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I still think about that night sometimes. I was thirteen—maybe fourteen—and my mom and I were staying at a campground in North Idaho while we looked for a place to live. The forest up there is beautiful in the daytime, all green and quiet, a lake about a quarter mile away, but it changes after dark. The trees feel endless, and every sound carries.
That night there was a full moon, bright enough to paint silver across the branches. My mom and I had fought earlier; she was angry because I’d run off to swim and scared her half to death. When we argued, I ended up sleeping outside by the fire. I dragged two camp chairs together and tried to pretend it was comfortable. The air smelled of pine and smoke, and the world was still except for a strange low hum and an occasional screeching sound from the trail.
I couldn’t sleep. Around one in the morning something moved among the trees. At first I thought it was a stray dog. Then I realized it wasn’t walking quite right—too low to the ground, too deliberate. When it came closer, moonlight hit it, and I could see that it was shaped almost like a person but not exactly. Its limbs looked thin, the skin pale enough that I could make out the bones beneath.
It stopped a few feet from me. For a long time neither of us moved. I remember my heartbeat filling my ears, the fire crackling, and how absolutely quiet the forest became. It felt as if time had stretched, but when I finally dared to check my phone again, two hours had passed. Then it made a sound—half hum, half screech—and turned back toward the trail. I didn’t move until sunrise.
I never told anyone back then. I was afraid they’d think I’d dreamed it or imagined it out of fear and exhaustion. But the memory has stayed sharp: the silence, the firelight, the feeling of being watched. Every so often, when I’m alone at night and the house creaks or the lights flicker, I remember those eyes and wonder what really sat by the fire with me.