Micah

Still, the sun was going down fast, so I shrugged it off, set my pack in the middle, and got to work.

Ditched the tent, built a fire rain, heated one of those sad little meals, and pretended it didn't taste like cardboard soaked in broth.

I kept telling myself the piles were just rocks, but every time I glanced up they felt different, like they weren't in the same position, like they were angled toward me, just a little more than before, not moving exactly, just shifting.

By the time I got into my sleeping bag, I was too keyed up to sleep.

I kept the fire going longer than I should've.

The warmth helped, but the silence didn't.

I lay there in the dark, staring at the tense ceiling, every muscle tense.

Then came the sound.

Faint at first.

The scrape of stone.

Like someone dragging a heavy rock across a concrete floor.

Not steady, just bursts.

A few seconds of noise.

Then silence.

I thought maybe it was the fire settling.

Or branch falling.

But then it came again.

Closer.

I unzipped the tent as quietly as I could and poked my head out with the flashlight.

The clearing looked the same.