This story came so close to being a funny, lighthearted little anecdote that I would tell in loud, exaggerated voices to my friends around our lunch table. But sadly that's not the case.
I'm still reeling a little bit from the experience and I know that part of my brain is trying so hard to forget exactly what it was I saw that afternoon. I'm trying to explain it. I'm trying to deny it. I'm trying to convince myself that everything is ok.
I think I might be going crazy. I hope I'm going crazy. But deep down I know that I'm not.
This whole ordeal I'm about to relay to you happened about three months ago. I'm 18, in my senior year in high school and part of our graduation requirements in my school district is to do three hours minimum of community service. I had put my three hours off until the last possible second, like the lazy bastard that I am, and I had to turn in my form and the evidence of my service tomorrow or risk failing my civics assignment and being unable to graduate. So here's what I did:
I grabbed two large, black trash bags, some gardening gloves, and my phone, and I headed off to the local trails. I thought that spending a few hours in the woods picking up beer cans and cigarette cartridges would be more than enough to satisfy my teacher.
I live in a semi-rural area and my neighborhood is surrounded entirely by woods. There are two trails that I can reach by foot, one that leads to my school, and another that leads to a large pond just off the nearby highway that takes a little while to get to. Lots of people like to go fishing and set up campfires around the water so I figured there would be the most trash there for me to pick up.
It was mid March at the time, and winter had stuck around. The snow from the recent snowstorm had just barely melted enough for me to do my work, and I hoped there would at least be a little bit of litter remaining from before the cold season. I slipped on my jacket, called my mother to tell her where I would be, should I get mauled by a bear or mountain lion, and left.
The weather was crummy to say the least. The ground was wet and muddy from the melted snow, the air was muggy but cold, and it had begun to rain. I moved as quickly as I could.
I didn't see much trash until I made my way up to the pond, exploring fishing sites I picked up broken bottles of Jack Daniels, half empty Gatorades, sandwich bags, fishing line, and even a few shotgun shells. Making my way around the water I began to notice footprints in the mud. Some were human, some were those of a large dog. I had encountered a couple people walking their dogs down this path before, with one man in particular standing out to me. He had worn all camo and carried a rifle at his side. I had seen him a couple times and he always had his german shepard with him. He was a little bit suspicious looking, but seemed friendly enough the one time I had actually talked with him. I thought he might have been a hunter, despite it being illegal in this area of the forest. I kept thinking about this man every time I stumbled across more footprints.
I have mild anxiety, which sometimes, due to my "horror obsession" can delve into paranoia. And I was getting a bit paranoid. I recalled how a couple years ago one of my friends told me how every halloween he would have to sit out on his porch with a gun watching over his chickens, because occasionally, around that time of the year, farm animals would go missing, stolen away in the night by some unseen culprit. Lots of people thought they were being abducted and used for ritualistic sacrifice, and while I didn't buy that story one bit, it was still fun to entertain the idea.
So there I was, walking through the woods, in the rain, completely alone. I began to pick up more and more concerning bits of trash. A broken pregnancy test, the hilt of a knife, and as I approached the public access area of the pond I watched an old rusted pickup truck speed fast down the gravel road and out onto the highway, startling me.
