The Worker Who Never Left

The mountains around Frost Valley stood tall and foreboding, their jagged peaks crowned with ancient forests. For centuries, the land had been wild, untamed, a place that demanded respect from those who dared to live there. But by the late 1800s, progress had arrived in the form of sawmills, and with it, men like Willie Harper—a man whose name would be cursed long after his death.

Willie was a sawyer at the old Black Hollow Sawmill, a grueling job that required skill, strength, and nerves of steel. The mill sat on the edge of a mountain stream, its roaring blade powered by the relentless current. It was a dangerous place, where a single misstep could cost you a limb—or your life. But Willie was good at his work, maybe too good.

The other men whispered about him. Said he had a strange way with the machines, almost as if he could hear them talking. He didn’t laugh with the crew or join them for drinks at the tavern after a long shift. Willie kept to himself, his sharp blue eyes always watching, always calculating.

Then there were his hands. People said they were huge, calloused things, strong enough to split a log without an axe. But what caught everyone’s attention were his fingers—six on each hand.

“Born lucky,” Willie would say if anyone dared to comment. But there was nothing lucky about Willie Harper.

The Accident

It was the last week of October when it happened. The air was crisp, the leaves a riot of red and gold, and the mill was bustling with activity as they rushed to finish an order before the first snow. Willie was at his usual station, feeding massive logs into the circular saw.

The machine screeched and groaned as it bit into the wood, sending a spray of sawdust into the air. Willie worked with mechanical precision, his movements steady and unhurried. But that day, something felt...off.

The blade stuttered, jerking violently as it hit a knot in the wood. Willie tried to pull his hand back, but it was too late. The saw caught his left hand, slicing through bone and sinew like it was nothing.

The other men rushed to help, but Willie didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, staring at the blood dripping from his ruined hand.

When the foreman finally got a look at him, he turned pale.

“Good God, Willie,” he stammered. “You’re still smiling.”

The Change

After the accident, Willie was never the same. The mill doctor patched him up, but two fingers on his left hand were gone forever. The other men expected him to quit, but Willie refused. He came back the next day, his hand wrapped in filthy bandages, and went right back to work.

That’s when the rumors started.

People said Willie had made some kind of deal to keep working, something unnatural. They said he’d gone up the mountain one night, to a place the locals called Devil’s Ridge. It was a stretch of the woods no one went to, a place where the trees grew too close together and the wind never seemed to blow.

Willie never denied it.

“Gotta do what you gotta do,” he’d say when asked about his missing fingers. And then he’d smile—a thin, crooked smile that sent shivers down your spine.

The accidents started not long after.

Logs slipping from their cradles. Blades snapping without warning. Men losing fingers, hands, even their lives. Some swore they saw Willie standing near the machines when it happened, his three remaining fingers twitching like they were pulling invisible strings.

And then one day, Willie disappeared.

The Legend

They never found his body, but the mill workers claimed they heard him in the woods. Late at night, when the wind howled through the trees, you could hear his voice, low and guttural, calling out names. Some said they saw him, a shadowy figure stalking the mountains, his three-fingered hand outstretched.

The sawmill closed not long after, and the forest reclaimed the land. But the legend of Willie Harper—now known as Three-Fingered Willie—lived on.

And so did he.

The Campfire Setting

The fire crackled in the clearing, sending sparks spiraling into the star-filled sky. Camp Wawayanda sat nestled in the heart of the Catskill Mountains, surrounded by towering pines and rugged trails that stretched for miles. It was the perfect place to tell a ghost story—or to live one.

The campers sat in a circle around the flames, their faces illuminated in flickering light. The night was cool, and the shadows beyond the fire’s reach seemed to press in closer with every passing moment.

Counselor Jake stood by the fire, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He had a reputation for scaring the living daylights out of his campers, and tonight, he planned to live up to it.

“Alright, you little punks,” he began, his voice low and gravelly. “Who here thinks they’re brave?”

