This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheDarkerMatters on 2024-10-13 04:32:04+00:00.
The undergrowth and soil crunched with each step, as I took a deep breath and soaked in the natural beauty around me. It was a moderate 67 degrees Fahrenheit, birds were singing, and the sun was shining down as I walked along the Strawberry Creek Trail. In about a half mile, I'd go off the trail to the designated backwoods camping area. The bubbling of the stream and the whisper of wind in the branches all sounded like an old friend welcoming me home.
I had always considered Great Basin to be a hidden gem, it's the least visited National Park in the states. In a few hours of hiking, I had only encountered 2 other people and 1 dog. And when I started into the wilderness to camp, I knew for sure I would be alone for the whole week. Working as a high school teacher, I got my fill of people every damn week.
Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, but sometimes, between them, my coworkers, supervisors, and angry parents, I could just feel like receding into a shell of jaded mistrust. Coming out here and enjoying the silence and peace of nature always made me feel better. I saw the familiar bend in the trail and started my way off the side and towards Blue Ridge.
It was always my favorite spot to set up camp. A beautiful, peaceful meadow right under the shadow of Wheeler Peak. It was a strenuous hike, taking at least 2 days of nonstop marching from the parking area at the trailhead. But it was perfect, and it was always there for me, no matter what had happened in the 358 days leading up to this, I knew this week would be perfect.
As I crested the ridge, I looked down at the field of small, flowering bushes. It was exactly as I remembered, always even more beautiful as the setting sun painted it in beautiful red hues. That's when I saw a tent, parked exactly where I planned on setting up. It looked like a small, one-person tent, green canvas, with a cold fire pit in front. I felt frustrated, then sad, then frustrated at myself for these immature feelings.
It's not like you own the park, you can always find a different spot.
I knew that rationally, I should not be upset by this. But emotionally, it felt like I had been betrayed by a family member. I sighed, and trudged my way down to the field, setting down my pack at a spot about a thousand feet away.
Who knows, maybe this could be good for you, one person with a shared interest instead of the usual crowd at work.
I started making camp, trying my best to stay optimistic as I set up my tent and began to arrange a campfire. The sun had set completely by the time the fire was merrily crackling away. I ate a quick meal, just some canned soup I had brought. I'd be going fishing in the morning, but I always packed enough food just in case. I glanced over at the other tent as I chewed slowly. It was almost invisible in the waning moonlight.
I hadn't seen anyone enter or exit the tent for the whole 2 hours I'd been there. And the strangest part was there was no fire or even the glow of a lantern.
It must be on some all-day hike.
I tried to rationalize it, but something about the old, weathered tapestry hung in a sloppy triangle shape made me uneasy. I was being ridiculous, I knew. It was probably just a leftover from being bitter about having a neighbor in the first place. It made me think about back when I got ripped from my position in the middle school since they had fired a high-school English teacher. In a day, my workload and class size doubled. It was the same feeling of something familiar being changed suddenly.
I chuckled at myself, for being so emotionally brittle.
I need to relax and stop overthinking everything.
I turned my thoughts to the rest of my week's plans as I slipped into my sleeping bag, letting the gentle breeze lull me asleep. The moon was shining coldly when I woke up with a jolt. I tried to stay still, listening carefully as I heard another twig snap just a yard from my tent. I could make out a dark silhouette, the figure of a man, projected on the nylon of my shelter.
He seemed to be pacing like he was looking for something he had misplaced in the night. My heart began to pound as he slowly, quietly approached. As stealthy as I could manage with my heart bursting from my chest, I reached towards my pack, scared to death but still planning for the worst. Inside, I knew my Colt 1911 sat fully loaded, just in case. Call me paranoid, but with the amount of mountain lions out here in the Basin, I always came prepared.
"Hello."
The voice came from the figure, which now stood in arm's reach of my tent flap. It sounded tentative, stuttering, almost nervous. Like a child going to wake his mother when he had a stomachache. I held my breath, my trembling hand gripping the cold metal of my firearm.
"Are you ok?"
