I was taking a road trip in my old Mustang from Texas to Arizona to visit my brothers. It was something I looked forward to every year—a tradition of sorts. I loved taking the scenic back routes, the ones where you could drive for hours without seeing another car, just endless desert, cacti, and that wide-open sky. It was the perfect escape, flying down those isolated highways with the top down, the wind whipping through my hair, feeling like the world was mine.
But this time, something felt off. I was doing 90, maybe even a bit more, when the car started making these strange popping noises. It wasn’t just the sound; I could feel the car jolting beneath me. My heart raced as I slammed on the brakes, bringing the Mustang to a jerking halt. I stepped out into the hot desert air and popped the hood, staring at the engine like I knew what I was looking at. There was no smoke, no sign of anything obviously wrong, but the car wouldn’t start again. My stomach dropped as I realized how bad this could be.
I pulled out my phone to call for roadside assistance, but of course, I had no signal. I was stranded, alone, in the middle of nowhere. Hours passed, the sun beat down, and not a single car came by. I sat on the trunk of my car, drenched in sweat, praying for someone—anyone—to pass by. Eventually, a car appeared in the distance, the sun reflecting off its windshield. I jumped up, waving my arms like a madman, but it flew past me without even slowing down.
Night fell, and with it, the desert’s eerie silence. The temperature dropped, and all I had to keep me going was the water in my trunk. Just as I was beginning to think I’d be stuck there until morning, I saw headlights approaching. This time, a truck pulled over. A large man stepped out. He was the first person I’d seen in hours, and for a moment, relief washed over me. But something about him felt… off.
He wasn’t interested in my car. Instead, he asked me if I was alone, where I was going, and why I hadn’t called for help. When I explained there was no service, he just grinned, asking if anyone knew I was out here. The questions made my skin crawl, but what choice did I have? He offered me a ride, and I reluctantly accepted, telling myself I was just being paranoid.
We drove for a while, the desert stretching endlessly around us. The man was quiet, but the tension in the truck was suffocating. Then, the truck started to slow down. I felt the pit in my stomach deepen. He cursed under his breath and pulled off to the side of the road. He looked at me, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared.
“Can you lift the hood for me?” he finally asked.
In my head, I was picturing him trying to run me over—and that’s exactly what happened. As I took one step toward the truck to try and open the hood, I heard the roar of the engine as the man was on the gas. If I hadn’t dove for my life, I would have reacted half a second later and either lost my legs or been instantly killed. I took off running into the pitch-black night, looking back to see the taillights still there, and then came gunshots—surely gunshots aimed at me. That man was trying to kill me. It was too dark out there for him to possibly shoot me dead without some kind of luck, but I thought I was going to die at any moment. I ran as far as I could, then dove and made myself as low to the ground as possible. I heard a truck speeding off in the distance, so I turned and saw the taillights of the truck slowly disappearing down the empty road.
I eventually fell asleep on the side of the road, and the nightmare didn’t end until early morning when I woke up to another pickup truck passing by. I waved them down, covered in dirt and sand, and thank God this man was actually normal—he and his wife. They gave me water and drove me to the nearest town, where I was able to call the towing company. It was a 45-minute drive back to my car on that goddamned road, and then that same distance back to bring it into a shop.
Long story short, this was the worst trip and experience of my life. I think someone trying to run you over and then shoot at you isn’t something you simply get over.
There was a small clearing deep in the woods behind my parents’ house, a spot I had discovered when I was just a kid. It became my sanctuary. A perfect circle surrounded by trees, with a stream running through it and a large, flat rock in the middle where I’d sit for hours reading. It was the one place where I could escape from everything. I guess you could say I was a loner back then. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
One day, not unlike any other, I decided to head back to my spot with a new book. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was starting to set, casting long shadows through the trees. I settled onto my rock, cracked open my book, and let myself get lost in the story.
Then, I heard it—a soft crunch of footsteps behind me. I paused, thinking it might be a deer or some other animal passing through. But the steps were too deliberate. Too human. I set down my book and stood up, peering into the trees. There was nothing there. The forest was silent. I shrugged it off and returned to my rock, but the uneasy feeling lingered.
Moments later, I heard the footsteps again, only faster this time. My heart raced, but I tried to stay calm. I got up, deciding to follow the sound, thinking maybe it was someone else walking through the woods. But when I reached the edge of the clearing, the footsteps stopped.