A few hands shot up, but most kids just stared at him, unsure if this was a trap.

Jake grinned. “Good. Because you’re gonna need guts for this one. This isn’t just some made-up campfire story. This is real.”

“Yeah, right,” Alex scoffed, crossing his arms. “What is it this time? Bigfoot? The Jersey Devil?”

Jake’s grin widened. “Nope. Tonight, we’re talking about Three-Fingered Willie.”

The name hung in the air like a bad smell. Some kids looked intrigued, others nervous.

“Never heard of him?” Jake asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, count yourself lucky. Because once you know about him, he knows about you.”

The campers exchanged uneasy glances. One girl, Mia, hugged her knees to her chest.

Jake crouched by the fire, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him. “This isn’t just a ghost story, folks. Willie was a real man. Worked right here in these mountains, not far from this very camp. And if you think the woods are quiet tonight, you might wanna ask yourself why. Maybe Willie’s still out there, waiting for someone dumb enough to say his name.”

The fire popped loudly, making several kids jump. Jake’s grin turned sinister.

“Don’t believe me? Let me tell you the real story. The one they don’t print in the camp brochures.”

The Tale of Three-Fingered Willie

The fire crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows against the trees. Counselor Jake leaned closer to the flames, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.

“It all started over a hundred years ago,” he began, letting his words hang heavy in the still night air. “Right here in Frost Valley, not far from this very spot. Back then, these mountains weren’t full of happy campers and hiking trails. They were home to the Black Hollow Sawmill, one of the biggest lumber operations in the region. And working there was Willie Harper.”

The Rise and Fall of Willie Harper

Jake’s eyes swept across the campers, each one hanging on his every word.

“Willie was the kind of man who didn’t fit in anywhere else. He was quiet, strong, and tough as the mountain itself. People said he’d been born with six fingers on each hand, which made him a legend of sorts. That extra grip made him the fastest, most precise sawyer in the mill. He could handle the biggest logs, split them clean in one pass, and never break a sweat.

“But people also said Willie wasn’t quite...normal. Maybe it was the way he never seemed to blink, or how he worked alone long after everyone else had gone home. Some claimed they saw him talking to the machines, his lips moving in whispers no one could hear.

“Most folks kept their distance. Except for his wife, Clara. She was the only person Willie ever seemed to care about. They lived in a small cabin just up the mountain, away from the rest of the workers. Clara was kind, always smiling, always bringing food to the men when their shifts ran late. But behind her smile, the other wives whispered, was a woman scared of her own husband.”

Jake paused, letting the tension build. The campers were silent now, their eyes wide in the firelight.

“Then came the accident.”

The Day It All Changed

“It was a cold October morning,” Jake continued, his voice low. “The first frost had settled on the ground, and the sawmill was rushing to finish a shipment of lumber before the snow came. Willie was at his usual post, feeding logs into the circular saw. The blade was massive, powered by the mill’s water wheel, and it could tear through anything—wood, bone, even steel.

“The foreman said the machine wasn’t running right that day. The blade kept catching, grinding like it was chewing on rocks. But Willie didn’t care. He just kept working, feeding log after log into the saw.

“And then it happened. The blade hit a knot in the wood, and the log kicked back. Willie’s hand was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In an instant, two of his fingers were gone, ripped clean off.”

Mia gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

Jake nodded solemnly. “The men said Willie didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, staring at the blood pouring from his hand like it wasn’t even his. When the foreman tried to help, Willie shoved him away and walked out of the mill, leaving a trail of blood behind him.”

The Deal on Devil’s Ridge

“Willie disappeared for days after that,” Jake said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The men figured he’d gone to the nearest town for help, but when he came back, his hand was wrapped in filthy rags, and his eyes...his eyes weren’t the same.

“Something had changed in him. He didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t eat with the crew, didn’t even stop to sleep. He just worked, faster and harder than before, like he was trying to prove something. But the accidents started soon after.

