Lost and Hunted: A Hiker’s Nightmare
Hiking is supposed to be an adventure, a way to reconnect with nature and escape the chaos of daily life. But sometimes, the wilderness has other plans. What started as an ordinary solo trek quickly became the most harrowing experience of my life—one that still haunts me to this day.
I had set out early in the morning, eager to explore a remote trail deep in the mountains. The weather was perfect, and the scenery was breathtaking. Towering trees lined the path, their leaves whispering in the breeze. But as the hours passed, I realized something unsettling—I had strayed off course. My GPS had lost signal, and the map I carried seemed useless. With every step, the trail became less defined, the dense forest swallowing my path.
At first, I remained calm. I had enough supplies to last a day, and I was confident I could find my way back. But as the sun dipped below the treetops, my confidence wavered. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut—I was completely lost. And worse, I wasn’t alone. I could feel it. A presence. Something was out there, watching.
At first, I told myself it was just my imagination. But then I heard it—heavy footsteps crunching leaves behind me. I stopped. The footsteps stopped. My breath hitched. Slowly, I turned around, expecting to see an animal. But there was nothing. Just the eerie stillness of the forest. A cold shiver ran down my spine.
As night fell, the sounds grew more sinister. Twigs snapped in the distance. Something rustled in the bushes. Then came the low, guttural growl. My blood ran cold. It wasn’t the sound of a bear or a mountain lion. It was something deeper, more primal. I gripped my pocketknife, knowing it wouldn’t do much against whatever was lurking in the dark.
I started moving, faster now, my flashlight flickering in the dense blackness. Shadows danced between the trees, and every time I looked back, I swore I saw movement. Panic clawed at my chest. I didn’t know what was worse—the fear of being lost or the terror of knowing I was being hunted.
Then, out of nowhere, I saw it—a small wooden cabin, hidden between the trees. Relief washed over me as I sprinted toward it, pounding on the door. No answer. I pushed it open, praying for shelter. Inside, dust covered every surface. It was abandoned, but at least it was shelter. I locked the door, my heart racing, and waited.
All night, I heard it circling the cabin. Scratching. Heavy breathing. A guttural growl that made my skin crawl. I sat in silence, gripping my knife, waiting for the horror to end. When morning finally arrived, the sounds were gone. I stepped outside, only to find massive claw marks etched into the wood near the door.
To this day, I don’t know what was stalking me that night. I never found that trail again, no matter how many maps I checked. But one thing is certain—there are things in the wilderness we are not meant to understand. And some hikes? Some hikes you don’t come back from the same.