I grew up in a small town near the coast. For most of the year, not much happened, but during the summer tourists would come and fill up our town’s hotels. The reason? We had a really nice beach that surfers and wakeboarders loved. My best friend and I grew up there, and every summer we would find a job in the tourist industry. Those months were when our town made a lot of money. Because of that, I never took vacations in the summer. Instead, I went on trips with my best friend after the summer, usually in the fall. We always did something together. Once, we went to Mexico, and another time we hiked up to the big Hollywood sign. It was fun, but not really exciting. So, we decided to try something more adventurous – hardcore hiking and camping. My friend suggested the Appalachian Mountains. He said the nature there was beautiful, with mountains to explore. I looked up some pictures and was immediately sold. It looked amazing, exactly what we wanted. We worked during the summer and saved enough money for camping gear, transportation, and food. The first few days of our trip were fantastic. We hiked through forests, hills, and mountains. It was a really beautiful place. Every night, we built a campfire and talked about old memories. But on the fifth night, something went wrong. My friend brought up our music classes from when we were kids. Our teacher didn’t like us much, and we would always laugh in class. She would get mad at us for not properly singing a song that she had written herself (it was a very bad song). I asked my friend, “What was that song again? How did it go?” After a moment, he remembered and started whistling a melody that I instantly recognized. We laughed again, kept talking, and went to bed.
That night, both of us had an extremely restless sleep, as we were constantly disturbed by strange noises. —high-pitched screeches that kept us awake. Though it made us quite nervous, a friend who often goes camping had warned us that when camping in the wilderness, one can hear strange sounds from various animals like mountain lions, birds, and deer. With no experience in hunting or tracking animals, we couldn’t determine the exact type of animal, but we thought it resembled the growl of a mountain lion. We decided it would be best to distance ourselves from that place and started a long hike away from our last camping location.
As we walked for hours, our conversations gradually faded, and the only sounds that reached my ears were the rustling of leaves beneath our footsteps and the sounds of the forest. Suddenly, at the end of the trail, a figure stood before us. Though quite far, we could unmistakably make out the presence of a person. This encounter made us slightly uneasy, considering how remote we were from towns and cities. We cautiously continued walking towards the person, uncertain about what to expect.
The distance between us gradually closed as both parties approached each other. The closer we got, the more our nervousness grew. We greeted him, but he kept walking to us in silence. Finally, at a distance of approximately ten feet, the person—an elderly Native American man—stopped and locked eyes with me. An awkward silence ensued, and then he spoke, asking, “What are you doing here?” We explained that we were camping and hiking through the mountains, sharing details of our trip and how long we had been in the area. However, as we spoke, the man’s expression shifted, displaying growing concern. “They have noticed your presence,” he uttered. Confused, I asked, “Who has?” He gazed at me, shaking his head in disappointment. Then, he insisted that we accompany him, revealing that he was staying nearby.
He suggested that it would be best if we set up our tents next to his house for the night. He assured us that he had food to share. The man appeared friendly and trustworthy, and sensing that this could make for an interesting story, we agreed to his offer. As we walked towards his house, I couldn’t shake the curiosity about who “they” referred to. I asked the man for an explanation, but he simply replied, “We do not talk about it.” Of course, this response did nothing to ease my mind. After a short walk, we arrived at the house—a small wooden structure barely noticeable to passersby. In front, there was a charming garden with a variety of herbs and plants.
We were invited inside and offered some tea as the sun began to set. While the man was outside, I exchanged a knowing glance with my friend. We both shared a look that said, “What in the world is happening?”—a mixture of excitement and adventure. Despite our insecurity, the man’s friendliness made us feel secure. As we discussed our thoughts, we heard him talking outside. It wasn’t in English, nor was he conversing with anyone visible. Intrigued, we peered through the window and saw him scatter handfuls of gravel or herbs around his house. We couldn’t quite make out what it was. When he returned inside, there was a sense of relief on his face. He sat back down at the table with us and proceeded to caution us about venturing into this part of the forest. It wasn’t safe for us, he warned. We assumed he was referring to the mountain lions we had heard earlier.
While we set up our tents, the man stood at the edge of his garden, gazing into the darkness. We secured our tents and settled down for sleep. The sun had barely risen when the man woke us up. He urged us to begin retracing our steps, ensuring that we walked as far as possible before nightfall. He expressed his desire to join us if he were capable, but his age limited his ability to travel long distances. We bid him farewell and started walking. Just as I turned around, he grabbed my arm. My friend did not notice as he was already walking, he looked me in the eyes and pointed towards my friend, saying, “They don’t like him. Keep a close eye on him and stay silent at night, if you hear sounds, don’t go after them.” I nodded in understanding, assuring him that I would protect my friend from any mountain lions. The man’s expression shifted to one of utter surprise, as if I still hadn’t grasped his true meaning. “There are no mountain lions here. Now, go,” he directed me towards the trail where my friend stood, finally noticing my conversation with the man.
