Yellowstone Horror Stories: 5 DISTURBING True Tales the Park Tries to Hide

Yellowstone National Park hides more than geysers and wildlife. Some things can’t be explained—and some vanish without a trace.

In this chilling episode of Blighty Nightmares, we reveal five terrifying true horror stories from deep inside Yellowstone. Based on real ranger accounts, disappearances, and disturbing hiker encounters, each story explores what might really be lurking in America’s most iconic wilderness.

🏞️ In this episode:
• The Howler on Hellroaring Trail – Something stalks a lone hiker through the woods, mimicking every sound
• The Elk Circle – A hunter finds a ritualistic display of elk carcasses… and something waiting in the trees
• The Thing Beneath Yellowstone Lake – What rises from the depths isn’t supposed to exist
• The Cabin in the Cut – An abandoned ranger shelter turns out not to be empty
• The Trail That Wasn’t There – A backpacker follows a path that leads to nowhere… and no way back

These stories are told in immersive first-person style, blending real national park horror, paranormal encounters, and the fear of vanishing in the wild.

🎧 Subscribe to Blighty Nightmares for more true horror—from Missing 411 cases and cryptid sightings to wilderness legends the authorities won’t talk about.

Transcript

 I was never much of a hiker. That was more Kyle's thing. He was the nature guy, always looking for peace in the woods, dragging me along with promises like, "You won't forget it, man. This is the real reset your brain stuff." I usually rolled my eyes. But last September, after I got laid off and my girlfriend left in the same week, reset started to sound like something I needed. So when Kyle pitched a 4-day backcountry hike along the Hell Roaring Trail in Yellowstone, I said yes. Hell Roaring. Hell of a name, huh? We got to the trail head late in the afternoon, parked near the Ranger Station, and loaded up. Carl was practically glowing, talking about moose sightings and meteor showers, while I tried not to think about how far we'd be from cell reception. The first day was uneventful and honestly kind of beautiful. Big skies, golden meadows, a river that sounded like a soft applause. At night, we made camp off a quiet ridge. The stars were ridiculous. Just too many. made you feel like a bug under a microscope. That's when we first heard the howling. It started just after midnight, long and low, rising from somewhere deep in the forest. I sat up in my sleeping bag and whispered. You hear that? Carl murmured. Coyote, maybe a wolf. But there was something off. It wasn't the sound itself, but the timing. Perfectly spaced every 30 seconds like a metronome. We timed it. Five howls over 2 and 1/2 minutes. Then silence. No wind, no crickets, just the kind of quiet that makes your heart beat louder. Sleep, Kyle muttered, rolling over. Could be an echo. I didn't sleep. Day two. We broke camp early and Kyle joked about the midnight choir. I laughed, but my stomach was tight. The trail got thinner the deeper we went, and the trees started to lean in like they were whispering to each other. Around midday, we crossed paths with another hiker, an older guy, white beard, sunburnt face. He stopped dead in front of us and said, "You boys heading down towards the river." Carl nodded. Hell Roaring Overlook. The man squinted, then said, "Don't camp down there. Find higher ground. Trust me." Then he just kept walking. I turned to Kyle. "What the hell was that?" he shrugged. "Probably just doesn't like company, but I kept thinking about the way the guy's eyes didn't blink and how his pack looked too clean for someone who's been hiking long, like unused." We made it to the overlook by late afternoon and set up camp on a flat rise. The air felt still. The river was maybe a/4 mile away. I kept catching myself listening. Straining. The howling started again that night. Same rhythm, but this time it was closer. Way closer. I stepped out of the tent and the sound stopped just like that. Like it knew I was listening. Kyle joined me, holding a headlamp. Probably just a lone wolf, though sometimes trail hikers. Curious, the wolf's mimic. He looked at me. What? I swear the last one sounded like it was an echo, but not from the forest, from me. He laughed. You're freaking yourself out, man. I didn't laugh back. Day three. I woke up to find Kyle already packed. Said he heard something sniffing around the tent during the night. Big, heavy. Said we should head back early and cut the trip short. That didn't sound like Kyle. He never backed off a trail. We took a different route up towards a ridge line that would loop us back to the trail head by the next day. I noticed Kyle checking behind us every few minutes. At one point, he stopped dead in his tracks. There's