Man in the Pines

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of orange and purple as the shadows of the pine trees lengthened across the forest floor. I had always found comfort in the woods, a place to escape the noise and demands of daily life. The deep silence, the earthy scent of pine needles, the way the sunlight filtered through the trees—all of it was a balm to my restless mind. But on this trip, something felt off, like a subtle wrongness that I couldn’t quite place.

It began as an ordinary weekend getaway. Just me, my gear, and the wilderness. I had found a spot deep in the forest, far from the well-trodden trails, far from anyone else. It was isolated, quiet—the perfect retreat. I set up my tent as dusk settled in, gathered some wood, and started a fire. The flames crackled, sending sparks up into the darkening sky, while I leaned back against a fallen log, enjoying the serenity of the woods.

But as night fell, the peace I had come to seek began to unravel. It started with a faint rustling in the underbrush. At first, I dismissed it as the wind or maybe a small animal foraging nearby. But the sound didn’t stop. It was rhythmic, almost deliberate, like footsteps. I scanned the perimeter of the firelight, my eyes straining to see beyond the dancing shadows, but there was nothing. Just the darkness pressing in, the trees standing tall and silent.

I tried to shrug it off, telling myself it was nothing, just the natural sounds of the forest. But the unease settled deep in my gut, a gnawing sense that I wasn’t alone. As the night deepened, the rustling grew louder, circling the campsite like a predator sizing up its prey. I couldn’t see anything beyond the circle of firelight, but I could feel something out there, watching me, waiting. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I stood up, flashlight in hand, and shone it into the darkness. The beam cut through the night, illuminating nothing but trees and underbrush. The footsteps stopped, as if whatever was out there had frozen the moment the light swept over them. I held my breath, listening, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire. I tried to shake off the fear, but it clung to me like a second skin.

When I finally crawled into my tent, I lay there in the dark, listening to every creak, every rustle, every snap of a twig. Sleep was elusive, slipping through my grasp every time I closed my eyes. I heard the footsteps again, soft and deliberate, moving slowly around the perimeter of the campsite. The sound grew louder, closer, until it seemed like whoever—or whatever—it was, was right outside my tent. I held my breath, clutching the knife I always kept within reach. My heart pounded in my chest as I strained to hear any sign of movement.

The footsteps stopped just outside the tent, followed by a low, raspy breath. It was so close I could almost feel it, as if whoever was out there was just inches away, separated only by the thin fabric of the tent. I lay there, frozen, every muscle tensed, waiting for something—anything—to happen. But nothing did. After what felt like an eternity, the breathing ceased, and the footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.

When the first light of dawn finally broke through the trees, I unzipped the tent cautiously, half expecting to find someone—or something—waiting for me. But the campsite was empty, the fire reduced to cold ashes. The woods were silent, almost unnaturally so. There was no birdsong, no rustling of animals in the underbrush, just an oppressive stillness that pressed down on me.

As I walked around the campsite, I noticed something that made my blood run cold—footprints. Not mine, but someone else’s. They circled the camp, weaving between the trees, coming right up to the edge of the tent before disappearing back into the forest. The tracks were fresh, made sometime during the night. My heart raced as I followed them to the edge of the campsite, where they vanished into the underbrush. Whoever had been watching me hadn’t left—he was still out there, somewhere, waiting.

I tried to convince myself it was just a lost hiker, someone who had wandered too close to my camp by accident. But deep down, I knew better. This was no accident. Whoever it was had been watching me, stalking me, staying just out of sight. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I packed up quickly, deciding to move deeper into the woods, hoping to put some distance between myself and whatever—or whoever—was out there.

As I hiked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. The forest, usually so full of life, was eerily silent. The birds were quiet, the insects absent. Even the wind seemed to have died down, leaving the woods in a hushed stillness that felt unnatural. The further I walked, the stronger the feeling became, until I was certain that someone was trailing me, keeping just out of sight.

I stopped several times, turning around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was out there. But there was never anyone, just the same impenetrable wall of trees and shadows. Yet, every time I started walking again, the sound would return—a faint rustling, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. It was always there, just at the edge of hearing, following me no matter how fast I walked or how many times I doubled back.

The woods seemed to close in around me, the trees pressing closer together, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. The trail, once clear, became overgrown and hard to follow. I found myself stumbling over roots and rocks, my progress slowing to a crawl. The sense of being watched grew stronger with every step, the feeling that I was being herded, guided deeper into the forest, away from safety.

By the time I stopped to set up camp that night, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. The unease had settled into a cold, hard knot in my chest. I chose a spot in a small clearing, surrounded by dense underbrush. I built a fire, larger than usual, and sat close to it, my back to the flames, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

But the night brought no comfort. The rustling started as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, that familiar sound of footsteps circling the camp. It was closer this time, more deliberate, as if whoever was out there wanted me to know he was there. I strained my ears, trying to track the sound, but it moved too quickly, too unpredictably, always staying just beyond the reach of the firelight.

