Off Trail

Miles beyond the nearest trail, two friends hike toward a place only one of them has ever found. 

By nightfall, they begin to wonder if something else has been waiting there all along. 

Written and narrated by Michael G. Moyer

Transcript

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They arrived at the western trailhead early in the morning. They parked their car at the eastern terminus and took a shuttle to the other end. When they stepped out of the shuttle, a cool breeze slid across the back of John's neck. He adjusted his jacket and slid his ruck onto his back. As they entered the trail, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of his fiancee Vanessa. It was something he always carried camping. He rubbed a finger across the picture and tucked it away. Their pace was quick in the beginning. Duke coated the front of John's shoes. You remember that time we hiked Mount Mincy? Chris asked. Yeah, and that hornet's nest was on the ground right in the middle of the trail, John said. We ran right through it. Why didn't we just go around? Because we were dumb, John said. They laughed and kept moving. As the miles accumulated, words were replaced with gestures, and gestures replaced with the sound of their breathing. They covered about eight miles the first day before daylight faded, and they set up camp for the night. Chris made a fire. John boiled two packs of ramen in a jet boil, and they ate and watched the fire dance. An owl hooted somewhere off in the distance. The chorus of coyotes howling echoed between the trees. When the fire died, they made their way into their tents. John zipped up his tent and crawled into his sleeping bag. He listened to the trees bristle, and it wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep. John woke to the sound of brush shifting. He opened his eyes and wasn't sure he heard anything. A few moments later, something moved again. It was behind his tent. His stomach suddenly felt heavy. He turned his head. His breath stopped. The brush rattled again, but this time it was on the other side of his tent. He sat up and stared at the back of his tent. His body shivered. Hey Bear, he said, his voice loud and firm. The wind died and the night birds went silent. Nothing moved in the trees overhead. John listened. He heard the sound of Chris shifting in his sleeping bag in his tent nearby. Silence hung like lead. Then the sound of rattling brush again, farther off and moving away. An owl hooted, and the wind returned. John listened to the tree shivering overhead and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He lay back down and fell asleep. When he woke again, it was pitch black. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, his breath hitched in his throat. The face of a woman, her features shrouded in black, hovered over him. Her long black hair hung from her head and brushed the sides of his face. He tried to move, but his body locked. A weight pressed into his chest and his lungs worked, but found nothing. He went to scream, but no sound came. John awoke suddenly in a cold sweat. He glanced around his tent. It was empty. Morning light filtered in through the tent, and he could see the shapes of the trees through the thin fabric. He went to unzip his sleeping bag. It was already partially unzipped. The cold stung. He stared at it a moment and saw a strand of long dark hair resting on the front of his sleeping bag. He picked it up. He stared at it for a long moment and then tossed it away. He changed into dry clothes and unzipped his tent and stepped out. John walked to the edge of their campsite and looked into the trees. He walked toward where they had left the bear canister the night before. He took in the early morning stillness. The sky was red in the east, and shades of gold stretched from it, pushing the last remnants of the dark back across the sky. He found the bear canister a few feet away from where he placed it. It was turned on to its side. He hefted the canister and inspected it. No damage. He walked back to camp with the canister under his arm. Chris was already out of his tent and boiling water. Morning, John said. Chris nodded and poured the hot water into a mug. John unscrewed the bear canister and pulled out two coffee packets. Chris handed him the mug, and John gave him a coffee packet in return. They drank their coffee without much exchange. Birds began to chirp. Squirrels flicked between branches. The sun poked through the trees. They packed up their camp and prepared themselves for the miles ahead. They marched through the forest, following a skinny dirt path that wound through mountain laurel and black huckleberry. Dense hemlocks and black cherry trees covered the landscape on either side. Something nagged at John all morning, but he couldn't find the right way to bring it up. The words came to him without warning. Did you uh hear anything last night? Like what? I thought I heard something around our campsite last night. It's the woods. There's always stuff out there. John hesitated. It felt like something was checking us out. Chris laughed. It probably was. It was probably a raccoon. He turned toward John. Did you forget to put something in the bear canister? Nope. Chris turned back to the trail ahead. I'm sure it was nothing. Still, something didn't sit right. He thought to mention the woman in his tent, but he knew it was just a dream. And still, he could remember the feeling of her hair brushing his face. He shook his head. He looked forward and focused on watching his boots rise and fall in front of him. He watched them longer than he intended to. The miles accumulated, and John huffed at each twist and turn of the trail. The rocks and roots that jutted from the soil began to bite through the soles of his boots. His pack dug into his shoulders. Chris was about twenty feet ahead on the trail when he stopped. John exhaled through his nose. Chris crept into the brush and stood there. John walked up behind him and saw he was looking down an old trail overgrown with green briar. This is it, Chris said. John looked over Chris's shoulder and down the old trail. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. The trail looked forgotten. You sure this is it? Chris didn't answer. He hesitated a moment and then pushed through the green briar and started down the trail. John followed his lead, keeping his hands in front of him to block the branches from swinging back into his face. Mountain laurel and rhododendron pressed in on the old logging trail from both sides. The trees around it stood black and were lined with moss, mushrooms growing at their bases. Some were filled with holes from termites and dead falls scattered the landscape on either side. They pressed on. John felt his chest strap begin to dig into his neck. He went to adjust it. He pulled too hard and the strap snapped off. He cursed and tried to slide the buckle back onto the shoulder strap. He couldn't get it back on. He stopped walking and tried again. It still wouldn't latch. We'll fix it when we make camp, Chris said, looking back. John looked up, he nodded and started walking again. The pack bit deeper into his shoulders with each step. They followed the old trail until it came to a creek and bent west. The creek turned sharply to the north where it met the trail. The water flowed quickly. Rocks emerged from the surface of the water and it flowed around them effortlessly. The sun had already reached its highest point in the sky and had begun its descent toward the western horizon. Chris stared down the creek. This way, Chris said, stepping off trail. They followed the creek west and John's feet throbbed with each step. Daylight flattened, and when the creek turned left, Chris stopped. Here it is, Chris said. The sight was beautiful. It sat on a small ridge above the flowing creek next to a babbling brook. The ground was level and the soil soft. John listened to the sounds of the creek and smiled. Get ready for the best night's sleep you've ever had listening to this creek all night, Chris said. John laughed, and then he groaned as he slid his pack off his shoulders. They set up camp and gathered some firewood. They ate and stored the canister before the dark came. John sat on the ground and leaned against his pack. Chris poked the fire, and the owls returned, and the trees stirred from a gentle breeze. The logs popped in the fire, and the brook babbled on. They took it all in without saying much. Only when John noticed the silence between them did he speak. This place is beautiful. I see why you wouldn't shut up about it all winter. They laughed and Chris nodded. I told you. Chris pulled a marijuana vape pen from his pack and took a long pull. He exhaled the smoke over the fire. Then he held it out to John. John took it. He pulled and looked up. He exhaled and watched the smoke drift toward the night sky. Bright stars pockmarked the black canvas overhead. How's your dad doing? John asked. Chris didn't answer right away. He has his good days and his bad days. Is he responding well to treatment? We don't know yet. A moment of silence lingered between them. I'm sorry, man, John said. Chris looked away. It's been hard on my mom. John reached over and slapped his shoulder lightly. It'll be okay. I'm here if you guys need anything. Thanks, man, Chris said. Chris stared back at the fire and his eyes glistened. John breathed in the smell of the campfire and leaned back. They were quiet for a while, then Chris started talking again. While Chris was telling John about his planned trip to the Netherlands next year, John heard a strange sound come from the forest. He perked up. He stopped listening to Chris mid sentence. By the time Chris finished, the sound was gone. Sorry, I missed that, John said. Chris laughed and started talking again, but John wasn't present. He strained his ears for something else. He heard it again while Chris was going on. Laughter. Distant, barely audible, but still too close. John stared off into the trees. Chris noticed. He stopped talking and turned around. Did you hear that? John asked. Chris turned back and squinted at him. Hear what? I heard someone. Chris looked around. I didn't hear anything. John didn't speak. He waited. A tightness spidered across the top of his back. The creek flowed on and the trees shifted in the wind. A fire licked the soil. John leaned back against his pack. Gotta be the weed, man, Chris said, grinning. John forced a smile. The forest was quiet. John told himself he didn't hear what he thought he did. It was just the sounds of the forest at night playing tricks on him. Yeah, I probably smoked too much, he said. Wouldn't be the first time, Chris said. John put his head back and stared up at the stars. Pleiades stood out like a bright smear in the night sky. He breathed out through his nose. The trees began to lean. A sharp breeze blew through the camp, and it carried with it a sound of laughter. John sat up and his breath seized. There it is. Chris's