Hunts On Outfitting Podcast

From Ship-Trap Island To Real-Life Close Calls: Hunting Tales That Chill

• Kenneth Marr • Season 2 • Episode 90

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The woods have a way of staring back. We open with a thank-you to our behind-the-scenes pro, Brodie, then head straight into a late-Halloween run of stories that test nerves and judgment—starting with a fresh reading of The Most Dangerous Game and rolling into true hunts that veer into nightmare territory.

Connell’s classic isn’t just literature; it’s a field lesson in staying rational when adrenaline surges. We break down how a hunter under pressure slows time: false trails, improvised traps, terrain you use instead of fight. That thinking echoes into the modern stories—a Newfoundland moose that appears stone dead until it doesn’t, a Michigan dusk sprint chased by a scream you can’t classify, and a Kentucky porch call that pulls eyeshine to fifteen feet with no sound until retreat. Each account lands with practical takeaways: confirm before approach, keep your rifle in hand, plan your exit in daylight, and respect that silence can be a sign, not a comfort.

We close riverside, where fog and footsteps edge into the paranormal. Believe in ghosts or not, the safety rules hold: control your light, move toward known exits, keep someone updated, and never ignore that gut drop when a pattern in the woods turns wrong. This episode blends campfire chills with hard-won field craft, built for anyone who’s dressed a moose, climbed into a tree stand, or simply felt the hair lift on their neck at the treeline.

If these stories stuck to your ribs, hit follow, share with your hunting crew, and drop your own backcountry scare in a review—what lesson did it leave you with?

Check us out on Facebook Hunts On Outfitting, or myself Ken Marr. Reach out and Tell your hunting buddies about the podcast if you like it, Thanks!

SPEAKER_00:

This is Hunts and Outfitting Podcast. I'm your host and rookie guide, Ken Mair. I love everything hunting, the outdoors, and all things associated with it. From stories to how-to's, you'll find it here. Welcome to the podcast. Hey guys, gals, how's it going? Thanks for tuning in to the podcast. This week, uh, it's going to be something very, very different. This is uh this podcast episode is being dedicated to our uh uh my tech guy, Brody Garnett. Anytime you guys see a podcast profile picture, that's not just a simple picture where there's stuff added in, people in the background and more than one animal, things like that, that's Brody doing it, not me. I uh I do not have a sweet clue how to do that, even though I have a podcast. My tech skills are barely beyond turning on a laptop. So thanks, Brody. So last year for the podcast, around this time, around Halloween time, we had a guy on named Aaron Shediak, and Aaron was telling us about some spooky stories that happened to him while out hunting. And uh Brody really liked that one, had a lot of people that did, and they were asking for more something else like that uh this year for Halloween. So when this podcast episode does come out, it will be uh a few days after Halloween, but it's still, you know, in the season. So I asked a lot of different people I knew if they had any stories like that, and they didn't. Uh so I started scouring around on the internet a little bit, and uh I'll be reading to you guys at a third grade level uh some spooky stories that I have on here. So hope you guys enjoy them. And uh well, it's some different stories. Some are spooky, some are uh interesting. The first one I really liked. Um, so also speaking about trick-or-treating, Halloween time, give your dogs a treat, not a trick, with Nookshook dog food. Look, I'm telling you, I'm not just saying this. I have six dogs. I was admiring them this morning, just looking at how nice and shiny their coats are, their fur, it looks great. They all have, you know, good body shape to them. The vets would call it, like the almost, you know, hourglass figure or however you want to call it there. Um, you know, nice and healthy, and a nookshook dog food is all that we feed, and it keeps them looking like that tip top shape. It's hunting season, full tilt right now. Been running them all week uh for the past few weeks. Not every day, but every couple days. So, I mean, it's keeping them in that great shape. So the first story that I'm gonna be reading is uh a little bit of a longer one. And I remember finding this when I was younger, back when I'd dial up internet and uh reading it, and I remember it's always stuck with me. It was an interesting story. This story was written in, I believe, 1921. It's written by Richard Connell Connell, and he lived in it from 1893 to 1949. So this is this is an older one. It's called The Most Dangerous Game. Off there, to the right, somewhere is a large island, said Whitney. It's rather a mystery. What island is it? Ransford asked. The old church call it Ship Trap Island, Whitney replied. A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why, some superstition. Can't see it, remarked Ransford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick, warm blackness in upon the yacht. You've good you've good eyes, said Whitney, with a laugh, and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards. But even you can't see four miles or so through the moonless Caribbean night. Nor four yards, admitted Ransford. Ugh, it's like a moist black velvet. It will be light in Rio, promised Whitney. We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Prudy Prudies. We should have some good hunting up in the Amazon. Great sport hunting. The best sport in the world, agreed Ransford. For the hunter, amended Whitney. Not for the jaguar. Don't talk rot, Whitney, said Ransford. You're a big game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how the jaguar feels? Perhaps the jaguar does, observed Whitney. Ha. They've no understanding. Even so, I rather think they understand one thing fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death. Nonsense, laughed Ransford. This hot weather's making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes, the hunters and the huntees. Luckily you and I are the hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet? I can't tell in the dark, I hope so. Why? asked Ransford. The place has a reputation. A bad one. Cannibals, suggested Ransford. Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a godforsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore somehow. Didn't you notice the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today? They were a bit strange now that you mention it, even Captain Nielsen. Yes, that tough minded old Swede who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was this place has an evil name among seafaring men. Seafaring men, sir. Then he said to me very gravely, don't you feel anything? As if in the air about us was actually poisonous. Now you mustn't laugh when I tell you this. I did feel something like a sudden chill. There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as plat plate glass window. We were drawing near the island then, what I felt was a mental chill, a sort of sudden dread. Pure imagination, said Ransford, one superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear. Maybe, but sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they're in danger. Sometimes I think evil is tangible thing, with wavelengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Ransford. I'm not sleepy, said Ransford. I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the after deck. Good night, then, Ransford. See you at breakfast. Right. Good night, Whitney. There was no sound in the night as Ransford sat there, but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller. Ransford, declining in a steamer chair, indotently puffed on his favorite briar. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him. It's so dark, he thought, that I could sleep without closing my eyes. The night would be my eyelids. An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again, somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times. Ransford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes and went in the direction from which the reports had come, but he was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there to get the greater elevation. His pipe striking a rope was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it. A short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head. He struggled to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately, he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain cool headedness had come to him. It was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more and more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever vanishing fireflies. Then they were blotted out entirely by the night. Ransford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and he doggedly and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate slokes. Strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes. He could do possibly a hundred more, and then Ransford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in extremity of anguish and terror. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound. He did not try to. With fresh vitality, he swam toward the sound. He heard it again. Then it was cut short by another noise. Crisp stick sticato. Pistol shot, muttered Ransford swimming on. Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears, the most welcome he had ever heard, the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them. On a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself in the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness. He forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What pearls that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Ransford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life. When he opened his eyes he knew the position from the position of the sun that it was late afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor, a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully. Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food, he thought. But what kind of men? He wondered. And so in a such forbidding place, an unbroken front of snarled, ragged and ragged jungle fridged the shore. He saw no sign of a trail through the densely knit web of weeds and trees. It was easier to go along the shore, and Ransford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped. Some wounded thing by the evidence, a large animal had thrashed about in the underbrush. The jungle weeds were crushed down and moss was lacerated. One patch of weeds was stained with crimson. A small, glittering object, not far away, caught Ransfer's eyes, and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge. Twenty two, he remarked. That's odd. It must have been fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it there and finished it. He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find, the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on rotten log or loose stone, but making headway. Night was beginning to settle down on the island. Bleak darkness was blackening out the sea and jungle when Ransford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coastline, and his first thought was that he had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along, he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building, a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of the chateau. It was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows. Mirage, thought Ransford. But it was no mirage. He found when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough. The massive door with a leering gargoyle fur knocker was real enough. Yet above it all hung an air of unreality. He lifted the knocker and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never been used before. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within. The door remained closed. Again, Ransford lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. The door then opened. As suddenly as if it were on the spring, and Ransford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing Ransford's eyes disconcerned was the largest man Ransford had ever seen, a gigantic creature solidly made and blackbearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Ransford's heart. Out of the snarl of the beard, two small eyes regarded Ransford. Don't be alarmed, said Ransford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. I'm no robber, I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Ransford of New York City. The menacing look in the eyes did not change, the revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Ransford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform, a black uniform, trimmed with grey ashtrakin. Oh Sander Ransford of New York, Ransford began again. I fell off a yacht. I am hungry. The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of this of his revolver. Then Ransford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute and saw him click his heels together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marbles marble steps and an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Ransford and held out his hand. In a cultivated voice, marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, It's very great pleasure to honor it's it is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Ransford, the celebrated hunter to my home. Automatically, Ransford shook the man's hand. I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see, explained the man. I am General Zerof. Rancer's first impression was the man was singularly handsome, and his second was that there is an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white, but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Ranchford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharp cut nose, a spare, dark face, the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant man in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew. Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow, remarked the general, but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage. Is he Russian? He is Cossack, said the general. His smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. So am I. Come, he said, we shouldn't be chatting here. We can chat later. Now, you want clothes, food, rest? You shall have them. This is a most restful spot. Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved, but gave forth no sound. Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr Ransford, said the general. I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think. It was a huge beam sealed bedroom that which with a canopied bit bed big enough for six men that Ransford followed the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit and Ransford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sued for none below the rank of Duke. The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval medieval magnificence about it. It suggested a burano hall of feudal times, with its oak panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables with two score men, where two score men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals, lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears, larger or more perfect specimens. Ransford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting alone. You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Ransford, he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good, and Ransford noted, the table appointments were of the finest linen, the crystal, the silver, the china. They were eating Borsch, the rich red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically, General Zov said, We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive my lapses. We are well off the beaten track. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean travel? Not in the least, declared Ransford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host. A true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of the generals that made Ransford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate, he found the general studying him, appraisingly appraising him narrowly. Perhaps, said General Gerf, you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I've I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in life, Mr Rands Ford, and it is the hunt. You have some wonderful heads here, said Ransford, as he ate a particularly well cooked fillet mignon. That Cape Buffalo is the largest I ever saw. Oh, that fellow, yes. He was a monster. Did he charge you? Hurled me against a tree, said the general. Fractured my skull, but I got the brute. I've always thought, said Ransford, that the Cape Buffalo is one of the most dangerous of all game. For a moment the general did not reply. He was smiling his curious red lipped smile. Then he said slowly, No, you were wrong, sir. The Cape Buffalo is not the most dangerous big game. He sipped his wine. Here in my preserve on this island, he said, in the same slow tone, I hunt more dangerous game. Ransford expressed his surprise his surprise. Is there a game is there game on this island? The general nodded. The biggest. Really? Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island. What have you imported, General? Ransford asked. Tigers? The general smiled. No. He said. Hunting tigers ceased to interest me. Some years ago I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, mister Ransford. The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with silver tip. It was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense. We will have some capital hunting, you and I, said the general. I shall be most glad to have your society. But what game began Ransford. I'll tell you, said the general, you would be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port? Thank you, General. The general filled both glasses and said God makes some men poets, some he makes kings, some beggars. Me, he made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was of ardent he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prized turkeys with it, he did not punish me, he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the caucus when I was ten. My whole life has been has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army. It was expected of noblemen's sons, and for time commanded a division of Cossack Cavalry. But my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed, the general puffed a cigarette. After the debacle in Russia, I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Caesar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tea room in Monte Car Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I have continued to hunt grizzliest grizzlies in your Rockies, crocodiles and the gangs, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape Buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered, I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't, Cossack sighed. They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him and a high powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me, and hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America, businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life. Yes, that's so, said Ransford. The general spot smiled. I had no wish to go to pieces, he said. I must do something. Now mine is an analytical mind, mister Ransford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase. No doubt, General Sayoff. So, continued the general, I asked myself why hunt no longer. Fascinated me. You are a much younger man than I am, Mr. Ransford, and I have not hunted as much. But you perhaps can guess the answer. What was it? Simply this. Hunting has ceased to be what you call a sporting proposition. It had become too easy. I always get my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection. The general lit a fresh cigarette. No animal had a chance with me anymore. There is no boast. It is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this, it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you. Ransford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying. It came to me as an inspiration, what I must do, the general went on. And that was the general smiled, with the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. I had to invent a new animal to hunt, he said. A new animal? You're joking. Not at all. Said the general, I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island, built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes. There are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps. But the animal, General Zerof. Oh, said the general, it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits. Ransford's bewilderment showed on his face. I wanted the ideal animal to hunt, explained the general. So I said, What are the attributes of an ideal quarry? And the answer was, of course, it must have courage, cunning, and above all it must be able to reason. But no animal can reason, objected Ransford. My dear fellow, said the general, there is one that can. But ye can't mean gasped Ransford, and why not? I can't believe you were serious, General Zaof. This is a grisly joke. Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting. Hunting? Great guns, General Zerof. What you speak of is murder. The general laughed with an entire good nature. He regarded Ransford quizzically. I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war did not make me condone cold blooded murder, finished Ransford stiffly. Laughter shook the general. How extraordinary drol you are, he said. One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of educated class, even one in America with such a naive and if I may say so, mid Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuff box in a limousine. Ah, well doubtless you have you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, mister Ransford. Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer. Dear me, said the general, quite unruffled, again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded. Yes? Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by it if I win, began Ransford huskily. I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you but midnight of the third day, said General Serv, my sloop will place you on the mainland near a town. The general read what Ransford was thinking. Oh you can trust me, said the Cossack. I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here. I'll agree to nothing of the kind, said Ransford. Oh said the general, in that case, but why discuss that now? Three days, hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Viv. Cole, unless the general sipped his wine. Then a business like air animated him. Ivan, he said to Ransford, will you supply W Ivan, he said to Ransford, will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins. They leave a poorer trail. I suggest too that you avoid the swamp. The big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. Just quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Ransford. I loved Lazarus. He was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Auvoie, Mr Ransford, auvoi. Janazuroff with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room. From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long bladed hunting knife. His right hand rested on a caulked revolver, thrust in the crimson sash about his waist. Ransford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. I must keep my nerve, I must keep my nerve, he said through his through tight teeth. He had not been entirely clear headed when the chateau gate snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was just to put distance between himself and General Seraph, and to this end he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself. He stopped and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile. Inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations clearly must take place within that time frame. I'll give him a trail to follow, muttered Ransford, as he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops. He doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all of the lore of the fox hunt and all the dodges and all the dodges of the fox. Knight found him leg weary with hands and face lashed by the branches, branches on the thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative, and he thought, I have played fox, now I must play the cat of the fable. A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was nearby, and taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up the crotch and stretching out on one of the broad limbs after after fashion rested. Rest brought a new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous as a hunter as General Zerof could not trace him there, he told himself. Only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil. An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake, and sleep did not visit Ransford. Although the silence of dead of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning, when a dingy gray was vanishing from the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Ransford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush. Coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Ransford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and through the screen of through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. That which was approaching was a man. It was General Zeroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Ransford's impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something metallic, a small automatic pistol. The hunter shook his head several times as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes. Its pungent, incense like smoke floated up to Ransford's nostrils. Ransford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Ransford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Ransford lay. A smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately, he blew his smoke ring into the air. Then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away. Back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter. The pent up air burst hotly from Ransford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night. He could follow an extremely difficult trail. He must have uncanny powers. Only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry. Ransford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned his back? Ransford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with them. The general was saving him for another day's sport. The cossack was the cat. He was the mouse. Then it was that. Then it was that Ransford knew the full meaning of terror. I will not lose my nerve. I will not. He slid down from the tree and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place, he stepped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Ransford took out his knife from his sheath and began to work with all his energy. The job was finished at last. He threw himself down on the fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse. Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zeroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark no matter how faint in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stocking that he was upon the thing Ransford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bow that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with agility of an ape, but he was not quite quick enough. The dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down on the struck and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell. But for his alertness he must have been he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall, nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his shoulder, and Ransford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle. Ransford, called the jungle, if you're within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me, I too have hunted Malacca. You are proving interesting, mister Ransford. I am going now to have my wound dressed. It's only a slight one, but I shall be back. I shall be back. When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Ransford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight that carried him on for some hours. Dust came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins. The vegetation grew ranker, denser, insects bit him savagely. Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now, death swamp in its quicksand. His hands were tight closed, as if nerve as if his nerve was were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so, and like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig. Ransford had dug himself in front had dug himself in in France when the second delays meant death. That had a pla that had been placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper. When it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and found some hard saplings, cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit were the boy were the with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches with it, and he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a light lightning charred tree. He knew his pursuer was coming. He heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth. The night breeze brought with them the perfume of the general cigarette. It seemed to Ransford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness. He was not feeling his way along foot by foot. Ransford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived he lived a year and a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way. He heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit, a man was standing with an electric torch in his hand. You've done well, Ransford, the voice of the general called. Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again, you score. I think, Mr. Ransford, I'll see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for rest now. Thank you for your most amusing evening. At daybreak, Ransford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the bang of a pack of hounds. Ransford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there thinking, an idea that held a wild chance came to him, and tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp. The bang at the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge, Ransford climbed a tree, down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away. He could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zeroff. Just ahead of him, Ransford made out another figure, whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds. It was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force. Ransford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash. They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick that he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree, he caught hold of a springy young sapling, and to it he fashioned he fastened his hunting knife. With the blade pointed down the down the trail with a bit of wild grapevine, he tied back the sapling. He then ran for his life. He knew the hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Ransford knew now how an animal at bay feels. He had to stop to get his breath. The bang of the hound stopped abruptly. And Ransford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife. He shined excitedly up a t he shined he shin he climbed up a tree excitedly and looked back. His pursuers had stopped, but the hope that was Ransford's brain was in Ransford's blade when he climbed, died for he saw the shallow valley that General Zarov was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed. Ransford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. Nerve, nerve, he panted as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Ransford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see a gloomy grey stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Ransford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue green expanse of the water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit. General Zarov had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of pole rago and half a bottle of Chamberton. Two slight annoyances kept him from the perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan. The other was that his quarry had escaped him. Of course, the American hadn't played the game, so, thought the general, as he tasted his last his after dinner liqueur, in his library he read to soothe himself from the works of Marcus Aurelialis. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was little moonlight, so before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called Better luck another time to them. Then he switched on the light. A man who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed was standing there. Ransford screamed the general. How in God's name did you get in here? Swam, said Ransford. I found it quicker than walking through the jungle. The general sucked in his breath and smiled. I congratulate you, he said. You have won the game. Ransford did not smile. I am still a beast at bay, he said in a low, hoarse voice. Get ready, General Serov. The general made one of his deepest bows. I see, he said. Splendid. One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Ransford. He had never slept in a better bed, Ransford decided. Okay, so this one is from Field and Stream. The author is Rodney Buffett, and it talks about a uh a close call moose hunting story in Newfoundland. I still have nightmares. I see the bull's eyes and they're glowing red. He's like pure evil in those dreams, and I know he wants to kill me. I first spotted him from a hill in the morning as he fed in a bog. He had a big 14-point rack and weighed probably 600 pounds, maybe 800. I was hunting with a buddy and my wife and had also come along to watch. The two of them stayed back while I snuck through the patch of woods, and when I got to the edge, the bull was 150 yards out. I rested my 30 aught six on a branch and put the crosshairs on his shoulder. He went down like a ton of bricks. I couldn't believe it when he shot back up. I hit him again and for a second time he went down hard. I could see his antlers sticking up above the bog and he never moved a muscle as I walked in. When I got there, his eyes locked open and lifeless, and his tongue was hanging out. I'd seen enough dead moose to know what one looks like. I figured so I put my gun down in a nearby bush. Then I turned toward the hill and signaled to my wife to bring the knives. When I turned back, that bull was charging at me full speed and grunting. I had no place to go. He was only feet away and coming like a freight train with his antlers lowered. It felt like a car hit me, and then as I was flying through the air, a bull moose stands around eight feet at the withers, so he must have tossed me at least ten feet high. When I landed in the bog, he stepped back three or four feet and did it again. Hit me and scooped me up in his antlers all in one motion, then tossed me over his head. As I hit the ground, he was charging at me, but this time I grabbed his rack and started screaming and kicking him in the forehead. One of his antler points punched through the flesh between my thumb and trigger finger, and he started dragging me through the bog. Then he stepped back and rammed his antlers into my left side, and another point punctured my ribs and left a hole the size of a silver dollar. I was just about out of it when he stomped me in the head. I saw his big black hoof coming down and then everything went dark. When I came to, the bull was gone, and there was blood coming out of my nose and ears. I started thinking that I might not be able to make it. My wife and buddy had called 911. The paramedics came in on quads, but they couldn't take me out that way. So they called in a helicopter from St. John's. It was actually pretty incredible to watch that chopper touch down five feet away from me in the only area in the bog dry enough for a landing. I've always wanted to ride a helicopter, but not this way. I had several broken bones and ribs and punctured wounds, and for days afterward I had visible hoof