Something lurks deep within the woods of British Columbia. My father used to warn me about it. My older siblings brushed off his warnings as jokes, ghost stories he told to scare us kids into not going off alone on our summer camping trips.
They’d tell me he was teasing, but he wasn’t that kind of man. He’d crack jokes and show us horror movies that were maybe a bit too old for us, but he generally wasn’t the type to purposefully scare us for no reason. Sometimes he didn’t even want to scare us when there was a reason.
I was eight years old, on my sixth camping trip, when he knelt down to my height and gently grabbed my shoulders. He wasn’t that tall, but his 5'8" frame would still tower over me. He’d kneel down to my height whenever he wanted to make sure I was taking him seriously.
“Be careful when you leave your tent late at night,” he would say, the look on his face stern, yet filled with emotion. “If you have to leave the campsite after dark, bring your flashlight. The light irritates them.
Never go alone if you can help it. They’re less likely to attack when you’re in a group. Don’t speak a word or they might follow the sound of your voice.
And whatever you do, walk. Don’t run. Otherwise, they’ll know you’re afraid.
These things feed off fear. Don’t give it to them.” “What are they?” I remember asking.
“You’ll sleep better if you don’t know.” He’d say. “If it’s so bad to run into.
.. them.
.. why do we go camping at al.