8: S1E08 – “Watching from the Woods” – The Simply Scary Podcast

The following program is a production of "Chilling a Detainment" and the creative team at "Chilling Tales" for Dark Knights, and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcast Network. Visit SimplySkaryPodcast.com to learn more about this and our other weekly storytelling programs, and become a patron today to show your support and get instant access to our extensive archive of downloadable ad-free tales of terror. Thank you for listening, and enjoy the show. Come one, come all to our matinee of madness, and partake in this theatre of the mind. Welcome to the Simply Scary Podcast. Season one, episode eight. I'm your master of ceremonies, G.N. Denelson. A dark time is upon us as winter's breath prepares to blow in the northern hemisphere, and we will soon be reaching the point where the cold will spoil all that is beautiful. I think it is quite nice myself to see him leaves have fallen from the trees, leaving only broken fingers to scratch at the sky. The night's harbor a chill, as cold as the grave. It brings to my mind my own bed of cold damp earth. Though the how doors is becoming more foreboding with each shortening day and the fun events under the summer sun, our fast becoming a memory, fear not, or rather be fearful for the giving of thanks is coming, so we should be in an appropriate and appreciative frame of mind. Firstly, these stories are effectively meant as a public service of sorts. By the time these unfortunate tales of outdoor adventure gone horribly wrong finish, you will be all the more thankful to be away from the wilderness for a while, and out of a place where we never quite know what may be, watching from the woods. Without delay, let us begin our first exploration into the maddening world of Mother Nature. Three young troublemakers want to get the most out of their time at camp quiet ridge. Their jaunt promises to entail tons of boring camp meetings, so instead they decide to investigate a house in the woods nearby. Legend holds that this house used to be the home of a rumoured mass murderer. Unspeakably memorable things were whispered to have been done with the bodies of the victim. Of course, our tough guys don't believe it, but they can't resist checking it out anyway. In doing so, they discover a truth much worse than the legends. Steven Schneer's performs Seth Paul's, Kemper Appreciation. Come on, Jim, you know it's gonna suck. I didn't nod, but I wanted to. Mark was right as usual. Most of camp had suck to be honest. Tom on the other hand tried once more to be the voice of reason, even as he tugged up his shorts and kicked it a rock at the ground. Guys, we're gonna get in trouble! Everyone else is going. Mark's side and adjusted his glasses. Just because everybody's doing it doesn't mean it's a good idea. Didn't you see that old movie where everyone on board the airplane eats the fish, and they all get sick? As we looked up at the big Kemper Appreciation night banner above the cafeteria door, I decided that in there we would ditch. Not like we'd miss much. A couple of songs, some paths on the back, the Hope Patchy Awards, which everyone was pretty sure were insensitive to somebody somewhere. In fact, the only good thing about camp at all was the reason we were ditching. Yeah, Mark, let's do it. My man. Mark slapped me on the back at big, wide, stupid grin on his face. Even if it turns out to be nothing special, at least we had an adventure. That's what Kemps all about, right? Camp Quiet Ridge had not been an adventure to say the least. Oh sure, me, Mark and Tom had always had fun at our old camp, Camp Bendix Point, but it had closed that year thanks to a license festation. Luckily, an old camp, refurbished and under new management, got a hold of the Bendix Point mailing list and suddenly every parent in the Tri-County area was thanking their lucky stars that their Rugrats had something to do that summer. The director Barry seemed like a nice enough guy, but after the first day rained out the archery competition and it was discovered that most of the canoes had been ruined by a squirrel, things went downhill from there. The nature hikes were slow and nobody saw any cool animals, the crafts weren't anything to write home about and well the counselors were all bored. To top it all off, during the week somebody had smashed up the windows in the cafeteria. They were never caught, but plywood had to be put up. Thankfully the lights inside worked. Most of the time. Seeing how his whole effort was going down the drain, Barry decided to cancel that upcoming Thursday's wallet making session to invite the whole place down to the lake to hear him tell ghost stories. It seemed like a long shot, but by that point, pretty much everyone in the place felt so bad for him that we all obliged. We didn't need to worry, he was good. Really good. Some of his stuff really did make our skin crawl, and a few times I looked out over the lake to the woods on the far side, imagining ghosts and goblins lurking out in the woods, watching us. The tale that got to me the most though was one he told about a family, which had camped out there many years ago that had mysteriously disappeared. A young man, his wife and their two children were warned that there was a murderer that lived out in the woods, but they didn't listen. The killer lived in an old house, built by a logger at the turn of the century, and they set up camp far too close to his home. Then, one night, while they slept, he came upon their tent, and with a few fell swoops of an axe, he killed every last one of them. He then feasted on the remains and buried them up in a shack. I recall Barry finishing his cautionary tale with a totally unnecessary warning. So don't go out and do the woods alone, because the killer might be out there. He could be anywhere, even here. Then he jumped at a couple of campers who screamed with delight. The story sounded like total crap. Ever since the slasher movies of the 80s, every camp has had some story about some murderer roaming the woods. At this point, they're practically mascots. Heck, even Betty's point had the legend of Old Charlie, a hermit who chased bad little kids with a chainsaw on hand, and a bag over his head. The thing is, there was a house. At least that's what Mark said. He