Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 3 TERRIFYING Hiking Horror Stories That Will Make You Never Hike Alone Again

Episode Date: February 23, 2026

3 TERRIFYING Hiking Horror Stories That Will Make You Never Hike Alone AgainLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Timestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:19:40 Story 200:53:07 Story 3Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auBusiness inquiries:►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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or at Sephora.com today. I'm 19. I'm writing this here because if I tell anyone in my life what happened, they'll either laugh, or they'll look at me the way people look at someone who is trying to make a story out of nothing. I also don't want my name tied to it. This happened in the Spring Mountains outside Las Vegas, in the Mount Charleston area. If you live here, you know it as the place you go when you need trees in real air. If you don't live here, it's a whole other world that sits above the city, pine, limestone, steep drops, pockets where your phone stops working. I drove up Lee Canyon Road and parked at the North Loop Trailhead. It wasn't some extreme plan. I wanted a long hike. I had water, a cheap headlamp, snacks, and a small first aid kit. I had a folding knife

clipped inside my pocket. Not for protection. I carried it because I always carried it. At the trailhead there was one other vehicle, a dusty SUV with the windows crack. No one was around it. Nothing on the dash, no cooler, no packs. It looked abandoned, but it also looked too normal to be abandoned. I didn't think about it long. People carpool up there. People come early. People leave cars for long loops. I started up the trail and it was normal for a while. Switchbacks, shade, loose rock underfoot, the smell of sap. I passed a couple coming down who looked tired. tired and didn't say much. After that, I didn't see anyone. I had a map saved on my phone, but my signal kept dropping. The trail was still clear, though, and there were enough footprints in the dirt that it felt safe to keep going without staring at a screen. After a long stretch, I saw something that didn't fit. A thin black hose ran across the trail at ankle height, half buried in needles. It was the kind you see in irrigation setups. It disappeared off,

the uphill side into thick brush. On the downhill side, it ran toward a dry slope and vanished between boulders. I stopped and stared at it. There aren't houses up there. There aren't cabins right off the north loop, no reason for irrigation tubing to cross a maintained trail. I stepped over it and kept going, telling myself it was from some old project, maybe trail work, Maybe a broken line someone dragged out. Not far after that, I saw a second hose, then a third. Not crossing the trail, but visible through the brush, running parallel to it. The lines were newer than anything I'd seen people abandoned.

No cracks, no sun-bleached sections. The trail made a bend and the trees thickened. The air got cooler and the ground got soft. Then I noticed the smell. It wasn't a campfire. It wasn't a dead animal. It was chemical, sharp, and wet. The kind of smell you get near a pool supply aisle.

It came and went with each step, and that made it worse because my brain kept trying to convince me it was nothing. I told myself I'd turn around at the next obvious point. One more rise. One more bend. Then I'd go back down and grab food in town and forget this. Then the trail split. I didn't remember a split from the trail descriptions I'd skimmed before leaving.

There was a signpost, but the small sign looked bent and scratched, and one of the arrows was missing. I walked up to it and saw fresh cuts in the wood, the kind made by a blade. Someone had scraped at it until the lettering was hard to read. That part wasn't an accident. That part was effort. I stood there longer than I should have, trying to make the letters out. I should have taken that as the warning and left.

Instead I did the thing people do when they think bad things happen to other people. I took the left fork. It still looked like a trail, but it narrowed fast. The dirt turned to scattered gravel, then packed soil again. The brush closed in, and the only reason I knew I was on something used was because branches were snapped at shoulder height, and the ground had a thin line where people had walked. My phone showed no service. I put it away. A little farther on, I saw a strip of orange tape tied low to a branch. That should have been reassuring. Trail marking. Someone cares enough to mark this. Then I saw another strip of tape and another, all low, all tied on the downhill side, not to guide you forward, but to show you the edge. That's when I noticed the first

wire. It was thin, almost invisible in the shade, stretched between two bushes. It wasn't a close line. It was too low, too tight, too clean. I froze and leaned closer. it was fishing line or braided cord. There was a small metal bell clipped to it, the kind you put on a rod tip. It had a rust spot and a smear of something dark on the bottom. The bell didn't move. I hadn't hit the line. I stepped back slowly, scanning the brush around it.

I saw another line farther in, angled across a gap between rocks. Then another one, slightly higher. None of it made sense with normal hiking. None of it made sense with a prank. Nobody sets up that much work in a place this far in just to mess with strangers. I wanted to turn around. I also didn't want to walk back through those lines without knowing where they all were. I stood there, breathing too hard, sweating in the cold shade,

trying to make a decision without making noise. I heard movement uphill, not an animal crashing through brush. This was controlled. Short steps. A pause. A shift of weight. It moved with intention. I backed off the narrow trail and pressed into the brush on the downhill side,

careful with my feet. I held a branch aside and tried to make my body small behind it. My knife was still clipped inside my pocket, and my hand hovered near it without taking it out. I didn't want a blade in my hand when some random hiker appeared. I also didn't want to be caught with my hand empty if this wasn't a random hiker. The steps got closer, a shape moved. between trunks. A man came into view, coming down the trail toward me. He wasn't dressed

like a hiker, no pack, no trekking poles. Dark hoodie pulled up, dark pants, gloves. He carried something long in his right hand, wrapped in a dirty towel. He walked right up to the first trip line and stepped over it without looking down. He didn't even slow. Then he stopped at the split where I was crouched off trail. He looked around, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He scanned the brush, the ground, the trees, not in a panicked way, in a checking way. I held my breath so hard my throat hurt. His head turned toward me, not directly at my eyes, toward the space I was hiding in. I don't know if he saw me or if he read the scene, a snapped twig, a scuff mark, a gap in the brush that wasn't there before. He didn't call out. He didn't

say hello. He just took a step toward me. backed deeper without thinking, my heel catching a root, my shoulder brushing leaves. The leaves moved. That was enough. The man lunged forward and yanked the towel off what he was holding. It was a rifle. I didn't wait for anything else. I turned and ran downhill through brush that tore at my arms and face. I didn't care about the trail. I cared about distance and cover. The ground dropped and I half slid, half ran, grabbing at branches to stay upright. Behind me, I heard him move, fast now, not calm. I reached a small opening between boulders and squeezed through it, thinking maybe rocks would slow him down. The opening led into a shallow gully with

dry leaves and a few fallen logs. I sprinted down it, feet slipping, lungs burning. Then the gully ended at a fence, not a normal fence. Green plastic mesh stretched between metal stakes, the kind used to block off construction sites. It was hidden behind brush, and angled to funnel you toward a narrow gap. That's when it clicked. The split trail, the hoses, the trip lines, the fence. It wasn't random. It was a system.

It was built to control movement. I shoved at the mesh and it flexed but didn't open. The stakes were hammered deep. I ran along it trying to find a weak point and my foot caught something in the leaves. A second line snapped tight around my ankle and yanked. I hit the ground hard. My chin bounced off rock.

