The summers at Camp Wawayanda in the 1960s felt timeless. Nestled deep in the Catskill Mountains of Frost Valley, New York, it was a place where the air smelled of pine and earth, where the dense forest seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. For us boys, it was paradise. No parents, no school, just weeks of freedom to explore, run wild, and soak up the endless adventures the camp offered.

I remember the day we arrived that summer like it was yesterday. A battered school bus pulled into the gravel lot, and we spilled out like ants, our duffel bags slung over our shoulders. The counselors greeted us with wide grins and clipboards, directing us to our assigned cabins. I was about 7 years old.

Cabin 3 was a modest wooden structure, set slightly apart from the others and backed by a thick wall of trees. It wasn’t much to look at—just four walls, a sloped roof, and a creaky screen door—but to a group of seven-year-old boys, it was a fortress, a clubhouse, our home away from home.

Our counselor, Howie, was waiting for us on the porch. He was tall and lanky, with messy hair that seemed perpetually damp and a crooked smile that instantly put us at ease. Howie wasn’t like the other counselors, who barked orders and acted like drill sergeants. He was laid-back, quick to laugh, and always had a story to tell.

“Alright, you little monsters,” he said, clapping his hands. “Let’s get your stuff inside and pick bunks. First one to unpack gets the top bunk by the window!”

We scrambled inside, eager to claim our spots. The cabin was hot and stuffy, the air thick with the kind of summer heat that made your shirt stick to your back. But we didn’t care. The wooden bunks creaked under our weight as we threw our sleeping bags over the mattresses, and within minutes, the room was alive with the chatter of ten boys staking their territory.

A Scorching Summer Evening

The day had been unbearable. The kind of summer day where the heat seemed to seep into your bones, making even the simplest movement feel like a chore. By the time the sun began to sink behind the mountains, we were all restless and sticky, tossing and turning on our bunks in the oppressive warmth of Cabin 3. The small, single fan mounted on the wall rattled ineffectively, doing little more than stirring the hot air around like soup.

It was so hot that the usual cabin hijinks had taken a back seat to quiet grumbling. Even Joey, who never stopped talking, lay spread-eagle on his bed, muttering about how he’d trade his baseball card collection for a popsicle. We were exhausted from the day’s activities, but sleep wasn’t coming. The night felt heavy, alive with the hum of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the trees that surrounded the camp.

Dusk Descends

“Man, it’s like a furnace in here,” Danny groaned from the top bunk near the door. He hung one arm over the edge, fanning himself with a paperback novel. “How are we supposed to sleep in this?”

“You’re not supposed to,” Howie said with a grin from his spot by the screen door. He was lounging on a folding chair, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely unbothered by the heat. “That’s why we tell stories.”

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “Who’s got one? Anyone hear something creepy on the trail today?”

Tim, the most skeptical of the group, rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing creepy about these woods, Howie. It’s just trees and squirrels.”

“And raccoons,” Joey added, ever eager to contribute. “I saw one by the mess hall last night. Thing was huge.”

“Don’t forget the bobcats,” Howie said casually, looking out into the darkening forest.

A few of us perked up at that. “Bobcats?” I asked, sitting up on my bunk. “Like...actual bobcats?”

“Yup,” Howie replied, his tone light but his expression unreadable. “They’re all over these woods. Usually, they keep to themselves, but if they’re hungry or curious, they’ll come closer. You’ve gotta respect them.”

“What do they look like?” Owen asked from his bunk by the fan.

“They’re not huge,” Howie said, “maybe about twice the size of a house cat. But they’re strong. And smart. You might not see them, but they’ll see you. And if you ever hear a sound that doesn’t seem right—a scream, almost like a woman crying—that’s them.”

The cabin fell silent. Even Tim, who loved to poke holes in scary stories, seemed to consider Howie’s words. Outside, the crickets chirped steadily, their song rising and falling like waves. The forest, which had always felt safe during the day, now seemed darker, more mysterious.

The First Signs

By the time the camp’s lights-out horn echoed across the valley, we had settled into our bunks, still grumbling about the heat. Howie turned off the overhead light, leaving the cabin illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the windows. He sat by the door, his paperback novel in hand, and told us to get some rest.

“Good luck sleeping in this oven,” Danny muttered, flipping over onto his stomach.

It must have been close to midnight when I heard it—the first sound. A faint rustling outside, so soft that I thought it might just be the wind. I turned over, my bunk creaking beneath me, and stared at the window nearest my bed. The trees swayed gently, their leaves casting shadows that danced across the walls.

Then came the scratching.

It was quiet at first, almost imperceptible, like the sound of a twig brushing against wood. I sat up, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.

“Hear what?” Joey mumbled, half-asleep.