had wandered off on Tuesday, while our bunkhouse was trying to put together a paper mache totem pole in the activity center, up in the hills, and he saw a small little house, barely bigger than a hut, hiding up a little ways in the woods. He didn't think much of it at the time, only when he heard the story did he put two and two together. Now, none of us believed for a second that we'd find a bunch of dead bodies up in that house. But the three of us were the curious type. Something like that was just too good to deal to pass up. It was away from camp, probably abandoned, and we figured we'd have a ton of fun digging through trash to see if we could find anything to take home. At that point, somebody's old junk was better than any of the crap we had made the whole week at camp. My leather wallet, for instance, looked more like a foot than anything I could keep money in. Besides, we wouldn't be gone all night. We'd be back before anyone called on a search, and if they did, so what? Considering our phone book sized permanent records at school, it's not like we weren't used to getting into trouble. Tom was the best among us, but he still did whatever we told him to do. I still don't know. I rolled my eyes. Tom, if you don't come with us, I'm putting a snake in your underwear before we go. There's no snakes in these woods. I'll buy one. Geez, alright. See, did whatever we said. Mark led the way. We had just reached the edge of the camp center when we heard whistling and saw Barry walking around outside the mess hall. We ducked low and watched him as he went over to the main doors, looking around as if to make sure everyone was safely in and pulled the latches on the door so they could shut. I did feel a little twang of guilt. I really couldn't help but feel bad for the guy. He kind of reminded me of what Tom might look like when we got older. A little chunky, balding a bit under that cap of his, but always smiling and friendly, even if a little gullible and naive. Still, the lure of adventure went out and Mark whispered for us to go. Barry wasn't paying any attention anyway. He was fumbling in his pocket for keys or something. We scurred it up into the hills back up to the activity center. It was slow going being uphill and we had to hold up for Tom once or twice as he wasn't exactly in the kind of shape required for most summer camps. Once we made it to the top, Mark pointed up into the pine trees. Up there, as soon as you break the tree line, you can see it. Probably take five minutes to get there. I smiled. Awesome, let's go. We waited a moment. Mark shifted his weight. You go first. You brought us here. You should go. I told you we shouldn't have come. We both turned to Tom. Shut up, Tom. And I will hooded. Great. We hadn't seen anything other than a few squirrels and somberds that year up to that point. Of course, the wildlife picked the worst possible time to show up, just as we started to get cold feet. I decided we wouldn't get anywhere unless someone stepped up and if that wasn't going to be Mark, it certainly wasn't going to be Tom either. All right, fine. I'll go first. Up until that point, we had relied on the Moonlight to lead us. But once we stepped into the trees, it got dark. Really dark. Like, locked in the closet by my older brother when I was six. I got out my little pen light from the pack of camping accessories. My parents got me on my first day of camp and pointed it up the hill, shining it around looking for the house. It took a little while to find it, but once my being landed on it, there was no mistaking it. It looked like a place a logger would have built, with mostly wind walls, but somebody who was clearly not a logger had added a crummy side room onto the place. At one time or another, it appeared to have been painted white, and its windows were busted out. It's door hung loosely on its hinges. I remember thinking at the time that it was way more awesome than camper appreciation night. I climbed up with Mark following closely behind and Tom stumbling his way after the both of us until we reached the door and I pushed it open. Inside, the place was a rack. Busted, useless furniture filled nearly every corner. Old tin cans rusted and forgotten, covered a large portion of the floor. The mess continued on through an open doorway to an old kitchen, with a busted gas stove and an old latching refrigerator. The type mothers always say never to play with. There had been no power to them, obviously, but it was still a wonderland of garbage to sift through. And that's when I saw something metallic, gleaming, partially obscured by the dirt and leaves littering the kitchen floor. I brushed the remaining dirt away and found a handle. "Holy crap, guys! Look!" Tom came over first and his eyes widened. "Is that?" I nodded and pulled it hard. A square of the floor rose up, revealing a small, dirty crawl space, and pure darkness beyond. Tom gasped. "You think there's, of course not, there's no dead bodies under here. But even I couldn't believe my own words. What if some cycle really had been living up in these woods? And he buried some bodies in here. It certainly looked possible." Mark, Mark, come over here and I looked behind me and saw that Mark was still in the main room, bent over and thoroughly examining something. He was turning it over in his hands. I left the tractor open and went over to see what he was doing. "What is that?" When Mark looked up at me, his pale, shaken expression was enough to put me illidies. But then I saw the source of his concern for myself. In his hands was a pair of binoculars. Modern ones. Only slightly scuffed and dirty, where hands had been touching them. "Where did you find those?" Mark pointed below the broken window. I had overlooked that pile while investigating the kitchen, but now had our full attention. And it was obvious in an instant that the things we were seeing shouldn't have been in that house. We saw cans that were not only in pristine condition, but sealed. Beside a pile of old, tattered blankets was a modern sleeping bag. I looked out the window. Most of the outside was unobservable in the darkness, but there was a small spot where the moonlight made it possible to get a glimpse of our surroundings. Taking the binoculars from Mark? I looked out at that point. It wasn't much, but I could