18 Most Disturbing TRUE Horror Stories: October, Fall, Fishing & Hunting That Make Autumn Nights Feel Unsafe

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This trip was supposed to be like all the others, a quiet weekend, a getaway into the mountains. The rifles lung over my shoulder and nothing but the sounds of nature to keep me company. The place I had chosen was deep in the woods, far from any trail or established campsite. It was a clearing I had discovered years ago, so secluded that it felt like it belonged to me and no one else. I had never run into another hunter there, and that was exactly why I always came back. The more remote the better. No distractions, no people, just the wild. I arrived in the late afternoon when the sky was already beginning to glow in orange tones with the sun sinking behind the trees. I parked the truck at the edge of an old dirt road, gathered my gear, and headed into the trees. It was about half a mile to the clearing, but the path was well marked by my previous visits. I could have found it even in the dark if I had needed to. The forest was alive with the sounds of evening, birds calling to each other, leaves whispering in the wind. The air was cool, crisp, perfect for a late autumn hunt. The season was changing, and you could feel winter waiting just around the corner. I reached the clearing as the last light of day was fading and immediately set up camp. Tent fire the usual. As soon as the flames began to crackle and the tent was ready, that familiar sense of peace wrapped around me. There is nothing like sitting beside a campfire in the middle of nowhere, staring at the stars with only your own thoughts for company. The worries of work, bills and routine felt far away as if they belonged to someone else. After making dinner, a simple can of beans and some coffee to wash it down. I leaned back against my backpack and watched the flicker of the fire. There was a stillness that only the forest can offer. Every now and then, the wind stirred the branches or the distant call of a bird could be heard. But for the most part, it was just me and the campfire. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I remember is waking up to a faint sound. At first I thought it was part of a dream, soft, distant, like a lullaby carried on the wind. But when I sat up and rubbed my eyes, I realized I was not dreaming. There was singing out there in the forest. I blinked a couple of times trying to clear the drowsiness and listened. It was faint, but it was there. Someone was singing. I would have sworn it was a man's voice though it was hard to be sure. The melody was strange, uneven, as if he were making it up as he went along. I looked around the clearing and saw that the fire had burned down to embers. The sky, a deep navy blue, revealed only a few stars between the clouds. I grabbed the flashlight and swept the beam along the edge of the trees. But there was no sign of anyone. The singing continued, soft and steady, and a knot of unease began to tighten in my stomach. I had been coming to that place for years and had never seen another person there. It was too remote for casual campers or hikers. Who the hell was out there? I stood up, brushed the dirt off my pants, and grabbed my rifle just in case. I was not easily frightened, but something about it did not add up. Singing in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, it did not feel right. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness as I took a few steps toward the edge of the clearing, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. The trees stood tall and silent, but the singing, now it was closer. Hello I shouted breaking the silence. The singing stopped, just like that. There was no gradual fading, no crunch of footsteps moving away. It simply cut off. The silence that followed was almost deafening as if the whole forest were holding its breath. I waited tens rifle ready, but nothing happened. No movement, no sound. Just the dying crackle of the fire behind me and the wind in the tree tops. I shook my head and went back to the campfire. Maybe it was some hunter passing through to another place, or maybe it was my imagination. The result of too much solitude and too little sleep. In any case, there did not seem to be any immediate danger. I sat down again by the fire, stoked it until the flames danced once more, and tried to shake off the unease that had stuck to me. It would be a lie to say I was not on guard. The forest at night is a different animal from the forest in the daytime. Everything feels closer, more urgent, and the smallest sound makes your pulse race. But as the warmth wrapped around me in the minutes passed, I began to relax. Whatever it was, it had already gone. Probably some traveler passing through, or maybe another hunter, though I doubted it. I was not going to lose sleep over it. I settled back down, listening to the crackling of the fire. The stars were beginning to show themselves again between the clouds, and I stared at them for a while, letting the tension loosen in my muscles. That was when I heard it again. The singing, only this time it was closer. I sat upright at once every nerve on alert. The singing had returned faint but unmistakable, and it was coming from the other side of the clearing. As slowly I reached for the rifle, my eyes combing through the darkness beyond the circle of light. But I saw no one. The singing grew louder, and with a sinking feeling in my chest I realized it was not just one voice. There were two. I got to my feet, heart pounding, and raised the flashlight, sweeping it across the clearing, lighting up the trunks and stark contrast. There was no one there. Only shadows and leaves moving softly in the wind. But the singing continued. I could not make out any words. There was something in the melody, a strange rhythm like a lullaby hum by someone who does not quite remember the tune. My spine went cold. "Who's there?" I asked my voice shaking. Again the singing stopped. I waited. Every muscle tense convinced that someone would step out from between the trees. Nothing. Silence, heavy oppressive. I backed away slowly. Whatever it was, I did not want to find out like that, not in the middle of the night with no one for miles around. When I reached the edge of the fire light I heard a sound, a low soft laugh. Barely a whisper but enough to drive panic into the back of my neck. I turned and ran to the tent. I threw myself inside and zipped it shut as fast as I could. My hands were shaking. I fumbled with the zipper for a second until it was finally sealed. Inside I reached into my backpack and pulled up my phone. I knew there would be no signal out there, but I turned it on anyway, clinging to the stubborn hope that one bar might appear. Nothing. I stayed there in the dark, clutching the rifle, ears straining for any sound. The forest went silent again. The minutes passed with torturous slowness, and eventually the fire outside began to die down. The shadows stretched longer, creeping toward the tent, and I felt my pulse quicken. I knew I should go out, stir the fire, keep it alive through the night, but just imagining stepping back into that darkness turned my stomach. I stayed where I was. I do not know how long I remained like that. Eyes wide open and body trembling, but eventually exhaustion got the better of me. My eyelids grew heavy and no matter how hard I fought it, I fell asleep. I woke to sunlight filtering through the tent fabric and for a moment I wanted to believe it had all been a bad nightmare, but when I unzipped the tent and stepped outside I saw them. Footprints. They were not mine. They were clearly barefoot prints. They circled the ring of stones around the fire once twice and then disappeared into the trees. I crouched down together. a better look. The marks were deep as if someone had been standing there for a long time. I straightened up and stared into the woods where they led. The forest was still, and the dread from the night before came rushing back all at once. My instinct told me to pack everything and get out fast. Whatever had been there, whatever had stood beside my campfire, it was not something I wanted to run into again. I gathered my things in a hurry and hoisted my backpack. As I made my way back to the truck, I kept looking over my shoulder, paranoid that someone was following me. The silence of the forest made it worse. When I finally reached the vehicle, I threw my gear inside and wasted no time getting moving. The relief I expected to feel never came. On the contrary, as I drove away, the feeling that followed me was that I had barely escaped something bad. I do not know who it was or why they were there in the middle of the night, so close to my fire. Maybe a lost hiker. Maybe something entirely different. But one thing I was sure of, those footprints, the one circling my campfire, were not mine, and I was not alone in that forest. Story 2. I had been hunting alone in these remote mountains for three days when the storm arrived. It came in suddenly, as if it had been lurking just behind the ridge, waiting for the perfect moment to unfold. The air had been cool all afternoon, the kind that sends a chill down your spine without much effort, and then the wind picked up. The clouds gathered across the sky like dark bruises. I have hunted long enough to know when it is time to head back to camp, but I was miles from my base. The forest had gone strangely silent. No squirrels scurrying around. No birds calling from the trees. It is funny how you do not notice those sounds until they disappear. I quickened my pace, heading toward an old trail I remembered. One that in theory would lead me to some kind of shelter. I had been in these mountains before, but even so I was not entirely sure where the path would take me. The only thing I knew for certain was that I could not stay out there once the rain started. After about an hour of walking I saw a small cabin wedged between the trees, almost camouflaged by the thick undergrowth. The roof sagged under the weight of the years and the wood looked like it was begging for mercy, but it was a roof nonetheless. And when the first drops fell I could not afford to be picky. I reached the cabin just as the downpour broke loose. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind lashed out, shaking the trees as if they were no more than blades of grass. I was soaked by the time I reached the door which was half open. It creaked when I pushed it, revealing a small dusty room, with a stove in one corner and a single chair leading against the wall. The cabin was not much, but it was dry, and at that moment that was all that mattered to me. I dropped my backpack, took off my wet jacket and looked around the place. It was bare of belongings, the stove, a table with a few chairs, and a small stack of firewood in the corner. It was one of those places that seemed frozen in time, as if whoever had been there before me had left without looking back and never returned. There was something in the air though, it smelled of old wooden damp earth, as if no one had disturbed it in years. I checked the firewood by the door. It was recent, freshly caught. That was strange. I did not think anyone lived out this way, at least not permanently. I assumed maybe another hunter or some hiker had taken shelter there before me. While the rain pounded on the roof, I busied myself starting a small fire in the stove. Warmth spread quickly through the room. I had that uncomfortable feeling that I should not be there, but it was better than facing the storm out in the open. There was no harm in borrowing a little warmth and shelter for one night. By the time I had half dried off and settled in, the storm was in full force. Rain hammering the roof and wind howling through the trees like a wild animal. I sat by the fire, listening to the fury outside and feeling grateful not to be trapped in it. Even so as I warmed my hands a persistent uneasiness settled in my stomach. I looked around the cabin again and my eyes stopped on the pot resting on the stove. It was covered in a layer of dust, but there were suit marks near the bottom, as if it had been used not long ago. I had not noticed that before. I thought about the fire would stack by the door. How fresh it looked. Someone had been there recently. I tried to shake off the thought convincing myself it must have been another traveler like me, maybe passing through leaving things behind. The mountain is unpredictable, and it is not uncommon to come across signs of others even if you never actually see them. I told myself that a hundred times but that feeling gripping the back of my neck would not go away. Night fell. By then the only light came from the dying fire in the stove. I decided to try to sleep so I laid out my sleeping bag on the floor near the iron stove where the heat still lingered. Outside the wind and downpour were still howling and I had just started to nod off when I heard the door creak open. I shot upright my heart pounding in my chest. The door stood open an inch, maybe two, as if someone had pushed it. I stared at it. I had not heard footsteps approaching and it had no reason to move on its own. I would have sworn I had latched it. I got up quietly moving toward it, my hand reaching for the handle of the hunting knife at my side. I opened the door a little wider, my breath caught in my throat. Nothing. The forest outside was darkness and stillness. The storm had calmed into a steady drizzle. I stepped onto the porch and scanned the tree line looking for any movement. The trunks stood silent. No animals, no people, only the drip of rain from the leaves. I backed inside, still gripping the knife and closed the door. This time I made sure to slide the bolt. I checked the windows too, making sure they were secure before settling back down by the fire. Sleeping after that was not easy. Time turned thick and with every little sound, every creak, every gust of wind. The image of that door opening by itself came back into my mind, along with the feeling that someone had been standing right there just on the other side. I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew I woke up to a soft sound outside. It was barely audible over the rain, but it was there. A steady scraping, as if something were being dragged across the ground. This time I grabbed the rifle and moved to the window, careful not to make a sound. Peering through the glass I saw nothing but darkness. The scraping continued and then stopped. I waited, my heart hammering, my eyes fixed on the door. Nothing. I stood frozen the rifle in my hands, straining to hear any clue that might tell me what was happening. Then the sound came again, now closer to the cabin. I stepped back from the window my pulse racing. There was someone out there. I had no doubt anymore. I did not know what they wanted. But the thought of someone lurking around in the middle of the night during a storm made my skin crawl. I stood there listening, and the sound stopped. I waited what felt like forever, but nothing happened. No nox on the door, no footsteps retreating into the woods. Only silence. At last the sky began to brighten with dawn. The storm had passed, leaving behind a grey soaked morning. I packed up my gear, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible. I had no intention of staying to find out who or what had been prowling around the cabin. As I stepped outside something caught my attention, a stack of fresh firewood neatly piled by the door. The logs had been freshly cut, the bark still damp from the rain. I stared at them. I had not cut that wood, and yet there it was, like an offering left by an invisible hand. I glanced around examining the treeline, but there was no one there. Only the silent forest stretching endlessly in every direction. I wasted no more time. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and took the trail, rifle in hand. With that bad feeling following me the entire way back to the trailhead, I could not get it out of my head that someone had been watching me, that they had been there with me, inside the cabin, just beyond my field of vision. And when I finally reached the truck, I found something that froze my blood. Sitting on the hood was a single freshly cut log, placed there with perfect precision. Like a reminder, a reminder that I had not been alone. Story 3. I have been hunting for more than a decade ever since my father had It did me my first rifle at 14. There is something peaceful about it. It is not just about the thrill of the chase or bringing down a deer, although I am not going to lie that does count for a lot. Now what draws me in is the silence, the way the world slows down when you are out there alone, with nothing but the wind and the whisper of the trees. It is a kind of stillness you do not find anywhere else, but sometimes that silence can turn against you. I learned that the hard way five years ago, it was late October and I had taken a few days off work to go to a place I had been visiting for years. It was not public hunting land, nothing official really. It was a piece of land that a friend Dan showed me when we were in our 20s. The property belonged to his uncle, but no one used it except us. It was tucked away at the end of a dirt road out in the middle of nowhere, perfect if you wanted to hunt without dealing with crowds. That year though Dan could not come with me, he had a newborn in his arms, and I understood. Life changes when you have kids. I decided to go on my own. I had done plenty of solo hunting trips before so it was nothing new. I spent most of the first days tracking. The deer were not moving much yet, which did not surprise me. The weather had been unusually warm, and it was not until late afternoon that you could really feel that autumn chill. It is when the temperature drops that the animals start coming out. By the second day I had found a good spot on the edge of a small valley. The trees formed a natural blind and I settled in there, watching the field below. I had my thermos, a sandwich, and all the time in the world. There was no rush. That is the thing about hunting. Patience is everything. You cannot force nature to move at your pace. Around dusk things started getting strange. I had just finished my sandwich and was sipping coffee, enjoying the way the shadows stretched across the valley. The wind picked up a little, and the leaves whispered, creating that background noise that lulls you into a sense of comfort. I was in no hurry. Deer usually moved when the sun has already slipped below the horizon, so all I had to do was wait. That was when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. At first I did not think much of it. A pair of eyes reflecting the light. Maybe about a hundred yards away. I assumed it was a deer. They are cautious at dusk, and it is not unusual to see them peeking out before stepping into the clearing. I leaned a little to get a better look, but something was strange. The eyes were too high off the ground, higher than any deer I had ever seen. I straightened up a bit, narrowing my eyes at the distance. They did not move. They just stared. I have seen enough deer and coyotes in my life to recognize animal eyes at night, but those did not match anything familiar. They were not the right color. It was not that bright reflective glow deer of. They were dull, almost flat, and the height did not make sense. I told myself it had to be a trick of the light. Maybe it was standing on a hill or on a log. Maybe it was a large buck and I just could not make out the body. But the longer I watched, the less sense it made. The eyes did not blink, not even once, and that was what unsettled me. I took out my binoculars to get a better look. The moment I raised them to my face, a chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the temperature. The eyes blinked, but not the way a deer does. Not the way any animal I know does. They blinked sideways. I went rigid. That was not right. No animal blinked like that. I lowered the binoculars and rubbed my eyes, convinced I had seen it wrong. Maybe the low light was playing tricks on me. But when I looked again, they were still there. I have spent enough time in the woods to recognize when something is wrong. You can tell in the way the forest goes quiet, in the way your instincts scream at you to leave. But I did not move. I could not. I stood there gripping the rifle, fixed on those eyes, trying to understand what I was looking at. That was when it started moving. But first it was only a slight shift as if testing the ground. Then it began to glide toward me, slowly without a sound. The eyes grew larger as it came closer, but the movement was unnatural. There was no noise, no branches snapping, no leaves rustling. I tried to tell myself it was an animal, maybe a bear, but I knew it was not. It was too tall, too silent. My pulse quickened and I gripped the rifle tighter. What the hell was that thing? I stood up slowly, never taking my eyes off the figure advancing toward me. The moment I moved, it stopped. It stood completely still, as if waiting. The idea of something watching me like that, coming closer, sent my nerves into overdrive, but I did not want to run. Not yet. I was not sure what would happen if I turned my back on it. I started backing away, one step at a time, without taking my eyes off it. It did not move. It stayed there with that fixed stare. I tried to stay calm, running through my options, shoot, run, stay and wait. I did not have to decide. The moment I took another step backward, the eyes blinked sideways again, and vanished. Just like that. One second they were there, the next the forest was empty. I stood there waiting for them to reappear, but they did not. I do not know how long I stayed rooted there. The sky had grown darker, the temperature kept dropping, and I could barely feel my fingers on the rifle. In the end I decided I had had enough. I slung the rifle over my shoulder and started making my way back to the trunk. The hallway back I kept thinking I would see those eyes again between the trees, following me, but I did not. Even so I never relaxed. My senses were on edge, and every crack of a branch made me jump. By the time I reached the vehicle, the sun was completely gone, and the forest was pitch black. I loaded my gear in a hurry, threw it in the back, and got out of there like a bat out of hell. The drive home was silent. Every so often I glanced in the rear view more, expecting to see something running behind me. Those sideways blinking eyes shining in the darkness. When I finally pulled into my driveway, I grabbed my gear and went inside, locking the door behind me. For the first time in years, I had no desire to go hunting again. I spent the next few days trying to rationalize what I had seen. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe it was an animal I had simply never encountered before. But deep down I already knew. It was not. I knew that whatever had been out there was not something natural. I have not gone back to that place since. I have thought about it, but there is always something that stops me. Dan has asked me a couple of times why we do not go there anymore, and I just shrug and tell him there are more deer in other areas. He does not push, but I can tell he is curious. Maybe one day I will tell him about the eyes. For now I keep it to myself. Because the truth is, I do not want to think about it. I do not want to remember those eyes blinking sideways in the dark. And I definitely do not want to know what they belong to. Story 4 I have always been a fan of hunting ever since my father first took me when I was just a kid. But last fall something happened that made me question whether I will ever feel safe out there again. It was mid-October when my friend Greg and I decided to spend the weekend hunting in a canyon about an hour's drive from town. Some of Greg's co-workers had told him it was the perfect place. Remote with plenty of deer roaming the area. The idea of disconnecting from everything sounded ideal. On top of that, the canyon had a reputation for being quiet. Too quiet if you ask some people. We did not care. We needed a break from the noise of our lives, and that place seemed perfect. We left early on a Saturday. The truck loaded with camping gear, rifles, and enough food for several days. On the way we made two stops. Some for gas and another to stretch our legs before reaching the canyon. It was not just any canyon. It was huge, sprawling, with steep jagged cliffs on both sides, and a dense forest at the bottom. We parked near the edge and made our way down toward the trees. The trail wound between the cliffs like a snake. The descent was steep, but the farther we went, the more peaceful everything became. The air was cool and bird-song filled the spaces between the trees. As we moved deeper in, something strange started to happen. The usual sounds of the forest seemed to fade away. It did not happen all at once, but gradually, as if someone were turning the volume down. the time we reach the clearing. where we planned to set up camp. Everything was completely silent. No wind, no birds, nothing. Just the sound of our footsteps and every now and then, the snap of a twig under our boots. "Man, it's really quiet out here," Greg said, breaking the silence. "Yeah, though it's nice," I replied, trying to shake off the strange feeling crawling up my spine. "We set up camp in the clearing with a small fire ring in the center and our tents a few yards apart. It was already late by the time we finished and we decided to explore a little before settling in for the night. We took our rifles and moved deeper into the woods slowly, alert for any sign of deer. I could not shake the feeling that something was off. It was not anything specific, just a persistent snap of unease. Do you notice how weird it feels? Greg asked after a while, speaking softly. "Yeah, no animals, nothing. It feels like we're the only ones out here," I said. Greg nodded, looking around. Maybe they moved farther up the canyon. We'll get one tomorrow. We kept walking, but after an hour it was clear we were not going to see any game that day. We turned around and headed back to camp as the sun started to go down. Back in the clearing we lit a fire and for a while everything seemed normal. We cooked a dinner, cracked open a few beers, and talked about everything except the strange silence surrounding us. The fire crackled, and it's warmth pushed back the cold of the night. Just when I was starting to relax I heard it. An echo. A deep distant sound reverberated through the canyon, bouncing off the walls and repeating itself over and over. It was not the kind of echo you would expect there. It was not following our voices or the crackle of the fire. It was something of its own, unnatural. Greg heard it too. He stopped in the middle of a sentence. "Did you hear that?" I froze and listened carefully. There it was again. A long low echo, almost like a voice, but too distorted to make out any words. We stood up and scanned the trees around us. The echo came back, this time louder, closer. "What the hell is that?" Greg whispered. "I don't know. Maybe the wind," I said, though I did not believe that at all. We stood there listening for several minutes, but the sound did not return. The fire kept crackling, and the night seemed to settle once again into its strange, heavy silence. Greg shrugged and sat back down, but I could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Later, once we were inside our tents, I stayed awake listening. The silence was suffocating. No crickets, no wind, nothing. I closed my eyes trying to fall asleep, but my mind would not stop. In that stillness, every tiny sound felt amplified. Then it came again. The echo. Now it seemed to be coming from just outside my tent, as if something were moving through the trees. The sound bounced off the canyon walls and wrapped around us. My heart started pounding in my chest. I grabbed my flashlight and turned it on. I sat up and aimed the beam toward the entrance of the tent. For a long moment, nothing happened, the same unsettling stillness. But the echo came back, and this time it was followed by an unmistakable rustling sound, like footsteps in the brush. Greg, I whispered. There was no answer. I unzipped the tent just enough to peek outside. The campfire had burned down to embers, casting a faint glow across the clearing. I did not see anything out of the ordinary, but the sound continued, resonating through the canyon. I crawled out and stood up, sweeping the flashlight across the trees. It revealed nothing. Just trunks and shadows. But the sound was closer now, louder, as if it were circling us. I backed up to Greg's tent and gave it a light kick. Hey, wake up. Greg grunted from inside and after a moment poked his head out. What's going on? Listen, I told him pointing toward the forest. He frowned, confused. Then he heard