"I have two stories to share." Jay explained, his voice low and measured. He paused, lifting his beer to his lips and adding a quick disclaimer. "Real quick, these stories aren’t just rumors. The police did their investigations, and all that. Keep that in mind as I tell them."

He took a slow sip, seeming to gather his thoughts before speaking again. "The first story concerns a boy named Neuman, who, like us, came here to strike it rich in gold. This was about two years ago. Unlike most, he came alone—which, frankly, was pretty foolish of him. But I have to admit, Neuman was no ordinary prospector. He was a hell of a panhandler, and he knew his way around survival. He’d done camping trips alone in some other pretty remote areas, sometimes staying out there for months. So this trip should’ve been a walk in the park for him."

Jay's voice dropped, and his gaze grew distant as he stared into the campfire's flames. "But it wasn’t. Something happened to him out here. In the diary he brought with him, he wrote about...something haunting him. He mentioned that it might have been because of his actions in the past or, possibly, because of the sheer amount of gold he’d managed to collect. He described it like...a presence he couldn’t escape, something that kept following him, whispering to him, making him question himself." I interrupted, brow furrowed. "Hauntings?"

Jay nodded, slowly turning the skewered chicken over the fire. "Yes. He said it was a voice, always there, relentless. But he never specified whose voice it was or what it said. Just...something kept accusing him, something he couldn’t get away from." Jay paused, glancing around at the darkness encircling us, then continued. "Eventually, it got to be too much. According to his diary, he started unraveling, sleep-deprived and paranoid, until he...couldn’t take it anymore. He took his own life."

"How did he do it?" I asked. "He had his grandpa’s old World War II pistol. That’s what he used." Jay took another sip, his gaze still fixed on the fire. "His mother reported him missing two days after he was supposed to return home. When they found him, the cops ruled out homicide or foul play. Said it was clearly a suicide." I stared into the shadows beyond the firelight, trying to shake off the creeping chill that had settled in. "So he heard voices here... Maybe he just went mad from guilt from whatever he did?" Jay shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Maybe. Whatever it was, it was enough to push a seasoned survivor like him over the edge."

I whispered, "Rest in peace..." and took a long sip of my drink. "Where did he stay?" I asked quietly, my voice wavering just enough for Jay to notice.

He glanced over at me, then returned to tending the chicken wrapped in tinfoil over the fire. The smell was enough to make anyone’s stomach growl. "He stayed in a cabin about a mile down from here," Jay replied, "which brings me to the second story, and trust me, it’s even stranger than the first." Stranger? What could possibly be more unnerving than hearing voices in the dark? Jay seemed to sense my tension and gave a little shiver, rubbing his hands together and holding them close to the warmth of the fire. "The second story," he began, "is about two friends—Matt and Rick. They were in their forties, both experienced hunters, guys who’d been around danger their whole lives. Unlike Neuman, they didn’t leave behind a diary or anything like that, so I’ll just tell you what I think happened based on what I’ve heard."

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I leaned forward, listening intently. "Alright." Jay whistled low, as if trying to shake off a bad memory. "Matt and Rick had...some differences. Not unusual for guys who’ve been hunting and trekking together for years, but this time it got ugly. They had a huge fight in that same cabin Neuman stayed in, only a year after his death. No one knows what the fight was about—maybe it was something trivial, or maybe it was something serious. But whatever it was, it went far enough that Rick ended up killing Matt."

I felt my jaw drop, and my pulse quickened as Jay continued. "As if that wasn’t enough, things got even worse. Right after the fight, a wild animal—some say it was a bear, others swear it was a wolf—charged into the cabin, drawn in by the noise. The door had been left open in the scuffle, and the creature didn’t waste a second. It attacked Rick first, tore him apart...and then, for some reason, it turned to Matt's body post mortem and mauled him too." Jay took a deep breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I hid one part of the story from you, however. Matt's gun. It discharged through the cabin's window. They found a clean hole pierced through Rick’s right ear." I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end, my skin prickling.

Jay leaned back, eyes narrowed as he theorized. "My guess? Matt might've tried to kill Rick to keep a bigger share of the gold. But Rick got the jump on him first by circling around the cabin. Then the animal just happened to wander in and, well...cleaned up the mess. They say from the claw marks it was either a wolf or a bear, but yeah, it’s still weird." He carefully peeled back the last of the tinfoil. "Oh, the chicken’s done! I’m glad I got us this special chicken," he said proudly, setting it on a paper plate and tearing off a juicy piece. Meanwhile, I grabbed a chicken leg, still feeling slightly uneasy from his stories but trying to shake it off. I took a massive bite, savoring the warmth and flavor, despite the chill of Jay’s tale lingering in my mind.

"What’s interesting," I said between bites, "is that even though there are these creepy stories with...you know, unexplained deaths and all, most of the other folks say they've experienced nothing unusual." Jay tore into his own piece, chewing thoughtfully. "Well," he replied, "we’ve both got guns with us, we're not here alone, and we're brothers, we won't try and kill eachother. We'll be alright." He grinned, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Besides, the gold here is worth thousands. Even with these stories, it's a risk worth taking."

The night seemed to press in even darker, swallowing the world beyond our small campsite. The campfire was burning low. I glanced at Jay as we finished up the last bites of our meal and declared, "After we eat, it’s bedtime!" A quick check of my watch confirmed it was already nine. Jay’s plate was slick with grease from the chicken, and he leaned back, looking full but tired. "Hey, grab the trash bags for me." he said, stretching out his hand.

"Got it." I took one last bite, savoring the warmth of the meal, already thinking about how much food we’d need tomorrow. I made my way around the tent, tossed my plate and bones inside the bag, and handed it to Jay, who added his as well. Once everything was in, I tied a knot—a loose one, easy to undo in the morning—and tossed the bag toward the tree line, far enough away to discourage any scavenging animals from sniffing around camp overnight. I stifled a yawn, feeling the day’s weariness set in, and just as the fire sputtered out, we turned toward the tent. Inside, two sleeping bags were spread out side by side, with a compact, foldable shelf in the corner holding our spare clothes and the guns we’d brought along. I slipped into my sleeping bag, pulling the top snug over me, warmth creeping in as I settled down. Jay was rustling around beside me, getting comfortable in his own bag. My eyes were already drooping shut when I mumbled, "Goodnight, Jay."

Jay shifted onto his side, his voice soft in the darkness. "Goodnight."