see the center of camp and the cafeteria from there. It was far off, but, clear enough that in the daytime, I would have been able to see a lot. Then something moved in front of the light. I lowered the binoculars and I saw a shape amidst the blackness. It's outlined visible thanks to a small light it was carrying, which was pointed to the ground. It looked a bit like a flashlight being though it was covered, presumably to keep others from seeing it. For several moments, I stared trance like at the wandering stranger, until the sudden sound of approaching footsteps startled me, breaking the silence. "Oh, crap!" I whispered, dropping the binoculars. I grabbed Mark. "Someone's coming!" Mark froze. His earlier resolve to ditch camp seemingly gone. I grabbed his arm and looked for a rear exit. There wasn't one. There was no door out to the back, and all the windows faced to the front. Apparently, loggers were not known for following fire escape standards. "Guys, here!" Tom waved to the trap door. I had my second thoughts to be sure. The crawlspace wasn't exactly inviting, but I wasn't weighing many options. Whoever, or whatever, was coming towards us was definitely not a camp counselor. And my mind conjured up nothing but images of chainsaws, knives, and the thought of all the skinned and hanging from the rooftop flooded my mind. With those images flashing through my head, we really had no choice. I pulled Mark towards the trap door and dropped in. Tom came in after us and pulled it shut. It was quite upstairs for a few moments. It was dry and dusty, and I could feel cobwebs all over. I wasn't sure if there were spiders still living in them, but I still felt like prickles going up and down my skin. The front door opened. We held our breath as footsteps trumped back and forth in the next room, followed by a short, sharp yell. There was a thug sound, and a can went scurrying across the floor. "Oh no!" I thought. He must have noticed his stuff was touched through the darkness Tom reached for me and grabbed me by the shoulder, squeezing tightly. Normally I would have elbled him as hard as possible, but right then I didn't mind in the least. The footsteps shuffled around a little, and we watched in horror as the beam of the covered light danced through the gaps in the floorboards, until it last the intruder stopped in the kitchen. Directly over the spot where we were hiding. The light shone over the trapdoor, the same trapdoor we had recently unearthed. As the light passed over the three of us, we tried to duck down as low as we could, moving as little as possible and holding our breath. But in a moment, the light caught his face, and I saw who had been living in the house. It was a man older than my dad, maybe in his fifties, if I could even guess. He was dirty, with brown streaks smudging his face. But while I normally imagine homeless guys that had long beards, crazy unkempt hair, and even crazier eyes, this man only had a few days worth of stubble and short hair with a few flecks of gray. His eyes, though, were constantly moving, as if something was always darting around in front of them. They were also wide, practically bulging out of his head, like he was genuinely scared that something was in the room with him. And then he shone the light right between the boards. The brightness of the beam forced me to blink and avert my gaze as my pupils dilated abruptly. And in that moment, his eyes stopped darting around. Tom and Mark didn't move, didn't breathe even. But none of that helped. When I saw the smile, slowly start to cross the man's face. I waited for him to fling open the trapdoor and yank us all out and tie us up, ready to put us on a spit. But instead, he went over and grabbed the stove, and with a horrible squealing sound, he positioned it over the top of the trapdoor. Once the dragging stopped, the man trudged into the other room, leaving us alone in the dark. Tom began whimpering. Meanwhile, I put my eyes close to the floorboards as I could, and I stared in silence, courtesy of what little light the old man's dim flashlight offered. I watched him rummage through his pile of things. A moment later, he found what he was searching for, a long object with one end larger and fatter than the other. When he hoisted his light again, I thought it was an axe. My blood stopped circulating. A darkness greater than that of the crawlspace seemed to envelop me, and the world appeared to swirl. I awoke a short time later to the sight of Tom before me, slapping me repeatedly. "Jum, wake up, you fainted!" I sat up. "What? What happened?" I heard something click and saw my pen light came on. Tom swung it under his face. "He left. I don't know where he went, but he's not here." I rubbed my face and noticed my hands were shaking. We weren't dead. Not yet, anyway. "Where's Mark?" Tom shone the light on Mark, who was bald up and rocking back and forth. On the one hand, I didn't blame him for freaking out. But I did want to crawl over and slap him for getting us into this. I pushed at the trap door, but the stove now blocking our way had to weigh more than the three of us combined. We weren't getting out that way. "So what now?" Tom shook his head. "I don't know. There's got to be something. Here, take the light and look." The crawlspace was incredibly gross. No matter where I directed the beam of light, I discovered old cobwebs debris, and even the bones of squirrels and rats that had gotten stuck over the years. A sight that didn't exactly boost my confidence. There were no spaces around the edge we could crawl through. Where there wasn't raw earth, there was stone foundation. If we wanted to dig our way out, we have a very hard time doing it. I turned my attention to the floor above us. In certain places, the dirt was so thick that it completely blocked our view of the house above. Regardless, I tested each and every one of the boards I could reach. It was near the old refrigerator, near the rear of the space where I found our first and only possible means of escape. Perhaps the ceiling had leaked at one time, but for whatever reason the wood there was really soft, and when I scraped it with my fingernail, bits of it flaked off. "Get over here!" I called out. Tom came right away, but Mark had to be coaxed. I told everyone we needed to get on our backs and kick as hard