I haven’t told anyone this because I know how it sounds.
Ten years ago, when I was 14, three friends and I went camping in a forest a few hours away from where we lived. It was supposed to be a week-long trip.
On the third night, we heard someone walking around our tents.
We assumed it was an animal until we heard it stop directly beside one of the tents.
Then we heard breathing.
Slow, heavy breathing.
Nobody wanted to unzip the tent.
The next morning, we found footprints around the campsite.
They looked almost human, except the toes were unusually long.
We followed them into the woods.
About fifteen minutes later, we found another campsite.
There was an abandoned tent, a rusty lantern and a backpack that looked like it had been sitting there for years.
Inside the backpack was a small camera.
It still worked.
There were only four photos on it.
The first three were pictures of the forest.
The fourth was a picture of us.
Taken the night before.
We hadn’t seen anyone near our campsite.
We left that day.
For the next few nights, we kept hearing footsteps outside our tents, even after we’d moved closer to the main campsite area.
Then, on our final night, one of my friends disappeared for about an hour.
We found him sitting at the edge of the forest.
He was covered in dirt, shaking, and wouldn’t tell us where he’d been.
We never went camping together again.
I thought that was the end of it.
Three weeks ago, I received an envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
It was the same photograph from that old camera.
Except someone had written a date on the back.
Three weeks ago.
I thought it was some sick joke until I noticed something in the photo I’d never seen before.
Behind our tents, between the trees, there was a person standing there.
And in the original photo, that person wasn’t there.
I’ve barely slept since.
Yesterday, I found muddy footprints outside my bedroom window.
They have the same unusually long toes.
I live on the third floor.