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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/randomquestions27296 on 2025-05-21 20:21:57+00:00.

I’ve always loved hunting. There’s something about the forest that pulls me in—the damp earth, the creak of ancient trees, the way your own breath sounds too loud when everything else falls silent. My buddies—Chris, Luke, and I—make a tradition of it every fall. A few days away from work, from town, from people. Just us, the wild, and whatever we’re tracking.

This year, we chose Deepwood Ridge. None of us had been there before, but Chris swore he’d heard good things—remote, untouched, full of game. It took hours to get out there, the truck bumping over overgrown trails until we found a spot that felt right. We set up camp in a small clearing just as the sky bruised with twilight.

Luke, always the anxious one, kept glancing into the trees while we unpacked. “Feels… wrong here,” he muttered, almost to himself. I glanced at him, half amused. Luke was always saying stuff like that—seeing shadows where there weren’t any.

“Relax,” Chris said, smacking Luke on the shoulder. “It’s just the quiet. You’re not used to it.”

Luke tried to smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw. The quiet did feel different, though. Usually, the forest hums—bugs, birds, the rustle of small creatures. Here, it was just… still. Like the trees were listening.

We got a fire going, and the flickering light made the clearing feel smaller. Luke kept his back to the trees. Chris and I just laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake the crawling sensation between my shoulders, like something was watching us.

We ate in near silence, the crackle of the fire too loud. Chris suggested a night hike—see if we could spot any tracks before morning. Luke hesitated, but eventually gave in. We strapped on our headlamps, grabbed rifles, and picked a path through the dense underbrush.

The fog came in fast, thicker than I’d ever seen. Our beams barely cut through it, shadows warping and twisting around us. We stayed close, not wanting to split up until we were sure of the area. At some point, Luke fell behind, muttering something about hearing footsteps that didn’t match ours. I glanced back to check on him, but he looked normal—just on edge.

Then Chris stopped short, raising a hand. We froze, straining to hear. Nothing. Just our breathing. Then—snap. Off to the right. Chris motioned to move that way, but Luke whispered, “No. We shouldn’t.”

Chris shook his head and kept going. We followed, tension winding tight in my gut. About a hundred yards on, I smelled it—coppery, thick. We found the deer half-buried in the brush, its chest cavity peeled open like split fruit. No scavengers, no insects—just raw, exposed meat, gleaming wet in the lamplight.

“Bear?” I whispered, though I knew it wasn’t. The cuts were too clean.

Chris leaned in, inspecting the ribs. “Never seen a bear do that. No tracks either.” He glanced back, and I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—uncertainty. Chris didn’t get spooked.

A rustle behind us made Luke jump. I turned, sweeping the light across the trees. Nothing. Just that dense, breathing quiet. Chris called it, said we should head back. Luke didn’t argue.

Back at camp, Luke dropped onto his pack, pale and silent. Chris dug through the gear, looking for more batteries. I caught a whiff of something—like damp earth and rot. I glanced at Luke, who was staring at me, his face drawn tight.

“You good?” I asked.

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “You… wandered off earlier,” he said slowly.

“No, I didn’t. I was right behind you.”

Luke hesitated. “You… moved weird. Didn’t answer when I called. Just kept walking ahead.”

Before I could respond, Chris came back, muttering about the battery pack being lighter than he remembered. I let it go, but Luke didn’t stop watching me.

That night, sleep came in fits. The fire burned low, shadows stretching long across the tent walls. At some point, I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate. I peered out, but nothing moved beyond the dying light. When I glanced back at Luke, he was wide awake, staring at me.

Morning came grey and dull. Chris was gone. His gear was still piled near the fire pit, rifle propped against a tree. Luke started panicking, calling out for him, but I just felt… numb. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, like the camp wasn’t the same place we’d left the night before.

We searched the area, circling wider and wider. No tracks, no signs. The forest seemed denser than before—branches reaching lower, fog clinging even in daylight.

Hours later, we stumbled on him—or what was left. Chris’s body was wedged in the roots of an old tree, face contorted, chest hollowed out. Luke started sobbing, but I just… stared. It looked wrong, like the body had been there longer than a few hours. Like it had rotted from the inside.