expression flickered. I didn't hear anything, but it's probably just someone out here doing exactly what we're doing. A woman out here alone? John asked. We don't know she's alone. We know we aren't. No one spoke for a long moment. The fire burned low, and Chris added the last of the wood to it. He stoked at the life with a stick. It's not anything to get worked up about, Chris said. It's just odd. We're miles off trail. We aren't the only ones to go off trail. John didn't reply. He stared off into the darkness. He realized then the owls had stopped hooting, and the wind had stopped, and the trees stood still. Even the crickets ceased chirping. John kept his eyes on the trees. The creak suddenly felt too loud. The wind whipped and it nipped at his collar, then died again. Now hooted, and the sound died mid-call. The quiet echoed. Chris stoked the dying fire again. Maybe the coyotes will sing again for us tonight, Chris said. John didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on the trees. Woods will get to you at night if you let it, Chris said. Only thing out here is probably a raccoon trying to solve your bear canister. John grunted in acknowledgement. Then he heard it again. Laughter. But this time from behind him. He spun toward it. Nothing moved to the edge of the dying firelight. I heard it that time, Chris said. John turned to look at him and found the fear already there. And they both turned toward the trees. The light flickered, and Chris proud of the fire again and came alive for one last gasp. John watched the darkness close in as the flame went out. He listened hard. Nothing. Chris's voice broke the silence. Maybe we should get out of here. John glanced at him. We have our headlamps, Chris said. It's only a couple miles down the creek back to the trail. John nodded. Yeah. Let's go. They packed up their tents and stuffed their bags quickly. They turned on their headlamps and followed the creek back toward the old trail. Their lights scanned the trees as they walked. They didn't speak. Each time the wind crossed the back of John's neck, it felt like a hand. They came to where the creek bent north. They scanned the ground. The path wasn't there. This is it, Chris said. Where's the trail? John looked around. Shone his light on the creek. The creek did bend north, but gradually. I don't think this is it, John said. This is definitely where the trail was, Chris said. I remember this tree stump. John looked at the stump and thought he remembered seeing it too. He shone his light through the forest and saw familiar dead fall and trees he didn't recognize. He cast his light on the ground, scanning for any sign of the old trail. There was nothing. Only long Timothy grass and ferns that looked as if they hadn't been disturbed in a decade. He scanned the ground again, and his light found a small depression in the tall grass that wound its way to the right. He walked toward it. It was nothing. He saw another tree stump a few feet ahead that looked similar to the one Chris remembered. He approached it and shone his light on the ground. His beam cast on more grass and more ferns. No trail. He swept the forest, and it felt like his beam wouldn't reach as far as it should. The sounds of the creek suddenly felt like it was coming from all around him. He stepped and the soil seemed to give way. The forest tilted and he nearly fell. He breathed out through his mouth and righted himself. He looked back at Chris. There's nothing here. Chris didn't say anything. He spun slowly in a circle, shining his light at the ground as he turned. Maybe it's up a bit further, John said. No, it was right here. John glanced around the forest again. He reached to adjust his pack on his shoulders and felt his hands tremble. Let's just work our way back to camp before we get more lost, John said. They shone their lights back down the creek from where they came. Neither man moved nor spoke. The wind tested their clothes, and John pulled his jacket tighter across his chest. He moved first. He walked slowly, following the creek back to the campsite. For a moment he thought he might lose his balance. Chris followed. The skin beneath his collar grew tight as he hooked his tent poles in and raised it from the ground. They finished setting up their tents and shoved their packs inside. John unzipped his tent and moved in. He crawled into his sleeping bag and forced his eyes shut. The sound of the brook crowded his head. A heavy gust of wind shifted the canopy above, and John jumped. He focused on his breathing. The cold stung his lungs. The fluttering in his chest slowly became less intense. His muscles relaxed. He lay in silence for a long time, staring up at the ceiling of his tent. Crickets began to chirp again. John felt something cold wind up and down his spine. He realized then that his sleeping pad was underinflated. He fumbled for the air vent in the dark. He found it without turning his headlamp on. He moved off his sleeping pad and blew into the vent. He felt the pad inflate. He filled it with breath until he was satisfied. He breathed out through his nose. The brook babbled quietly. The trees leaned from a persistent wind. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the creek. He began to drift off. The sounds around him slowly began to muffle. Then he heard movement in the brush behind his tent. The noise was subtle, but it was close. He opened his eyes and listened. He heard nothing over the sound of the brook. He strained. Movement again. Further away and the sound of heavy breathing. He tried to breathe, but his lungs found less room for it. His pulse ticked hard beneath his jaw. It's just a buck, he said out loud. Breathing faded. There was no movement in the brush. John released his grip on his sleeping bag. He didn't realize how tightly he was gripping it. The cricket still chirped somewhere far off, and Al called again. John settled. Exhaustion crept back in, and slowly he began to fade. He fell asleep and slept dreamless. He awoke suddenly and looked around. It was still dark out. His tent was empty. He laid his head back down and stared up at the ceiling. He went to check the time, but he couldn't find his phone or his headlamp in the dark. He lay down, pulling the top of his sleeping bag to his chin, and tried to coax himself back to sleep. That's when he heard it. Movement. On the far side of camp near the creek. It was subtle at first, then it became loud. It sounded as though something was being dragged through the brush. And the sound stopped. John shut up, and the zipper on his sleeping bag nearly broke as it flew open. He heard only the sound of his own rapid breathing. The quiet was interrupted by the sound of Something falling or stepping into the creek. The crickets were silent. He stood still in the quiet, pressed in. Pulled his legs to his chest. Near Chris's tent. Chris didn't call out, and John couldn't find his voice. A few moments later, something moved behind John's tent. He swept the ground with his hand until he found its headlamp. He unzipped the windscreen and beamed the light toward the sound. Nothing. He tipped the windscreen back up and lay down. His breath came in tight gasps. His fingers curled around his sleeping bag and his knuckles were white. Then the brush dropped violently by the creek. Wherever it was, it circled their campsite. Then something dropped into the creek. He heard it move through it, waiting through the water. Then it stopped. The woman's laughter returned. It echoed from somewhere by the creek. John's body went rigid. Blood beat behind his ears, and he lay there for a long time without moving or making a sound. The creek filled the silence. Slowly, his breathing began to find its rhythm again. He heard nothing. And the brush near his tent rustled again. The laughter followed. John trunk inside his sleeping bag. His breath was hot and wet inside. He heard something leave the brush. He grabbed his light and turned it on. Something began to press into his tent. He cast the light on the tent wall. He could see long fingers pressed against it. And it disappeared. The woman laughed again. He stared at the tent wall, waiting for it to move. Trying to listen, but the creak was too loud. The brush moved by Chris's tent. John slid over to the tent door. He put his hand on the zipper and held it there. He unzipped it slowly. He shined his leg toward Chris's tent. He went still with half a breath in him. He caught a glimpse of a pale naked woman crawling into Chris's open tent. John zipped the windscreen shut and crawled backward. His back pressed against the tent. It leaned under his weight and nothing from Chris, only the sound of the babbling creak. He tried to move, but every joint, every muscle was locked in place. The sound of his breathing echoed. He sat there without moving for a long time. His breathing began to slow. It was quiet outside the tent. He unclenched his hands and realized the collar of his shirt was ripped. He didn't move. He didn't make a noise. The creek flowed on. The crickets began to chirp again. He still wouldn't move. The nightbirds returned, howldooting from somewhere off in the distance. His breathing slowed. Gust of wind passed through the trees and the canopy bristled. In the distance, he heard a pack of coyotes begin to yip and howl. He shifted his weight slowly. He was careful not to make a sound. He searched the dart for his headlamp. He swept his hand along the tenth floor until he bumped it. He picked it up and held it in his shaking hands. He didn't turn it on. He called. His voice low. There was no answer. He called again. No reply. His legs became tangled in his sleeping bag as he crawled and he fell over. Four, he picked himself up, feeling like his arms may give out under his weight. His hand shook as he reached for the zipper to the tent door. He grabbed it and held on. Blood drained from the tips of his fingers as I clutched the zipper. He didn't move. His teeth ground together. He unzipped the door partially and looked out. It was too dark to see anything. He called out again. There was no response. He reached down and grabbed the TED lamp. He pointed it toward Chris's tent and turned it on. His tent was wide open. He couldn't see Chris. He fanned the light across the campsite. He stopped. Fifteen feet in front of his tent stood the woman. Naked. Pale. Her back was to him. Long knotted black hair fell from her head and flowed past her shoulders. She was hunched forward as if cradling something against her chest. When the light found her, she didn't react. She turned slowly. She looked at John. John screened. And so later, their collapsed tents were found at the site. The rocks were inside, still packed. And one tent lay a torn, faded photo of Vanessa. For listening to Watch the Dark. To hear future stories. Follow the show wherever you listen to podcasts. New episodes, updates, and more from the edge of the firelight.com. Join the firelight. Until next time, keep the fire lit.