The Camper’s Thirst

The first time I noticed it, I was twelve, lying in bed in our new house on Cedar Lane. The moon cast a pale square on the wall, and I saw a silhouette—tall, thin, with long arms that swung as it swayed. I thought it was a tree branch outside, but the curtains were drawn. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, but a cold knot settled in my stomach.

Years passed, and the house on Cedar Lane became a memory. We moved to a town called Ashford, into a two-story Victorian with creaky floors and a pantry that smelled of old wood. That’s where it started again—but worse. My mother and I were in the kitchen, both needing the bathroom. I went first, and when I came out, every drawer in the kitchen was open, every cabinet door swung wide. The top shelf of the pantry, which I couldn’t reach even on a stool, held a jar of pickles that had been neatly rotated. I ran to fetch my mother, and when we returned, everything was closed. Perfectly shut. She laughed it off, said the doors were loose, but I saw her check the locks that night.

The incidents grew closer. At first, it was every few months: a door left ajar, a picture frame turned backward, the faint sound of footsteps on the attic stairs. Then monthly. Then weekly. Then daily. Always at the witching hour—3:15 AM. I’d wake to find my closet doors open, my books rearranged by height, or a glass of water on my nightstand that I hadn’t placed there. My mother started sleeping with the lights on, and I’d hear her whispering prayers under her breath.

I thought getting away would help. We went camping in the Blackwood Forest, a place with no bears, just dense pines and a stream. We set up our tent near a clearing, and after a long day of hiking, my father cracked open a six-pack of stout. We sat around the fire, laughing, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. At 3:15 AM, I woke shivering. The fire had died, and the air was frigid. I sat up to check my phone, and there, by the cooler, stood a man—see-through, like a photograph overexposed. He was dressed in all black, and he was lifting one of our beers to his lips. I could see the outline of the bottle through his chest. I shouted, ‘Hey!’ He turned, and his eyes were empty sockets. Then he vanished, and the beer was gone. The bottle had simply disappeared from his hand.

We packed up and left the next morning, but the haunting followed us home. Now, I don’t sleep anymore. I lie awake at 3:15, waiting. Last night, I saw him again, standing at the foot of my bed. He pointed to the door, and when I looked, my mother was standing there, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream. She mouthed, ‘He’s been here since we moved in.’ I don’t know what he wants. But I know he’s thirsty, and he’s been drinking more than just beer.