The morning mist clung to the Cascade Mountains like a shroud when Mark and Linda Thompson kissed their three children goodbye and loaded their hiking packs into their silver Honda Pilot.

It was August 15th, 2014, and after months of planning, the couple from suburban Portland was finally embarking on their dream anniversary trip.

“2 years of marriage deserved something special,” Linda had said.

something just for them.

Their destination was the remote Glacier Peak Wilderness, a rugged expanse of untamed terrain where cell towers were non-existent, and the nearest road was often days away on foot.

Mark, a seasoned outdoorsman who’d been exploring these mountains since college, had mapped out a 7-day backcountry route that would take them through some of Washington State’s most breathtaking and isolated landscapes.

They’d return refreshed, reconnected, and with enough stories to last their golden years.

They never came home.

For 10 agonizing years, the disappearance of Mark and Linda Thompson remained one of the Pacific Northwest’s most perplexing missing person’s cases.

Despite massive search efforts involving hundreds of volunteers, specialized rescue teams, and cuttingedge technology, not a single trace was ever found.

No abandoned campsite, no discarded gear, no human remains.

It was as if the mountains had simply swallowed them whole, leaving behind only questions and heartbreak.

That is until a routine dayhike in September 2024 led to a discovery so disturbing, so impossible to explain that it would shatter everything investigators thought they knew about the case.

What that hiker found hidden deep in the wilderness wasn’t just evidence of what happened to Mark and Linda Thompson.

It was something far more sinister.

Something that suggested their disappearance was never an accident at all.

August 14th, 2014.

The Thompson household in Beaverton buzzed with the familiar chaos of a family preparing for a parents getaway.

16-year-old Sarah Thompson rolled her eyes as her mother triplech checked the emergency contact list for the hundth time.

14-year-old Jake was more interested in whether he could have friends over while they were gone.

And 12-year-old Emma clung to her father’s leg, suddenly not wanting him to leave.

Linda Thompson, a nurse at Providence St.

Vincent Medical Center, had been looking forward to this trip for months.

The stress of 12-hour shifts and the constant demands of raising three teenagers had worn her down.

She needed this.

They both did.

Mark, a software engineer at Nike’s headquarters, had been equally eager to unplug from the digital world and reconnect with the wilderness that had always been his sanctuary.

The couple had met on a hiking trail 24 years earlier.

Linda was new to Oregon, fresh out of nursing school, and overwhelmed by the transition from smalltown Iowa to the Pacific Northwest.

Mark was leading a hiking group for newcomers to the area.

By the end of that first hike to Multma Falls, they were inseparable.

Every major milestone in their relationship had somehow involved the mountains.

Their first camping trip together, Mark’s proposal on the summit of Mount Hood, their honeymoon backpacking through Olympic National Park.

The wilderness wasn’t just a hobby for them.

It was the foundation of their love story.

But lately, the demands of career and family had pulled them away from the trails they once explored together.

Every weekend, Linda’s shifts at the hospital had become increasingly demanding, especially after the unit restructuring that left them chronically understaffed.

Mark’s project deadlines seemed to multiply each quarter, keeping him chained to his computer well into the evenings.

Date nights became rare.

Conversations revolved around schedules, car pools, and mortgage payments.

They were drifting, and they both knew it.

This anniversary trip was supposed to fix all of that.

7 days with no phones, no internet, no distractions, just the two of them and the mountains that had brought them together in the first place.

Linda had requested the time off 6 months in advance.

Mark had cleared his calendar completely, even turning down a lucrative consulting project that would have overlapped with their departure date.

Their planned route was ambitious, but not unprecedented for experienced hikers like the Thompsons.

They would start at the Buck Creek Trail Head, hike north through the Henry M.

Jackson Wilderness, then loop back through Glacier Peak Wilderness before returning to their starting point.

The route covered roughly 60 m of some of the most remote terrain in Washington state with elevations ranging from dense old growth forests to alpine meadows above the tree line.

Mark had spent weeks studying topographical maps, researching water sources, and calculating food requirements.

He’d hiked portions of this route before, though never the entire loop.

Linda was equally prepared, having upgraded her gear, and trained rigorously throughout the spring.