“Machines would jam, and men would lose fingers—or worse. Logs would fall without warning, crushing anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. Some of the men swore they saw Willie nearby every time it happened, his hand twitching under those dirty bandages.”

Jake leaned closer to the fire, his voice dropping lower.

“Then, late one night, someone saw Willie climbing Devil’s Ridge. It’s a rocky outcrop on the far side of the valley, a place the locals called cursed. They said he was carrying something—a bundle wrapped in cloth—and that he wasn’t alone.”

“Who was with him?” Alex asked, his voice tight.

Jake’s grin turned sharp. “No one knows. The man who saw him said it wasn’t human. Just a shadow, long and twisted, walking beside Willie like it was leading him somewhere.”

The Aftermath

Jake stood, pacing slowly around the fire. “Not long after that night, Clara disappeared. The men found her cabin empty, the door hanging open, and the kitchen table covered in sawdust. Willie wouldn’t say where she’d gone.

“The mill shut down a few months later after another worker died in a freak accident. The foreman blamed Willie, said he’d cursed the place with his devil’s hand. When the sheriff came to arrest him, they found the mill abandoned.

“But Willie wasn’t gone. Not really. People started hearing things in the woods—screams, whispers, the sound of saw blades grinding. Some said they saw him, just a shadow between the trees, his three-fingered hand outstretched.”

The Warning

Jake stopped pacing and turned to face the group. His face was half-lit by the fire, his eyes glinting in the light.

“They say Willie still roams these mountains, looking for the fingers he lost. And if you see him, if you hear the sound of wood splintering or a blade cutting through the air, you run. Because if Willie catches you, he doesn’t just take your life. He takes a piece of you—your hands, your voice, maybe even your soul.

“So, next time you’re out in the woods and the wind goes quiet, and you think you’re alone...just remember, you’re not. Willie’s out there. And he’s waiting.”

The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Several campers jumped, their breaths coming in short, nervous gasps.

Jake smiled, sitting back down. “Sweet dreams, everyone.”

The Campfire Unease

The campers lingered around the fire, their nerves tangled in the eerie story Counselor Jake had spun. No one wanted to be the first to admit they were scared, but the tension was palpable. Shadows seemed darker now, and the once-gentle rustling of the trees felt sharper, more deliberate, like something moving just out of sight.

Alex tried to laugh it off. “Good one, Jake. Really scary. But come on, you don’t actually believe any of that, do you?”

Jake leaned back on the log, the firelight flickering across his face. “Does it matter what I believe? It’s not about belief, Alex. It’s about respect. These mountains have been around a long time—longer than us, longer than this camp. There’s more out there than you think.”

Mia shot Alex a glare. “I don’t know why you always have to act so tough. It’s just a story, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Alex scoffed, throwing a twig into the fire. “Some guy who died a hundred years ago? Come on. There’s no such thing as ghosts, and definitely no guy with three fingers running around chopping people up.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Suit yourself, Alex. Just remember—Willie doesn’t like being laughed at.”

A few campers chuckled nervously, but most stayed quiet. The mood was heavy now, the air colder. Even Alex seemed less sure of himself, glancing over his shoulder at the encroaching darkness.

“Alright, time for bed,” Jake said, clapping his hands. “Lights out in thirty minutes. And don’t wander off. These woods are big, and if you get lost...well, let’s just say the rangers don’t patrol Devil’s Ridge after dark.”

The campers groaned but didn’t argue. As they shuffled off toward their cabins, Jake called after them, “Oh, and if you hear something outside your window tonight, don’t look. You might not like what you see.”

Night Whispers

The boys’ cabin was alive with whispers. Flashlights darted around the room as Alex, Max, and a few others huddled on their bunks.

“That story was so fake,” Alex said, though his voice was quieter now. “Jake’s just trying to scare us.”

