There Is A Trail Up In The Rocky Mountains That You Should Never Hike, And For Good Reason

The howls came from what seemed like a safe distance, but I wasn’t sure if that was going to be good enough for me. I would have to at least wake Ezra so he could ready his gun if need be.

I slipped out of my sleeping bag, braced against the cold of the night mountain air and squatted down next to Ezra’s bag.

“Ezra,” I whispered.
There was no response, I reached down to give him a gentle nudge, felt nothing.

I flipped open Ezra’s flannel sleeping bag to reveal an empty sack.

I looked over to the door of the tent to see it flapping in the wind and bitter cold washed over me.

The fear, colder than the mountain air, made me so stiff I didn’t want to move, but I knew it was the smart thing to do. I trudged out of the flap opening of the tent and approached the last simmering ambers of the fire.

“Ezra,” I whispered out into the night as I scanned the surrounding forest for any signs of light.

There were none. Just darkness and an eerie breeze that pushed around the trees high above like they were in a mosh pit.

“Ezra,” I whispered a little louder this time.

No answer, but looking out into the darkened distance of the thick forest, I saw something come into frame. A flame. A torch of sorts. It was too dark to make out who was carrying it, but the torch was sifting through the trees, zig zagging along a trail in my direction.

Then in a flash. It was gone. I was staring at darkness again. I heard a hideous laugh trickle out of the woods behind me.

Oh fuck this.


About the author

Jack Follman

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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