as we could. Tom and Mark agreed to give it a try, as we had no other options. The first collective kick merely shook the floor, but the second strike elicited allowed crunching noise as part of the floor splintered. I would have jumped for joy if I had been able to. A third followed, producing more cracks and then a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth. Ten kicks later, the floorboards were in their death throws, and with a final push outwards and upwards, they finally gave way. I wasted no time. I clambered up through the hole, wholly unconcerned about splinters and scrapes. I didn't care. We were free, and cuts were the least of our worries. I helped Tom and Mark out, and we bolted out the front door with abandon. We took off down the hill, yelling and screaming our heads off, hoping someone from Camp would hear us. As we entered the campgrounds and ran past the nurse's station, our collective instincts kicked in and we came to a halt and stood silently. Something was wrong. Looking around, we noticed that the camp was only barely lit. No one had come to help us, or even stepped out of a building to see what all the noise was about. The camp was deserted. The only place that was still lit was the cafeteria. We ran up to it and tried the front door. It didn't budge, but something on it rattled. In my haste to try and get in, I had failed to notice the large metal chain, visible in the moonlight, that had been padlocked into place around the handles. We went door to door and found the exact same thing over and over again, chains and padlocks. Only the final door was accessible. It had obviously been secured like the others at some point, but someone must have really wanted to get in. What remained of its chains was in pieces and on the ground. I hesitated before opening the door. We found ourselves in a back hall that led to several different doors. The closest opened into the kitchen. Again, empty, and again, not what we should have seen on camper appreciation night. The lights were on though and it felt safer than the back hallway. The only other exit from the kitchen was through the double doors that led into the cafeteria itself. We listened intensely for a moment, but heard nothing to suggest we had company. I pushed against the doors. Something was blocking them, but whatever the obstruction was, it began to give way as I applied more pressure. I mustered all the strength I had and shoved as hard as I could. And to this day, I wish I had left that door shut. The scene before me was one that will stay with me for the rest of my life. The hall was soaked with blood from top to bottom, bodies lay at grotesque angles covering the entire floor. We found all of the tables overturned and splintered. There were deep gashes in the plywood window frames, accompanied by streaks of blood and fragments of broken fingernails. Limbs dangled from the rafters. It was an absolute slaughterhouse. The whole camp must have been in there. Every last man, woman, child and board teenage counselor, all in pieces, pieces with a flesh ripped right off of their bones. I scrambled backwards and shut the door. That was when we heard the scream, the unholy, awful scream. It came from the back hallway. I ran towards it. Everything told me to run away, but a small part of me needed an explanation for the carnage I had just seen. Tom and Mark, wide eyed and trembling, stood and stared as I sprinted in the direction of the sound. I thought I heard them calling out to me, demanding I come back. I didn't listen. The sound had come from the head office. I inked open the door and there, pushing me back into the hallway, was the hobo. He held me with his right hand and he looked me right in the eyes. I looked away and realized why he wasn't using his left hand. His whole left arm was gone, raggedly torn away. His grip loosened and he collapsed on the floor. I then heard noises coming from the office, a series of wheezing, gurgling grunts. I was drawn forward. I couldn't resist even if I had wanted to. I felt as if the nightmare wouldn't end until I knew what was happening and who was responsible. Something round and pulsating poked up from behind the main desk. I went around it and saw the shape was the stretch stomach of some. thing. I tried to get a good look at its face but couldn't see much due to the fact that an ax had been buried deep within it. It appeared to be melting, puddling like a candle into carpeting and leaving behind a rotten stench. Holes began to appear and it's impossibly large stomach and I could see fingers, shoes. It had eaten everyone. The whole camp. Everyone but the three of us. No, not it. Him. Even without seeing its face, I recognized the worn baseball cap of berry still perched on its head. The rest was a blur. Tom called the police. They came. They comforted us as best they could. What had remained of berry was gone, leaving behind only the cannibalized remains of the people he'd failed to fully digest. I led the police to the hut where the now dead man with the ax had come from. They ran prints on his remaining arm. They blamed him for all the deaths. Everyone's parents were informed. Our own parents hugged us tight, wailing and weeping tears of joy that we had not been among the victims. The three of us, Tom Mark and I, never went to camp again. Though ironically, I ended up seeing a lot of counselors. The police did find a match for the fingerprints. Forty years ago, a 12-year-old boy by the name of Jeremiah had been found in the woods, unable to speak. No one knew what happened to his family. From what the police could gather, they had all gone camping near quiet ridge. But their campsite was found empty. As the boy wouldn't speak to anyone, let alone testify, the authorities assumed the worst. However, no bodies or evidence of foul play was ever found. Jeremiah spent years in halfway homes never saying a word to anyone. He wasn't violin or mean-spirited, but he had never operated at a level that suggested he could take care of himself, and ultimately he was confined to the new bridge retreat facility. He'd been there ever since, until, believe it or not, the same Wednesday that my friends and I were at camp quiet ridge. That night, without warning and to the dismay of his caretakers, he left. A crumpled flyer for the camp, which