They were experienced, well equipped, and intimately familiar with wilderness safety protocols.

The morning of their departure, Mark loaded their packs with military precision.

Each item had been carefully selected and weighed.

Their tent was a lightweight twoperson model they’d used on dozens of previous trips.

Their sleeping bags were rated for temperatures well below what they expected to encounter.

They carried a GPS device, though Mark preferred to navigate by map and compass.

Their first aid kit was comprehensive thanks to Linda’s medical background.

They had enough food for 8 days, factoring in an extra day’s worth of emergency rations.

Most importantly, they had a detailed itinerary that they’d left with both Mark’s brother and Linda’s sister.

The plan was to check in via satellite messenger on days 3 and six, then call immediately upon their return to civilization.

If they failed to make contact or didn’t return by August 23rd, search and rescue should be notified immediately.

As their Honda Pilot disappeared around the corner that Saturday morning, their children waved from the front porch, expecting to see their parents again in exactly one week.

None of them could have imagined that this goodbye would be forever.

The Buck Creek trail head parking area was nearly empty when Mark pulled in at a.m.

Only two other vehicles were present.

a dusty pickup truck that looked like it had been there for days and a newer Subaru Outback with California plates.

Mark noted both vehicles in the small journal he always carried, a habit developed from years of backcountry travel.

You never knew when such details might become important.

The weather forecast was perfect.

Clear skies, temperatures in the 70s during the day, dropping to the 50s at night.

No precipitation expected for at least five days.

Linda took a photo of Mark adjusting his pack straps, then handed her camera to a friendly couple from Sacramento, who were just finishing their own weekend adventure.

The resulting image would later become one of the last known photographs of the Thompsons alive.

By a.m., they had signed the trail register and begun their ascent into the wilderness.

The first few miles followed a well-maintained path through towering Douglas furs and western red cedars.

The familiar rhythm of their boots on packed earth, the gradual warming of muscles, the sweet scent of pine and moss.

It all felt like coming home.

They barely spoke during these initial hours, content to let the forest work its magic on their citystressed minds.

The first day’s destination was a backcountry campsite beside Trinity Lake, roughly 12 miles from the trail head.

It was an ambitious first day, but both Mark and Linda were strong hikers, and they wanted to get deep into the wilderness quickly to maximize their solitude.

As they climbed higher, the sounds of civilization faded completely.

No car engines, no aircraft, no distant hum of human activity.

Just wind through the trees, the occasional bird call, and their own steady breathing.

They reached Trinity Lake by late afternoon, finding the designated camping area empty, except for a curious marmmet that watched them set up their tent from a nearby boulder.

The lake’s surface was like glass, reflecting the surrounding peak so perfectly that it was difficult to tell where water ended and sky began.

This was exactly what they had needed.

Linda felt the tension in her shoulders beginning to melt away for the first time in months.

That evening they cooked a simple dinner on their lightweight camp stove and watched the stars emerge one by one in the darkening sky.

The Milky Way was visible here, something impossible to see from their suburban home.

They talked about their early hiking adventures, laughed about gear mistakes from their novice days, and made plans for future trips once the kids were grown.

For the first time in years, they felt like the young couple who had fallen in love on these very trails.

Linda’s journal entry that night was optimistic.

Day one perfect.

Mark seems more relaxed already.

Weather gorgeous.

Tomorrow we tackle the high country.

Can’t wait to see his face when we reach Glacier Peak viewpoint.

She had no way of knowing that this would be her final journal entry.

By the next evening, something would go terribly wrong in the wilderness that had always been their refuge.

something that would ensure they never made it to that viewpoint, never completed their anniversary loop, and never returned to kiss their children good night.

The mountains that had witnessed their love story were about to become the scene of something far darker.

Something that wouldn’t be discovered for 10 long years, hidden in a place so remote that even experienced searchers would never think to look there.

something that would prove Mark and Linda Thompson hadn’t simply gotten lost or fallen victim to the inherent dangers of wilderness travel.

They had encountered something else entirely, something that was waiting for them in those remote peaks, something that had been waiting for a very long time.

Day two began with promise.