“That,” I said, my voice a little louder. The scratching came again, this time more deliberate, like claws raking against the side of the cabin.

Now the others were awake. Danny sat up in his bunk, peering toward the window. “What is that?”

“Probably just a raccoon,” Tim said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “They climb all over these cabins.”

“It doesn’t sound like a raccoon,” Joey whispered. “It sounds...bigger.”

Howie Investigates

The scratching moved, sliding along the side of the cabin toward the front door. Howie looked up from his book, his brow furrowing. He set the book down and stood, the wooden floor creaking under his weight.

“Stay in your bunks,” he said quietly, grabbing his flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness as Howie stepped onto the porch, letting the screen door creak shut behind him. The rest of us held our breath, listening intently as he moved around the outside of the cabin. We could hear his footsteps on the porch and the crunch of gravel as he circled the building.

“What do you see?” Joey called, his voice trembling.

“Nothing yet,” Howie replied, though his tone was tense.

The scratching stopped. For a moment, all we could hear was the rhythmic chirping of crickets. Then came the growl.

It was low and guttural, the kind of sound that makes your stomach twist into knots. It came from somewhere near the back of the cabin, deep in the shadows where the moonlight couldn’t reach.

“Back inside,” Howie muttered, stepping quickly through the door. He locked it behind him, his jaw tight.

“What was it?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Howie hesitated. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, his voice a little too calm. “But let’s keep the windows shut tonight, just in case.”

Eyes in the Dark

The cabin felt suffocating with the windows closed, the fan doing little to cool the stifling heat. We tried to settle back into our bunks, but sleep was impossible. Every sound from outside—the rustle of leaves, the snap of a branch—sent shivers through us.

And then we saw them. Two glowing eyes, hovering just outside the window nearest the bunks. They reflected the moonlight, catching our attention immediately.

“Look!” Danny whispered urgently, pointing toward the glass.

We all turned to see the eyes staring back at us. They were low to the ground, unblinking, and eerily still.

“What is that?” Joey whispered, his voice barely audible.

“It’s a bobcat,” Howie said quietly. “Stay calm. Don’t make any noise.”

The eyes disappeared, fading back into the darkness. For a moment, we thought it was over. But then the scratching started again, louder this time, moving from one side of the cabin to the other.

The Siege Begins

The scratching grew louder, more deliberate. It wasn’t a raccoon’s curious paw or the occasional scrape of a tree branch against the cabin walls. This was something alive, purposeful, testing the boundaries of our little wooden fortress. The sound traveled, sliding along the outside of the cabin like a finger tracing its edges, and then stopping near the door.

We huddled in our bunks, wide-eyed and silent, barely breathing. Howie stood by the door, flashlight in one hand and his other gripping the wooden frame as if to brace against whatever might come next.

“Stay calm,” he whispered, though his tone betrayed the tension he was trying to suppress.

The scratching stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was almost worse, thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the cabin settling and the muted buzz of the lone fan in the corner.

Then, from the back of the cabin, came another sound—a low, guttural growl that sent a chill racing down my spine. It was close. Too close.

Joey bolted upright in his bunk. “It’s right outside!” he whispered, panic edging into his voice.

“Quiet!” Howie snapped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make a sound.”

The First Glimpse

Howie moved cautiously toward the back window, his flashlight sweeping the walls and floor as though whatever was out there might already be inside. He stopped just short of the window, his body tense, the beam of his flashlight steady in his hand.

And then we saw it.

The glow of its eyes was the first thing to pierce the darkness—two amber orbs, unblinking and reflective, like polished glass catching the faint light of the moon. As Howie’s flashlight beam caught it, the outline of the creature emerged: a lean, muscular body, its fur rippling as it moved with an eerie, predatory grace.

It was a bobcat, larger than I expected, crouched low to the ground just outside the window. Its ears were flattened against its head, its teeth bared in a snarl that we could hear even through the closed glass.

“There’s another one!” Tim whispered harshly, pointing toward the front of the cabin.

I turned just in time to see a second pair of eyes appear, closer to the ground but equally menacing. This one was circling the cabin, its movements slower, more deliberate, like it was sizing us up.

“How many are there?” Danny asked, his voice trembling.

“At least two,” Howie muttered. He glanced toward the door, then back at us. “Maybe more.”

The Bobcats Test the Door

The growling grew louder, and now it was coming from multiple directions. The bobcats were moving in tandem, circling the cabin like they were working together, testing the structure for weaknesses.

And then the door rattled.

We all froze. There was no mistaking the sound this time—something had slammed against the door with enough force to make it shudder in its frame.

“They’re trying to get in!” Joey whispered, clutching his blanket like it might protect him.

