I’ve always been a nature lover, but not quite enough of one to convince myself to trek off trail and set up camp. I’d always wanted to, but I have a paralyzing fear of being torn to shreds by a bear, despite living in a place where the scariest animal alive is the fat and happy dumpster diving squirrel that lives on my street. I call him Stan. He hates me.
My resolve to never venture into the woods overnight remained intact until the day I got dumped. I wasted seven years of my life with someone who ended up boinking my best friend, and I was so delusional that I didn’t even figure it out. She ended things with me. She confessed to me and admitted that she didn’t even feel the least bit bad about what she’d done. I sure felt like shit, though, and wandered home with no idea what to do next.
During my walk thunder clouds rolled in, billowing and black, threatening to unleash torrents of water at any given moment. The first drops smacked me in the eyeballs as I stared up at the sky. I ducked under the eaves of a nearby business right as sheets of rain plummeted to the earth.
What a shit day I thought to myself, contemplating my situation. I knew I didn’t have time to be too existential; I had to make a decision: stay or run. Opting for the latter I tried to shimmy my sweatshirt over my head and took off at a full sprint, getting soaked to the bone before finally reaching my flat.
Once inside, the toasty air washing over me, I changed out of my saturated clothes and took a scalding shower. While towel drying my hair I noticed them: my hiking boots, still in the box, forgotten in the corner of my messy room. I walked over to them, and something clicked; I decided right then to finally take the leap and head out for a night to camp.
Good decision making has never been my strong suit, as evidenced by the fact that I decided to go the next day, alone, with no time to pre plan or even do the most basic of research, let alone break in my boots, something I’d come to regret. Like an idiot I simply picked a path I knew of and decided to hike until I felt like setting up camp.
I set out at 8 am, gear packed and ready to go. I made my way to the trail which was a few hours north of my hometown, outside a desolate former mining town with very few residents nearby. I thought this would mean I’d have very few people to interact with during my trip, which was exactly what I thought I needed.
My hike was generally uneventful. I stopped at times to admire the way the wind tickled the leaves on the trees, listening to its merry whistle as it traveled at sensational speeds through the forest. Before long I managed to find a small, flat clearing, the sun rays breaking through the thick foliage above as if to point and tell me that I’d found my perfect spot.
After hours, many swears and multiple Band-Aids my tent was pitched, supplies unpacked, and firewood gathered. I struggled to start the fire, but after a few attempts it roared to life just in time as the sun began its slow descent, the darkness encroaching. As my ability to rely on my vision waned, I began to pay attention to the sounds of the forest, and at that point I realized… there weren’t any noises apart from the cheerfully crackling fire. The wind had ceased whistling. No bugs could be heard chittering. No birds were chirping. How long has it been so silent? I wondered, suddenly shivering and noticing that the temperature must’ve fallen at least 10 or 15 degrees, warmth radiating from the fire and hitting my cheeks but no longer enveloping me.
Snap, my head whipped around, eyes straining to cut through the blackness in the direction of the jarring sound. My chest tightened, breath caught in my throat, as I stared into the void.
A series of snaps came from behind me in quick succession, ceasing the moment my head turned to the noise, as if someone was playing red light green light as they approached my camp. I waited for the intruder to show themselves, but all that became visible was a wispy black fog that wafted gently toward me.
Silently cutting through the black fog, a hulking, black figure emerged. As it neared the glow of the fire it became apparent that this was no innocent visitor. Before me stood something that looked like a wolf, about five to six feet long, that slowly snarled and pulled back its lips to reveal menacing teeth, licking its lips while staring at me. But something was off. The animal’s eyes glowed a crimson red, and the fire did not flicker within them. It saw nothing but its prey which, unfortunately, was me.
I knew I could never outrun it and, even if I wanted to, I was glued to my seat, completely complacent in the attack that was about to take place. But the animal didn’t come any closer. Instead, black tendrils extended from the fog, tickling my nose before forcing their way up it, burning unrelentingly while continuing into my body. I could feel them tickling my throat, scratching my brain, tangling my stomach into an impossible knot. The edges of my vision began to turn black, and I lost all sense of time, all memory of why or where I was. I was a shell, a means to an end for whatever nefarious deeds the fog wanted to inhabit my vessel for.
I tell you all this because I awoke a few weeks ago on the side of the road, and those around me tell me it had been about two weeks since I left my home. They told me I’d been missing. I was covered in dried red and brown stains. I had no recollection of what I’d been doing all that time. The police are involved, and I don’t know what to tell them.
Ever since I returned home people have looked at me funny, as if I’m diseased. Even Stan the squirrel has scurried away the moment I encroach on his territory. He hides and, I didn’t know squirrels could even do this, seems to snarl at me. If I thought he hated me before, he absolutely does now.
I thought that the fog had left my body, but lately I find myself losing more and more moments.
I’m terrified of what I may be doing during the time I lose, and what I did during the weeks lost. I just wanted to go camping.