somebody following us, he whispered. I turned. No one. Did you see someone? He nodded slowly. I thought it was you. I stared. What do you mean? He swallowed. I saw someone. They stepped out from behind a tree. Same clothes as you, same hat. I called out. They didn't move. Then they turned and walked back into the trees. We stood in silence. Then the howling started again, not from the trees ahead, but from behind us. And this time it was my voice calling Kyle's name three times. Calm, slow, the way I said it when I wanted him to wake up. Kyle. Kyle. Kyle. He grabbed my arm and said, "Run." We didn't stop until we reached the ridge line and found a flat clearing just big enough to set up a tent. I kept checking the tree lines. Everything looked off like we stepped into the same forest, but it was wearing a different mask. Carl didn't talk much that night, just kept glancing at the trees. At one point, he muttered, "It's copying us. Why would it copy us?" Night three. I woke up to the zipper on my tent being slowly drawn down. At first, I thought it was Kyle. When I turned over, he was still inside the sleeping bag, eyes wide open, whispering, "Don't move." We both lay there, holding our breath as the flap opened an inch, then another. Then we heard it, a sound like sniffing, slow, wet, deliberate. Then a voice low and crackling. You okay in there, boys? It sounded like my father, but he died 6 years ago. I felt bile rise in my throat. Kyle grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. The voice kept talking. You lost. I can walk you back. I couldn't speak. Then the flap zipped shut and the footsteps moved away, but not in any direction we could trace. just around us over and over, circling. Eventually, it stopped and we didn't sleep. Day four, we packed before the sun was up. Barely spoke. The forest was dead silent. Not even a bird song. Around noon, Kyle stopped and pointed there. In the dirt were our footprints. doubled back like someone or something had been following our steps perfectly, matching stride for stride. One pair deeper than the other, not fresh, heavy. Then we heard it again, a howl. Right behind us, then another further ahead. Then one to our left. It was triangulating us. We ran hard. Branches tore at us. The map was useless now. No trail markers, just endless trees. I screamed Carl's name. He screamed mine. Then I tripped. Slammed my head into a root. Darkness. When I woke, it was night. Freezing and my head was bleeding. Kyle was gone. I screamed until my voice cracked. No answer. Just a single howl. And then his voice calling my name. Eli, soft, reassuring. It's okay. I'm just ahead. But it wasn't him because then another voice joined in. The same voice, but this one was coming from the opposite direction. Eli. I closed my eyes and cried. I knew what it wanted. It wanted me to choose. They found me 2 days later near the river, dehydrated, delirious, barefoot. I had scratches all over my legs. Half my teeth were chipped. I don't remember how I got there. Just the voices, dozens of them, all of people I knew. Kyle was never found. His pack were discovered 2 weeks later, 12 miles off the trail, near a burned out stump that wasn't on any forestry map. His phone had one photo left. Blurry, taken in the dark, looked like a face, too long, no eyes. The ranger gave it back, wouldn't meet my eyes. I asked him if he knew what it was. He said, "Sometimes the forest doesn't want you in it, and sometimes it pretends to be someone your follower." I never went back. But sometimes late at night, I get a call from an unlisted number. And when I answer, I hear Carl's voice calling my name. Soft, calm, like he's just ahead on the trail, waiting for me to follow. [Music] When I think about that day, my memory splits in two. There's a part where I'm watching my brother laugh, slipping in the snow, brushing off the cold like it's nothing. And then there's the part where he takes a step forward and disappears into a perfect circle of elk. And they never even moved. Not a single one. That was 3 years ago. And I still don't know what happened. I don't know where he went. All I know is I should have gone with him. I should have stopped him. But I didn't because I was afraid. My brother Mason and I used to do a yearly hiking trip. Our way of disconnecting, you know, no phones, no news, just woods, fresh air, and maybe some dumb viological conversations about how the world's gone soft that year. He picked Yellowstone, but not the touristy stuff. We were going deep off a trail near Lamar Valley. He'd gotten special clearance from a friend in wildlife management to access some restricted ridge line area where elk herd supposedly moved in synchronized patterns. Mason was obsessed with that sort of thing. Elk don't move