In the early days of February, just before my senior year. I was prompted by my father to undertake a right of passage as he called it. I was to be left alone to fend for myself in a section of Tennessee's Cherokee National Forest for three days and two nights.

I was against the trip from the beginning. Sure, I liked hunting and camping, but this was extreme, too extreme for my tastes. But it was tradition; passed down from father to son in my family for generations.

Who was I to break tradition?

So, against my reservations, and against the feeling that this was a stupid idea, I packed up my backpack, grabbed my .30-06 bolt action rifle and climbed into the cab of my dad's pickup.

It was a long drive, broken only by stilted attempts at conversation and the heater going full blast as the tires rolled past endless concrete. I was a little pissed that my dad was basically forcing this on me, and our uneasy silence only made the hours feel like days.

We only stopped once at a gas station about ten miles from our cabin. The stench of unleaded, and a cheap, convenience store hamburger would be the last remnants of civilization I'd see for the next three days. I mechanically swallowed my burger and slurped down the watery coke filled with too much ice as we turned off the highway and got on the rural backroads.

It was fifteen miles of dirt to my dads' cabin that his grandfather had left him, which would, in turn, be left to me. It was tradition, after all.

But I wouldn't be getting the luxury of a cabin, no. We were parking the truck, and my father was driving me up deeper into the woods on a four-wheeler to a random, undisclosed point. I would then have three days to find my way back.

If I succeeded, I'd become a man in my dads' eyes, and we'd also be getting a new swimming pool for the summer. It was bribery, but I would be going into my senior year in August, and having a big pool would cement my popularity. It was vain, and I was doing this for mostly selfish reasons, but I also wanted to make my dad proud.

I stepped out of the toasted truck to the calm, frigid forest air. The cabin was a small two-story log affair, worn from age, but obviously well maintained. A new wooden wraparound porch had been built last summer and was in need of staining that we'd never gotten around to, but otherwise, the cabin was pristine.

It was a tremendously peaceful place, far removed from the troubles of civilization, and I felt like I was intruding on hallowed ground. I brushed off the shiver that clawed down my spine and buttoned my long coat to my neck. Immediately most of the chill went away, and I shook off my unease.

I didn't want to admit it, but a part of me was looking forward to the trip, some primal part of me relished the opportunity to put all the survival skills I'd been taught over the years to the test.

Before I could take a step to the cabin, my dad came around the front of the truck and held put his hand.

"Thomas, hand me your bag," he demanded, in a curt, no-nonsense tone.

My dad and I looked so much alike in the face, the same unruly dark hair and deep-set eyes, but I could never hope to measure up to his terrifying drill sergeant voice.

As he told me to hand him my backpack, I did so without question, and he immediately went inside, telling me to wait on the porch. I marched across the wood and sat in the rocking chair while my dad bustled around inside. Pots and pans clanged, and metal scraped against metal as he worked, breaking the sounds of the forest around me.

For half an hour, my dad busied himself with my bag before the screen door creaked as he ambled back outside.

"I loaded everything you'll need for three days in the bag. You have a couple days of food, but its only for an emergency, I also added a flare gun for an actual emergency."

Dad kept his voice rough and only used that tone with me when he wanted me to really pay attention to him. He had a good reason. As fun and full of tradition as this experience would be for me, I was still spending several nights alone in the woods, and in the untamed wilderness. Anything could happen.

He handed me back the bag, and it was stuffed full, a lot had been added to it, so much that string strained against the nylon fabric. I hefted it onto my shoulder, and though it was much heavier than before, it wasn't cumbersome or unwieldy. I could carry it all day and I didn't think it would bother me.

After he handed me the pack, we unloaded the four-wheeler from the back of his truck, and we set off up the small walking trail next to the house. From memory, the path went on for dozens of miles and followed the stream as it snaked through the wilderness.

We rode until the dirt road ended and humanity fell away to the deep woods. The ride got bumpy as we wound around trees and over small rocks and for a minute, I was afraid of hazards. My dad was an experienced outdoorsman, though and knew these woods well. A few hours later, we'd apparently reached the destination.

