In The Glow of the Campfire

100 coins trading, portfolio and click-off and the whole million by the name of the world. What I'm curious is that the app is more likely and clear. There must be no financial profile. Carcness.com/polie or on App Store. And the central bank of Ireland is regulated. Ordable is presented. Zwilling is not possible.

We don't have a connection with Nanny.

“And as one of the most important people.”

That's why he's called Bistumina. He's the other.

He's the one who's always in my mind and my practice.

And the therapy practices? And what's going on with him? The new Ordable Original Hearbook and what's going on with him. He's talking from Carolina Airfort. Yet, Tyren, no by Ordable.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Where the these stories truly happened. Well, my simple fabrication is for you to decide.

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A teenage girl reluctantly goes on a remote camping trip alone with her father after a devastating family argument. Only to realize that the growing sense of dread she's been fighting may be warning her of something far worse than she imagined. From writer Tom Warren and narrated by Danielle Hewitt,

creepy presence in the glow of the campfire. I've often heard people who suffer traumatic experiences, and I mean the real, dark, nasty stuff that leaves a permanent oily, inky stain in your life. Say the day began like any other.

When I was younger, Mom and I used to curl up on the sofa in our pajamas, to binge watch true crime shows and play a little drinking game. Not with liquor as I was too young, but with shots of pop. Each of us taking a sip when one of the talking heads used to that phrase.

Giggling like children to cope with the heinousness of the crimes described, and to mask the Serbian ease we felt being too women, alone, late at night. The wide, dark world outside and all of its horrors, seeking entrance as we waited for dad, our great protector to return from work.

I won't begin my story like that. That morning I awoke from a terrible nightmare, so potent that it left me tear-eyed and shaken for several minutes. Even after I had showered, dressed and crammed down my breakfast.

“I tried to remember what horror my subconscious had conjured,”

that it left me so shaken. But any scenes or emotions remained in the periphery of my consciousness. Bluttering away from my mental grasp, like the dying embers of a campfire drifting into a starless night. I made my way downstairs to find mom busy in herself in the kitchen.

The way she does when something is bothering her. She reminded me that we were heading out camping after school, and that I needed to come right home, no doddling with my friends. In that instant, the lingering dread from my dream,

coalesced into raw panic.

“When my parents first proposed the weekend trip,”

I assumed it was an attempt to recindle their relationship. After all, we hadn't been camping in years, and those were happier times. Before the shouting, the tears, and the creeping ever present threat of real violence.

The thought of being trapped in the wilderness with nowhere to escape while the two of them battered was just too much. As I stumbled towards the door that morning, late to the bus stop as usual, I paused in the doorway and watched my mom as she labored at the stove,

making my dad an omelet. Her over-long concerty, a thread bare remnant from her youth, hanging just above the hem of her pink shorts. While the contents of the pan sizzled,

she scooped up our cat Mr. Boots from the island counter and stroked his fur. God, that picture of her is burned into my brain. A potent afterimage I now use as a mental screen saver for better times. Not knowing why,

but so glad that I did. I said I love you,

“to which she offered a small, sad smile,”

then told me not to miss the bus again. Had I missed the bus, would it have happened? Would this be a totally different type of story? I don't know.

That day I flitted from class to class, my thought scattered and clouded by lingering unease.

Then during third period,

my skin became hot and my nerve sizzled with nervous energy, as if experiencing a prolonged adrenaline rush. My body, one click away from a fight or flight response, despite no tangible threat. Years ago, while walking home from my friend's house just down the street,

I was overcome with the most intense feeling that someone was following me, that I was an imminent danger. But as my panic welled in my pace quickened, I couldn't identify a cause. Later,

it was all over the news, a little girl around eight, disappeared from the neighborhood while I was playing in her yard. They never found her. That day,

I learned not to ignore my gut. The feeling persisted until, finally, I finished my last period, creative writing class with Mr. Neville. Then the bell rang,

sending my classmates bolting from their chairs, shouldering their bags as they chatted, excited for the weekend. I forced a smile as I said goodbye to my friends, agreed to text if I had service,

then spilled out of the building with the hordes. There was a single text notification from my mom, and as I stumbled onto the bus, I clicked the message, built my stomach royal.

Dad and I had a fight. I'm going out for the weekend. He's taking you camping. I fired off my reply ignoring the tears welling up, argued that I didn't want to go alone with him.

Why couldn't I go with her instead? It's for the best. Love you. Mom and Dad had been arguing, or more accurately,

Mom and Dad were locked in a year-long war. It was obvious that their 16-year relationship had passed its expiration date,

and both were too stubborn to be the first one to admit it.

Each clutching to the past transgressions, like a hand of cards, neither winning, each too prideful to fold. Sure, I'd begin to suspect that it would be better for them to go their separate ways.

Especially after one of their recent spats resulted in a shattered casserole dish. It's crimson content slashed across the kitchen like the follow from a murder, as well as a fist-size hole in the hallway drywall.

“I could still remember the happier times.”

In the thought of us ceasing to be a family, of me splitting time at different homes, left me gutted. But in the end, I was mature enough to recognize that it would be for the best.

When I stepped off the bus, I discovered Dad sitting at the top step of the front porch. A cigarette between his purse to lips, a stained ball cap, hold low on his brow,

obscuring his eyes and masking his expression. He stood, looked the butt of his cigarette into the lawn, and approached his truck. He coughed,

asked if I got mom's text. Yeah, just let me drop my bag off. I began before he interrupted with. Bring it with you. You replied.

I ignored his directive, brushed by him as I continued up the two steps to the front door. I just need a few.

we don't have time to waste we're heading out now.

“I've got all your stuff packed up and in the truck already.”

Even stopped at the store and bought food in any toiletries we might need. We want to get a move on if we're going to get the camps set up before dark. Sun sets at seven.

