I’m posting this in hopes that someone out there may be able to help me. I’ve started to write and deleted this so many times over the last six months or so that it would make your head spin. At first, I thought that no one would believe me, so why bother. Then it became a matter of not wanting to relive those events again. Now, it’s all I can think about and I just want it to stop.
Let me explain:
This past June, my wife Michelle and I took our two teenage girls camping. I’d made our reservations online at a campsite we’d never stayed at before, a quaint little place called Lost Creek Campgrounds. It was a little farther away than we usually went, but the reviews were amazing and the pictures were absolutely breathtaking. I just couldn’t pass it up. We used their online map and found an isolated spot that looked perfect for us.
When we got there, we set the canopy up over the included picnic table and were putting up the tent when I heard what I thought was a family out hiking. They seemed to enjoy themselves, so I paid little attention until it seemed like they might be lost; calling out to one another for help. I alerted Michelle and was heading to the nearest trailhead to lend a hand when the voices stopped. I chalked it up to a misunderstanding and helped her finish setting up the tent.
I was exhausted from the drive and getting camp set up. The kids were complaining about all the bugs and lack of cell phone service. Michelle’s energy kept us all going as she hummed some early ‘90s tune stuck in her head while getting the campfire going. I started thinking about that family in the woods again, but since I hadn’t heard anything in a little while I could only assume everything turned out okay.
It was getting dark, so we roasted some hotdogs, made some s’mores, and took turns trying to tell the scariest story before turning in. The girls regaled us with some things they’d read on the no sleep subreddit about a Search and Rescue officer. I went with some classic campfire stories like the babysitter and the clown statue and the man with the hook. Michelle was the clear winner with some story I’d never heard her tell before about the time she and her siblings encountered what they thought was a wendigo while camping in San Antonio.
In the morning we spent some time relaxing at the beach, and just enjoying our surroundings. It was a beautiful day and I couldn’t help but think it odd that we were the only ones in the water. There wasn’t even a single boat out past the buoys to disturb the still and tranquil lake. It was nice to have the place to ourselves though. I went swimming with the girls and teased them about all the things they couldn’t see in the murky lake water while Michelle laughed from the shore and worked on her tan. We had a few sandwiches for lunch and didn’t head back to camp until the early evening.
As night fell, I talked them all into doing some night hiking. It was a family tradition that I insisted we keep up on every trip. We wandered around the circuitous trails near our campsite. The woods were an entirely different place at night. There could be something new and exciting around every twist and turn of the trail. Having only the beam of your flashlight to illuminate things added that little taste of adrenaline that kept us going for a few hours.
Heading around the last circuit back to camp, I began hearing familiar voices asking for help. This time, Michelle and the girls heard them as well. We headed toward the voices to offer some assistance, but the closer we got to where we thought they were, the further into the maples, hemlocks, and white ash trees the voices could be heard. After 10 minutes I led us back to camp. I didn’t make a big deal about it, but I sensed something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones somehow.
I put on a fake smile and teased the girls about our experience to calm them down. We all decided that it was probably just some bobcats. You couldn’t go camping anywhere in Ohio without hearing them at some point or another. Sometimes they could sound like a screaming woman or even a crying child. They went to bed content with that information and fell fast asleep in their sleeping bags.
Michelle and I curled up by the campfire to enjoy the rare silence together. The older the girls got, the harder it was to come by. An hour later, we heard our youngest daughter calling for us from the woods. That wasn’t possible, she was still curled up asleep in her sleeping bag. We could see her. Before we could react, we heard our other daughter’s voice coming from the other side of the woods. She was also fast asleep in the sleeping bag next to her sister.
We rushed into the tent and locked it down. It was an all seasons tent. It was thick and durable with locking zippers. We battened down the hatches and held onto each other while I kept an eye out through the little window.
I must have dozed off because the sound of a zipper woke me up. I had locked them from the inside, so I assumed one of the girls had gone to the bathroom. Still, I moved to the entry, fearing the worst. When I saw everyone in their sleeping bags, My blood went cold…
The zipper inched upwards. I grabbed and held it tight. I saw an impossibly long finger through the screen. I told who or whatever it was to go the fuck away. I took a deep breath as I heard quiet footsteps moving away from the tent. The lock was broken at my feet.
Before I could process anything, I heard movement. This time it came from multiple directions. I considered waking everyone. On one hand, I needed help. On the other, a screaming wife and kids seemed like a bad idea. I let them sleep, for better or worse.
I felt surrounded, and I smelled something odd; copper and nag champa. I could make out enormous shapes through the tent fabric. The voices rang out as more of them moved in close enough to brush against the tent. I bit my lip till it bled, closing my eyes to steady my nerves. I heard the voices of the family from the first day, the voices of my still-sleeping daughters and wife. I nearly lost my hard-earned composure when I heard my voice whispering near where I crouched.
I realized what I had missed in the voices all along. While they sounded like copies of human voices, there was something distinctly off about them. Like mimicking instead of speaking. Piecing words together form conversations without matching tones or tempos. I focused so much on how they sounded I wasn’t listening to what they were saying until it became one cacophonic burst of repetition.
“Hungry.”
As the first few jagged claws tore long streaks all around the tent, a bright light filled the camp from an unknown source. Through a rip in the entrance door, I could see one of them. It must have been seven feet tall and was impossibly thin. Its mottled gray skin stretched so tight over its bones that I could see its organs pulse beneath. It glared at me with empty eye sockets so deep that no light could escape them.
It lunged at me, ripping the rest of the fabric to shreds as I finally screamed to wake up Michelle and the girls. I knew at that moment; I was dead. There was nowhere to run, and soon we would all be devoured. I shut my eyes as it tore into my chest. An explosion of sound followed by warm liquid raining down on me assaulted my senses, but somehow I was alive. By the time I opened my eyes I’d heard a dozen more small explosions in quick succession, mixed with the confused screams of my family as they were harshly awakened.
Men approached the wreckage of our tent, shotguns in hand. They ushered us to their trucks and drove us into the nearby town. I had so many questions, but the men stayed quiet till they got us to safety.
They called them Forest Mimics. Something had been stirring them up over the last few weeks and more people had gone missing than usual. They’d shut down the campgrounds until they could sort it out. Our online reservation had somehow gone unnoticed, and by the time they stumbled upon our camp it had nearly been too late…
We never went back for our gear. As a family, we stick to resorts and indoor lodgings these days. Michelle and the girls were lucky. They didn’t see what I saw. To them, the story has become “that time a pack of wild animals attacked our tent.”
For me, it’s something different entirely. I’ve developed PTSD and severe insomnia since it all happened. Not even the medication I’ve been prescribed is helping. Some nights I swear I can still hear those voices chanting that word, hungry, in the dark recesses of our home.
A month ago the dreams began, and that’s why I’m finally posting this now. In those dreams I can hear more than just that single word. They call out to me in their staggered amalgam of voices, their legion-like staccato, shrieking and begging me to come home. On those nights, I wake up crying.
I don’t cry out of fear or some sense of personal preservation, no. I cry because the longing in their voices is palpable. I cry because of the pain that flares up in the scar that they left on my chest. I cry because…because I’m…hungry…