it, too. The echo. And now there was no doubt. It was not the wind or the branches. It was a voice, deep, distorted, and impossible to understand. It bounced off the canyon walls surrounded us and made it impossible to tell where it was coming from. What the hell is that? Greg whispered. I don't know, but we need to leave. We grabbed our rifles and whatever gear we could carry and headed for the trail. The echo followed us as if whatever was making it was getting closer. We quickened our pace, nearly running, but the path was steep and treacherous in the dark. Our flashlights barely cut through the blackness, and every now and then we tripped over a rock or a root. We did not stop. The echo followed us the entire way, growing louder and more distorted with every step. It was like a chorus of voices layered over one another and blending into a harsh horrible sound. By the time we reached the truck, we were both out of breath and completely shattered. We threw the gear into the back and jumped inside, slamming the door shut. Greg fumbled with the key. His hands were shaking as he tried to start the engine. Finally, the truck came to life, and we sped out of there, with the echo fading behind us as we drove down the dirt road. We did not stop until we were miles away, back on the main road, where the trees opened up and the night felt less oppressive. Greg finally pulled over and we sat there in silence for a long time, trying to process what had happened. "What the hell was that?" he finally asked. "I don't know, man. I honestly don't. We barely spoke after that. The drive back to town was quiet, and by the time we arrived, Don was almost breaking. Neither of us ever went back to that canyon. We never even seriously mentioned it again." Story 5 I hadn't even planned on staying out that late, but the night felt calm, so I stayed. Near where I lived, there's a little spot, barely more than a ditch with water, that people around here call the fishing puddle. It sits off the side of a lightly traveled road, hidden behind some trees. If you didn't know it was there, you'd probably drive right past without ever noticing it. I had already packed up my things for the night and was sitting in my car scrolling on my phone to upload a few pictures of the fish I'd caught. Nothing special. A couple of catfish, maybe a blue-gill or two, but I felt pretty good about the evening. Then I looked up and noticed a truck parked right beside me. I have no idea how long they had been there. It was a lifted pickup with a rack over the bed. The kind you could use to haul gear or even cages if you were into trapping or hunting. The guy in the passenger seat was staring directly through my window. He had this strange half-smile that didn't match the vibe of someone who just wanted to say hello. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a hill-billy stereo type. Thick neck, scruffy beard, mullet half-tucked into a camouflage hoodie. I never saw the driver at all, which somehow made it worse. My instincts weren't screaming danger, but something in the back of my mind started ringing like a bell. The guy didn't make any move, didn't wave, didn't try to get my attention. He just kept staring. I sat there for a few seconds, debating whether I should roll the window down or just leave. In the end, I decided to go, easing back onto the road and driving around them like I wasn't in any hurry at all. I didn't even look back. Instead of heading straight home, I pulled into a nearby parking lot and stayed there for a while, watching to make sure no one followed me. After a few minutes, I went back to the fishing spot just to see if the truck was still there, but they were already gone. It would have been easy to brush it off as just some weird guy, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if I had made the wrong move, something bad might have happened. The reason all of this hit me so hard has to do with something that happened years ago, something that has stuck with me ever since. I was still a teenager fishing at night under a bridge, a pretty well-known spot back then. Two older men pulled up in their car and came over like they wanted a talk, or maybe fish too. It seemed completely normal. I was sitting on the sea wall with my legs hanging over the edge when suddenly one of them shoved me into the water, just like that. They grabbed my rod and tackle box and took off in their car. The drop wasn't that high, maybe seven or eight feet, but I couldn't climb back up where I had fallen in. I had to swim away until I found a place where I could drag myself out. My phone and cigarettes were ruined, and I couldn't call my mom, who was supposed to pick me up later. I ended up sitting there soaked until she showed up. She came infurious until she saw my face. What stayed with me wasn't that they stole my gear. It was the way they did it, without hesitation and without caring what might happen to me. I could have hit my head, I could have drowned, and for what? A $50 fishing rod and some cheap tackle. Ever since then I keep my guard up, especially when I'm out alone at night. So when that truck pulled up beside me tonight, every instinct I've developed since then kicked in. I don't know what those guys wanted, maybe nothing, maybe they were lost, maybe they were just curious, or maybe I avoided something worse, I guess I'll never know, but I'm glad I didn't find out the hard way. Story 6. In 2009, right after a disastrous breakup with my long-term girlfriend, I was in a really low place. We had moved from Calgary to a suburb outside Toronto for her job, and when everything fell apart between us, we ended up stuck living in the same apartment for a while. The tension escalated fast. We tipped out around each other, barely spoke, both pretending it wasn't driving us insane. Around that time a classmate I'd gotten close to invited me on a weekend camping and fishing trip outside Hamilton, and I didn't hesitate for a second. I just needed to be somewhere that didn't involve shared furniture and awkward silence. He took me to an area near water down, mostly woods, scattered farmland, and a creek winding its way through the brush. His uncle used to bring him there when he was a kid, so he knew the area like the back of his hand. We parked by a clearing at the edge of a huge corn field, probably private property, but there were no fences or signs, so we assumed it wouldn't be a problem. We set up camp beside the creek, started a fire, and spent the night drinking IPAs, catching a couple of small mouth bays, and just decompressing. It had that peaceful late spring feeling, warm breeze crackling fire, and that good kind of exhaustion you get after a full day outside. We went to sleep after midnight, both of us crammed into a two-person tent, with a little more than our sleeping bags and bug spray between us and the dark woods. My friend fell asleep pretty quickly, but I stayed up messing with my phone until the battery died. Not long after I started drifting off, something pulled me halfway awake. A strange high-pitched screech. At first I thought it was probably a fox or a coyote. Something sharp and frantic, like it was calling out or heard. I didn't think too much of it and figured it would stop, but it kept going over and over, and it was definitely getting closer. Eventually, it sounded like whatever it was had come right up to the tent. I started getting nervous, not panicked, just that kind of unease that settles into your body and you can't quite explain. I'd seen coyotes out west before, skittish skinny, usually more scared of people than anything else, but I still didn't love the idea of one wandering straight into our camp. I nudged my friend and he muttered something like, "You hear that, too?" He was already awake and we both sat there listening to the sound just outside. We didn't have a weapon, bear spray. Nothing remotely useful if it turned out whatever was out there wasn't friendly. He said he'd shine the flashlight and make some noise to try to scare it off. I sat there holding my breath while he slowly unzipped the tent and aimed the beam into the dark. He didn't scream. He didn't even say anything at first. He just recoiled back into the tent, stumbling, eyes wide, like he had seen something his brain couldn't process. The only thing he managed to say was, "It's not an animal. It's just a guy. And not an occasional. Oh, it's just a hiker kind of way." His voice cracked and I could see he was completely shaken, which sent me straight into panic mode. The noise was still going, but now that I was fully awake, it sounded wrong. Completely wrong. It wasn't an animal at all. It was a man making those howling noises like he was trying to imitate a coyote or something. Most every instinct I had, I leaned over and looked through the opening of the tent. There he was, a man standing just a few feet away, swaying slightly on his heels, wearing a tank top, a baseball cap, and I swear to God, women's lingerie, lason all. Over his pants standing there in the dark, facing in our direction, howling like some kind of deranged animal. I pulled back into the tent and felt my heart hammering against my ribs. I could barely breathe. My buddy and I looked at each other for a second, frozen before we started whispering about what to do. Finally, he yelled, "Hey, man, get the hell out of here." And just like that, the sound stopped. No more howling, no breathing, no footsteps. Just total silence. Then we heard him start running toward the tent, heavy fast like he was charging full speed, and then silence again, right outside. It felt like my brain couldn't keep up with what was happening. We both started shouting at the top of our lungs. We have phones, the cops are already coming, leave now. And at that exact moment, the footsteps moved away, crunching through the grass toward the road. We didn't sleep after that. We just sat there clutching phones with no signal, waiting for sunrise so we could pack up and get out. On the drive-back, we kept talking about it, still riding the adrenaline, but also a little embarrassed by how scared we got. It wasn't exactly some heroic survival story, and honestly, we've barely mentioned it since. Still, I think about it all the time. The guy wasn't wandering around for fun. He went there with a purpose, and I still get a sick feeling thinking about the fact that he was waiting to see who was inside the tent. I don't know what he was planning to do, and I never want to find out. Story 7. One summer night, a few years ago, my friends and I decided to go to an old lake formed in a gravel pit where people used to go cat-fishing. The place had a certain reputation, good fishing, sure, but kind of forgotten, almost no lighting and very little activity late at night. We brought a cooler full of beer, folding chairs, and some firewood so we could settle in for the evening. There were four of us, me, another friend, and two girls we had known since high school. Everything was calm, exactly the kind of quiet night you need after a long week of work. I wandered off a bit into the brush to gather more wood for the fire while the others stayed by the shore. My buddy was completely focused on the rod smoking a cigarette, and the girls were joking around nearby, ducking behind some bushes for a quick bathroom break. The fire crackled steadily, and the beer was going down just fine. Then without warning a man stepped into the circle of fire light as if he had been there the whole time. Not waiting for the right moment to show himself. No flashlight, no noise, walking in with total ease, like the place belonged to him. At first he barely spoke. He had this quiet, measured way of moving that made everything feel strangely calculated. My friend didn't engage with him at all. He just watched him out of the corner of his eye without saying a word. I, on the other hand, felt obligated to break the silence. I made some awkward small talk about how the catfish were biting in the weather, hoping to steer the conversation into something normal. He barely reacted, just a couple of slow nods, like he wasn't even hearing what I was saying, and at no point did he look at the girls, who are now sitting stiffly behind me with their eyes wide open. Then out of nowhere, he pulled out a large hunting knife with a dull looking finish from a sheath on his belt and started running his thumb along the blade. Not like he was directly threatening us, more like a nervous habit or something like that. In that instant, the whole energy of our little group completely changed. My friend went silent, stood up and started packing our stuff without saying a word. He gave me a look that clearly meant we're done here. The stranger turned around and disappeared back into the darkness with the same calmness he had arrived with. The drive back was completely silent until we were about halfway home. That was when my friend finally explained what was going on. Apparently he and his wife had already seen that same guy once before at the same lake. The first time they had brushed it off just as casually. Light conversation and nothing more. But when they left for town that night to buy some snacks, they noticed he was following them around the store. They were in an obvious chasing kind of way, but he kept showing up in the same miles at the same time, watching them without saying a word. That had unsettled them more than they admitted at the time. Ever since that second encounter that whole night has come back to me more times than I'd like to admit, there was something unspoken in that man's body language like he wasn't there by accident, like he was looking for something. Deep down, I felt like he had some kind of internal story playing out in his head, and we were part of it without knowing it. He didn't say much, but it felt like he was sizing us up, running through possibilities. I don't like making assumptions about people, but everything about him screamed danger. The cold stare, the way he held that knife, the blank unreadable way he watched us. It felt practiced like he had done this before. To this day, I'm convinced we didn't imagine the threat. Story 8. When my kids were still little, and I was always trying to steal a few moments of peace for myself whenever I could, I used to slip away in the evenings with my fishing rod and tackle box to a lake that was popular with local anglers. It wasn't very far from town, but some parts of it felt pretty isolated depending on where you set up. On that particular