I paused. My hand out stretched. My fingers curled around the door knob. Fighting the compulsion to ignore him. To retreat inside,

just to spite him. I often wonder how the outcome of that weekend would have changed. Had I gone with my instinct and entered the house. Instead, I made my way to the truck, tossed my nap sack in the back with the camping supplies,

and climbed into the seat. The clawing smell of old cigarette smoke and spear mint made it difficult to breathe, and I cracked my window. Dad slid behind the wheel

and adjusted his ball cap, exposing his eyes, puffy and bloodshot. I tried not to stare, understanding now how bad this last fight must have been.

Understanding now why mom was not there. Why dad was acting so strangely. I realized that this was the moment when dad would tell me that they were calling it quits. That although they still loved each other,

they were no longer compatible, and we're going their separate ways. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever excuse they came up with, it didn't matter.

This would be the end.

However, the discussion never came.

Although throughout the first hour of our drive, with country playing softly over the truck's tiniest speakers,

“he inhaled like he was about to say something important.”

Before the words became lodged in his throat. Where did mom go? I finally asked, staring out the window at the smudge of passing trees and distant hills, twisting the silver heartring mom had given me

for my 13th birthday. It had become a nervous habit. Dad frowned and turned off the radio. New rocks. Is she staying for the weekend?

I think so. He muttered, tapping a pack of mobiles against his thigh, sliding out a smoke and placing it between his purse lips.

Must have been one hell of a fight. I managed after a moment. I turned to face him studying his expression. Mm-hmm. His reply was simple.

But his expression. He looked lost. We drove on.

“Dad chained smoking the rest of the ride.”

The hum of the engine and the rumble of the tires over the uneven and cracked pavement providing the soundtrack to the awkward, suffocating silence between us. We arrived at Camp Skidetta mooch,

around four, and Dad eased into the empty gravel parking area, pulling into a spot beneath two towering oaks. Their massive limbs, bereft of foliage,

but stippled with green buds. Although we had visited several camps over the years,

Camp Skidetta mooch was always his favorite.

As it wasn't a popular spot, which meant fewer campers. Fewer chances for an interaction to turn contentious. When I was younger, I overheard my parents discussing why many avoided it.

Whispers concerns about missing campers and hikers from mum. Dad arguing that it was idiots who wandered too far off the path becoming lost. Friends at school spread hushed stories of vicious murders and beastly maniac that stalk the woods.

This peaked my imagination. In my ten-year-old brain conjured the legend of a supernatural killer prowling the forest at night. Moving through the trees like wind, stalking campers before snatching them away,

devouring them in some dank cave-like layer. I even wrote a story about it for school, in which a family of campers was picked off one by one, in increasingly grizzly ways, a story that my teacher, Mr. Johnson,

presented to my parents with equal parts pride and concern. That year, we camped at Watch Usits instead. Dad turned the truck off and placed the keys in his pocket. Took a deep breath before saying, "Well, let's go find a good spot."

He stared through the windshield at something only he could see. With that, he opened the door and slid out of his seat. I followed, and I was about to close the door when I noticed it. Dad's revolver sat on the car seat.

It's nickel-plated finish catching the gleam of the setting sun, momentarily blinding me. The weapon had belonged to his great grandfather, and had been passed down from my pop-pop, when Dad turned 18,

as a sort of right of manhood. My father carried it with him wherever he went, and we were accustomed to seeing it

He had always brought it when we went camping.

I looked more closely, my breath catching in my throat, the muzzle,

“stippled in a dark, rust-colored, matte stain.”

One that looked as if it would flake off if scraped by a fingernail. I've always had a bit of a morbid outlook. Possibly due to my lifelong obsession with true crime and real life horrors, you know?

Mass murderers, serial killers, and other monsters that hunt in human skin. This tiny blotch could have been caused by any number of things, and knock-yless reasons that didn't involve murder. Catch-up, mud, paint.

Heck, just a few weeks earlier, Dad had used it to dispatch a deer that he had found wound into the side of the road. But despite my attempts to rationalize it as something innocent, a dark suspicion had taken root.

And I knew just how to prove,

or disprove it. Dad, I need to use the bathroom. I said as I reached into the back of the truck, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the shopping bag, and made my way through the waste-high-tangle of brush

and into the surrounding woods. Concealed behind a tree a few dozen yards away from the clearing, I pulled my phone from my pocket,

“watched as my father busyed himself with the forest's edge,”

and opened the contact that said mom and tapped it. Please mom, answer. I begged as I waited for the click of a connected call in the sound of her voice, and then it happened.

Dad glanced around him to see if I was watching before reaching into his pocket, and producing a phone. Mom's phone. The one with the soiled pink case

with the fading I love you lettering

that I gave him from other stay the year before. Dad glanced at the screen frowning before slipping it back into his pocket. A cry escaped my lips, and I raised my hand to stifle the sobs

racking my body, hoping he didn't hear. Unable to accept the mounting evidence, why would he have her phone, and when did he take it?

And even more sinister question came to me, one that made my stomach turn. Where was mom? I knew that I had to stay calm that I couldn't afford to tip my hand

“and reveal that I knew something was wrong.”

I slipped my phone back into my pocket, turned and ran the sleeve of my jacket over my eyes to wipe away the tears, and thanks God that I hadn't worn any makeup today. As bleeding mascara,

would have surely given me away. It was then I noticed him. A figure stood on the hill above me, dressed inside the tree line. It's lanky frame nearly silhouette

at against the murky sky. Long black hair hung in clumped tendrils to its waist, blowing in the chilled breeze, and masking its face except for one red eye. Although it was difficult to be certain,

he seemed to be naked. His bone-white skin nearly glowing against the dark backdrop of tree trunks, and possibly thin, skeletal really.

It's sinewy musculature, reminding me of photos I'd seen of mummified remains. The camp skedeta mooch killer from my childhood, almost exactly how I'd imagined him. I froze, unable to move.

