Just taking a stroll when all of a sudden 🏃♂️💨🌲FYI it’s a winchester model 11 air pistol
The Wrong Turn
Chris loved hiking for the quiet. The forest offered a refuge from his noisy city life, a place to clear his head and breathe fresh air. He’d planned a simple day hike, but as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, he realized he’d lost track of time. The trail ahead split unexpectedly, and without his GPS—dead from a forgotten charge—he had no idea which path would take him back to the trailhead.
He hesitated, choosing the left path. It seemed wider, more traveled. He’d gone maybe a quarter mile when the first gunshot shattered the evening calm.
CRACK!
Chris froze. The sound ricocheted off the trees, making it impossible to pinpoint its direction. His heart raced, and he instinctively reached for the small revolver he carried for emergencies. He didn’t like carrying it, but out here, with miles of wilderness and no cell service, it was a necessary precaution.
Another gunshot. Then another.
CRACK-CRACK!
They were closer now. Chris crouched instinctively, scanning the woods. His logical brain told him to turn around, go home, and forget about whatever was happening. But a nagging thought gripped him: what if someone was in trouble? What if this was more than just a hunter?
He tightened his grip on the revolver, flicked the safety off, and turned back toward the sounds.
The forest was darker now, the canopy overhead thick and oppressive. The gunshots had stopped, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence. Chris’s footsteps felt too loud on the dirt path, and every snapping twig sent adrenaline spiking through his veins.
As he walked, he noticed something strange: a faint metallic smell in the air. Blood. He was sure of it.
“Hello?” he called, his voice trembling. “Is anyone there? Are you hurt?”
No response.
He took another step forward and froze. On the ground, just ahead, was a smear of blood leading into the bushes. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to follow the trail, his gun raised.
The blood trail led to a small clearing, and what he saw stopped him cold.
A campsite. Or at least, what used to be one. A tent lay shredded, its fabric flapping limply in the breeze. A campfire had been hastily extinguished, the ash still warm. And there, in the dirt, was a shoe…still attached to a severed foot.
Chris stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. He spun around, scanning the shadows. The metallic smell was stronger now, almost choking.
And then he heard it—a faint rustling in the bushes to his left.
“Who’s there?” he barked, aiming his gun toward the sound. His voice cracked, betraying his fear.
The rustling stopped.
For a moment, all was still. Then, from the opposite direction, a low, guttural voice whispered:
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Chris spun, but there was no one there.
“Come out!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the trees. “I’m armed!”
The whisper came again, this time from behind him.
“Put it down.”
Chris turned in a panic, his finger hovering over the trigger. But the forest was empty, the shadows deeper and darker now. He realized, with a sickening twist in his gut, that whoever—or whatever—was speaking wasn’t moving. It was surrounding him.
Then he saw them. Eyes. Dozens of them, glowing faintly in the dark, watching him from every direction. They blinked in unison, and Chris felt the air grow heavy, his chest tight with dread.
A single gunshot rang out, deafeningly close. Chris dropped to the ground, firing blindly into the trees. His ears rang, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. When he dared to look up, the eyes were gone.
He scrambled to his feet and bolted, not caring which direction he ran. The whispers followed him, growing louder, angrier.
“Leave.”
“You don’t belong.”
“Drop it.”
He burst onto a road—a different one from where he’d started. His truck was nowhere in sight. The whispers stopped, replaced by a sound that chilled him to the bone: footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and heavy, coming up the road behind him.
Chris turned, gun raised, but the road was empty. Still, the footsteps grew louder, closer.
He ran. His legs burned, his lungs ached, but he didn’t stop until he saw headlights in the distance. A car was approaching—a lifeline. He waved frantically, shouting for help.
The car slowed, but as it neared, Chris’s relief turned to horror. Behind the wheel was a man whose face was impossibly long, his grin stretching far too wide. His glowing eyes locked onto Chris as the car rolled past without stopping.
Chris didn’t make it out of the forest. Weeks later, search parties found his revolver lying in the middle of the road, the barrel empty. His body was never recovered.
But hikers who venture too close to that wrong road often report hearing gunshots…and whispers urging them to turn back.
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