It was a small clearing nestled under a copse, the remains of a previous campsite long since put out rested in the center of the dirt surround by a circle of rocks.

"I was up here scouting a couple weeks ago, so I know the route I'd take to get back," he said cheekily. "Be careful, son. And call me if there's an emergency, I'm only a few hours away and I should be able to see the flare if there's trouble."

"Yeah, because I'll be able to get a signal out here," I replied, holding up my now useless phone.

"Well, there's always the flare gun, but I'm confident you'll be fine, and besides, the flares really only there if you decide to give up," he said, laughing.

With a parting wave, he departed, rolling back down the mountain and leaving me stranded in the woods for three days.

***

The first thing I did was take inventory and catalog my belongings. I undid the pack and carefully emptied its contents onto the ground.

I had a pair of long johns, some extra socks and underwear. A box of matches, a hunting knife and miniature shovel. A Ziplock bag filled with a blend of spices, a canteen of water, two days of vacuum-sealed rations and water pouches, and the flare gun. Along with my hammock and blanket.

I had everything I needed to make camp and survive if my hunting skills proved to be lacking. I had over thirty miles of wilderness to hack through before I hit the main roads and could circle back to the cabin on the main road.

Dad told me it should take me at least two days, three if I didn't get lucky with my hunts.

I had a few hours to kill before nightfall, and I wanted to get some miles in and find my bearings. The best bet, I thought, would be to hike along the stream until it ended. It was somewhat close to the trail, but not on it, as that would be cheating, but it would give me an excellent landmark to keep me oriented.

So, with mild hesitation, I packed up and set off through the woods.

It had been a good couple months since I'd last been in the woods, and I'd never been this deep in them. It was quiet, only disturbed by the rustling of trees and the occasional scuffle of an animal nearby as I trudged over rough ground and rocks.

Staying near or on the trail would have defeated the purpose of the experience, so I stayed off it as much as I could and only traveled through the woods themselves. Of course, it slowed my progress considerably and I only managed to walk about two miles before I started thinking about stopping.

I would have to hunt before it got dark if I didn't want to go hungry, and I only had an hour or two before the light fell enough to make hunting impossible.

After searching around for about ten minutes, I found a good spot to set up camp for the evening, and I dropped my bag and grabbed my rifle, chambered a cartridge, and double-checked the safety. My game was rabbit, since I didn't have the tools needed to string up and gut a deer.

I set off and crept through the brush, looking for signs of a nearby den. Rabbits are most active at dawn or dusk, so it was the perfect time to hunt them. Less than five minutes later, I found signs of rabbit trails in the underbrush a few hundred yards from camp; I leaned against the tree, just waiting.

The rabbit I wanted appeared half an hour later, hopping out of the brush without a care in the world. It was a plump eastern cottontail; It stopped and sniffed, giving me my opening.

The crack of my rifle pierced the air and the cottontail dropped dead. I'd hit my mark, taking it in the neck so as to not spoil any of the meat.

It was a decent-sized rabbit, more than enough for dinner; I bagged it and went back to camp.

Light was fading as I reached my campsite, which made fire, priority one. I grabbed the mini shovel and dug a small pit in the center of camp, spreading the loose dirt around the perimeter. I picked up a bundle of sticks and kindling just clearing the site, which gave me ample dead wood to burn. So, I piled a bundle in the ground with some dead leaves and twigs and got a nice fire going.

When I had light to work by, I cleaned the rabbit, making sure to not perforate the bowels and removed the organs and skin. I walked away from camp and buried the offal and hide in a small hole next to a tree.

When the meat was cleaned, I rubbed some spices into the meat to remove some of the taste of game and skewered it with a stick I'd sharpened.

While the meat cooked over a makeshift spit, I tied my hammock to the only two trees close enough for it to work. By the time my bed was ready, I had to turn the meat and get it ready to eat. A sprinkle of seasoning garnished the piping hot meat and I dug in when it was fully cooked.

