The ascent up Blackwood Ridge is a grueling four mile climb, typically occupied by the rhythmic tap of trekking poles and the heavy breathing of fellow hikers. You first see him near the two mile marker. A man in a vibrant neon yellow windbreaker and clean khaki shorts. He is standing six inches away from a massive, ancient cedar tree, his forehead nearly touching the rough bark. His arms hang limp at his sides. You offer a cheery greeting as you pass, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't even tilt his head. You figure he’s practicing some high concept forest bathing or perhaps just caught in a moment of intense mountain vertigo. You keep moving, the neon yellow eventually swallowed by the deep green of the forest.
Three hours later, the summit is behind you and the sun is beginning its slow descent. As you approach the two-mile marker again, you see the flash of neon. Your heart skips a beat. He is in the exact same square foot of dirt. However, as you get closer, the perspective shifts. He is no longer facing the tree. He has performed a perfect, silent 180-degree pivot. He is now facing directly down the trail, staring toward the trailhead staring at you.
His eyes are the most disturbing part. They are wide, stretched to the point of tearing at the corners, and devoid of pupils—just two milky, porcelain orbs set into a face that is gray and cold. He doesn’t breathe. No chest expansion, no fog from his nostrils in the cooling air. He is a mannequin made of flesh, anchored to the earth. You feel a primal urge to flee, so you side-step him, keeping your eyes locked on his frozen face. As soon as you round the bend and lose sight of him, you break into a panicked run.
Thirty seconds into your sprint, you look back over your shoulder. The trail was empty a moment ago, but now, he is there. He is fifty yards closer, standing in the middle of the path in that same rigid, arms-limp posture. He didn't run; he didn't make a sound. He simply appeared closer. Every time you blink, the distance closes. You realize with a jolt of terror that he isn't a person at all, but something that moves only when the forest isn't watching. You stop blinking, your eyes watering and stinging, as you back down the mountain, watching the neon yellow statue wait for the inevitable moment your eyelids finally fail you.