Pain flashed white. My hands went out and scraped through gravel. I tried to pull my leg free and felt the line bite in. It was tied to a springy branch bent back and anchored. A snare. A real snare. I sat up, panicking, and saw the knot. It was simple. It was not something a random camper made for fun. I clawed at it and the line tightened again. I grabbed the cord with both hands and pulled it away from my ankle, trying to create slack. My fingers slipped. My hands were shaking. Then I heard him close behind me. I didn't look back. I pulled my knife out and flicked it open with shaking fingers. I jammed the blade against the cord and sawed. The cord was thick. It didn't cut clean. I heard the mesh fence rustle. I heard his shoes and leaves. He was close enough that if I turned

my head I would see him. I forced the knife harder against the cord, sawing fast. The blade slipped and nicked my skin. I didn't feel it. The cord finally frayed and snapped. My ankle sprang free, burning where the line had cut into it. I stood up too fast and almost fell again. My foot didn't want to take weight. I limped along the fence, still holding the knife out, not even thinking about how useless it was against a rifle. I found the gap the fence funneled toward. I found the gap the fence funneled toward. It wasn't an exit. It was another narrow channel between brush and rock, where the ground had been cleared, another funnel. I didn't go through it. I turned and ran back up the gully, limping, stumbling, using my hands on trees to pull myself forward. My ankle throbbed and my

shoe felt wet. A shot cracked behind me. It hit rock somewhere, throwing dust. I felt it in my spine. I didn't stop. I didn't scream. I didn't think. I just moved. I veed. I veed. I I veered off the gully into thicker trees, aiming for a slope that looked too steep to chase down fast. I grabbed at trunks and hauled myself upward, one step at a time, my injured ankle screaming each time it hit the ground. I heard another shot, farther now, and then I heard him yelling, not words I could understand. It sounded angry, short bursts, and it made my blood run cold because it meant he wasn't trying to quietly scare someone off.

He wanted me to know he was there. I reached a rock face with a ledge and climbed onto it, scraping my palms. The ledge was narrow, but it gave me height, and it broke the line of sight from below. I crouched behind a boulder and tried to think. I couldn't go back the way I came because of the snare and the funnels. I couldn't go deeper because I had no idea what else was set up. I needed to get back to the main trail. That meant moving sideways across the slope until I hit something familiar.

I started traversing, keeping my body low, moving from tree, tree to tree, using boulders as cover. My ankle left a dark smear on pale rock. I finally looked down and saw blood soaking the edge of my sock where the cord had cut. The cut was deep enough that it had split skin clean. I kept moving. At one point I saw the irrigation hoses again, thicker here, running toward a spot hidden behind a line of brush. There was a low humming sound coming from that direction, mechanical. I didn't go near it. I stayed uphill and away. I heard movement below me, then above me. That's the part that still makes me feel sick.

He wasn't just following behind. There were at least two of them, or he knew the terrain well enough to circle and get ahead. I couldn't tell which was worse. I flattened behind a fallen log and watched through branches. A second man stepped into view uphill, moving across the slope, same clothing style, dark, covered. He carried a backpack that bulged in weird shapes.

He stopped and looked down into the trees below, scanning. He was between me and the direction I thought the main trail was. I pulled my knife in close to my body and waited. My heart was hammering so hard my vision pulsed. The man took a few steps and then paused, head cocked slightly, listening. I couldn't move without making noise. The ground was dry and full of loose needles. Every shift made a whisper.

The man started walking again, coming closer. angling toward my position. I looked around fast and saw a narrow crack between two boulders beside the log. It wasn't a cave, but it was deep enough to hide a body if you didn't look directly into it. I slid into the crack and pressed my back against cold rock. The space was tight. My shoulder scraped stone. My injured ankle hit the rock and I bit down hard on my own tongue to keep from making a sound.

Through the gap between boulders, I watched his boots pass within arm's reach. He didn't see me. His head turned left and right, scanning. His backpack straps squeaked faintly as he shifted. He stopped again. His boots were planted in the dirt right in front of my hiding spot. He bent down and picked something up. A strip of orange tape.

I realized with a sick drop in my stomach that the tape wasn't trail marking at all. It was their marking, their own system, and he knew exactly what it meant. He turned his head toward the boulders, toward me. I held my breath and gripped my knife so hard my fingers cramped. He stepped closer. His gloved hand touched the rock edge. He leaned down. Then, from farther down the slope, the first man shouted again.

A sharp call, short, like a signal. The man in front of me straightened and looked away, listening. He hesitated, then stepped back and started moving downhill toward the call. I stayed frozen, not moving, not breathing, until I could no longer hear his steps. When I finally slid out of the rock crack, my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my hands were shaking so badly I could barely fold the knife. I didn't head toward where I thought the main trail was. I headed toward the opposite direction, betting that their attention was focused on the path I would logically take. I moved slow at first, then faster as the terrain smoothed out.

I found a faint line in the dirt that looked like a normal trail. I followed it without thinking, just wanting something that felt he. human-made in a normal way. The faint line widened into the fork again. I recognized the vandalized signpost. I had never been so relieved to see something damaged. I didn't stop. I took the right fork this time, back toward the main north loop, and I ran. My ankle made it hard. I kept tripping. I kept catching myself on trees. I didn't care if I looked ridiculous. I didn't care if I crashed into a family picnic. I just wanted other people. I hit the main trail and forced my legs to keep moving. My lungs burned. My mouth tasted like blood from where I'd bitten my tongue. My

shoe squished with every step. I expected to hear shots behind me again. I expected a hand to grab my pack strap and yank me backward. Nothing came. That didn't make me feel safe. It made me feel hunted. When the trees finally opened up and I saw the trailhead through them, I almost collapsed. The dusty SUV was still there. A man was standing near it, hoodie up. hands in pockets facing the trail watching. My brain locked up. I stopped so hard my ankle nearly gave out. I stared at him, trying to match his shape to the men in the woods.

I couldn't tell. He turned his head slightly toward me, then looked away again, calm. I didn't walk toward him. I didn't walk past him. I veered off the trail into the brush beside the parking area and came out near my own car, using the trees to keep distance. My hands fumbled the keys. I got the door open, threw myself inside, and locked it.

I started the engine and backed out so fast the tires spun on gravel. As I drove down, my hands shook on the steering wheel so hard that the car drifted. I forced myself to breathe and keep it on the road. I didn't call the police until I hit the edge of town, where my phone finally had service. I told them there were armed men in the woods near the North Loop Trailhead, that there were trip lines and snares, that I'd. I was shot at. The dispatcher asked me questions I couldn't answer cleanly. Descriptions, exact location, how many, what direction. I kept saying I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know. They told me they'd

send someone to check. I went to urgent care and got my ankle cleaned and bandaged. The doctor asked how it happened, and I told him I got tangled in a line. That part was true. Days later, I went back up there with a friend and we stayed at the trailhead. We didn't hike. We didn't go in. We just stood near the sign and looked around. The dusty SUV was gone. There were more cars, families, couples, people laughing and stretching and checking their packs. I walked a short distance up the main trail until I saw the area where the hoses had been. I didn't see any hoses. I didn't see any tape. I didn't see any line. The forest looked clean, normal, untouched. My friend kept asking where it happened. I kept pointing in vague direction.

then stopping because I realized I couldn't prove anything. The only proof was the cut on my ankle and the dirt still stuck in my pack straps. I know what you're thinking. I've had the same thoughts. That I got turned around. That I panicked. That I saw a hunter and worked myself into a story. Here's what I can't explain away.

The vandalized signpost at the split was still there, fresh cuts still visible in the wood. And tucked under a rock near the base of that post, there was a small brass bell. The same kind clip to the trip line. The bell had a rust spot, and there was a smear of something dark on the bottom. I didn't pick it up. I didn't take it home.

