The road narrowed as they climbed.
Asphalt gave way to gravel, then to hard-packed dirt that rattled beneath the Jeep’s tires and sent dust curling into the headlights. Trees pressed closer on both sides; pines and scrub oak, their branches clawing at the dark like silhouettes cut from paper. The air cooled as elevation increased, but the tension in the vehicles did not.
No one spoke.
Tony drove with both hands on the wheel, posture forward, eyes constantly shifting. Mirrors – tree line – the dark stretch of road ahead. Hutch followed in the F-150, headlights steady, maintaining distance the way he would in a convoy. Not close enough to stack up, but not far enough to lose contact.
Michael sat rigid in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing uncontrollably. He kept checking his phone, refreshing the same dead signal.
“Nothing,” he muttered again.
Tony didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The campground entrance sign loomed suddenly out of the dark: MOUNTAINSIDE CAMPGROUND, its reflective lettering dulled by dust and age. One of the wooden posts had split down the middle, the sign sagging slightly, as if it had grown tired of standing upright.
No cars came out.
No movement was visible.
Tony slowed as they rolled past the sign and toward the ranger station.
A generator hummed somewhere within the campground’s expanding darkness.
The ranger station sat just off the road. A low, single-story building with wide windows facing the campground loop. The porch light was on and the front door was open.
Tony stopped the Jeep. Hutch, in the F-150, pulled to a stop near Tony. Chelsey parked her Cherokee behind them.
They piled out, regrouping between the three vehicles. Dirt and rocks crunched beneath boots. The night pressed close, thick and quiet in the way only deep woods could manage.
Tony’s voice was low and decisive. “JoeJoe, you’re in charge here. Keep everyone together. Stay near the vehicles.” He said as he handed JoeJoe the Glock.
JoeJoe took the pistol and nodded.
“W-where are you guys going?” Jackie asked, clearly afraid.
“Michael’s friends that we mentioned earlier are here,” Tony explained. “We’re going to go look for them. You guys will hang tight here and we’ll be right back.”
Tony turned to Memo. “Grab your shovel, hammer, tire iron – anything you can use as a weapon. Pass them out and wait inside the vehicles.”
Memo nodded and was already moving toward the back of his truck.
“Wait… Shouldn’t we stick together right now?” Jackie asked.
Tony nodded and answered with patience. “Sticking together is a good idea. But we don’t know what to expect here. We may have to get out of here in a hurry, so it might be a little safer for you guys to stay inside the vehicles. Don’t worry. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Tony went to the Wrangler tailgate and reached in, pulling out a tactical tomahawk and a machete as Hutch loaded the Remington 870 tactical shotgun. “Hutch, Michael, with me.”
Tony handed Michael the machete as they moved toward the ranger station. The trio walked up the porch steps cautiously. Hutch paused by the open door and listened for a moment before moving through the door. Tony and Michael were right behind him.
The ranger station was split into a lobby, and an office with a small bathroom. The lobby had two couches, a coffee table, brochure racks, a few potted plants and a water cooler. The office was much smaller, with a medium sized desk that took up most of the space. A small table sat just inside the door and a folding chair lay on its side. Along the back wall there were three doors. The first door went to a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. The second door opened to a cluttered storage closet and the third door opened out back to a small outdoor storage area, enclosed by a wooden fence.
A coffee mug sat on the small table, half full. Paperwork was spread across the desk: maps, sign-in sheets, a clipboard with names scrawled in hurried pen. A radio lying on its side crackled softly on the desk, bursts of static punctuated by half-heard voices.
“…repeat – unable to reach…multiple incidents…reports of violence…”
The transmission cut out. Tony instinctively grabbed the radio, lowering the volume and clipping it to his waistband as he moved through the office.
The back door stood open, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Hutch stepped out and glanced around the small courtyard. Satisfied, he gently closed the back door and fastened the latch before stepping back inside beside Tony. “They didn’t lock up.”
“No,” Tony said quietly. “Looks like they ran off.”
Michael hovered in the doorway, pale. “Why would they just leave?”
Tony contemplated the question but didn’t answer. He walked to the sign-in board.
His eyes scanned the list.
Three names stood out.
Rick H.
Drew L.
Eric M.
Site B-17.
Michael sucked in a breath behind him. “That’s them. Does it say when they checked in?”
Tony nodded. “Looks like they checked in two days ago.”
Michael leaned closer. “Two days ago. They might still be here, then.”
