Estimated reading time — 88 minutes

A degree in wildlife management. It sounds so exciting, and the $70,000 piece of paper has certainly ensnared many bright, nature-loving youths with the allure of grand vistas and endless adventures, and I am one who heard the sirens call. From a young age, I knew people weren’t for me. I craved the solitude of an untouched meadow or grove of trees; my favorite companions were clothed in feathers and fur. This disdain for my own kind only increased after I weathered the tempest that is high school. College was a necessary evil, a four-year send-off to my life in the wilderness. I was destined to be a park ranger, a guardian of the woods, and a caretaker of the natural world. In the world of man, I was nothing. But in the world of the beasts, I was to be its master. These were the thoughts of grandeur that filled my head the night before graduation.

Two years later, they were replaced with an overwhelming dread of life, as I sat in my car waiting to start my shift at the local Arby’s. The greatest killer of a man’s dreams is student loan debt, of which I had a seemingly endless mountain of, and for a nature-loving person, a career in fast food is the worst kind of purgatory. An endless, looping cycle of identical days of being forced to remain inside all day and care for people whose own weight would rival that of the great American buffalo, and who would gladly bite off my head in place of their burger if they didn’t receive it within 3 minutes. I clocked in for my third night shift this week, and the one bright spot of my night was that today I got to work with my only friend in the entire Arby’s corporation, Hank.

“One day closer to quitting,” I said as I logged into the system with my employee number.

“Or one day closer to dying,” came the retort from Hank.

Misery loves company, and perhaps that’s why Hank and I get along so well. He’s just as miserable as I am. Years of drug and alcohol abuse haven’t been kind to Hank, the 27-year-old resembles more of a withered corpse than a man in his prime years. His pale, thin face and lifeless, slightly cloudy eyes had the appearance of the work of a poorly trained embalmer rather than that of a living person. Due to his off-putting appearance, our manager, Maddie, found it best to give Hank the privilege of permanent burger flipper in order to keep him out of sight of customers. I myself was assigned to the drive-thru window.

“That will $35.60, Sir,” I said to our first customer in 3 hours.

“That’s more than last time,” mumbled the man in return.

“yes, inflation has hit us hard sir” I replied as I silently judged this behemoth of a man, who I’m sure plans to eat the 4 burgers and three large fries all by himself.

“well, here you go I guess” he said as he handed me his card.

I was annoyed that this customer had interrupted my only enjoyment for the night: partaking in Hank’s drug-induced rambles about his favorite conspiracy theories.

“Yo, Nate, did you know that the Earth is hollow? My sister’s brother-in-law just told me that, and he’s a scientist, so I guess it’s like common knowledge or something, but I just never knew that man.”

I quickly rolled my eyes and smirked. Of course, Hank’s meth cooking ‘scientist’ brother-in-law would tell him something like that. My response dripped with sarcasm,

“No, Hank, I’ve never heard of that, sounds pretty scientific though.”

“Yeah, I know, man, that’s pretty bizarre that you didn’t know that, what with you studying like nature and stuff, sounds like there’s loads of like creatures and weird stuff down there too.”

While I didn’t really appreciate Hank reminding me of my unused degree and dying dreams, I simply replied,

“That so? What sort of creatures?”

“Oh man, it’s got to be like Bigfoot, I’m telling you that’s why no one has found where he lives, cause he lives under the ground, man.”

“The only bigfoot you two should worry about is the one I’ll plant up you’re butts if you don’t get back to work!” Maddie sure has a way with words. And the heavy-set single mother of three loved to make sure our job was a prison-like as possible.

“we don’t pay you two to yap, we pay you to work!”

That inspiring speech was enough to return my focus to rewashing the already clean countertop, and pretending to restock the already stocked condiment compartments. And Hank passionately cleaned the grills as if they were a priceless sports car. If there was ever a place where time stands still, it had to be inside the Arby’s off of I-90 in Oacoma, South Dakota.

1 AM finally came, and with it, the end of my shift. As Hank and I stepped out into the brisk April night, the words I had grown accustomed to finally came from Hank’s lips.

“Yo, Nate, can I have a ride? The buses don’t run this late, man.”

With a smile, I said, “Sure thing, hop in.” We both hopped into my 2003 Kia Optima and started our journey through the quiet darkness of the night. I always enjoyed the drives we took and the conversation that came with it; it was some of the only genuine human interaction I had had since dad died, and mom was put in a home. They had always supported me and pushed me to pursue my dreams, but when Dad died, I couldn’t bear to see Mom’s mind fade like the dying embers of a drenched campfire. Dementia had taken my mom, leaving nothing but a dry husk. A husk that I couldn’t bear to see, which is why I was in South Dakota and the nursing home was in Missouri.

“bro, if Bigfoot got together with Moth man, would the babies be giant bugs or apes with bug-like features?” Hank’s question shattered my introspection, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know if the two would be biologically compatible, man.”

“Ha, classic Nate, always the rational thinker, but maybe you’re right, so maybe instead it’s Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.”

For the next ten minutes, Hank’s mindless theories and ramblings filled the cabin of my small car, as I began to zone out, a surprisingly sober question found its way to my ears.

“Nate, do you ever regret never using you’re degree?”

Caught off guard, I gave the first answer that came to mind:

“Yes, every day I regret it.”

“So why don’t you take that degree and get out of here?”

I thought for a while, not sure how to answer. Some time ago, I had suppressed my childhood dreams and longing for adventure, and came to grips with the sad adult reality that adventures only happened to someone else on a screen. I quietly responded,

“Life isn’t very kind to the dreams of a child.”

“Well, sure, man, if you give up on them, I know you can’t stand this place, and I know that it’s easy to leave the dream behind, but honestly, man, this place will kill you, it’s already killed you’re goals in life, but don’t let it kill the rest of you. So maybe you need to pick up that childhood dream again and get out where you belong.”

The insightful words of my drug-loving friend had just enough time to take root in my mind when the bright lights flooded my vision, and the impact of a pickup truck slammed into the side of my ancient vehicle, scumbling the cabin of the car as if it were an empty Coke can. So very bright, and then suddenly so very dark.

Hank was gone. His death came swiftly as his right kneecap rocketed through his neck and skull at the speed of a bullet. All that remained of my friend was a mangled, fleshy chew toy, a soupy mess of yellowed ground beef and separated vertebrae. The four-wheeled weapon of mass destruction was wielded by a ranch hand who spent the night hopping from bar to bar, trying to get lucky with the town’s sad selection of single women. Yet even they had standards he couldn’t meet, defeated, he mounted his metal steed filled with enough cheap beer to start his own brewery, and ventured into the night. In his final moments, he enjoyed a gas station cigarillo and Jason Aldean. Then, in a moment, his head was transformed into a battering ram waging war against the wall of glass before him. His head won. It stormed the glass barricade and, having freed itself from its tyranny, his cranium reached its final resting place, splattered across the side of my Kia.

My dead friend left two lasting impacts on my life. The first came as his meatball of a corpse was launched at my left forearm. The resulting impact snapped my ulna and radius as though they were twigs into three equal parts, which in turn folded in on itself as if it were a tri-fold pamphlet. Hank’s final hug not only crumpled my forearm but also shattered the right side of my ribcage and collapsed my lung, a twisted final gift from a passing friend. The second impact was that of Hank’s final words, ‘get out where you belong.’ They were the final thought on my mind as the darkness set in, and the first directive that my mind found as the cold light of my hospital room called me back to the land of the living.

I was born again. At Arby’s, my life withered away, yet at death’s door, I was baptized in blood and emerged a changed man. A man called to a new station in life, a prophet of the angel of death. The revelation I had received from the realm of death was etched on my mind: ‘get out where you belong,’ and I would forsake everything to keep that one command. The weeks in the hospital were a special kind of trial; it made Arby’s look like paradise, yet I knew this, too, would pass. By some miracle, my phone survived the wreck, and I used it to form my resume. The post-it note-sized document then became my tool to apply for the position I was born for: United States Park Ranger. 2 days before my release from the hospital, I received a call.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” a gruff voice responded, “Am I speaking to Nathan Diaz?”

“Yessir, that’s me,” I answered with as much courage as I could muster.

“This is Rodney Miller, I’m calling you on behalf of District 9 of the National Park Service. Based on your resume, we believe you may be a good fit for a position that needs to be filled. Would you be open to scheduling an in-person interview to discuss the job further?”

Hardly able to contain my excitement, I scheduled an interview for a week later. 72 hours later, freshly freed from the hospital, I had the city bus drop me off at a local used car lot where I used what little savings I had to purchase a well-loved 2005 red Chevy pickup. I then returned to my run-down apartment for the last time to gather my earthly belongings. I then hopped into my truck and left South Dakota for good.

District 9 of the National Park Service covers the Pacific Northwest region of the country and consists of Washington, Idaho, and Oregon. Yet the regional headquarters for District 9 rests 437 miles to the south in the heart of San Francisco. And so I set my compass towards California, like the hopeful fools hungry for gold a century prior, I too headed west seeking adventure, and like them, I greedily bit off more than I could chew. 24 hours on the road is more than enough time for your brain to reintroduce you to every horrid memory you thought you had suppressed too deeply to ever be recovered. And by the time every terrible moment in my life had been arrested and forced to testify before the jury of my mind, I was less than an hour away from my destination. I pulled into a trucker’s stop to freshen up before the interview, and donning my only button-down shirt that wasn’t covered by Hawaiian patterns that only a grandmother could gift a man my age, I cautiously worked my way through the traffic of downtown San Francisco and arrived 15 minutes early.

Ranger Miller sat at his desk as I was ushered into his small office, a small man with the voice of a giant, his average build perfectly complemented his equally average face. He looked more like a bank teller than a park ranger. Yet his voice carried the strength and confidence of a drill sergeant.

“Thank you for coming in, Nathan,” he said as our hands met in a single shake. “I’m glad we were able to meet in person.”

“Thank you for this opportunity,” I replied as I sat down.

“So, tell me, why do you want to work for the parks service?”

I thought for a moment, “Well, I’ve always felt more at home in nature, and I figured it was time to take my love for the outdoors and turn it into a career.”

Miller looked at me, nodding slowly as if urging me to continue,

“And to be honest, I’m not very good around people, and the escaping people in the woods is sort of a dream come true.” I awkwardly finished.

Miller chuckled and said, “Yeah, most guys say something like that. A good number of applications view this job as an escape, and I can’t blame them; we’re all running from something. Are you willing to work long, hard days?”

“Yessir, that’s definitely not a problem.”

“And are you able to put up with an uncomfortable working environment?”

“If by that you mean the great outdoors, yes, that’s fine with me.”

He smiled and said, “You seem like a good kid, Nathan, and you’re credentials are good. I’d like to offer you a position; currently, in District 9 there are a handful of openings, so do you have any preferences that could help us find a good fit for you?”

I thought for a moment and answered, “If possible, I’d like a position where it’s likely I’ll be completely alone for extended periods of time.”

Miller stared at me with a gaze I couldn’t quite place, his smile faded slightly, and when he spoke, it was with a serious tone that was a newcomer to the conversation:

“I have one position like that, it’s based out of an isolated post on the northeast side of Mt. Rainer National Park, the bulk of the job would be clearing and maintaining trails that haven’t been touched by anyone other than rangers in decades. It’s as secluded as it gets, and I’ll be upfront with you, there’s been a lot of turnover for this position.”

he paused as if to choose his words carefully,

“mostly due to the isolation and difficult terrain, it’s not for everyone.” Sheepishly, he asked: “Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “That’s exactly what I want, I’ll take it.”

Miller stared at me, the same way a father would stare at his son heading off to war. Finally, he said,

“Great! Welcome to the Parks Service, Ranger Diaz.”

A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

“Let’s get the paperwork started. You’re eligible for a sign-on bonus, and due to the difficult terrain at you’re post, you also get hazard pay. After you sign, we’ll go grab your government-issued tent, uniform, and boots, so sign here to officially accept the position.”

With the swipe of a pen, I sealed my fate. After locating Uncle Sam’s gift, Rodney Miller walked me to the door, turning to me, he said,

“you are to report for onboarding at the ranger post, 16 miles southwest of the town of Roslyn two days from now, you’re immediate supervisor is Ranger Tim Ward, you report to him now, be sure to give yourself time to get familiar with the town of Roslyn and pick up any essentials you need.”

His sweaty hand met mine in a final handshake, and looking into my eyes, he said, “I truly hope our paths cross again one day.”

Roslyn, Washington, rests nestled in the rugged Cascade mountains; its isolation is no less than a needle in a haystack. With just 950 permanent residents, trees outnumber souls 1000 to one in this quaint, yet secluded, little mountain town. It boasts a laundry mat with 10 washers and dryers, as well as 3 bars, which dominate the town’s economy. A small grocery store called ‘Foodmart’, and a single diner, the type where everyone knows everyone, and the waitress calls you honey. Lastly, there is the library, which guards books older than time itself, and a librarian who looks like she was there when they were written.

Roslyn is no bustling metropolis, but the people like it that way; it’s quiet and calm, and it suits most folks just fine. I pulled into town the evening before my first day on the job. And right away, I headed to ‘Foodmart’. Here, I picked up the ‘essentials’: sandwich supplies, ramen noodles, and a can of Pringles. I planned to sleep in my truck outside the ranger post that night, as there was no hotel in Roslyn. My nightly accommodations limited what I was willing to buy on the virgin trip to ‘Foodmart’. Tossing a pack of spearmint gum and a stick of deodorant into my cart, I headed to the checkout counter, behind which sat a woman of considerable age, whose skin reminded me of raisins. Eyeing me, this fossil spoke to me through blackened teeth and peeling lips,

“New to the area? Or just passing through?”

“Here to stay, ma’am, I’m the new ranger at Post 1150”.

A wild look appeared in her piercing stare, a combination akin to both lunatics and wild animals.

“In that case, Sonny, you’ll need some beer.”

I chuckled, “Is the job really that rough?”

She smirked and muttered, “We need to get you some beer,” before screaming at the poor girl stocking the shelves:

“Nancy! Make yourself useful and grab this boy a six-pack of the cheap stuff!”

the pretty college aged Nancy rushed off to quickly appease her grandmother.

“Oh no, I really don’t need any alcohol, I’m not much of a drinker,”

I said as the memory of the overpowering smell of booze and my friend’s blood flooded my mind.

“Here you go,” Nancy nervously said as she placed the cans on the counter.

“Really, I don’t need it,” I protested.

