock ledge and pulled out the notebook. One of the nearby entries caught my attention. It said, Left the marks again.

Don't remember doing it. That was it. No lead-in, no explanation, no context. Just that single line like it made sense to someone. I read it over and over. I don't know why, but it left a discomfort that got under my skin. That night I couldn't fully settle. It wasn't fear exactly.

It was more like my mind couldn't relax all the way. The air had a stillness that hadn't been there the night before. No wind, no insects, no animal calls. Just a kind of pressure, like something was holding its breath. I stayed by the fire later than usual. I let the heat soak into me and tried not to obsess over the notebook. But close to midnight I noticed something at the far edge of the firelight. Footprints, tracks.

I stood up fast, nearly knocking over my camp chair. Those footprints weren't mine. They were wider at the toes, the stride was longer, and they were clear enough to hold their shape. But not so fresh that they looked wet. They started maybe ten feet from the tent and led straight into the trees. I followed them a little, maybe 20 yards, until they disappeared behind a large flat rock. Past that point the ground turned rocky. No dirt, nothing that would hold impressions.

And they simply vanished. I went back to the fire and sat there staring into the dark until the embers died out. Every time a branch cracked somewhere in the distance, I felt my chest tighten. I didn't crawl into the tent again until the sky started to lighten. The next morning I took a slow lap around camp. I looked for signs. Any trace that someone had passed through broken branches, anything. But everything looked exactly the same.

The same footprints, no new ones. Nothing moved. nothing added. And that same stillness. I kept telling myself maybe it was an old trail. Could have been a trapper, maybe a surveyor. It didn't explain how fresh the prince looked, but I clung to any reasonable explanation. Later that afternoon, I tried reading more of the notebook. I needed something that would help me make sense of that feeling I couldn't shake. I flipped to the pages near the back, the ones I hadn't read yet, and the handwriting changed. Same ink but a different style, more slanted, harsher, smaller letters, tighter lines.

These entries weren't dated. One page in particular stopped me cold. Just four words centered at the top. The third night is the test. That sentence lodged in my head like a weight. I read it at least a dozen times. There was no context, nothing around it. Just that one line.

That night I didn't cook. By that point, hunger didn't feel real anymore. I ate a granola bar, kept my boots on, and built the fire higher. I didn't like the idea that the third night was some kind of test. Even though I didn't understand what it meant, at some point I must have fallen asleep. I had to have. But I woke up in a darkness that didn't make sense. I lifted my hand and couldn't see it.

Not the outline, not the movement. Nothing. It was absolute black, like ink spills. over everything. And then I heard it. Not footsteps, not leaves crunching or twigs snapping. Movement. Like someone standing right outside the tent, shifting their weight. That tiny sound you get when someone flexes their knees or steps softly in place. I didn't breathe. I lay there with my eyes open into nothing, listening. For a second I thought and wanted to believe it was a moose. Maybe one had wandered into camp, but it didn't sound right, too close, too measured.

Then I heard breathing, slow, controlled, controlled like someone was making a conscious effort not to make noise, but it was right there, just on the other side of the tent wall. My hand slid toward the knife beside my sleeping bag. It felt like it took forever to reach it. My fingers were cold, slick with sweat. I didn't even grip the handle tight. I just held it. And then came the zipper. Not the tent door, not mine. It came from the left, maybe six feet away. A short, soft zip, like someone opening a backpack. One problem. There wasn't another backpack. I kept all my gear inside the tent. The sound stopped.

No footsteps, no whispering, no branches moving. Just that zipper. And then silence. again. I didn't move. I didn't speak. I stayed there with the knife in my hand, my heart slamming my ribs so hard I was sure it could be hurt outside. And at some point, I don't know how. I must have passed out. Maybe from exhaustion, maybe from fear. Honestly, I don't know. When I opened my eyes again, it was daytime. The tent walls glowed with a soft gray light. I sat up slowly, unzipped the entrance and stepped out. Everything looked untouched. The fire was dead. No signs of movement. Nothing disturbed. Nothing except one thing. Beside the fire pit, someone had placed the notebook, open to that same page. The third night is the test. But this time underneath in a different handwriting,

shakier, more rushed. Someone had added two words. You stayed. That was it. No explanation, just a quiet, deliberate acknowledgement. I didn't pack anything. I didn't check the trees again. I picked up the knife and the notebook, slung them over my shoulder, and started walking. I left the tent. I left the food. I left the gear. I didn't even bother folding the ground tarp. I walked the full three miles back to the main trail without stopping. No water, no brakes. My legs were shaking like jelly when I reached the small roadside pull-off where I'd left the car. I sat behind the wheel for a full hour before I could turn the key.

That was five years ago. I haven't told anyone. Until now. Story four. That year my sister bought me a round-trip ticket to Anchorage for my birthday. She presented it like a generous surprise, but I knew what it really was. Her polite way of saying, you need to get out of here for a while. and she wasn't wrong.

The divorce had left me breathless, like someone had pulled the floor out from under me. Angela's cabin was cozy, the kind with quilts on the walls and mugs that don't match. She and her husband lived in the main house down the hill, and when they heard I was planning to camp one or two nights, they let me borrow gear, snow shoes, a thermal sleeping bag,

even a lightweight axe. I was genuinely grateful. I hadn't done a solo camping trip in years, and definitely not in winter conditions. For six days, everything went more or less exactly how I'd pictured it. Quiet hikes, frozen waterfalls, a little wildlife at a distance, mostly moose and foxes. My photos came out decent too.