Not sure if the man had spotted me or not, praying that he would just wander off. You okay in there? Dad called from the woodline, and I turned for a moment to face him.

Coming? I shouted. I turned back and the figure was gone, and I wondered if he'd ever been there at all, or if the stresses of the day had me seeing things.

My mind drifted to the stories about missing campers as I rushed away from the scene and back to our campsite. Did you get lost? Dad asked as I approached. Why do you have mum's phone?

It came out like a sneeze, abrupt and with no warning. I was startled to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I expected shock, for him to stammer as he tried to come up with an excuse

that didn't implicate him in something terrible. Instead, he sighed, reached into his pocket and withdrew it, handing it to me. Here.

I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but she threw it at me after she texted you, before she stormed out of the house. She left it on the floor, and I picked it up,

and was going to give it to you to give back to her. I took the phone, ran my fingers over the spider cracked screen, and hit the power button. The screen glowed,

in almost incomprehensible mosaic of pixels, the apps unreadable. His story made sense. How bad was this fight?

my face hot,

“embarrassed that I could suspect him of something so horrible.”

He didn't speak,

just raised his stubble chin,

revealing his red-rimmed glassy eyes, his expression one of total heartache. I nodded, swallowed down my own heart. It took us about an hour to set up camp.

Dad built the camp fire and helped me unload the truck and set up the tents before we set off together, canling. I walked in the opposite direction. Morto escaped the painful awkwardness gathering between us.

Stopping here and there to sweep up some dried branches for the fire, as I meandered through the leafless forest, my mind drifting to my childhood. Times when mom and dad were happy and in love,

and I was young and oblivious, and we were a family. Before the fractures, in the escalating, unquiet,

“I was heading back to camp when a bit of color”

that didn't belong caught my eye. I moved further into the grass,

at first thinking that I had encroached onto another's campsite,

ready to apologize. The simple blue dome tent, much like mine, it's flat partially opened, the interior dark, sat in the center, looking innocuous until I noticed the ragged holes through the flap.

I approached, stepping over a long dead campfire, the charred remnants of logs strangled by dead vines, and peered into the gloom. Jump back to when the dying sunlight highlighted

the dark brown stain stippling the interior and splattered across the shredded sleeping bag. The site had been unoccupied for quite some time, but why had it been left here, and the stains.

It seemed obvious to me that they were blood. Who did they come from? A wrestle in the woods just a few yards off, something large, and then a low growl.

I turned from the deserted campsite and made my way back.

I returned to camp just after dark to find dad crouched around the fire, the smell of bacon and ham wafting from the pan he held above the roaring flame. There's another tent out there.

I said drop in the canling. I didn't mention the blood. He froze, his eyes growing wide, lips purcing. More campers?

No, it looks like it's been there for a while. It's pretty ratty, and the fires overgrown. His expression softened as he turned his attention back to the fire.

He explained that there had been a flood a couple years back and some people had to evacuate. That there are probably a few old campsites around here. Here. He said handing me a plate before cracking another egg

into the pan. Breakfast for dinner. My favorite. And an obvious olive branch from dad. We ate in relative silence,

neither knowing what to say. Dad staring off and passed the fire into the encroaching trial light. Luckily, agonizing over how to begin the conversation, I guess. I decided to help him out.

So, what happens when we go back? I asked between bites. Well, we can't go back. In the glow of the campfire, his features looked distorted, menacing.

I paused. The eggs now feeling mushy and unpalatable in my mouth. What? I mean, we can't go back to the way it was before. You realize that.

Yeah? I nodded, still unnerved by his choice of wording. I needed something to wash down the lump of food caught in my throat. So I stood and made my way to the cooler, opened it and grabbed a drink.

Inside were over a dozen bottles of water in soda. What I didn't find was any more food. Although we were supposed to be camping until Sunday, Dad had only brought enough for dinner.

“What were we supposed to eat for our next several meals?”

Why wouldn't he pack more? Because he doesn't plan on us living that long. The intrusive thought hit me like a gut punch. Grabbing a cola, I closed the cooler and returned to my seat. Trying to remain calm despite being at the edge of panic.

I told myself I was being silly. That this was just another misinterpretation that I was struggling with the imminent end of my parents' marriage. And my imagination was working overtime to create a villain to blame. fabricating fantastical nightmares to avoid dwelling on the very real one I was living through.

Just beyond the brush line, a thin pale form stood between two trees observing our camp. I leaned closer, watched as it extended an impossibly long arm. It's fingers, each terminating in long, black claws, clutching a tree. What? Dad said as he turned to follow my gaze.

There's no one else out there where completely alone.

He stood and marched to the clearing.

“While he explored the brush with his flashlight,”

I moved to his pack and grabbed the sheath buck knife he left beside it. Secreting it beneath my jacket and the waistband of my jeans before he turned around. Must have been a deer. He said as he sat down, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his bag and took a deep swig. I knew that with each sip he would be even worse company. Alcohol fueled his ill temper.

I decided that it was time to take my leave. Dad didn't seem to notice as he took another swig from the bottle. I slipped into my tent and zipped the flap up behind me. I spread out my sleeping bag, but I had no intention of sleeping. No, there was too much on my mind.

I took mom's phone, ran my fingers over the case. Wish I was with her instead. The feeling of being in the path of catastrophe had lingered, intensified. And I struggled to remain calm. To keep my fighter flight instincts in check.

Something was terribly wrong, but what? Sure, Dad was acting strangely. But I was misinterpreting the signs.

“Was he just wrestling with grief from his ruin marriage?”

The phone buzzed in my hand, startling me. I dropped it onto my lap. The bump must have jostled something. As the part of the screen became clear, displaying a single text message before it turned black.

I blinked, unable to believe what I'd seen. Covering my mouth as the tears formed. It was from Claire, my aunt. And the all-caps text read, "Where are you?" I kicked out, pushed myself away from the phone as if it were hot and could burn me.