That’s when I saw him.
Sitting on my rock, with his back to me, holding my book.
“I don’t like this book,” he said, his voice calm and even. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto mine, even though I was hidden behind the trees. “I’ve seen you come here a lot.”
My blood ran cold. His smile was unsettling, too wide, too knowing. I stood there frozen, my mind racing. Who was this man? How did he know I was there? How long had he been watching me?
“I watch you,” he said, his voice softer now, almost like a whisper. “I watch you all the time.”
I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. My legs moved before my brain could catch up, and I took off running as fast as I could, crashing through the underbrush, branches slapping against my arms and legs. I didn’t stop until I was back at my house, slamming the door behind me, my chest heaving with each breath.
That night, I woke up to a knock on my window. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but when it came again, I screamed for my dad. He came rushing in, and when I told him what happened, he grabbed a flashlight and went outside to check. I waited, my heart pounding in my chest.
When he came back, he was holding my book. The one I’d left in the clearing. He said it was lying outside my window.
I never went back to that spot again.
Tennessee has some incredible hiking trails, and during college, I used to hike all the time. There was one spot in particular—a waterfall deep in the forest that not many people knew about. The only way to reach it was through a series of confusing rock corridors, paths that twisted The only way to reach it was through a series of confusing rock corridors, paths that twisted and turned with no clear markings. If you didn’t know the way, it was easy to get lost, but my friend and I had been there enough times to know the trail by heart.
We set off early one morning, eager to beat the heat and make the most of the day. The hike started off like any other—peaceful, with the sound of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot. As we approached the rock corridors, I found myself walking slightly ahead of my friend. I told her I’d meet her at the top and went on, taking the right path, which I knew was the quickest.
As I reached the top, I realized she wasn’t behind me. I called out her name, but there was no reply. My stomach twisted with unease. She was experienced, just like me, so why wasn’t she here yet?
I hurried back down, calling her name louder this time. When I reached the left path, the one I’d purposely avoided, my blood ran cold. The path was stained with something dark—something that looked like blood. I hesitated, fear gripping me, but I knew I had to find her.
I ran up the left path, my heart pounding in my chest. The further I went, the darker the stains became, and soon, I found myself in a part of the trail I didn’t recognize. Panic surged through me. I called her name again and again, but there was only silence.
Finally, I reached the top again, and there she was, sitting by the waterfall, waiting for me. Relief flooded over me, but something wasn’t right. She looked shaken, her eyes wide with fear. I asked her what happened, and she told me she had followed a man in a uniform—a trail guide, she said—who had led her down the left path.
But there were no trail guides in that area. I knew that for a fact. When I asked her to describe him, she grew pale, her voice trembling as she spoke. He had a uniform, but something about it seemed wrong. His hat was dirty, his shoes were scuffed, and his eyes… his eyes had a strange, vacant look.
She said he had tried to lead her deeper into the forest, but something had told her to turn back. As soon as she did, he disappeared. That’s when she found herself back at the waterfall, but not before she had seen the stains—the blood.
We didn’t stick around to find out more. We grabbed our things and hurried back down the trail, every sound in the forest making us jump. As we neared the car, I realized something was wrong. The fish food I had left as a marker earlier in the day was sitting on the hood of my car, along with her water bottle, which had been attached to her backpack.
Someone had been following us. Watching us.
We never went back to that trail again.
I’ve always loved hiking. There’s something about being alone in nature, away from the noise of the world, that clears my head. So when I heard about an old fire watchtower deep in the woods of Montana, I knew I had to see it. The trail wasn’t on any maps, but I found some vague directions online—a three-day hike, far from any marked paths or campsites. Perfect.
I started early, packing light but with enough supplies to last me the trip. The trail was easy at first, winding through the forest, the canopy of trees offering a cool shade from the late summer sun. I didn’t see a single soul the whole day, and by the time night fell, I was already deep in the wilderness.
The first night was uneventful. I pitched my tent, started a small fire, and listened to the sounds of the forest as I fell asleep. It was peaceful, calming. But on the second day, as I got further from civilization, things started to feel… off.
The trail became harder to follow. Overgrown bushes and fallen trees blocked my way, forcing me to navigate with just a compass and the faint memory of the directions I’d read. By the time the sun started to set, I still hadn’t reached the watchtower. The woods were thicker now, the air heavier. I decided to set up camp again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.
