The Drowned Trail

In March, after the rains had finally paused, a group of us decided to take our dirt bikes out to the old logging trails near the edge of the Bitterroot Forest. I’d saved up for months for my new KTM 450 XC-F, and the dry spell meant the trails would be tacky, not muddy. Perfect.

The morning was crisp, the air smelling of pine and wet earth. My mates—Leo, Marcus, and my younger brother, Sam—were all itching to ride. Sam, especially, was a natural. He could throw the bike around like it was an extension of his body, something I envied but couldn’t replicate. I was more of a ‘hang on and pray’ rider.

We rode for hours, carving through the hills, jumping over fallen logs, and splashing through the few remaining puddles. It was one of those days where everything felt right. As the sun began to dip, we decided to head back to the trucks. We were packing up, laughing about a near-miss when Sam asked, ‘Hey, can I take your bike for one last spin?’

I didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure, just don’t get it dirty,’ I joked. He grinned, grabbed the helmet, and kicked the bike to life. He tore off down the main trail, and we watched until the sound of the engine faded into the trees.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The silence grew heavy. I looked at Leo. ‘Can you hear anything?’ He shook his head, his brow furrowed. Marcus spoke up, ‘I’ll go check on him.’ He mounted his bike and headed down the same trail. But after a few minutes, we heard him stop, then rev his engine, then come roaring back toward us.

‘Not there,’ Marcus said, pulling off his helmet. ‘The main trail splits, and I saw fresh tracks heading toward the old quarry, but they just… stop.’

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. The quarry was a deep pit filled with rainwater, surrounded by sheer cliffs. We’d all been warned never to venture near the water’s edge—the ground was unstable, and the water was deceptively deep.

Without a word, the three of us rode off, following Marcus back to the spot where the tracks vanished. We dismounted and walked to the edge. The water was a murky green, reflecting the grey sky. There, floating near the center, was my bike’s front fender, just bobbing. No Sam.

Panic set in. Leo called for help on his phone, but the signal was weak. Marcus and I stripped down to our underwear and dove in, despite the cold. The water was so dark we could barely see a metre ahead. We dove repeatedly, searching, but found nothing. The police arrived with divers an hour later, but they too came up empty. Sam was gone, and the bike was eventually dragged out.

We drove home in a daze, the silence in the car unbearable. I couldn’t sleep that night, or the next. But the weirdest thing was what happened later. A few weeks after the ‘accident’, I was going through the photos on my phone. There was a blurred shot I’d taken earlier that day—a quick selfie with Sam in the background, laughing. I zoomed in on the background, behind Sam. In the trees, there was a figure. A tall, thin shape, pale as mist, with long arms, standing motionless, watching. It wasn’t one of us. No one had been there.

I showed it to Marcus and Leo. They went white. Leo whispered, ‘I saw something that day too. When I went to the water’s edge, before I called for help, I thought I saw a hand reach up from the water, then sink back down.’

We tried to tell the police, but they dismissed it as grief and imagination. But I knew. That thing in the trees had something to do with Sam’s disappearance. And now, every time I ride, I feel its eyes on me. The trail near the quarry is still there, but no one goes there anymore. They say the water ripples sometimes, even when there’s no wind. And sometimes, late at night, if you listen, you can hear the faint sound of a motorcycle revving, coming from under the water.

I’ve hung up my riding days for good. But Sam’s voice still calls to me from that drowned place, urging me to come back, to join him. I know it’s not really Sam. But the call is hard to resist.