Apparently mom had intended to visit my aunt, but she never made it.

The contents of my stomach rived like eels as I considered a plausible explanation. Did she get caught in traffic? Was she injured in an accident? Did she ever leave the house?

“From outside the tent, the silvery clink of an empty bottle being dropped,”

and quiet sobbing. An idea came to me then. I had my phone and was searching through my apps before I lost my nerve. Before the part of me that wanted pretend like nothing was wrong, shut it down. Last year.

Dad installed cameras in the house after a series of break-ins on our street. Although he never paid for the subscription that would allow him to save recordings, we were able to access an app that showed the live feed. The last time I had used it, I was trying to see if I would beat my parents home after I stopped off at Timmy Brinkler's house on the way home from school.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I touched the icon. Twisted my ring on my finger as I waited for the app to boot up. After the title screen, it switched to a series of tiles depicting still images of several rooms. I pushed to one for the kitchen, held my breath as the image materialized.

At first, everything seemed normal.

Then I saw the single shatter dish on the floor, in the overturned stool. And just like that, my mind cracked with it. I chose the next view of the living room and clutched both hands over my mouth. Shoked back the screen that exploded behind my clenched lips. Mom sat on the sofa, wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw her.

Appearing, by all intents and purposes, to have nodded off while watching TV. If not for the gaping hole in the back of her skull in the mosaic of gorse, flattered on the wall behind her. Her shoulder slumped, her head down, her jaw slack and drooling red.

Facing the floor below her, were a puddle of something dark, and glistening, stained the carpet. Bled out onto the hardwood. Mr. Boots crouched at the edge. Innocently lapping up the mess.

I don't know how long I stared at the stagnant image of my mother, willing her to get up and move. Unable to accept that she was really gone, incapable of accepting why she was gone, who had taken her from me. Arms and legs felt heavy, weighted.

My thoughts are dizzying jumble. I'm next. The gun, the last meal, the remote location. It all made sense now. The thoughts spurred me into action, and I closed the app and dialed 911.

Outside the tent, an airy hush had fallen over the forest.

“Absent was the whisper of the breeze through the bear-tree tops of the chirps of crickets.”

When the dispatcher picked up, I turned my back to the entrance of the tent, cupped the phone and whispered that I was at Camp Skodeta mooch, and my mom was dead, and someone was trying to kill me. Before I could give her any more information, I heard the soft crunch of approaching footsteps,

and I slipped the phone still connected into my jacket pocket. I remembered the knife and I pulled it from its sheath, held it out in front of me like a talisman, like it would do anything to ward off the hell approaching. I knew it.

Dad's slurred voice was little more than a whisper. I held my breath, worried that he would hear my rabbit heart thumping. Silence. Then, I watched, transfixed, as a shadow fell over the tent.

As the flap rippled, the zipper pull swinging pendulum like,

as he ever so slowly pulled it to the side. Obviously trying not to wake me, so the coward could finish his sick plan without looking me in the eyes, without seeing my pain and terror. Like he had with mom.

“I coughed, hoping that the sound would deter him.”

It worked in the zipper stopped. Honey, I'm so sorry. He sobbed. You have to believe me. I love both of you so much.

I just... just... then nothing. Had he walked away. Was I wrong about his intentions?

The seconds ticked by,

and I realized that I was holding my breath.

The 911 dispatcher's needed voice hum from my pocket, and I twisted to grab my phone. This small adjustment and posture saving my life. A metallic click. Then, four loud pops, searing pain,

and my shoulder blade and above my ear.

“Something warm and hot running down my cheek,”

as I tumbled deeper into the tent. My ears ringing. I put my hand to my shoulder, whenst as my fingers brush the wound, and felt my head. Relieved to discover a shallow furrow,

despite the blood pouring from the gash. A strange calm settled over me as I kicked into survival mode. My mind unwilling to register that I had been shot. That it had been my dad pulling the trigger. More sobbing as the zipper moved again.

Dad, checking on his work. I gripped the knife, coiled up and prepared to strike. As the flap fell, I spring forward. Kicked out as hard as I could, catching him in the chin, knocking him backward,

the gun flying from his hand. I leapt from the tent and hit the ground running without a sense of direction, colliding with a thin sapling before bounding off into a gap in the brush.

The moon above doing little to light my path. The only sound, the crunch of my footsteps, and the footing of my heart and my ears. Dad tackled me from behind. Mounted me as I squirm to get away.

The searing pain in my shoulder pushing me to the precipice of consciousness. Rapping his hands around my neck, he squeezed and leaned in close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my face. Smell the liquor that fueled his assault. Oh, sorry.

He blubbered, gritting his teeth, plumes of his breath rising like smoke from his nostrils in the cold night air. Something shrieked in the distance, an animal like and primal sound.

My vision closed, my eyes teared. And I felt the last of my consciousness, slipping away. Then a splash of heat across my face as a spurting smile opened up beneath his unshaven chin.

Dad's eyes bulged and his body shuddered as if struck. And he rolled off me. His mouth working, but amitting no words. Only a wet gurgle. Standing above him,

it's claws slick with blood. It's pale flesh seemingly aglow in the moonlight. Stood the campska dot a mooch killer. Just as I had imagined him, all those years ago. His stringy black hair parted,

revealing two red eyes like dying embers, and impossibly widened jagged mouth of sharp teeth. It grinned, nodded at me, before turning its attention to Dad. Jesus, was all that Dad could muster before it was upon him.

It's claws slashing and gouging over and over,

tossing them aside.

Rendering him both figuratively and literally, gotless.

I watched Dad's grizzly end with a sense of detachment. As if I was watching a movie play out before me, I pushed myself away from the carnage, and sat against the trunk of a tree. As the pain from my wounds, both physical and psychological,

became too much. And I, mercifully, lost consciousness.