“It’s on the house,” the raisin lady flatly said.

“I can’t accept this.”

“Listen, boy. I don’t know where you’re from, but around here if someone offers you a gift, you take it. Now take the beer.”

The moment was so very uncomfortable, it made me remember why I hate people, and like a dog with its tail between its legs I quickly paid and left beer in hand. Maybe ‘Foodmart’ isn’t for me.

Ranger Tim Ward was a creature of habit; his daily routine was set in stone, and that was all by design. It was his sun-faded blue Jeep Wrangler that served as my alarm clock that morning. At approximately 5:59 AM, his loud vehicle pulled up next to my truck, tearing me from my cramped slumber. He was a mountain of a man, a perfect poster boy for US park rangers; his skin was heavily tanned from the sun, and a finely maintained beard blanketed his face. If Paul Bunyan had a younger brother, it certainly would be Ranger Ward. He knocked on the window of my truck, and seeing I was awake, he loudly said,

“I’ll give you 10 minutes to get in uniform and meet me in my office.”

At 6:11 AM, I was outside his office door, knocking. I entered slowly.

“You’re a minute late, something to work on, Diaz, isn’t it?”

“yessir, Nate Diaz.”

“Welcome to Washington Diaz, take a seat.”

I sat in the worn chair facing the desk.

“Now, Diaz, this post is not exciting, nor glamorous. If you’re expecting to impress any tourist girls with that uniform, you’re sorely mistaken. You can count the number of living souls you’ll see in these hills on one hand.”

I bravely responded, “I know, sir, that’s what I signed up for.”

His stare was heavy upon me, “What are you running from, son? The Law?”

“No, nothing like that, sir, just some painful memories.”

“Well, hate to tell you this, but you can’t outrun those, especially not here; nevertheless, I’m glad you’re here. We run a skeleton crew here at Post 1150, and honestly, we’ve been short-staffed here for quite a while. All the new hires they keep sending our way haven’t lasted any more than 6 months, I have no reason to think it’ll be any different for you, but who knows? I could be wrong.”

He shrugged, “but no matter how long you’re here, you answer to me, and I expect you follow my orders without question. Got it?”

“Got it,” I answered, “but may I ask, why doesn’t anyone stick around?”

Ward sighed a sigh that was far heavier than the question warranted, “well Diaz, for some they couldn’t handle the isolation, at times a man is more secluded in these woods than if he were on the moon, and it wears heavier on some than it does on others, and some couldn’t follow my orders, and it cost them. Hopefully you’ll be different.”

I nodded nervously, “I hope so too.”

After some more small talk, Ward began to give some more detail on the job.

“Here at 1150, we have two main roles. First, we are an information relay point for the fire lookouts dotted across this side of the park. We pass fire and weather updates on to the proper channels; you won’t have to deal with this side of the job. It’s primarily the duty of my assistant and myself. Now the second duty is where you come in, trail maintenance. Three rangers are assigned to this work. Christine maintains the south-east region. I doubt you’ll ever meet her since you and Reggie cover the north-west region. Now, Reggie has been doing this job longer than me, nearly 30 years, he’s set to retire at the end of the year, and it will just be you in the north-west region, but in the meantime, Reg will be training you. He’s a good man, and you can learn a lot from him. Seven miles up the trail is a small cabin that will serve as home base for you and Reg. After we’re finished here, you’ll head up there and he will give you the specific rules and start showing you the ropes. I do, however, have some general rules for you: first, no sloppy uniforms. I don’t care if you’re not in the public eye; I expect you to look sharp, and if I catch you out of uniform, I’ll write you up, got it?”

I nodded,

“good, second, maintain proper radio etiquette, the primary way I or anyone else will communicate with you is through the radio, Reggie will teach you how to use it later on, but it’s not your personal cell phone, it’s for work purposes only”

“yessir, I understand” I responded

“ok, and lastly,” his tone shifted, becoming more serious, “the cabin door must remain locked until daybreak, and no matter what voices or sounds you hear do not open the door.”

Confused, I protested, “Sir? What if someone needs help? Shouldn’t I help?”

He stared at me, and his voice was slow and sober. “Nothing out there is worth opening the door for, now get your pack, you’re heading up trail.” Confused, I stood up to obey.

The four-hour hike to my new home was among some of the most enjoyable moments of my life, with each step down the trail, the pack upon my back became lighter and lighter. As the crisp mountain air filled my lungs, I smiled. I was happy, untouched rugged wilderness surrounded me, encasing me in miles and miles of ponderosa pine. I had never been this happy, this peaceful; all my worries and burdens melted as snow in the spring. And yet I didn’t feel alone, I felt watched, not in a bad way, but as though the forest itself had set its eye on me. As though I had been accepted into its family, and I had its full protection and security. It was a sense of being loved, as though I was one with this wilderness. I pressed on, my face still wearing a smile. A little before noon, I arrived at the cabin that was to be my home. On the porch stood a tall, thin older man, who met me with a warm wave and wide smile. His dark brown eyes were full of wisdom and kindness. Stepping off the porch, he walked over to greet me,

“Welcome, son, glad to see you made it safely, Nathan, isn’t it?”

I nodded warmly, “Yes, sir, but you can call me Nate.”

He smiled as he answered, “Well, alright, Nate, no need for that ‘sir’ stuff here, it’s just you, me, and the bears here.”

He chuckled softly at his own joke, “I’m Reggie Dosela, but most people call me Reg. I’ll be you’re bunkmate till the end of the year, and in the meantime, I’ll be showing you the ropes.”

“Good to meet you Reg. I can’t wait to learn everything you know.”

I liked Reg; he had a grandfatherly nature, which I found very calming.

“Come on in, Nate, let’s get you settled.”

He turned and entered the cabin, beckoning me to follow. Eagerly I followed, but as my foot landed on the porch’s first step, I paused. An uneasy sense flooded my mind. I was being watched, not in the general sense I had felt before, no, something specific had its eye on me. An overwhelming feeling of dread clouded my brain, and slowly I turned my head and faced the woods behind me. There was nothing, nothing but an endless maze of bark and leaves; thousands of trees stood before me, and together they formed a dense wall of unknown. So much to see, and yet there was nothing there. And with this nothingness came a quietness. The type of quietness that shouldn’t exist in the forest, not a chirping bird, not a cracking twig, not even the music of the wind in the trees. There was nothing. Who knows how long I stood there? Was it seconds, or was it days? I do not know. My eyes strained to find even the slightest movement in the sea of trees, yet my eyes didn’t detect even the shaking of a leaf. Something’s out there; there has to be something out there. I know what I felt, and I felt a gaze upon me. To this day, I don’t know if it was real, or a trick of the light, or just the wind moving among the branches, but at long last, my eyes noticed the smallest movement, thousands of trees away, there was a shape that didn’t belong. A dark mass slightly sticking out from behind a birch tree, no bigger than the corner of a man’s shoulder, the foreign shape slowly shifted till it was fully gone behind the tree.

“Nate? You ok?” The words from Reg broke my trance,

“Um, yeah, sorry, I was just taking in the view.”

Quickly, Reg’s eyes scanned the horizon, seeing nothing. He said, “Well, come on, once you’re unpacked, we can get lunch going.”

Turning, I quickly crossed the porch to enter the cabin, and I tried to banish any fear over what I saw from my mind; it was easier than I thought, I told myself, “it’s just an animal, of course you saw something moving in the woods.” Any concern I had was drowned out by the smell of cheap hot dogs, which awoke a starving beast in my gut.

The cabin, though small, was comfortable and cozy. Consisting of two small bedrooms, a bathroom with a shower, and a large open room that served as a living room, library, and kitchen, the ancient structure was a time capsule for adventures long forgotten. Its walls were dotted with pictures of vistas rarely seen, specimens of both the animal and mineral kind, and well-used hiking equipment, all of which boasted a grand story of their own. The library was small yet well-rounded; the living room held an old reading chair paired with a small end table, and a weathered leather couch covered in a layer of dust. Large windows opened to the woods on both sides of the cabin. The kitchen hosted a retro fridge and stove, both from the 70s, and the cabinets were well stocked with canned beans and Spam. All in all, it was a charming place, a pleasant change from my crummy apartment back in Oacoma, and I quickly made myself at home.

As we ate our well-balanced lunch of hot dogs and baked beans, Reg began to supply more information on my new career.

“You won’t need to worry so much about food around here. We have more than enough canned supplies to last the winter, and twice a month, weather permitting, they send porters up the trail to supply more perishable foods to our cabin and some of the watch towers further up. You’ll need to write down a list of any food allergies you have, so they can adjust their trips accordingly. They’re usually pretty good when it comes to getting us stuff we enjoy, only limitation is on the drink side; they only bring up bottled water and beer, so if you have a certain brand of beer you like, include it on the list.”

I nodded and waited for him to continue, “when it comes to the job for the most part we maintain the trails that are a day’s journey from the cabin, yet once a month we deal with the longer trails, these are on a rotation so you only deal with each one twice a year. When the time comes to maintain these longer sections, what you’ll do is hike 2 days up and turn around, clearing the trail as you work your way back to the cabin.”

He paused to inhale part of a hot dog. “This is where your pack comes in. Always have it ready for a three-day trek. Alongside our normal duties of trail maintenance from time to time, we serve as messengers to the nearest watchtower. If their radio goes out, it’s roughly three days out, so be ready to go that far.”

“Absolutely, I’ll pack tonight.”

He nodded, “good, other than that Nate, this is a fairly easy post, just always be aware of your surroundings, especially early on, some parts of these trails are pretty difficult to follow, so if you aren’t paying attention, you can end up off trail and not sure how to get back, practice common sense and take it seriously, follow Ward’s rules and you’ll be alright.”

“What’s with Ward’s rule about helping people at night? Aren’t we supposed to help people?”

He thought for a moment and slowly answered, “Well, son, a couple of years ago, there were some incidents. Now’s not the time to get into it, but basically, some calls for help after dark weren’t what they seemed, and opening the door only put rangers in harm’s way. Since then, the standard operating procedure for this region is to keep the door closed and locked and radio in the disturbance. You must follow this rule, Nate, at the very least, your job depends on it.”

“Ok, I understand,” were the only words I had.

“Well, good, finally I got one last odd rule for you, though it’s more of a ranger tradition than a rule.”

“Alright, what is it?” “Whenever you’re more than a day’s hike away from the cabin, always pack a bottle of beer with you.” I stared at him with a confused look.

“I know it’s strange, but it’s tradition. Older generations of rangers started it; the reasoning behind it was that if the ranger suffered a life-threatening injury, this deep in the woods, chances are it was the end of the line. Packing a beer allowed the ranger the option of a final drink as he lay dying in the woods.”

“That’s pretty morbid,” I responded,

“yeah, it is, but it’s tradition. Every ranger packs a bottle in his trail pack; it’s our way of keeping in touch with our roots. And now that you’re one of us, you should do the same.”

I nodded, happy to be part of a timeless tradition, no matter how strange.

“That’s all I got for you, rules-wise. I suggest you take the afternoon to pack your gear. According to the radar, we have some heavy rain for the next few days, so we’ll be cabin-bound. But on the first of next week, we’ll be heading up trail 5, which leads to a couple of watchtowers, and it’s due for maintenance. We’ll be covering roughly 40 miles in the four days we’re on the trail, so rest up over these few days.”

The radar was right, heavy rain filled our weekend. Water fell from the heavens onto the overhead cover of pine and gently dripped down, forming small pools in the dirt. These few cabin-bound days were calming and refreshing. The old reading chair became my home as I ingested various nature-themed books, washing it all down with a regular supply of hot tea. Saturday brought the heaviest of the rain, like a shower that wouldn’t turn off; it washed away any topsoil and reshaped the forest floor, carving microscopic canyons into the Washington soil. I sat reading Patterson’s field guide to animal tracks, and the large picture window to my left reminded me of a windshield in a car wash. The constant flow of water down the glass blurred everything to the point that only colors and rough shapes were perceivable. Yet out of the corner of my eye, there was movement, a crossing motion somewhere in the surrounding woods, which distracted my gaze from my book. I turned to the window, wondering if what, if anything, I had seen. I sat and watched the rain, and there it was again, a dark shape roughly 20 yards from the cabin weaved its way between the trees, working from left to right, with clear, intelligent movements, as stealthy as a snow leopard, it moved with purpose, like a ghost, it moved, vanishing behind every tree, and covering the distant between each one with masterful skill. Its shape was unclear; the water on the glass, matched with its movement, made it impossible to see any distinguishing characteristics. All that was known to me was its dark color and movement. I quickly stood and stared intently, hoping to identify the owner of the shape, but soon it was gone. It went behind a large tree, and I watched to see it cross on the other side, but it never did. It was gone. Reg, who was organizing the cabinets in the kitchen, noticed me staring, and he crossed over to stand with me at the window,

“Something caught your eye?” he said.

“Yeah, not sure what though, can’t really tell right now with the rain, and I’m not sure where it went, it just went behind that tree.” Reg’s eye’s quickly scanned the view from the window, seeing nothing he responded with

“well probably just a deer looking for a dry spot”

“that’s what I thought” I said “only it was a lot darker than a deer, and looked a bit bigger too”

Reg nodded “hmm, I wouldn’t worry about it, lots of animals in the woods”

With that he headed back to the kitchen though I noticed as he passed the front door he causally turned the deadbolt, locking the door. Something I was told to only do at night. He quickly changed the subject to reminding me what to pack for our upcoming journey. I listened, but couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t telling me all he knew.

Sunday came and went, late Sunday evening, the rain broke, and the clouds cleared. Monday morning, I was met with the most amazing sunrise I had ever seen, as well as the warm smell of a fresh pot of coffee. Leaving my bedroom, I was met by a smiling Reg, who handed me a mug of joe.

“Today’s the day, son, we hit the trail right after breakfast, a lot of ground to cover today, 15 miles give or take. We’ve got to make our camp area at the top of Scalpers Ridge before nightfall.” “I’m ready when you are,” I said with a grin. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

After breakfast, Reg grabbed two glass beer bottles. He put one in the side water bottle slot of my pack and the other in his. And then he reached for the old two-way radio that sat upon the kitchen counter near the coffee maker. Speaking into the receiver, he said,

“This is Reg and Nate, we’re heading up Trail 5, will be out of contact for about four days.”

Seconds later, the radio spoke back with the voice of Ranger Ward,

“Thanks for the heads up, Reg. Stay safe out there.”

“Will do,” said Reg, “over and out.”