“They won’t get in,” Howie said firmly, though I wasn’t sure if he believed it. He wedged one of the wooden chairs under the doorknob, bracing it against the floor.

The door rattled again, harder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against the wood.

“Why are they doing this?” Tim asked, his voice barely audible. “Bobcats don’t act like this.”

“They’re desperate,” Howie said, his eyes scanning the windows. “It’s been hot for weeks. The heat’s probably driven them down from the higher trails. Maybe they’re looking for water, maybe food. Doesn’t matter. We’re not opening that door.”

The Boys Panic

We huddled together on the floor in the center of the cabin, far from the windows and door. Even Tim, who usually acted like nothing scared him, was pale and silent. Danny was muttering something under his breath—a prayer, maybe—and Joey kept glancing at the windows, flinching every time a shadow moved outside.

“Howie,” I said, my voice shaking. “What do we do if they get in?”

“They won’t,” Howie said, though his grip on the flashlight tightened.

Another loud thud echoed through the cabin as one of the bobcats threw its weight against the back wall. The wooden planks groaned under the impact, and I swear I could feel the floor vibrate beneath me.

“They’re not going to stop,” Tim said, his voice rising. “They’re not going to stop until they—”

“Enough!” Howie snapped, cutting him off. “Nobody’s getting in. Do you hear me? We’re going to stay calm, stick together, and wait this out.”

“But how long?” Joey asked.

“As long as it takes,” Howie said.

The Howling

For a moment, the scratching stopped. We sat in silence, straining our ears for any sign of movement. Then, from somewhere deep in the forest, came a sound that froze the blood in my veins—a long, piercing howl that echoed through the trees like a warning.

It was answered by another howl, closer this time, and then another, until the air was filled with the eerie, overlapping cries of the bobcats. It sounded almost like a chorus, a wild and chaotic song that made every hair on my body stand on end.

“They’re calling to each other,” Danny whispered, his face pale.

Howie didn’t respond. He was pacing now, his flashlight beam darting from window to window as he tried to track their movements.

The howling stopped as suddenly as it had started, replaced by a deafening silence. The absence of sound was almost worse, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

The Glowing Eyes Return

It wasn’t long before the eyes appeared again, glowing like embers in the darkness. This time, there were four sets, scattered around the cabin, their positions shifting as the bobcats moved.

“They’re not giving up,” Howie muttered under his breath.

One of the bobcats leapt onto the porch, its claws clicking against the wooden planks. It crouched low, growling, its eyes fixed on the door. Another bobcat approached the back window, pressing its nose against the glass, fogging it up with its breath.

“Stay down,” Howie said, his voice firm. “Stay quiet.”

The Claws at the Door

The silence was shattered by a deep, guttural growl just outside the front door. It was louder this time, more insistent, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws raking against the wood. The door shook again, rattling in its frame, and the chair Howie had braced under the knob creaked ominously.

We all froze, our hearts pounding in unison. Howie stood motionless by the door, his flashlight beam fixed on the spot where the scratching was loudest. For the first time since we’d known him, he didn’t look entirely confident. His usual easy grin was gone, replaced by a tight, focused expression.

“Back up,” Howie said, his voice steady but firm. “Get as far from the door as you can. Now.”

We scrambled backward, dragging ourselves across the floor until we were pressed against the far wall, our knees drawn to our chests. I couldn’t stop staring at the door, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment.

Another growl, closer this time. It was joined by a second growl, then a third, coming from different directions. The bobcats were circling the cabin, their claws scratching intermittently against the walls, testing for weaknesses. It was a coordinated effort, something I didn’t think animals were capable of. But these weren’t just animals. They were predators, and they were hunting us.

The First Strike

The banging on the door stopped suddenly, replaced by a new sound—a low, rhythmic creaking from the porch. One of the bobcats was pacing back and forth, its weight making the wooden planks groan underfoot. Then came the sound of claws hooking into the screen door, tearing through the mesh like paper.

“They’re trying to rip it open,” Danny whispered, his face pale as a sheet.

Howie stepped forward, gripping his flashlight like a weapon. He peered through the small window in the door, his shoulders tense. “Stay back,” he repeated, his voice sharper now.

“What do you see?” Joey asked, his voice trembling.

“Eyes,” Howie said simply. “Too many eyes.”

He turned to the nearest bunk and yanked the mattress off the frame. “Help me!” he barked, and we sprang into action, the urgency in his voice overriding our fear. Together, we propped the mattress against the door, wedging it tightly between the frame and the floor.

“It won’t hold if they really push,” Howie admitted, his voice low. “But it’ll slow them down.”

The Roof Trembles

Just as we finished barricading the door, a new sound echoed through the cabin: a series of heavy thuds, followed by the scrape of claws against wood. The bobcats had climbed onto the roof.