“I don't remember anything after that point.”

The circuit breaker that protects my mind from overload, having apparently popped. According to the detective who interviewed me later, an older, heavy set man who reminded me of my grandfather.

A park ranger had found me, back in my tent,

covered in blood, and kept me warm until the police and emergency services arrived. As luck would have it, the police were already looking for both of us. After sending her text, my aunt called the police and requested a wellness check. One that led a rookie to discover mom's body.

They found most of Dad, just beyond the campfire. His remaining hand reaching up and defense. His body completely opened up and void of contents. His head nearly hacked from his neck.

“When the story finally reached the news,”

the police concluded that he had been mulled by some animal, possibly a bear. A miraculous happenstance considering that he was planning to do that to me, if he had lived. Being a juvenile, my name was omitted from the articles

in my face blurred news reports. But it didn't take long for the word to spread in my tiny town. For the other kids and teachers to start talking, I didn't have to listen to the noise for long. Once the investigation was closed,

I moved in with my aunt, a saint of a woman who had spent the last several years supporting me in my recovery.

The reports never mentioned the Pharaoh man I had described,

or the fact that I was found clutching my father's knife, or that while performing the autopsy,

“the coroner had discovered something deep in my dad's abdominal cavity.”

My ring. So, here's what's cut, it's serious here. I'm a new host, Lucas Bodozki. I want to tell you the story of Cargnet 10. Cargnet is the app with the cryptone of the story.

Hundreds of Hoonstrains, Portfolio and Blickbyhalten, and the whole family with millions of lives. What I'm curious about is that the app is completely different. There must be no financial service. Cargnet.com/polie or the app store.

When you're for your job, the right-wing mix from action and the right-wing and the right-wing. Then you'll have a look at it and check it out. www.flucloseverden.de. And next, a wildlife photographer's routine assignment

in the wetlands. I'm covers an impossible pattern hidden among the ancient trees. Leading to a discovery that forever changes how we've used the wilderness. From writer Ryan Peacock and narrated by J.B. Hempton Vanceant, creepy presence, The Burrows.

Two, Kyle Vado, at conservationantaryow.ca. From Niko Lee, at conservationantaryow.ca. Hey Kyle, I got your voice mail earlier today. I'm sorry I wasn't able to call you back at the time. I hate doing this by email, but maybe it's better this way.

It's easier to get my thoughts out like this than in person. It feels easier to write it all down than to have to say it over the phone. Ask me to explain this on the spot, and I don't think I could ever find the words. Hell, I'm not sure that the right words even exist.

I understand if you're upset by my resignation. I know I told you that this job was everything I wanted, and I wasn't lying when I said that. But I need you to understand now that I cannot go back into the woods. I won't.

You asked me about what happened to me the other day, and I feel I owe you an explanation.

It's not so much what I saw out there as what I've been seeing. It's what I now know is out there. It's not an easy thing to just explain. So I'll start at the beginning. Do you remember back in late June, early July?

You sent me out towards Port Rowan to catch some pictures of the wildlife in the wetlands. Honestly, I was happy to get the call.

I've always liked that area,

and I'd like to think I know it pretty well. I meant it when I said I didn't mind spending a few days out there. I don't think enough people really appreciate the beauty of the wetlands in Lake Erie's coastal basin, but I do. I've been out in that area enough to know where to set up to get some decent shots.

There are some decent paths consistently used by wildlife out there, and they haven't changed much over the years. I followed one of them down into this gorgeous area of March that's good for catching photos of smaller wildlife, such as frogs, bugs, turtles, and even some snakes.

Every now and then, you'll even get some deer in the area. I set up a spot nearby where I could sit undisturbed and take my pictures.

On my first day out, I got lucky and saw a small group of deer

out near the edge of the water around sunset.

“I remember that they had passed in front of a dead-looking tree”

with twisted bark and a massive burl that bulged out of its midsection. Do you remember those shots? I think I sent them to you either that evening or the evening after. You should be able to see the tree I was talking about in the background. Normally, I wouldn't bother bringing up the tree at all

since normally it wouldn't exactly be noteworthy. I've seen burls like that before. They're interesting, but nothing special. Sure, this one was one of the bigger ones I've ever seen, but even that isn't all that special.

I can't say I paid all that much mine to it until a few days later when I came back to that spot. I'd set up some of my trail cameras in the area

while I'd been out there on the first day, so I'd come back to pick them up.

I was admittedly kind of hoping I could get some more good sunrise shots as well.

“Although I remember that the marsh seemed a lot quieter than it had been before.”

I noticed it when I was heading down to collect the cameras. Not gonna lie, I was kind of disappointed. Like I said, I really liked that area. And I was a little surprised to hear absolutely nothing except my own footsteps as I went back out there. No birds, no animals, come to think of it.

I don't even think I heard any crickets buzzing in the area. There's a really distinct line between the comforting silence of the forest and just absolute dead silence. And I remember thinking that something was wrong. Although I honestly couldn't take a guess as to what?

Once I had all my cameras, I ventured back out into the same part of the marsh that I'd been in the other day hoping I'd find something. But I just found more uncomfortable silence. Writing this down, I remember now that I didn't hear a single other sound besides the plop of my own boots in the mud.

I'd found a vantage point to wait around for a bit and was hoping that whatever had scared everything off would pass but I must have been out there for about 45 minutes before I gave up. It was while I was out in the marsh that I noticed that tree again. Maybe if everything was normal, I wouldn't have paid it any mind.

But since there was nothing else around,

“it really just seemed like the only thing I could really focus on.”

Looking back at it, I wish I'd thought to take some pictures of that tree

It was splintered as in mostly just a pile of broken splinters.

“Have you ever seen what happens to some trees when they're struck by lightning?”

The force of it just sort of blows them apart. The tree looked like that. I recognized some of the twisted bark on the sagging branches that were still intact, but most of the trunk was just straight up gone. So was that massive burl?