We then fastened our packs to our backs and headed up Trail 5. The route to Scalpers Ridge was long and difficult, and even more so after a strong rain. The once coarse and dry dirt had now been transformed into smooth and slippery mud, which made the uphill trail all the more time-consuming. Over the next 15 miles, we were to gain 2500 feet of elevation to our night’s stop on top of Scalper’s Ridge, and tomorrow we would lose the elevation as the trail descended to the meadow on the other side of the ridge. It was hard work but fulfilling; the wilderness was full of life and beauty after the storm. As noon approached, we had covered 10 miles, slowing down, Reg turned to me and in an exhausted voice said,

“Let’s rest here for lunch, the last five miles are steep and rocky. We’re making good time, so let’s take a good long breather before the hard part.”

I nodded as I released the pack from my back,

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

In this moment, I welcomed food and rest as if they were old friends. We both sat down and located from our packs the ham sandwiches Reg had made yesterday. Turning a log into a bench, we sat and ate. No five-star restaurant could rival this dining experience. Our stopping point provided us with a vantage point over the land we had covered; it was truly glorious, miles of woods as old as time, untouched by human hands. Reg broke the silence,

“Hard to believe some people want to tear all this down, and put in more roads and apartments.”

“I’d like to think that if they would only come out here and see all this, they would have a change of heart. I think most people don’t realize this is all here, and if they did, they would want to protect it.”

Reg chuckled quietly, chewed his sandwich, and thought for a moment,

“The settlers saw the same land the Cherokee saw, only they didn’t see what was there; all they saw were fields for cattle, and timber for towns. Some people don’t see the beauty of nature, Nate; they only see resources to fuel their comfort.”

I looked at Reg and saw a man time had forgotten. The modern world had no place for a man like him, and yet he was the kind of man this world needed, a man of wisdom, of tradition, a mentor. The allure of wealth and comfort did not affect him; he cared only for real things, for people, and the world people had forgotten. Our discussion shifted to debating whether the eagle or the falcon was the better predatory bird. And as it did, off in the distance, we noticed a traveler moving up the trail we had spent the morning conquering.

The individual moved quickly, far quicker than Reg and me. When we first noticed that we weren’t alone on the trail, this new pilgrim was a few miles out, yet within the hour, they had approached our position. The hiker was a woman, probably in her early thirties; she was short, yet athletic. And she, like us, sported a large backpack and a Rangers uniform. She radiated the confidence of someone who had a great deal of experience in the outdoors. Reg acknowledged her with a nod and said,

“Afternoon, Sarah, good to see you, heading up to your tower, are you?”

Sarah responded, “Howdy, boys, good day for a hike. Yep, Reg, returning home, that time of the year.”

“That it is, hopefully we won’t see many fires this year. We’ll be spending the night at the ridge. You’re welcome to join us; we’ll make the room.”

Sarah shook her head, “Thanks, but I prefer the meadow, hoping to make it to the tower tomorrow afternoon, so I’ve got to pack in the miles today.”

“Ok then, just be safe, don’t push it too hard.”

She grinned, “Will do, see you around, fellas,”

She said with a wave as she headed up the trail. After we had parted ways, Reg turned to me and said,

“That was Sarah Henderson. She’s the lookout from tower 7, 12 miles past the ridge. Been doing the job for 10 years give or take, she’s one of the good ones, loves the job and takes it seriously.”

“Well, it’s good to know she’s out there,” I said.

“That it is, Nate, and if everything goes right, we probably won’t see her till the end of the season.”

30 minutes later, after we finally agreed that the eagle was the better bird, Reg rose to his feet, and with a stretch, he said,

“Well, we should probably get a move on; the last couple of miles are rough going, and we’ll want some time to settle at the ridge.”

I agreed and reached for my pack.
Scalper’s Ridge is the local high point that separates our forest into two. It runs like a backbone through the uniform pine and aspen. Though the top of the ridge itself is relatively flat, the path leading up to it was far from flat. The final 3 or 4 miles accounted for the majority of the elevation gain. The going was slow, but we pushed on. Reg led the way, and it was clear that his older body was being tested. His skill and experience were struggling to balance out the crippling power of age. As I followed Reg, my mind wandered far off trail. I thought of the miles of pure, untouched timber that surrounded me, of the beauty of the land, and the animals that called it home. And in a moment, I thought of Hank.

My mind had been working overtime to keep any thought of him at bay, but now the slowness of our progress and the boringness that followed served as the perfect avenue for his memory to work its way to center stage. Had he suffered? What was his dying thought? Did he know it was over? Was the accident my fault? What about his family? What would they think of me? Hank’s friend, who flees moments after his death? What was I doing? Am I really that much of a coward to run and hide, instead of being there for them in their pain? Ward was right. I couldn’t outrun this.

In that moment, the wilderness lost all its beauty; it was no longer freedom, it was a cage. A cage I ran into, hoping to be free. In the quietness of the hike, Hank’s memory haunted me. Time marched on as my mind prosecuted me with evidence of my shame and guilt. The world around me was a blur, and I marched on completely unaware of my surroundings, until suddenly my daze was broken as my legs were knocked out from under me. I fell hard on my face, and the steep trail combined with gravity caused my body to roll and pick up speed as I headed down the trail, until a weathered pine broke my fall, as my pack and back slammed into it. I slowly lifted my aching and bruised body, and in response to the sharp pain in my left thigh, I looked down and saw a large shard of glass protruding from the meaty mass of my thigh. My beer bottle had smashed, and a portion of it had found a new home in my leg. I winced in pain and quickly hobbled over to the body of Reg.

“Reg!” I shouted, “Are you alright?”

Reg had slipped; the slick, muddy, and steep trail offered light grip for his 10-year-old boots, and in an instant, his body went violently horizontal and began to slide down the trail and directly into me, bowling me over and continuing for a dozen feet to his final resting place at the side of a large boulder. At my cry, he slowly shifted and pulled himself to his knees, swearing under his breath. He calmed my fears by saying,

“I’m alright, son, just some bruises, and my pride is in shambles. I’m sorry for knocking you over. This is a young man’s game, and I don’t move as I used to.”

He reached out his arm to me, looking for support to get to his feet, as he did he noticed the piece of glass in my leg.

“Nate, are you ok? What happened?”

“Eh, my beer smashed in the fall, and just my luck, I got caught with the glass.”

“Well, I guess I have better luck than you. Mine broke as well, but I didn’t catch any glass. Help me get the 1st aid kit out of my pack, and we’ll take care of that.”

Thankfully, the glass missed everything important in my thigh, and after getting it cleaned and covered, it hardly bothered me. Other than that and a small cut on Reg’s face, we emerged fairly untouched from the fall. And we pressed on with the final stretch, and shortly after this incident, we summited the ridge. At the top, we were rewarded with perfect 360-degree views of everything. Everything in our small world, we saw the borders of our territory in every direction, and we truly felt like the kings of the kingdom. Judging by the position of the sun, and confirmed by our watches, we summited with just under three hours of daylight. Plenty of time to settle in, set up our tents, start a fire, and prepare dinner. Chef Boyardee canned spaghetti and meatballs never tasted so good.
After nightfall, the stars came out to dance. I never saw so much of the night sky. It was glorious and the full moon illuminated the surrounding woods, making flashlights unnecessary. Around the campfire with cheap noodles and fake meatballs in his stomach, Reg came alive. Clearly, he was fueled by the outdoors and adventure. He laughed deeply and freely, and he told cringy stories about his first ex-wife, all while the fire danced wildly in his eyes. As his storybook began to run dry, and he became quieter, he stared into the fire, hypnotized by its movements. After a few silent moments, he slowly, in a low voice, began to chant in a language I did not know. It was lively and melodious. It was beautiful, and though I did not understand, I found it calming.

“What was that?” I asked when he had finished.

With a smile, he replied. “The elders of my people used to sing that song during the lessons I had as a child. It speaks of the provision of the land, the food from the water and forests, the shelter from the trees, and the power from the earth. It’s a happy song, it is to remind us that nature provides all we need. So many of my people have forgotten their past, both the good and the bad. They have lost their bond with the earth because of the distractions of modern life. I sing that song from time to time to remind myself of what they have forgotten. That the earth provides for its children, and we shouldn’t scorn her gift.”

“Thank you for sharing, it was beautiful, and I’m glad I got to hear it.”
he shrugged and smiled, “It’s meant to be shared, and its words make me happy.”

I nodded in agreement and reached for my water bottle. Our conversation was good; we spoke of our lives, our dreams, our fears, and our worries. Nothing was held back around the fire.
Drowsiness loomed heavy on me; I was more than ready to head to my tent and give up the fight against sleep’s power. But as I opened my mouth to announce my surrender, a different noise echoed through the night. A cruel, cold, piercing howl. Not a howl like a wolf or coyote would make, more like a scream, not a scream of pain, but one of rage and malice. it froze my blood. In fear, I asked,

“What in the world was that?”

Reg sighed and added more wood to the fire. It felt like an eternity before he answered, and when he did, his voice was strong, yet low and reverent.

“Not everything that lives in the woods can be found in a guidebook. Such things are rejected by the so-called rational world. But my people speak of such things, the elders told, whispered tales of creatures in the deep woods that moved like shadows and remained just out of sight and followed travelers through dense timber, waiting for the right moment to attack those it stalked. Its real name is dangerous to say, but in English, the elders referred to them as ‘stick Indians’. Lumberjacks and those who settled here in the northwest gave it a different name, but it doesn’t matter; the name won’t give us power over it. The legends don’t tell us what they look like, for no man has seen one and lived. If the thing existed, our greatest defense is to remain on guard and be vigilant at all times.”

My voice cracked slightly as I answered, “Do you really think that’s what made that noise?”

He shrugged, “I’m open to the idea, though I think there’s some more likely culprits, like a mountain lion.”

I frowned, “Wait a minute, if you thought it was a mountain lion, why did you tell me all that other stuff?”
A wide smile spread across his face.

“Well, I thought it would be a good laugh, I don’t get to scare the new guy very often, and the look on your face was priceless.”

He said, bursting out laughing. I blushed and said, “I didn’t find it that funny.”

“Oh come on, Nate, what good is a fire if we’re not telling scary stories? One day, you’ll be the old guy and get to make fun of the newbie.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Well, now I have to get you back.”

“Good luck, son, good luck.” He said as he stood and stretched, “I got to take a leak,” he said, “Don’t wait up if you don’t want to,”

And with that, he headed off into the woods to do his business. Like a child, I sat at the fire and sulked. I couldn’t believe that I had fallen for such a stupid story. Of course, it was a mountain lion, and Reg played my fear like a master. I had to get him back. So I began to think of a good comeback, and by the time that I decided that putting spaghetti and meatballs in his sleeping bag was too cruel, I realized Reg hadn’t come back yet. Standing up and looking around, I shouted, “Oh come on, Reg, this isn’t funny, let it go.”

I stood quietly and listened for a moment. Nothing, not a sound.

“Reg, I’m tired, come out already.”

Suddenly, a twinge of fear entered my mind. Maybe he had fallen and gotten hurt. I headed off in the direction he went. Straining my eyes to see in the low light, my foot kicked something that had been lying on the ground, and I knelt and saw it was Reg’s water bottle. Panic filled my mind, Reg could be hurt, I thought, “Reg! Are you ok?”

I started back toward the fire to grab my headlamp. I searched the area for what felt like hours. I screamed his name, calling for him to return. When all of a sudden, there was a noise, a noise that sent shivers up my spine, and muted my calls to Reg. I went silent as an ungodly combination of two disgusting sounds: heavy gruff breathing and wet smacking filled my ears. Almost instinctively, I turned off my headlamp and quietly snuck my way toward the sound; whatever was making it was not something I wanted to run up on. And so I walked further from the fire and closer to the sound, which grew in volume and intensity. About a quarter mile out from our camp, the sound was deafening. As though its source was now within my own mind. All other sounds vanished, and the night air was consumed with heavy breathing and smacking.

Turning a corner, I saw the source of both the sound and my constant nightmares.

Before me was a massive ancient tree sitting alone amid a clearing, and hanging up against the side of the tree was Reg, or at least pieces of Reg.

Seven feet off the ground was his head was pinned to the tree by a large branch that had been shoved under the back of his skull, and out of his mouth. His eyes had been ripped out, leaving behind two craters of bloody flesh. Attached to his head, like a string attached to a balloon, was his wet, shiny spine. And like a jacket hung in the closet, torn long flaps of loose skin cloaked the spine like a cape hanging off what little remained of Reg’s shoulders. And there, at the base of the tree with its back to me, squatted a beast too awful to be real. Even while crouching, the creature was taller than any man, though it was far thinner than humanly possible; every bone in its evil body was visible as its pale grey, hairless, moist skin stretched tight over every joint. Its limbs were far too long, nothing more than skin-covered bone that yielded to awful, needle-like claws on its long, twig-like fingers. Its head was unlike a man’s; it looked like the skin of a human head, yet stretched over the skull of a bear, leaving the skin too tight to be distinguished from bone. The creature sat and devoured the inner flesh of Reg. Its heavy breathing was only interrupted by the wet smacking of human flesh being consumed. I gasped and felt the sudden need to vomit. Slowly, I reached up to turn on my headlamp to confirm what the moonlight was showing me. As the light reached the colorless skin of the things back, it froze. I held my breath as the creature’s head slowly turned over its shoulder and its eyes rested upon me.
Those large, perfectly round eyes were pitch black and lifeless, like the eyes of a great white shark, only with more malice. That eye contact, though it was probably only seconds, felt like days. But suddenly, with a movement like lightning, the thing was on its feet and facing my direction. Its jaw opened far too wide, revealing rows and rows of long, needle-like teeth, and with a scream of pure rage, it lurched towards me. I cried in fear, surely I couldn’t outrun this monster, and though I wanted to, my body wouldn’t allow it. Instead, I turned around, not wanting to see its teeth meet my flesh, and fell into the fetal position, waiting for my death to come.