I didn't take it as proof. I left it there and walked back down without looking into the trees on either side. I don't hike alone anymore. I don't take side trails that aren't clearly marked. I don't step over hoses. I don't ignore the feeling that something is wrong. And if you hike up in the spring mountains and you see orange tape tied load of branches and places, it doesn't make sense. Turn around. Don't debate it. Don't convince yourself

it's nothing. Just leave. I tell people this was a bad weekend decision, but that makes it sound simple. What happened in Linville Gorge started days before I set foot on a trail, and it ended weeks later with a sheriff's deputy standing in my driveway, pointing at something under my rear bumper with a flashlight and asking me very calmly if I had any enemies. I didn't. I still don't know if that matters. I live in Charlotte, and last spring I hit a stretch where work felt endless, and my apartment felt smaller every night. I wasn't in crisis. I wasn't trying to disappear. I just wanted to be outside with no notifications, no meetings, no noise except wind and water. Linville Gorge Wilderness, inside Pisgah National Forest, had been on my list for years. It is close

enough to reach after work, remote enough to punish bad planning, and famous enough that I told myself I wouldn't be alone out there. That last part was the lie I used to make it feel safe. I took Friday off and left early Thursday morning. I packed a normal weekend loadout, two-liter bladder, a filter, a small tent, headlamp, extra batteries, rain shell, first aid kit, topo map printed from a hiking site, and a cheap little canister stove. I threw everything in the back of my four-runner, drove north on I-77, cut over toward Morganton, and by mid-morning I was climbing into the mountains on twisting roads that kept narrowing until the tree line pressed in on both sides. By noon, I was on Old NC 105, the gravel road that runs along

the east rim. If you have never driven it, it looks harmless on a map and feels different behind the wheel. The road is rough, and the dust sits in the air, and there are stretches where you can't see around curves until you are already committed to them. There are pull-offs with battered wooden signs, and a few trailheads with small parking areas carved into the shoulder. Some cars look like they've been there since the 90s. Some look brand new, spotless, out of place. I aimed for the Wolf Pit Trailhead because I wanted to drop down to the Linville River

and camp near the water. The plan was simple. Hike in, camp one night, explore the river corridor Friday, then climb out Saturday morning and drive home before dark. I had done trips that exact length in other places without a problem. The trailhead lot was half full, maybe seven vehicles. A couple were older Subaru's. There was a Jeep with mud on the tires and a roof rack loaded with gear.

There was also a silver pickup that looked too clean for that road, parked crooked across two spots as if the driver did not care about anyone else. I parked at the edge, stepped out, and the first thing I noticed, was the smell, not the usual pine and dust, something sweeter, sharp, chemical. It came in a gust and then it was gone, as if it lived in one particular spot near the lot. I stood there with my door open, sniffed again, and tried to place it. It did not smell like gasoline. It did not smell like bug spray. It smelled like fresh paint and hot plastic. I told myself someone had spilled something in the bed of that clean pickup, and I started loading it.

my pack. That was when the man spoke from behind me. You going down to the river. I turned, and there was a guy leaning against the clean pickup. Mid-30s, sunburned neck, ball cap pulled low. No pack, no hiking shoes, just jeans and boots that looked new. He held a phone in one hand and kept tapping the screen with his thumb as if he was waiting for a signal. Yeah, I said, planning to camp Friday night. He nodded once, not friendly, not unfriendly, more like he was checking a box. Storm's coming. They were talking about it at the store.

I saw a chance of rain, I said. He shrugged. This place floods fast. People get stuck down there. Thanks, I said, because that is what you say, and I turned back to my pack. He didn't leave. I could feel him there without looking. Then he asked,

You alone. That one landed wrong. It wasn't the word itself. It was how quickly he asked it, how flat his voice stayed. Yeah, I said, and I regretted it the second it left my mouth. He smiled then, small and quick. Be careful. I should have moved trailheads.

I should have driven back up 105 and chosen a spot with more people, or even gone home. Instead, I did what I always do when something feels off and I don't have proof. I ignored it. I tightened straps, locked my car, shouldered my pack, and walked to the trail sign. Wolfpit drops steep right away. The first half mile is a steady descent through hardwoods, then it gets rocky, and you start hearing the river long before you see it. The canyon walls make everything feel enclosed even in broad daylight. I focused on footing and breathing and the normal rhythm of a hike. The deeper I went, the quieter my thoughts got, and that helped. About 40 minutes in, I passed two hikers coming up, a couple both wearing big packs.

They look tired, but not stressed. The woman said, River's up a little. And the man said, watch the rocks on that last section. Normal, friendly, nothing strange. Down near the bottom, the trail skirts a slope of loose rock and then runs along a flatter stretch. I reached the first clear view of the Linville River and stopped. The water was darker than I expected. moving with a steady push. It wasn't raging, but it wasn't low either. I watched for a minute,

checked my map, then continued down toward the area where the wolf pit meets the river corridor. I picked a campsite the way I always do, not right on the water, but close enough to hear it, away from dead limbs, a flat patch with some cover, and if possible, not in direct view of the trail. I found a spot behind a cluster of rhododendron, set my pack down, and started south. setting up. That was when I saw the cord. At first it looked like a vine, thin and pale, stretched between two saplings. It was at knee height and ran across a faint side path that led away from the main trail. The side path was not on my map. It wasn't marked. It looked used, though, the way leaves had been scuffed away. I crouched, reached out, and pinched the line

between my fingers. It was not a vine. It was clear monofilament, fishing line. It was a vine. It was clear monofilament, pulled tight enough that it hummed under my touch. Someone had tied it off cleanly around each sapling. If you walked through there without paying attention, it would hit you hard. It could cut skin. If it caught you in the throat at the wrong angle, it could do worse.

I stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out any innocent reason it would be there. It did not make sense for fishing. It wasn't near the water. It wasn't tied in a way that suggested someone was drunk, drawing a line. It was placed across a path, right where a person would step. I backed away, stood up slowly, and looked around. The woods were quiet in a way that made me aware of my own breathing. I listened for voices, footsteps, anything. I heard only river noise and wind and leaves. I left it

alone. I did not cut it. I did not touch it again. I moved my campsite 50 yards closer to the river where the ground opened up a little, and there were fewer hidden corners. I set my tent quickly and kept glancing toward that side path. By late afternoon, the light shifted and the gorge started to feel colder. Shadows got longer, and the air smelled damp. I filtered water, ate a freeze-dried meal, and tried to settle into that simple contentment I came for. Then, just before dusk, I heard something that did not belong. A short burst of engine noise, not a distant road, not a rumble on the rim. This was down in the gorge, close enough that I could hear it bounce off rock. It came and went in seconds, as if someone revved in ATV and then shut it off.

I froze with my spoon halfway to my mouth. The wilderness area has rules about motorized vehicles. People break rules everywhere, but the sound was wrong for a random trespasser. It sounded confident, familiar, as if whoever made it knew they wouldn't be challenged. I waited, listening, and after a minute I heard a second sound, lighter. A single metallic click. Then nothing. Night in Linville Gorge gets dark fast. The tree cover blocks left over light in the canyon holds shadow.

When my headlamp came on, it carved out a tight cone of visibility and left everything else black. I cleaned up, sealed my food, hung my bag, and zipped into my tent earlier than I wanted. I told myself it was because I needed rest. for the hike back out. It wasn't. Around 10, the rain started. It wasn't a gentle shower. It hit the leaves hard. The river noise deepened and I could tell the water was rising without seeing it. I lay on my sleeping pad and listened, trying to relax into the sound, but the earlier engine noise kept looping in my head. Sometime after midnight I heard footsteps, not on the main trail,

not crunching straight toward my camp. This was slow movement in the brush. careful enough that it wasn't obvious, but not careful enough to be silent. A shoe scuffed on rock. Leaves shifted. A stick cracked underweight. I held my breath and listened. The steps stopped. I waited for a voice to call out,

for a normal hiker to clear their throat and say they were passing through. No voice came. Instead, there was that same light metallic click I'd heard earlier, closer now. Then another, as if something was being tightened. My heart hit hard against my ribs. I reached for my headlamp and kept it off. I reached for my phone and checked it. No service.

