Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Got Stranded at a Remote Campground. My Friend Whispered, “They’re Here.”

Episode Date: August 28, 2026

Listen to over 100 exclusive bonus stories with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. ⁠⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠��⁠ – fresh roasted-to-order coffee delivered straight to your door! Use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at ⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Shopify: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns Author:  J.D. Simpson * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Sometimes the best way to understand a service is to hear from the people who have actually used it. BetterHelp makes that simple. Head to BetterHelp.com slash reviews, where customer feedback is updated every day and hundreds of people share what their experience with therapy has been like. BetterHelp currently has an average live therapy session rating of 4.9 out of 5 across more than 1.7 million client's session reviews.

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That's why every step and dollar raised matters. On September 19th, join thousands in Toronto for the Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation walk. Challenge yourself, friends, and family to walk 21 kilometers in support of life-saving research. Together, we can carry the fire and help create a world free from the fear of cancer. Register today at pmcf walk.ca. Your playlist might get you through the workday, but have you ever wondered how your ancestors spent theirs? What work helped them build a life?

How did they adapt as the world around them changed? With ancestry, you can search select historical occupational records for free for a limited time and discover the stories behind the jobs in your family tree. You've got questions. We've got ancestors. Search free until August 31st. Visit Ancestry.CA for details. Terms apply. In today's story, three young travelers find an old flyer for a hidden RV park deep in Appalachia.

The slogan reads, welcome the little ones. At first, the place seems strange but harmless, broken lawn ornaments, quiet campers, and a naked man named Cleve. But by the next morning, their tires are flat, one of them is missing, and the people who live there already seem to know what's coming. But before we get into it, if you enjoy scary stories like this, be sure to like and subscribe so you never miss any of our weekly uploads. Now, let's get into today's story.

All of this happened the summer I turned 23, right around the time that being young and carefree had started to lose its luster. I'd decided that I was going to have one last great adventure, and then I'd settle down, stop shirking my responsibilities, and get serious about being an adult. The problem was, I had no idea what that great adventure should be. While I waited for something to materialize, I made ends meet by working at a dingy music shop downtown. And that was where I met May. I was shelving some records when she stopped to ask about one of the band patches on my jacket.

She was a big fan, she said, and wanted to know if we had any of their albums in stock. I stammered some reply, unable to believe that this beautiful girl shared my exact taste in music. We chatted for the rest of my shift and then kept right on going, walking around that sad, rusted outside of town, until we were both hungry and exhausted. We got some tacos, shared an awkward hug good night, and made plans to meet in the park on the weekend. I couldn't wait. I had to see her again. That Saturday dawned bright and clear, perfect for the picnic that May had suggested. I whistled as I walked up the hill where we'd arranged to meet. In my head, I was already planning our future together.

Then I spotted her, sitting on a plaid blanket in a yellow sun dress with a bright smile on her face. She wasn't alone. The guy beside her introduced himself as Jacob. May explained that he was another friend she had met recently, and that they were planning a road trip together. I tried to ignore the adoring way that May looked at the guy while he explained what he had in mind.

Jacob said he wanted to see the side of Appalachia that wasn't featured on any postcard. He said he wanted to get back to his roots and visit the hollers his grandparents had called home. I was skeptical. Jacob's ancestors might have been mountain men, but the guy himself was a skinny redhead from Cleveland, whose only accomplishment in life, as far as I could tell, was an unfinished English literature degree. His plan was to fix up one of his uncle's broken-down vans for the journey. Secretly, I was relieved. Jacob struck me as the type who was too lazy to light his own blunt,

and I didn't think he had it in him to renovate a vehicle. Then, a few weeks later, I got a call from May. Jacob had invited us both out to his uncle's farm to take a look at something. The battered blue van didn't look like much, but inside, we found fold-out beds, wall storage, even a mini kitchen. Hand-sown paisley curtains hung in the windows. May was more smitten with Jacob than ever, and even I was grudgingly impressed. Together, we sat down to plan our route. We poured over old maps and battered library travel guides, searching for possible destinations