Only it didn’t, I waited, squinting my eyes shut, and shielding my head with my hands. But nothing happened. I slowly opened my eyes, but I dared not turn around. It was still there, it was right behind me, I could feel its warm breath on my neck, it couldn’t have been more than 2 inches from me. Its labored breathing echoed in my ears. What do I do? I thought the only response from my brain was Don’t turn around. I slowly crawled on my stomach, yet it followed, right behind me. If I raised my head slightly, I was sure I would touch its mouth that loomed over me. It hadn’t killed me yet, so I crawled. With each movement, I got a little bolder and faster. Before long, I worked up the courage to get to my knees and crawl. It still followed. Soon, I slowly, at a snail’s pace, inched my way up into a standing position; I dared not turn around. Its breath was hot on my neck. There we stood, the creature, like my shadow, stood right behind me, and then it spoke. Its voice was loud and broken; it lacked any cadence. Like a dog that has been taught a handful of words, it sounded wrong, like something that shouldn’t speak was speaking. It was deep and guttural. In broken English, it said, “LOOK. AT. ME.”

The words nearly killed me. And its profane voice said, “LOOK. AT. ME.”

I was petrified. Behind me stood a living nightmare that had just murdered my friend, and before me was the black emptiness of the wilderness. I could try to run, but this creature could, in an instant, reach out and slash my throat in one motion. Why hadn’t it? Its claws were inches away. Was it playing with me? Did it find my terror amusing? And if I ran, would it end its game in the same way it had ended Reg? I had to do something; I had to move. So I slowly lifted my right foot and took one step. Nothing happened. Was this a trap? Was it simply waiting for me to get comfortable and let my guard down? I took another step. Again nothing. I began to shuffle my way forward and sensed that I had formed some distance between me and the monster; it made no sound, yet I no longer felt its breath on my neck. I froze.

Was the thing still there? What if it had quietly left and was waiting ahead of me to attack? What if it was back at camp or in my tent? The thoughts consumed me. I dared not look back. What if it was still there? It wanted me to look at it. What would happen if I did? Certainly, it would be death. I needed to get away. I closed my eyes and walked five steps forward. There was a small noise behind me and to the left. A twig snapping. Was it there? Was it following me? I didn’t wait around to find out. Every five steps, I would open my eyes to see what the next group of steps held. First it was five, then seven, and finally ten. It was slow going; the 30 minutes it took to get to Reg’s tree took twice as long going at this pace. And all the while, little noises echoed no more than 30 feet behind me. They were normal forest sounds, the breaking of a twig, the crisp rustling of dirt and fallen pine needles, the scraping of branches against trees.

Under any other circumstance, these sounds would have gone unnoticed and drifted away into the symphony of the woods at night. But I knew better; I knew everything I heard had a single source. It was following me. Before long, I saw the fire’s light; it glowed low in the distance and warmly illuminated my yellow and gray tent. This camp was not my goal; there was no salvation in that tent. It only showed me the location of the main trail out of here. I stood by the fire, taking a moment to warm my shaking hands. Somehow, I knew that fire would not ward off the creature that stalked me. I felt its presence in the bushes behind me, the fire warmed me, and the bushes rustled behind me. This was going to be a long night.
I had to run.

It was the only way. I doubt the cabin would provide much protection, but it was better than a tent. I had to make it; I didn’t care about my pack or my tent; they would just slow me down. I wasn’t much of a runner; there was no way I could run all of the 15 miles that lay before me, and I doubt I could do even 5, but maybe I could widen the gap between me and that thing. My back stiffened as I worked up the courage to put my plan into action. Even on this cold night, I was sweating. With as much energy as I could muster sprinted from the warmth of the fire, down the way Reg had led me just a few hours earlier.

Adrenaline was my fuel, and I stumbled and fell more than once, but it didn’t matter; scraped knees and bruised hips weren’t going to stop me. I had to keep going. One mile passed, and then two. Even though I was aided by going downhill, I was exhausted. My pace slowed from a sprint to a jog. And at my slowed pace, the sound of movement behind me reached my ears. Heavy footsteps and clear rustling in the brush. It had followed. It was hunting me; that realization was all I needed to keep going.

According to my watch, I reached mile 12 just after 1 AM. In a former life, I would have just finished a shift at a boring yet safe job. I’d be cracking jokes with my friend, but instead, I was here, stumbling around the woods as an unknown creature stalked me. Every fiber of my being wanted to stop, but fear carried me on, though it was barely faster than a walk. The footsteps were fast and irregular, unlike an animal, and unlike a man, but each step was intelligent and purposeful. It kept its distance, not too close, not too far, fifty feet or so, certainly not out of striking distance for a being like this. I pressed on, the wound in my thigh burned, and my feet longed for a break, but I knew no rest would come until I was inside the cabin, for in the cabin was the radio, and with the radio would come help.

Soon, I saw the cabin, which looked so peaceful and picturesque as if all was right in the world. less than a mile now, but my shadow was closing in. It had split the gap between us, as if it knew I was nearing my refuge. As my pace slowed, its pace quickened slightly. My eyes were locked on the cabin door, only 300 feet now, I thought.

“LOOK,” boomed the voice behind me.

It froze my blood. How easily I could have convinced myself that the voice I heard last night was all in my head, I could have convinced myself that Reg was attacked by a mountain lion, which chased me back to the cabin. But that voice dragged me back to reality. It spoke again, “LOOK. AT. ME.”

I stopped, only 100 feet between me and the door. I would have to move fast. I sprinted, and it followed right behind. My body slammed into the wooden door, and it opened. I was in, quickly I turned, and closed the door, throwing the dead bolt. And not a moment too soon, as a heavy force shook the door, the hinges groaned, and the wood vibrated. I backed up from the door, praying it would hold. It did. Whatever was on the other side of the door pounded it with an unearthly viciousness. Blow after blow rocked the old door, yet it held. The creature screamed with rage, “LOOK. AT. ME! LOOK. AT. ME! LOOK. AT. ME!”

It went on and on, screaming and banging, it did not weary or relent. On and on it went. I couldn’t stand it; I gripped my ears, hoping to dull the noise, but it did no good. Ward wouldn’t be at headquarters till 6 AM, meaning there was no one to hear my pleas for help over the radio, yet plead I did, the only response I received was static. It was now 3 AM, and I pulled the blinds on every window in the place, creating a calming, yet false sense of security. Soon, the awful sounds at the door quieted, and relief flooded my mind; drowsiness came next, the kind that can’t be beat, and sleep overwhelmed me. The couch caught my fall.

A metallic clicking jolted me awake two hours later; it was 5 AM. My heart stopped as I realized that the clicking was the sound of an unknown force outside testing the door handle. I shot up from the couch; eyes fixed upon the jiggling door handle. The deadbolt boldly held the line; the little metal bolt was my only defense against the dark forest outside. I held my breath as the handle continued to dance. A quivering voice broke the silence, “Reg? Are you in there? Please let me in.”

It was a woman’s voice; it was Sarah’s voice. I took a step towards the door.
“Sarah? It’s Nate, are you ok? Reg is gone.”

She whimpered and began to sob. Through tears, she squeaked out her plea, “Nate, please let me in. There’s something out here.”

I dashed to the door, but as my hand hovered above the deadlock, the words of Ward echoed in my mind Never open the door after dark. I gently placed my ear against the door, and I heard a poor, sniffling woman, but beyond that, something else was there, another sound, a deep, heavy breathing. Turning to the door, I asked quietly, “Sarah, are you ok?”

The sobbing stopped, and it was quiet for a moment.

“Please, just open the door.”

I inched my way over to the window and peeked out through the blinds. I gasped at what I saw. There at the door stood a battered and bruised Sarah; there she stood, forehead resting against the door, long black blade-like fingers wrapped around her head, as though it were a basketball.

The fingers led to the bony arm attached to the hulking, emaciated figure that stood in the shadows. As I slept, it must have gone back to Sarah’s camp and dragged her back to my door, hoping I would open it to her. I pulled back from the window.

“Please, Nate,” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Sarah, I can’t.”

The silence that followed was potent, but then Sarah screamed. A high bloodcurdling scream, and as the screaming started, so did the pounding. The creature pounded her head against the door, like it was a hammer pounding a nail. She screamed the whole time. First, it was a loud pain pain-filled scream, but as the pounding continued, the scream became gurgled as blood filled her nose and mouth, and then the screaming stopped, and all that remained was the sound of a flattened head hitting solid wood. The creature was enraged; it screamed and shouted and rocked the door with its fists, but still the door held.

At 5:50 AM, the creature began to circle the cabin, occasionally stopping at the door to pound on it. At 6:01 AM, I grabbed the radio receiver, still a minute late, I hope Ward won’t mind.

“Hello, is anyone there? This is Nate Diaz, and I need help!”

I frantically yelled into the handheld receiver. Seconds of static passed, no response, and I repeated my plea, “Anyone please, this is Nate Diaz, I need help!”

“Diaz!” yelled the radio. “This had better be good, my coffee hasn’t finished brewing, and already the rookie is screaming on the radio, what’s this all about?” said the grumpy voice of Tim Ward.

“Ward, I need help, something’s after me, it’s here at the cabin, it followed me back.”

A now serious Ward responded, “Where is Reg?”

“Reg is dead,” I yelled, “and so is Sarah.”

Ward pounded his desk with his fist and swore loudly, before redirecting his attention again towards me and blankly saying in a gruff voice, “Did you see it?”

“What?”

“The creature, did you see it?”
I fell silent. I didn’t know what to say.

“Damnit, Diaz, did you look at it?” Ward screamed.

“Yeah, I saw it.”

The radio went silent before he quietly asked, “Did you see its eyes?”

I’ll never forget those eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I did.”

He gasped before muttering,
“Dear God, help us.”

“What is this, Ward? What is this thing?”

With a sigh, he answered, “A HideBehind.”

“A what?” I said, “A HideBehind, that’s what they call it, I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s an animal, maybe it’s a native spirit, or maybe something in between. It’s a stealth hunter that preys on lone people in the wilderness; it always remains behind you or right at the corner of your vision, as it waits for the perfect time to strike, or at least that’s its normal behavior. What you did broke it.”

I swallowed and asked, “What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen it,” he said, “even more, you’ve looked it in the eye, no one who has ever seen its eyes has lived, but it isn’t going to just kill you, no, it’s a hunter, the game it plays has changed, instead of hiding from you, it now tries to catch you looking, it will follow you, no matter where you go, and it will hound you till at last you break and look at its eyes again, and then it will kill you. You’re its only target now, it must keep its perfect record.”

He paused, and I didn’t know what to say. After a while, he continued, “How did this happen, Diaz? Why didn’t you and Reg pack beer?”

“We did, sir, but our bottles smashed in a fall we took on the trail. What good is beer?”

“Well, it’s the only thing we have found that will keep it at bay. The smell of fermentation seems to upset it. But that won’t help you now; it didn’t help the last guy, it won’t help you. The rage it has for you is greater than its dislike of the smell.”

“The last guy?” I asked, “This has happened before?”

“Yes, a few times,” he said blankly, “in the back of the drawer by the stove, there’s a letter from one of the other victims, there are some helpful survival tips in it, I’m going to take the ATV up to you, read it while you wait for me. Don’t worry, when I get there, it will hide. It has too for everyone who hasn’t seen its eyes, be ready to go when I get there.”

“How many have survived?” I asked “None. I’ll be there soon, over and out.”
The radio went silent, and I suddenly realized I had been holding my breath. My hands were shaking, and my mouth was dry. I no longer had any love for the wilderness; I see now it never loved me. I was nothing more than a fly in the web, a sheep led to slaughter. I was no conqueror, no explorer; great adventurers would have laughed at the sad, scared child I had become. I had given my heart to a cruel mistress, and now I was to pay the price. I went to the stove, opened the drawer to its right, and in the back, under a collection of oven mitts, was a crinkled letter. I took a deep breath and began to read. It said the following:

“To the poor soul who has seen the HideBehind:
What hunts you is an unnatural force, a creature with no mercy or compassion. It enjoys its hunt, and you messed it up, so you must pay. I have no solutions for you; humanity hasn’t found a way to kill this thing, and it will not rest until it ties up any loose ends, mainly you. I can only offer you some advice; hopefully, it will help:
· You need to stay around lots of people; the HideBehind is no longer hiding from you, but it still must hide from others, so your best hope is to remain around crowds.
· We have found only two defenses against the HideBehind: alcohol and locked doors. Alcohol won’t help you anymore; it only helps if it’s stalking, it’s not stalking you anymore. But locked doors still work; always lock your doors, it’s your only defense now.
· Kill yourself, save yourself from the pain that’s coming.
May God help you.”

I stared at the paper, rereading it over and over. I couldn’t believe this, this can’t be real, this has to be a dream. But it wasn’t. The throbbing pain in my thigh reminded me of that. I wish I had never come here; in fact, I wish I had died with Hank, at least he died smiling and talking to his friend. I’m going to die at the hands of a monster, filled with fear. Hank had it good.
I turned the paper over in my hands, and on the back, on the bottom of the page, was a short list of names.

“Thomas, Chris, Karen, Miguel.” I found a pen in the end table by the couch. I then added my name to the list, carefully refolded the note, and returned it to its hiding place.

I returned to my bedroom and began to repack my small suitcase, with the small amount of clothing and personal items I had left. Being sure to put my wallet and truck keys in my pocket. I pulled my dead iPhone and the charger from the home in the nightstand, and put them on top of my clothes before zipping up the suitcase. I then enjoyed a hot shower, the only bit of relaxation I’d had in days. Roughly 10 minutes later, I heard the loud engine of the ATV. Ward was here. I stood by the door, suitcase in hand, waiting to hear Ward’s voice. He threw the machine into park, and though the loud noise of the engine remained, I could hear the branches breaking and bushes moving.

“Nate, get out here! We’ve got to go!”
Taking a deep breath, I swung the door open and stepped into the morning light. The porch was damp and stained with blood, but Sarah’s body had been placed high in a tree, in a similar way to Reg’s. Ward sat on the ATV 10 feet from the porch. As I stepped off the last step of the porch, the loud, angry scream echoed throughout the forest.

“Get on, now!” screamed Ward.

I closed the distance and hopped on the back. The vehicle sprang to life as Ward hit the accelerator quickly. He quickly performed a U-turn, and as he did, the large body of a dead elk was thrown our direction; it barely missed us and slammed violently against the stairs of the porch. The screaming continued, but as we pushed down the trail, the sound faded. The ATV covered the distance to headquarters in a little more than 20 minutes, something that had taken me a whole morning less than a week ago. Yet I knew the seven miles wasn’t going to be far enough.

As we pulled into the makeshift parking lot, Ward looked over his shoulder at me and said, “Go inside quickly.”

I ran into the small building, and he followed. Slamming and locking the door, he turned to me, looking into my eyes, he said, “I’m truly sorry, Nate. I assigned you to Reg, hoping he would show you firsthand how to avoid the beast.”