I wasn't the best cook and didn't have the right tools and ingredients, so the meat was a little dry and bland, but filled me up nicely, and I washed it down with a swig from my canteen. I even had leftovers. I wrapped them up in cloth and sat them by the fire, ready to be eaten for breakfast in the morning.

With nothing else to do for the evening and night had fallen an hour ago, I decided to turn in for the evening and get an early start in the morning. I had many miles to cover and I would have to hunt again at some point the next day for dinner.

I nodded off, listening to the sounds of the forest as they lulled me into a deep sleep.

In the morning, I woke up refreshed from one of the best nights sleep I'd ever had and was eager to take on the day.

I was in such a good mood that it took me a few minutes to realize something was off.

In the middle of packing up my hammock and gathering my supplies, I couldn't help but notice that the leftover rabbit was missing from next to the fire. I searched around for it in vain, thinking the wind might have caught it and blown it away from the camp. But there was nothing.

I chalked it up to a wild animal, but that unsettled me. Deer's didn't often eat meat, and I didn't think a deer would get anywhere near my campsite. The smoke from the embers of the fire would have been enough to keep most animals away.

Black bears were common enough in the forest, but they should still be hibernating during this time of year. Right now, there wasn't anything larger than a deer in these woods, so unless it was a coyote, it had to have been a deer. But there were no tracks anywhere around my campsite, so no answers came to me.

I'd packed up camp, and went to relieve myself when I found something that confused and terrified the hell out of me.

I went to piss by the tree where I buried the offal of the rabbit last night, and right where I'd buried them, was a hole.

It was rough, with long claw marks gouged deep into the dirt as if something had ripped into the ground to get what I'd buried.

I'd buried them deep enough to not attract the scent of wild animals, and I'd never seen claw marks like the ones next to the tree. I didn't know what to make of them; wild animals weren't that smart, and they were skittish by nature. No animal would risk getting close to a human unless they were starving, and no human had claws like the ones I'd found.

Without hesitation, I grabbed my rifle and racked a cartridge. The air was calm, and birds sang through the treetops. It was a lovely morning, and I was petrified. I walked the camp in a circle, spreading out, searching for any tracks or signs. The only ones I'd found were some deer tracks about a hundred yards from camp that were at least a day old. There was nothing else even remotely resembling the marks I'd found.

There was nothing for me to find, and even though I was freaked out, I still had to hike back to civilization. As the miles wore on, I began to rationalize the experience, thinking it to be nothing more than a hungry animal looking for food and brave enough to sneak into my camp. I just hadn't buried the offal deep enough and some critter had smelled it. That's all it was.

As the day wore on, there was nothing to differentiate my delusions. The woods were normal, no ominous warnings, or foreboding feelings, just nature alive and well in the midday sun.

I managed to bag another rabbit, purely on coincidence as it scampered out of the tree line. I snapped off a shot and my aim was lucky. I'd taken it in the head, which left little of its skull behind, but it left the meat ripe for the taking. I'd made good time through the woods, so I stopped and quickly cleaned the rabbit, leaving the offal and skin where they lay. If something wanted to eat them, then let it.

After the rabbit was clean, I wrapped the meat in cloth and stowed it away. I was hungry from the hike, and the fact that my breakfast had been stolen that morning, but I still wanted to put some more miles under my boots before it got dark.

I wanted to be far away from my campsite, just in case.

As the sunlight faded from the canopy and my aching feet demanded a break, I found a spot to set up camp.

It was a small campsite, nestled up against a rocky mound that stretched skyward for a couple dozen feet with a slanted shelf near the top. I felt comfortable having my back to the wall, and a brace of trees next to the rock ensured I could set up my hammock.

I readied the campsite, built a roaring fire twice as large as the one last night just to scare away any nearby animals, and cooked the rabbit to perfection. I was ravenous and scarfed down the meat with gusto. Despite my hunger, there were still plenty of leftovers again, but this time, I was careful to stow the meat inside my pack, which I kept next to my hammock.