had been hastily torn from a bolt-in-board in the visitor's area, was later found in his room. I saw the flyer. It had a picture of Barry's smiling face on it. I know, because the same one had been sent to our house. When police showed us other pictures of Barry, they looked nothing like the Barry we knew. We had never known the real Barry at all. Just whatever had pretended to be him all that time. My guess is that whatever was responsible for the massacre at camp had dealt with Barry just before camp quiet ridge opened, and no one was the wiser. Suddenly the broken canoes, the broken and boarded up windows, the warning urging us to never leave campgrounds made sense. The events of camper appreciation night hadn't been done on a whim. They'd been planned for some time. I could only imagine what Jeremiah had gone through, keeping his knowledge of the beast a secret for 40 years. Whatever his reasons for keeping quiet until the end, I now have my own secrets, and I intend to keep mine. The last remaining knowledge of what Barry truly was will be buried with me someday. But what exactly he was, I still don't know. I don't want to know. And thanks to Jeremiah, who sacrificed himself in his efforts to destroy it and save our lives, I hope I never will. In the end, the man we had figured for a crazed madman trying to kill us was, in fact, an unlikely hero, keeping us safe in his own strange way. More ironically, Tom Mark and I, who as kids couldn't keep out of trouble, are alive today because we disobeyed camp rules. If there's a moral in this, I don't know what it is. It doesn't seem like we should have survived what became known as the massacre at Quiet Ridge. I still have nightmares. Marks are the worst. Tom thankfully is doing okay. In fact, ever since then, we let him make most of the decisions now. Essentially, we've all recovered as much as one can, I suppose. And we've moved on. Graduated, gotten jobs, settled down and raised families. We should consider ourselves lucky. But there is one lingering thought that still remains. I always think back to that day, to what Barry really was, and can't help but wonder if he was the only one of his kind. I hope and pray that there were no others. I'm not about to go on some adventure to find out. I'm no hero. These days, I try to stay as far away from the woods as possible. This means that all of you and your children are on your own. If you're going to camp or sending your kids to one, and you hear rumor of a camper appreciation night, watch out. You may find that the camp director's idea of appreciation is far, far different than your own. Was Barry the last of his kind? Well, listeners, it seems like the only way to find out is to go camping yourself. But don't wander off. If you do, you could become the victim of some legend yourself. And remain only as a memory trapped in the quiet whispers of what happened. Speaking of whispers, we have some important information to whisper in your ear. When we return, we will hear a safety warning from a park ranger. A warning the park management would rather not give. The smell of rot and death was all around them. Snapping jaws and misshapen claws digging into their hut. When they opened their eyes, they saw how their bodies had changed overnight into something grotesque. Laurel and Erosa, two fairy sisters, woke up to the sound of screaming. They desperately fled attacks by insane abominations that had once been their friends and family. Soon, they learned their only chance was to put on fragile magical disguises and steal enough of the magical material to lift the curse. Even as they learned of this, soldiers were preparing to exterminate the sisters and all their cursed neighbors. Not only would Laurel and Erosa have to defy death at the fangs and talons of monsters and the soldiers they needed to fool. Hardest of all, they'd have to get along. Forest, a tale of magic, gone wrong. Get your copy from Amazon today. For our next story in this episode, we offer you a chance to embark on an excursion into a peaceful refuge of wilderness set aside for conservation. Your guide will be a park ranger who takes us through his experience of investigating a campsite on a cold winter's night. The ominous signs of violence that he finds are only the beginning events of a horrendous curse that has befallen his park. Steve Taylor performs Jeff Hartons, leave your flashlights at home. I've been a national park ranger for close to two decades. Protocols have changed a lot in that time. I write this just to try to keep people safe for the next time you venture to the big outdoors. Let me tell you about the last park I worked. I can't be too specific about the location for my job's sake. Anyway, we had clusters of campsites with that we rotated annually. The idea was to prevent one group from getting overused and worn down, but nature regrow a little bit. The winter had just passed, and our big summer season was a few months away. I was sent out to check the suitability of the campsites to decide which ones need time to recover and which ones we can open up. Winners here are cold. Not too many people camp during the winter, aside from rugged masochists, and boy scout troops led by people who believe they are rugged masochists. I didn't expect to find much out of the ordinary. The first sight was cleared and ready to go. As I'm trekking to the next site, I see what it looks like some debris and junk down a ways in a river valley. Looks like some jackasses set up an unauthorized camp down there. Usually when that happens, they leave garbage and smoldering fires. This is going to be a pain to clear up. I approach seeing the tail-tailed wreckage of what must have been one hell of a party. Crap scattered everywhere. Skeletons of tents still raised up. And blood. I stop and time stops with me. Pools of blood are spread out along the ground. Next to signs of something heavy being dragged into the brush. I pull my radio off my belt and pause. I then pull my Glock 22 out of my holster and rack one round. I'm a certified law enforcement officer, but I haven't had to use my gun in a long time. I quickly look around for any movement. Then get on my radio and call in for backup. While I wait, I listen. Silence. Silence in nature isn't good. Pray get quiet when they sense a predator. I hope all