like individuals. He told me in the truck, "They move like fors." I didn't know what the hell that meant. I was just here for some quiet. The hiking was gorgeous. Golden Plains, early frost still clinging to the grass. Blue sky that stretched on forever. We were 5 miles in when we set up camp beside a frozen creek. Quiet out there. Too quiet. I remember that. No birds, no wind, just this hush like the land was holding its breath. It happened on the second morning. We woke up early, frost on our beards, everything pale and brittle. I was boiling water for coffee when Mason stood up suddenly and said, "Do you hear that?" I listened. Like snow, like slow deep exhaling walls, I guessed. He shook his head. No, it's close. We hiked about a/4 mile west for a thicket of aspens, and that's when we saw them. elk. At least 40 of them standing in a perfect circle. Not a scattered herd, not a grazing bunch. A circle. Heads turned inwards, legs still, breath fogging in unison. I've never seen anything like it. Not in documentaries, not even online. Mason whispered, "Do you see the center?" I followed his gaze. There was something lying there at the exact middle of the ring. It looked like a carcass maybe or bones. He took a step forward. I'm going to get a picture. No one will believe this. I grabbed his arm. Let's just back off, man. This feels wrong. But he shook me off. They're not aggressive. They're not even looking at us. He took another step and another. Each time he stepped forward, one of the elk exhaled, loud, long, in sync. He stepped into the ring. They didn't move. I watched him walk towards the center. He was 10 ft in, then five, and he crouched beside the thing lying there, and I saw his head tilt like he was confused. He reached out and then he vanished. Just gone. The elk didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't turn to look at me. They just stood there, fogging air like machines, breathing in sink. I screamed, ran forward. As as I got closer, a deep pressure hit my chest, like sound, but without noise, like silence pressing in from the inside, and a thought, clear as words in my head. Not for you. I stumbled back, fell, gasped. The pressure lifted, and then one by one, the elk turned their heads outwards towards me. Their eyes weren't animal eyes anymore. They looked like holes, dark, absorbing light. I ran. God help me. I ran. I was half mad when I found the ranger station. Took me hours. I barely made sense when I reported Mason missing. They sent a search team, choppers, dogs, thermal scans. They found our camp. They found our tracks leading west. But beyond the aspens, no prince, no elk, no signs of a circle, just a patch of disturbed soil and something else. A boot, Mason's left boot, and the ground where he'd stood scorched. not burned like fire, just blackened in a perfect circle about 6 feet wide. When they tested it, the soil had some weird magnetic properties. One text said it was like it had been hit with a pulse from underground. They never found Mason. Case marked as unresolved disappearance presumed fatal. But that's not where it ends. 3 months later, I got a package. No return address, just a flash drive inside and a note that said, "He's still in there. Don't let them lie to you." The footage was rough, grainy night vision. A single clip was about 40 seconds long. It showed the same clearing. No elk, but there was movement. In the center, a figure, human- shaped, standing exactly where Mason had vanished. It stood perfectly still, then began turning in pace, clockwise, slowly. The last few seconds weren't zoomed in, and I swear to God, it had my brother's face, but the eyes weren't his. They looked like holes. I tried to report it. I sent the drive to the authorities. I never heard back. A week later, I got a call from a blocked number. The voice was calm. Male, don't go looking. It said not all things in Yellowstone are meant to be understood. Some are meant to be left as part of the system. Then silence. Sometimes I dream of the circle, but it's not elk in the dream anymore. It's people, all of them facing inwards, breathing in sink, fogging the air. And I'm in the center, crouched, looking at something. But every time I try to see what it is, I wake up shaking, breath caught in my throat like a scream I never finished. A few months ago, I visited that ranger station again. The guy who helped us was long gone. But a new ranger, a young woman, seemed nice. I told her the story, fishing for some sort of acknowledgement. At first she nodded politely, then she said, "You said it was elk." I nodded. She hesitated, then said, "You know, other people report circles, too, but not always elk. What then?" I asked. She looked around, then leaned in. Sometimes it's wolves, sometimes it's