He paused, running a hand through his dark hair, “I should have done this myself. This is my fault, and I’m sorry.”
I looked at him and saw a brave man, a quiet guardian, who clearly was burdened by lives he felt responsible for.

“It’s not your fault, sir.” I said, “It would have killed Reg, whether or not I knew, and it killed Sarah because I wouldn’t open the door, none of this is your fault.”

He stared at the floor for a moment, then looked back at me.

“This is my post, Nate. Everything that happens here is my fault. But thank you for your words.”

I nodded, “Sure thing.”

He moved to his office and sat at the desk. I followed.

“You have to go, Nate.” He said, “You need to spend the rest of your life surrounded by as many people as you can.”

“Where do I go, sir?” I weakly said.
He shook his head, “I don’t know, somewhere far, and with lots of people. Stick to the big cities.”

I nodded slowly, “If I have to, I will.”

“Good.” He approved, and he opened a drawer from the desk, pulling out a checkbook. “Now, the National Park Service has an off-the-books fund to help rangers and their next of kin, when something like this happens. I’m writing you a check for $5,000 and will send another $5,000 to the next of kin of your choosing.

“Send it to my mom.” I said, “She’s my emergency contact on file.”

He nodded, “We’ll do that, here, take yours, and you’d better get a move on.” He reached out to shake my hand.

“Stay alive, son.”

“I’ll try,” I said, as our hands shook for the last time. I then took the check and suitcase, and ran to the truck, and turned the key.

The open road was comforting to me; the HideBehind was fast on foot, but it couldn’t match highway speeds. With each passing moment, I felt lighter, as if I had awakened from a nightmare, and every moment reaffirmed reality and disproved the dream. I could breathe again. The road had given me new life, hope, maybe I would live, perhaps I wouldn’t be like the others. How could the creature follow me now? “I escaped,” I muttered aloud as a quiet chuckle left my lips. I soon realized just how exhausted I was. It had been days since I had had a full night’s sleep, and the constant adrenaline of the last few days had shot my system. My mind turned towards finding a decent bed, so as I pulled into a small town near the Idaho border, I located the parking lot of a Best Western hotel, and headed to the front desk. Entering my room on the third floor, I throw the deadbolt and crashed hard on the soft bed. Morning came, and with it a false sense of security; the night had been completely ordinary. No screaming and pounding at the door, no evidence that I had been followed. I took a deep breath and smiled. I had gotten away, I was going to live, I certainly didn’t doubt that the HideBehind was real, but I doubted it was still hunting me, just like an escaped convict doesn’t doubt the police are real; he just doubts they will find him. I had gotten away, I was in the wind, and the Creature wasn’t coming. All these thoughts boosted my ego as I headed down to enjoy my complimentary hotel breakfast.

The breakfast was amazing. I devoured plate after plate of powdered eggs, microwaved sausage patties, and cheap cinnamon rolls. I ate so much that the hotel staff began to eye me with judgment, but I didn’t care. 24 hours earlier, I thought I would never eat again, so I ignored their stares and continued eating.

Entering my truck, I realized I had no real plan. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going or what I was going to do, but for the time being, I wasn’t bothered by this. I was going to drive until a plan formed itself. Finding the highway again, I headed toward Idaho.
Just a quick PSA, if you are ever on a long road trip, never, and I mean never, eat the free breakfast at a Best Western Hotel. I hadn’t even been on the road an hour when the powdered eggs and cinnamon rolls mixed into a thick cement in my gut and threatened to burst at any moment. The first major truck stop in Idaho was my only refuge.

I sped into the parking lot, barely holding on, and the truck had hardly stopped moving by the time I had entered the rest stop. It was quiet and empty; apparently, not a lot of people were on the road here in Idaho on a Tuesday morning. I ran to the men’s room and sighed with relief when I saw the restroom was empty. I didn’t want anyone to witness what was about to happen. Moments later, the storm had passed, and as I stood to exit the stall, the door to the bathroom swung open. I expected the sound of shoes on tile as a new patron entered the room, but instead, the sound I heard was that of large bare feet slapping against the floor, accompanied by the clicking of long claws meeting the ceramic tiles. It was here. I held my breath as the massive skeleton-like feet slowly moved along the row of stalls.

The HideBehind came to a stop directly outside the stall I was in. Its feet pointed toward me as it stared at the little door between us. Heavy wet breathing filled the bathroom. All went silent. Then its fist rocked the little door,

“LOOK. AT. ME.” came its inhuman voice. Long claws scraped against the thin steel wall of the box that enclosed me. it rattled and shook the door violently, hoping it would come loose, but the lock held. It went silent, only its heavy breathing filled the room, then after a moment. One thin gray arm stretched over the top of the stall and slithered down the side, searching for the lock. Its fingers inched closer to the lock; it was barely out of reach, but its claws knocked against the bolt as it sought to knock it loose. The bolt moved slightly, then the claws hit it again; it moved. Soon, it would be knocked free. I screamed as I realized the door wouldn’t remain locked much longer. Just then, the bathroom door swung open again, and in an instant, the HideBehind had hidden itself behind the last stall in the row, as a heavyset man in cowboy boots entered the bathroom.

I took my opportunity, flung the stall open, and dashed past the man who had saved me on my way to the parking lot. I sped down the highway, as my sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel, the hopelessness of my situation had returned. What do I do? Where do I go? I didn’t know; all I knew was I needed to keep driving. I wasn’t stopping till Idaho was behind me.

Several hours later, after passing over the Rocky Mountains and entering the northern Great Plains of central Montana, I pulled the truck off to the side of the highway. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. My experience at the truck stop made me realize just how awful my situation was. The HideBehind wasn’t limited to the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.

This realization terrified me; no matter where I went, it would follow, just like Ward had said. I was exhausted by the idea, seeking freedom, I found a permanent chain on my life. A constant eye upon my life, a constant threat. Reality brought tears to my eyes, and dread filled me. It hardly seemed the effort to keep going. In the middle of a barren highway in Montana, I wept, not for the friends I had lost, not for Reg, or Sarah, or for the mess I left on Ward, no, selfishly, I wept for myself. The monster had claimed my life, and out of cruelty, it had left me alive. And so I sat and mourned the life I would never have. 10 maybe 20 minutes passed before I looked out my window at the vast, desolate prairie all around me. it was beautiful, though empty.

I saw the birds that called this wasteland their home, the poor creatures; they will never know the abundance of the coast or the mountaintop. All they have ever known is roadkill and the leftover McDonald’s fries thrown from a car window. Life had dealt these birds a bad hand. Yet as I watched, I saw that these birds didn’t despise their situation; rather, they made the most of it. I had been dealt a bad hand, and crying about it wasn’t going to improve anything; maybe it was time for me to make the most of this, maybe it was time for me to take a stand. I pulled out the old United States road map that rested in the side compartment of the driver’s door. And after a moment, pinpointed my location. As I did, I clicked on the truck’s radio and dialed into the local country station. The music soothed my nerves as I studied the map. I needed to get to a city, and I had to go far.

The further the better, my eyes scoured the wrinkled paper, and as my eyes moved to the eastern seaboard, it became obvious. New York City. It had people, and it was on the other side of the nation. It was perfect, I would go to New York. As I moved to locate a pen to mark the route to the Big Apple, the music on the radio was interrupted by a clear, smooth male voice that spoke over the airwaves:

“Breaking News, police are searching for any information related to a murder this morning on the Washington-Idaho border. 53-year-old Bill Foster, a local trucker, husband, and father, was found decapitated in a bathroom at a truck stop just east of the border. Local authorities are asking anyone who has any information regarding this case to please call your local sheriff’s office.”

The news hit me like a load of bricks; it never once crossed my mind that the man who distracted the HideBehind would then suffer its wrath. Mr. Foster’s death flooded me with guilt; if I had never stopped, he would still be alive. It was my fault he was killed. I sat there, considering whether to call in and tell the cops what had happened. It was certainly the right thing to do, but the truth was not something the police would believe. In this case, perhaps the unknown was more comforting than the truth. After 10 minutes or so, I shamefully concluded that I wasn’t going to call in, no one would believe me, and I was the last human to see Foster alive, and in the eyes of the rationalistic law, all the guilt fell on me. With a sigh, I resolved to continue on my way. Looking up and out at the highway ahead, I said aloud, “I’m so sorry, Bill Foster,” to the void.

My eye caught movement in the rearview mirror. In the distance, miles behind me, there was movement at the meeting place of the forest and the plains. To me, it looked like a dark, indiscernible shape, no different than the shape and color of the distant trees, dotted over the far horizon. The only difference was that this shape was moving. It slowly moved across the prairie. As I watched it, at first, it was hard to tell that it was getting closer, but soon it had grown slightly, and it was growing closer. I watched a little longer, just to be sure. I prayed it was just a cow, or maybe a deer. But soon adrenaline pumped throughout my veins, the shape moved intentionally, it traveled in a straight line towards me, an animal would move randomly, but this was keeping on a direct path.

I knew it had to be the HideBehind, and I wasn’t waiting around anymore to find out. It was still miles off, but I had turned the key and sped off down the empty highway. The drive before me was massive, roughly 32 hours to New York City. And I planned to drive through the night, stopping only for gas and bathroom stops, though I was now committed to not stopping at empty gas stations, and when I did stop, I was only going to give myself 5 minutes. I had to put as much distance between me and the monster as I could. As the sun began to set, I pulled into a station to fill up and grab a supply of energy drinks to get me through the overnight hours.

The highways that pass through the great plains of Montana and the Dakotas are empty and quiet during the daytime, but at night, you can go hours without seeing another set of headlights. My truck passed through the black emptiness like a lone shooting star across an empty night sky. The first couple of hours were easy and somewhat enjoyable; the straight and empty highway made for quiet and fast travel, and for dinner, I enjoyed a cheap gas station hamburger and a Red Bull. Glancing in my rearview, I was happy to see nothing but the gentle glow of the setting sun. Hours passed quickly, but as midnight rolled around, fatigue began to set in. My tired mind began to second-guess my original plan to drive through the night. it had been hours since I last saw another vehicle, and the only light discernible by my eyes was the eerie glow of my lone headlights. Darkness surrounded the truck. I could have been passing by stunning, massive mountains or incredible rolling hills, and would have never known.

My world was limited to the 50 feet of light provided by my headlights. The radio was my only friend. As time went on, more and more radio stations signed off for the night, and night became morning. Only one station remained, a classic rock station.

“Welcome to the graveyard shift, night owls.” Came the buttery voice of the nighttime disk jockey, “This is Ryder Knox, and I am your guide as we travel back to a time when life was simple, and rock was real. Only the real stuff here, folks. Only the hits you grew up on here at KW101.8, South Dakota’s home for classic rock. We’re looking at another commercial-free five in a row, starting off with some 70’s hits, here’s Toto for you folks.”

As the song Hold the Line screamed through the truck’s speakers, my mind drifted, and exhaustion hounded me like a vengeful spirit. The empty, boring highway joined forces with my weary mind, and together waged war against my eyelids. First, two songs, then four, then twelve. I was a zombie at the wheel; the only thing that kept me upright was the caffeine that filled my bloodstream. Lack of sleep, hours upon the road, and overpowering fear began to mess with my mind. My vision quickly moved in and out of focus, and shadows danced just out of reach of my headlights. I was seeing things. I found myself slapping my face to refocus my vision, and I cranked the volume to try to ward off sleep.

“Well now, wasn’t that a delight, ladies and gentlemen?” Ryder Knox had returned.

“I’m telling you, they just don’t make music like they used to, and before we get into the next round of tunes, I figured, let’s open up the phone lines, because there’s a question that I’m just itching to ask, the number is 605-553-1705 if you want to call in with your answer, are you ready for the question? Here it is:”

Knox’s voice, sobered and deepened as he said, “Tell me how did you die?”

I glanced down at the radio in confusion, “What?” I said out loud.

“You heard me folks,” purred the radio,
“Old Knox wants to hear just how did you die? And would you look at that, we already got a few callers on the line, so caller one, go ahead, you’re on the air, how did you die?”

The radio cracked with static; the angry, ghostly voice that followed sent a shiver up my spine.

“Hello, Ryder. I’m Hank, and I died because my so-called friend wasn’t looking where he was going and crashed into a truck. He was fine, but he killed me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Hank. Just tells you how important it is to have reliable friends, doesn’t it? Thanks for the call, Hank. Hope you will find rest one day. Caller two, thanks for calling, you’re on the air, how did you die?”

A creaked and strained voice answered.

“My name is Reggie, and I died because the new employee at work didn’t take the rules seriously, and it didn’t cost him anything, but it cost me everything.”

“So sorry about that, Reggie, young people today can’t handle work, can they?” chuckled Ryder Knox.

“Thanks for calling, but let’s get to caller three, so caller, how did you die?” a crying female voice yelled through the radio.

“I’m Sarah, and I died because a selfish boy wouldn’t help me when I was in danger.”

Ryder Knox responded, “I’m sorry, Sarah, Nathan really is a coward, isn’t he?”

In an instant, I turned the radio off, cold sweat drenched me, and I needed sleep. I glanced at the rearview mirror, and my heart dropped as I was met with the silhouette of a man in the backseat of the truck. I had seen this man before; in fact, I was the last person to see him alive. It was Bill Foster. His glazed-over, dead eyes met mine in the mirror, and his raspy monotone voice said, “It’s coming for you, boy, no use fighting it.”

I whipped my head around, but I saw no one behind me. Swallowing hard, I turned back toward the road, just in time to see the shape of an old woman illuminated in the headlights. There was no time to react, and the truck rammed into her body with a loud, bone-crunching thud. In a panic, I lost control of the truck as the impact caused me to swerve off the road and collide head-on with a sturdy telephone pole. Similarly, my head collided with the steering wheel. And finally, my eyes embraced the darkness I had fought so long. The dashboard clock read 3:20 AM by the time my eyes could focus enough to notice. I slowly lifted my head from its steering wheel pillow. My forehead bore an impressive cut and blackish-blue swelling from the impact. I slowly opened the driver’s side door and stumbled out of the cab.

The front of the truck was snugly wrapped around the telephone pole, a conglomerate of shattered glass and reshaped red aluminum. One flickering headlight illuminated the violent scene as it struggled for life. Staring at the crash, memories returned to my mind like a flood; I had hit something, no, not something; someone. Panic filled my mind. I had hit an old woman. My eyes scan the wreck, looking for the body. The front of the truck was covered in fresh blood, but there was no body. I looked back towards the road. She must still be on the highway. As I climbed my way out of the ditch, my mind was filled with regret and fear.