the birds are being still in my account. I edge forward slowly, looking for anyone or anything. A shredded plastic cooler. The tent that has been annihilated with more blood splashed on the walls and inside. And people died here. I know it. You can't lose that much blood and just walk off. But no people. Shreds of clothes and a little viscera drawing all the damn flies here, but no people. I've seen bears rummage through camps and destroy anything that looked edible. There are wild hogs here that cut trails through the deep brush and are even more dangerous than the bears, but this isn't either of them. The devastation here is just too much. Some scourge of guide came through here and just ripped everything to pieces. Finally, backup arrives and I'm sent to report to HQ. They even brought medics out here. I don't know why there's no one here to save. One of the new recruits vomits at the scene. I'm glad to get the hell out of here. I get back in HQ as a buzz. Only four people work there, but calls are ringing printers printing in the air feels electrified. The manager sees me and signals me to his office. He's pale. Ashen looking. Bloodshot eyes. I sit down by his desk and he goes to the door and locks it. I've never seen him lock that door. He asks me what I saw. I tell him uninterrupted. He looks even paler afterward and his hands trumple a bit. There's a very long pause and I expect more questions. He doesn't ask any. I leave then hear the door lock behind me. After a few minutes, I hear him call someone up in a long, low conversation ensues. I never see him again. Word comes down from on high. We're assigned a new manager, one who excels at what he calls "crysees." His first order of business, a controlled burn of the unauthorized camp and the site's closest to it. I'm not arguing. I watch the smoke rise in the distance and pray that's the end of it. New orders relocate the existing campsites closer to HQ. Before we do that, we stake out a few trail cameras at the new locations just to make sure it's not in the middle of a nesting ground. We put up a few cameras pointed at the hog trails through the brush for good measure. A couple of days pass and we go out to collect footage. The new manager takes it all and starts studying it in his office. A couple of hours into reviewing he freaks out. Start screaming and yelling gets on the phone calling up the line spitting more obscenities. He spends the rest of the day and that night in the office calling up specialists and planners. Next morning, I show up for a meeting. Manager doesn't look like he slept. Massive changes of food. He lays out our new plans including massively bright lamp posts circling the park border, as well as floodlights around the ranger station. Camp sites need to be moved even closer in, clear lines of sight from the light if possible. I butt in, telling him that defeats the point of going camping. If you're just going on a short walk through the grass and setting up so close you can see the parking light. He tells me to shut up that it's just the start. The park now closes at sundown, sharp. Also, we're now required to have a long gun on our person in all times. Now it isn't uncommon for rangers to carry an AR-15 or a rimmington-870 shotgun going out in the deep woods. There are wild and rabid animals out there. The real concern are massive hot growers. These are your chilled neighbor who hides a few plants behind the tomatoes. They run the spectrum from large-scale suppliers who like their privacy and dislike law enforcement to anti-government crazies who think we have no right over them. The true patriots. Both groups have a few common points. They tend to be well-armed, they do not like lawmen and they won't shy away from taking a pot shot at some dumb poor ranger who finds himself in their fields. Keep in mind, alien-ness. Mr. I fought Al Capone in one, got scared off busting up Appalachian moonshiners because they constantly snipe that in the foothills. They shoot to kill. Those are the reasons we keep the big guns around, not routine patrols. I drew the short straw and got the overnight shift. Manager tells me more changes to protocol will be listed when I return. Overnight used to be easy. Monitor the radios. Bust up the parties if needed. Check for poachers if they're operating nearby. Make sure the forest doesn't burn down. I clock in and per instructions go to the gun cage. My things have changed. Our shotguns have new rifle barrels so they can handle the solid slugs we've been issued. That's the kind of firepower you want to take down a charging bear. God forbid you ever need it. The AR-15s have been stepped up too. The old 15 round magazines have been replaced by 30 round ones. Someone even snuck us in hollow point rounds. Makes no damn sense. Shooting in the woods you need full metal jacket ammo so the rounds don't go wild when they touch a twig. Hollow points just exist to do more tissue damage. This is ridiculous. This is overkill. We're not a war zone. We don't need this firepower. Next to the radio there are new instructions. Now we're not allowed to directly respond to emergency calls. We can reply, figure out what the issue is. Then we report to a new phone number. I don't recognize. Time passes slowly tonight. I'm not even allowed to leave the building until sun up. A few uneventful nights pass. The new flood lights and lamp posts are frying my eyes. So bright out there a blind man could see. A week later some kids roll into the light. They grab their backpacks and start hiking up the ridge. I know what they're up to. No one has booked the campsite that night. Cheap youngins going on a camp out that will be a raging party. I wait for the sun to go down. Confirming they're not out for a day hike. I call my manager to report. He instructs me to call the new number. I report up to them now. A curt voice answers the phone. He asks my park then pauses. He asks the issue. A bunch of kids on another authorized site. Do I go break it up? I can see their campfire out the ridge right now. No. Do not leave the building. Do not attempt communication. That is all. Report if there are any developments. Right after daybreak the manager rides up. It's real early. Have you seen them? Did they leave? No. Cars still there. Let them rest. They're probably all hung over. He