and places to spend the night. If anyone had told us that in a few years a cell phone would be about to do it all for us, we never would have believed them. We left 10,000, the following morning. With warm cups of coffee in our hands and dawn still a few hours off, the empty roads felt like they belonged to us. As cozy as it all was, I couldn't help but second guess myself. On the other side of the rain's splattered windshield, familiar landmarks gave way to empty countryside and tiny towns with odd-sounding names. How well do I really know these people? I wondered, and had I made a mistake by trusting them so quickly? An arm wrapped around my neck. I looked up with a start. May was pulling Jacob and I into a hug. Until she met

the pair of us, she explained, she'd had nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of working the cash register in the grocery store owned by her controlling Chinese parents. Ever since, she'd graduated high school two years before, she'd dreamed of doing something like this, and now it was finally happening. Jacob agreed. He wanted to sink his teeth into life, he said, to jab his fingers into its guts and experience everything that it had to offer. Following his lead, the three of us scrambled up limestone arches, skinny-dipped beneath moonlit waterfalls, and polished off more joints and packs of cheap beer than I could count.

Jacob's willingness to experiment at a dark side as well, however, one that I didn't fully become aware of until several days into our trip. We were camped illegally at some millionaires' empty Lakefront, summer house, watching Fourth of July fireworks burst over the dark water. I wandered off to drain my bladder, and on my return, I saw something glint in Jacob's hand, a pair of syringes. He and May already had their sleeves rolled up and their veins prepped. When I approached, they looked up at me like a pair of toddlers who'd been caught with stolen candy. I told them that I hoped they knew what they were doing, then trudged back up the shore to watch the colorful explosions alone.

I wasn't sure who I was more disgusted with, Jacob and May or myself for thinking better of them. I had lost so many friends to opiates already, and it sickened me to think that Jacob was about to go down that path, just to see how it felt. I must have spent hours just staring up at the night sky, wondering whether I'd made the right choice by coming with these two near strangers. By the time I returned, Jacob and May were crulled up in the back of the van. Whatever they'd taken, it had knocked them right out. Before I crawled into my sleeping bag, I held the back of my hand near their mouths to make sure they were both still breathing. The next morning, we stuffed ourselves with blueberry pancakes and bacon at a tiny mom-and-pop

restaurant, shaped like a log cabin. May and Jacob didn't say anything about whatever they had injected themselves with, and I didn't ask. They didn't seem any different, but for all I knew, this was only the. beginning. After breakfast, we went back to the van to perform what had become a morning ritual, laying out Jacob's huge map and going over the day's agenda. We rarely stuck to any plan, but it was important to know at least where we were going to spend the night. So far, we'd only found ourselves riding around those backwoods roads in search of a safe place to sleep once,

but once had been enough. I still remember that night, how all of those winding curves and skeletal trees had started to look the same, how even Jacob had gone quiet. We ended up parking at what seemed like an unofficial put-in to a driftwood-choked stream. The sound of a branch scratching against the window, if that's what it was, kept me up until dawn. None of us wanted a repeat of that night, which was why we decided to spend the last night of our trip at Shady Haven's RV park. All of us could use a real shower, we figured, and it was close to the whitewater rafting tour, that we had booked for the following morning. Jacob had a flyer for the place,

a crumpled, psychedelic thing illustrated with a bunch of eyes on a bright orange background. Shady Haven's RV Park Welcome the Little Ones, was the main tagline, followed by a description of the facilities, a mini-map,

and driving directions from the highway. Given how remote the place was, we made for it as soon as we finished buying supplies around mid-afternoon. Even so, The sun was already setting by the time we arrived. If I had known how important that drive would ultimately be, I would have paid more attention to the route.

There was a fast-flowing creek to our right for most of the journey. It was crossed at one point by an eerie, bone-white-covered bridge. Further on, we passed a shotgun-blasted marker for a road called Stokka's Fork. Someone had hung several plastic baby dollheads from it with fishing wire. None of it was any stranger than what we'd already seen in the backwood so far, but I couldn't help feeling uneasy as we turned down the steep gravel track that led to shady havens. The kitsy brown-and-white sign beside it made me feel like we were going to summer camp, but there was nothing bright or sunny about the view through the windshield.

