There’s an old urban legend in my town. As the story goes, sometime in the early 80s a hiker got lost in the wilds. All through the night, people in nearby camps saw his torchlight, but never responded. He was presumed dead months later. From then on, they say, at night near the bush or in nearby towns a torchlight with no apparent source could be seen, a remnant of the hiker trying to get out. Over the years, the tale took on a sinister tone, bringing with it an aura of dread at its mention.
When I heard the story, I laughed. Such terror for a ghost who shone a torch? It was ridiculous.
How wrong I was.
It all started with a dare. “I dare you…to go into the forest and summon the Hiker!” Davey held the torch under his chin, shadows dancing in a hideous mask.
“Pfft,” I scoffed. “A silly ghost story? That’s not even scary!”
There were five of us. Davey, Anna, Mace, Katarina and me, sprawled in various positions on Davey’s bedroom floor. Our costumes lay around the room, mixing with old socks and half-finished mugs of tea. Kat stuffed her mouth with another handful of Halloween candy into her mouth. Her chewing filled the otherwise silent room.
After a pause, Davey continued. “Well, if you think it’s fake, then prove it!”
“Fine! But you all have to come with me to see how stupid y’all are.”
We snuck out on the pretense of going for more candy and rode our bikes to the edge of the forest. The story specified that the Torchlight, and, presumably, the Hiker, only appeared on certain nights, but apparently we were lucky. Not long after venturing into the murky trees, a flash of brilliant white began to dart through them.
“Hey! Mr Hiker!” I called. The light flashed, as though in acknowledgement.
We chased the light deeper into the forest, the Torchlight’s flashing becoming increasingly erratic. Suddenly, it stopped.
A blanket of darkness descended around us, suddenly endless and suffocating. I could feel Davey’s breath on my neck, and Anna’s had grip my arm. Mace’s squeal disappeared into the trees.
A faint sound came from far away, slowly getting closer. A faint scuffing sound, like shoes over carpet.
The scuffling became a scraping, the leaves cracking under its touch.
The scraping became a cacophony of cracking trees and falling debris, as a frenzied panting voice charged towards us.
“RUN!” Kat’s voice snapped me out of my trance as Anna dragged me from the trees. As I ran, a slice of moonlight illuminated our pursuer. I almost threw up.
The creature was snow white, and hairless from head to toe. Comically enlarged arms reached out for us, tipped in bloodstained claws. A tattered outfit and backpack hung perilously off its frame. A hiking backpack.
So the Hiker hadn’t perished after all.
Mace was the first to die. He tripped on a tree root, face planting into the soil. The Hiker reached him moments later, tearing him apart with his claws. A spray of something warm and wet pelted my back as Mace screamed and screamed and screamed. Anna and Kat were next. Kat was slowing, getting tired. The monster took her too, this time savagely ripping her apart like a doll. Anna pushed me away as her foot caught on another root and something ripped, her eyes pleading with me to run.
I sprinted through the forest alone, branches and thorns ripping into my skin. Tears ran down my face, mingling with dirt. My heart pounded in my throat, and I felt a phantom breath on my back. I whimpered, convinced that the Hiker was behind me.
I fell heavily as my foot met air and crashed down with a sickening crack as my leg erupted in pain.
I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting claws in my flesh at any moment. After a few seconds of silence, I opened my eyes.
The Hiker watched me. Its face was haggard and pale, his eyes pitch black puddles of emptiness. It opened and closed its mouth, revealing red stained teeth, and turned away, sprinting into the forest.
In the end, the Sheriff found me and took me home. I was taken to a hospital to get my leg fixed, and found that Davey was found alive and whole but in shock in a ditch at the outskirts of the forest. They ruled the others as an animal attack.
Years passed. My leg healed, and we moved away from our remote country town. I settled down, got a job, started a family, but I never forgot the Hiker nor the Torchlight.
I researched whenever I could, piecing together old cases and possible culprits. Soon, I had part of the picture complete.
What the stories don’t say is that the Hiker, which my research revealed to be one Moses Parker Smith, never had his body recovered. The “attacks”, a string of brutal mutilations of people in the surrounding area ruled as animal attacks, began soon after. My accursed adventure was only one in a long line of mysterious deaths.
But then life got in the way. Covid hit, and I was left scrambling to adapt to the changing world. I didn’t notice until far too late to realise that similar attacks were being reported farther and farther from the forest.
One night, I saw a torchlight flashing in the distance from my window. At first, I dismissed it as some kids messing around. Then poor Amara Green was ripped to pieces 2 miles from her house.
I haven’t mentioned one detail of my research yet. Everyone who was present during one of the Hiker’s attacks died, except me and Davey. I don’t know why he let us live that fateful night, but he’s coming to finish the job.
For the Torchlight isn’t a cry for help. It’s a warning.