I opened my map app anyway and watched the screen glow faintly. The footsteps moved again, this time farther away, then stopped. I lay there for a long time, sweating under my bag, listening to rain and river, and the occasional shift of something in the woods. Eventually my body forced sleep in shallow bursts. At first light I got up fast, packed up without making coffee, and scanned the ground around my campsite. The rain had softened the dirt. It held prints. There were marks near my tent that did not belong to me. Not deep boot prints, but light impressions of tread, as if someone stepped close, paused, then stepped away. They were hard to follow because the rain blurred them, but they were there, and they weren't on the trail.

They were in the brush line beside my tent, where someone would have been standing to look down at it. I stood there staring at the damp ground until my stomach turned. I left camp as soon as my gear was secured. I told myself I would hike up river where there were more established sites and more people. I figured I'd find a group, join the normal human presence, and shake this off. The river corridor trail is not a single clean footpath. It's a braided network of use trails. rock hops, and sections where you climb over roots and boulders. After an hour of moving, I stopped

to check my location. The gorge makes direction confusing. Everything looks similar. Steep walls, dense rhododendron, rock outcrops. That was when I found the abandoned pack. It sat upright against a log not soaked through, not dragged by water. A mid-sized backpacking pack green, with a rain cover half on, half off. A trekking pole lay beside it. A small. A small metal cup rested on top, as if someone said it there and walked away for a minute. I walked closer and called out, Hello? No answer.

I did it again, louder, still nothing. I crouched beside the pack and looked for any sign of a person nearby. The ground around it was trampled, but that could have been from someone setting up or breaking down. There was no tent, no sleeping bag, no obvious campsite, just the pack in that lone pole. I touched the shoulder strap lightly with two fingers. It was damp, but not cold-soaked. It had been there recently. I did not open it.

I did not dig through someone's things. Instead, I backed away, scanned the tree line, and called out again. Then I heard a reply, not close, not far. A man's voice thinned through the rain-soft air. Over here. Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed. I called back. I found a pack.

Are you okay? Yeah, the voice said. Come down toward the rocks. I slipped. I should have stayed put and asked more questions. I should have demanded they come to me. I didn't. I started moving toward the sound,

stepping carefully down a slick rock slope toward a cluster of boulders. The closer I got, the more I realized I didn't hear any struggle sounds. No labored breathing. No pain noise. Just that voice guiding me. I rounded a boulder and saw him.

He was standing, not sitting. He did not look injured. He wore a rain jacket and jeans, no pack, no trekking pole. His hands were empty. It was the man from the trailhead lot. He smiled as if we'd met at a coffee shop. Hey, my body went cold. I stopped so fast my boots skidded. I looked behind him for any sign of his truck down here, any sign of how he got to the river before me. There wasn't one. There was only woods and rock and water. What are you doing down here? He shrugged. I told you storms make it dangerous.

My mouth went dry. That pack back there. Is that yours? He glanced toward where I came from, then back to me. No. Then whose is it? He took one step closer and my body moved back on its own. People leave stuff.

You see it all the time. No, I said. My voice shook. Not set up like that. His smile faded. You always this suspicious? What do you want? I asked. He held his palms up. Nothing. Just checking on you. You're alone out here. Thought you might need help. I stared at him trying to reconcile the words with the reality. His eyes stayed on my packstraps, not my face. He was watching what I had. He was watching what I could do. I'm leaving, I said. He nodded slowly. Where are you headed? Back to the trailhead. I lied. smiled again, smaller.

Long climb. You tell yourself, no one wants your college-era band tease, but on Deepop, people are searching for exactly what you've got. You once paid a small fortune for them at merch stands. Now, a teenager who calls them vintage will offer that same small fortune back. Sell them easily on Deepop. Just snap a few photos and we'll take care of the rest. Who knew your questionable music taste would be a money-making machine?

Your style can make you cash. Start selling on Deepop, where Taste recognizes Taste. I took another step back, then another, keeping my eyes on him. My foot hit loose rock, and for a split second I wobbled. His head tilted. Careful. Something in that single word made me turn and move without further thought. I walked away fast, not running, because running would risk a fall,

and because running would tell him he was right to chase. I kept moving until the boulders blocked sight line. Then I ran. I did not stop until my lungs burned and my legs started to shake. I ended up on a section of trail I didn't recognize, higher than the river, with thick rhododendron pressing in on both sides. I checked my phone again. Still no service. I forced myself to breathe, to think. Going back up Wolfpit meant returning to the rim where his truck might be. Staying down here meant being trapped in a long, narrow corridor with dense cover and few exit routes. I needed people.

I needed a known trailhead with a chance of cell service. I pulled out my map and made a decision I regretted later. I would head south toward Linville Falls, toward the more tourist-heavy area near the Blue Ridge Parkway where hikers day trip and families take photos at overlooks. It was farther, but it felt safer than hiking straight back to the parking lot where I first saw him. For the next few hours I moved with a kind of focus I had never felt on a hike.

Every sense stayed sharpened. Every sound got filtered for threat. I checked behind me constantly. I stopped in places with clear sight lines and listened for footsteps. At one point I heard them. A steady crunch of movement on leaves behind me, matching my pace. Not close enough to see. Close enough to be real. I stopped abruptly and held still. The crunch stopped. I waited. My mouth tasted metallic. My hands went. My hands went. numb around my trekking poles. After a minute I heard a different sound off to my left. The shift of brush moving around me. I turned and pushed forward harder, climbing a steep section that took me up onto a ridge with exposed rock. Rain had lightened to a mist. The river was lower now, and I could see deeper into the gorge. Through the trees across the water I saw movement, a dark figure threading between trunks parallel to me. I froze. The figure paused. Even at that that distance I knew the posture, the squared shoulders, the way he stood as if waiting for me to commit to a direction. I backed away from the rock edge and moved again, staying undercover,

keeping my eyes on the opposite bank whenever I could. He stayed with me, sometimes visible, sometimes gone. I tried to tell myself there was an innocent explanation. There wasn't. Late afternoon brought the first real twist, the kind that makes your brain stall because it changes the rules. I came around a bend and saw a uniformed man standing on the trail. Green shirt, tan pants, a radio on his shoulder, a badge patch, a brimmed hat damp with rain, a ranger. Relief hit me so hard my knees weakened. I almost laughed again, the way your body tries to release pressure. I stepped toward him and started talking too fast. Thank God, I said. I need help. There's a guy down here following me. I think he can.

came from the Wolf Pit lot. He keeps showing up. I found a pack by the river and... The Ranger raised a hand. Slow down. I stopped and tried to breathe. He studied my face, then looked past me down the trail. You say someone's following you? Yes, I said. He's on the other side of the river sometimes. He keeps tracking my position. The Ranger nodded, calm. Where's your vehicle? Wolfpit, I said, then correct. I expected myself because my plan had changed. Old NC 105, Wolf Pit Trailhead. He frowned slightly. That's not where you're headed now. No, I said. I'm trying to get to Linville Falls. More people. He glanced at his watch and then back up. You're a long way from there. You camping tonight. No, I said. I'm leaving. He nodded again, as if he approved. Then he pointed down a side trail that split off. There's a shorter way up. to the rim from here, takes you to a service road. My stomach tightened. The side trail he pointed to was narrow and overgrown, not the main corridor. It vanished into thick rhododendron.

