The Crying Lure
The night was still, with only the crackling of our campfire and the occasional rustle of leaves breaking the silence. I was camping with my fiancé, Daniel, and his family at an isolated lake deep in the forests of Oregon. There were 12 of us, including Daniel's younger brother, Noah, who was just 16 and full of curiosity. Nearby, another group of four campers occupied a neighboring site, their laughter occasionally drifting over to us.
As the evening wore on, we roasted marshmallows and swapped stories under a sky strewn with stars. The forest felt alive, yet oddly hushed, as if it were listening. That’s when it happened—a piercing cry shattered the tranquility.
“Help! Please, help me!” It was a little girl’s voice, frantic and desperate, echoing from the darkness beyond our firelight.
We froze, exchanging uneasy glances. None of us had brought children on this trip, and we knew the other group hadn’t either. Daniel stood, his expression tense. “We should check it out,” he said, his voice firm. Reluctantly, we grabbed flashlights and headed toward the sound.
The cries seemed to come from a meadow behind our campsite, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. And then we saw it. A figure emerged from the shadows—a tall, impossibly slender figure cloaked in white, its elongated limbs unnaturally angular. It stood about 7 feet tall, swaying as if it were a reed in the wind. The voice continued to cry out, but now it sounded wrong—like a recording played on an old, warped tape.
Noah whispered, “What is that thing?” His voice trembled, but his curiosity won over his fear. He took a step forward, and the figure moved back, slipping almost effortlessly toward the edge of the forest. Its movements were unnervingly fluid, yet alien.
The cries grew louder, circling us as if the forest itself had come alive. “Help me!” It was everywhere and nowhere at once. Panic began to set in, but we pressed on, drawn to the figure that kept retreating, leading us further into the dark.
Suddenly, it stopped. The figure stood motionless at the tree line, staring—or at least we thought it was staring. Two glowing, hollow eyes appeared where its face should have been, and the cries stopped mid-sentence, plunging the world into an eerie silence.
Then, in a voice that mimicked Daniel’s perfectly, it spoke: “Come closer.”
Daniel froze. The rest of us stumbled back, our flashlights flickering. Noah dropped his, and the light went out entirely. The figure moved forward now, faster than before, its lanky limbs contorting as it closed the gap.
“Run!” Daniel yelled, and we did, bolting back to the campsite. Behind us, the cries started again, this time layered—like the voices of a dozen people trapped in unison. When we reached the safety of the firelight, the cries abruptly ceased. The forest was silent once more.
That night, none of us slept. We packed up and left at first light, the other group doing the same without a word exchanged. But as we drove away, Noah glanced back and screamed. There, at the edge of the road, stood the figure, its hollow eyes burning into our souls.