“Maybe,” Max said, chewing on his lip. “But what if it’s not? My grandpa used to tell stories like that—about spirits and curses. He always said you shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”

“Your grandpa probably believed in the Tooth Fairy too,” Alex shot back, but the jab lacked its usual punch.

“You guys are such babies,” said Owen, the youngest in the group, though his bravado was unconvincing. “It’s just a dumb story.”

A loud thump on the cabin wall made everyone freeze.

“What was that?” Max whispered.

“It’s just a raccoon or something,” Alex said quickly, though his eyes darted toward the window.

Another thump. Louder this time.

“Go check,” Owen said, shoving Alex’s shoulder.

“You go check!”

Before anyone could argue further, the door creaked open, and a shadow loomed in the doorway.

“Lights out!” barked Jake, his silhouette imposing against the dim moonlight. “I wasn’t kidding about staying in your cabins. Go to sleep.”

The door slammed shut, leaving the boys in silence.

The Dare

The next morning, the camp was buzzing with nervous energy. The campers couldn’t stop talking about Jake’s story, each retelling more exaggerated than the last. By lunchtime, the legend of Three-Fingered Willie had grown from a creepy sawmill worker to a full-fledged demon who stalked the mountains with glowing eyes and razor-sharp claws.

“Let’s settle this once and for all,” Alex announced during free time. “I dare you guys to come with me to Devil’s Ridge tonight.”

The group fell silent. Even Alex’s usual followers hesitated.

“You’re crazy,” Mia said, crossing her arms. “You heard what Jake said. People get lost out there.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because they’re scared of shadows. Come on, it’s just a hike. We’ll be back before anyone notices.”

“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” Max muttered.

“Only if you chicken out,” Alex shot back.

Reluctantly, the group agreed. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Alex, Max, Mia, and Owen had gathered at the edge of the forest with flashlights and a contraband bag of snacks.

“We’re gonna regret this,” Max said, clutching his flashlight like a lifeline.

“You regret everything,” Alex replied, leading the way into the woods.

Into the Woods

The trail to Devil’s Ridge was faint, barely more than a deer path winding through the dense forest. The moon hung low in the sky, casting pale light through the trees, but it wasn’t enough to banish the shadows. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves made the group jump.

“This is so dumb,” Mia whispered, sticking close to Max. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“You could’ve stayed back,” Alex said, but his bravado had lost some of its edge.

As they climbed higher, the air grew colder, and the forest seemed quieter. The usual hum of insects and distant calls of owls had faded, replaced by an unsettling stillness.

“Guys,” Owen said, stopping suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

They all froze, straining to listen. At first, there was nothing. And then, faintly, the sound came—a low, rhythmic creak, like wood bending under pressure.

“What is that?” Max whispered, his breath visible in the cold air.

“Probably just an old tree,” Alex said, though his voice wavered.

The sound grew louder, closer. It wasn’t just a tree. It was deliberate, like the groan of a rusted saw blade.

“We should go back,” Mia said, tugging on Max’s sleeve.

“Wait,” Alex said, shining his flashlight ahead. “Look.”

The beam of light caught something ahead—a dark shape among the trees. It was too large to be a deer and too still to be another camper.

“Hello?” Alex called, his voice shaky.

The shape didn’t move.

“Let’s go,” Max urged, but Alex stepped forward, his flashlight trembling in his hand.

The shape shifted. Slowly, it turned toward them, and the flashlight beam landed on a face—pale, hollow, and staring back at them with eyes like pinpricks of light.

It raised its hand, and they saw it clearly: three long, twisted fingers, reaching for them.

The group turned and ran, their screams tearing through the silent forest. The sound of cracking wood followed them, growing louder with each step. As they burst back onto the campgrounds, panting and pale, Jake was waiting for them, arms crossed.

“I told you not to wander,” he said. But his voice wasn’t scolding—it was worried.

“What did you see?” he asked, his face deadly serious.

Alex, for once, was speechless. He just stared at Jake, his lips trembling.