As darkness enveloped the forest, the usual sounds of nature—crickets, rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl—began to fade. It was as if the forest itself had gone silent. I sat by my fire, scanning the shadows, trying to tell myself it was just my imagination. But then, I heard it. Footsteps. Faint, deliberate, and too far off to be an animal.
I grabbed my flashlight and shone it into the trees, but there was nothing there. The footsteps stopped as soon as I turned the light on. I sat still, my heart pounding in my chest, listening intently. For the next hour, I didn’t hear anything else. Eventually, I convinced myself it was just an animal and settled into my tent, though sleep didn’t come easily.
The next morning, I found something that made my blood run cold: footprints. Human footprints. They were faint but unmistakable, leading from the edge of the clearing where I’d camped, right up to my tent. Whoever—or whatever—had been out there had been watching me while I slept.
I packed up quickly and pressed on, more determined than ever to reach the watchtower. I figured if I could get there, I’d at least have the advantage of height, and I could see if anyone else was in the area. The trail was almost nonexistent now, but I followed the general direction, pushing through thick underbrush and scrambling over rocks.
By late afternoon, I saw it—the fire watchtower, standing tall on a ridge in the distance. Relief flooded over me. I was almost there.
As I approached, I noticed something strange. The tower looked old, much older than I’d expected. The wood was weathered and splintered, and the ladder leading up to the platform swayed slightly in the breeze. But what really unsettled me was that the door to the cabin at the top was open, creaking softly as it swung back and forth.
I hesitated for a moment before deciding to climb up. The steps creaked beneath my weight, and with every rung I ascended, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. When I reached the top, I found the cabin empty. Dust coated the floor, and cobwebs hung in the corners. It looked like no one had been there in years.
But something wasn’t right. In the middle of the room was a chair, facing the window that overlooked the forest. And on the chair was a notebook, old and worn, with pages yellowed from time. I picked it up, flipping through the pages. Most of the entries were mundane—notes from the watchman who used to work here. But as I neared the end, the tone changed.
“They’re out there. Watching me.”
“I hear them every night, footsteps circling the tower.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.”
The final entry was scrawled in shaky handwriting, the ink smeared as if written in a hurry.
“They’re here.”
Suddenly, a loud creak echoed through the cabin. I spun around, heart pounding, but there was no one there. I rushed to the window and looked out over the forest. At first, everything seemed normal—the same endless sea of trees, the setting sun casting long shadows. But then I saw it.
Far below, at the edge of the clearing, was a figure. It stood still, just inside the tree line, watching me. My breath caught in my throat as I realized it was the first sign of life I had seen in days. But something about it was wrong. It didn’t move. It just stood there, staring up at the tower.
I backed away from the window, my mind racing. Who was this person? And why hadn’t they called out or made any attempt to approach? I grabbed my pack, intending to leave immediately, but when I looked back out the window, the figure was gone.
The sun was almost gone now, the sky turning a deep purple as night descended. I didn’t want to stay, but I also didn’t want to descend the tower in the dark, especially not with whoever—or whatever—was out there. So I decided to barricade myself in the cabin for the night.
I wedged the chair under the door handle and huddled in the corner of the room, clutching my flashlight. The hours dragged by, and as the forest outside grew darker, the sense of dread grew stronger.
Then, just past midnight, I heard it. Footsteps. They started faint, far off, but slowly grew louder, closer. They circled the base of the tower, the sound of boots crunching on the ground below. My heart raced. I held my breath, waiting for them to pass. But they didn’t.
The footsteps stopped directly beneath me. I heard the creak of the first rung of the ladder, then another. Someone was climbing up. I pointed my flashlight at the door, my hand trembling. The ladder creaked again, another step closer, and then… silence.
Minutes passed. I didn’t dare move. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the footsteps retreated. I listened as they descended the ladder, circled the tower once more, and then disappeared into the night.
I didn’t sleep. I stayed awake until dawn, waiting for the sun to rise before I dared leave the tower. When I finally climbed down, the forest was still, eerily quiet. I didn’t see any footprints, no sign that anyone had been there at all.
I hiked back as fast as I could, never looking back. To this day, I don’t know who—or what—was watching me in those woods. But I know one thing: I’ll never go back.