I thought this was the main route, I said. It is, he said, still calm. But you're exposed down by the river. If somebody is messing with you, you need to get out. That cut gets you up fast. Something felt wrong, but I couldn't name it at first. His uniform looked right. His voice sounded right. He carried himself with authority. Then I noticed the detail that made my scalp prickle. His boots were clean, no mud, no leaf litter, no scuffed leather. In that wet terrain, after hours on trail, boots would show it. Even rangers get dirty. He saw me looking and his expression changed, a tightness around his eyes. You got a problem? he asked. I just want to go to Linville Falls, I said. He stepped closer.

You said you need help. I do, I said. I'd rather stay on the main trail. His jaw worked. Main trail takes longer. You'll be in the dark. I have a headlamp, I said. His eyes flick to my chest strap, then to my pockets.

Phone working? No service, I said. He nodded, and for a second he looked almost bored. Then his voice hardened. Come with me. Every alarm in my body fired at once. I stepped back. No.

He moved fast. His hand shot out toward my shoulder strap, trying to grab the pack and pull me off balance. I jerked away and swung one trekking pole hard, not at his face, but at his hands. The tip hit his wrist. He hissed and grabbed for me again. I turned and ran. Branches slapped my arms and face. I pushed through wet leaves and dropped down a small embankment, half sliding, catching myself on roots. Behind me I heard him crashing through brush, heavy footsteps. No one. attempt at stealth now. He shouted something that sounded like my name, which made no sense because I

had not told him my name. I ran harder. I broke through the rhododendron and hit open rock again, near the river. I almost fell, corrected, and kept moving along the waterline where footing was slick. I heard him behind me, then farther, then behind again. He was trying to cut angles. I did the only thing I could think of. I headed straight into the loudest, roughest terrain. the places where I could see all around me and where an ambush would be harder. That meant boulder fields, slippery rock, exposed ledges. It also meant risk. I accepted it.

By the time the light started to fade, I had put enough distance between us that I could not hear him anymore. I did not assume that meant safety. I assumed he was waiting. I found a spot under a rock overhang, not a real shelter, just a lip that gave me some cover. I did not set up my tent. I didn't want a visible target. I pulled my rain shell tight, tucked in against stone, and forced myself to stay awake. Night came fully, and with it the second wave of rain. Sometime after midnight, a headlamp beam cut across the opposite bank. It moved slowly, scanning the tree line. It stopped on my side of the river for a long time. I kept my light off,

kept my phone screen dark, kept my breathing shallow. I did not move. Eventually the beam shifted away and disappeared. I stayed there until the sky started to lighten again. At dawn, I moved with one goal. Reach a place where my phone would connect. I didn't care about comfort or scenic views. I cared about signal.

I climbed. The gorge punishes climbs. Trails go straight up, switchbacks rare, footing loose. My calves burned. My hands cramped from grabbing roots. I slipped once and scraped my shin open. I didn't stop. I kept going until the trees thinned,

and I started seeing brighter sky through branches. At the top, I hit a dirt service road. The kind used for forest access, not a public highway. It ran along the rim and disappeared around a bend. I stepped onto it and felt exposed in a different way. No cover, no hiding. If someone was up here with a vehicle, they had advantage. I checked my phone, one bar, then two.

I tried to dial 911 and the call failed. I tried again. It rang once, then cut. I moved a few steps, held the phone up, tried again. This time it connected. I gave my location as best I could, describing Old NC 105, Wolfpit area, service road on the rim, and the fact that I believed someone was following me and had impersonated a ranger. The dispatcher's voice stayed steady.

She asked if I was injured. She asked if I could see any vehicles. She told me to stay on the road in an open area, not to go back down, and to keep my line open. I stood there with rain dripping off my hat brim, staring down the road. Ten minutes later, I saw a vehicle. A green pickup came around the bend moving slow. It stopped about 60 yards away. The driver's side door opened.

The man from the trailhead stepped out. No pack, no rain jacket, same jeans and boots. He stood beside the truck and looked at me with that small smile. My throat closed. I backed away, phone pressed to my ear, and the dispatcher heard it in my voice before I said a word. He's here, I whispered. He's in a green pickup on the road.

He's looking at me. Do not approach him, she said. Stay where you are if you can do so safely. Help is coming. The man lifted one hand, palm out, a friendly wave. Then he walked back to his truck. got in and drove away, slow enough that it felt like a message. It took law enforcement almost an hour to reach me. It felt longer.

By the time a Burke County deputy pulled up, I was shaking so hard I couldn't hold my water bottle. I told him everything, the fishing line, the abandoned pack, the man by the rocks, the fake ranger, the headlamp beam at night, the green pickup on the rim. He listened, asked questions, and kept looking down the road as if expecting some of someone to come back. Two other vehicles arrived, a sheriff's SUV and an unmarked truck with a wildlife officer. They drove me back to the Wolf Pit lot to get my car. When we reached the lot, my forerunner sat where I left it.

Nothing looked disturbed, no broken glass, no obvious tampering. Then the deputy asked, do you have anything under your car that shouldn't be there? I crouched and looked. There was a small black device attached to the frame near the rear bumper, held in place with a magnet. It was about the size of a deck of cards. A tiny light blinked once every few seconds. The deputy didn't touch it. He told me to stand up and step back. The wildlife officer took a photo, then used gloves to remove it and place it in a bag. A tracker, the deputy said, not surprised. My mouth opened and nothing came out. He asked again if I had enemies, if I had a restraining order

against anyone. If I had made anyone angry, if anyone knew I would be here. I told him no, because that was the truth, and because the alternative was worse, that this wasn't personal at all. They took my statement. They walked the lot and looked for cameras. There were none. They asked nearby hikers if they had seen a green pickup. One person said they saw one driving fast on Old NC 105 earlier that morning. Another said they saw a clean silver pickup parked crooked the day before but didn't remember the plate. The abandoned pack became a separate case. Search teams went down to the river corridor and found it where I described. It belonged to a man from Hickory who had been reported overdue by his sister. His wallet was still inside. His keys were still inside. There was no sign of him

anywhere nearby. The fishing line was still stretched across that side path. They photographed and removed it. Further down the corridor, they found two more lines set at chest height across faint trails. They found a crude trail camera strapped to a tree facing one of the crossings, hidden behind leaves. The SD card was missing. The deputy drove behind me as I left Old NC 105, escorting me out to the paved road. He told me not to stop until I hit Morganton. He told me to check my car again when I got home, and to call if I noticed. anything odd. For a few days I told myself I was done with it. I slept in my own bed. I went back to work. I tried to turn it into a story I could file away as a close call. Then, a week later,

I walked out to my car in my apartment parking lot and saw a zip tie looped around my driver's side door handle. It wasn't tight. It didn't prevent the door from opening. It sat there as a marker. My skin went cold the same way it did on that river trail. I walked back upstairs and called the deputy's number from the card he gave me. He came out with another officer and took photos. He asked my neighbors if they saw anyone near my car. Nobody had. That night I didn't sleep.

Two nights after that I got an email from an address I didn't recognize. No subject line, no name. The message body contained one thing, a set of coordinates. I did not click anything. I did not reply. I copied the coordinates into a map app and looked. They pointed to a spot off old NC 105, not far from the Wolf Pit Trailhead. I forwarded the email to the deputy and told him I didn't know what it meant.