The leaf cover overhead was so thick it felt like we were driving through a cave. Even though it was mid-July, the air was damp and cool. There was no sign-in station or office that I could see, only a moldy wooden notice board that featured a donation box and the same information we'd seen on the flyer. Welcome the little ones, I read again, this time on a hand-embroidered cloth banner that dangled from the board by a single nail. If that odd message implied that Shady Havens was kid-friendly, it wasn't very successful. When Jacob rolled down the window to slip a $5 bill into the donation, box, I didn't hear the excited shouts of children at play. In fact, I didn't hear anything at all.

I wondered whether we were the only ones here, or if the place was even still in business. The trees were so thick and tall that seeing more than just a short distance was difficult. But as we rounded the bend, I realized that I was dead wrong. Two and five Canadians will hear the words, you have cancer. That's why every step and dollar-raised matters. On September 19th, join thousands in Toronto for the Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation Walk. Challenge yourself, friends, and family to walk 21 kilometers in support of life-saving research. Together, we can carry the fire and help create a world free from the fear of cancer. Register today at pmcfwalk.ca.ca. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi,

classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, Check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. Tents were pitched in several of the campsites,

and at least eight RVs of varying types were backed into the overgrown parking. spaces, although I couldn't imagine how they had made it all the way down here. Through a gap in the trees, I spotted a small washroom and a picnic shelter, their roofs overgrown with moss. Further along was a rocky creek, which, I supposed, was the headwaters of the stream we'd seen earlier. Jacob parked in an empty space near the washroom. We spent several minutes just listening to the sounds of the place, burbling water, bird song, the wind and the canopy high above. Shady Havens lived up to its name. The gully had already sunk into the blue glow of twilight,

and I doubt it that any place down here ever received full sunlight. Maybe it was just the quiet or the gloomy light, but there was something skittish about how we began exploring the place, like small prey animals hesitant to leave their shelter. Shady Havens, it seemed, had been decorated by someone with the same, taste as whoever had hung those broken doll bits from the Stokas Fork road sign. Nomes, fairies, and other more unusual lawn ornaments were everywhere, but none seemed to be whole or cared for. The pink flamingos were missing legs. The colorfully haired troll dolls looked as though

they'd been scattered by a hurricane. Mushrooms grew from the empty eyes of a pair of miniature terracotta children. Wind chimes and psychedelically painted prayer flags hung from the branches overhead. The washroom and the tiny footbridge which crossed the stream were about as decrepit as the rest of it, but they still clearly saw a lot of use. I was wondering who maintained the place, and so few donations were enough to do it when someone stepped out from behind the dumpsters ahead. He was very large, very hairy, and wore nothing but a necklace of orange beads. The naked stranger introduced himself as Cleave. He said he'd been living at Shady Havens for seven years now and hoped we would enjoy our stay. Cleave gave us a big wink and reminded us that the

grounds were clothing optional. Then he invited us back to his battered, leaf-covered trailer. Jacob was considering the idea when May and I grabbed him by the wrists and led him away. Cleave gave us a big, toothless smile as he waved goodbye. I wasn't sure how we managed to make it back to the van before bursting into laughter. The twilight deepened. Camp buyers, bug zappers, and colorful patio lights flickered to life among the trees. We got to know Barry and Ethel, a retired couple two sights away from our own, and a young German backpacker named Eileen, who spent the night knitting by firelight. She didn't speak much English, but, like the rest of our quirky campmates, she seemed friendly enough. Exhausted as we were from the day's travels,

We decided that showers could wait until morning. As we fell asleep to the noises of frogs and night insects outside, May turned toward me and interlaced her fingers with mine. We were used to waking up to the sound of Jacob making breakfast on the fold-out range behind the van, but there was no sizzling bacon or bubbling oatmeal that morning. I rolled over with a groan to find that his sleeping bag was unzipped and empty. What little I could see of the sky outside looked gray. With a sick feeling in my chest, I slid open the side door and circled around the van.

Jacob stood by the hood, staring down at two flattened front tires. I knew right away what he must be thinking. The downhill drive into camp had been rough, and it was perfectly possible that one wheel had struck something sharp along the way. But both of them? Without anyone noticing? While May continued to doze, the two of us set off through shady havens in search of help. But the first person we met was a gaunt, tanned guy in a straw hat and tan suspenders.