Now, considering how I compared that tree to one that had been struck by lightning,

the answer as to what happened seemed pretty obvious.

If it looks like it got struck by lightning, and it's been a particularly rainy summer with a lot of thunderstorms. Well, on paper, that sounds like some simple math. But I'd been in the area over the past few days. We didn't have any thunderstorms.

Hell, we hadn't even had any rain so far that week. Look, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it at the time. I just mentally noted it as something weird before moving on with my day.

“I think I just dismissed it as lightning without thinking too hard about it”

and went about my day. Once I realized that there was nothing to photograph in the area, I went back to my motel to take a look at all the footage from my trail cams. You've probably seen the highlights of that footage. There wasn't a lot there, but I did catch some really cool clips of a small group of deer heading up from the marsh.

Then, there were a few clips where the camera was either set off by birds or squirrels. None of those were really usable, so I just deleted them. Honestly, most of the footage I got was pretty standard. With the exception of some of the last clips from camera 4, see, camera 4 was the one closest to the marsh.

I'd set it up about 15 meters from where I'd been taking my photographs, and it watched the entrance to the deer trail. Most of the footage I got from it wasn't any different than when I'd got from the other cameras. There were those deer I mentioned, some birds, squirrels, and one dragonfly who tripped the motion sensor.

But near the end of the clips, there was one that was, well, it was really weird. The footage was timestamped around 3am, the morning that I'd gone and picked up the cameras. This was about 8 or so hours before I'd actually picked up the camera.

At first, it just looked like something small had tripped the motion sensor,

although I couldn't get a good look at what. I rolled the footage back a couple of times, looking for a squirrel or a bird or something. It took me a while before I actually noticed there was something moving through the trees in the background. I watched that footage more times than I can count, and I still can't get a good look at exactly what it is.

But I know what it isn't. It isn't a deer, it isn't a squirrel, it isn't a bird, and it isn't a bug. Whatever it is, it blends in really well with the trees surrounding it. Well enough that it's hard to get a good guess as to this shape of it. But from my best guess, it was standing at around 9 or 10 feet tall.

“I think it was walking upright, although it also seems to large downward near the end of the footage and start crawling.”

In the footage, I can see it coming from the right side of the camera frame, crossing behind the trees a good 15 feet away from the camera and ducking down to crawl before it slips out of frame.

I don't know what I expect you to do with it.

“I think it might be best you don't share it.”

I don't think it definitely proves anything. I'm sure people will claim to see all kinds of mundane things out there. And that's just going to muddy the waters. But I've been doing this for a long time, Kyle. I know the animals that live in this area, and that was not one of them.

I still don't know what the fuck that thing was, not for sure anyway.

Maybe that's for the best.

“I never really made any connection between the splintered barrel and the thing I saw on my trail cameras until a couple weeks later.”

I've got a friend who does some hunting up north named Roger. I don't see him all that often, so when he's in town, I'll usually go out of my way to grab a beer with him and shoot the shit. Our conversation almost inevitably turned to our time out in the woods. Since we both shoot animals in our own ways, and I'd mentioned having seen something odd on one of my trail cams.

Well, as soon as I'd mentioned it, Roger just had to see it for himself. I was still sober enough to drive, so we went back to my place and I dug up the footage on my laptop.

“The first time I played it, Roger just sat there intently, keeping a close eye on it.”

Then, when I pointed out the thing moving in the background, he asked me to wind it back a bit. I did what he asked, and we watched that specific clip a few more times. Roger's eyes followed that thing very carefully, and I could see him squinting, trying to figure out just what the hell it was.

He never seemed to come up with an answer that satisfied him though.

Eventually, he asked me to roll it back a bit farther, and I did. He asked me if these videos had sound. I told him that they did, and I turned it up so he could hear it better. That's when I finally heard it. About 15 minutes prior to that sighting of whatever it was that had appeared on the camera, there was a sound. Even with the volume all the way up, it was faint, but I felt sure that I recognized it.

It was the sound of something falling, a tree. I could hear the distant crack as the wood was stretched and broken, and I could hear the rustle of leaves as they fell. Something somewhere in that area had taken down a tree, and my mind immediately turned to that tree with the swollen burl that had been torn apart that day. Roger remained silent as he listened to the sounds of the tree being destroyed, a strange look on his face. His eyes were narrowed and thought, and I waited for him to speak.

At last, he asked me if I noticed anything funny in that area when I'd collected the trail camera. Naturally, I told him about the tree I'd seen. When I did, he got a really strange look on his face. It was then that he told me his own story about finding a splintered tree in the woods, and all really it here is best I can. Roger had been out hunting about a year or so back.

He'd gone out with a couple of friends just like they had a few thousand times before, so it really shouldn't have been any different. Only I guess this time it was. They had a cabin out in the woods where they'd slept and taken care of their kills, and there was this tree not too far from it. They passed it on their usual trail into the woods. Now, this tree had its own massive burl that was almost as big as he was. He said he considered taking an axe to it just to see how much he could get for it.

Anyway, he and his buddy had gone out for the day and spent most of the day in the woods.

“On the way in, they passed the tree with the burl and hadn't thought a thing of it.”

They'd had a fairly normal day out, and his buddy had shot a ten-point buck. They were headed back when he said he heard a sound through the woods. The sound of splitting wood followed by a falling tree. Now, Roger and his buddy hadn't known what the hell was going on.

They weren't sure if someone had cut something down, or maybe some old damaged tree had finally given out.

Either way, the impact didn't really affect them, so they just continued on back to their cabin. Then, when they were headed up the trail back to their cabin, they saw it. Broken wood all over the trail, and the tree that used to have that massive burl tipped over. He said that the way it had fallen had just barely missed the roof of their cabin. Neither of them could really figure out just what the hell had happened.