Behind them, from the edge of the forest, the faint sound of a saw blade echoed through the night.

The Aftermath of the Encounter

The four campers sat huddled in the mess hall, their faces pale and their hands trembling. The fluorescent lights above seemed almost too bright, a harsh contrast to the oppressive darkness they had just fled from. Jake stood in front of them, arms crossed, his usual smirk replaced by a grim, serious expression.

“What did you see?” he asked again, his voice low.

No one answered. Alex sat rigid, staring at the floor, his cocky bravado shattered. Mia clung to Max’s arm, her face buried against his shoulder. Owen, the youngest, was crying softly, his flashlight still clutched in his hands like a lifeline.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Jake said, his tone sharper now. “Willie.”

Alex finally looked up, his eyes wide and filled with something Jake hadn’t seen in him before—fear.

“It was real,” Alex whispered. “He’s real.”

Jake nodded slowly, his face grim. “I told you not to mess with these woods. You didn’t listen.”

“We didn’t think—” Mia started, but her voice broke. “It was just supposed to be a stupid dare.”

Jake sighed and leaned against one of the tables, rubbing his temples. “Alright, listen up. You’re lucky you got out of there. Willie doesn’t let everyone walk away. But now that he knows you’re here, he won’t stop.”

“What do you mean ‘he won’t stop’?” Max asked, his voice shaking.

Jake’s eyes darkened. “Willie doesn’t like trespassers. He’s tied to these mountains, and anyone who disturbs his woods...let’s just say they don’t usually get a second chance.”

The First Night

Jake sent the campers back to their cabins with strict instructions. “Lock the doors. Keep the lights on. And no matter what you hear, don’t go outside.”

The campers were too shaken to argue. As they shuffled back to their cabins, the woods loomed dark and silent around them.

In the boys’ cabin, Alex, Max, and Owen sat on their bunks, staring at the door. Alex had barricaded it with a chair, and Max had double-checked the locks on the windows.

“We’ll be fine,” Alex said, trying to sound confident. “Jake’s just messing with us. He probably sent someone out there to scare us.”

“You really believe that?” Max asked, his voice hollow.

Alex didn’t answer.

The hours dragged by. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. But it wasn’t the wind that made them freeze—it was the sound.

It started faintly, a distant creak, like wood bending under pressure. Then it grew louder, a rhythmic groan that seemed to echo through the forest.

“What is that?” Owen whispered, clutching his blanket.

None of them answered. They sat in silence, their breaths shallow, as the sound grew closer.

And then it stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing but the wind. Then, slowly, they heard it—a soft scraping, like nails against wood.

It was coming from the wall.

The Scraping

The boys stared at the wall, their hearts pounding. The sound moved, slow and deliberate, scraping its way toward the window.

“Don’t look,” Max whispered.

Alex swallowed hard, gripping his flashlight. “What if it’s just an animal?”

“Do animals knock?” Owen whispered, his voice trembling.

A sharp tap-tap-tap came from the window, making all three boys jump.

“Alex, don’t,” Max hissed as Alex stood and moved toward the window.

“I just want to see—”

The words died in his throat as he pulled back the curtain. For a moment, there was nothing. Just darkness and the faint outline of the trees.

Then, a face appeared.

It was pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. Its mouth twisted into a crooked grin, revealing teeth like splintered wood. And then it raised its hand—a hand with three long, gnarled fingers, the nails black and jagged.

Alex screamed and stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The face disappeared, but the sound didn’t. The scraping moved again, circling the cabin, faster now.

“It’s him!” Alex shouted. “It’s Willie!”

Max grabbed Owen, pulling him into the center of the room. “What do we do?”

The lights flickered, then went out, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Jake’s Plan

Across the camp, Jake sat in his cabin, staring at the radio on his desk. It crackled with static, useless as always. He glanced at the shotgun leaning against the wall. It wouldn’t stop Willie, but it might slow him down.