The voice came again, definitely masculine, but it sounded more confident now. Paternal in the way it expressed almost genuine concern. I don't know what possessed me to respond. I think it was reflexive, some innate Midwestern politeness.
"I'm fine, just leave me alone," I croaked, a hoarse reply barely quieter than a shout.
We sat there in silence for a few more seconds, then the figure slowly walked away. He stalked off in an almost dejected manner, his head downcast. I shuddered, the interaction surreal and terrifying. But as much as I would have loved to write it off as a dream, I knew I was awake, feeling the indent left on my palm from the vice grip on my pistol. When the sun rose a few hours later, I felt no relief.
I knew, deep down in my gut, the mysterious visitor was from the tent nearby. I resolved then and there to go and introduce myself. I was still trying to rationalize what had happened as perfectly normal. Maybe he was just socially awkward; maybe he was sleepwalking. Either way, I felt dread tie a knot in my stomach even tighter with each step as I approached.
The campsite was even more dilapidated than I initially thought. The tent was torn, with ragged holes in the side, and a small, black backpack lay haphazardly by the fire. Looking at the state of the charcoal, I'd estimate no one had used the fire for at least a few months. I hesitated, a few feet from the lean-to. I could see a lumpy, human shape in the sleeping bag inside through the torn patches on the side.
"He-hello?" I called out, my voice quaking with fear.
I sat in silence. Nothing budged, and it felt like even the birdsong of the waking world faded away. It was just me, and the sleeping form in front of me. His breathing seemed slow, the relaxed inhaling and exhaling rhythmic. With sudden concern for the well-being of my fellow camper, I resolved to try once more.
"Hey, are you ok?"
The moment the words left my lips, the figure sat up straight. His eyes stared forward, dark hair falling loosely in front of them. He was shirtless, his frame skeletal and pale. He smiled a vacant smile and began to nod slowly. I suddenly felt the way a mouse must feel right before the trap sprung and snapped its neck. I backed away slowly, then turned and walked back to my tent briskly.
I had made up my mind. I was moving camp, packing everything up, and heading another half-day south. It wasn't just fear, I also knew I wouldn't be able to relax and enjoy my vacation if I was watching over my shoulder the whole time. But things would need to be significantly worse than a slightly strange, emaciated night owl for me to give up the hard-earned trip.
I didn't even bother looking back at the stranger's camp as I made my way down towards Stella Lake. I wanted to take a break and get a quick swim in the ice-cold, snow-fed water. I was stiff after spending the whole night crouched, fondling my 1911. I made it to the lake by noon, dropped my pack on the rocky shore, and set my clothes inside it. I brought swim trunks for this exact reason, and I gasped as I settled into the gently lapping, frosty waves.
I saw a party of hikers on the opposite shore and gave a friendly wave. It made me feel safer, knowing that it wasn't just me and the freak I'd seen earlier. I swam a few laps until I began to shiver uncontrollably. I waded back to the shore where I had left my belongings, I grabbed the towel I set out and dried off.
It was just after 1 PM, so if I left now, I could make it to Spring Creek, where I planned to stay the rest of the trip. I opened my backpack and immediately noticed the absence of the clothes I had just put in. I dug through the pack frantically, laying every article out in a line on the ground. Everything else was exactly as it should be, I was especially relieved to find my gun, but my dirty laundry was gone. In the few minutes I spent in the lake, someone grabbed my shirt, pants, and underwear and ran off into the forest without me noticing.
And I bet I know exactly who did it.
The stranger from earlier must have followed me. Whatever fucked up reason he came to my tent, stole my clothes, I didn't want to know. At this point, I changed my plans completely. I'd work my way back towards the trailhead I had parked at. I'd cut around the base of Buck Mountain through the woods. There was a community trail there, not on any maps but well-worn.
I knew that it meant spending one more night in the park since it was a steep hike, but it was the most direct route back. I threw on my extra change of clothes and started a double-time pace up the gentle rocky slope into the forest. The whole time I was frantically looking at all ...
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