He called me back and asked, Did you tell anyone about the tracker besides law enforcement? No, I said. I told my brother I had a bad hike. That's it. He went quiet for a moment, then said, Stop hiking alone for a while. I laughed once, sharp and humorless.

Yeah, a few days later he and another deputy came to my place. They asked if they could inspect my car again. I said yes. That was when they found the second device. A smaller one tucked near the wheel well, wrapped in black tape with no visible light. The deputy shook his head slowly. This one didn't come from the gorge, he said.

What do you mean? I mean somebody had access to your vehicle after you got home. My throat closed again. I stared at my own parking lot as if it had become a foreign place, a space where anything could happen because I never paid attention. They took the device. They filed another report. They told me to park under a light and to vary my routine.

They suggested a camera facing my spot. They asked again about my contacts, my work, my online presence. I told them I wasn't anyone. I wasn't special. The deputy gave me a look that I still think about. people do this for reasons he said sometimes the reason is money sometimes it's control sometimes it's practice practice for what i asked he didn't answer directly he just said if you get another message call me right away the email address never contacted me again i never got another set of coordinates nobody ever knocked on my door nobody ever tried to break in the zip tie never came back what did come back was my own attention, the kind that doesn't turn off. For months after, I checked my mirrors more than I used to. I watched parked cars longer than normal. I paid attention to men in ball caps at gas stations.

I listened to footsteps behind me in grocery store aisles and refused to laugh it off. The missing hiker from Hickory was never found. Search efforts in the gorge pulled up nothing but rumors and frustration. The official story stayed clean. Overdue hiker. Difficult to rain. Bad weather. That is the kind of place where a person can vanish without proof of a crime. The deputy called me once about two months later to tell me they had identified the green pickups plate

through a blurry photo taken by a passing driver's dash cam on a nearby road. The truck belonged to a man with an address in Marion. When they went to the address, the place was empty. The man had moved. Nobody knew where. The deputy didn't sound. shocked. He sounded tired. The last thing he said to me before hanging up was,

you did one thing right, you kept moving. I replay that sentence whenever I think about the gorge and the way the river sounded at night and the way that headlamp beam paused across the water. I also think about the fake ranger's voice saying my name in the woods and how my body reacted before my mind caught up. I still hike, I still go outdoors. I don't let this take that from me. But I But I don't go alone anymore, and I don't walk past fishing line stretched across a trail and tell myself it is nothing. If I smell hot plastic in a parking lot, I turn around.

If a stranger asks if I'm alone, I lie. Some places are beautiful and dangerous for reasons you can predict. Weather, cliffs, water, distance. And some places are dangerous because there are people who go there to do things they don't want witnesses for. If you ever end up on Old NC 105, and you see a clean peatheas, pickup parked crooked in a dusty lot, and you catch a chemical smell that doesn't belong in the woods. Don't try to be polite about it. Get back in your vehicle and leave.

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I've tried telling my sister, my therapist, and the park ranger at Batstow Village, and none of them believe me. My therapist thinks I had a dissociative episode. The ranger told me there's no record of me ever signing in at the trailhead. My sister just keeps saying I need to sleep. But I have the photographs. I have the journal.

and I have three weeks of my life that I cannot account for, so someone needs to hear this, and I need you to take it seriously. My name is Ed Lloyd. I'm 27. I work as a freelance nature photographer based out of Trenton, New Jersey. I've been doing this for 11 years, shooting for outdoor magazines, tourism boards, that kind of thing. I've camped alone more times than I can count. Dolly Sods in West Virginia, Harriman State Park in New York, Ricketts Glen up in Pennsylvania,

I've done solo overnights in places that would make most people nervous, and I've never once felt genuinely afraid. That changed on October 4th, 2024. I'd been wanting to do a long weekend shoot in the Pine Barons for over a year. If you're not from New Jersey, you might not know what the Pine Barons are. It's over a million acres of dense forest in the southern part of the state. Pitch Pines, Atlantic White Cedar, Sand Roads, and cranberry bogs. It's the largest stretch of open land on the Mid-Atlantic seaboard, and parts of it are so remote that you can walk for hours without seeing another person.

There are ghost towns in there, whole communities that were abandoned in the 1800s. Iron furnaces rusted into nothing. Foundations of houses consumed by moss. You can feel the emptiness when you're out there. It's not a feeling I can describe precisely, but if you've ever stood in a place where people used to live, and don't anymore. You know what I'm talking about. I drove down from Trenton on a Friday morning, took Route 206 south, then cut over to Batstow Village on Route 542. Batstow is this preserved colonial town inside Wharton State Forest, right on the edge of the Barrens. There's a visitor

center, a mansion, a general store, the old iron furnaces. It's where most people enter the forest if they're doing any serious hiking on the Batona Trail. I signed in a at the trailhead, or at least I'm certain I did, despite what the ranger says, and I headed southeast on foot with three days' worth of food, my Canon R5, three lenses, a tripod, and a one-person tent. The first two hours were ordinary. The Batona Trail is well marked with pink blazes on the trees, easy to follow, not technical at all. The forest floor is sandy, the pitch pines are short and scrubby, and they grow in these tight clusters that block out a lot of light even during the day. I passed a few day hikers going the other direction, nodded at them. Nobody said anything memorable.

I set up camp about four miles in at a clearing just off the trail near a cranberry bog. I've seen this spot on maps. It's not an official campsite, but backcountry camping is allowed throughout Wharton State Forest, so it's not unusual for people to set up there. I spent rest of Friday afternoon shooting, got some good frames of the bog at Golden Hour, some close-ups of sundew plants. They're carnivorous, these tiny little things with sticky red tendrils, and a great blue heron that was standing completely still in about two inches of water. I ate a freeze-dried meal, hung my bear bag, more for raccoons than bears out there, and got in my tent around eight. Here's where it starts. I woke up at 2.14 a.m.

I know the time because I checked my phone immediately. Something had woken me up, but I wasn't sure what. The forest was completely silent, which was unusual. Usually at night in the barons you hear owls, insects, the occasional rustle of something moving through the underbrush. But there was nothing, no sound at all. I lay there in my sleeping bag and listened for maybe five minutes. Then I heard footsteps.

They were coming from the east side of my campsite, maybe 30 yards out. Slow, steady, crunching through the sandy soil and pine needles. I figured it was a deer. White-tailed deer are everywhere in the pine barons. I actually reached for my camera, thinking I might get a decent shot if I opened the tent flap and used my headlamp for illumination. But as I was unzipping the tent, the footsteps stopped. And then they started again, from the west side.

Same pace, same cadence. Now, that's not physically possible, unless whatever was walking had crossed my entire campsite in silence in less than two seconds. I sat very still. The footsteps continued for another minute, circling around to the north side of my camp, and then they stopped again. I told myself it was too dear.