I had killed a woman, and I’d have to own that. I’m ashamed to admit that my first thought was to destroy the evidence. What was the woman doing out this far anyway? It’s her own fault for walking the open highway this late at night; no one saw it happen. I could hide the body and move on, maybe I could put the body in the truck and claim she had been the one driver, and I was the innocent passenger. I want to say it was a good moral compass that won out in the end, but really, it was fear. Fear prompted the next thought that entered my head, a thought not motivated by doing the right thing, but by self-preservation. The thought that said, maybe jail wouldn’t be so bad. After all, what better protection against the HideBehind is there than locked doors and constant company? Perhaps jail was to be my saving grace. The thought brought a smile to my face, and a whisper escaped my lips, “I could live a good life in jail.”

I would never have to worry about the HideBehind again. The thought warmed my heart, and I decided I wouldn’t hide; I would turn myself in and gladly bear my punishment. But as I approached the corpse, I was met by both relief and disappointment. It was a deer, I had hit a deer, not a woman. I stared at the mangled mess, both hoping it was real and hoping it was a trick of my eyes. But this was real; it was a deer. No matter how much I wished this was my ticket to the big house, no sheriff was going to lock me up for hitting a deer. Anger boiled up in me; the deer had taken everything and given nothing in return. The truck had been reduced to nothing more than a useless hunk of metal, all by a dumb deer. I kicked and screamed at the pile of rotting flesh, while in my mind, the deer smiled and laughed at every blow.

My rage hurled the animal’s remains across the highway, decimating the final resting place for this innocent animal. The carcass was scattered into nothing more than coarse chunks of flesh and running streams of blood by the time my anger cooled. As I stood in the middle of the empty highway, I looked in the direction I had come, then to the direction I was going. One was the path of death I was fleeing, and the other was the narrowing avenue of escape. A sense of urgency overcame me. I had lost too much time, I had sat unconscious in the truck for nearly two hours, and who knows how much time I had wasted with that animal. I had had the advantage of distance, but had wasted it, stranded myself in a wide-open space without any lockable doors or people. My relentless hunter would soon be upon me.

Adrenaline powered me as I rushed back to the truck, grabbed my pack, and, with no other option, at 4 AM, I set out on foot down the desolate highway. According to my map, the next town was 20 miles away, and I just hoped they had a bus stop.
The brisk morning wind howled across the empty South Dakota flatlands, sending small tumbleweeds along my asphalt trail. The moon hung low overhead in the clear, starless morning sky. I had hoped to be picked up along the route by some kind driver, but in the thirty minutes since leaving the wreck behind, only two vehicles happened upon me.

Both were long-haul semis, far too focused on making their deadline to notice the disheveled man walking on the side of the road, and so my forced march continued. Before too long, an overwhelming sense of dread overtook me, the same dread I had encountered days ago, the same dread that had hounded me for hundreds of miles. I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I felt vile eyes upon me. I slowly turned my head to glance over my left shoulder. Behind me in the distance stood a tall, thin silhouette. Its existence was obvious against the backdrop of a moon-lit highway.

The haunting shape resembled a reanimated corpse of a giant. At its side hung limply its long, impossibly thin arms, planted in the middle of its head, rested two illuminated eyes that stared right at me. The shadow was approaching, it wasn’t hurried, for it knew I had nowhere to go. It stood no more than 50 yards from me and grew ever closer. I turned my head away and broke into a sprint, a last-ditch effort to create distance between my hunter and me. Though it was meaningless, I couldn’t maintain a run; my exhausted body finally hit a wall it couldn’t get through, and my weary legs locked and crumpled beneath me, and as my face came to rest on the cool, rough asphalt, I realized that my death was unavoidable. Like a trapped animal, I realized my fate had arrived. I closed my eyes as my face lay against the road, and waited for death. I simply couldn’t go any further.

As I waited for the familiar sounds of clicking claws and heavy breathing, my ears were greeted with a new sound that caused me to open my eyes and glance in its direction. It was the sound of a train whistle. The tracks that ran parallel to the right side of the highway had been vacant all night, but now they rumbled and screamed to life as a freight train steadily approached from the far horizon. In an instant, a plan of escape hatched in my mind, but in the same instant, I felt hot, humid breath on the back of my neck. I pressed my face into the street and strained my peripheral vision to try to piece together the creature’s positioning behind me. I lay flat on my stomach, and from what I could tell, the HideBehind stood with one leg on either side of my knees, and its right hand rested on the pavement next to my head.

The clicking of its claws against the pavement filled my ears. My only escape was across the train tracks. If I timed it right, I could cross the tracks just as the train blocked the HideBehind from reaching me. I’d have to time it just right, and I’d have to somehow create some distance between the beast and me. And so I waited in agony for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. But when the warm light of the train lit up the road, the HideBehind flinched and loosened up, I’m sure in preparation to hide if any human eyes looked its way. As it did, I took my chance, and with all my strength, I lifted my right arm and swung it into the creature’s elbow joint. As I hoped, the surprise impact caused the spindly joint to buckle, and I then slipped through the straps of my pack and set off running as the monster stumbled, but filled with rage, it rebounded and gave chase. I had only a few yards till I would find a bit of freedom on the other side of the train. But the HideBehind was hot on my tail.

I ran parallel to the tracks just a few feet ahead of the train, which was quickly gaining ground. Taking a deep breath, I pushed a little more and dashed across the tracks. On the other side, I was met with a loud, dull thump and a gut-wrenching scream. I had made it, but the HideBehind did not. The train had done its job, better than I had thought. The beast had been carried down the line, then pulled under the powerful locomotive, where its steel wheels and unrelenting force crushed it, dragging the body along. For the first time in days, a true sense of calm overcame me. I doubted that this would be the last of the HideBehind, and I was sure it wouldn’t stop hunting me, but I was also sure that it wasn’t just going to walk away from this. I felt certain that even a creature such as this would need to heal from an injury of this kind.

Smiling, I watched as the train passed, and when the final car had vanished, I crossed back over and collected my pack and set out once again down the highway. For a while, the road and the tracks walked together hand in hand, but eventually the two separated, the tracks continued straight, and the road veered to the left. I was thankful for this diversion, for I feared coming across an injured, angry HideBehind. Roughly four miles from Winner, South Dakota, a kindly old rancher, heading to town for his morning coffee and small talk at the local McDonald’s, offered me a ride.

“Where you headed, son?” his raspy voice said with a smile.

“The nearest bus station, if you’re willing.”

I tried my best to hide the desperation in my voice. “Well, you’re in luck,”
he responded, “that’s about ten miles down the way, hope in.”

Throwing my pack into the bed of his truck, I opened the passenger door and took my seat. Ten miles passed in the blink of an eye as the old man talked my ear off about everything from his grandkids to the price of cattle, which he said was outrageous. And as we pulled into the parking lot of the bus station, he looked deep into my eyes and said, “Son, you’re clearly running from something, and I know better than to ask, so let me just say, some problems don’t get better when we run from them. Sometimes we just need to stand our ground and face them head-on.”

“I wish that were my kind of problem, sir, I really do,” I responded.

He nodded and said, “Well, I won’t keep you then, go on.”

With that, I hopped out of the truck and grabbed my pack. I thanked the man and tried to offer him some cash in return, which he firmly denied. Turning, I then walked off into the bus station. Buying a one-way ticket to New York City, I slumped down into a bench as I waited for the bus to board. I forced myself to remain awake. I told myself once the bus was moving, I could sleep as much as I wanted, but not a moment sooner. Forty-five minutes later, the bus arrived at the loading platform, and boarding commenced. As the station became smaller in the rearview mirror, I felt as if a great burden had been relieved from my shoulders, and sleep found me.

Most people would describe a cross-country road trip in a Greyhound bus as confining and miserable. As there is little personal space and the travel is far slower than that of a plane. Yet I found this journey to be a pleasant and comforting experience. I no longer had to worry about the HideBehind creeping up on me since fellow travelers surrounded me. I could sleep without fear, I could allow my mind to focus on new thoughts, thoughts about the future, about the new life that lay before me, as I gazed out the window at the passing countryside, my mind composed a plan. Up until this moment, I had been simply reacting to the hand that life had dealt; everything that had followed Hank’s death had been gut reactions. Hastily planned and carried out, but no more, a regularly scheduled freight train had shuffled the deck and granted me an ace in the hole. And now that I was ahead, I had to ensure that it stayed that way.

Getting to New York wasn’t going to be enough; I had to build a life, a life that hid me behind locked doors and submerged me in the crowds of humanity, a life that maybe one day I would grow to love. I chuckled at the irony I had sought to leave society to find freedom in nature, but now I was fleeing nature to find freedom in the heart of society and its smelly, overpopulated streets. I had two primary needs once I reached the city.

First, I needed a place to call home, and what I had left from the government apology money would cover the first few months of rent, especially in a low-end, overcrowded apartment building that would offer me the most protection. The only luxury that I sought was a locking door. And second, I needed to attain a job, and one that would force me to be surrounded by people for the entire shift. These two needs would be the pillars of my new life. There in the crummy window seat of a Greyhound bus, I resolved that I would never again be found alone; people were my lifeline, and I would make every moment of my life revolve around the crowds of the Big Apple.

The journey from Winner to New York City is roughly 26 hours by bus. And in that time, I saw many people come and go. The bus emptied and filled many times over, yet I remained. I would fall asleep for an hour or two and be greeted by several fresh faces. I turned it into a game, and I took bets with myself about which person would be on the bus the longest.

Occasionally, a passenger would plop themselves down next to me, and I would have to partake in polite small talk.

“Hi, where are you heading?”

“New York.”

“Oh, wow! You have a way to go.”

“Yep, how about you?”

I had this conversation far more than I’d care to remember; it would always end with a quick “well, it was nice to meet you.”

No names, only a fake smile, and a slightly raised shoulder that said, ‘Let’s not continue this conversation’.

People fleeing from their own monsters, people hoping for a fresh start, people with their own stories, fears, and goals. On the bus, we’re all background characters in someone else’s story. Just faces that will confront us in dreams. Boredom is the greatest monster on the bus. With no books and my phone long dead, there was nothing left to do but stare out the window at the passing fields, forests, and towns. The evening came, and I was blessed with a pristine view of a midwestern sunset. The sky glowed with crisp shades of orange and pink, the type of final light that fills your chest with glowing embers to warm you through the night hours.

Who knew that you could have just as grand a view from a bus window as you could from the mountaintop? That sunset is forever locked in my mind, and it calmed my mind as I quietly fell asleep.

The infant light of the morning woke me from my slumber. Rubbing the drowsiness from my eyes, I checked my watch and saw it was a little after 7 AM. By my math, that meant the bus was roughly three hours from New York City. I yawned and stretched my legs as best as I could in the cramped aisle, and as I did, I realized that I was not alone in the row of seats. A small, fragile old woman sat two chairs away from me. She looked to be well into her 80s; her wrinkled face was accompanied by small, black, beady eyes and a toothless, gummy smile. She had clearly been staring at me far longer than I had been aware of her. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed her, and I said, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.”

With a quiet cackle, she replied, “That’s quite alright, sonny, you were asleep when I arrived.”

A gum-filled smile split her face in half. I returned it with a smile of my own, “Where are you heading, ma’am?”

“My grandson lives in New Jersey, and I’m going to see him for the week.”

“That sounds very nice,” I said, hoping the conversation would die soon.

“Oh yes, it’s going to be just grand, and you know what? It’s the funniest thing, but you look just like him,” she chattered.

“Oh, really? Is that right?” I laughed awkwardly, “You could be his twin.” She giggled.

I nodded kindly as we both fell silent. I turned my head to look out the window, hoping she would leave it at that, but I could feel her stare on the back of my head. Beyond uncomfortable, I decided to meet her gaze, hoping she would yield and look away. I turned my head, and my heart jumped into my throat. She had silently moved into the seat right next to mine, and her wrinkled, grey face was adorned with a wide, toothless smile and coal-black eyes. Our faces were inches apart. She smelled of pine and copper. Sweetly she said, “Would you care for a beer, dear?”

As she said this, she opened her bag, revealing a six-pack of canned beer. I swallowed hard, “Um, no ma’am, I’m good.”

A smirk crossed her face, “It wouldn’t do you any good, would it, Nate?”

I didn’t respond, but stared into her black eyes, which now carried a strange light that danced in her midnight pupils. We stared at each other in silence for several seconds. Then the old woman’s head slowly moved toward the side of my head until her lips rested against my left ear, and then she whispered into my ear, “I know what’s chasing you.”

I ripped my head away from hers, and as I did, she burst out into a deep guttural laugh. In between laughs, she said, “You can’t get away, you know that, right? Such a foolish boy.”

Then the entire bus erupted in laughter, joining her in mocking me. I looked around the bus and saw that every face was looking at me as they joined in the choir of laughter. My gaze returned to the old woman, just in time to see her lunge at my face, her thumbs led the assault and jammed themselves into both of my eye sockets. I screamed as her sharp nails popped my eyes as if they were water balloons.

The phantom pain shocked my system, and I woke up in a cold sweat. Reality took a moment to set in. I looked around and realized I was still on the bus; there was no old lady next to me, and no blood coming from my eyes. Though it had just been a dream, it had shaken me, and it took a few moments to settle down. About ten minutes later, a voice came over the intercom:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving in New York City in 20 minutes.”

The culture shock of New York City was otherworldly to me. The lights and noise flooded my senses with a mass of stimuli. I was astounded and, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people. Like ants, they hurried here and there, too busy to realize that they were alive. The modern world frightened me. For much of my life, I sought to avoid it, which was largely successful. My only true experience with the hustle and bustle of modernity was my college days, and they were quite tame in comparison to the city in which I found myself. Looking around, I sighed, knowing my time of isolation in nature was now permanently behind me, I resolved to make the most of this new lease on life, no matter how second-rate I felt it to be. Leaving the bus station behind, I joined the herd of people moving down the streets.

Mindlessly, I wandered for a time, being carried on the current of the crowd. Until reality hit. I would be out on the streets if I didn’t find a place to spend the night. The streets after dark would offer little protection from the HideBehind, yet somehow, I knew that was the worst of my worries in this city. So, after a quick Google search for the cheapest hotel in the area, I broke off from the school of people I had swam with and charted my own course in search of a cheap room.