print on my forehead. The bull somehow got away even with two 30-06 slugs in him. My doctor told me not to, but a week later I went back to the same spot with a couple of buddies. My wife wouldn't go. I spotted a 13-point bull in the same spot and dropped him with one shot. But this time I made one of my buddies go and make sure he was dead and told him not to put his gun down. So here's another story from uh an unforgettable wilderness encounter in northern Michigan by Mikey Williams. I was 14 when the story took place. It was my first year hunting deer with my family to be specific. My father, my cousin, and myself. To paint a picture, my blind was two miles south of my father's, and with his stand being nine miles southwest of my camp. We drove a four-wheeler about a hundred yards away from his stand, which left me with a while to walk before I even got to mine. I live in northern Michigan, and during the winter it gets dark quickly and early. It was around four PM when I started to get cold and decided to close up my tent. I was hunting with a 243 rifle that had that had a pink camo cover on it with a strap around it so I could hang it off my back. I closed up my blind zippers and put my garbage away in a bucket I had. As I was throwing away my trash, I heard a couple of leaves crumble, so I immediately turned around to head up and see if it was a deer. After about a minute, I brushed it off as a squirrel or a bird. Disappointed, I closed my blinds and headed to my father's. As I was taking my first steps out of my blind, I could see a fresh pathway of brush through the leaves. It was a wide path, not from a small animal or even a deer. I'd immediately started thinking a bear or a wolf. So I started speeding speed walking to where my dad was. I started to panic as it started to get even darker, and I was still roughly a mile away. I was just walking as I was stopped in my tracks by one of the most haunting and horrifying noises I'd ever heard. The best way to describe it was a bear slash man that was being murdered. Sounded roughly a hundred and fifty yards back as I started to run. Running with boots and thick hunting gear was hard with twenty pounds on my back. But fear pushed me through and I didn't stop. Around twenty five seconds later, I was still running when I heard it again. This time it was louder and closer. At this point it was completely dark out with the moon. It was completely dark out with the moon being the only source of light. I turned around with my headlight, and what I saw is still the most terrifying thing I've ever seen, around fifty yards away. I saw a black figure in the dark illuminated by the moonlight behind it. It was around ten feet tall and skinny without thinking twice. I started running while trying to get my gun off my back. I didn't know where I was running, but I just ran. I ended up on that road that I recognized as Rabbit Road, the road that connects my map with the entrance to my hunting area. I ran on the road until I got to my camp. By the time I got into sight of my cabin, I turned around again and saw it again, this time a little further away. I was still standing up, and I can only describe it as a tall, black, skinny figure. It had long arms and long legs. As I got on my cabin steps, I threw up from exhaustion and continued to vomit for about a minute as I later passed out. I woke up to the sound of my dad's four-wheeler turning into the cabin driveway. I started crying and ran up to him, hugging him. I quickly told him the story of what happened and how I ran back without stopping. He didn't believe me at first, but as we got settled inside, his face started to change as he saw the desperation in my eyes. I didn't sleep that night or for weeks after. People told me it was most likely a bear or I was just seeing things, but I know what I saw. I'm older now, and I only hunt with someone with me. I also hunt with a bigger gun because it reassures me that I could shoot something larger as I'm writing this. This was the most scary experience of my life. So here is another uh anonymous story that I have. When I was a boy, my parents used to take me and my older sister to my relative's house in eastern Kentucky, right around Lecher County. The closest city is Whitesburg Whitesburg. My uncle, who taught me everything I know about the outdoors, lived in a cabin nestled in a holler way back up the mountains. His place was at the base of a big strip mine scene up on the side of the mountain. As a boy, he and I used to go and sit on his back porch at night and use predator calls to try and call something down out of the hills. Well one night he and I were out using one of his tapes. We'd been out there for a good two hours and seen nothing, so we were thinking of calling it a night. We were back we were about to pack everything up when he realized his squirrel feeder was empty. He then decided to go fill it back up with his seed. His cedar was about fifty yards from the cabin on the mountainside and bordered the tree line. He walked up the hillside about twenty five yards when his wife came out to see while we were all still outside. The only light that came out of the house, the only light that came out that night was the light from the porch. He was about thirty five yards up the hill and called back and said he forgot his flashlight, so his wife, my aunt, went back inside and got one of his spotlights. We had forgot to turn the tape with the predator calls on it, so I reached down to the tape player to turn it off when I noticed my aunt was about stiff as a board. I hit the off button and looked up at her and she had my spotlight shining straight up the squirrel feeder where my uncle was at. I heard her say, It's coming to you, Jim. Jim, my uncle's name, he turned back and goes, huh? Then a little louder that time, she goes, It's coming straight towards you, Jim. That's when I looked up and saw a set of eyes shine about 15 feet away from where my uncle was standing and closing in. Whatever it was was massive. The eyes were about four to five feet off the