My name is Alex Greene, and nature has always been my refuge. Whenever life in the city became too overwhelming, I’d retreat to the mountains, where the noise of everyday life couldn’t reach me. The solitude of the trails offered a kind of peace I couldn’t find anywhere else. But there’s one place I’d always avoided—a remote section of the mountains where the trees grow thicker, and the air feels heavy with a sense of foreboding. Locals call it “The Lost Ridge,” warning that those who venture there don’t always return.
I never paid much attention to the stories. I’m not one to be easily spooked, but something about The Lost Ridge kept me away. That is, until a few weeks ago.
I needed a break, a chance to clear my mind, so I decided to spend a weekend camping in the mountains. I packed light, just the essentials, and set out early in the morning. The hike started off like any other—clear skies, crisp air—but as I neared the ridge, the atmosphere shifted. The trees grew closer together, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out the sun. The forest, once vibrant with life, became eerily silent.
And then, I found it.
I was navigating through a particularly dense section of forest when I stumbled upon a small clearing. In the center stood an old, rusted tower, its metal frame overtaken by vines and decay. It looked like a radio tower, but there were no roads, no signs of civilization anywhere nearby. The sight of it filled me with unease, but my curiosity pushed me closer.
As I approached, I heard a faint hum—a low, buzzing sound that grew louder the nearer I got. The air around the tower felt charged, vibrating with an energy that seemed almost alive. Then, without warning, my phone—dead since I’d entered the forest—buzzed back to life.
At first, I thought it was a glitch, but when I looked at the screen, I saw something I’ll never forget. An old, grainy video feed flickered with static. The image was dark, but I could make out the shapes of figures—tall, unnaturally thin, moving in the shadows. They circled something in the center of the frame, something I couldn’t quite see.
And then, the feed cut to black.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding. What the hell had I just seen? I tried to dismiss it as some bizarre malfunction, but then my phone buzzed again. Another video, this time shorter. The same figures, closer now, their faces—if you could call them that—twisted into something grotesque, something almost resembling a smile.
Panic set in, and I backed away from the tower, every instinct screaming at me to get out of there. But before I could turn to run, the ground began to vibrate. The hum grew louder, a deep, resonant tone that seemed to emanate from the very earth. My phone buzzed one last time—a text message.
One word: “RUN.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I turned and fled, the forest closing in around me as I ran. The hum echoed in my ears, and the feeling of being watched, of being followed, grew stronger with every step. When I finally burst out onto the familiar trail, I didn’t stop until I was far from that cursed place.
But the experience has stayed with me, haunting my every waking moment. Even back at my campsite, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, watching. That night, as I tried to sleep, I heard it again—the hum, faint but unmistakable, carried on the wind.
I left the mountains at first light, but the sense of unease followed me home. My phone, which I haven’t dared to turn on since that day, still buzzes occasionally, showing me those same twisted figures, closer each time.
I don’t know what they are, or what they want. But I know they’re out there, watching, waiting. And one day, they’ll come for me.
If you ever find yourself near The Lost Ridge, turn back. Don’t go looking for the signal. Don’t follow the hum. Because once it finds you, it never lets go.