afternoon, my usual spot was already packed with a dozen people there, so I went a little farther down the shoreline to a quieter, more overgrown area. I followed a narrow dirt path that led to a ledge about eight feet below the upper bank, where I could sit on a flat rock half hidden among tall grass and brush. It was peaceful there, just me, the water, and the occasional splash of fish playing with the bait. I hadn't been settled for long when I heard footsteps crunching along the path behind me. I assumed it was just someone looking for a better place to fish, but instead of walking past, the man stopped right above me at the entrance to the trail and started talking to me. At first he seemed harmless enough, more chatty than anything, with a voice that sticks with you. Deep and Ross be like a heavy smokers. He leaned near the top of the trail and gradually edged closer until he was only a few feet behind me. At first it didn't bother me, I thought he was just being friendly, but then the tone changed. He started saying strange things about coming down from something, drugs or whatever, and then made a disgusting comment about looking for sacks. As if that weren't enough, he asked if he could sit with me right there on my rock. I told him flat out. No way. While pretending to fuss with my gear, he tried again. As if keeping at it would somehow make me change my mind. That was when I very deliberately picked up my fellen knife to change lures. Even though I had nail clippers in my pocket that would have been faster, I chose the knife. It wasn't an open threat, but I didn't exactly try to hide it either. That seemed to quiet him down, and eventually he walked back up the bank without another word. I assumed that was the end of it, but maybe ten minutes later, while I was retying my line and starting to relax again, I heard him. The same raspy voice now coming from directly above me. He said something so vulgar that I froze. He was standing near the entrance to the trail, saying out loud that he was going to take care of himself right there as if it were nothing. I felt anger and fear at the same time, so I raised my voice and started yelling loudly enough for the nearby fisherman to hear, telling him to zip up and get out before I called the police. It didn't seem to phase him. Just slowly walked back to his car and drove away like nothing had happened. By the time I climbed back up to try to get his license plate, he was already gone. I was shaking by then, so I packed everything up and drove straight home. My husband took it seriously when I told him and convinced me to call the police. I gave them every detail I could, but the man looked like what kind of car he drove, and above all that disturbing, unmistakable voice. They took a report, but they didn't seem very optimistic. For a while, I tried to believe that would be the last time I ever saw him, but a couple of weeks later, while I was at the grocery store with my kids, I heard that same voice again. It was coming from just a few miles away, and there was no mistaking it. My heart dropped. I grabbed my kids, abandoned my shopping cart, and ran out to the parking lot, where we sat in the car until I saw him come out. This time I managed to get his license plate and reported it. It turned out he lived not very far from us. He had probably been around the area the whole time. The police followed up, but that wasn't encouraging either. They said the man they spoke to didn't quite match my description because he had a different haircut. As if that couldn't change in a week or two. They admitted the voice could have been the same, but nothing else ever came of it. After that, I stopped going to that lake alone. I still fish sometimes, but only if someone goes with me. The whole experience let me unsettled for years, and I don't think I ever looked at solo fishing trips the same way again. Story 9 Last summer during 4 July weekend, my family decided to spend a few days on the coast. We rented a couple of rooms at a beachside hotel about an hour from home and filled the trip with boardwalk food, sand castles, and as much vitamin D as we could soak up. It was my husband, our kids, my brother and his family, and my grandparents. We were trying to recreate those big family trips we used to take when we were younger. One night someone had the bright idea to head to a nearby pier for some night fishing, which sounded great, until the youngest started yawning and getting cranky. I offered to take all the kids back to the car, so the rest of the group could keep fishing without distractions. It's worth mentioning that I'm a small woman, not small in a stylish way, but the kind of small where people mistake me for a teenager more often than I'd like. I'm also one of those people who is always aware of what's going on around me, maybe too aware. Growing up around guns and living in the country made me cautious, and having kids only made that stronger. My husband keeps a compact handgun in the center console for emergencies. Normally I barely think about it, but that night I did. I was sitting in the driver's seat with the engine running, the air conditioning humming softly, and the kids half asleep in the back watching a DVD. There were a few other vehicles scattered around, but I wouldn't call it crowded. To our right was a dark pickup truck that had already been parked there when we arrived. But long after we got settled, a smaller truck pulled into the spot on the other side of it and two men got out. They were pulling fishing gear out of the bed, but the way they kept looking over toward my side immediately put me on alert. It wasn't just an occasional glance. They'd take something out, look over, say something quietly to each other, and keep watching like they were weighing a decision. Eventually, they walked toward the pier, but they had spent way too long standing by their truck to have just been organizing tackle. My husband called to check on us, and I told him about the two guys. In his usual calm way, he reminded me about the gun and where it was. I took his advice and slid it out of the console, leaving it within reach in case I needed it. About ten minutes passed and those same two men came back, which caught me off guard. I would have been surprised if they had even made it to the end of the pier. Everything takes time, and they came back without their rods. That was enough to send my internal alarm up another level. I placed the gun discreetly on my lap and kept my eyes forward. They were back at their truck again, but every few seconds one or both of them would lean around it, very obviously trying to get a better look at me, the car, or maybe the kids. It wasn't casual curiosity. They would look, pull back, mutter something, and then look again. After a while one of them moved around the back of the truck and just stood there like he was calculating his next move. I held his gaze, lifted the gun a little higher so he could clearly see it resting in my hands, and gave him a small wave. It wasn't friendly. It was more like, you've got ten seconds to head in the other direction. We turned around immediately and muttered something to the other guy. Within seconds both of them got back into their truck and drove off without looking back. I didn't stay around to find out anything more either. I called my husband, told him fishing was over for the night, and within minutes we had everything packed up and we're heading back to the hotel. I still have no idea what those men wanted, whether it was me, the car, or something else. But I'm glad I listened to my instincts that night. Not everyone who goes to a fishing pier is there for the fish. Story ten. There's a small jetty by the river where I usually fish with a friend. It's nothing special, but it's quiet, peaceful, and normally trouble free. On that particular day my buddy couldn't make it, so I figured I'd head over by myself, make a few casts and clear my head a little. When I got there I saw a young woman already sitting at the end of the jetty. Out of respect I started heading toward the little beach to set up there instead. But she called out to me and said it was fine if I sat near her. Apparently she had seen me there. there before and said she had been hoping someone would show up so she wouldn't be alone. I was halfway through unpacking my gear when a guy showed up wearing what I first assumed was a police uniform. At first, he barely said anything to me. All of his attention was on the girl. The way he started talking to her immediately felt off. He was asking about someone who was supposedly riding a dirt bike through the park and throwing around words like apprehend, like he was on some kind of action movie mission. But when I got a better look at the uniform, I realized it wasn't even police. It was some kind of modified state emergency services outfit, which had nothing to do with law enforcement. Not long after that, my fishing buddy finally showed up and the whole situation shifted from uncomfortable to bizarrely surreal. The guy was trying to sound official, but half of what he was saying made no sense, and he kept tripping over his own story. I decided to start recording video just in case, and I'm glad I did. A few minutes later, the dirt bike rider actually came back. This so-called Marine Officer type, we entered up sarcastically calling him MO, short for Marine Officer badass, tried to act authoritative, and the riders shut him down immediately. After that embarrassment, MO came back to the jetty, pulled out his phone and pretended to call the police, reporting all kinds of things that had never happened. Out of nowhere, he announced that he was going fishing too, got on a mini-bike, and after a while came back wearing regular clothes like nothing had happened. The girl who had seemed pretty relaxed up until then suddenly got very talkative with us in a way that made her obvious she was uncomfortable having him so close. She kept saying things like, "Don't leave me here alone." There was something in her voice that gave me a really bad feeling. MO sat way too close to her and acted casual, but it was obvious he was trying to get into her space. Eventually she said she was ready to leave, and just like that, he stood up and said he would walk her home, as if that were the natural thing to do. She hesitated and stayed talking with us while he slowly started pushing his bike, looking back every few steps. Everything about it was tense and uncomfortable, so we didn't leave her alone. We ended up walking her all the way home to make sure she got there safely. As we were saying goodbye her phone rang. It was her mother confused and upset, saying she had received a call from a man claiming her daughter was coming home with two older men she didn't know. That was when it clicked, while she wasn't paying attention that guy must have gone through her phone and taken her mother's number. Later we found out he had no connection to any emergency service at all and had a history of pretending to be things he wasn't. Someone posted about him online and people started coming forward with stories. Apparently a few months earlier fireworks had gone off on his porch while children were nearby and a girl ended up badly burned. The fact that he felt so comfortable acting like that right in front of us makes me wonder how many other people didn't have someone nearby to step in. Since then my friend and I have made a habit of going to that jetty more often than usual, just to make sure that girl or anyone else doesn't end up trapped with a predator in disguise. When my mom said I'd be spending the weekend at Uncle Bill's farm, I wasn't exactly thrilled. I was 15 years old and I preferred spending my weekends playing the video games or hanging out with my friends, not getting lost in the middle of nowhere. But it was a family matter and my mom insisted so off I went. Uncle Bill's farm was in such a rural area that the only thing you could hear was the wind and every now and then, the distant bark of a dog fading into the echo in the background. It was November and the farm was getting ready for the last big corn harvest of the season. Row after row of dry stalks stretched as far as the eye could see, like an ocean of brownish gold. There was something strangely peaceful about it. On the first day Uncle Bill gave me a tour of the farm, just like he did every time I visited. I played along, listening to his stories about how the land had been in the family for generations. But really I was just killing time. He showed me the fields, the tractor, the barn, and then. Almost as if he had saved the best for last, the scarecrow's. There were three of them, spaced out across the field. Tall, bony things dressed in old, whether worn clothes that had probably come out of Uncle Bill's closet. Their faces were burlap sacks with button eyes and wide toothy smiles stitched with red thread. For some reason something about them gave me a bad feeling. Maybe it was because they didn't have hats, so their heads were these strange bare lumps on top of their bodies. Or maybe it was the way the wind made their arms sway ever so slightly, as if they were beckoning you to come closer. Do you like them? Uncle Bill asked clearly proud of his work. I've been using these same fellas for years. They keep the birds far away. I forced a smile and nodded. Yeah, they're effective. Uncle Bill let out a little chuckle. You city kids don't see much of this, huh? Well, they've done their job for as long as I can remember. He led me back to the house and I kept glancing back at the scarecrow's. Something about them felt off, but I didn't think too much about it and let it go. They were just a few scarecrow's. There was no reason to be scared of that. That night I found myself in the guest room, scrolling through my phone and half watching the news. Uncle Bill had gone to bed early, worn out from the day's work. The farm was deathly quiet and the only light came from the dim lamp beside my bed. I wasn't used to that kind of stillness. The city was always buzzing with energy, but out there you could hear every creek of the old house, every gust of wind rattling the windows. Around midnight I started hearing a strange tapping against the glass. At first I ignored it, thinking it was a branch or maybe the wind, but it kept going. Curiosity got the better of me, so I got up and pulled the curtains aside. I expected to see nothing, just darkness and hopefully a few trees swaying, but instead I saw