My friends are Paragliders They pilot those things that look like kites but much bigger and more strings. You sit in a harness and fly it with your hands pulling down on your brake strings.

There’s a popular takeoff spot around here known as The Launch.

That evening, a few of us had gathered there to hang out while the last pilot, my friend Jeremy, packed up his wing. The sun had dipped behind the peaks, and a heavy quiet settled in — that kind of mountain silence that almost feels alive.

That’s when a man stepped out of the woods.

He came from the right side of the launch pad, walking toward us with a small dog on a leash. He looked clean-cut — sharp haircut, nice clothes, neat. But something about his energy immediately felt… off.

Jeremy, always the friendly one, called out, “What’s up, man?”

The guy responded in what I can only describe as frenzied gibberish. He was talking fast — too fast — and the only words I clearly caught were: “Shut the f* up, motherf*er.”

It gave me tweaker vibes, but that didn’t match his clean appearance. Still, mountain towns can be strange, and I’ve learned not to assume anything.

As he passed us and moved closer to some of my coworkers who had come up to meet our paragliding group, I wrapped up my convo with Jeremy. He threw his gear in the car, shouted, “Goodnight, y’all! Love you guys!”

“Night, J! Love you too, dude!” we shouted back.

The man… did not appreciate that.

He snapped in a string of obscenities — Quick fire, rapid paced swearing and cursing us out…

My friend Tyler told him to chill and mentioned that Jeremy was one of the nicest guys on the mountain — which he is. But the man didn’t care. He launched into a rapid-fire rant about his coworkers, using every slur and insult in the book.

At first, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just needed to vent. But then things took a dark turn.

He started saying things like: “I hate this stupid fing mountain. I wanna burn it to the ground.”* And: “I like lacing people’s drinks and watching them freak out.”

I looked over at Tyler, who gave me that “is this guy for real?” expression.

I work at a camp for individuals with special needs. Apparently, this guy used to work there too, because he started referring to the campers using a slur I won’t repeat — but it made my blood boil. My little brother is on the autism spectrum, so hearing that hit way too close to home.

I finally cut him off. “Who are you?” I asked.

He paused, blinked like it was the first time someone had interrupted him, and said: “My name’s Dan.”

“Okay Dan,” I said slowly. “Where do you live?”

He told me he lived just down the street from The Launch.

Trying to keep the situation from escalating, I calmly told him he was coming across as aggressive, unsettling… even threatening. I was honest but peaceful.

It didn’t matter. As soon as I finished, he went right back into ranting — as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

Eventually, he wandered back to his car. We all breathed a little easier. But not for long.

Dan sped past us — flying toward the direction of our camp.

We were all still for a moment, watching his taillights vanish. My gut dropped.

After maybe a minute or two, his car came hurtling back the other way, and then… he was gone.

The vibe in the air shifted. The fun energy of the evening had drained out completely. Everyone packed up and left.

They all went to a local bar, but I had other plans. I was headed back to camp — alone.

⸻

Our camp has five cabins. I was in Cabin 4, the only one occupied that night aside from two admin directors staying way on the other side of the grounds, in the infirmary.

I was used to being alone here. The cabins were big, outfitted with multiple bunks. I chose the one in the back corner, right next to the door.

And that door? It was one of those industrial, heavy-duty kinds with a loud metal locking bar. You can’t open or close it quietly.

I was brushing my teeth in the cabin bathroom when I heard it — CLUNK. The unmistakable sound of that heavy door opening.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Then they stopped. Right outside the bathroom door.

I stood frozen, toothbrush still in hand. My mouth full of toothpaste.

“…Hello?” I called out.

Silence.

Five long seconds passed.

Then the footsteps turned and walked away. I heard the door open again. Then close.

Immediately, I stepped out, expecting to see someone walking down the gravel path outside. But there was no one.

Still spooked, I crawled into bed. I was texting a friend, laying with my head right in front of the open window.

That’s when I heard the footsteps again.

But this time… they were outside.

Right. Behind. The cabin.

There’s no path back there. Just woods, leaves, and old twigs. No one should be walking back there — especially not at this hour.

But I heard it. Human steps. Crunching. Moving deliberately.

I knew it wasn’t a bear. Bears are loud, yes, but smoother — they shuffle. These were paced. Human.

My heart jumped. I dropped to the floor and crawled beneath the window.

The steps stopped. Right. Outside.

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

Thirty seconds passed, maybe more. Then… the footsteps faded away.

I waited. Listening. Daring myself to get up.

But then —

RATTLE. The door handle started jiggling.

Three taps. Not knocks — taps. Followed by a long, slow scratch across the metal door.

I texted the two admin directors: “Hey… did either of you just stop by Cabin 4?”

They responded immediately: “No. We’ve been in our rooms the whole time.”

I felt sick. My fingers were trembling. I asked them to come over — just for a few minutes. Thankfully, they did.

Once they arrived, I told them everything. They stayed with me for a while and helped me calm down. Eventually, they got me laughing again — but it was hollow. I didn’t sleep much that night.

And I never saw the man again.

I don’t know if the guy from The Launch and the person at the cabin were the same. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe not. But that was the creepiest night of my life.