Derek

They scoured the canyon, tracking dogs sniffing fruitlessly along steep ridges and deep gullies. But no sign of me emerged. No footprints beyond my camera, no clothing scraps, nothing. I had vanished completely. Then came the last piece of footage. The timestamp flashed 36 hours after my last known appearance, long after any rational chance of my survival.

They scoured the canyon, tracking dogs sniffing fruitlessly along steep ridges and deep gullies. But no sign of me emerged. No footprints beyond my camera, no clothing scraps, nothing. I had vanished completely. Then came the last piece of footage. The timestamp flashed 36 hours after my last known appearance, long after any rational chance of my survival.

The camera had activated again, triggered by some subtle motion or sound. The clip was brief, less than a minute. Darkness enveloped the trees, the image barely visible in the faint moonlight. For several seconds, nothing moved. Then a shadow shifted subtly among the trees, silent and indistinct.

The camera had activated again, triggered by some subtle motion or sound. The clip was brief, less than a minute. Darkness enveloped the trees, the image barely visible in the faint moonlight. For several seconds, nothing moved. Then a shadow shifted subtly among the trees, silent and indistinct.

The breathing began, a low, rasping exhale so close to the microphone it made my skin crawl when I saw it later. Just before the video ended, the same voice, almost identical to mine but colder, emptier, spoke clearly. You're next.

The breathing began, a low, rasping exhale so close to the microphone it made my skin crawl when I saw it later. Just before the video ended, the same voice, almost identical to mine but colder, emptier, spoke clearly. You're next.

Those words still echo endlessly in my mind, a chilling reminder that something still lurks out there, in that nameless canyon along the Devil's Backbone Trail, waiting patiently in silence. I took the seasonal forestry job in New Hampshire mostly because I needed isolation, a break from crowded city streets and fluorescent lit office cubicles.

Those words still echo endlessly in my mind, a chilling reminder that something still lurks out there, in that nameless canyon along the Devil's Backbone Trail, waiting patiently in silence. I took the seasonal forestry job in New Hampshire mostly because I needed isolation, a break from crowded city streets and fluorescent lit office cubicles.

After years managing digital records for a small company in Boston, the silence and solitude promised by the White Mountain National Forest seemed like salvation. My name is Derek Madsen, and for the next six months, I was tasked with basic maintenance, clearing debris, maintaining trail signage, and monitoring visitor safety. The ranger outpost I'd been assigned to, cabin 11,

After years managing digital records for a small company in Boston, the silence and solitude promised by the White Mountain National Forest seemed like salvation. My name is Derek Madsen, and for the next six months, I was tasked with basic maintenance, clearing debris, maintaining trail signage, and monitoring visitor safety. The ranger outpost I'd been assigned to, cabin 11,

sat deep in the Great Gulf Wilderness, a remote corner overshadowed by Mount Washington's rugged peak. The first day started with a grueling six-mile hike, lugging heavy gear along a winding, overgrown trail. Sweat coated my neck, soaking into the collar of my flannel shirt.

sat deep in the Great Gulf Wilderness, a remote corner overshadowed by Mount Washington's rugged peak. The first day started with a grueling six-mile hike, lugging heavy gear along a winding, overgrown trail. Sweat coated my neck, soaking into the collar of my flannel shirt.

By the time I spotted the cabin nestled amid dense spruce trees, the afternoon was already fading toward dusk, painting the surrounding peaks with streaks of orange and purple.

By the time I spotted the cabin nestled amid dense spruce trees, the afternoon was already fading toward dusk, painting the surrounding peaks with streaks of orange and purple.

i opened the creaky wooden door setting down my backpack and immediately smelling old cedar damp fabric and decades of disuse sparse furnishings a battered cot a simple wooden desk shelves stocked with canned beans and coffee tins from previous rangers

i opened the creaky wooden door setting down my backpack and immediately smelling old cedar damp fabric and decades of disuse sparse furnishings a battered cot a simple wooden desk shelves stocked with canned beans and coffee tins from previous rangers

dust drifted lazily in the waning sunlight on the desk lay a thick leather-bound logbook curious i flipped through yellowed pages noting dates and signatures stretching back nearly two decades most entries were mundane patrolled trail removed fallen branches clear weather But as I turned deeper, a strange repetition caught my attention. Cabin 27, inspection overdue. Cabin 27, lantern out.

dust drifted lazily in the waning sunlight on the desk lay a thick leather-bound logbook curious i flipped through yellowed pages noting dates and signatures stretching back nearly two decades most entries were mundane patrolled trail removed fallen branches clear weather But as I turned deeper, a strange repetition caught my attention. Cabin 27, inspection overdue. Cabin 27, lantern out.

Cabin 27, C-claw damage on interior beam. These entries repeated themselves over and over in different handwriting, going back years, sometimes months apart. My brow furrowed. I pulled out the official Forest Service binder, flipping hurriedly through laminated maps and neatly printed cabin inventories.

Cabin 27, C-claw damage on interior beam. These entries repeated themselves over and over in different handwriting, going back years, sometimes months apart. My brow furrowed. I pulled out the official Forest Service binder, flipping hurriedly through laminated maps and neatly printed cabin inventories.