something that made my stomach tighten. One of the scarecrow's was in the yard right there, about 20 or so feet from the house. I knew Uncle Bill hadn't moved any of them. I had seen them in the field earlier and they were still far away when we came in for dinner. And yet there it was, standing disturbingly close to the house, with its button eyes shining in the moonlight. For a moment I wondered if it had always been that close and I had just never noticed. But no, there was no way I could have missed it. I stood there staring at it for a few more seconds, trying to decide whether it was some kind of joke. Maybe Uncle Bill had moved it to mess with me. Sometimes he had a weird sense of humor. But then I remembered Uncle Bill had been snoring for hours. I was almost sure he hadn't gotten out of bed. I told myself maybe I had imagined it being farther away. Then closed the curtains and tried to lie back down. Even so sleep didn't come easy that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the scarecrow's crooked smile and those empty button eyes staring at me. The next morning I went out into the yard, mostly to prove to myself that I hadn't imagined it. Sure enough the scarecrow was still there, right where I had seen it the night before. Its long straw stuffed arms hung limply at its sides. But now something had changed. The red stitching that formed its smile had shifted. It looked wrong like someone had tampered with it. I stepped closer, have expecting it to move. It didn't. It was nothing more than a lifeless sack, strong old clothes. Even so I didn't want to touch it. The whole thing gave me a bad feeling so I went back inside and found Uncle Bill drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Hey Uncle Bill, did you move one of the scarecrow's last night? He looked up from his cop raising an eyebrow. What do you mean? I mean there's one in the yard. I saw it last night and it's still there. Uncle Bill sat down his cop. I didn't move any scarecrow. They're supposed to be out in the field. I shrugged trying to play it down. That's weird. Maybe the wind knocked it over. Uncle Bill didn't seem convinced but he nodded. Could be. Or maybe some local kid thought it'd be funny to pull a prank. I'll put it back later. I didn't bring it up again but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I spent the rest of the day helping Uncle Bill with the harvest trying to focus on the work and not on the scarecrow which had stood guard in the yard all morning. By the time night fell I was exhausted. "We had dinner, I took a shower, and I went to bed early, hoping to sleep better. But when I closed the curtains, I noticed something strange. The scarecrow was gone. I hadn't seen Uncle Bill move it, and there was no way it could have gone anywhere on its own. I tried not to think too much about it, but a sharp feeling of unease settled into my body. Sometime after midnight, I was jolted awake by a loud bang against the window. My heart started racing as I sat up, another bang, and another. It sounded like someone was throwing rocks at the glass. I pulled the curtain back just enough to peek outside. There in the yard again were not one but all three scarecrow's. They were lined up side by side, their heads tilted slightly, as if they were watching the house. I just stared at them. They hadn't been there before. Uncle Bill couldn't have moved all three in the middle of the night, especially not without me hearing him. I stumbled back from the window, my mind trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Then I heard a knock at the front door. The knocking continued, soft but insistent, as if someone were trying to be polite even though it was the middle of the night. I went to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, straining to hear whether Uncle Bill was up. Nothing, the house was silent except for the knocking at the front entrance. I moved down the hallway, each step drawing a groan from the old wood. I went downstairs and when I reached the bottom, I looked toward the window beside the door. The scarecrow's were still there, motionless, just outside the reach of the porch light. The knocking stopped. I stood frozen not knowing what to do. Should I open it? Should I call Uncle Bill? My phone was upstairs charging beside the bed and I didn't want to leave the front door unguarded long enough to go get it. Then the door knocked turned. My froze staring in disbelief as the knob slowly twisted. The door didn't open. It was still locked, but whoever was on the other side was definitely trying to get in. While Bill, I called out my voice shaking. There was no answer. The knob turned again and stopped. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I ran upstairs straight to Uncle Bill's room. I pounded on the door until I heard his sleepy shuffling as he woke up. He opened it and rubbing his eyes. What's wrong? There's someone outside, they're trying to get in. Uncle Bill frowned and pulled the shotgun from the closet. Without asking any more questions, he went downstairs first. When we got to the door, he looked cautiously through the window. He scanned the yard for a moment before muttering a curse under his breath. All the scarecrows are back. He murmured tightening his grip on the gun. They're back. What do you mean? They weren't there this afternoon, he said, turning toward me. I went to check on them, and they were gone. We stood there in silence for a few seconds, listening for any sign of movement outside. Finally, Uncle Bill opened the door and stepped onto the porch. I followed close behind him. The scarecrows were standing exactly where I had seen them, just beyond the reach of the light. Their button eyes glinted in the moonlight. Uncle Bill raised the shotgun, but before he could aim, a shadow slipped behind one of the scarecrows. Inside, Uncle Bill barked, shoving me toward the door. He aimed and fired, but he didn't hit anything. He fired two more times into the darkness and still hit nothing. Then he grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. We slammed the door shut and locked it. He slid the bolt with trembling hands. We didn't sleep at all that night. We stayed in the living room silent in the dark. Uncle Bill holding the shotgun in his hands, waiting for someone or something to try to get in again. But it never happened. To this day, we still don't know what that shadow was, or who or what kept moving the scarecrows closer to the house. I don't know whether it was a cruel prank or something more serious, but one thing I do know, it scared me to death, and I will never forget that night. Story 12. Every fall, like clockwork, my family made its annual pilgrimage to Pumpkinland. We would pick out a pumpkin, carve funny faces into them, then hop on the haunted hay ride and drink apple cider until we couldn't fit in another drop. But there was one year, one I will never forget, that turned Pumpkinland from a cherished memory into a dark one that still gives me chills every time autumn comes around. I must have been about nine years old, maybe ten when it happened. It was one of those cool fall afternoons. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, and the whole park smelled like cinnamon, roasted peanuts, and that damp, form soil getting ready for the long winter. I remember every detail of that day. The crunch of leaves underfoot, the warmth of the wool sweater my mom had knitted for me, and the excitement vibrating in the air as families came and went all around us. We arrived just after lunch. My dad and his usual baseball cap and a flannel jacket. My mom snapping pictures with her old disposable camera, and me. While I was already running ahead, eager to climb onto the hay wagon and get into the corn maze. My dad had to remind me more than once to slow down. You're going to get lost if you keep running around like that, he said. But I never took him too seriously. At Pumpkinland I felt like nothing in bad could happen. The first half of the day was a whirlwind of fun. We picked pumpkins, made our way through the corn maze without too many arguments about which way to go, and I ate enough candy apples to laugh for a lifetime. I remember wanting to ride the little roller coaster they had set up at the far end of the park, but first I needed to use the bathroom. I told my dad and we headed toward the portable toilets near the entrance. Go ahead. I'll wait for you right here. He said, pointing to the edge of the path where other parents were standing around. He had one hand in his pocket and the other holding a pumpkin spice coffee that my mom liked to tease him about. I hopped into the portable toilet, wrinkled my nose at the smell, and did what I had to do. When I came back out, I expected to see my dad exactly where he said he'd be, except he wasn't there. I looked around, confused. The crowd was thick. Kids running around with plastic bags full of candy from the trick-or-treat booths. Parents balancing hot drinks and taking pictures of their little ones. But there was no sign of my dad. "Dad," I called, my voice barely audible over the noise of the park. I was used to him being exactly where he said he would be, so that was strange. I waited a few minutes thinking maybe he had just stepped away for a second. Or maybe I had missed him in the crowd. I tried to convince myself it was no big deal that I would spot him any second. But as the minutes kept passing and he still didn't show up, a hollow feeling began twisting in my stomach. Something wasn't right. I moved a little farther away from the bathrooms, trying to scan the crowd of families and kids. I passed by the food stands looking for any sign of my dad's cap in the sea of people. But he wasn't there. Let me explain something. I was not the kind of kid who scared easily. I had heard all the usual warnings. Don't talk to strangers. Stay where your parents can see you. But in a place like Pumpkinland, everything felt safe. We were all there for the same reason. Everyone was in a good mood. But things didn't happen in places like that, right? That's what I believed. After a few minutes, I saw a man walking toward me. He was tall, older than my dad, with gray hair sticking out from under a cap. He was wearing one of those quilted vests older men seemed to love. And he had a friendly smile, though it looked a little forced. Looks like you're a little lost champ. He sat in a soft voice, almost too casual. Looking for someone? I nodded, still scanning the area for my dad. Yeah, my dad was supposed to wait for me here, but I don't see him. The man nodded sympathetically and crouched down until he was almost at my eye level. What does your dad look like? Maybe I've seen him. I wasn't sure whether I should talk to him. The warnings about not trusting strangers were buzzing in the back of my mind. But the guy seemed okay, nice enough. I described my dad to him, the jacket, the cap, the coffee in his hand. The man listened carefully, narrowing his eyes slightly as if he were trying to remember someone who matched the description. "I think I saw him by the corn maze a few minutes ago," he said, standing back up. "I can take you there if you want." There was something about that offer that didn't sit right with me. The maze was on the other side of the park. Why would my dad go all the way over there without me, knowing how excited I was to go in with him? "Ah, maybe." I mumbled, hesitating, and took a step back. The man smiled again, but this time the smile didn't seem real. It didn't reach his eyes. Your dad asked me to come get you. He said more firmly. He said you were taking a little while in the bathroom. Come on, I'll take you to him." That was the moment. That one sentence changed my mind from confusion to fear. My dad would never send someone else to come get me without telling me first. And the more I thought about it, the less the man's story made sense. Too eager, too insistent. I stepped back again, my knees shaking. I think I'll just wait here for him. The man's smile disappeared for a moment. He glanced around quickly and looked back at me. It'll be faster if you come with me. I'm sure your dad is waiting. There was something in his tone that suddenly triggered panic. I was a kid, yes, but I wasn't stupid. Something was wrong. Before I could react, before I could even think about what to say, I saw a flash of orange. The vest of a pumpkinland employee off to the side of the crowd. Without thinking I turned and ran straight toward the worker. "Excuse me," I shouted, pushing through the crowd as fast as my legs could carry me. The employee, a man about my dad's age, turned just in time to see me running toward him. I heard the other man calling after me, but I didn't stop. I reached the employee and gasped. I can't find my dad. The worker crouched down immediately, concerned. "Hey, it's okay, what's wrong?" I looked back, but the man was already gone. He had melted into the crowd as if he had never existed. The employee looked around, but there was nobody suspicious in sight. He took me to the security office, and within minutes my dad showed up, out of breath and pale. He had been looking for me the entire time, frantic, when he realized I wasn't where he had left me. I told him in the security team everything about the man. He was offered to help, the lie that he knew my dad. They took it seriously, but with so many people and costumes and hats, and no cameras in that part of the park, there wasn't much they could do. We never saw that man again. No one did. As I got older, I replayed that moment over and over in my head, and each time I understood more clearly just how close I had come to something much worse, than simply getting lost at a Halloween festival. Back then I didn't understand how serious it was. Now as an adult I see it clearly. That man was not trying to be kind. He was trying to lure me away. Away from the safety of the crowd, away from where anyone could find me. The realization hit me hard over time. What if I hadn't listened to my instincts? What if I had gone with him? It's not something I liked to dwell on, but it's always there in the back of my mind, especially every time October rolls around. Pumpkinland used to be a place of joy, family memories, and laughter. Now instead it is a reminder of how quickly everything can change, of how easily a happy day can turn into something darker. We never went back. Some places once they've been tainted never feel safe again. Story 13 I never really considered myself