bison, sometimes it's people in park ranger uniforms just standing in a ring. and the middle. She looked at me and said nothing. Then she walked away. I haven't hiked since, but I still get postcards. No stamp, no handwriting, just photos of forests. And on the back, a number, latitude and longitude. I checked one last week. It leads to a forest clearing in Idaho. Satellite image shows a ring of trees perfectly circular and a single figure barely visible standing in the center facing down waiting. [Music] They told us it was geothermal activity. That's what the report said. Subtile shifts, minor anonymies in the vent pressure beneath Yellowstone Lake. But I know what we heard on the sonar. It wasn't tectonic. It wasn't volcanic. It was rhythmic. It was a heartbeat. I'm not some conspiracy nut. I'm a deep systems diver with 15 years of contract work. Mostly researchbased. You don't last in the field if you're prone to fantasy or panic. I've surveyed the hydrothermal fields near Kilawara. Been inside submerged fault lines off the coast of Somatra. I've seen things that make most people claustrophobic just hearing about them, but nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for Yellowstone. The government contracted our team, four divers, two sonar techs, a biogeeochemist, and a handler from the Department of Interior to investigate pressure anomies in the West Thumb section of Yellowstone Lake. They claimed a new vent system was forming, possibly dangerous. needed hands-on confirmation. They didn't tell us about the sound until we got there. Our first dive was smooth, cold water. Visibility was about 20 ft. The lakes deeper than most people think. The vents beneath it can run hotter than 400° F, which means sudden plumes shifting topographic and enough pressure to crack your ribs if you screw up. About 80 ft down, I noticed something strange. an area of the lake bed where the sediment was patterned not by a current by vibration. Perfect concentric circles like something pulsing beneath the rock. I radioed it in. Our tech guy Theo said we were getting minor resonance, not enough to register as seismic, but steady. Then he said something I'll never forget. It's not random. The intervals aren't even 5 seconds apart. like a heartbeat. Back on the barge, we reviewed the dive footage. Around time stamp 2241, there was a deep groan. At first, we thought it was pressure equalizing in the rock or a cderous shift, but it wasn't geological. It had texture, like vocal cords the size of a cathedral, a moan that vibrated the speakers. Dr. Carver, our geocchemist, replayed it six times. Finally, she said, "That wasn't gas release. That was resonance. Something alive down there." Theo laughed, nervous. Like what? An underwater buffalo. Carver didn't smile. The earth has memory. Sometimes things live in it. The handler, a man named Greavves, stepped in, told us to delete. told us to delete all copies of the audio from personal drives. Said it was under federal jurisdiction. Now I saw him slip the only flash copy into a gray envelope marked DOE eyes only. The next morning we went deeper over 120 ft. Visibility had dropped. The water was warmer now. Oddly so not just by a few degrees. We were pushing vent zone temperatures in open water, which shouldn't have been possible. Then something even weirder happened. The fa was gone. No fish, no plankton, no eels, not even bacteria colonies near the vents. It's like something had cleared the entire ecosystem. Then we found the hole. It was maybe 12 ft wide. Gagged edges like torn rock. Not smooth, not natural. The sonar couldn't penetrate more than 30 ft in. Beyond that, it just scattered like whatever was inside was absorbing the signal. Vo radioed down. We're getting heavy interference that holds bleeding signal like crazy. I floated above it staring into the dark and that's when I saw it. The eye. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light or some mineral formation reflecting in the vent heat, but then it blinked. Far below, at least 25, maybe 30 ft into the hole, a single massive eye. It wasn't reptilian. It wasn't mal. It looked almost human, but ancient, discolored, veained like marble soaked into rust. And it was watching me. I panicked, kicked too hard, lost buoyancy. One of the other drivers, Kenny, grabbed my tank and steadied me. I pointed downwards. There's something in there. He shook his head. I didn't see anything, but I knew what I saw, and I knew it saw me. That night, Theo woke us up screaming. Said he'd heard it again, the groan. But this time, it wasn't on sonar. It was in his head like it was inside his skull, vibrating his thoughts. He said it called his name. We thought he was cracking up. Claustrophobia, nitrogen, narcosis, stress. We sedated him. He didn't