A Camping Trip Became a Massacre — 6 Went Into Michigan Woods, Only 1 Crawled Out

My name is Gabriel Devon. I’m 34 years old, originally from Flint, Michigan.
Last October, six of us went camping deep inside Huron National Forest.

I’m the only one who came back.

I know how that sounds. Another exaggerated wilderness story. Another guy who went into the woods and panicked when things got uncomfortable. But I’ve been camping since I was eight. I earned my Eagle Scout badge at sixteen. I’ve spent more nights outdoors than most people spend watching TV.

I know the woods.

And whatever we encountered out there was not supposed to exist.

Our group had been doing an annual camping trip every October for eight straight years. Same group of friends, new location each time. We met in college, but life pulled us in different directions after graduation.

There was Jake Sullivan, my closest friend since high school. Married, two kids.
Brian Cortez, the comedian of the group, always cracking jokes when things got tense.
Cory Mitchell, quiet and observant, a former soldier who noticed things the rest of us didn’t.
Tyler Hughes, our organizer. Obsessive about gear, safety, planning.
And Alyssa Barnes, Tyler’s girlfriend, joining us for the first time.

Tyler found the location through a private backcountry forum. It was described as isolated, eight miles from the nearest forest road. No marked campsites. No cell service. Exactly the kind of place we usually went.

The weather forecast was perfect—clear skies, cold nights. Late October cold, the kind that sharpens your senses.

We arrived Friday afternoon and hiked in with full packs. Spirits were high. The forest was beautiful—bare trees, fallen leaves crunching under our boots, sunlight filtering through the branches.

Nothing felt wrong at first.

The campsite Tyler marked was ideal: flat ground, close to water, well-drained. But while setting up, Tyler noticed something about fifty yards away.

Another campsite.

Older. Abandoned.

We walked over to inspect it. Rusted tent stakes were still driven into the ground. Torn fabric clung to them, weathered gray. The fire pit was full of ash and debris.

It looked like someone had left in the middle of setting up.

That was the first moment my stomach tightened.

The fabric wasn’t cut. It was torn.

Cory stood at the edge of the site, scanning the tree line, completely still. Alyssa quietly suggested we move elsewhere.

Brian laughed it off. Tyler checked his GPS and insisted we were fine.

But as we walked back, I noticed something else.

The forest was silent.

Not calm silent—wrong silent. No birds. No squirrels. Just wind and distant water.

We set up camp anyway.

That night, we built a fire, shared drinks, told stories. Brian joked about Michigan folklore—Dogman stories, old legends. Alyssa pretended not to be scared, but she stayed close to Tyler.

Cory barely spoke.

Around 11 p.m., we went to sleep.

At 2:47 a.m., I woke up.

I checked my watch because something had already told me this moment mattered.

There was movement outside the tent.

Not footsteps—dragging sounds. Slow. Deliberate. Circling the campsite.

I lay completely still, listening. Whatever it was moved in a wide circle, consistent, controlled. This wasn’t curiosity. It was observation.

I woke Jake without speaking.

The movement stopped.

Then came the breathing.

Heavy. Close. Right outside the tent.

Something pressed against the fabric. A shadow appeared—too tall, wrong shape.

We didn’t move.

After a moment that felt endless, it pulled away. Heavy steps retreated.

We waited before exiting the tent. When we finally stepped outside, the fire had burned low.

That’s when we saw the handprint.

Not a paw. A hand.

Five fingers. Deep impression. Too large to belong to any human.

We found more impressions circling the camp.

Tyler took photos. Measured them. Cory said nothing.

Then we heard the knocking.

Wood striking wood. Three slow knocks. A pause. Then an answer from another direction.

They were communicating.

Morning came without further incident. In daylight, things felt less impossible—but the evidence remained.

Alyssa wanted to leave immediately. Cory agreed.

The rest of us convinced ourselves it was safer to stay one more night.

That was the mistake.

Throughout the day, the forest remained unnaturally quiet. Near the creek, we found dead fish floating near the surface. No visible injuries.

Cory found spent shell casings near the trail. Recent.

Someone—or something—had been active out there.

We set watches that night. Built the fire higher than ever.

At 1:15 a.m., a branch snapped.

Eyes reflected back at us from the darkness. Too high off the ground.

They didn’t blink.

We fired a warning shot.

Movement erupted everywhere at once.

Everyone woke.

They surrounded us.

One stepped into the firelight.

It was tall. Bipedal. Covered in dark, matted hair. Its head shape was wrong—elongated, unfamiliar.

It didn’t attack.

It watched.

More appeared.

That’s when Brian ran.

We heard his voice disappear into the woods. Then… nothing.

Later, his flashlight turned on from far away—held at the wrong height.

Then his voice called to us.

But it wasn’t right.

We didn’t answer.

Dawn came. Brian was gone.

We left at first light.

They followed us.

We found Brian’s body off the trail. I won’t describe it.

Cory documented everything. Evidence, he said.

A massive tree blocked the trail ahead. Not fallen—pushed.

They revealed themselves again. Blocking us.

We ran.

Gunshots. Screaming. Separation.

I never saw Tyler, Alyssa, or Cory again.

Jake and I found an old hunting cabin. Inside were signs others had been there before. Scratches carved into the wall:

THEY HUNT FOR SPORT

Outside, the creatures waited.

They didn’t rush us. They waited.

Jake made a choice.

He went outside to distract them.

He saved my life.

I ran until I collapsed on a gravel road.

They stopped at the tree line. They didn’t cross.

I woke up two days later in a hospital.

Search teams found evidence. Footprints. Damage. Blood.

But no answers.

The forest section is now closed to the public.

Officially, for “environmental preservation.”

I know better.

I’m telling this story not for attention, not for belief—but because people deserve to know.

Somewhere out there, something is still watching.

And it’s patient.