An Unforgettable Labor Day Camping Experience

I was around 14 or 15 when my dad decided we should go camping over Labor Day. This was a change from our usual beach vacations, but he wanted to try something different. I went along with it, figuring it could be fun. But as soon as we arrived, I regretted every decision that led me there. My dad had neglected to mention that we were going "primitive camping"—just us, tents, and a couple of cots. He called it father-daughter bonding, but I was more anxious than excited about the whole thing. Still, I tried to push my apprehension aside and enjoy myself.

The first few hours weren't so bad. We fished, hiked along some trails, and did the usual outdoorsy stuff. As evening approached, we headed back to our campsite and started a fire. Despite the lack of running water and air conditioning, I was actually having a good time. It felt secluded; there wasn't another camper in sight, which was both peaceful and a little eerie.

When the sun finally set, we were both exhausted. We crawled into our tents, talking until I could hear my dad snoring from across the way. I don't know why, but I just couldn't fall asleep. I lay there staring at the top of my tent, my mind stuck in a loop. At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke up to complete darkness. I listened for my dad but couldn't hear him anymore. Annoyed that I was awake again, I tried to relax, focusing on the sounds around me.

But then I heard it—a faint whispering, just beyond my tent. I froze, trying to make out the voices. I knew they were people, though I couldn't understand what they were saying. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to remain still, fearing any movement might reveal I was awake. The whispering was followed by the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on dry leaves and sticks. Whoever it was, they were wearing heavy boots that broke the silence of the night. They circled our campsite, talking softly among themselves, and then, after what felt like an eternity, they started to move away.

Once I was sure they were gone, I peeked out of my tent. My dad's tent was undisturbed. I crawled over and woke him up, whispering about what I had heard. Always the rational one, he dismissed it, suggesting I must have been dreaming. He reassured me that everything was fine, but I insisted on sleeping in his tent that night. Even there, every little sound set me on edge. It wasn't until dawn broke that I felt a semblance of safety.

The next morning, I scoured the campsite for any signs of what I had heard—footprints, anything missing, some kind of proof. The only thing I found was a small crescent moon carved into a tree near our camp. I tried to brush it off, and we went about our day as usual. Despite my unease, I reluctantly agreed to stay another night, hoping it would be quieter.

But as night fell again, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I decided not to sleep, alternating between reading by flashlight and lying in the dark. Around 11 p.m., I heard them again—the heavy footsteps, now more deliberate. This time, they were silent as they moved through the campsite, not a whisper or murmur among them. Then, suddenly, everything went quiet. I thought they had left, but just as I started to relax, my tent walls began to collapse inward. I felt hands pressing against the fabric, trying to grab me, accompanied by a horrifying cackling that filled the night. I screamed—a loud, blood-curdling scream—and bolted out of the tent.

I looked around frantically for my dad, but his tent was open and empty. Panic surged through me, and I took off running into the woods. The trails were dimly lit, and I sprinted toward the car, not daring to look back. My heart raced as I reached the parking lot, spotting someone near our car. It was my dad. I ran to him, frantically trying to explain what had happened, but my words tumbled out incoherently. He tried to calm me, saying he had just gone to the car to get some Advil.

But then he stopped, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I turned around to see two men in masks standing there. I froze in terror, but my dad didn't. Instead, he started taunting them, which was completely out of character for him. One of the masked men grabbed my dad by the collar, and I could hear him struggling. My fear spiked as I watched helplessly. But then, just as quickly, the struggling stopped, replaced by laughter. The masked man let go, and both men doubled over, laughing hysterically. When one of them pulled off his mask, I realized it was my uncle.

I was furious. I burst into tears, this time from rage. My dad and uncle had planned the whole thing as some twisted joke to prove me wrong after I had boasted that I wouldn't make stupid decisions in a horror movie situation. It took me a long time to forgive them for that night, and I never camped with them again. And as for the other guy? He was just my uncle's coworker. I never bothered to forgive him—I never saw him again, either.

And to this day, every time the topic of camping comes up, I make sure everyone knows I’m more of a beach person.