He appeared to be collecting mushrooms. Jacob, easily the most charismatic of the three of us, approached him with a smile and tried to explain the situation. But the man just stared. It didn't seem to matter what either of us said or signed. He kept glaring at us, bug-eyed, until we backed away. Eileen approached us and pointed at the man in the straw hat. "'Topstem,' she said, patting the side of her head.

I looked over my shoulder at the stranger and squinted. It was difficult to say for sure at this distance, but it seemed as though where his ears should have been were only a pair of mangled, poorly healed holes. Despite the language barrier, Eileen was eager to give us a hand. The only problem was that she had hiked in and had no vehicle to get us out. The retirees' RV was shuttered and silent, when we knocked beneath the wreath on its door, there was no answer.

Cleave, cheerful and naked as ever, told us that he would be happy to take us into town, provided we could wait. He wouldn't be leaving shady havens until the time was right, whatever that meant. Jacob and I made another loop of the main drive, but didn't find anything apart for more dilapidated figurines and trippy artwork. The other RVs were as quiet as Barry and Ethels had been. One had a screen door that stood open, squeaking in the gentle breeze, but there didn't appear to be anyone inside. Several of the tents, too, were half-toppled and coated by leaves, as though their

owners had been gone for quite some time. When we returned to the van, we found May sitting in the open-side door, staring into space. I asked what she was looking at. She shook her head and told us that she wasn't sure. Her reaction to the news that we were stuck here. here wasn't what I expected. Rather than her usual cheerful, go with a flow attitude, it was more like panic. May clearly wanted very badly to get out of shady havens, but no matter how we pressed her, she refused to say why. For the first time since I'd known him, Jacob, too, was beginning to lose his cool. He paced back and forth on the gravel behind the van, pulling his hair, scratching his beard, trying everything to pry loose an idea that would get us out of this.

When I offered to try to get help on the road above, both of them looked relieved. None of us actually believed that a car would stop for me, but it felt good to be doing something, even if it meant walking up that isolated, overgrown road alone. By the time I passed, that moldering notice board, I was already regretting my decision. The woods felt different today, watchful somehow, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something big was about to happen. or maybe it had already started, and I just hadn't noticed it. I tread lightly and jumped at every little sound in the undergrowth. Something was moving out there, although I didn't see any squirrels or birds.

It was a relief just to see the cracked black asphalt up ahead. It served as a reminder that the same, boring world was still out there. A world without mushroom-infested lawn ornaments were orange and purple banners emblazoned with wide-open eyes. Wind sighed through the branches. If I closed my eyes, I thought I could almost hear the ringing of the chimes down below. Hours passed, but I didn't see a single vehicle. Was there even anything beyond shady acres to get to? I had backpacked long distances before, but the distance between where I now stood and the Stokka's Fork road sign felt dizzying. Around mid-afternoon, I finally gave up. My feet ached. My throat was parched. And I was holding onto a secret hope that Jacob

and May had discovered some other, better solution in my absence. I was so eager to reach the van that I barely noticed how all of those tiny sounds I'd been hearing in the undergrowth had disappeared completely. Two and five Canadians will hear the words, you have cancer. That's why every step and dollar raised matters. On September 19th, joined thousands in Toronto for the Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation Walk. Challenge yourself, friends, and family to walk 21 kilometers in support of life-saving research. Together, we can carry the fire and help create a world free from the fear of cancer. Register today at pmcfwalk.ca.ca.

If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, the SCP experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. I didn't see anyone on my walk back through camp, but that didn't strike me as unusual. It was the middle of the day, after all, and anyone at Shady Havens was probably either out on the trails or or napping at their campsite.

The van's doors were all wide open, something dangled from the edge of the mattress by the side door. It was May's right hand. She lay limp and face down, so still that I thought she was sleeping, until I felt how cold she was. I sprang backward as though I'd touched a snake, and in a way, I suppose I had.