There was one in particular, a raven perched on a rusted sign that I was especially proud of. It felt like I was finally resetting. On my last night, the idea got into my head to try something different. something more isolated. It wasn't for drama. I just wanted to be able to say I'd done it. Slept alone in the woods, in Alaska. No cell signal, no walls.

Just me and the trees. I picked a spot about 45 minutes from the road near a frozen creek I'd seen on an earlier hike. The trail wasn't official, but it was marked with old orange ribbon stapled to tree trunks, probably left by hunters or people who'd come through before. I left in the mid-afternoon with snow shoes on and my pack loaded with the essentials, tent, flashlight, food, everything I needed.

I set up camp right before sunset, lit a small fire with dry wood I'd carried in, heatered a packet of beef stew that tasted exactly like boiled cardboard, and finished it with a chocolate bar I found at the bottom of my pack. After that, I climbed into my sleeping bag and lit a podcast talk in my ear while I watched my breath rise and drift toward the tent ceiling. Honestly, it was almost perfect. The weird part didn't start with a loud bang. It started small, so small I almost ignored it.

I stepped out to pee, and when I turned back to go inside, I noticed my backpack wasn't where I'd left it. It had been placed carefully right beside the tent entrance. Now it was off to the side near a tree, about five or six feet away. I stood there for a second, confused, trying to remember if I'd moved it myself. Maybe I'd shoved it without noticing. It didn't feel like something worth panicking over. I dragged it back, zipped it closed, and went back inside.

That was when my phone died. It had been working fine earlier. Battery at 70%, no issues. Now it wouldn't turn on at all. Black screen, no response. I tried holding the buttons down. even tried warming it inside my jacket. Nothing. I told myself it was the cold. Cold does weird things to batteries. Still, it annoyed me. I was settling back into the sleeping bag when I heard it.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Slow footsteps on snow, not rushed or frantic. Deliberate, like whoever it was was walking calmly. I went rigid. My first thought was an animal, maybe a moose. Maybe a loose dog. Something sniffing around camp. But the footsteps stopped right beside the tent. I didn't hear breathing. I didn't hear movement. Just silence.

I stayed there waiting, not even daring to shift my body. Ten seconds passed. Then 20. I whispered, hello. Because apparently my survival instincts aren't that bright. And I regretted it immediately. Nothing. I grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and aimed it at the tent wall.

A shadow moved, not like branches swaying in the wind. It moved fast and smooth, like someone had been standing right there, press close, and step back the instant the light touched them. I was out of the tent in seconds. No shoes, no plan. I spun the flashlight in a frantic circle, searching for movement, sound anything. But there was nobody there. I walked slowly around the tent, my heart pounding hard, and I saw a single line of footprints coming straight toward my camp.

They weren't mine. The stride was longer. I followed them about 15 feet until they stopped behind a tree. Just like that. They stopped. No turn. No continuation. Just a trail of prints. And then nothing. The snow beyond was untouched, and that made no sense. Even if that person had gone back, the way they came, I would have seen it, but there was nothing. Clean snow, like whoever made those footprints had simply stepped off the planet. I didn't sleep again. I sealed myself inside the tent, this time with my boots on, the flashlight in my hand, and I waited. Every so often I turned it on and checked around. I didn't hear sounds. I didn't see movement. Only silence. Around four in the morning I noticed something else. Light.

flickering light. It wasn't a campfire glow. It was a flashlight moving between the trees, maybe a hundred yards away. It wasn't shaking like someone searching frantically. It moved slow and steady, coming closer. I didn't think. I grabbed what I could, stuffed it under my jacket and ran. I didn't follow a trail. I didn't follow markers. I just aimed myself roughly toward where I thought the road would be. The snow came up to my shins. Every few steps I tried. I tripped gasping trying to go faster. I looked left once and saw another light closer, tracking me, keeping the same pace. Then a third light appeared to the right farther out, like it was trying to cut me off. None of them said a word. I don't know how long I ran.

It could have been ten minutes. It could have been forty. The woods were dense and disorienting. I didn't see the road until I was practically on top of it. When I hit the asphalt I dropped to my knees. My hands were scraped and numb and I started waving at the empty road like a maniac. I must have looked completely out of my mind. Eventually an old truck pulled over. A guy in his mid to late 50s with the look of a sawmill worker or maybe a long haul driver. At first he cracked the window, cautious, and then he let me in when he saw I wasn't holding anything. He just handed me a wool blanket and kept driving like this wasn't the strangest thing that had happened to him in weeks. I told him someone had tried to rob me. He nodded and didn't push for more. Back in Braxton Ridge, I gave

a statement to the sheriff. They were polite, but I could tell they weren't exactly gearing up for a manhunt. Still the next day, they sent someone out to check the campsite. They came back with a few things. The tent had been slashed. One long vertical cut, like it had been done with a knife. Everything else was gone. The gear, the food, even the axe, except for one thing. They found my phone. It had been planted upright in the snow, standing straight with the screen facing outward. Like they wanted me to see it. When I powered it on, it worked perfectly.

Full battery. No issues. But the photo folder was empty. Every photo I'd taken was gone, not deleted. Erased completely. No data, not even in the recently deleted folder. Just a phone with no proof I'd ever been out there. I flew home the next day.

I didn't argue when my sister said I looked different. I didn't tell her what happened. Not really. I just told her I'd lost my phone and had to cut the trip short. But I think about it all the time because whoever or whatever was out there didn't want to hurt me. It wanted me gone, and it made sure nothing was left behind.