The Last Trip

It started as a reunion—three best friends reliving the road trips of their reckless youth. It ended in blood, silence, and secrets no one dared to speak of again.

We were supposed to drive the Oregon coast one last time. Me, Tyler, and Jesse. We'd been inseparable in college—adventurous, stupid, and loyal to a fault. Now in our early thirties, with jobs, lives, and miles between us, it was Jesse's idea to take one last trip before everything changed.

“My fiancée wants me to settle down,” he had said with a smirk over Zoom. “Let’s go out with a bang.”

I didn’t realize how literal that would become.

We set out in Tyler’s Jeep, the same battered thing we drove back in 2012. It still smelled like old fries and weed. The plan was simple: drive from Portland to Crater Lake, stopping wherever the road called us. Just three guys and the open highway.

The first two days were perfect. We laughed about the old days—drunken parties, failed exams, the time Jesse tried to flirt with a park ranger and ended up locked out of our cabin overnight.

On the third night, we stopped near an abandoned ranger station deep in the woods.

“It’s not on the map,” Tyler said, grinning. “Even better.”

We set up a campfire with a bottle of whiskey passed around. The stars were sharp, and silence wrapped the forest like a secret. That’s when Jesse pulled something from his backpack.

A gun.

"Why the hell do you have that?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended.

He shrugged. "Just in case. You never know who you’ll meet out here."

We didn’t sleep much that night. Something in the air shifted. Like the trees were listening.

The next morning, Jesse was gone.

We searched the area—calling his name, checking trails, even looking under the Jeep. Nothing. His phone, wallet, everything was still there.

Then Tyler found the blood.

A streak of it, dark and dried, leading behind the ranger station. And in the clearing beyond, a half-buried shape.

Jesse.

His neck twisted at an impossible angle. No animals, no struggle. Just... gone.

Tyler collapsed. I stared in silence. Something didn’t add up.

His hands. They were clean. No dirt under the nails. No bruising. He didn’t try to fight back. He didn’t even move.

We drove back in silence, hours of highway between us and what we left behind. I kept replaying the night—Jesse showing us the gun, Tyler’s odd reaction, the tension none of us acknowledged.

When we finally reached a town with signal, Tyler pulled over and looked at me.

“We don’t tell anyone,” he said.

“What?”

“No one would believe us. We buried him. We didn’t call the cops. It’s too late now. We say he went missing. Disappeared. That’s it.”

I should’ve argued. I should’ve demanded we go back. But I didn’t.

Because deep down, I had a theory. And if I was right, saying anything could get me killed too.

Six months passed. Jesse’s disappearance made the news for a week. His fiancée cried on TV. The police questioned us, but they had nothing. No body. No motive. No evidence.

I moved to Denver, got a new job, a new apartment, and tried to forget.

But the dreams kept coming.

Jesse standing at the edge of my bed, mouth open, blood leaking from his temple. Some nights, I heard him whisper. Others, I saw Tyler standing behind him, holding the gun.

I told myself it was guilt. But I started sleeping with the lights on.

Then last week, I got a package. No return address.

Inside: a polaroid photo. Of the three of us at the ranger station. But in this one, Jesse wasn’t smiling.

He was staring directly into the lens, eyes wide with terror.

And behind him, blurred by the campfire light, was someone else.

A fourth figure.

I called Tyler.

He didn’t answer.

The next day, I saw the headline: Local Man Found Dead in Remote Cabin—Apparent Suicide.

Tyler.

Gone.

Just like Jesse.

I’m alone now. The last one left. And I think—no, I know—this wasn’t over friendship or betrayal. Jesse didn’t die because of us.

Something was in those woods.

Something is still there.

And it followed us back.

I’m writing this not as a confession—but as a warning. If you ever find an old ranger station that isn’t on any map, leave.

If you hear whispering from the trees, don’t listen.

And if you see a friend holding something behind his back—run.

Because some trips aren’t meant to end.

And some things don’t let you leave alive.