That was the obvious explanation. Two deer, one on each side, and my half-awake brain had stitched them together into a single set. of footsteps. I zipped the tent back up, put in my earplugs, and went back to sleep. Saturday morning was clear and cool. I made coffee on my camp stove and packed up to move deeper into the forest. I wanted to get to an area called the Carranza Memorial, which is this stone monument in the middle of the woods marking where a Mexican aviator crashed his plane in 1928. It's about a six-mile hike from where I was camped. Good light in that area, lots of open sky. I found the other camps

site about two miles in. It was just off the trail, maybe 50 feet into the trees on the north side. I almost didn't see it, but a flash of blue caught my eye, a tarp, partially collapsed, strung between two pines. Underneath the tarp was a sleeping pad, a small dry bag and a journal, no tent, no food, no pack, just those four things arranged neatly on the ground. The site didn't look abandoned in the usual sense. There was no trash, no fire ring, no sign that animals had gotten into anything. It looked like someone had set up, left those items behind on purpose, and walked away. The sleeping pad was clean and dry. The dry bag was sealed. I know I shouldn't have opened the journal. That's someone else's property. But something about the whole setup felt wrong.

There was no indication of where the person had gone, or when they'd left. And I was thinking about safety. What if someone was heard out there, and this was their last known position? I figured the journal might have useful information. It was a moleskin, the large kind, with a black cover. The first entry was dated September 12th, no year, just September 12th. The handwriting was small, precise, in black ink. I stood there by the collapsed tarp and started reading. The first few entries were normal. The writer described entering the pine barons from Batstow village, same as me, and hiking south on the Batona Trail. They wrote about the plants, the quality of the light, the silence. They mentioned photographing sundew plants,

which I found coincidental, but not alarming. They described setting up camp near a cranberry bog. They described a great blue heron standing in shallow water. I stopped reading for a moment. I stopped reading for a I looked around the clearing. The trees pressed in on all sides, their branches interlocking overhead. Nothing moved. I went back to the journal. The entry for September 15th was different. Heard my own voice last night, the writer had put down,

coming from the southeast past the bog. At first I thought I was dreaming, but I was fully awake, sitting up in my sleeping bag. It said my name, not someone calling to me. my voice saying my name the way i would say it to introduce myself i don't know what to do with this i packed up this morning and moved north september 16th it happened again this time from the west my voice but the words don't make sense it's fragments things i've said before at other times in other places a sentence i said to my mother on the phone last week something i said to a cashier at the gas station before

I drove down here. Exact words. I am going to keep moving. September 17th. I found a campsite today. My tarp is there. My sleeping pad. My bag. But I'm carrying all of those things right now. I'm looking at duplicates of my own gear, laid out neatly on the ground, 50 feet off the trail. I don't understand this. I don't understand this at all. I closed the journal. I need to explain something. When I read that entry, September 17th, I was standing next to a blue tarp, a sleeping pad, and a dry bag. I was carrying a blue tarp, a sleeping pad, and a dry bag. Different brands, different sizes, but the same configuration, the same items. I put the journal in my pack. I know that was wrong, but I was not going to leave it there. I needed to read the rest of it somewhere that

wasn't those woods, and I needed to think. I didn't go to the Carranza Memorial. I changed direction and headed east instead, toward the fire roads that grid through Wharton State Forest. I figured I'd hit a road within an hour or two, find my bearings, and loop back to where I'd parked at Batstow. I was rattled, but I wasn't panicking. I've read enough campfire horror stories to know that most of them have ordinary explanations. The journal was unsettling, but it could have been fiction. someone might have left it there as a game, a prank, a piece of experiential storytelling meant to scare hikers. That's what I told myself. I hit the fire road about 90 minutes later, Quaker Bridge Road, which runs north-south through the middle of the forest.

It's unpaved, just sand, barely wide enough for one vehicle. I turned north and started walking. The road was empty, no cars, no tire tracks, no footprints. just pine trees on both sides, stretching away in every direction, and the road cutting through them in a straight line. I walked for about 45 minutes. Then I saw the man. He was standing on the east side of the road, maybe 200 yards ahead of me, just off the shoulder

where the trees started. He was facing my direction, but not moving. I raised a hand and waved. He didn't wave back. I kept walking. As I got closer, I could see more detail. He was wearing a green canvas jacket, the old-fashioned kind, and brown boots. His hair was dark.

He had a small pack on his back. He was standing very still, his arms at his sides, and he was watching me approach. I called out when I was about 50 yards away. Hey, you hiking? He didn't answer. I slowed down. Something in my gut was telling me to stop. Not to turn around, not yet, but to stop walking toward this person and assess the situation.

He was too still. People shift their weight, scratch their face, adjust their pack straps. This man was standing the way a mannequin stands. Then he turned and walked into the trees. Not quickly, not running. He just turned 90 degrees to the right and walked into the pine forest at a normal pace. And within about 15 seconds, the trees had swallowed him up. I stood there on the fire road and watched the spot where he'd entered the tree line. Nothing moved. No sound of footsteps, no cracking branches. He was just gone. I kept walking north. I walked faster. I reached Batstow Village around three in the afternoon. The parking lot was mostly empty, just my car and two others. The visitor center was closed, which was odd for a Saturday.

I went straight to my car, a gray Subaru outback that I'd parked in the northwest corner of the lot. It was where I'd left it. But when I got close, I noticed something. The car was covered in pine pollen, a thick, yellowish-green film on the hood, the roof, the windshield, and layered on top of the pollen were pine needles. Not a few. A dense mat of them, covering the entire vehicle, stuck in the wiper blades, piled along the base of the windshield. My car looked like it had been sitting there for weeks.

I'd been gone for one night. I brushed the needles off, got in, and drove. I didn't stop at the Ranger Station. I didn't sign out. I just drove north on Route 542, then picked up 206 toward Trenton, and I didn't pull over until I was in a Wawa parking lot in Medford with other people, and fluorescent lights, and the sound of traffic. I sat in my car and opened the journal.

I read the rest of it. The entries after September 17th, became increasingly fragmented. The handwriting deteriorated. The sentences got shorter. Let me just give you the relevant parts, because I've read this thing 50 times now, and I've practically memorized it. September 18th, found a fire road, walked north, saw someone standing at the tree line. They were watching me. When I got close, they walked into the forest. Green jacket, dark hair, didn't speak. September 19th, back at the trailhead. My car is covered in pollen and hindles. It shouldn't be. I've only been out here two days. September 20th.

Something is wrong with the dates. My phone says October. My phone says I've been gone for three weeks. That's not right. I'm going home. September 21st, the last entry. I got home. Everything in my apartment is the same. My mail has piled up by the front door. 23 days of mail. My neighbor asked where I've been. She said she almost called the I don't remember 23 days. I remember four. I'm writing this down because I need a record. I need proof that I'm not losing my mind. If you find this journal, if you're reading this in the Pine Barrens, leave. Get in your car and drive away and don't go back. Something is wrong with that place. Something is wrong with the time there. I sat in the Wawa parking lot and read

that last entry three times. Then I checked the date on my phone. It was October 27th. I had driven down to Bato on October 4th. I had spent what I experienced as one night in the forest. But according to my phone, 23 days had passed. 23 days. I called my sister. She picked up on the second ring and immediately started talking before I could say anything.

Ed, where the hell have you been? I've been calling you for three weeks. Mom is freaking out. We almost filed a missing person's report. I told her I'd been camping. one night in the Pine Barrens. She went quiet for a long time. Then she said, Ed, it's been 23 days. When I got home to my apartment in Trenton, everything was exactly as the journal had described. Mail piled up inside the front door. My plants were dead. The milk in my fridge had

expired. My landlord had left two notes under my door asking if I was all right. The world had moved on by 23 days, and I had not moved with it. I didn't go back to the pine. Barrens, not intentionally, but three days after I got home, I developed the photos from my Canon R5. I'd shot about 200 frames during what I experienced as a single day and night in the forest. The first hundred or so were fine, the bog, the sundew plants, the heron, standard nature photography. But the last hundred frames were not mine. I need to be very clear about this. I did not take these photographs. I have no memory. of taking them. They were on my camera, shot with my equipment, but I did not press the shutter button

for any of them. The last hundred photographs were all taken at night. They were all shot from the same position, from inside a tree line, looking out at a clearing. And in every single... This episode is brought to you by Netflix's remarkably bright creatures. What if a Pacific octopus held the key to a mystery that could heal your heart? Well, that's Tova's reality. An elderly widow working at an aquarium, Tova forms an unlikely friendship with their crumudgeonly Marcellus, whose remarkable intelligence leads her to a life-changing discovery. Watch remarkably bright creatures with your remarkable moms this Mother's Day weekend. Only on Netflix May 8th.