The knock at his door startled him. Grabbing the gun, he moved cautiously toward the sound.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me! Alex!”

Jake opened the door to find Alex, Max, and Owen standing there, their faces pale and terrified. Behind them, the forest loomed, silent and watchful.

“We saw him,” Alex gasped. “He was outside our cabin. He’s...he’s real.”

Jake didn’t waste time. “Get inside. Now.”

The boys scrambled in, and Jake bolted the door behind them.

“Where’s Mia?” he asked.

“She’s in the girls’ cabin,” Max said. “We tried to get her, but she wouldn’t come.”

Jake cursed under his breath. “Alright. We stick together. Whatever happens, you don’t leave this cabin. Got it?”

The boys nodded, but their eyes darted nervously to the windows.

The Hunt Begins

Outside, the forest was alive with sound. The wind howled through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a faint creaking echoed through the mountains.

Jake sat by the window, his shotgun resting on his lap. He didn’t flinch when the first knock came—a soft, deliberate tap-tap-tap against the door.

“Don’t answer it,” he said without turning around.

The boys huddled together, their breaths shallow.

The knocking stopped, but the creaking grew louder. It circled the cabin, moving from window to window, door to door, each knock more insistent than the last.

And then came the voice.

Low and guttural, it seeped through the walls like smoke. “Come out,” it whispered. “I see you.”

Alex clapped his hands over his ears, tears streaming down his face. “Make it stop!”

Jake stood, his face grim. “Stay here. Whatever you do, don’t move.”

He stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The night swallowed him whole, leaving the boys alone with the sound of the voice and the scraping of Willie’s fingers.

The terror is mounting, and Jake’s confrontation with Willie is imminent. Let me know if you’d like the next installment to focus on Jake’s encounter or escalate the events inside the cabin!

Jake’s Confrontation

Jake stood just outside the cabin door, shotgun in hand, the cold night air biting at his skin. The forest around him was still, unnaturally so, as though every living thing was holding its breath. The knocking had stopped, but he could feel the presence nearby, an oppressive weight in the air that made his chest tighten.

“Alright, Willie,” Jake muttered under his breath, cocking the shotgun. “You want me? Here I am.”

The firelight from the cabin flickered against the windows, casting long shadows on the ground. Jake scanned the tree line, his eyes darting between the trunks. For a moment, nothing moved. Then he saw it.

A figure emerged from the darkness, slow and deliberate. It was tall and gaunt, its frame hunched like it had been crushed under the weight of centuries. The pale moonlight revealed a face that was both human and not—hollowed cheeks, empty black eyes, and a mouth that twisted into an unnatural grin.

But it was the hand that drew Jake’s attention.

The creature raised it slowly, revealing three long, gnarled fingers, their nails curved and jagged like rusted hooks. The fingers twitched, as though itching to reach for him.

Jake raised the shotgun, aiming squarely at the figure. “That’s close enough, Willie.”

The figure tilted its head, its grin widening. The voice that came next wasn’t loud, but it seemed to vibrate through the air, filling Jake’s ears and chest.

“You can’t stop me.”

Inside the Cabin

Alex, Max, and Owen sat huddled together, their eyes glued to the door. The sound of Jake’s voice outside made their stomachs churn with fear.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Owen whispered, tears streaking his face.

“He’ll come back,” Alex said, though his voice trembled. “He has to.”

The wind howled, rattling the windows. For a moment, they thought it was over. Then the voice came again, low and raspy, seeping through the walls like smoke.

“I see you,” it whispered, dragging the words out. “You can’t hide.”

The boys froze. The sound wasn’t coming from the door. It was coming from the far corner of the cabin.

Max pointed a trembling finger toward the shadows. “I-it’s inside.”

A scraping noise followed, slow and deliberate, like nails dragging across wood. The shadows seemed to shift, growing darker, denser, until a figure began to emerge.

“No,” Alex whispered, backing away. “No, no, no.”

