The Vanishing Point

Every summer, my Girl Scout troop traded the suburbs for a patch of wildness that promised badges and bonding. This year, it was the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, a sprawling, eerie expanse of dwarf pines and sandy soil that swallowed sound. Our camp, Camp Quail Hollow, was nicer than the name suggested, with three distinct grounds; we had the largest, the most remote, tucked behind a copse of scrub oak. As patrol leader, I was tasked with the fire. I sent two girls, Maya and Jess, to gather deadwood while I scraped out the fire pit and dug for matches in my duffel. When I looked up, expecting to see them stumbling back with armfuls of branches, I saw instead a line of four figures in faded hiking gear, standing at the edge of the clearing. They were unmoving, facing our site, and then, as if they were a heat mirage, they were gone. I blinked, told myself it was the twilight playing tricks, and went back to my task.

Dusk settled like a damp cloth. One of the younger girls, Chloe, needed the outhouse, which was near the camp entrance, a good ten-minute walk along a sandy path. My friend Dana and I volunteered to escort her, flashlights cutting weak cones through the gathering gloom. The path wound between towering pines that creaked overhead, and the only sounds were our footsteps and the occasional rustle of unseen things. We reached the wooden outhouse, a squat structure with a new moon carved on its door, and waited outside while Chloe went in. The quiet was profound, pressing against my eardrums. And then, from the trees beyond, I heard a faint, rhythmic crunching, like footsteps on pine needles, but unhurried. Dana heard it too; her hand tightened on my arm. We both stared into the black, but saw nothing. The crunching stopped just as Chloe emerged, swinging open the door with a clatter that made us jump.

We hurried back, but the unease clung to us like burrs. Back at camp, the fire was crackling, and the other girls were laughing, but I couldn’t shake the image of those four hikers. I mentioned it to Dana, and she admitted she’d felt watched all day. Later, as we were roasting marshmallows, a sudden gust of wind swept through, snuffing out the flames. In the sudden dark, I saw them again, the four figures, closer now, standing just beyond the firelight. They were indistinct, their faces blank, but I could swear they were holding hands. I pointed, and Dana screamed, but when the others turned, there was nothing. The fire had relit on its own, as if fueled by a different air. The rest of the night, we took turns keeping watch, but nothing else happened.

Morning came, gray and heavy. I was sent to fetch water from the pump near the office. As I walked, I noticed the forest was silent, no birdsong, no rustle. The air felt thick, charged. At the pump, an old ranger was filling a jug. I asked him if he’d seen hikers around. He gave me a long, searching look. ‘No,’ he said, slowly, ‘but there’s a legend about four lost souls who vanished in ’79 during a hiking trip. They say they still walk these woods, looking for a way out. If you see them, don’t follow.’ I laughed nervously, but his words lodged in my mind.

That afternoon, I led the troop on a nature hike, trying to put the legend aside. We followed a marked trail, but after a while, the markers grew sparse, and the path became faint. I realized we’d wandered off the map, into a part of the barrens I didn’t recognize. The trees seemed taller, closing in. Then, ahead, I saw a clearing, and in it, four figures, their backs to us. They were wearing the same faded hiking gear. They began to walk slowly into the woods, and I felt an inexplicable pull to follow. My troop was frozen, watching. But something made me stop. I called out to them, and as they turned, their faces were not faces but dark hollows. They gestured, beckoning. I felt a hand on my shoulder; it was Dana. She whispered, ‘Don’t,’ and I snapped out of it. We turned and ran, not stopping until we reached the relative safety of our camp.

We packed up early, breaking camp before sundown, all of us silently agreeing we had overstayed. As our bus pulled out, I looked back through the rear window. At the edge of the trees, four figures stood, watching us go. I blinked, and they were gone. It’s been a year, and I still dream of those hollow faces, the way they beckoned, and I know, somewhere out there, they are still waiting for someone to follow.