A Hide Behind Encounter

The forest was too quiet. No birds. No rustling. Not even the wind dared stir the trees. Cole Simmons paused on the narrow trail, blinking sweat from his eyes. He was three miles past the last ranger signpost, deeper than he’d meant to go. His flashlight flickered in protest — old batteries. Of course. He gave it a frustrated tap, and the beam steadied.

He hated these deep woods. Only came out here for the photo job — some outdoor magazine wanted dusk shots of the fir-lined ravine that the locals called Devil’s Hollow. Cole had laughed at the name. Not anymore.

He was already late getting out.

Branches snapped behind him. He spun around. Nothing. Just tall pines standing like silent sentries, their black trunks crowding the trail.

“Hello?” His voice cracked. “Ranger? Hiker?” Silence.

He gave a forced chuckle, trying to laugh it off. But his skin prickled. The kind of goosebumps you don’t get from cold — the kind that say you’re being watched. He quickened his pace.

Five minutes later, he heard it again. Not loud. Just… wrong. Like someone stepping lightly over dry leaves — staying just behind him. Cole turned fast, whipping the flashlight beam around. Still nothing. The trees seemed closer now.

The trail, thinner. He didn’t remember that bend. He walked faster. Then faster still, until he was nearly jogging. His backpack jostled with each step, camera gear clinking inside. He didn’t dare look back now. He knew it would be there — and not there — all at once.

A sudden weight pressed on him, invisible, like gravity bending differently.

And then came the breathing. Soft. Wet. Directly behind his left ear.

Cole bolted. No longer thinking, just running, branches slapping his face, roots catching his boots. He lost the trail in seconds, crashing through undergrowth until he found himself in a clearing — if you could call it that. A circle of trees loomed in perfect symmetry, their trunks twisted unnaturally inward like they were watching him.

He turned slowly in place, heart hammering, light trembling in his hand. Every time he spun, the flashlight beam missed something. He could feel it. Like it was always… just out of reach.

A branch cracked directly behind him. Cole didn’t turn. Didn’t move. He just whispered: “I see you.”

A pause.

Then a cold, spindly hand gripped his shoulder.

And that was the last time anyone ever saw Cole Simmons.

Except, of course, for the ranger who found his camera bag, neatly placed in the center of the clearing, surrounded by a perfect ring of fresh pine needles. Not a footprint in sight.

They say if you look at the photos on his memory card — the last ones — you can see something in the trees. Not in front. Not behind.

Somewhere… in between.