PART 7: THIS IS WHY PEOPLE ARE SCARED TO CAMP IN THE DARK DIVIDE WASHINGTON – Bigfoot Stories
PART 7 — THE VOICE BEHIND THE TREES
The first thing Warren heard was his own name.
Not shouted.
Not whispered.
Just spoken.
“Warren.”
He stopped breathing.
The sound had come from somewhere beyond the trees, somewhere down the narrow slope where the forest disappeared into a wall of black timber.
Warren tightened his grip around the radio.
“Who’s there?”
Nothing.
Then, after several seconds:
“Warren.”
This time the voice was closer.
And it sounded exactly like his wife.
Warren’s stomach turned.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it every morning for sixteen years. He knew the slight roughness at the end of her sentences. He knew how she pronounced his name when she was worried.
But this wasn’t her.
It couldn’t be.
His wife was miles away.
He had spoken to her on the radio earlier that afternoon.
And whatever was standing somewhere in those trees had been listening.
Warren slowly backed away.
The forest around him remained completely still.
No birds.
No insects.
No wind.
Even the branches had stopped moving.
Then the radio crackled.
“Warren?”
He nearly dropped it.
The voice wasn’t coming from the forest anymore.
It was coming through the radio.
His wife’s voice.
“Warren, where are you?”
He stared at the device.
The transmission continued.
“You said you’d be home by four.”
Warren’s eyes widened.
Those were her exact words.
Words she had spoken before he left that morning.
But then another voice came through.
His own voice.
“I’ll be home by four.”
Warren froze.
The radio was replaying their conversation.
Except it wasn’t the recording from earlier.
There was something underneath it.
A faint breathing sound.
Slow.
Heavy.
Wet.
Warren shut the radio off.
The breathing continued.
He looked behind him.
Nothing.
Then he noticed the bottle.
The blue bottle sat on a rock approximately twenty feet away.
He hadn’t put it there.
He had seen it earlier, almost three-quarters of a mile uphill from the turnaround.
Now it was here.
Warren stared at it.
There was something inside.
A folded piece of paper.
His name was written across it.
WARREN ASHBY.
His hands began shaking.
He didn’t want to touch it.
Every instinct told him to leave.
But curiosity was stronger.
He approached the bottle.
The smell returned.
Wet animal.
Rotting leaves.
Something metallic underneath.
He pulled the paper free.
It was soaked.
Yet the ink hadn’t run.
There was only one sentence.
YOU WERE NOT THE FIRST.
Warren read it twice.
Then a third time.
A branch snapped behind him.
He spun around.
Something moved between the trees.
Tall.
Too tall.
For one brief second, he saw a pale shape standing among the trunks.
It was watching him.
Warren raised his flashlight.
The beam struck empty darkness.
The shape was gone.
He ran.
He didn’t care where.
He simply ran downhill.
Branches tore at his jacket.
Roots caught his boots.
His lungs burned.
Behind him came the sound of footsteps.
Not running.
Walking.
Slowly.
Following.
Warren glanced back.
Nothing.
Then the footsteps stopped.
He stopped too.
Silence.
He turned forward.
And saw the turnaround.
His truck was sitting exactly where he had left it.
Relief nearly collapsed him.
He hurried toward it.
Then he noticed something.
The driver’s door was open.
Warren hadn’t left it open.
He approached cautiously.
Inside the truck, the radio was turned on.
Static filled the cabin.
Then his wife’s voice spoke.
“Warren?”
He stood outside the door.
The voice continued.
“Come home.”
Warren reached for the radio.
A second voice interrupted.
His own.
“I’m already home.”
The static disappeared.
Warren slowly looked toward the road.
The forest was behind him.
The truck was beside him.
The road ahead was empty.
Then headlights appeared in the distance.
A vehicle was approaching.
Warren stepped onto the road.
The headlights grew brighter.
He shielded his eyes.
The vehicle slowed.
It was his truck.
The same truck.
Same color.
Same dent above the rear wheel.
Same cracked windshield.
It stopped ten feet away.
The driver’s door opened.
And Warren saw himself sitting behind the wheel.
His own face looked back at him.
Older.
Pale.
Terrified.
The other Warren raised one finger to his lips.
Then he whispered:
“Don’t let it learn your voice.”
Something moved in the darkness behind Warren.
He turned.
The forest was empty.
When he looked back, the second truck was gone.
Only his own vehicle remained.
The driver’s door was now closed.
Warren stood motionless.
Then the radio crackled one final time.
His wife’s voice came through.
Except now she was crying.
“Warren… please.”
He reached for the radio.
A second voice whispered beneath hers.
“That’s not her.”
Warren stopped.
The voice continued.
“You already know that.”
Then something touched his shoulder.
Warren screamed.
The forest went completely black.
And somewhere deep beyond the trees, something laughed.
Not like a man.
Not like an animal.
Like something that had finally learned how to imitate both.