According to Roger, it was a perfectly sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, so there was no in hell it could have been lightning. According to him, it just seemed as if the tree had just blown up. All that was left of the burl was some splintered wood. And he could have sworn that he saw a new path leading into the woods as if something big had ventured off in that direction.

Although he never said he saw anything out there.

He and his buddy had ultimately just shrugged their shoulders and carried on. They were back home again the next day, and neither of them could figure out just what had happened to that tree. I can't imagine that either of them cared that much either. Well, until Roger heard that same sound of splintering wood in my footage. We spent a good chunk of the night looking over that footage I'd capture.

But the best guess we had was that it might have been a distant bear. I don't think either of us believed that for a second, whatever it is was too big to be a bear. But we didn't have a better answer. Eventually, I let Roger have my couch and drove him to the house he was staying in the next morning. We didn't talk about the things we'd seen in the woods.

Despite all of this, I really wasn't against going back to the marshlands around Lake Eri when you brought it up. When you asked if I could go back, I meant it when I said I'd be happy too. I knew I'd seen something weird out that way, but it wasn't like I had any real reason to be bothered by it.

“Honestly, I figured that the mystery beast Roger and I hadn't been able to identify was probably just a fluke.”

And I didn't think too much about the splintered trees. There was probably a thousand rational explanations as to what caused those. Pressurized moisture in the burls, causing them to pop, maybe. I suppose it held as much water as any other theory I had. I didn't go out to the same spot I'd gone to last time.

It had been awfully dead before. I figured I might have better luck elsewhere.

I tried a few different places throughout my first day there.

Didn't say long in most of them. Some of them I'd been to before.

“Anything of note you should already know about.”

I sent you the pictures. I set up some trail cameras too. Along the most promising looking spots I'd found. Most of them ultimately turned up some interesting finds, but one. Cameras 6.

I'd run across another tree with a burl while I'd been following a deer trail that I'd found. Looking for a good place for a camera.

It was swollen like a tumor, and had almost completely swallowed up the entire tree trunk. Some part of me wanted to move on, find a better spot, and let whatever this was, lingering in the back of my mind go. The rest of me wasn't so sure.

“And I figured, well, what the hell did I have to lose by indulging myself a little?”

Yeah, I know it was a long shot. I know it might not have been the brightest idea. But it made sense at the time to set the camera up there. I figured that in a worst case scenario, I'd have some unusable footage, and I'd need to rely on my other cameras to get something good.

In a best case scenario, maybe I'd finally figure out what was going on with those burls.

I honestly wasn't expecting much. In my best case scenario, I'd probably have some video evidence of a lightning strike, or some weird, but otherwise perfectly mundane natural phenomenon where the tree just explodes for some goddamn reason. More than likely, I doubted I'd actually see anything at all other than a tree with a pretty big burl in it. Nothing all that special.

“Honestly, I wish that's all that it was.”

I truly do. I came back about two weeks later to pick up the trail cameras. The other cameras were fine. You got the highlights from those.

But I never sent you anything from camera six.

When I returned to the spot where I'd set up camera six, I was greeted by the sight of splintered wood and a collapsed tree. Just about the same thing I'd seen in that marsh a couple months back. I remember staring at it and complete awe. I honestly hadn't expected to catch anything.

But, well, there it was.

“The splintered tree told me that whatever it was,”

I'd been wondering about was right there on that tape. And I couldn't have gotten it back to the car fast enough. I actually waited to collect my other cameras just to get to a place where I could set up my laptop and watch the footage back. I stopped off of the nearest Timmy as I could find, plugged the SD card in,

put on my headphones, and started speeding through that footage. You know what I expected. I don't think there's a single thing on God's green earth that could have prepared me for what I actually saw. I've debated whether or not to send you the video.

I don't know if anyone else should see what I've seen. I don't know if other people should know what I know. Because if they did, then like me, they won't be able to set foot in the woods again. If they knew what came out of that goddamn tree, they'd be as afraid as I am. I know that if you saw it, you would probably hand in your resignation too.

I tell myself that if we've gone this long without disturbing whatever it is that's out there, then maybe we can do it forever. Maybe what I found was a fluke. I got lucky to run into this not only once, but twice.

After all, I've never heard anyone else describe anything like this,

not in legends or anything else. Maybe it's better that people not know about them. Because then they're more likely to leave them alone. They won't go looking for them and risk angering whatever is out there. I don't know if that's a noble mindset or a crazy one.

Shit, I don't know much about anything anymore. All I know is what I saw on that video was the birth of something greater than us.

is not something that we can fight against.

“I knew it as I watched it free itself ripping through the bark of the tree and splintering it with its raw strength.”

I watched it tumble onto the ground, exposed bones made of something that looked like twisted and gnarled wood. Although it must have been something much more durable. I watched it pick itself up and look around, trying to make sense of the world it had found itself in,

before on all fours it crawled off into the forest, leaving only its distorted whales.

The whales quickly faded into the distance, and a heavy silence set in, as if every animal in the woods knew to avoid that area and what had just been born into it. What I saw on that footage, Kyle?

“It looked a lot like a human baby, or at least the bones of a baby.”

But whatever it was, it was new.

It had just been born into this world. Whatever it was, it was just a baby. And I can't stop wondering what it will become when it's all grown up. [Music] [Music]

[Music] [Music] [Music] A therapy appointment forces one patient to confront a reality that no one else seems to see, from writer Emily Smiley, creepy presence, everything is fine. He sits in a chair, grey microfiber, slightly understuffed, a Kia, probably.

He waits, I shift on the couch, the pludder creeks. He taps his pencil eraser against his notebook. [Music] What brought you here today? Room wreaks of debris and cheap cologne, synthetic ocean breeze and old spice, dump dump dump dump dump. Towards squeeze out of me, a pointless defiant weasing whisper, doing this, I wake my hand in the air.

