I'm setting up camp with my two best friends, Stu and Ethan, in a secluded spot near Pine Lake. The air is crisp, and the sun shines through the tall pines, casting playful shadows on the ground. We’re laughing, unpacking our gear, and trading friendly jabs as we get settled. Stu, a successful investment banker, pretends to struggle with his tent, while Ethan, a real estate broker, rolls his eyes, calling him a “professional camper.” I’m grinning, enjoying the banter, feeling the weight of the world lift as we immerse ourselves in nature.
On the first night, we’re roasting marshmallows over a crackling fire. The flames dance, illuminating our faces as we share ghost stories. Stu, always the joker, embellishes a tale about a ghost that haunts the woods, making Ethan scream in mock terror. “You’re going to attract the real ghosts with those realistic tales of yours!” he teases, throwing a marshmallow at him. We’re all laughing, our voices echoing through the trees, weaving a perfect harmony of friendship. We've made a promise to meet every year since highschool - even as we're away from our daily family lives and career.
The next day, we decide to hike along the scenic trails. The vibrant fall colors are stunning, a tapestry of reds and oranges that seem to whisper secrets of the forest. Ethan challenges us to a race to the summit, and before I can think twice, we’re off. Stu, the competitive spirit, takes off like a rocket, while I struggle to keep pace. We reach the top, breathless and grinning, the view sprawling beneath us. We take a moment to appreciate it, snapping silly selfies with goofy faces, capturing our joy.
That night, we gather around the fire again, grilling hot dogs and watching the sky transform into a canvas of deep oranges and purples as the sun sinks below the horizon. Ethan pulls out his guitar, strumming loudly while we attempt to sing along to our favorite songs, our voices blending into a cacophony of laughter and off-key notes. As a professional surfer, I’m used to riding waves, but here, surrounded by my friends, I’m riding a wave of nostalgia and joy. Each strum of the guitar evokes memories of past adventures, and I can’t help but feel grateful for this moment. It feels like nothing could spoil this perfect weekend, wrapped in the warmth of friendship, the fire crackling in sync with our laughter.
As dawn breaks on our last day, I wake up to an unsettling silence. I squint against the morning light, expecting to hear the usual sounds of my friends stirring, but there’s nothing. I look around the campsite and realize that Stu and Ethan are gone.
The tents are still, their flaps closed and untouched. I call out their names. “Stu! Ethan!” My voice cuts through the silence, but the only reply is the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. The vibrant colors of the morning suddenly feel off, like something is wrong. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m alone out here, and that something isn’t right.
I search the surrounding area, retracing our steps from the previous day, calling out their names. “Guys? This isn’t funny!” My voice echoes through the trees, but there’s no reply. The woods, once inviting, now feel eerie and confining. After four hours of searching, I’m starting to feel the weight of dread settle in my stomach as I head towards the nearest road, hoping to find help. The nearest police station is ten miles away, and the thought of making that trek alone fills me with apprehension.
I finally reach the station, breathless and frantic. I explain that my friends are missing, and the officers listen, nodding seriously. They assure me they’ll send a team to help search the area. I’m pacing, anxiety gnawing at me as they organize, the minutes stretching endlessly.
After what feels like an eternity, I’m back at our campsite, the sun beginning to set behind the trees, casting long shadows that stretch ominously across the ground. I’m hoping for any sign of Stu and Ethan, but the area is unsettlingly quiet. Just as I’m about to lose hope, I spot a van in the distance. The words “St. Bart’s Mental Hospital” are painted on the side, and my heart races with confusion.
I hear voices nearby, fragmented and unsettling, words cutting through the air like shards of glass. “Regular patient… suffering… growing up… no friends… impact… darkness… lost…” The bits and pieces swirl around me, weaving a sinister tapestry. My breath catches in my throat as I stand frozen, the shadows growing deeper and more menacing. The realization hits me like a punch to the stomach: am I the one they’re talking about?