Mark woke before dawn, as was his habit in the back country, and stepped outside their tent to witness the alpenlow painting the distant peaks in shades of rose and gold.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and glacierfed streams.

Linda emerged moments later, camera in hand, capturing the ethereal light that would soon fade into ordinary daylight.

Their planned route for day two was the most challenging section of the entire trip.

They would climb from Trinity Lake up through a series of switchbacks to reach Miner’s Ridge, then traverse across exposed alpine terrain before descending into the Spider Creek drainage.

It was roughly 14 mi of demanding hiking with significant elevation gain and loss.

But the payoff would be spectacular views of Glacier Peak and the surrounding volcanic landscape.

They broke camp efficiently, their movements synchronized after years of shared wilderness adventures.

By a.m., they were hiking up the steep trail that led away from the lakes’s tranquil shores.

The path was less maintained here, requiring careful navigation around fallen trees and across streams swollen by late summer snowmelt.

Mark led the way, consulting his map at regular intervals, while Linda followed, her nursing trained eye automatically scanning the terrain for potential hazards.

The ascent was relentless.

For 3 hours they climbed through increasingly sparse forest, the massive trees gradually giving way to hearty alpine species adapted to the harsh conditions above treeine.

Their conversations became sporadic, punctuated by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the crunch of granite gravel beneath their boots.

This was the kind of physical challenge they both craved after months of sedentary office work.

By midm morning, they had reached the exposed ridge line that marked their halfway point for the day.

The views were breathtaking.

Glacier Peak dominated the northern horizon, its ice covered summit gleaming in the morning sun.

To the south, Mount Reineer rose like a sentinel above a sea of green ridges.

Linda sat on a sunwarmed boulder and pulled out the energy bars they’d packed for this moment, savoring both the food and the vista.

It was here, on this remote ridgeeline, where few humans ever ventured, that they first noticed something odd.

Mark was studying his map when Linda pointed toward a cluster of rocks about a hundred yards off the main trail.

“Does that look strange to you?” she asked, squinting against the bright alpine light.

Mark looked up from his navigation and followed her gaze.

At first, he saw nothing unusual, just the typical jumble of granite boulders and hardy mountain vegetation that characterized this elevation.

But as his eyes adjusted, he began to notice what had caught Linda’s attention.

The rocks weren’t arranged randomly by natural geological processes.

There was a pattern to their placement, almost like they had been deliberately positioned, probably just coincidence, Mark said, but his voice carried a note of uncertainty.

In two decades of wilderness travel, he’d developed an instinct for things that didn’t belong.

And something about this rock formation felt wrong.

They approached the site cautiously, their hiking poles clicking against the stone as they picked their way across the uneven terrain.

Up close, the arrangement was even more puzzling.

Seven large granite boulders formed a rough circle, each weighing several hundred lb.

Inside the circle, the ground was level and clear of vegetation as if it had been purposefully maintained.

Scattered around the perimeter were smaller rocks arranged in what almost looked like symbols or markers.

Linda knelt beside one of the larger boulders and ran her hand along its surface.

The stone was smooth, worn by countless seasons of mountain weather.

But there was something else.

Carved into the granite, so faint that it was barely visible, were markings that definitely weren’t natural.

They looked like letters or numbers, though weathered beyond easy recognition.

“Mark, look at this,” she called softly.

Her voice had changed, carrying a note of unease that hadn’t been there moments before.

Mark joined her beside the boulder, and traced the carved markings with his finger.

They were old, clearly made years or even decades earlier, but they were undeniably human-made.

Someone had been here before them, someone who had taken the time and effort to create this strange monument in one of the most remote locations in Washington State.

“What do you think it means?” Linda asked, though part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

Mark stood up and walked slowly around the circle, examining each boulder in turn.

More markings became visible as he looked closer.

Some appeared to be dates, though the weathering made them difficult to read with certainty.

Others looked like initials, or perhaps coordinates.

On the largest boulder, positioned at what might have been the head of the circle was a carving that was deeper and more recent than the others.

It showed a crude but unmistakable image, a triangle with something that looked like an eye at its center.

The temperature seemed to drop as clouds moved across the sun, casting the strange formation in shadow.