much of an outdoorsy guy, but when my girlfriend Jen suggested we go camping, I figured it couldn't be that bad. Besides it was late November, the leaves were beautiful, and she was really excited about the idea. We had been together for quite a while, and this seemed like the perfect couple's plan to score a few points. A weak camping in the woods, just the two of us, a tent and a campfire. What could go wrong, right? We left early Saturday morning, with the car packed with everything we needed. A tent, sleeping bags, food and enough firewood to get us through the night. The drive north was peaceful, along roads that wound through for us already covered in that crisp golden glow of autumn. Jen had grown up around that area, so she knew all the best camping spots. She suggested a clearing near her dad's property, a place she used to go to as a kid. It wasn't too far from the house, but far enough that nobody would bother us. It sounded perfect to me. After about an hour we turned off the main road and took a dirt path until we reached the clearing. It was secluded and surrounded by towering trees. The light filtered through the branches with that soft autumn quality, casting dancing shadows across the ground. To be honest, it was pretty beautiful. Jen had already gotten out of the car to explore the area and find the best place to pitch the tent. This spot is perfect, she said, pointing to a flat patch of ground at the edge of the clearing. We can put the tent here and the campfire over there. I followed her lead. After all, she was the camping expert. We spent the next hour setting up the tent and getting everything organized. By the time we were done, the sun was starting to sink behind the trees, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. With the campsite ready, we decided to relax for a while before starting the fire. Jen pulled a couple of beers out of the cooler, and we sat in our folding chairs and joined the silence. As the evening went on, we lit the campfire and roasted a few hot dogs over the flames. The heat from the fire was a welcome contrast to the cold that was beginning to settle in. We talked about everything and nothing, just enjoying each other's company. It felt good to be out there, disconnected from the world. But as the night grew darker, the atmosphere started to change. It wasn't anything dramatic at first, just little things. Every now and then I thought I heard something, a branch snapping, leaves crunching. But whenever I looked around, there was nothing there. Did you hear that? I asked Jen trying to sound casual. She looked up from where she was poking at the fire with a stick. Never what? I don't know, like footsteps or something. It's probably an animal she replied with a shrug, not seeming especially worried. There's all kinds of wildlife around here, deer, raccoons, maybe a fox. They're more scared of us than we are of them. It made sense. Still, I couldn't shake the strange feeling that we weren't alone. I didn't want to make Jen nervous, so I kept it to myself. We went on with the evening, talking and laughing, trying to ignore the cold creeping in. At some point we both fell silent, staring into the flames. It was that kind of comfortable silence where you also get a little lost in your own thoughts. I was just about to suggest that we go to sleep when something caught my attention. At first it was only movement, a dark shape slipping between the trees just beyond the reach of the campfire's light. I squinted into the woods trying to convince myself it was nothing more than a deer or some other animal. Jen did you see that? I asked quietly, without taking my eyes off the tree line. "See what?" she said, lifting her gaze from the fire. I pointed toward the darkness. Something moved. Jen narrowed her eyes leaning forward as if that would help her see better. Suddenly a raccoon or something, she said, though there was a hint of doubt in her voice. I nodded but I wasn't convinced. Whatever I had seen looked too tall, too. human. Even so it was probably just my imagination playing tricks on me. We stayed there for a few more minutes, both of us tense now, listening to the sounds of the woods. When I heard it, footsteps, not the soft rustling of an animal, but the unmistakable crunch of someone walking on dry leaves. The sound was coming from behind us just beyond the circle of light cast by the fire. I turned my head and it happened again. Movement. This time it wasn't just one shadow, but two, maybe three dark figures moving between the trees far enough away that I couldn't make out any details. Do you hear it, I whispered. Jen nodded slowly. Yeah, I hear it. We both stood up at the same time, instinctively moving closer to each other. I looked at the tent, which suddenly felt like the most vulnerable place on Earth. There was no way I was getting in there with whatever was watching us out there. the footstep stopped for a moment and everything. went quiet. Maybe they're just hikers, Jen whispered. It's a public trail, right? I shook my head. Not this late. Nobody hikes that late. We stood there listening hard, trying to catch any other sound. The footsteps came back, this time from another direction, closer now circling the campsite. There's more than one Jen murmured. She didn't have to tell me. It was obvious. The sounds were coming from all sides surrounding us. The figures slipped between the trees as if they were playing some twisted version of hide and seek. What do we do, she asked? We leave. Now, we moved fast, grabbing only the essentials, keys, phone, flashlight. Forget the tent, forget the chairs. We could come back for them in daylight. The only thing that mattered in that moment was getting out of there. While we packed in a panic, I kept my eyes on the woods, watching those dark shapes that seemed to melt into the shadows and reappear. I couldn't tell how many there were, but the footsteps sounded closer and closer, as if whatever was out there was tightening the circle. We started walking toward the car, crouched low and silent, trying not to make any sudden movements. Every few steps I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see someone step out from the trees and block our way. The tension was suffocating, the feeling of being watched overwhelming. Then suddenly the sharp crack of a branch to our left. Ronna whispered firmly. We bolted toward the car behind us the footsteps fed up too, as if they were chasing us, but I didn't dare look back. We reached the car and I fumbled with the keys for a second. Finally, I got it open and we jumped inside, slamming the door shut. For a moment everything went still. The figures did not come into view. Drive, Jen said, her voice tight with fear. I started the engine through it into reverse, backed up fast, and turned the wheel to get onto the dirt path leading away from the campsite. The trees blurred past on other side as we sped away from the clearing. In the rear view mirror I didn't see anyone. The figures had melted back into the woods, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. We didn't stop until we reached Jen's dad's cabin. It was almost dawn and the first light of morning was beginning to filter through the trees. We parked and sat there in the car for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. I don't know what the hell that was, Jen finally said, but I'm never going back there. I agreed. We were lucky to get out. We never went back to that campsite and we didn't even bother going back for the tent. In fact, we never went camping again. Story 14. I was 13 years old, and it was supposed to be just another night of messing around. Something to kill the boredom that always seemed to settle over our small town when fall dragged on. It was me, Jose Tara and Micah. We had spent the whole day doing nothing in particular until Jose came up with a slightly boulder idea. Have you guys heard about the old pumpkin patch on County Road M, he said? That place is abandoned. Tara replied, "It's been like that for years. People say it's haunted or some stupid thing like that." "Exactly," Jose said. "We should go check it out." We weren't the kind of kids to turn down a challenge, but I noticed we all hesitated. There had always been something strange about that side of town. Run down, overgrown. The kind of place you avoid without really thinking about it. But boredom does strange things to people, and before I knew it, we were already riding our bikes down the dark road toward the old farm. It was getting late when we reached the overgrown trail that led to the pumpkin patch. We left our bikes by a rusty gate and continued on foot. The place was just as run down as I had imagined. Weeds and dry cornstock stretched across the fields, and in the distance the farmhouse loomed in a threatening silhouette. "You sure about this?" Mike emuttered. Jose didn't hesitate. "Come on, it's just an old farm. There's nothing to be scared of." I wasn't convinced either, but we followed him anyway, making our way up the dirt path toward the house. The closer we got, the stranger the place felt. There was something about the way the house sat there, alone and rotting. That made my skin crawl. It was the kind of place you see in horror movies, the kind where you expect something to jump out at you at any moment. When we reached the front door it was already cracked open. None of us dared to go inside. "I'll go first," I said, feeling a strange need to prove something, even though I didn't know what. I pushed the door all the way open, and it let out a loud creek, the echo disappearing into the emptiness inside. When we stepped in, we saw walls covered in peeling wallpaper. Furniture was scattered around, as if whoever had lived there had left on an ordinary day and never come back. A layer of dust covered everything, making it obvious that no one had set foot in the place for years. "Wow, this place is disgusting," Jose said. "What a waste of time." But the second he said it, something thudtered upstairs. "We all froze." "Always that," Tara asked. "Probably a windowslamming shut because of the wind," Jose said, though even he didn't sound convinced. Then we heard it again, a rhythmic banging like someone was hitting their head against the wall upstairs. It couldn't have been the wind or the house settling. The sound was too deliberate, too controlled. "We should leave," Micah suggested. "You guys are paranoid," Jose shot back. "Let's just take a quick look." None of us wanted to go upstairs, but there was something about that sound that pulled us in, like we had to see what was causing it. Against all common sense, we climbed the creaking stairs one step at a time. The banging grew louder as we went up. When we reached the top, there was a long hallway with several doors. All of them were closed except one at the far end. The noise was coming from there. "I really don't like this," Tara whispered, clinging to Micah's arm. "We'll just take a quick look," Jose said, though I could tell his bravado was fading. We moved down the hallway and the closer we got to the open door, the more I regretted coming. Something was very, very wrong. Jose and I reached the doorway first and stopped dead in our tracks. There was a man in the room. He was standing in the corner facing the wall, hitting his head against it over and over again, slowly. The sound echoed through the room like a nightmare. "Holy shit," Jose whispered. "I didn't move." None of us did. We just stood there staring at the man if you could even call him that. As he kept slamming his head into the wall, as if he didn't even know we were there. Is he okay? Tara managed to say her voice trembling. There was no answer, just the sound of his head hitting the wall. We need to go. We bolted down the hallway. Behind us, I heard the man's footsteps chasing after us. We flew down the stairs, almost tripping in our panic. When we reached the front door, I heard a scream. I didn't dare look back. We burst through the doorway and ran into the yard as fast as we could toward our bikes. We jumped on and started peddling, and as we rode away, the echo of that scream kept clawing at our backs. We didn't stop until we were halfway back to town, our legs burning from the effort. "What was that?" Tara asked. "I shook my head too out of breath to speak. There was something deeply wrong with that place. Something we never should have messed with." When we finally got back to town, we stopped at the park and collapsed onto the grass gasping for air. No one said a word for a long time. We never told anyone what happened at the abandoned pumpkin patch, and we never went back. Sometimes I wonder what we would have seen if we had looked back while we were running, but part of me is glad I never found out. Story 15. When I accepted the idea of working the Halloween season at Party City, I thought it would be a great experience. There were costumes, decorations, and that electrifying chaos of people getting ready for one of the most fun holidays of the year. I even volunteered for the October night shift, thinking the store would be quiet or after dark. Which would let me restock shelves, organize costumes and occasionally help a last-minute shopper. What I did not expect was for that shift to turn into something straight out of a horror movie. It was October 2016, one week before Halloween, and the store was running at full speed. Customers were pouring in, desperate to find costumes, and the mess did not slow down until there was about an hour left before closing. That night I was working with Sarah and Josh, along with a few others who were handling the front of the store. My job was to manage inventory in the back, which meant constant trips down to the basement to bring up extra costumes, decorations, and anything else needed to refill the shelves. The party-city basement was nothing special. A large damp room filled with old racks, boxes, and those giant Halloween decorations that had not sold the year before. It felt a little creepy, of course, but it did not bother me. It gave the place a certain character. Or at least that was what I kept telling myself. The shift was going smoothly until around 9 p.m., when I went down to the basement for the third or fourth time. I was grabbing some boxes of fake cobwebs and plastic spiders when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought it was just a shadow, probably the light hitting one of the Halloween decorations. But when I looked directly at it, my stomach