Outside, wind whispered through the trees. Somewhere deeper in the campground, a tent flap snapped lazily. The sound made Tony’s spine tighten.
Outside, the sun was setting fast. Dark grey hues pushing the bright yellows and orange hues out past the horizon.
“Let’s grab some flashlights and see what the campground looks like,” Tony said.
Back at the vehicles, Tony retrieved both of his flashlights. He glanced at JoeJoe and explained, “We’re walking the loop to find Site B-17. We think Michael’s friends are there. The rest of you stay here. Lock the vehicles. Keep an eye out.”
Hutch reminded them, “If anything looks fishy, you can always take off in the vehicles. Head up to Chelsey’s cabin. We’ll meet you guys there.”
Memo, JoeJoe, and Vic nodded. They understood.
Tony, Hutch, and Michael moved down the dirt road with flashlights.
As they walked along the path, they began hearing activity amongst the various camp sites. Low voices and movement.
Most of the campsites were empty. Some were abandoned, tents still standing, coolers overturned, chairs scattered as if people had stood up and simply… left. Campfires smoldered low, unattended, sending thin tendrils of smoke into the night air.
The few people who were there moved hurriedly, voices tight and raised. Families packed gear under headlamps. Kids cried. One man shouted into a phone that had no service, his voice cracking with frustration.
“Something’s going on,” Michael muttered. “Everyone feels it.”
Tony stopped at a crossroads in the loop.
A man approached them, eyes wide, flashlight shaking slightly in his hand. “You guys know what’s happening?” he asked. “The ranger just took off. Didn’t say anything.”
Tony kept his voice steady. “We don’t know yet. Best advice: if you’re leaving, leave now. If you’re staying, stay together.”
The man nodded, visibly grateful for direction, and hurried back to his family.
They continued on.
“B-20…” Tony read the signs as they approached. “B-19… B-18…”
Site B-17 came into view.
The campsite was destroyed.
A tent lay collapsed, one pole snapped. A cooler was overturned, contents scattered. One camp chair sat broken. The others were gone entirely. The fire pit was still smoldering—logs half-burned, as if abandoned recently.
Eric’s car was gone. Fresh tire tracks led off into the darkness beyond the campground.
Tony knelt to touch a can of beer that was lying next to the overturned cooler. Still cold. Still wet. “They can’t be far…”
The three continued searching the campsite.
Hutch lifted the flap on the collapsed tent. Three sleeping bags remained inside the tent. They appeared to be undisturbed.
Michael swept the area with his flashlight and froze when his beam came to rest near the smoldering campfire. The dirt was dark and mottled in patches where something had soaked in and dried. It looked like blood.
A large woodcutting axe was lying on the ground near the fire pit. Tony picked it up. He glanced at the axe and noted it was unblemished.
“They wouldn’t just leave like this,” Michael whispered. “They wouldn’t. Rick’s OCD about gear.” His voice sounded younger than it should have.
Tony crouched again, examining the ground. His flashlight swept slowly, deliberately.
Boot prints. Spaced wide. Running. The prints stopped where the tire marks started.
Hutch knelt beside him, jaw set. “Look here.” Hutch said. Indicting the same prints. “Something spooked them. They dropped what they were doing and ran.”
Michael’s breathing grew shallow. “Where are they?”
Tony straightened, scanning the tree line with his flashlight.
The woods beyond the campsite were dense. Black. Unforgiving.
“We can’t search tonight,” Tony said firmly.
Michael rounded on him. “What?”
“It’s dark. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“They could be hurt!” Michael asserted.
“They could already be dead,” Hutch said quietly. “Or worse.”
The word hung there. Tony knew what Hutch was saying. It would be very dangerous to venture off, following a trail into the darkness.
Michael swallowed hard, fists clenched. For a moment Tony thought he might argue. Then Michael’s shoulders sagged.
“…alright.”
Tony handed Michael the woodcutting axe. “We’ll go at first light. See if we can follow those tire tracks.”
Michael nodded, eyes wet but determined.
Just then, a scream tore through the trees. High-pitched. Human.
It cut off just as abruptly.
Every head snapped toward the sound.
Silence followed.
Tony felt it settle in his gut. The cold certainty that whatever had come for Michael’s friends wasn’t gone.
Tony turned to Michael and Hutch. “We move back to the others. Now. Hutch, you take point. I’ll cover our rear. Michael stay close.”
Hutch was already moving.
The campground had gone dark – not just from the lack of light, but from the realization that they were no longer alone.
And something was out here with them.