Linda felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air.

This wasn’t just random vandalism or the work of bored hikers.

Someone had invested significant time and effort to create this site.

But why? And why here, so far from any established trail that most people would never see it? Mark consulted his GPS device, noting their exact coordinates.

His engineering mind was trying to process what they were seeing logically, but every rational explanation fell short.

The boulders were too large to have been moved without heavy equipment.

Yet, there was no way to get machinery to this remote location.

The carvings showed different levels of weathering, suggesting they had been made over a span of many years.

Someone or multiple someones had been returning to this spot regularly.

“We should keep moving,” Linda said finally, her unease growing stronger with each passing minute.

The sight felt wrong in a way she couldn’t articulate.

It was like stumbling across a grave in the middle of nowhere, except there was no headstone, no explanation, just an overwhelming sense that they were intruding somewhere they didn’t belong.

But Mark was already taking photos with their digital camera, documenting the markings and the overall layout of the stone circle.

His scientific curiosity had overcome his initial discomfort.

This could be archaeological, he reasoned.

Native American ceremonial site, maybe we should report it to the Forest Service when we get back.

Linda wasn’t convinced.

Native American sites she had seen before had a different feel, a sense of reverence and connection to the natural world.

This felt manufactured, artificial, like someone had been playing at creating something mysterious rather than honoring something sacred.

But she kept her concerns to herself as Mark finished his photography.

They spent another 20 minutes examining the site before finally continuing on their planned route.

But the discovery had changed the mood of their hike.

The easy conversation and shared wonder at the natural beauty around them had been replaced by a subtle tension.

Linda found herself looking over her shoulder more frequently, scanning the treeine for movement that probably wasn’t there.

Mark kept consulting his GPS, double-checking their position against his map with an intensity that seemed excessive for such a well-marked trail.

The descent into Spider Creek drainage should have been the highlight of their day.

The valley was pristine, filled with wild flowers and crossed by a crystalclear stream that cascaded down a series of natural granite pools.

Under normal circumstances, they would have stopped to rest, perhaps even taken a quick dip in the icy water.

Instead, they pressed on with unusual urgency, both feeling an inexplicable need to put distance between themselves and the strange stone circle.

They made camp that evening beside a beaver pond in a grove of ancient cedars, a spot that should have felt peaceful and secluded.

Mark set up their tent with mechanical precision while Linda prepared their evening meal on the camp stove, but their usual camping rituals felt forced, like actors going through the motions of a play they no longer believed in.

As darkness fell, Linda made her second journal entry.

Strange day, beautiful hiking, but found something odd on Miner’s Ridge.

Probably nothing, but can’t shake the feeling we weren’t alone up there.

Mark says, “I’m being paranoid, but he keeps checking the tent zipper every few minutes.

Maybe tomorrow will feel more normal.” She closed the journal and slipped it into her pack, not knowing that these would be among the last words she would ever write.

Because tomorrow wouldn’t bring normaly.

tomorrow would bring an encounter that would explain the purpose of the stone circle, reveal why it had been placed in such a remote location, and demonstrate that some secrets in the wilderness are kept hidden for very good reasons.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond their campfire’s glow, something was watching them.

something that had been waiting for visitors to find that stone circle, waiting for curious hikers to venture too far into places they didn’t understand.

The Thompsons had stumbled across more than just mysterious rock carvings.

They had discovered a marker, a signal, a calling card left by people who used these remote mountains for purposes that had nothing to do with recreation or spiritual connection to nature.

And now those people knew exactly where Mark and Linda Thompson were sleeping tonight.

The third morning brought an unsettling stillness to their camp.

Mark woke to absolute silence, something that should have been impossible in a forest teeming with wildlife.

No bird calls, no rustle of small animals in the underbrush, no whisper of wind through the trees.

Even the stream that had lulled them to sleep with its gentle babbling seemed muted, as if the entire wilderness was holding its breath.

Linda emerged from the tent looking haggarded, dark circles under her eyes betraying a restless night.

“Did you hear that?” she asked immediately, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Hear what?” Mark replied, though his own sleep had been fractured by half-remembered sounds that might have been dreams or might have been something else entirely.

