Micah

I forced myself out.

At the same moment, Drew unzipped his tent and stepped out, yawning, scratching his head, looking around like it was any other day.

His clothes were clean, not a scratch on him, not a twig in his hair.

He looked rested, like he had slept the whole night without a care.

When I showed him the cuts on my arms, he looked genuinely confused, swore he never left his tent, didn't hear me call, didn't see markings, didn't notice anything strange.

Just a normal night.

I didn't argue.

I didn't explain.

I just packed my stuff.

He laughed, called me dramatic, said I was letting the creepy stories get in my head.

I didn't respond.

I just left.

He was still brushing his teeth, talking about cooking eggs, when I walk away.

I drove until I found a gas station with a flickering sign.

I was 21 when it happened.

A bunch of us from class had been tossing around the idea of a weekend hiking trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

At first, it sounded amazing, a weekend away, camping under the stars.

No professors, no deadlines.

But as the reality set in hauling heavy packs, freezing nights, no self-service one by one, people quietly backed out.

By the end of the week, it was just me and my buddy Daniel.