wake up. Just kept muttering one phrase over and over. It was sleeping. We shouldn't have knocked. Griez made a satellite call. Two hours later, a chopper flew in and took Theo away. We weren't allowed to ask where. The next day, the lake was closed due to geological instability. Rangers told tourists there had been a minor landslide near the shore, but there was no landslide. There was no tremors. The lake was just warm now, too warm. And fish were turning up dead, not floating, just gone. Their bodies collapsed like the bones have been crushed from the inside. Greavves told us we had one more dive. Strictly visual. No sonar, no samples, just observe and report. I knew what he was really saying. One last look, then shut up. We descended late around 7:40 p.m. Low light. Everything dim and murky. The hole had widened. now 15 ft across, edges smooth, like something had pushed its way through. We hovered there, three of us, cameras on, no talking. And then we heard it again, a sound that didn't vibrate through the water. It vibrated in us like a tuning fork in the bones. And then something emerged. I can't describe it right. It wasn't a creature. It wasn't a fish or squid or anything with symmetry. It looked like rock and tissue fused. Eyes like craters, skin that pulsed and flake like magma. Tendrils or maybe roots drifted from its sides like broken nerves. It didn't swim. It just rose. Slow, deliberate, enormous. I remember thinking, "This thing isn't new. It wasn't born. It was waiting, embedded, fossilized, and dreaming beneath Yellowstone until we woke it. Kenny tried to surface, kept upwards, but his mask cracked instantly, imploded. He didn't scream, just twitched. Then his body went limp, bubbles escaping from his mouth. the rest of us. We froze and the thing drifted forward. One eye fixed on me and then I heard it. A whisper, not in English, not even sound. Just an idea shoved into my thoughts like a spike of ice. You are in the blood of the world. We do not forget those who open the wound. We are rising. Carver yanked my harness up from the platform. Saved my life. Two of us surfaced alive, one died and one was never found. They called it a equipment malfunction. The dive was logged as failure due to sensor error and navigation faults. All footage classified. Live log sealed. I was paid double, then sent home, told never to talk. But I am talking because last week I had a dream. The lake was gone. just a crater steaming and something the size of a city was crawling up the edge, not fast, but coming. And in the center of all of it, I saw Theo standing naked on the shore, smiling, eyes glowing like vents. I checked the satellite data that morning. Yellowstone's lake temperature had risen another 3° in the last 2 weeks. The thermal fields are expanding. Wildlife is vanishing and the sonar station nearest the West F it's offline just went dark. I'm telling you now because you won't hear it on the news. They'll blame climate change. They'll blame tectonics. They won't blame what's really down there. Not yet. But is waking up. And when it surfaces, it won't just be yellow stone that burns. It'll be the world's bloodstream boiling from the inside out. [Music] I wasn't supposed to be on that trail. Hell, the trail's not even listed anymore. No signs, no markers. If you check the official topographic for the Yellowstone's cutthroat ridge section, it's just a blank slope now. A quiet admission, but it's there. And there's a cabin up there, too. Old, rotten, still warm inside. And I swear to you, I saw someone living in it. Tall, pale, eyes like smoked glass. They called it the tall guest. I was 27, fresh out of seasonal training, working my first late summer run as a ranger out of Lamar Valley. mostly trail checks, bare awareness patrols, weather warnings, you know, the usual surface level stuff they throw at greenhorns. But I liked it. It was peaceful until one night a senior ranger named Hartley handed me a worn leatherbound notebook and said, "If you ever see the cabin, turn around. Don't knock. Don't look in the windows. And for God's sake, don't stay after dark." I laughed. thought it was hazing. He didn't laugh back. Inside the notebook was scribbled notes, dates, symbols, what looked like a crude map, and this one phrase written on the inside. He walks when the frost comes early. He knocks when the fire burns late. He is not meant to be remembered. Creepy, sure, and nothing unusual for ranger stations. Some of these guys take tradition way too seriously. I shelved it and I moved on. August was winding down. We were tracking an unusual elk migration off route and I got sent up solo to place temporary wavefinding markers near Cutthroat Ridge. That ridge doesn't show up on tourist maps anymore. Officially reforested, but