Something underhanded, and deadly that had been traveling by my side all along. The blankets had all been kicked into a pile in the corner, and on the base sheet, I spotted a few drops of blood beside the base of May's bare foot. I could already imagine how it must have gone. Jacob must have invited May to take the edge off with some of his secret stash, probably the same stuff they'd injected themselves with up by the lake. Under such stressful circumstances, he might have messed up the dosage or the potency,

and now? My hands clenched into fists. I no longer cared about getting out of shady havens. All I wanted to do was find Jacob and bash his skull in with something heavy. As I crawled backward off the mattress, however, something caught my eye, a dark puddle beneath May's neck. Full of foreboding, I flipped her over. May's lips had been neatly severed, as if by a razor, and something thin but razor-sharp

had been stabbed through her jugular. That, I figured, was the origin of the blood stain on the mattress. Suddenly, I imagined a different scenario. Maybe. Instead of shooting up and collapsing onto the mattress, May had awoken from a nap to find a stranger in her bed. She tried to scramble away, only to be killed and mutilated. Her skinless mouth seemed to be laughing at me.

I shuddered and looked away. I thought of the gaunt man in the straw hat and Eileen's warning about him. I wondered again where Jacob was, not to hurt him now, but to protect him, if I still could. Something pattered against the leaves beside me. It took me a moment to realize that it was tiny pebbles that had been thrown from deeper in the woods. Another bounced painlessly off my cheek. If I squinted, I could barely make out a squat shape crouching in the gloom. The brush here was thick, and I had to practically crawl as I pushed it aside.

Then, without warning, something lunged and clapped a hand over my mouth. It was Jacob, his eyes wide with fear. They're here, he hissed. While Jacob warned me to keep quiet and lie still, my eyes frantically searched the campground beyond, wondering what he was talking about. There was no one to be seen, at least not at first. Jacob beckoned me to follow him through to the other side of the bower he'd hidden under. We had a clear view of Cleve, who was sitting in front of his trailer in a lawn chair,

his feet perched on the edge of an inflatable pink kitty pool. Something was hunched over his toes. It was a tiny man, shiny black boots and belt, blue tunic and bright yellow trousers. I blinked, trying to convince myself that all of this was just some kind of horrible acid flashback. But the grimace of pain on Cleve's face convinced me, otherwise. The little figure was prying the nails off of his toes one by one. At first, I didn't understand why Cleave didn't just punt the little bastard sky high. Then I thought about May. With enough speed and strength, even something so small could do a lot of damage. For all I knew,

the consequences of fighting the things would be even worse. Jacob tugged on my sleeve. We crawled through the undergrowth, our hands and knees stained by the rich black mud of the place. No birds or chipmunks scurried away at our passing. Even the insects seemed frozen with fear. Although Jacob hadn't said a word since our meeting, I understood what he had planned from the direction we were taking. We'd keep to the cover of the trees and sneak out of shady havens without a single look back. It didn't matter if we had to walk two dozen miles or more to find help.

Anything was better than staying here and waiting to be cut up by the little ones. Through a gap in the trees, I could see Barry, the male half of the retired couple we'd spoken to earlier. He was stretched out on a yoga mat. Two more of those tiny people stood on his cheeks. They seemed to be scooping out his right eyeball with a pair of spoon-like implements. Barry's wife Edith crouched beside them, eagerly sketching the whole thing. Wonderful, wonderful, she muttered as her pencil danced across the page.

Barry, meanwhile, chomped hard on the stick between his teeth to smother his cries of pain. A wave of nausea swept over me. They had known, I realized. Everyone else had shady acres had been aware that this thing was coming and had accepted the gruesome price for the experience of welcoming the little ones. What the hell were these things? Why were they harvesting parts of people? And why were their victims allowing them to do it?

I told myself that I could wonder about that a day or two from now. Up ahead was the moldy signpost and the stretch of bare gravel road that we would need to cross in order to continue. Jacob, who I had always considered so impulsive, halted and forced me to do the same. We squatted in the mud for a long while, listening to the quiet. Nothing stirred on the road beyond and, almost in unison, we looked at each other and nodded. Jacob and I moved fast and low to the ground. In less than a minute, we would reach the cover of the woods on the opposite side.