Exhaustion had worn me down from the many miles I'd walked that day, and I was eager to get some sleep. I laid my head on my pillow and was out like a light.

The stillness woke me, like a veil of silence had been draped over the woods. Not a single sound rose from the forest floor other than the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Not even crickets.

Animals instinctively go quiet in the presence of predators, but this was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I lay in my hammock, straining my ears to listen to any sound I could.

There was nothing but the wind.

The fire had died out, leaving only coals that sparked every time a stiff breeze rolled in. The moon was fat in the sky and gave me ample light to see by as I stared up at the trees. For some reason, I was terrified to get up and look around. My rifle was next to me, resting just by head against the tree. I could grab it in seconds and there was a round in the chamber, but I couldn't reach for my gun, couldn't do anything other than stare straight ahead and try not to move an inch.

Because I realized something was watching me.

It started as a tickle of paranoia on the back of my neck as my hairs stood on end, but it grew to fear as sweat beaded on my forehead. There was a presence in the woods, its eyes were on me, and it was angry.

Pure unadulterated malice oozed from just beyond my sight. Something was watching me, and it hated me.

It's a hard to describe feeling, the anger that was directed toward me, but I knew what it was on a primal level, something instinctual, right alongside the fear of being alone in the dark. I knew that feeling too.

The presence persisted for a few minutes and didn't fade. Sweat poured down my neck as I fought to stay still. Eventually, the silence and fear got to me and I had to do something. I couldn't take it anymore and leapt from the hammock, hitting the ground hard. I ignored the pain radiating from my arms and scrambled for my rifle, scanning all around me, trying to find whatever it was.

As I spun around, I saw it, perched on the rocks above me.

For a single split second, a flash of neon blue eyes stared back at me from an angular, too pale body before it slunk out of sight.

My heart pounded in my chest and my head felt fuzzy, like ants crawling over my brain. It became hard to breathe and I fought to keep from passing out. I was scared out of my mind because whatever that thing had been, wasn't human, and it wasn't an animal.

It was a monster.

I didn't sleep that night, I built up the fire and huddled around it, clutching my rifle till morning. Screw tradition and screw these woods. I was heading back to the cabin at first light and I wasn't stopping till I reached it.

Nothing else happened through the night, but as dawn broke over the mountains, my nerves were shot to hell and my eyes ached with the strain of keeping them open. I stumbled to my feet, kicked out the fire and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I left the hammock tied where it was and set off towards the stream. I was going to follow it to the trail, and I'd be back at the cabin well before nightfall.

It took an hour of walking, stumbling over uneven terrain till I found the stream, and from there I found the worn trail. I followed it for hours as the sun rose high in the sky. I was so tired, but the fear of death and that monster were the only things that kept me putting one foot in front of the other.

I was hungry, thirsty and beyond everything else, utterly exhausted. But I kept pushing forward, no matter how slow and tired I was. I still had the rabbit tied up in my pack, but I couldn't stop and eat.

As the day wore on, I began to recognize parts of the terrain and I knew I was close to the cabin.

I was so elated that I didn't pay attention to where I was walking and rolled my ankle on a small rock that jutted out from the side of the trail. I lost my balance and careened off and hit my head on a nearby tree branch. Everything went black.

I awoke to dusk. I'd been out for a couple of hours, whether from the blow to the head or the exhaustion, whichever it was, I was still in the woods, and night was coming quickly.

The monsters never appeared during the daytime, so I thought I was safe in the light. But light was running out and I still had a mile or so till I reached the cabin.

I picked myself off the ground and dusted the dirt off. I grabbed my rifle, checked that it was still loaded, and I flicked the safety off. My finger stood a millimeter from the trigger and I kept my head on a swivel as I hastily jogged the trail back to the cabin.

Relief swept through me when I saw the wraparound porch come into view. I nearly sagged to my knees as I reached the cabin just as the last of the orange bled from the purple skyline.

I had made it back.