The Sunrise Inn was a dump. Nothing more than four walls and a roof. Its primary guests were bed bugs and roaches. Yet it was cheap and had a locking door. As I walked into the shabby lobby, the young man sitting behind the front desk locked eyes with me. He was no more than 23 years old, with greasy black hair and a button-down shirt 2 sizes too big. In his hands, he held a tattered copy of The Shining, and on his left shirt pocket hung a crooked nametag that read: ‘Chris.’ “You lost or something?”
he lazily said as I strolled over to the counter. I shook my head and said, “No, I’m here for a room.”

He smirked and quickly rolled his eyes, “Of course you are.”

He stood up and sluggishly moved three feet to stand in front of the desktop, where he stumbled through the check-in process as if he had forgotten how to do it.

“How long will you be staying?”
Chris asked, “Three nights” I replied.

His eyes widened at that “I’ve never booked someone for that long, most people are just here for the night” he remarked.

“yeah well, I just need a room for a few days,” He snorted and said, “None of my business man.”

Finishing up the check-in he said, “We don’t allow pets,” as he finally handed me the room key.

“Thanks,” I said as I accepted the key.
“What’s the Wi-Fi password?” he looked at me as he took a hit on his vape. “We don’t have guest Wi-Fi.”

He must have noticed my scowl because he followed up by saying, “Look, man, you get what you pay for, I don’t make the rules.”

Annoyed, I replied, “Whatever, thanks, I guess.”

I walked down the hall on the first floor towards the elevator. As I did, I heard Chris shout out behind me, “Hey man, be sure to leave us a good rating!”

Opening the door to room 203, I was greeted with the strong musty smell of mold mixed with cigarette smoke. The room was small; it held one queen-size bed, which smelled of sweat and mothballs. The bed faced a small TV mounted on the wall, a thrift store armchair faced the bed, and a small bathroom with a shower and sink sat in the corner near the door. I threw my bag upon the bed, threw the deadbolt on the door, and headed to the shower.

The crummy room on the second floor of the Sunrise Inn was not a permanent stop. It would serve as a place to sleep and return to as I searched for an apartment to rent.

This directive was the first thought in my mind as I awoke the following day; I must find a home. Leaving my room, I took the elevator to the ground floor, and walking past the desk, I saw that a large middle-aged woman had replaced Chris. A nametag on her shirt read ‘Marge.’ And she glanced at me as I headed to the door, “Morning,” she muttered in a raspy smoker’s voice as I walked out onto the street.

I spent the majority of the morning in a Starbucks just a few blocks down from the hotel. I ordered a small black coffee, and chuckled to myself when I saw that the barista somehow managed to misspell my name she had written on the cup. Sitting in a small private booth near one of the large pane glass windows that overlooked the busy street, I opened my phone, connected to the café’s free Wi-Fi, and started my search for a more permanent home. Over the next several hours, countless listings appeared on the small screen of my iPhone. An overwhelming stream of bedrooms and bathrooms that all remained locked behind monthly costs that boggled my mind. I quickly gave up the dream of modest square footage, and hesitantly limited my search to broom closets and rooms of similar size. Growing impatient and rather frustrated, I knew I had to find a place soon. I wanted to leave the Sunrise Inn behind as soon as possible.

As my search reached the three-hour mark, a small single-occupant apartment caught my eye. At 750 square feet, it contained a single room with a small bathroom attached, a small kitchenette in one corner of the room, a small living room with a pull-out couch that doubled as the bed, and one tiny coat closet. Other than the couch, a worn desk, and a matching chair, the room was empty. It wasn’t great, but it was affordable and better than the motel, and with no other options, I dialed the number of the building manager. As it rang, I stepped out of the coffee shop onto the street outside. On the third ring, a gruff voice said, “This is Patrick.”

“Um, hi Patrick,” I replied, “I’m calling about an available apartment in the building you manage, room 362?”

A long silence followed, and for a moment I thought the call had dropped, but then came the voice in response, “Why did you bring it here?” confused I said, “Bring what? I’ve never been there.”

A coarse broken laughter oozed out of the phone, and then, as quick as it started, it stopped. It was replaced by heavy, damp breathing. As the breathing continued, there came a low, quiet voice, far deeper and more malicious than the voice of Patrick.

“You can’t hide; it will take you, and after it’s done with you, it will consume this city.”

In that moment, I realized that the breathing wasn’t coming from the phone. The phone was at my right ear, but the breathing filled my left ear. It was coming from behind me, from the alley that opened up behind my back. My body tensed at the realization, and as it did, a heavy, bony hand grasped my shoulder. The breathing moved closer to my head, and soon it was right next to my left ear. Directly into my ear came a low whisper, “Look at me.”

Panic flooded my mind and adrenaline surged through my veins. I pulled away from the hand on my shoulder and ran down the sidewalk like a madman. Stepping into the road, the loud honk of the taxi I ran out in front of broke me from my mindless terror. I stopped there in the middle of the street, looking around. My mind calmed as I realized I wasn’t being chased; in fact, there was no sign of the monster that just seconds ago caused my outburst. The taxi continued its honking, and the driver yelled and shook his fist at me. embarrassed as I remembered that I was standing in the middle of the road, I quickly returned to the sidewalk, and realized that my phone was still talking to me.

“Hello?” it screamed, “what the heck is going on?”

I quickly raised it to my ear and said, “Hello? Patrick? I’m sorry.”

“Kid, what’s going on? You go quiet on me, and then all I hear is screaming and horns. Is this a joke? Are you wasting my time?”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

I paused, trying to think of an excuse,
“I wasn’t paying attention and walked into the street, and a taxi driver got upset.”

“Huh, welcome to New York, kid, so what’s the deal? Are you going to take the room or not? I’m a busy guy.”

“Is there any way I could come take a look at it before making a decision?” I sheepishly said.

He sighed “yeah I guess I have some time tomorrow morning, just don’t be wasting my time.”

“I swear I’m not, I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Hanging up the phone and quickly looking around, I joined a crowd of people heading in the direction of the Sunrise Inn. After stopping to grab some fast food, I walked into the familiar lobby and quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor, where I found some safety behind the locked door of my room. I didn’t dare leave the room; the afternoon’s events really shook me. I knew the HideBehind would return eventually, but I hadn’t expected it so soon. Its presence in the city really backed me into a corner. No matter how run-down or overpriced Patrick’s apartment was, I knew it was my only option, and I no longer had the time to find another.

Turning on the TV, I flung my body onto the bed and opened the greasy fast-food bag. I gave my evening to the Discovery Channel’s ‘Gold Rush’ and an overpriced cheeseburger.

Somewhere around 9 PM, I slowly surrender myself to sleep. I awoke several hours later to a dark room brought to life by the low blue flicker of the TV, which was now playing a rerun of ‘Naked and Afraid.’ My eyes glanced at the clock on the nightstand, which read 3:03 AM. Confused about why I had woken up, I suddenly became aware of a low, almost inaudible sound. It wasn’t coming from the TV but from the short hallway leading to the door—a low tapping.

Tap tap tap.

It was quiet, but thymic and intentional.

Tap tap tap.

I swallowed hard as I slowly rose from the bed and stood in place, waiting to hear it again just to be sure.

Tap tap tap.

There it was again. I slowly crept to the door and stood directly in front of it. The light entering the room from under the door was broken by a large shadow.

Tap tap tap.

It was louder now as I stood mere feet from the door, and it continued as I inched closer. Soon, I was just a few inches from the wooden door, reaching out my hand, I quietly placed it on its textured surface.

The tapping sent vibrations through the wood and into my hand, which I instinctively pulled back. The vibrations unnerved me far more than the sound alone. I backed up as fast as I could, but in my haste, my right heel connected with one of the shoes that I had placed in the hallway when I had removed them earlier that evening. My heel sent my shoe across the floor, and it slammed against the wall with a loud thump. I froze, and so did the shadow behind the door. The tapping stopped as I held my breath.

For a moment, nothing happened, and then the silence was shattered by loud, powerful thumps. They came fast and vicious. The thumps assaulted the hotel door, which shook under the barrage of angry thuds.

What was once a quiet tapping was now thuds that filled the small room with loud, angry noise. It was unbearable, and my hands raced to cover my ears as I sank to the floor.

On and on it went, louder and louder the thuds became. In agony, I lay, crumpled on the floor, hands gripping my ears. But then it stopped. The room fell silent. Slowly, I lowered my hands from my ears. I pulled myself off the floor and into a sitting position on the cold, hard floor. I sat there trying to slow my breathing and worked my way to my feet. But then came a new sound. A wet gasping sound filled the room; it froze my blood when I realized that this sound came from within the room, not from the door.

Slowly, I turned my head to the main section of the room, and there, sitting on the edge of the bed, illuminated by the flickering TV, was the shape of a man. His back faced me; I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell that he wore a dirty, bloody park ranger’s uniform. Where his neck met his skull, there was a gaping, visible hole that moved and shifted as wet, gasping breaths escaped from it. His bones creaked and clicked as he stood from bed. He turned to face me, and I was met with the deformed face of Reg.

Bloody puddles replaced his eyes, and where his mouth should have been was the fleshy hole through his lower skull and spine; his lower jaw hung loosely below by strings of skin. He stood staring at me, and from the hole in his face came the inhuman, broken words, “Naa-ttee yoouU Ki-L edd mme”

I screamed as the corpse lurched forward towards me, and scrambled back towards the door. Reg leaped at me, and I found myself falling towards the floor as I slipped on the shoe I had sent across the floor earlier. My face met the floor hard, causing a large cut to form on my forehead and a sharp sense of pain throughout my skull. I yelled in surprise as I felt the warm blood run down my head. I rolled myself over, expecting to see the horrible face of Reg inches from me, but all I saw was the warm glow of the TV in an empty hotel room.

For the rest of the night, sleep eluded me, and fear consumed me. My senses were on high alert; every creak and distant noise put me on guard. At this point, I couldn’t tell if what I had just experienced was reality, a nightmare, or some form of hallucination. In fact, thinking back to the encounter I had on the street that morning, I began to question if that was real, either. The only encounters I could be sure of were the ones that resulted in death or injury. Everything else must either be a dream or in my mind. This thought sent a warm wave of courage through me; it meant the hand on my shoulder this morning wasn’t real, that the banging on the door and the reanimated corpse of Reg was just in my mind.

None of it was real, I told myself, and when I get settled in this city, perhaps I would see a doctor and get help for my unsettled mind. The HideBehind is real, I knew that, but the last encounter with it that I knew was real happened on the border of Idaho, thousands of miles away.

Then came a thought that would alter my perspective going forward: What if the HideBehind never left the Northwest region? What if it were limited to its ancient home in the Cascade mountains? Maybe the dreams and hallucinations were just residual effects from interacting with an eldritch being like a HideBehind.

Everything since Idaho had happened when I was alone or asleep, and none of it had any impact on the surrounding world. How was the train not damaged or slowed down at all when it hit a giant monster? How did an entire street of people not notice the creature grabbing my shoulder? It was all in my head; it must be, the HideBehind never left the mountainous dominion, and I was just seeing things. This thought sent a spark of life into my body. For the first time in a while, I felt like I could truly breathe and relax. Around 5:30, I stood up, took a shower, and got ready for the day. The first day of my new life.

At around 7:30, I prepared to head out for the day. I opened the door, praying that I was right and wasn’t opening it to the beast. Thankfully, the hall was as empty as could be, which only reinforced my theory within my mind.

The free breakfast was abysmal.

Expired dry cereal and rock-hard biscuits with fatty gravy. After eating, I shuffled over to the front desk, where Chris lazily greeted me.

“Hey man,” he said, loudly chewing some bubble gum. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’d like to check out.”

He nodded quickly, “Can do, how was your stay?”

“It was adequate,” I blankly said.
His eyes widened as he said, “Really? That’s probably the best response I’ve gotten here.”

I stared at him, looking for any signs of sarcasm, which I didn’t find. Having closed my account at the Sunrise Inn, I then headed out into the morning busyness of New York. The Bryson Building was across the city in the heart of Brooklyn, requiring me to take the subway. The New York subway was a shock to my senses. They smelled heavily of body odor and urine, and I had seen cleaner dumpsters. The small subway cars were packed tighter than a can of sardines, and I wormed my way in and found a spot to stand in the back. According to the map of stops, I could expect to be on board for about an hour. I have never felt more claustrophobic in life than I did that first ride on the subway; it took every ounce of my being to resist the urge to scream and push my way out of the sea of people. I began to sweat, and it felt like I was to be forever trapped here, boiled alive by the heat of a hundred human bodies.

With every twist and turn of the subway, a stranger would bump into me, destroying every illusion of peace my mind tried to conjure up. I dreaded the idea of having to travel this way every day, but as time went on, the passengers gradually dispersed. By the time the subway reached my stop, only a few dozen riders remained. Stepping out into the open, I breathed in the hot, muggy air of Brooklyn, far better than the recycled air that filled my lungs for the last hour. With all of my earthly possessions securely in my backpack, I began the five-block journey from the subway stop to the Bryson Building.

From the outside, the Bryson Building was nothing special. It was a 10-floor apartment building built in the cold, unattractive style of the late 80s; nothing had been updated in over a decade. And that’s not to say it was uncared for or run down; it was simply old. Walking into the main entrance was like walking into the past. Directly inside was an elevator lobby similar to that of an office building.

The lobby was decorated with too many fake trees and plants, and a smooth granite floor that continued up the walls as well. Next to the twin elevators was a large bulletin board covered with names and corresponding room numbers. I looked around the bare room, and to the right, I saw a short hallway that led to a lone door, which bore a little plaque that read ‘management.’ Walking over to the door, I knocked on it gently. A tall, thin man opened the door; he looked to be in his early 60s, with a full head of gray hair and a face wrinkled from years of frowning.

“Yeah? You need something?” he said in a low, gruff voice.

“um yeah, I’m looking for Patrick,” I meekly answered.

“You’re looking at him.” Came his response,
“Oh, hi, I’m here to look at room 362? We spoke about it on the phone yesterday?”

“Oh yeah, you’re the kid who couldn’t stop screaming, right?” he said with a smirk. I could feel my cheeks getting hot

“Oh yeah, that was me, sorry about that.” I said with a weak chuckle.

“eh whatever, let’s go and look at the room quick.”