Footsteps around the tent multiple times during the night.

She glanced nervously at the soft earth surrounding their campsite, looking for prints that weren’t there.

The ground showed only their own bootmarks from the evening before.

Mark wanted to dismiss her concerns, to attribute her unease to the strange discovery on Miner’s Ridge, but he couldn’t ignore his own growing discomfort.

Something felt fundamentally wrong about this place that had seemed so perfect when they’d arrived.

The ancient cedars that had felt protective now seemed to loom overhead like silent sentinels.

The beaver pond, crystal clear the evening before, now appeared dark and opaque, its surface disturbed by ripples despite the absence of any wind.

They broke camp quickly, their movements efficient but tense.

Neither mentioned their shared eagerness to leave this spot behind, but both felt it.

As they shouldered their packs and prepared to continue their journey, Mark made a decision that would prove to be their last mistake.

Instead of following their planned route deeper into the Spider Creek drainage, he suggested they take a detour to investigate something he’d noticed on his topographical map.

“There is an old mining claim about 2 mi northeast of here,” he said, pointing to a faint dotted line on the map that indicated an abandoned trail.

“Might be interesting to check out.

We’re making good time anyway.” Linda hesitated.

Every instinct told her to stick to their planned route, to get back to established trails where other hikers might be encountered.

But Mark’s enthusiasm for exploration was one of the things she’d always loved about him, and she didn’t want her growing paranoia to ruin their anniversary trip.

Against her better judgment, she agreed to the detour.

The abandoned mining trail was barely visible, overgrown with decades of vegetation, and crossed by multiple fallen trees.

What should have been a 2-hour side trip stretched into most of the day as they navigated around obstacles and frequently lost the faint path entirely.

Mark’s GPS readings became erratic, the device struggling to maintain satellite contact beneath the dense canopy of old growth forest.

By late afternoon, they were thoroughly lost.

The mining claims shown on Mark’s map was nowhere to be found, and the terrain around them bore no resemblance to what the topographical line suggested they should be seeing.

Worse, the trail they had been following had simply vanished, ending abruptly at the edge of a steep ravine that didn’t appear on any of their maps.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Mark muttered, comparing his GPS readings to the paper map for the 12th time.

According to this, we should be in the middle of a meadow, not surrounded by cliffs.

Linda studied the ravine below them, her nursing training automatically assessing the dangerous terrain.

The drop was at least 50 ft, ending in a jumble of granite boulders and deadfall.

But something else caught her attention.

At the bottom of the ravine, partially hidden by fallen trees, was what looked like the remains of a structure.

Not the natural formation of rocks they’d encountered on Miner’s Ridge, but something that had definitely been built by human hands.

“Mark,” she said quietly, pointing toward the structure.

“Do you see that?” He followed her gaze and felt his stomach tighten.

The remains were clearly artificial, though heavily weathered and partially collapsed.

It looked like it might once have been a cabin or shelter, though its original purpose was impossible to determine from their vantage point.

What was clear was that it was old, far older than any legitimate mining operation in this area.

We need to get down there, Mark said, his curiosity overriding his common sense once again.

Absolutely not, Linda replied firmly.

That climb is dangerous.

We’re already lost and we need to focus on getting back to our planned route before dark.

But even as she spoke the words, Linda found herself studying possible descent routes.

The structure below them was like a puzzle piece that might explain the stone circle, the strange markings, the feeling of being watched.

Her rational mind said to walk away, but something deeper was pulling her toward answers.

They spent another hour searching for a safe way down into the ravine, finally locating a series of natural ledges that might allow for a controlled descent.

Mark went first, testing each foothold carefully before committing his full weight.

Linda followed reluctantly, her pack throwing off her balance as she navigated the treacherous route.

The structure was even more mysterious up close.

It had once been substantial, built from carefully fitted stones rather than ruffune logs.

The craftsmanship was sophisticated, far beyond what would be expected from a simple mining camp, but it was clearly ancient, with many of the stones displaced, and much of the roof collapsed.

Moss and small trees grew from the cracks between stones, speaking to decades of abandonment.

Inside the ruins, they found the first concrete evidence that their fears weren’t just paranoia.