Looks like I'm trying to cast a spell to ban a shum, if only, dump dump dump. How long has it been? Suddenly, I feel like I'm in a confessional, enclosed space, dark wood paneling, old white guy with too much power. Forgive me, father, for we all have sinned. I shrug, trying to shake off the claustrophobic boom.

“A couple years? His pencil scratches across the paper, a fingernail pulling at a dry scamp, and how have those years been treating you?”

I sigh. The world is on fire, so not great, I guess.

I don't know why, and I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I never have good ideas.

“Of course, therapy wouldn't be any different.”

I look out the window, glass pops like gunshots across the street. Ruby, gold, and an amber flames erupt from the windows of the elementary school. The knowledge on the playground turns to ash, as the swing sets crossbars drip yellow, orange, molten steel, a forge. Thank God, it's after school hours. I still can't unsee the first time.

Never say that, the flames stalk toward the next victim.

Blue Chevy Malibu, the windows are down. My therapist is wearing a blue button, I've covered in little rainbow trout or some shit. A kitchen timer in the shape of a tomato ticks beside him. His name is Greg Daniel. I'm not a fan of Greg, or his shirt, or his timer.

What do you mean by "on fire"? He repeats, and there are those air quotes again. His pleaded khaki trousers whisper as he crosses his legs one over another. I look back outside. Flames everywhere.

“The first day looked the car, testing, tasting.”

Then, like a dog on a bone, the fire lunges, and devours the microfiber interior. The windshield cracks, pops, shatters.

Then's black cloud stream out of the Chevy, stretching toward the sky.

I turned my attention to a jogger and pink shorts bouncing down the grungy sidewalk. Her black ponytail switches from side to side, brushing her shoulders and an even tempo. Like Greg, she doesn't see the fire. The danger. She just keeps jogging.

I know what comes next, and I want to look away, but I can't. I never can. Agonizing heat, I say. The malleable explodes. Navy blue and chrome car parts are shrapnel.

The driver said mirror slams into the jogger's right cheekbone, crushing her upper jaw. Mollers fall from between her lips and bones into the chart grass.

She notices me staring from the window.

Blood pours from smiling lips. She waves. I wave back. An endless destruction. I continue.

“An airborne wheel where him slices the jogger's belly.”

A pear-shaped organ tumbles from her. It flops on the sidewalk. Her intestines follow, but remain attached. They jones behind her as she continues on. Slightly deflated balloon animals slapping against the concrete in her wake.

Blood splatter paints her feet and ankles. Bile rises in my narrow throat. The citric painful. Greg doesn't notice the jogger. And said he writes something else down.

And the fire is what brought you here. The fire is half of what brought me here. I don't use air quotes. Because the fire is real. It's all real.

Another quick glance of the window tells me the Malibu explosion is bound to set off a train reaction. The flames coming off the car continue to rise. Dirty smoke, billows. Thick. Covering the sun's glaring light.

But I know better than to expect sirens. What else brought you here, then? A miss Greg's something eraser. The starving fire reaches its scouring things towards the next car and the parade of parallel park vehicles. A silver BMW X3.

It's Greg's. I think. He grips his note pad a little tighter as his pencil flies across the page. Drawing down more notes. I wonder why he needs to take so many notes.

I can summarize my mental health in one word. Fuck. More jotting. More diagnoses. More pills.

Greg's tomato dings. That's our time. He slips a hand on the bright red plastic fruit slicing it. Grabes his briefcase and drops his pencil and pad of paper into it.

So, I need to jot.

I stand facing the window.

Another explosion shakes the building.

“I bite my lip to keep from screaming as a silver car door slams against the double-pained window.”

A cracked spider web spread across the glass. Distorting my view. The door falls onto the sidewalk with a crunch. I trace the cracks with my fingertips. Smooth glass is unusually warm.

Greg doesn't move. Doesn't notice the crack and glass. Doesn't see the damage to his own car. Same pattern next week. I turn around and nod.

See you then. He opens the door.

Waiting. The implication is obvious.

Now get the fuck out of my office. I get the fuck out of his office. The hallway smells like mothballs and mildew. Mold too, maybe. Hard to tell.

It all blends together into a musk of despair. Greg walks toward the elevator. I choose to take the stairs. It's five flights, but I prefer to avoid the awkwardness of sharing a small space with them. Something about it makes me now want to be too close.

Besides, this clone is truly appalling. I get into the lobby and see him pause before crossing the street. It looks left. It looks right. I hope my breath.

Maybe he sees the bloody sausage shaped splotches on the sidewalk.

Maybe he notices his missing car door. Maybe he sees the flames. He walks across the street. Maybe he hears that jogger is uterus squalches. It squishes beneath his Louis Vuitton and brogues.

I step outside.

“Greg mimes slipping his car key into an invisible lock.”

My heart sinks into my gut. He pretends to open the door. The BMW's leather seats are a mess of melting hide in red hot metal. The rober of the tires have become one with the asphalt. His green hair and polyester window trout shirt there are already a flame.

His skin sizzles. It smells like home. Grilled steak, barbecue pork and scorching summer heat. Greg's flocked. He grabs a thermos from the cup holder.

The plastic slides around his burning hands, trapping his fingers against it. He doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps going about his day like nothing's wrong. Like his body isn't melting.

Like his world isn't done fire, too. Still, my therapist twist the key in the ignition. The engine clicks. Once twice. Three times.

It's overheated. If it touches of won't last three blocks, I look down the sidewalk and consider following the jogger's bloody trail. See how far she got. But I think better of it.

I know what lies at the end of that particular path. Greg twists the key again. The engine turns over. Satisfied in his ignorance he drives away. A plume of smoke follows.

I turn my back and both the joggers and Greg's trail and walk along the sidewalk as the city continues to catch. A beam of sunshine filters through the grey clouds and black smoke. My next stretchers. Skin, polling.

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