you can still see the old trail if you look. Beaten down by weather more than boots. Midway up the slope, I spotted it. A cabin nestled in the trees. Old forestry design, stone chimney, tin roof, paint long since peeled away. It shouldn't have been there. No structure were listed within 10 mi. And yet, smoke was curling from the chimney. I should have radiated it in. The curiosity is a funny thing. Ignores. It convinces. The door creeps open. Inside the air was warm. Fresh fire in the heath. Two mugs on the table still steaming and a single bed neatly made with boots set perfectly beside it. No one in sight. But there were footprints, large ones. In the ash near the fireplace, they led from the heath to the far wall and stopped. No window, no door, just ended. I took out my phone. No surface. I tried the Ranger radio. Dead static. And then I heard it. Three knocks on the door behind me. I froze. You know that feeling when your body knows something before your brain does. My spine went cold. I turned slowly. No one was there. I stepped out onto the porch. Wind in the trees. No animals, no birds, just three long scratches on the outside of the door. Fresh, deep. Something moved in the trees about 20 yards out. Too tall for a man. Too thin, like a scarecrow made out of wrong angles. I backed up fast, slammed the door, locked it, even though I didn't trust the lock. Then I realized I should have turned around when I saw the cabin. That's what Hartley said. The fire kept burning even though I never added wood. I couldn't figure that out. The mugs were still steaming, too. I checked them again. The liquid wasn't coffee. It was black like ink and thick as syrup. On the wall above the bed, I noticed symbols carved into the wood, circles inside triangles, the same ones from Hartley's notebook. Only these were still dripping sap like they'd just been carved. Then the knocking started again. Three knocks, then silence, then three more on the window. This time I hadn't noticed the window before. It was small, covered in grime. But I could see a shape just beyond it, just standing motionless, headcocked sideways, watching. I didn't see the door open, but when I turned again, it was wide open. And something was standing in the doorway. Tall, slender, wearing a rers's uniform. But the patches were wrong, outdated logo, name tag that simply read, "Guest." Its eyes weren't eyes, just glass discs, like smoke lenses. It stepped inside slowly, like its joint didn't move the right way. Each footstep echoed more than it should have, louder than the wood could produce. And then it spoke with a voice, but inside my head. You saw me, now you host me. I don't remember passing out, but when I woke up, it was dawn. The cabin was cold. No fire, no mugs, no footprints. Just one thing left behind. Artley's notebook sitting on the table. Open to a new page. Ranger Becket. Cutthroat ridge. Enter cabin. Survived the night. Marked. I ran. Never looked back. Didn't stop until I was halfway down the ridge. When I got back, I didn't tell them. Who'd believe me? But that night, I saw scratches on my cabin door. Three deep gouges, fresh. And every morning since, something's been moving my boots, not far, just slightly, lined up like someone stood in them during the night. Sometimes I wake up warm, like a fire's been burning nearby, but there's never any wood, never any ashes. Hardly quit 3 weeks later. just packed up and disappeared. No one saw him go. When I opened his locker, it was empty except for a page torn from notebook taped to the inside. It read, "The guest walks. The guest watches. When remembered, it returns." And below that, a scribbled warning. "The cabin never stays in one place. It finds you. You don't find it." Sometimes visitors report a warm little cabin they stumble into during an unexpected snow. Sometimes rangers hear a knock while alone in the woods, but no one's there. And sometimes if you hike cutthroat ridge after the first frost, you see two mugs steaming on a table just inside the door waiting. [Music] I don't think it was a trail. Not really. It looked like one. Dirt path, warm ground, occasional roots. Hell, my GPS even mapped it like it was a real spur off the main loop. But the further I walked, the more things fell off. Trees spaced too evenly. Birds flying in slow awkward arcs. A wind that never changed direction. And the air, it tasted sweet. Too sweet. Like someone's idea of what fresh air should smell like. That trail isn't on any official Yellowstone map. I checked 100 times. But my GPS still has the track saved. 