curses, non-stop. He then goes inside to make a call. I'm outside looking up the ridge when he exits the station. One AR-15 in his hand. Another one strapped across his back. Glock on his hip. He marches single-mindedly toward his car. I try to ask him what in God's name he's doing but he isn't listening or responding. He takes a jerry can of gasoline from his car and marches up the ridge. I yell after him. To no reply. I consider following him. That doesn't seem like a good idea. I go back inside and call the number. The same Kurt voice. The same direct questions. Yeah the manager went up to that campsite. Armed to the teeth and carrying gasoline. What the hell do I do? Stay there. Do not interfere. Back up is inbound. About that time I start to see smoke wafting off the ridge. Two vans ride into the lot of screaming speed. Doesn't men heavily armed and armored exit quickly. I go out to check. Hey who are you guys? What's going on? The men are all lined up with that impeccable military precision. One of them, a commander, I assume exits the vehicle last. He says. Which direction did he go? I mean he's up there. I point at the increasing smoke. The men fan out and start jogging up the ridge. I hear rifles cocking as they leave. I try to shout after them but no response. I look at the fans. They came in large nondescript. They just say DOI response team on the side. Half an hour later they return, dragging the manager with them. He is bound in zip ties. He screams. I did what needed to be done. Trust me. It's worse than they thought. We can't stop this. Peridol! They throw him in the back and sedate him. Commander approaches me. My neck hairs bristle and cold fear. I need to see the office, all computers and anything with a hard drive is coming with me. He mentioned videotapes. I need those two. I unlock the doors and they ransack the place. Everything gets taken. Printed reports from the last few years disappear into those vans. The videotapes get bagged up and held by the commander himself. And he studies the gun cage. Cute. You're out of your league. And he scoffs. Finally they found everything they looked for. The commander tells me. Call the number. Tell them it's contained. You need a new superior. Also, don't talk about this to anyone. They leave. And just on cue, the fire brigade and a few news vans show up. The fires contain the news reports say. Rumors of missing campers are unsubstantiated at this time. Still, the rumors alone are enough to scare off this season's campers. Quick change up of managers is chalked up to bureaucracy. The press dies down after a week or two. The new managers very good at dealing with them. Thankfully, with no new campers and are now even shorter open hours, we can get more work done around here. Rebuilding the station took some time and we just set up the new campsites. They're practically spitten distance from the station. Nothing dramatic happens for a few days. Then on a whim, the manager tells us to set up some campers around the station and the campsites. There's usually so much human activity around here. All you see are some raccoons, maybe the rare hungry bear, but we humor him and set them up all around. Couple of days pass, we collect the footage. I play poker with one of the rookies while the manager watches hours of footage of an empty but brilliantly illuminated parking light. Then he gets to the footage around the station. Screams come from the office. We barge in and he's stamping on the camera hard drives, jibring things I can't understand along the lines of. He barks at us to leave. Later he makes a call. Rookie goes up to the door and listens in. Rookie comes back reporting. Yeah, he's demanding a transfer, says a lie to him. Something about they didn't do their jobs properly. He's not prepared or equipped here. Then I just heard the phone click and some sobbing. Hours later, my manager exits the office. His shoulders are slumped, defeated. We cut our hours even further, practically open on weekends only. We'll have a full staff ready those days, but a skeleton crew the rest of the time. Campers are required to check into one of the closest sites. No campsite and they're told to leave. We are not authorized to leave the station after dark under any circumstances. In an emergency, do not call 911, call the number, and do exactly what they say. We draw straws for who gets overnight shifts. Why don't we need to stay overnight if we can't do anything is beyond me? I asked the manager about it and he just said, that standard protocol is to have someone on hand to report any irregularities overnight. I have to work my overnight shift. I keep my phone close, the number dialed in, ready if I need to call. It is a bad night. I just wind up pacing around with my shotgun, glancing into the bright flood lights trying to see what's past them. I hear crickets and it relaxes me. Pray as quiet when predators are around. It was a long night. The next night my manager draws the short straw. He seems resigned. In the end, we all have to take a turn. He brings the brightest damn tactical flashlight I've ever seen. Said he bought it just because he's afraid of the dark. He isn't really. He's afraid of the things in the dark. I get a phone call at 3 a.m. It's him. Get over here now and bring guns. What? You have a damn arsenal. No! All I swear to God has screwed up. Oh man, I think they're attracted to the light. I called that number and all I said was backup and beer in the morning. God damn damn damn. I hear the piercings to Cato of gunshots. Pause. More gunshots. Screaming. Scuffling. The line goes dead. I called the number. A new, terse voice answers. Look, I work in **** Park. I just got off the phone with ****. I just spoke with ****. What can you report? Something bad's happened. That's serious. I heard gunshots. We will have backup there as soon as possible. Did he see anything else? Yeah, he said he thought they were attracted to the light. Doesn't make sense to me. Interesting. Thank you for your report. Park is now closed. You will be reassigned. Goodbye. Officially, the park was closed to be scheduled for a controlled burn. Let the old trees die and make room for new ones. There was nothing in the official report about what happened to the manager on duty. The public understanding was, bureaucracies need to be