Scattered across the floor were personal items that clearly didn’t belong to any historical mining operation.

A modern hiking boot, the leather rotted, but the synthetic materials still intact.

Pieces of camping equipment from various eras, some dating back decades, others much more recent.

and most disturbing of all, items of clothing arranged in deliberate patterns that seemed to mirror the stone circle they’d found on Miner’s Ridge.

Linda picked up a faded bandana that looked like it might have been read once.

As she turned it over in her hands, something fell from its folds.

A driver’s license.

The plastic cracked and discolored, but still readable.

The photo showed a smiling woman in her 30s, someone who looked like she could have been Linda’s neighbor or coworker.

The name read Sarah Mitchell with an address in Seattle.

The expiration date was from 1987.

“Mark,” Linda whispered, her voice shaking.

“We need to leave right now.” “But Mark was deeper in the ruins, examining something that had caught his attention near what might have been the structures back wall.

It was a metal box, heavily rusted, but still intact.

Inside, protected by a plastic bag that had somehow survived the decades, was a journal.

The pages were yellowed and brittle, but the handwriting was still legible.

The first entry was dated June 15th, 1986.

It began simply, “They found us on the trail near Glacier Peak.

said they could show us something amazing, something most people never get to see.

We followed them because we were curious.

That was our mistake.

Mark read the entry aloud, his voice growing quieter with each word.

The journal belonged to someone named David Chen, apparently one half of a couple who had gone hiking in these mountains nearly 40 years earlier.

The entries chronicled their capture by a group of people Chen described as the guardians, individuals who had been living in these remote mountains for generations, protecting what they called the old ways.

According to Chen’s increasingly desperate entries, the Guardians believed that certain locations in the wilderness were sacred, marked by stone circles and other symbols that served as both warnings and invitations.

They captured hikers who ventured too close to these sites, bringing them to places like this ruined structure for purposes that Chen could only hint at in his increasingly frantic writing.

The final entry, dated 3 weeks after the first, was barely legible.

Sarah died yesterday.

The ceremony didn’t work the way they expected.

They’re angry, confused.

They think I might be next.

If anyone finds this, don’t trust the stone circles.

They’re not ancient.

They’re markers.

Stay away from the markers.

Linda’s hands were shaking as Mark finished reading.

Every detail in the journal matched their own experience.

The stone circle on Miner’s Ridge, the feeling of being watched, the way the wilderness seemed to be guiding them toward this place.

They hadn’t stumbled upon some historical curiosity.

They had walked into a trap that had been claiming victims for decades.

We have to get out of here, Linda said, backing toward the entrance to the ruins.

But Mark was still absorbed in the journal, flipping through pages that contained crude maps and sketches of other locations marked by the guardians.

That’s when they heard the voices.

They came from above the ravine, multiple people speaking in low tones that didn’t carry clearly, but were unmistakably human.

Mark and Linda froze, straining to make out words or count the number of speakers.

The voices seemed to be moving, circling the rim of the ravine like hunters closing in on prey.

Linda grabbed Mark’s arm and pulled him deeper into the ruins away from the entrance.

They crouched behind a partially collapsed wall, hardly daring to breathe.

The voices grew louder, and now they could make out fragments of conversation.

He saw them go down.

It’s been 3 days since the circle, ready for the next ceremony.

Mark felt Linda’s grip tighten on his arm as the implications sank in.

The guardians hadn’t disappeared with the passing decades.

They were still here, still watching their markers, still collecting people who ventured too far into their territory.

And somehow Mark and Linda had been marked since the moment they discovered the stone circle on Miner’s Ridge.

A rope dropped over the edge of the ravine, followed by the sound of boots scrambling down rock faces.

The Guardians were, as they had come for Davy, coming for them, just Chen and Sarah Mitchell, just as they had probably come for dozens of other hikers over the years.

The personal items scattered throughout the ruins suddenly took on a horrifying new meaning.

They weren’t artifacts of some historical mystery.

They were trophies collected from victims who had made the same mistake Mark and Linda were making now.

From their hiding place behind the crumbling stone wall, they could see figures descending into the ravine.

Three of them moving with the confident precision of people who knew this terrain intimately.