1.7 mi. Elevation gain 92 feet. Start and end unknown. This was supposed to be my solo day hike before I headed home. A reward to myself after a year of mental exhaustion and two backto back breakups. You know the type. Find yourself in nature. Post a few send shots on Instagram. Cry into your trail mix. I started at Lamar River. Beautiful morning. Sky was pale gold, elk in the distance, total peace. At mile 3, I stopped for water and saw a small footpath curving off to the right, a marked just beyond the split log. It looked old, well wororn, natural. Curiosity got me. I stepped over. Instantly, the GPS registered a new segment. Trail detected. Spur D72 active pathing enabled, which made no sense. I downloaded the park's latest topo the night before. No such trail existed. The first mile, it felt normal at first. Quiet, still. I passed pine trees, then old burned ones from fire maybe a decade ago. But the silence, it wasn't natural, not peaceful. It was expectant. Every step forward felt noticed, like I was moving through something that only pretended to be a forest. About a mile in, I started to feel detached, like my limbs were responding on delay. And the colors, the greens were too deep, not dark, just off spectrum. I checked my GPS, still said I was on trail, same breadcrumb tracking line. But when I zoomed out, nothing. Just a blank section of map with no name. Then I heard it. Laughter, soft, and just ahead, a woman's voice. I stopped, called out, "Hey, someone there." No response. But the laugh came again, closer this time, except it wasn't right. It sounded replayed like a sample being run through cheap speakers. I turned around. The path behind me had changed. No more roots, no more burn marks, just soft ground. Like the trail was editing itself. I ran full panic. But no matter how far I went, my GPS still said trail D72, 1.7 mi remaining. like I hadn't gone anywhere. Around the next bend, I saw people, four of them, standing perfectly still in the middle of the path. Two men, two women, park gear, but no movement. I called out, shaky. Hello. They didn't react, not even blink. I got closer, and that's when I realized they weren't breathing, just frozen. One had a hand up like midwave. Another had her mouth open like she'd been about to scream. Their eyes were gray, clouded, and then one of the men turned to face me. Not moved, turned, no steps, no motion, just swiveled like a mannequin on a lazy Susan. He opened his mouth and said my name. Every part of me said, "Get out." I bolted full sprint back down the path. or what I thought was the path. Now, the trees leaned inwards, their trunks curving just slightly, like they were forming a hallway, a tunnel. My GPS blinked red, then blacked out, battery dead, even though it was at 70% 10 minutes earlier, I started seeing shadows in the trees. Shapes that move wrong, stretched, folded, and the laughter again, closer, louder. But this time it had my voice. I broke through the trees into a perfect circle of grass. Dead silent, no wind, no bugs. In the center, a stone marker, ancientl looking, covered in moss. I felt pull to it. Not curiosity, compulsion, like gravity. I stepped closer, saw carvings, not letters, not numbers, just a spiral of footprints. And at the center, a single word scratched into the stone. Stay. I blinked. The clearing was gone. I was back at the start of the trail. The log, the split, my water bottle still sitting on the rock. My GPS buzzed back to life. Battery 84%. Signal full. I checked the map. No spur D72. Nothing saved. No breadcrumb. No segment, no trail. I was back on Lamar River, but something was wrong. Wrong how? Well, everything looked the same, but it wasn't. The trees were familiar, but slightly twisted. The clouds had a greenish tilt. The air was still sweet, too sweet, like faint pine scent. And the people I passed, they smiled too long, blinked too slowly. One woman said, "Nice day." in a voice that glitched at the end like an old cassette. I made it back to the parking lot. My car was there. Same color, same plate, but the sticker on the windshield. Next year's date, not expired, not yet issued. When I got home, my apartment looked normal, but someone had gone through my things. Not ransacked, just arranged. All my books lined up alphabetically. My fridge, organized by food group. Even the folded laundry had seemed too crisp, like they'd never been worn. And my phone, it had a voicemail from a number listed as unknown trail head. The message was just one sentence whispered in my voice. You weren't supposed to leave. Sometimes I still hear the laughter through walls, through my phone when it rings, in static when I switch the radio too fast. My therapist says I dissociated. That trauma can fracture time in the brain. Maybe, but some nights I wake up and the air smells sweet again, like the trail, and my phone flashes a notification. Trail D72. Distance remaining 1.7 miles. like it's waiting for me to go back. Like it never really let me go.