tightened a little. Someone was standing at the back of the basement near the old racks, a figure wearing a long white-hooded robe with a mask that completely covered its face. The mask was smooth and featureless, a blank white face staring directly at me. My first thought was that it was Josh playing a prank on me. He was the type to do that kind of thing, especially around Halloween, so I called out. Nice try, Josh, you're not going to scare me. There was no answer. The figure stayed there, perfectly still. I left to myself thinking he was really committed to the joke. I picked up the boxes and started walking toward the stairs, glancing back at the figure every few steps. It had not moved. In fact, the more I looked at it, the more I noticed that something was not right. The robe was not one of ours, and the mask. It was not one of the cheap plastic ones we sold. It was too detailed, too realistic, and it's very lack of features. I stopped halfway to the stairs and turned fully toward the figure. Seriously, Josh, it's late. Let's not do this. Silence. Nothing. I started getting irritated. I had worked to do, and the prank was already losing its humor. I set the boxes down on the floor and took a step toward the figure, ready to rip off the mask and end the game. But the moment I moved, the figure stepped backward into the shadows, disappearing behind one of the storage racks. That was when I hesitated. If it had been Josh, he would have said something by now, or at least laughed. But there was no sound, only the faint buzzing of the overhead lights. Josh, I called again. I walked slowly toward the spot where the figure had disappeared. I felt a hair on the back of my neck rise. When I reached the rack I peeked around the corner, completely convinced I would see Josh crouching there, waiting to scare me. There was no one. Only dusty boxes and decorations from last Halloween. I took a deep breath, telling myself it was nothing. Maybe Josh had slipped away when I was not looking, or maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. I turned to head back toward the stairs, and at that exact moment the figure was there again, in the same spot as before, right in front of the old racks. Only now it was closer, much closer. It had not made a sound, no footsteps, no rustle of fabric, just silence. My mouth went dry. That was not Josh, it was not anyone I knew. Who are you, I blurted out, my voice already shaking. No answer. The figure did not move. I slowly back toward the stairs, never taking my eyes off it. With every step I expected it to lunge at me, to do something. But it only stood there, staring. Or at least I assumed it was staring. The mask made it impossible to know if there were eyes behind it. Where I reached the stairs I grabbed the handrail and ran up two steps at a time, slamming the door shut behind me. I just wandered to get back to the front of the store, where the lights were brighter, and there were other people. Sarah was behind the counter restocking candy. She looked up when she saw me rushing toward her. "Are you okay?" she asked. Did anyone go down to the basement? I blurted out, probably sounding more nervous than I wanted to. No, why? I opened my mouth to explain, but I did not even know where to start, telling her that there was a hooded figure in a mask standing silently in the basement sounded absurd even to me. Never mind I muttered trying to downplay it, it's probably Josh messing around. Sarah raised a eyebrow, Josh left an hour ago. My blood ran cold. I stared at her for a long moment trying to process what she had just said. If Josh was not there, then who or what had I seen in the basement? Before I could say anything else I heard a soft creek, the sound of a door opening. We both looked toward the basement stairs at the same time. The door, the one I had just slammed shut, was no slightly open. I locked it, I whispered, more to myself than to Sarah. Sarah's eyes widened and she took a step back reaching for the phone. What the hell is going on? The basement door opened a little more and then I saw it. The figure standing half way up the stairs. The mask or the face I still could not tell seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. It did not move. It was just there, watching us, silent and still. I grabbed Sarah's arm and pulled her behind the counter. "Call the police," I whispered. She nodded, fumbling with the phone, but before she could dial, the figure slowly backed into the shadows, disappearing into the basement again. The door closed with a groan behind it. We stayed there frozen, not knowing what to do. Or what felt like an eternity Sarah finally spoke. What was that? I don't know, but I'm not going back down there. We waited for what felt like hours, though in reality it was probably only a few minutes. Finally our manager Greg showed up to check on us. We told him what had happened but he laughed it off. It was probably some teenager trying to mess with you, he said shaking his head. And Sarah and I knew it was not. That was not a prank, it was not something we could easily explain away. There was someone, or something, in the basement that should not have been there. Greg eventually called the police as a precaution. Two officers arrived, searched the basement and found nothing. No signs of forced entry, no footprints, no evidence that anyone else had been there. They chalked it up to a Halloween prank that had gone too far. I quit the next day. Sarah lasted another week before leaving, too. Neither of us wanted to stick around to find out what else might happen. I still do not know who or what I saw in that basement. But I will never forget the way it watched us without saying a single word. And every October when the air starts to turn cold and Halloween decorations begin appearing again. You cannot help but remember that night. The figure in the white robe, and the fact that it never made the slightest sound. Story 16. I grew up in a small town where there was not much to do, especially when the weather started getting cold. But every October, as if by magic, a huge mountain of leaves would appear in old Mr. Keller's front yard, and it became the center of our autumn afternoons. That pile made of dry leaves fallen from the giant maple trees lining the street was our playground. As long as we did not destroy the rest of his lawn, old Keller never said anything. Sometimes we would see him standing at the window, silently watching us from behind those dusty curtains. At the time it did not seem strange to us, not at all. There were four of us who practically lived in that pile. Tommy, Ryan, Jess and me. We were not little kids anymore. We were in high school. Even so there was something about that pile of leaves that took us back to simpler times. After all, in our little town, simple was best, and it seemed like nothing could ruin it. It was a Saturday. day after noon, and there was that biting chill in the air that comes when fall starts edging toward winter. We had just finished a street football game, and our shirts were sticking to our bodies with sweat, and there it was, the gigantic hill of leaves waiting for us to dive in. Mr. Keller must have spent the whole morning raking them into that pile. It was taller than some of us, like a multicolored autumn mountain. The last one in loses, Tommy Shao did taking off toward the pile. Without thinking we all started running as fast as we could, the leaves exploded in every direction falling like confetti. We dove in head first, through handfuls at one another, and laughed until we ran out of breath. It was like being kids again, rolling around without a care in the world. We buried each other under the leaves, disappearing beneath that blanket of colors. And then burst out like monsters, roaring and tackling one another. We kept at it for almost an hour, until we were completely exhausted. When the sun started to set, the laughter faded, and we lay there among the leaves catching our breath. That kind of peaceful silence that only comes after hours of mindless fun. That was when I noticed it for the first time, a soft rustling. I thought it was the wind, but I realized it was not coming from the trees. It was coming from the pile itself. I sat up to look around. Jess was lying on her back, staring at the sky with her arm stretched out, and Tommy was poking Ryan with a stick, trying to start another fight. Do you hear that? I asked looking at Jess. Never want, that noise I said pointing at the pile of leaves, like something is moving inside it. Tommy chuckled, probably a squirrel or something, stopped being paranoid. I was not convinced. The crunching was getting louder, and it was definitely coming from the pile. From the center exactly. Jess narrowed her eyes worried. "Yeah, I hear it now, too." Ryan stood up, "Guys, they're leaves. You're exaggerating." But the noise did not stop, in fact it grew, and then to my horror the pile moved. It was not that small shifting motion the wind makes when it pushes an edge. No, it was as if something underneath was trying to force its way up. The colorful mound shifted and swayed like it was breathing. My stomach nodded and my mind jumped straight to the worst possible conclusion. "Okay, what the hell?" Tommy finally muttered, getting to his feet. Ryan still looked skeptical, but even he took a step back, never taking his eyes off the pile. "I'm telling you there's something in there," I said, moving a little farther away from the rustling leaves. Jess had already moved behind me. Tommy walked closer and nudged it with the tip of his foot. At first nothing happened, just a flutter of leaves settling back down. But suddenly the pile exploded. Leaves scattered in every direction as something burst up from underneath. All four of us screamed, a man stood there, hunched over. His clothes were torn and filthy. His hair was tangled with leaves. His face was smeared with dirt. His eyes wide and wild moved from one of us to the next, as if he did not understand what he was seeing. Or as if he did not care. For a few seconds no one moved or set a word. We were frozen, staring at the thing that had just come out of our leaf pile. Then the man spoke. "I have been watching you. I ran. I did not stop to think or look back. I simply ran as fast as my legs could carry me down the street. I heard Jess's footsteps right beside mine, but Tommy stayed behind. I heard him shout something, his voiceful of rage. What the hell are you doing?" I did not dare turn around. Ryan was the next one to run, and by the time we reached the end of the block he was already beside us. This was sobbing, clutching our sides, and I was shaking so badly I could barely stay on my feet. We huddled together trying to catch our breath too scared to speak. Finally I gathered the courage to look back toward Keller's yard. Tommy was still there, standing among the leaves face to face with the man. What is he doing, Ryan whispered? I shook my head. I don't know. He's just talking to him. We need to get him out of there. But before we could move the man took a step toward Tommy, leaning in until their faces were only inches apart. Even from far away I could see the tension in Tommy's body, the way he clenched his fists at his sides, and suddenly the man started laughing. He straightened up, turned his back on Tommy, and slowly began walking toward the edge of the yard. For a moment it seemed like everything was over, like that nightmare had been nothing more than a twisted prank. But just as he reached the bushes at the edge of the property, he stopped. He turned around and stared at us from across the street. We'll meet again. With that he disappeared into the shrubs, leaving all four of us trembling and confused. Tommy came back toward us. He's gone, he said, nothing more. Kennedy said to you, just asked. Tommy shrugged his eyes till fixed on the spot where the man had disappeared. Nothing important, he's just a creep. But there was something in his voice, a tone that made me think he was not telling us everything. I did not push him, none of us did. We were too grateful to be away from that guy. We spent the rest of the afternoon at my house trying to make sense of what had happened. Ryan suggested calling the police, but Tommy dismissed it immediately. And what are we going to say? That some crazy guy came out of a pile of leaves. They're going to laugh at us over the phone. Jess nodded, still shaking. I just want to forget it. So that was what we did. We never talked about it again, not for the rest of the weekend, and not in the weeks that followed, but something had changed. From that day on, we stopped playing in the leaves. We stopped going near Mr. Keller's yard completely. We found other things to do, other places to hang out. Even so, every time I passed Keller's house, I could not help but look at the pile of leaves. Imagining that I would see that man there again, hidden beneath the surface, waiting. He never came back, or at least not that we saw. Who was he? Why was he there? And most importantly, what was he planning to do? The memory of that day still haunts me even now. It started like any fall date, one of those perfect autumn afternoons when everything feels crisp, golden and endless. Nicky, my girlfriend, had found an old apple orchard online out in the countryside, far enough from the city that for a few hours we could be in our own little world. It was the kind of place that did not show up in brochures or on fancy websites. No elegant fruit-picking baskets, no cider tastings, just row after row of trees and a dirt road leading into the woods. We left late in the afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky, staining the fields with a beautiful orange light as we drove. Nicky had her feet up on the dashboard, her sweater pulled over her hands, and she was scrolling through her phone reading random facts about apples. It was adorable, very Nicky. She always found some small thing to get absorbed in, even on a simple outing. Did you know there are more than 7,500 types of apples she asked her face lighting up? That many, huh? Looks like we'll be busy. She laughed and we kept driving along the winding country roads. I was not exactly thrilled about going apple-picking, but it sounded like a good way to spend time together, away from the noise of the city. Other sides biting into a freshly picked apple did not sound too bad. As we got closer to the orchard, the landscape started to change. Everything became more