I tried to rationalize it, to convince myself it was just an animal—a deer, maybe, or a curious fox. But the footsteps were too heavy, too human. They paused frequently, as if the person was watching me, studying me, deciding what to do next. I heard him messing with the fire, picking up sticks and dropping them, the sound of dry wood cracking underfoot. He never spoke, never revealed himself, but I could feel his presence, a weight in the darkness pressing down on me.

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard him again, moving around the campsite, always just out of sight. When morning came, I found more footprints, more signs that he had been there, watching me as I slept. They were everywhere—around the fire, near the tent, even by my pack. He had been close enough to touch me, yet I had never seen him.

Panic set in. I broke camp quickly, moving as fast as I could through the dense forest, but the fear stayed with me, gnawing at my sanity. No matter how fast I walked, no matter how far I went, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still out there, following me. The footsteps were always there, trailing behind me, getting closer with every step. I started to feel like I was being hunted, like prey caught in a deadly game.

The forest seemed endless, the trees stretching on forever in every direction. The underbrush grew thicker, the path more treacherous. I stumbled and fell more than once, scraping my hands and knees on the rough ground, but I couldn’t stop. Every time I slowed down, I heard him, closer now, the sound of his footsteps matching mine, like an echo. He was getting bolder, coming closer with each passing hour.

By the time I stopped to set up camp that night, I was a wreck. My nerves were shot, my hands trembling as I gathered wood for the fire. The clearing I found was small, the trees pressing in on all sides, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms. I built the fire high, casting light as far as I could, but it wasn’t enough. The darkness was too thick, too oppressive.

The footsteps started almost immediately, that same soft, deliberate sound circling the camp. He was closer now, so close I could almost feel his presence, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I sat by the fire, knife in hand, my eyes darting around the darkness, but he never showed himself. He didn’t need to. The fear was enough.

I could hear him moving through the trees, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the occasional snap of a twig. He was careful, deliberate, never making too much noise, never giving away his position. But I knew he was out there, watching me, waiting for the right moment. The night dragged on, every minute an eternity. I didn’t sleep at all, too afraid to close my eyes, too terrified of what might happen if I did.

When dawn finally broke, I was beyond exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open. I stumbled out of the tent, half expecting to find him waiting for me. But the campsite was empty, the fire reduced to ashes. The footprints, however, were everywhere, crisscrossing the camp, leading off into the trees. He had been so close, so close I could have reached out and touched him.

I packed up and started hiking again, my heart pounding in my chest. The woods were silent, the trees looming overhead like giants. The feeling of being watched never left me, the sense that he was still out there, following me, tracking my every move. I walked for hours, pushing myself to the limit, desperate to put distance between us, but it was no use. He was always there, just out of sight, just out of reach.

The fourth night was the worst. I didn’t bother with a fire—I knew it wouldn’t help. I found a small hollow in the trees, a place where I could hunker down and wait out the night. I sat there, my back against a tree, knife in hand, listening to the sounds of the forest. The footsteps started as soon as the sun set, that same soft, deliberate sound moving through the trees. He was closer now, so close I could hear his breathing, ragged and shallow.

I held my breath, trying to stay still, trying to blend into the shadows, but I knew he could see me. I could feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. The footsteps circled the hollow, then stopped. I listened, straining to hear any sound, any movement, but there was nothing. Just silence. He was out there, somewhere, waiting for me to make a move.

The hours dragged on, each one more agonizing than the last. I felt like a rabbit trapped in a snare, helpless and alone. My mind raced, imagining all the ways this could end, all the terrible things that could happen. But he never came closer, never showed himself. He didn’t need to. The fear was enough. He was in control, always in control, and I was powerless to stop him.

When dawn finally broke, I was a wreck. My hands trembled as I packed up my gear, my heart racing as I started walking. I didn’t know which way to go, didn’t care. I just needed to get out, to escape this nightmare. The woods felt like a maze, the trees closing in around me, the path twisting and turning in ways that made no sense. I was lost, hopelessly lost, and he was still out there, somewhere, watching me.

It took hours, but eventually, I broke through the tree line and saw the road, my car still parked where I had left it. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with dread. Even as I threw my pack into the car and sped away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still out there, watching me leave, letting me go.

The drive home was a blur, my mind racing with everything that had happened. The fear clung to me like a second skin, refusing to let go. Even when I finally walked through my front door, safe in my own home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. That night, I heard things—faint rustling, the sound of footsteps outside my window. I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination, that I was still on edge from the experience, but deep down, I knew better.

I stopped going into the woods after that. The memory of those footsteps, that constant presence just out of sight, haunts me. Sometimes, late at night, I find myself staring out the window, half expecting to see something moving in the darkness, something waiting for me to return. And when I do, I swear I can hear it—a faint tapping, just at the edge of hearing, like fingers drumming on glass.

He’s still out there, somewhere, waiting. And I think he knows where to find me.