shaken up on occasion. No one asked any more questions. I get transferred to a new park halfway across the country. Change the scenery and beautiful. I get some odd rules here too. Don't go far after dark and don't carry a flashlight. I'm concerned about why. Why can't you use a flashlight at night when you need one? They won't tell me. Be safe everyone. So, it turns out that the park service isn't just keeping us in the dark about strange disappearances in our national parks because they are like to be secretive and want us uncertain and unaware. It may be because they know some of you more. Curious sold won't be able to overcome your hunger for answers. And apparently, you won't be able to overcome the answers hunger for you either. But don't go away yet. Don't you dare. After a final message, we have some exciting news about upcoming simply scary podcast projects and rewards for you, our loyal listeners. Greetings listeners, it's Jesse Kornat, producer of the Simply Scary Podcast. I wanted to take a minute to remind you to hit that subscribe button below to stay up to date on our show and other chilling tales for dark nights, productions and posts, including news about our newest project, where we are going to bring new stories to life and ghastly animation. Subscribe to learn more over the next month on how you can join our coming Kickstarter campaign to fund up to a whole seasons worth of storylines to visualize. You can also walk away with some hefty prizes for your participation. Chilling Tales for Darknights YouTube is where you will get all the upcoming news, brand new episodes of the Simply Scary Podcast and other releases as they debut. You can also get more information on today's stories, authors and talents along with other information regarding our show at simplyscarypodcast.com. Speaking of, let's get back to the show. This episode's announcements are positively filled with juicy morsels, so it's good you stuck around. If you enjoyed our show, be ready for more simply, more often, as we prepare for an extended release schedule of our show. So you will be able to enjoy and share our truly heart-stopping experience twice a week, and if you show your support, we plan to show you more horror than you can shake a denuded bonert. So hit that subscribe button below to get the Simply Scary Podcast and all Chilling Tales for Darknights posting updates when they happen. We are also gathering support for Simply Scary to move to the next step of development for our most exciting project yet, adapting our unique brand of story telling into a visual series. This next project will propel our stories into a new realm of terror that will surely assault your delicate sensibilities. As soon to come will be a hint of what we have envisioned, so stay tuned in. The best way is to become a patron on simplyscarypodcast.com and to follow the Simply Scary Podcast on Twitter at Simply Scary Show to keep up to date on how you can make this nightmare a reality. You can show your support by visiting Chilling Tales for Darknights.com forward slash tour or going to SimplyScaryPodcast.com and click Patrons at the top of the page. Your support will guarantee we are able to fund further episodes of this show and future projects. When you become a patron you have first access to our terrifying experiences in the highest quality downloads possible and you get never before released goodies you won't find anywhere else along with updates on all our things Simply Chilling. Speaking of Simply Chilling, explore the author of Van Favorite Story, My Last Camping Trip and illustrious co-writer of our show Dustin Koski's latest book co-authored with his brother Adam Koski Thorest, a tale of magic gone wrong. Enjoy this fantasy adventure that we are sure will take you to places you have never dreamed of. You can find it on Amazon today. Be sure to check out Dustin's info on the about page at SimplyScaryPodcast.com for more details. Now for the moment you've all been waiting for, our weekly iTunes review reading to provide a grand gift to one of you Ghoulish Goblins out there who took the time to provide us useful feedback on our iTunes page. This episode's winner is. entertaining. Short, sweet and to the point Geekru, thank you for submitting that review to the Simply ScaryPodcast on iTunes. Geekru 3, we need you to take a screenshot of your account page and to email it to us at [email protected] to claim your prize. Or you other iTunes commenters, take heart. You never know whose review is up next for the chopping block. Finally, any horror authors out there that want their work adapted into Simply Scary format audiobooks should contact us at [email protected] for details on how we can help you terrify brand new audiences. If you think your work is simply scary enough to be on our show, send your neatly formatted story to SimplyScaryPodcast.com/submitutstory and see if you can give us and our listeners a downright good scare. I am your host, GM Dandelson, thanking you for joining us for this episode. Remember listeners, when you go out into the great outdoors, take only pictures and leave no fingerprints and clean up your campsite before you leave. We wouldn't want them to know you were there. We will see you next time. When we once again show you, there is nothing simple about being scared, unless it is the Simply ScaryPodcast. This is Executive Producer Jesse Cornett. If you like what you hear, be sure to check out more from these authors at SimplyScaryPodcast.com. There you can find all information regarding the show and the stories appearing here in our podcast. The Simply ScaryPodcast is a production of chilling entertainment. The showcase is written by Jesse Cornett and Dustin Kosky and produced by Jesse Cornett. The host of the Simply ScaryPodcast is GM Dandelson, original music during the show by Jesse Cornett. This broadcast was directed and created by Craig Groeschek. Be sure to look for the Simply ScaryPodcast on iTunes and if you like the show, leave us a five-star review. Comments or questions, email us at contact at SimplyScaryPodcast.com and check our website for more information. While you're there, consider clicking on the Patreon's link at the top of the page to help support our show. Copyright chilling entertainment LLC 2016. Thanks for listening. [Music] [Music]