“They’re above us!” Tim shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

The ceiling creaked and groaned as the animals moved overhead, their movements slow and deliberate. One of them stopped directly above the center of the cabin, its claws scratching lightly against the shingles as though testing the roof’s strength.

“They can’t get in from up there, can they?” Joey asked, his voice trembling.

“No way,” Howie said, though his eyes flicked upward nervously. “The roof’s solid. They’ll lose interest.”

But the bobcats didn’t lose interest. The scratching grew louder, more insistent, and then came a loud thump as one of them leapt across the roof, landing with a force that made the entire cabin shudder.

The fan rattled violently, its weak motor groaning under the strain. The heat inside the cabin was suffocating, but none of us dared to open a window. The glowing eyes had vanished from view, but we knew they were still out there, prowling, waiting.

The Growls Close In

The bobcats didn’t just stay on the roof. They moved back to the ground, their claws scraping against the walls and door with renewed vigor. One of them began growling directly under the front window, its deep, guttural sound filling the cabin like a low, resonant hum.

“We have to scare them off,” Tim said, his voice shaking. “We can’t just sit here and wait for them to get in.”

“With what?” Howie snapped, glancing around the room. “We’ve got no weapons, no tools—just this.” He held up the flashlight, its beam flickering slightly.

“What about noise?” Danny suggested. “They hate loud sounds, right?”

Howie hesitated, then nodded. “Worth a shot.”

He grabbed the trash can lid from the corner of the room and banged it against the floor with all his strength. The metallic clang reverberated through the cabin, making us flinch, but it seemed to work. The growling under the window stopped abruptly, and we heard the sound of claws retreating.

“It’s working!” Joey said, a spark of hope in his voice.

But the victory was short-lived. From the back of the cabin came a new sound: a sharp, high-pitched yowl, almost like a scream. It was answered by another yowl, then another, until the air was filled with the eerie cries of the bobcats. It was as if they were communicating, rallying themselves for another attack.

“They’re not scared,” Howie muttered, his knuckles white as he gripped the trash can lid. “They’re pissed.”

The Longest Night

The hours dragged on, each one feeling longer than the last. The bobcats didn’t give up. They continued their relentless assault on the cabin, scratching at the walls, banging against the door, and prowling across the roof. The growls and yowls echoed through the night, a constant reminder that we were surrounded.

None of us dared to sleep. We stayed huddled together in the center of the cabin, our backs pressed against each other for support. Howie paced the room, his flashlight beam darting from window to window, always vigilant.

“What do we do if they get in?” Tim whispered at one point, his voice barely audible.

“They won’t,” Howie said firmly, though his expression betrayed his doubt.

But as the night wore on, the bobcats seemed to grow tired. The scratching became less frequent, the growls quieter. By the time the first faint light of dawn began to filter through the trees, the sounds had stopped altogether.

We waited in tense silence, unsure if it was really over. The heat of the cabin was stifling, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and fear. Finally, Howie stood and approached the door, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice steady but low.

He unlocked the door and stepped out onto the porch, his flashlight cutting through the pale light of morning. We held our breath, listening intently for any sign of movement.

“They’re gone,” Howie called, his voice filled with relief. “They’re finally gone.”

The Morning After

When we stepped outside, the damage was obvious. Deep claw marks scored the walls of the cabin, some of them reaching nearly to the windows. The screen door was shredded, its frame bent and twisted. Even the roof showed signs of the assault, with scratches and dents marring the shingles.

The camp director arrived later that morning with a group of rangers. They confirmed what we already knew: there had been at least four bobcats, all of them unusually aggressive. The rangers explained that the extreme heat and lack of rain had likely driven the animals closer to camp in search of food and water.

“They’re not normally this bold,” one of the rangers said, shaking his head. “You boys are lucky.”

Lucky. That’s what everyone kept saying. But as we stood there, staring at the claw marks on the cabin walls, I couldn’t help but wonder if luck had anything to do with it. It felt like something primal had played out that night—a reminder that, in the wild, we were just another part of the food chain.

A Legend is Born

The story of the bobcat attack spread quickly through Camp Wawayanda. By the end of the day, we were minor celebrities, the “boys of Cabin 3” who had survived the night. Every retelling grew more dramatic—by the time we left camp, the bobcats had become mountain lions, and Howie was a hero who had fought them off with his bare hands.

But the truth was enough for us. We didn’t need embellishments. The glowing eyes, the scratching claws, the heat of that suffocating cabin—they were burned into our memories, vivid and unforgettable.

Even now, decades later, I can still hear the sound of claws on wood and feel the oppressive heat of that long, terrifying night. And though the details have faded with time, one thing remains clear: we’ll never forget the night the bobcats came.