Spring just slid into your DMs. Grab that boho look for that rooftop dinner, those sandals that can keep up with you, and hang some string lights to give your patio a glow up. Spring's calling. Ross, work your magic. The first frame, the subject was the same. It was me. I was asleep, in my tent, with the flap partially open.

The shots were taken over what the XIF data said was a span of 22 nights. October 5th through October 26th, every night, between one and five frames, all from the same angle, all showing me asleep in my tent in a clearing in the Pine Barrens. For 22 nights, something stood at the edge of my end. campsite and took photographs of me with my own camera while I slept, and I have no memory of any of it. I went to the police. They looked at the photos, took my statement, and said they'd investigate. An officer from the New Jersey State Park Police drove down to Wharton State Forest and checked the area where I said I'd camped. He found nothing. No tent, no campsite, no tarp, no sleeping pad,

no sign that anyone had been there. He told me the trailhead sign-in sheet had no entry under my name for October. He was polite about it, but I could tell he thought I was either lying or unwell. My therapist suggested a dissociative fugue. She said extreme stress can cause a person to lose days or even weeks, to travel without awareness, to act normally without forming memories. She said the photographs could have been taken by me during a fugue state, that I might have set up a timer or a trigger mechanism.

and photographed myself without conscious awareness of doing so. I considered that. I wanted to believe it. But there's a problem with that theory, and it's the thing that keeps me awake at night. The photographs are not taken from ground level. They're taken from approximately seven feet up. The angle is consistent across all 22 nights.

The camera was always at the same height, pointed downward at my tent from inside the tree line. I am 5'10. In order to hold my Canon R5 at 7 feet and point it downward through the trees at a consistent angle, I would need to be standing on something. There was nothing to stand on. The forest floor in that area is flat sand. And there's one more thing.

In 17 of the 100 photographs, just barely visible at the left edge of the frame, there is a hand. Not my hand. It's gripping a pine branch, pulling it aside to create a clear line of sight to my tent. The hand is pale. The fingers are very long, and in every frame where it appears, it is in exactly the same position, holding the same branch at the same angle, as if the owner of that hand stood in one spot for 22 consecutive nights without moving. I've zoomed in on that hand more times than is healthy. I've stared at it on my monitor, my phone, printed enlargements. It is not a normal hand. The proportions are wrong. The fingers are too long by at least two inches compared to an average human hand, and the wrist where it disappears behind the tree trunk is too narrow. The skin is smooth.

There are no wrinkles, no knuckles, no visible veins. It doesn't look injured or diseased. It just doesn't look right. I went back to the journal one more time, looking for anything I might have missed. And in the very back, on the inside of the rear cover, written in pencil so faint that I'd missed it the first several times, there were four ones. were four words. It keeps the time. I don't know what that means. I've thought about it constantly for months. I've tried to parse it every possible way. It keeps the time. The thing in the forest,

whatever stood at my campsite for 22 nights, keeps the time, the time I lost. The 23 days that I experienced as one, it keeps them, it has them. They're with it, in the trees, in the pine barrens, in that impossible silence at two in the morning when everything goes still and the footsteps start. Here's the part that scares me the most, and it's the reason I'm telling you this right now, instead of waiting any longer. It's been four months since I came back from Wharton State Forest. I've gone back to work. I've tried to rebuild my routine. I take my medication. I see my therapist every Tuesday. I sleep with the lights on, which I know is pathetic, but I do anyway. Three weeks ago, I found pine needles in my bed, not one or two, a handful, fresh, green,

fragrant, the kind that only grow on pitch pines in the southern New Jersey pine barons. They were under my pillow. My apartment is on the third floor of a building in downtown Trenton. There are no pine trees within two blocks of my building. I have no explanation for how they got there. Two weeks ago, I woke up at 2.14 a.m. I checked my phone immediately because that time means something to me now. The apartment was silent. I lay there in the dark and listened. And from outside my bedroom window, three stories up, I heard footsteps, slow, steady, crunching through something that sounded very much like sand and pine needles. They circled from the east side to the west side without pause. I did not. I did not. I did not. I did not. I was a little bit of something that sounded very much like sand and pine needles. I did not. I did not. I wasing through something. I was something. They circled from something. They circled from something. They were they something. They were they sand and pine needles. They circled from the east side to the west side without pause. I did not look out the window. I will not look out the window. I know what's out there. I've seen its hand. Last Tuesday, I came home from my therapist's office and found my front door unlocked. I always lock it, always. I stepped inside, and everything was normal.

Nothing disturbed, nothing missing. But sitting on my kitchen table placed neatly. in the center was a moleskin journal, black cover, large size. It was not the journal I'd found in the pine barons. That one is in a Ziploc bag in my closet. This was a new journal. I opened it. The first page had a single entry in handwriting that I recognized as my own, in a date format I recognized as my own, describing a trip to the Pine Barrens that I have no memory of taking. It was dated three days from now. I'm sitting in my apartment right now. It's 1147 p.m. on a Monday. I have every lock engaged. The lights are on in every room. I'm writing this because I need someone, anyone, to know what happened to me and what I think is about to happen again. Because here's what I've

figured out, and I wish I hadn't. The journal I found in the forest, the one that described everything that happened to me before it happened to me, was written by me. The handwriting is mine. I compared it. Letter by letter, character by character, the slant and spacing and the way I cross my T's from left to right with a slight uptick at the end. It's my handwriting. I wrote that journal.

I just haven't written it yet. Whatever is in the Pine Barons took 23 days from me the first time. It's been leaving me messages, the pine needles, the footsteps, the new journal, and all of them point to the same conclusion. It's calling me back. And when I go back, because I think I will go back, because I think I'm going to wake up one morning on the sand floor of the forest with no memory of driving there, I'm going to lose more time.

And during that time, I'm going to write a journal, and I'm going to leave it at a collapsed campsite just off the Batona Trail for the next person to find. The next person might be you. If you're in the Pine Barrens right now, If you're reading this on your phone at a campsite near a cranberry bog with a great blue heron standing in the shallows, I need you to do what the journal told me to do, and what I was too foolish to follow. Leave. Get in your car. Drive away. Don't look back at the tree line. Don't stop until you're surrounded by people and concrete and noise. And for God's sake, if you wake up at 2.14 a.m. and the forest goes silent. Do not open your tent. Don't let it see your face. It already knows your name.

Update February 3rd, 2025. I don't remember writing the above account. I found it saved as a draft in my email, addressed to no one, dated January 14th. According to my phone, today is February 3rd. According to my sister, I've been unreachable for 20 days. There is sand in my shoes, pine resin on my hands, and a new moleskin journal in my backpack that I've never seen before. It's filled cover-to-cover in my handwriting.

I haven't read it yet. I'm afraid to count the days. I'm afraid of what it kept this time.