I should have trusted my gut. That's the thought that circles my mind every time I replay that

night. If I had, maybe I wouldn't have set foot in those woods, wouldn't have pitched my tent under

trees that bent in unnatural silence, wouldn't have woken up to find eyes watching me from the tree line, but I was too

stubborn, too arrogant, and by the time I realized I wasn't alone, it was already too late. I'd always

been the type who prided myself on roughing it. No campgrounds with clean bathrooms or family-friendly

fire pits for me. I wanted isolation, the pure wilderness,

the kind of stillness where the only sound is the wind pushing through needles overhead,

and the snap of your own firewood. That October evening, I parked my truck on the side of a service

road that was so overgrown I almost missed it. The map said it cut five miles into the forest before it dead ended.

And beyond that, there was nothing but green swaths of trees.

No houses, no cabins, no trails.

That was exactly what I wanted.

I slung my pack over my shoulder, tightened the straps, and started walking.

The sun was already bleeding out of the sky, staining it orange, then violet.

By the time I'd made camp beside a dry creek bed, night had fallen thick and heavy, and the cold had teeth.

The forest was different here. I'd hiked plenty of places where the woods hummed with life.

Owls calling, insects buzzing, the occasional rustle of deer. But here, it was too quiet.

My boots crunched on brittle leaves and the sound seemed to fall flat as though the air itself

swallowed it. I shrugged

it off. Isolation was what I'd come for, wasn't it? I set up my tent, gathered enough wood for a

fire, and struck a match. Flames curled upward, throwing a halo of light that didn't seem to reach

as far as it should have. The trees stood tall

...