ground. Also, whatever that creature was completely and totally got the drop on my uncle, who has pretty much spent his whole life in the woods studying and tracking predators. Well, he was turned around looking at us with his back to the woods, so we told him to freeze. We all just kind of stood there for about three minutes, which seemed like a lifetime. It was dead silent, no crickets, no sounds of the night. It was the most eerie and creepy three minutes of my life. It just sat there at the tree line staring at all of us, and staring at us staring right back at it. The brush at the tree line was thick so we could not see what shape it was, just the eyes and where they were in relation to the ground. After those three minutes, my uncle slowly turned around to see what was about fifteen feet away from him. With their spotlight on it, as he was about to turn and look it directly in the eyes, it split. And for the next fifteen minutes we could hear limbs cracking and snapping all the way up the side of the mountain as this animal decided to retreat. Scared the heck out of me. And my uncle literally, my uncle wet himself. I think that was the thing that scared me the most about it was that he was so scared. He was shaking, and I've never seen him like that. The other thing that scared us both is that we had been sitting out all night listening intently and watching that tree line like hawks. Whatever animal or creature it was did not make a single sound coming down the side of that mountain. It never made a sound until it took off. I didn't sleep that night and neither did my aunt nor uncle. My name is Randy, and I've always been drawn to the solitude of nature. There's something about the stillness of the woods and the gentle rush of the river that puts my mind at ease. So when the opportunity arose for a solo camping trip near a secluded river, I couldn't resist. The first night I settled into my tent and near the water's edge an eerie fog rolled in. It clung to the ground, obscuring my vision and muffling the sounds of night. Strangely, faint whispers drifted through the mist, carried by an abnormally cold breeze. With my heart pounding in my chest, I strained to listen. Leave. The voices whispered, their words filled with warning. I shivered, my breath choking in my throat. I cautiously approached the river's edge, peering into the dense fog, but there was nobody around at all. The whispers grew louder, the more urgent and angrier. Yet I could not find the source for the sound. Fear gripped me. I couldn't abandon my campsite just yet. I convinced myself it was simply my imagination running wild. Determined to enjoy my celerity, retreat away from the bustle of the city and work, I shrugged off the unsettling encounter and embraced the second night. Darkness came filling the sky with stars, and I nestled by the campfire, the roaring fire providing a false sense of security. But then I heard footsteps, heavy, deliberate footsteps. They were unmistakable, echoing through the silence of the night and crunching on fallen leaves. I looked cautiously from side to side, scanning the perimeter of my campsite, but my eyes only met empty darkness. The footsteps continued growing closer until they seemed to circle my tent. Panicking, I fumbled for my flashlight, shining it into the night. Nothing. No sign of anyone or anything. The footsteps faded, gradually dissipating into the darkness. That night I couldn't sleep. Every rustle of leaves and every distant hoot of an eye. Now kept me on edge. Doubt gnawed at my mind. Was I truly alone in these woods? Or was something lurking just beyond my reach? I couldn't shake the feeling that another camper was toying with me, playing a sinister game of hide and seek. I didn't believe in ghosts, and a stalker was the obvious. The third night arrived and I nervously tended to the campfire, seeking comfort in its warm glow. As the flames danced, casting eerie shadows, I scanned the area. And then, out of nowhere, a ghostly figure of a farmer emerged from the darkness, an eerie glow around his body. He wore tattered overalls, his face etched with weariness and sorrow. In his hands he carried a menacely large machete. My heart froze as her eyes locked. His gaze pierced right through me, his blue eyes glowing. A chilling scream tore through the air, emanating from his twisted, gaping mouth. I stumbled backward, my pulse racing, my mind paralyzed with fear. The farmer's face twisted into a mass of hollow darkness and swirling smoke, showing the anguish and torment of a thousand lost souls. At this point I knew there was no human, no human at all. It was far worse than any person or animal I'd ever seen before. I suddenly believed in ghosts. In that moment instinct took over. I abandoned all rational thought and ran for my life. The campsite and fire were left abandoned, swallowed by darkness that had taken hold. Branches whipped across my face as I sprinted through the night, desperate to put as much distance as possible between me and the haunting spectre. I found the road leading into the woods, breathless and trembling, leaving behind the sanctity I had thought. The once serene river that had drawn me in now seemed tainted, its beauty shattered by the encounter with the ghostly farmer. I vowed never to return, to leave those woods and their dark secrets behind. But even now, as I recount this chilling tale, I can feel the weight of that encounter lingering in the depths of my memory, the whispering voices, the phantom footsteps, the tortured face of the farmer. It all haunts my dreams, a constant reminder of the darkness that exists beyond the safety of our everyday lives. So if you ever find yourself tempted by the allure of wilderness, heed my cautionary tale. For in the depths of nature's beauty there may lurk an evil that defies comprehension, a darkness willing to consume the unsuspecting souls who dare venture too far into its grasp. Boy, that uh that was quite a story. And again, the sort the source for that one is anonymous. Um so yeah, cautionary tale, I suppose. On to the next.