Silence was so important that I held my breath, but it wasn't enough. The man in the straw hat saw us a few seconds before we saw him. His eyes locked on us. There was no time to react as he pulled out an ivory white whistle and blew three long, hollow-sounding blasts. Thus done, he slipped the whistle back into his pocket and waited. The ferns rustled. Something, or a lot of somethings, sped toward us.

The little ones were no less disturbing up close. Their cheerfully colored clothes stood in harsh contrast to the grim expressions on their sharp, hairless faces. They observed Jacob and I with the seriousness of a group of tiny, surgeons about to perform a critical life-changing operation. And from the looks of the instruments tucked beneath their arms, that wasn't so far from the truth. There were scalples, pliers, bread knives, and even plain old sewing needles.

All of those sharp edges glinted violently as the group crowded and whispered together, their voices as soft as wind through the branches. Something appeared to have been decided. A tiny man in a bright green tunic dashed toward Jacob and climbed gracefully up his leg. Jacob flailed and swatted, as though he were being attacked by a very large fly. The tiny man didn't like that at all. He sprung onto my friend's shoulder and stabbed a screwdriver through his jugular in three swift motions, leaving no doubt about the force that the little ones were capable of.

I turned to run, but five more of them had already cut off my escape. Three little ones approached me, carrying a small hacksaw between them. I looked at Jacob, shuddering in his death throes as he bled out onto the gravel. And I did, as the signpost and flyer suggested, I welcomed them. I don't think I'll ever forget the sound the saw's teeth made as it cut through me. At some point, the combination of pain, shock, and blood loss must have made me pass out. The next thing I knew, strong arms were pulling me toward the warmth of a fire. That sense of comfort only lasted a second.

Searingly hot metal was pressed into the center of my face. My hands shot up instinctively to swat away the source of my pain, but the brand had already pulled back. And when I touched the place where my nose used to be, all I found was a charred and ragged hole. I recognized the dirty bear feet beside me, Cleave. It was he who had dragged me here

and burnt my wound to prevent further bleeding. Two and five Canadians will hear the words, You have cancer. That's why every step and dollar raised matters. On September 19th, Join thousands in Toronto for the Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation Walk. Challenge yourself, friends, and family to walk 21 kilometers in support of life-saving research. Together, we can carry the fire and help create a world free from the fear of cancer.

Register today at pmcfwalk.ca.ca. They're building the perfect man. Cleave informed me calmly, as though we were having a casual fireside chat. But they need more pieces to make them. You should feel honored that they chose such an important piece of you. Honored? I gurgled through the bloody snot running down my throat. What the hell are you talking about?

The big man collapsed back into his lawn chair and cracked open a beer. See? Doesn't matter if you're a nobody in the world up there. It's shady havens. We're all a part of something larger than ourselves. They told me so. I groaned, rolled over, and spat. I scanned the tree line for any sign of brightly covered.

colored clothing or those wide-eyed pinched little faces. But Cleve and I were alone beside the bonfire. In the distance, I could hear someone sobbing, or maybe laughing softly. It was difficult to tell which. Although the danger had passed, I couldn't stand the idea of spending another moment in shady havens. In spite of my wounds and the deepening darkness, I staggered back toward the road above. Jacob's corpse no longer lay face down at the base of the hill. I wondered with a shiver what the little ones had done with it. The full moon rose above the trees, transforming the crumbling asphalt road into a stream of silver.

To my fevered mind, the rustling leaves and shifting shadows were living things with wills of their own. I had been walking for several hours when I spotted a pair of golden eyes in the roadside weeds, a cougar. It took a few silent, stalking steps toward me, then sniffed and moved back.

I had already been marked, it seemed, as the property of the most dangerous thing in these woods. The sun rose. Inertia was the only thing that kept me moving. I spotted a gravel driveway. The trailer at its end was half crushed by a fallen tree. It looked abandoned. An engine rumbling made my heart race.

