Camping had always been my way of escaping the noise of the city. That weekend, my boyfriend and I decided to head into the hills, far away from anyone else. We found a perfect clearing near a stream, pitched our tent, and spent the evening roasting marshmallows under a sky full of stars. Everything felt peaceful — almost too perfect.
By midnight, the fire had burned low, and we climbed into our sleeping bags. The forest was silent except for the faint trickle of the stream nearby. I was just drifting into sleep when I felt it — something brushing against my leg.
I froze. At first, I thought it was him, but when I whispered his name, he was already fast asleep. The brushing grew firmer, as though something was crawling inside the tent. My heart pounded as I slowly reached for the flashlight by my side.
I flicked it on — and my stomach dropped.
There, between our sleeping bags, was a hand. Pale, dirt-stained fingers curled against the fabric floor of the tent, as if someone had crawled inside and was lying between us.
I gasped so loudly that he woke instantly. When he saw what I was staring at, his face went white. We scrambled back, but the hand didn’t move. Carefully, he pulled the zipper open and shone the light directly at it.
That’s when we saw the rest of it. A boy. No older than twelve. His clothes were torn, his face streaked with mud, his eyes wide as though he hadn’t slept in days. He whispered, voice shaking: “Don’t let them find me.”
Before we could even respond, branches snapped outside — heavy footsteps circling the tent.
We held our breath, frozen, as the boy pressed a finger to his lips.
And in that suffocating silence, we realized something chilling: whatever he was hiding from… was still out there.