I shared with my friend what the man had said, but even though he didn’t explain the meaning behind “they,” we were clearly very nervous and we had grown tired of this camping trip. Following the man’s advice, we resolved to walk as far as possible before nightfall. We set up our tents, did not light a fire, and we kept our voices to a minimum. Exhausted from a long day of walking, we managed to sleep well. However, the following day, as the sun began to rise, I emerged from my tent and noticed something very strange.
There stood a vertical stick firmly planted in the ground, decorated with beads and paint, and wrapped with rope. At the top of the stick, there was a blackened section, not painted, but burned. —clearly not something we had left behind. At this point, all kinds of thoughts raced through my mind. How had we not noticed it when we set up our tents? Had the old man followed us here? Approaching my friend’s tent, I asked if he was awake, to which he responded that he was. However, he appeared pale and sickly. Annoyed, he questioned why I was attempting to open his tent in the middle of the night, asking if I was scared. I assured him I had remained in my own tent throughout the night. Both of us overwhelmed by a sense of unease, I informed him about the mysterious stick near our tents.
As unsettled as we had been the day before, we decided to swiftly pack up our tent once again and walk as quickly as we could before nightfall. At this stage of our journey, any enjoyment had disappeared entirely; our sole focus was to escape the forest as soon as possible. Stricken with a creeping sensation and feeling unwell, we walked onward relentlessly. As night fell, we cautiously put up our tents, not making any noise, not making a fire. However, this time, I could not sleep at all. The notion that someone had followed us previously and might be lurking nearby made me too anxious to rest.
Deep into the night, my sleeplessness persisted. Then, I heard an unusual sound—a heavy, labored breathing like the kind of an extremely sick person struggling for air. Suddenly, I recognized the tune, melody, and sound—it was my music teacher’s self-composed song being whistled. Irritated with my friend, I couldn’t understand why he would be fooling around in such a moment. My anger compelled me to unzip my tent and peer outside. My friend’s tent was situated to the left of mine, but the whistle wasn’t originating from that side. Instead, it emanated from the right. A realization struck me instantly, recalling the old man’s words. I was not going to look or follow the sound. I promptly retreated into my tent, determined to remain as silent as possible.
Clearly, having not slept at all, morning arrived. My friend was still feeling very ill, but he persevered. We dismantled our camp and resumed walking. After a while, an unsettling sensation of being watched overwhelmed me. It was an uncomfortable feeling, so I asked my friend if he felt the same. As I turned to look at him, I could see from his expression that he did. It was at that moment the reason behind our unease became apparent. The sounds we had been hearing for days—the footsteps and the sounds of the forest—had ceased, leaving only the echo of our own footsteps. The forest had fallen into complete silence. No chirping birds, no rustling leaves, no whispering wind. Nothing. Then, we caught a smell, it was a very strong and gross kind of smell. It was unlike anything I had ever smelled, utterly dreadful. Pressing forward, we soon stumbled upon a lifeless deer, hanging from a tree. We didn’t linger to discuss what happened to it, though I noticed its mangled and limbless state, untouched by predators. We continued walking tirelessly, finally arriving at the forest’s edge just before nightfall.
Entering the first town on our path, we felt a sense of safety wash over us. Seeking refuge, we stepped into a diner, craving a hot meal and some coffee. The waitress, observing our worn-out condition, asked about our well-being. “It looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarked. We proceeded to recount our experiences in the woods. As she absorbed our words, her expression shifted from curiosity to concern. She resolved to fetch the cook from the kitchen, leaving us perplexed as to why. Emerging from the kitchen, a Native American man approached us, he had a very concerned expression. “So, you emerged from the forest, huh? And you’ve witnessed strange things,” he asked. We confirmed his question. He explained that the woods harbored dark spirits, normally keeping in the shadows. However, they could become agitated or provoked, especially by whistling—a grave mistake, according to him. He advised us never to speak of these encounters again and to leave the spirits as they had now left us. Me and my friend never camped or hiked again. I still have nightmares about my experience in the Appalachian Mountains. I still don’t know if we, two inexperienced campers, were scared about very explainable things, or if there really were paranormal entities in those woods with us. We agreed to never speak of it again, as we had discussed with the cook of the diner. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to tell my story. If you venture into the woods, ensure you know your path and, above all, never, ever, whistle at night.