They wore modern hiking gear, but their movements were wrong somehow, too coordinated, too purposeful.

These weren’t fellow backpackers who might offer assistance.

These were predators who had been hunting in these mountains for far longer than anyone would believe possible.

The lead figure reached the bottom of the ravine and stood motionless for a moment, scanning the ruins with the patient thoroughess of an experienced tracker.

When he turned in their direction, Linda had to bite back a gasp.

His face was weathered and scarred, but his eyes held an intelligence that was somehow more frightening than mindless violence would have been.

This wasn’t some crazed mountain man living in isolation.

This was someone who had chosen this life, who found purpose in whatever dark rituals the guardians performed.

Mark’s mind raced through their limited options.

They were trapped in the ravine with no clear escape route.

Their cell phones had shown no signal for days.

No one would expect them to check in for another 3 days, and even then, the coordinates they’d left with family members wouldn’t lead searchers anywhere near this hidden location.

They were on their own, and their chances of survival were diminishing with each passing second.

The second guardian reached the bottom of the ravine and immediately moved toward the ruins.

He seemed to know exactly where to look, as if he’d done this many times before.

Linda realized with growing horror that this might not be opportunistic hunting.

The guardians might have been tracking them since they discovered the stone circle, hurting them toward this place with subtle manipulations they hadn’t even noticed.

The third guardian descended with something that made Linda’s blood freeze.

In his hands was a collection of items she recognized immediately.

their water bottles, the ones they’d refilled at the stream that morning.

Their trail mix bag, the one Mark had been snacking from during their climb.

Personal belongings that should have been secure in their packs somehow now in the possession of these strangers.

They’ve been in our campsite, Mark whispered, his voice barely audible, even to Linda crouched beside him.

The realization hit them both simultaneously.

The footsteps Linda had heard during the night weren’t imagination or paranoia.

The guardians had been there going through their belongings, learning about them, preparing for this moment.

The lead guardian raised his hand, and the other two stopped moving instantly.

The coordination was unsettling, like watching a pack of predators who had hunted together for years.

He pulled something from his jacket, a device that looked like a modified GPS unit, and studied its screen with the focused attention of someone tracking prey.

“Technology,” the guardian said, his voice carrying clearly across the ravine floor always makes them easier to follow.

He was speaking to his companions, but something in his tone suggested the words were meant for Mark and Linda as well.

He wanted them to know they’d been tracked.

wanted them to understand how thoroughly they’d been outmaneuvered.

Linda’s mind flashed back to Mark’s GPS readings, how erratic they’d become as they followed the abandoned mining trail.

She’d assumed it was interference from the dense forest canopy.

But now she understood.

The guardians had been jamming their signals, manipulating their navigation, guiding them toward this exact location.

Every wrong turn, every dead end, every moment of confusion had been orchestrated.

The second guardian moved closer to their hiding spot, his boots crunching on the debris scattered across the ruins floor.

Mark could see him now through a gap in the collapsed wall, close enough to notice the intricate tattoos covering the man’s forearms.

They weren’t random designs, but symbols that matched the carvings they’d found on the stone circle.

This wasn’t some recent cult or survivalist group.

This was something with deep roots, traditions that had been passed down through generations.

David Chen wrote about them extensively, the Guardian said.

And Linda’s heart stopped.

He was holding the journal Mark had been reading the desperate final record of someone who’d faced the same situation decades earlier.

Fascinating man.

Took detailed notes right until the end.

very helpful for understanding how to improve our methods.

The casual way he discussed Chen’s fate made it clear that whatever had happened to the journal’s author hadn’t been quick or merciful.

The Guardians weren’t just killing people who stumbled across their territory.

They were studying them, learning from each encounter, refining their techniques for future victims.

That hiker in September 2024 found more than just Mark and Linda’s remains in that hidden ravine.

He discovered evidence of dozens of disappearances spanning decades, all connected to those stone circle markers scattered throughout the wilderness.

The guardians are still out there, still watching, still waiting for the next curious hikers to venture too close to their ancient secrets.

Sometimes the mountains keep more than just our footprints.

This story was intense, but this story on the right hand side is even more insane.