And with that, he led me to the elevators, and after the most awkward elevator ride I’ve ever had, we reached the third floor. Room 362 was nearly identical to the pictures from the online ad, except for a fresh coat of paint that made the space seem bigger. As the ad promised, the room included the pull-out couch, the small desk and chair, as well as a hot plate in the kitchen and a small fridge and freezer. I liked it. As small as it was, it was well cared for and had a homey feel to it. Turning to Patrick, I asked, “Does it come with Wi Fi?” he smiled and said, “For an extra 20 a month, it does.”

Nodding, I replied, “How much up front?”

“The first two months, and we’ll go from there,” he said, reaching his hand out to shake mine. I offer my hand in return as we headed downstairs to start the paperwork.

By noon, the room was mine. Keys in hand, I walked into my new home and unpacked my pack, putting my few clothes and items into their designated spots. The empty backpack found its home in the small closet. The down payment had taken half of my remaining government money. With the rest, I planned to purchase home essentials and enough food to last until I secured a steady job.

It was Friday, and I planned to get what I needed that afternoon, rest for the weekend, and start looking for a job on Monday. Being sure to lock the door, I left for the nearest grocery store. From pots and pans to a shower curtain, I bought what I thought I needed, and along with two months’ worth of ramen noodles and a box of Twinkies, I headed back to the Bryson Building.

Along the way, I stopped at a local electronics store and purchased a cheap laptop, which would double as my TV.

That night I had another nightmare. I dreamt that a tapping at the window woke me up, the sound of fingernails against glass. I stood up and walked to the window. Out the window on the street below stood four figures underneath a streetlight. I could see it was three men and a woman; they stood perfectly still for a few moments, then suddenly they all raised one of their arms and all pointed right at me. At that moment, I felt as though I wasn’t alone in my room, and I turned and came face to face with the HideBehind, who grabbed my head and threw me out the window.

As my body hit the pavement, I awoke shaking and sweating. Eventually, my mind calmed down enough to fall back asleep.

That first weekend at Bryson was rainy and lazy. I barely left the apartment, and when I did, it was only to explore the building a bit. Mostly, I sat on the couch reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and searching for a job on my laptop. One job listing in particular caught my eye— a local deli and sandwich shop that seemed to be a mainstay in the community. For a part-time position, Hartman’s Deli was offering a decent wage, better than Arby’s had paid me.

The deli was reasonably close; only one subway stop away. Saturday morning, I filled out an online application, and by Monday evening, the deli reached out to set up an in-person interview for Wednesday morning.

Wednesday came, and I found myself walking back towards the subway, preparing my mind for the moments of terror that would follow. Thankfully, the trip was only 10 minutes. Exiting the subway, I hurried along to the deli, which was located on a busy street corner. Hartman’s was a classic New York Deli and sandwich shop; the interior, though small, was cozy and inviting. The centerpiece of the store was the large deli counter, which stored a large array of meats, cheeses, and breads behind its glass walls. I walked to the counter and informed the employee that I was there for a job interview.

The employee retreated to the back room and returned with an elderly woman who had kind eyes. She shook my hand and introduced herself as Ms. Maggie, the deli’s owner.

“Nice to meet you, Nate. Why don’t we go sit down?”

We found a secluded booth and began the interview. She asked me about my past work experience, and I chose to leave out my brief time as a Park Ranger, as it wouldn’t be relevant to this position. After she gathered my restaurant experience, Ms. Maggie asked me how many hours I was willing to work. When I said, “as many as you got,” she smiled and said, “Excellent.”

After a few more minutes of small talk, she said, “Nate, you seem like a great candidate, and I’d like to offer you the position if you still want it.”

I smiled and said, “Great! When can I start?”

Maggie’s face beamed as she said, “How does Friday sound?”

As I returned to my apartment, my heart filled with a sense of accomplishment and a feeling of belonging. Maybe life in the city isn’t that bad.

My first shift was scheduled to start at 2 pm on Friday and run until the shop closed at 9 pm. I made sure to arrive early, and when I approached the counter, I warmly introduced myself to the man behind it. He smiled broadly and introduced himself as Billy, the evening shift manager.

“Why don’t you come on into the back and grab yourself an apron?” he said in a melodic voice.

He was a heavy-set man, probably around 30 years old, with dark skin and a well-kept beard; he seemed like someone who enjoyed his job and loved to laugh. I entered the back room, and Billy showed me where the aprons were and how to clock in.

Afterwards, he led me to the kitchen prep area, where the shop cured deli meats, baked breads, and prepared hot subs when ordered.

“You’re part of our prep team, so you’ll be back here most of the time,” Billy said as he led us into the space.

“Ms. Maggie has assigned you to us on the evening shift, so we’ll be working together most days. Usually, we like to have three people working back here in prep.”

He walked me around the room, pointing out each station and introducing me to the two workers already there. Kyle was a tall, middle-aged man with tired eyes. Billy mentioned he and his wife just had a baby. Kyle shook my hand firmly and said, “Good to meet you, Nate, welcome to the family.”

Billy called over the other employee, a woman my age named Amy.

“Nate, this is Amy, one of our hardest workers,” he said with a smile.

Amy blushed and reached out her hand to shake mine.

“Hi, Nate, nice to meet you. I look forward to getting to know you.”

Her face lit up with a genuine smile. Amy was college-aged, around 5’8” with bright red hair and gentle blue eyes. She seemed happy and content with life.

“Nice to meet you, Amy,” I said, smiling back.

“Well, Nate,” Billy’s words brought me back to the moment, “I’m going to leave you here and return to the front, but Amy will train you today and for your first week.”

I nodded as he left and turned to Amy. I looked at her and jokingly said, “Alright, boss, what now?”

She smiled and giggled a bit.

“Well, Nate, first you need to wash your hands.”

That shift was great. Amy and I worked together the whole night, and our conversation shifted from work to personal life. Amy talked about her family and school. She grew up in upstate New York and moved to the city to attend fashion school. She had big dreams but was content with where life had taken her for now. I shared my college experience and time in South Dakota. I told her I moved to New York seeking a change of pace. Amy was easy to talk to; she was kind and genuinely interested in me as a person. It was nice to make a real connection with someone.

Over the past few weeks, many people had come and gone in my life, and it was refreshing to find a friend I’d see every day in the near future. Near the end of the shift, Amy looked at me and said, “Hey, some of the other employees and I are going to a bar after work to shoot some pool. If you want, you should come.”

“Yeah, that would be fun!” I replied, “Which bar?”

Life began to settle, and I grew comfortable with my routine. After six months of working at Hartman’s, the incident in the backwoods of Washington seemed like a distant nightmare that was quickly fading in my mind. My nightmares of the HideBehind had been replaced by pleasant dreams of Amy.

A month into working at the deli, I had worked up the courage to ask her out on a date, full of smiles and excitement, she said yes. Our first date was perfect, a picnic lunch in Central Park. Some habits from my trauma in the woods remained; I religiously locked my door, both when I was in and when I was going out, and I was cautious around blind corners.

Amy noticed these rituals in my life and would joke about them and ask why I do them. I would always shrug and say it’s just a force of habit. Life was good; I had a place to call home, I had a steady job, a small friend group, and a loving girlfriend. I couldn’t think of living anywhere other than New York City.

February arrived in the Big Apple, and with it came Valentine’s Day, the first one Amy and I would celebrate together. I had big plans for the evening. I booked a table at one of the fancy restaurants in the upscale part of town months in advance, and I had bought roses and chocolate. I picked Amy up around 6. She was stunning.

She smiled at me as I gave her the flowers and chocolate. The kiss she planted on my cheek was the best thank you I had ever received. Amy returned to her apartment to drop off the gifts, and then we walked hand in hand to the subway. Dinner was amazing, the night was filled with laughter and good conversation, and near the end of the night, Amy looked at me and said, “Nate, I know you worked as a park ranger for a while, but every time it comes up, you’re quick to change the subject. Why did you leave the parks service?”

I paused to think how I should respond. Finally, I said, “I saw a friend of mine die in a terrible hiking accident. It really messed me up for a while. I started seeing things that weren’t there, and I was plagued with vivid nightmares, so I left, hoping it would get better.”

Sympathy filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry, are the nightmares you’ve been having from all that?”

I nodded, “but since I’ve been with you, I don’t get them as often.”

She smiled and reached for my hand.
“I’ll always be there for you, Nate. I love you.”

“I love you too, Amy,” I replied.

The night ended far too soon. Before long, I was walking Amy back to her apartment. We reached her door and kissed goodnight. Walking back to my apartment, I was filled with a warmth I had never felt before. I truly loved Amy. I wanted to spend my life with her. In that moment, I realized I wanted to marry Amy. As I walked the streets, I passed a local jewelry store. I went in planning to just look around, but ended up leaving with a beautiful engagement ring. I was sure Amy would love it.

I returned home, locked the door, stared at the ring for a while, and opened the fridge for a late-night snack, but realized I had put off grocery shopping for far too long, for the fridge was quite bare. A few slices of four-day-old pizza were all I found, and I ate them while watching some TV, then I headed off to bed. At 3 am I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. It was Amy, and she was distraught.

“Hello?”

I said, barely awake, Amy was crying as she said, “Nate? Someone tried to break into my apartment.”

I was wide awake now.

“What? Are you ok?”

“I don’t know, they broke a window, and I screamed, they ran off, but I’m so scared. The cops are coming, but I don’t know if I can stay here. Can you come get me?”

“I’ll be right there. Go to your bedroom and lock the door. Don’t open it until me or the cops get there.”

“ok I will, thank you, Nate.”

Hanging up the phone, I jumped out of bed and got dressed, barely holding back panic. I left so fast I didn’t even lock the door behind me.

Amy was really shaken up. Her sanctuary had been violated; it no longer felt safe. I waited with her until the police arrived, and together we watched them as they examined the apartment and the broken window. One of them told us that they would be on the lookout in case the intruder returned; apparently, home invaders were on the rise this winter. They recommended that Amy spend the night somewhere else, and I told them she was coming home with me, so we gathered her things and headed out.

As we walked into my building, Amy seemed to calm down a bit; the shaking in her hand had stopped. We reached the third floor, and standing in front of my door, I tried to fish my keys out of my pocket. Amy, however, tried the door and found it to be unlocked. She looked at me and, in a joking tone, said, “It’s unlocked, I’m so proud of you.”

As she walked inside. I looked up as I stood in the doorway, and a primal panic that I hadn’t felt in months flooded over me. I screamed, “Wait, Amy, don’t—” but it was too late, the HideBehind was already upon her.

Its long claws sliced her throat into ribbons and dug deep into her abdomen, splattering her blood and intestines all over the white walls. The creature stood over her as her lifeless, empty body fell to the ground like a sock puppet. I watched in horror from the doorway. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run, but the shock held me in place. When I finally regained control over my feet, I began to turn to flee down the hall, but before I could move, the HideBehind grabbed my back and flung me into the room, where I collided with the opposite wall, falling to the floor.

I heard the door close. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw it, the HideBehind standing in the corner behind the door, like a sleep paralysis demon, it stood perfectly still, the corner itself seemed to grow darker with its presence, as if a dark fog was confined to just that corner. It was guarding the door; it had no plans to let me leave this room. But I didn’t care; my thoughts were only on Amy, her lifeless body lay in a pool of blood in the middle of my apartment.
With my back to the creature, I crawled over to her, held her, and wept.

I don’t know how long I sat there, hours, probably days. All the while, the HideBehind stood directly behind me, breathing down on me with its hot, wet breath. At some point, the engagement ring on the table caught my eye, and I crawled to reach it. Its cold, metallic shape rested in my hands as I stared at it, a memento of the life I will never have, the love that was taken from me, by the thing standing behind me. I slide the ring onto Amy’s cold finger, and I cried all the more. And that brings me to the present. Amy was killed over two weeks ago, and I am still trapped here with her murderer.

Every moment, it tries to get me to look at it; it is ever near, both waking and sleeping, even as I write this, its humid breath blows along my neck, and from time to time, its long fingers wrap around my head and squeeze gently. I don’t know why I’m writing, partly to convince the world that I did not kill Amy. I wish beyond anything that I had never met her, for she would still be alive. I loved her, and the creature knew it. I’m convinced now that the HideBehind had been stalking me here in the city for months; I was just too blind to notice. It knew my habits, and when I made a mistake, it jumped on the chance.

I look down at the rotten corpse of my beloved Amy, tears fill my eyes, it’s my fault she’s dead, but please know, I didn’t kill her. But I’m also writing this as a warning; there are strange things in the woods, horrible ancient things.

Things the natives spoke about, things the pioneers saw, things we wrote off as fantasy, tall tales. I can assure you they are not. Stay out of the woods, the things that live there, in the shadows, under the pines, in the deepest darkest parts of the forests are real, and to step into their world is to agree to play by their rules. Don’t let what happened to me happen to you. I glance up slightly and smile as I see the noose hanging overhead.

I placed it there days ago, but now I think I’m ready to use it, the foods been gone for weeks now, and every time I look at Amy’s corpse, all I think about is food. I’m not going there, and I refuse to give the HideBehind the satisfaction of killing me. I’m going out on my own terms, and in that way I win. The noose is my salvation. I’ll see Amy again very soon.

Epilogue

[The following is taken from Det. Sherman’s report of the crime scene at the Bryson building on 03/05/2021]

Myself [Det. Rick Sherman] and Det. Matthew Peterson responded to the call at the Bryson building at 1300 hours on March 5th. Apartment 362 was rented to a Mr. Nate Diaz. After the surrounding renters complained of an awful smell, the building manager, Mr. Patrick Bennett preformed a wellness check and found the scene.

Two decaying bodies were in the room, one hanging by a rope, the body of Mr. Diaz, the other had been brutally disemboweled and belonged to a Ms. Amy Cranworth. Ms. Cranworth’s corpse was far more decayed than Mr. Diaz’s, indicating that she had been dead far longer. Notable with Diaz’s corpse is the fact that both of his eyes had been removed, presumably by himself; the eyes were not found at the scene.

After inspecting the scene, it is the conclusion of both myself and Det. Peterson, that Mr. Diaz murdered Ms. Cranworth in a fit of rage, and seeing no way out, days later took his own life. The techs recovered a journal of sorts for Mr. Diaz’s laptop. It will be examined for any potential clues.

[relevant to the disappearance, possible point of disappearance], Det. Peterson, however, noted an uneasy feeling in the room and noticed from the window some movement from down in the alley below. Det. Peterson announced he was going to take a look at it and headed out to do so.

[This is the last known sighting of Det. Matthew Peterson, who remains unaccounted for, and for whom the search continues.]

Credit: Zach Gaylor