A twig snapped. I turned, but the forest was empty. When I looked back at Chris’s body, something was off—the position of the head, maybe. I blinked, and the difference was gone.

Luke grabbed my arm, pulling me away. “We need to leave. Now.”

Back at camp, the fire was out. Our gear had been tossed around, torn open like animals had rifled through it. Luke blamed me—said I left during the night, messed with the supplies. I didn’t argue. I couldn’t remember.

That night, I heard Luke muttering in his sleep. I caught my name—over and over. When I shook him awake, he recoiled, eyes wide and terrified.

“You’re… not you,” he whispered.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You… you keep changing. Your voice… it’s not right sometimes. Your face looks… wrong.”

I didn’t sleep after that. I just watched him, trying to figure out what he saw when he looked at me. By dawn, he was gone too. No signs—just his boots left by the fire.

I’m alone now. Or maybe I always was. Sometimes I hear my own voice from the trees, calling back to me. When I look into the mirror, my face seems unfamiliar—like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

(Continued…)

The silence in the forest feels denser now, pressing against my skull like a vice. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The food feels wrong in my hands—gritty, unappealing. I force down a few bites, but it sits heavy in my stomach.

Luke’s boots are still by the fire pit, right where he left them. I stare at them, trying to remember if I heard him leave. I was awake, wasn’t I? Watching him sleep. I thought I saw him sit up, eyes vacant, walking out into the dark. I wanted to call him back, but something stopped me—like my voice didn’t belong to me.

I spend the morning retracing our steps, trying to find any sign of Chris or Luke. The forest swallows my shouts, returning nothing but echoes. At one point, I swear I see someone through the trees—a figure moving slowly, head bent. I call out, but they don’t turn. When I push through the underbrush to catch up, there’s no one there. Just clawed footprints in the mud—some huge, some human.

Back at camp, I find my own pack shredded, contents scattered. The radio’s gone, and my rifle’s been snapped in half, like someone—or something—bent it over their knee. I crouch by the remnants, trying to piece together what happened. My hands shake. I can’t remember leaving camp, but the fog in my head is getting thicker, and there’s a taste in my mouth—coppery and stale.

At dusk, I light what’s left of the firewood, but the flames seem smaller, more fragile. Shadows leap and stretch, and I catch myself listening for footsteps that never come. Then I hear it again—my own voice from the treeline, too flat, too hollow.

It’s calling my name.

I grip the hunting knife tighter, knuckles white. “Who’s out there?” I shout, but my voice cracks. The forest absorbs the sound, giving nothing back. I don’t sleep, just sit by the fire, eyes darting from tree to tree. At some point, I hear it—soft, scraping, like something crawling just out of sight.

And then I see him. Chris—standing at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow. His head is cocked to the side, too far, like his neck is broken. I swallow hard. “Chris?”

He doesn’t move, just stares. I stand slowly, knife trembling in my hand. “What happened to you?”

A rasping sound escapes his mouth—like laughter forced through torn vocal cords. “You don’t remember?” His voice is wrong—like someone trying to imitate Chris but not quite nailing it.

I take a step forward, and he mirrors me, his head slowly straightening until it’s upright. His grin is too wide, his teeth bared. “You’re the last one left,” he whispers.

My pulse hammers in my ears. “What do you mean?”

Chris just watches me, and his form flickers—like static, like he’s almost there but not quite. I blink, and he’s gone. Just trees, swaying gently in the night breeze.

I sink to the ground, my breathing shallow. I try to piece it together. Chris was dead. We found his body. So what the hell did I just see?

And then it hits me—the memories that don’t line up. Luke saying I left camp, saying I didn’t look right. The way the gear was destroyed while I was “asleep.” The way the food tastes off. The way my voice echoes back at me, sounding unfamiliar.

I pick up the broken mirror from my pack, angling it toward the firelight. My own eyes stare back, but they’re too dark, too sunken. My face looks gaunt, like I’ve been starving for weeks. I touch my cheek, and the skin feels wrong—stiff, like something stretched too tightly over bone.

Maybe I never made it out of those woods. Maybe the thing hunting us took me first, and whatever’s left—whatever I am now—is just a copy…

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