Help was here. I was finally going to encounter a rational, ordinary person, someone who would understand that I needed a doctor as quickly as possible. A rusty red sedan appeared around the bend. I moved to the center of the road, waving my arms and shouting. The driver swerved around me and sped over the hill in a cloud of diesel smoke. By noon, black spots were flashing in front of my eyes. My throat was parched, and even the blisters on my feet had gone numb. The road ahead of me seemed eternal. A peal of high-pitched laughter called my attention to my right. An old man and two blonde

children were fishing in the sparkling stream below. I cleared my throat, or tried to. The elder in the fishing hat looked up. The younger child shrieked with fear. From their perspective, I must have looked like a monster lumbering out of the woods. The old man stepped protectively in front of the kids. For the first time, I noticed the glinting barrel of the shotgun propped beside his fishing gear. I tried to call down to them, to explain that I was hurt and needed help. The second child tugged on the strap of the old man's waiters. I couldn't make out exactly what she said, but I did catch the words, happening again. He muttered something in response, and the boy and girl began to clean up.

The old man trudged up the hill and tossed me a rag. Hold that over your face, he told me. You're scaring my grandkids. I opened my mouth to offer an explanation, but the old man shook his head. I saw the direction you came from, he warned me. And I don't want to hear it. Not one word, understand. Otherwise, we'll leave you for the vultures.

I nodded and followed him back to his pickup truck. Throughout the whole two-hour drive to the hospital, the only sound I remember hearing was the rattling of the muffler. I do recall, however, the way those children stared at me after their grandfather dropped me off in front of the emergency ward. Two freckly faces pressed up against the window glass like they were staring at some beast in a zoo. Next came admission, tests, anesthesia, and surgery. I lay with my eyes closed, trying not to think about the alien feeling of the IV drip in my arm, or what my face must look like. Before I drifted off, I overheard one of the doctors commenting on my mutilation with something

akin to admiration. Whoever had done it, she said, must have had a lot of experience. Then came the moment I'd been dreading since I'd been admitted to the hospital. A pair of plain-clothes detectives knocked on the door of my recovery room and walked inside without waiting for me to wave them through. Their presence made May and Jacob's deaths feel all the more real, and besides, I'd never felt comfortable around cops. Those wraparound sunglasses and clenched jaws, those black and white cruisers that had always reminded me of hunting sharks. I'd run from them while dumpster diving

and been awoken by the prodding of their nightsticks while sleeping in public parks. Considering how insane my story sounded, I felt sure that the blame for all of it would fall squarely on my shoulders. No such thing happened. The detectives did indeed investigate Shady Havens, and they found Jacob's van exactly where I had said it would be. There was no sign of my friend's bodies or possessions, and most of the people who had been present during that fateful day had moved on. The rest weren't talking. It slowly dawned on me that, apart from the sporadic days when the little ones chose to appear, Shady Havens was just an ordinary rundown campground. The quantity of substances found in my bloodstream and Jacobs van was enough to change the authority's perspective on the case

completely. From their point of view, Jacob and May were just a pair of hippies who'd wandered off into the woods on some idiotic vision quest and never came back. The county didn't have the time or money to waste on a case that began and ended in the middle of nowhere. And besides, who was going to miss a group of vagabonds like us? The pleas of my friend's parents fell on deaf ears. As for me, I was just happy to be avoiding life in prison. The prosthetic I got fits my face. almost in the right light if no one is looking too closely. It isn't the stairs that bother me however. It's the movements that I notice sometimes, these tiny dark shapes at the edge of my vision. Like even after all these years, the

little ones are still checking up on me. In my dreams, I'm often at work, one of the overnight packing or shipping gigs that are the only jobs I can get these days. The lights are dim, it's foggy, and somehow I'm alone on the loading dock. No, semi-truck engines rumble. It's so quiet I can hear the footsteps of whoever's coming. They move with an uneven gate, as though their legs are two different sizes. Beneath their hat and trench coat, it's difficult to see them clearly, but I'd swear I've seen their eyes someplace before.

Eileen's long golden hair hangs down over their shoulders. Quick, rustling movements in the darkness distract me, and when I turn back towards the stranger, they're mere inches away from my face. I recognize May's lips, stitched along with my nose onto Jacob's rotting face. Don't you see? They finally made me perfect. A cold, dead grip, made from a composite of uneven fingers, closes around my throat. Sometimes I wake up before it starts to squeeze, but not always. Want more? Subscribe and turn on all notifications so you never miss any of our weekly uploads.

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