remote, fewer houses, fewer signs of life. The road narrowed into a bumpy dirt path. There was an almost unsettling silence, the kind where you can hear the wind moving through the branches. I looked over at Nicky, she was still scrolling, unaware of how isolated we were becoming. The orchard's old wooden sign appeared suddenly around a bend in the road. "Whittaker's orchard house, 1957," it said. Though most of the paint was faded and the wood had been splintered by years of weather. Below it hung a smaller sign, swaying as if it had been nailed there in a hurry years ago. Closed for the season. I stopped beside the sign and turned off the engine. I didn't see anything online about it being closed, Nicky said. It doesn't look like anyone has been here in a long time. The orchard looked abandoned, rows of apple trees stretching as far as the eye could see. Their branches heavy with fruit, but no cars, no people, and no signs of recent activity. Next like we'll have the place to ourselves, I said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. I guess it won't hurt to take a look. Since we came all this way, she replied. We climbed over the low wooden fence separating the road from the orchard. The ground was soft, covered in a thick layer of fallen leaves that crunched with every step. The trees rose above us. Let's grab a couple of apples and head back, Nicky suggested. He was not the type to scare easily never had been, but there was something in her tone an edge that I could not quite identify. We started walking deeper in, leaving the fence on the road behind. There were apples everywhere, more than we could ever pick in one visit. Some on the ground, others hanging low, ready to be pulled from the branches. Nicky grabbed one from a nearby tree and tossed it to me. I took a bite with a satisfying crunch. Not bad, I muttered with my mouth full. Pretty good actually. Nicky smiled and picked one for herself, taking a bite as we kept moving through the rows. But as we walked the air grew heavy in a way it had not been before. The wind had stopped and the only sound was our footsteps crushing leaves. Are you getting that feeling, I said, not knowing how to explain it? I don't know, like we're not alone. Like what? Like someone is watching us. Or maybe it's just because we're in the middle of nowhere. It feels weird, doesn't it? She stopped for a moment, scanning the rows of trees ahead. Yeah, it's a little creepy, but it's probably just because the place is so empty. We continued picking a few more apples, but the feeling of being watched kept growing. I looked over my shoulder more than once, convinced I would catch someone hiding in the shadows between the trees. There was never anything. Only those rows still and silent. It was when we reached the farthest edge of the orchard that things became truly strange. Nicky had gone a couple of rows ahead, her hands full of apples. I stayed behind, crouching down to pick up one that had sunk into the leaves. And I heard a soft crunch behind me. At first I thought it was Nicky, but when I turned around, no one was there. I slowly stood up, sweeping my eyes across the trees. Everything remained silent. The only sounds were distant birds in the woods beyond. Then I heard it again. Another crunch at this time closer. They sounded like footsteps. Nicky, I called, turning toward where she had gone. I took a few steps forward, saying her name again, louder. Nicky, nothing. Only the sound of footsteps now faster. Panic started to rise as I realized those footsteps were not mine. I was not imagining it. Someone was moving between the trees. I spun around, searching desperately, and then I saw him. A man only a few rows away, still, watching. If hidden between the trunks, I could not make out his face, but there was something wrong about his posture, about the way he stood there, watching us. Nicky, I shouted louder at this time, my voice bouncing through the silent orchard. We have to leave now. She stepped out from behind the trees a few seconds later, confused. "What's wrong?" "There's someone here," I said, trying to stay calm while tension rose inside me. "He's standing right there." I pointed in the direction where I had seen him. His silhouette barely visible between the rows. Nicky narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on him. Before she could say anything, the man stepped forward. His hands raised as if to show he was not a threat. His face became visible, and he smiled. A disarming smile, like he was a friendly neighbor out for a walk. "Hey, sorry if I scared you. I didn't mean to sneak up on you." He did not look dangerous. A guy in a flannel shirt in jeans, his hands in his pockets approaching slowly. "Who are you?" I asked, keeping my distance. He smiled again. "Oh, just a local. I come around here sometimes to clear my head, you know. It's quiet. I saw you and thought I'd say hello." There was something about the way he looked at Nicky. His gaze lingered on her a couple of seconds too long. The smile held for just a moment too much. "We were just leaving," I said, quickly moving closer to her. The place is closed for the season. The man let out a little laugh as if I had said something funny. "Yeah, it's closed all right. Been closed for years," he said, without taking his eyes off Nicky. "Are you from around here?" Nicky answered before I could stop her. "No, we're just visiting." He nodded, closing the distance even more. That's nice. Visitors are appreciated. They make things more interesting around here. There was an edge in his tone now that had not been there before. Nicky seemed to catch it too and moved a little closer to me, crossing her arms. "What do you want?" I asked. The man smiled wavered for an instant before returning, though now it looked more like a mask than something genuine. Nothing in particular. I thought maybe you could use a hand getting out of here. His eyes went back to Nicky. Or maybe she needs some help. I instinctively stepped in front of Nicky. "We're fine, thanks." But he did not back away. He stood there smiling his hands still in his pockets as if he had all the time in the world. "I'll tell you what," he said, taking one slow step toward us. "I'll walk you to your car. It's easy to get lost out here at night." I squeezed Nicky's hand. We know the way. His smile disappeared completely. "Are you sure?" Nicky tugged on my sleeve. "Let's go," she whispered. We started walking quickly toward the fence. The man did not follow us right away. He stayed there watching us with that unsettling smile, like he was enjoying a game whose rules only he knew. I looked over my shoulder, and then I saw him start moving again, following us slowly. "Hey," I shouted, turning around. "What do you want?" He stopped. His smile twisted into something darker. I already told you. I thought she might need help. Nicky tightened her grip on my arm. "Let's go." We picked up the pace, practically jogging toward the fence. But the footsteps behind us sped up, too. It was not over. I could hear the crunch of leaves under his boots. I turned again and saw him break into a run straight toward Nicky. "Run," I shouted, grabbing Nicky's hand and pulling her toward the fence. We ran through the rows of trees branches scratching our arms. The man was close, too close. I could already hear his breathing as he gained on us. We reached the fence. Nicky climbed over as best she could. Her hands trembling as she dropped down on the other side. I followed immediately, but the man was right behind us. His hand stretched out as if to grab her. I did not think. I just reacted. I turned and kicked the fence, slamming the wooden boards into him. It knocked him back just enough for us to reach the car. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking until I got the doors open. Nicky jumped in, and I climbed in after her. Slamming the door shut just as the man reached the fence again. This time he did not try to climb over. He just stood there, with a cold empty look, staring directly at Nicky while I put the key in the ignition and floored it. We sped away. He did not chase us. He did not need to. The damage was already done. It was not until we were miles away back in the main road that Nicky whispered. Do you think he wanted to take me? I did not know what to say because I knew that was exactly what he wanted. We reported the incident to the local police, but nothing really came of it. Even so we were relieved to have gotten out unharmed. Story 18. I left the party later than I had planned. It was one of those Halloween gatherings where everyone had to dress up, eat candy, and maybe have a couple of drinks, I did not put much effort. effort into my costume, a black hoodie, a little face paint, and I called it a night. It was not really my scene, but I had promised a friend I would stop by. That promise kept me there long enough to watch almost everyone leave. By 1 a.m I decided I had had enough. It had been raining on and off all night, and when I stepped out of the house, the drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. My car was a couple of blocks away, so I jogged along the slippery pavement. The street was quiet, too quiet for Halloween. No trick or treaters, no late night walkers. Just me in the sound of my sneakers splashing through puddles. When I reached the car I sat there for a moment, letting the tapping of the rain against the windshield calm me. Felt good to be alone, away from the noise in the costumes. The thought of a warm bed was the only thing pushing me forward. I started the engine, turned on the windshield wipers, and pulled on to the empty road. I had a long drive home ahead of me. The rain made it hard to see, even with the wipers working at full speed. I was about 15 minutes from home when I saw her. At first she was barely a blurry figure at the side of the road, almost invisible through the curtain of water. The headlights lit up the outline of something. I slowed down, squinting through the rain-street glass, and then she appeared. A girl walking along the shoulder. No umbrella soaked from head to toe. She was not dressed for the weather at all. A light then dressed clinging to her body from the moisture, and long dark hair hanging in wet strands over her face. It was not just that she was in the middle of nowhere in the rain. What unsettled me was the way she walked, slowly as if she were in no hurry to get anywhere. Instinct took over. I pulled over. I lowered the window just a crack, enough to make myself heard. Are you okay? She stopped and turned toward me. The rain in the angle of the headlights cast shadows over her face, but I saw her hesitate. Do you need a ride? I asked, trying to sound reassuring. The rain was getting heavier, and the idea of leaving her there alone did not sit right with me. After a long pause she finally nodded. I unlocked the door and she slipped into the passenger seat without saying a word. The smell of rain filled the car as she sat down, dripping onto the upholstery. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She was staring straight ahead, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers pale and thin. Where you headed, I asked, pulling back onto the road. She stayed silent for a moment as if she had not heard me. After in a voice so soft I barely understood her, she said, just a little farther ahead. The answer did not exactly reassure me, but I kept driving. Okay, I'll drop you wherever you need. We rode in silence after that. I kept sneaking glances at her, trying to figure her out. The dim interior light did not help, but there was something unsettling about her presence. The dress completely wrong for the weather. Her hair matted and wet as if it had not been washed in days. And her stillness, she barely moved. Her head tilted slightly downward, lost in her thoughts. A few minutes later I broke the silence. Were you coming from a party or something? I wasn't expecting to see anyone walking around here at this hour. She did not answer right away and when she did was as if she were not answering the question at all. I've been walking for a long time. Nothing more. I felt a knot in my stomach. Something did not fit, but I did not know what. I decided not to press her. If she wanted to stay quiet, I was not going to push. We drove for a few more minutes and the rain seemed to get worse. The headlights barely cut through the downpour. The road felt even more isolated. No houses, no signs, only dark trees pressing in on both sides. Is it much farther? I asked trying to shake off the unease, gnawing at me. She lifted her head slightly and finally looked at me. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide open, but empty. As if she were looking through me and not at me. Keep going, she whispered. The rain beat harder and I could barely see the asphalt. I turned on the high beams hoping to gain some visibility and then I saw it. At the end of the road a cemetery. The site made my stomach drop. I had not passed through there in years and had forgotten about it, but there it was. The old graveyard, its rusted gate barely visible through the rain. My skin prickled. This is it, she said, almost inaudible beneath the downpour. I slowed down and stopped right in front of the gate. I turned toward her, not knowing what to say. Are you visiting someone? She did not answer. Instead she reached for the handle and got out of the car, vanishing into the storm before I could react. I watched her walk toward the gate. Her figure dissolving into the mist and rain until she disappeared completely. I stayed there for a moment watching her leave, debating whether I should follow her. Something inside me said no. A voice deep down whispered that I did not want to know what she was doing there, that I should not get involved. After a while I put the car in reverse, turned around and drove back down the road away from the cemetery. The rain eased a little as I drove and the dread began to fade. At least until I looked at the passenger seat, it was dry, completely dry. I tried to understand it. There was no trace of her, no wet seat, no water dripping onto the floor, nothing. As if she had never been there. I kept driving my mind racing. Who was she? Why was she walking toward the cemetery in the middle of the night? And more importantly was she even real. The road stretched dark and empty ahead of me, but deep down. I knew something about that night was not right, and that it would stay with me long after the rain stopped.