The figure stepped into the dim light of their flashlights. It was Willie, his hollow eyes fixed on them, his three-fingered hand reaching out as though to pluck them from the room.

The boys screamed, scrambling back against the wall.

Jake’s Stand

Outside, Jake fired the shotgun, the blast echoing through the trees. The figure staggered back but didn’t fall. Instead, it straightened, its grin unfazed, as though the shot had been nothing more than a breeze.

Jake cursed, reloading quickly. “Why don’t you stay dead?” he shouted, firing again.

This time, the figure vanished, dissipating like smoke. Jake lowered the gun, his eyes scanning the woods for any sign of movement.

The sound of the boys screaming from inside the cabin made his blood run cold.

“No,” he muttered, turning and sprinting back toward the door.

The Face in the Shadows

Jake burst through the cabin door, shotgun at the ready. The boys were huddled in the corner, their faces pale and streaked with tears.

“What happened?” Jake demanded, his eyes darting around the room.

“It was here!” Alex cried. “He was in here! He...he just disappeared.”

Jake closed the door, bolting it shut. “He’s playing with us. He wants us scared, disoriented. That’s how he gets in.”

“How do we stop him?” Max asked, his voice trembling.

Jake hesitated. “You don’t. Not completely. But if we can make it to sunrise, we might stand a chance.”

“Sunrise?” Alex groaned. “That’s hours from now!”

Jake nodded grimly. “Then we’d better hold tight.”

A Test of Willpower

The hours dragged on, every creak of the floorboards and gust of wind sending shivers through the group. Jake paced the room, his shotgun in hand, while the boys huddled in the corner, whispering prayers and clutching their flashlights.

But Willie wasn’t done.

The knocking began again, louder this time, more insistent. It moved from the door to the windows, circling the cabin in an unrelenting rhythm.

“Come out,” the voice rasped, low and guttural. “You can’t hide.”

Jake stood firm, his jaw clenched. “Ignore it. He feeds on fear. Don’t give him what he wants.”

The knocking grew louder, almost frantic. The sound of splintering wood followed, and the walls began to groan as though under immense pressure.

“He’s going to break in!” Owen cried, clutching Max’s arm.

“No, he won’t,” Jake said, though his grip on the shotgun tightened.

The knocking stopped. For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then, with a sound like tearing fabric, the cabin wall split open, and Willie stepped through.

The Final Confrontation

Jake didn’t hesitate. He fired, the shotgun blast illuminating the room in a flash of light. Willie staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, he reached out, his three-fingered hand grasping for Jake’s throat.

The air grew cold, and the lights flickered. The boys screamed, scrambling toward the back of the room as the fight unfolded.

“Get out of here!” Jake shouted, struggling against Willie’s grip. “Run!”

“We can’t leave you!” Alex yelled, but Jake’s glare silenced him.

“Go! Now!”

Reluctantly, the boys ran, bursting out of the cabin and into the night. They didn’t look back, the sound of Jake’s shouts and Willie’s guttural laughter following them into the forest.

A Glimmer of Dawn

The boys stumbled through the woods, the first faint light of dawn breaking over the mountains. They didn’t stop until they reached the ranger station, where they pounded on the door, screaming for help.

By the time the rangers arrived at the cabin, it was empty. The walls were intact, the door unbroken. There was no sign of Jake or Willie.

Only the shotgun lay on the floor, its barrel twisted and bent, as though gripped by an impossibly strong hand.

The Legend Lives On

The campers were sent home early, the events of that night hushed up by the camp’s administration. But the boys never forgot.

To this day, hikers in Frost Valley speak of strange noises in the woods—knocking, scraping, and the faint, rhythmic creak of an old saw blade. Some claim to see a figure in the shadows, tall and gaunt, with three fingers outstretched.

And if you dare to venture out after dark, you might hear his voice, low and guttural, whispering:

“Come out. I see you.”