pine crunchers

The forest didn’t care if you lived or died. My name’s John, and for the last two weeks, I’ve been running for my life. It’s been hell—cold, wet, and endless. The reason? Pine Crunchers. Seven-foot-tall nightmares that come in packs, with wings for arms and long, matted fur trailing down their backs. I’ve fought off hunger, exhaustion, and fear, but those things? They’re still out there. And I swear they’re closing in.

It all started with a weekend trip—four of us, hiking into the deep woods. It was supposed to be an adventure, just old friends escaping the noise of life for a couple of days. We took an unmarked trail, excited to explore something off the beaten path. We didn’t know that path belonged to them.

The first night, we heard noises—a strange, deliberate crunch, crunch, crunch coming from the woods. I figured it was just an animal stepping on pinecones or dry needles. But the sound didn’t stop. It circled our camp, slow and steady. Mike said it was just deer moving around, and Charlie laughed, saying it could be some forest spirit messing with us. But even then, something felt wrong.

And when night fell, they came.

I remember waking up to the sound of wings, leathery and thin, flapping just above the tree line. My breath hitched, and the firelight flickered across something massive at the edge of camp—seven feet tall at least. It had long fur down its back, slick with dirt and twigs, and a body shaped like a man, but it wasn’t human. Its arms were wings—dark, bat-like appendages that ended in sharp talons.

It moved toward us with a slow, unsettling crunch, the sound of pine needles and bones snapping underfoot.

Then more of them appeared—four or five at first, surrounding us, their glowing yellow eyes flickering in the darkness like embers. They didn’t make any sound except for the crunching as they moved in that broken, twitchy way, like puppets whose strings had been cut and tied together again. Their bodies jerked with each step, wings dragging on the ground behind them.

We didn’t stand a chance.

“Run!” someone shouted—maybe it was Mike—but the moment I saw those bat-wings stretch open, I knew staying meant death.

I ran. I don’t remember much of the first few minutes—just the chaos of branches slapping at my face, the wind howling past my ears, and the horrible crunching sounds behind me. I knew the others were running too, but the forest was thick, and we were all running blind, each of us hoping the Pine Crunchers would go after someone else. I hate that I thought that way, but fear makes cowards of us all.

I didn’t stop running until my legs buckled beneath me, and by the time I dared look around, I was alone. No sign of my friends, no sign of the monsters—just me, panting in the dirt, with the sound of the wind howling through the pines.

For a moment, I thought I was safe. But then I heard it again. Crunch. Slow. Methodical. I didn’t wait to find out if they’d seen me. I forced myself back onto my feet and kept moving.

That was two weeks ago. I haven’t seen Mike, Charlie, or the others since. Maybe they made it out. Maybe they didn’t.

Every day, I’ve fought to stay ahead of them. I’ve eaten whatever I could find—berries, mushrooms, even bugs—but nothing fills the emptiness gnawing at my stomach. I tried following a river once, thinking it might lead to safety, but the Pine Crunchers were always there, stalking the banks like wolves waiting for a kill. They never came at me directly—not yet. Instead, they stayed just far enough away to keep me paranoid. Watching. Waiting.

They’re playing with me, I’m sure of it.

I tried climbing a tree one night, thinking I’d be safe. I tied myself to the trunk and drifted off, but when I woke, claw marks were etched deep into the bark, right by my face. They could’ve taken me then, but they didn’t. They wanted me to know I was never really safe.

I lost track of the days after that. I wandered aimlessly, hoping to stumble across a road or another hiker, anyone who could help me. But the deeper I went into the forest, the more the trees closed in around me. It was like the whole forest belonged to them, and I was the intruder.

Then the storm came.

It hit suddenly—a wall of rain and wind that tore through the forest, turning the ground to mud and the air to mist. I could barely see, but I knew the Pine Crunchers were still there. Every now and then, through the sheets of rain, I’d catch a glimpse of those yellow eyes, blinking lazily in the darkness. I could hear their wings flapping just above the canopy, and the crunching never stopped, no matter how loud the storm got.

Just when I thought I couldn’t go any farther, I stumbled upon an old ranger station. It was falling apart—windows smashed, door half-off its hinges—but it was shelter. I threw myself inside and slammed the door shut, piling whatever furniture I could find in front of it.

For a few hours, I let myself believe I was safe. I even found a rusty axe in the corner and sat by the cold fireplace, pretending I was still just John—just a guy on a camping trip gone wrong.

But the sound came back. Crunch. Crunch.

It was faint at first, barely audible over the storm, but it was there. Closer. And closer.

They were coming.

I climbed into the attic, dragging the ladder up behind me, and sat there in the dark, clutching the axe like it was the only thing keeping me alive. The rain pounded against the roof, and below me, I could hear them—dragging their wings across the floor, sniffing the air, searching. The crunching grew louder, surrounding the building like a sinister lullaby.

They were toying with me again, letting me know they could take me whenever they wanted. But for some reason, they didn’t.

When dawn broke, the Pine Crunchers left, as silent and sudden as they’d come. I waited until the light filled the room before I climbed down. The station was wrecked—furniture splintered, walls shredded—but the door was still standing. It felt like a small victory.

I don’t know how much longer I can last out here, but I’ll keep moving. One foot in front of the other. It’s the only thing I know how to do anymore.

They haven’t caught me yet. And as long as I keep running, they never will.

If I make it out of these woods, I’ll never set foot in a forest again. But for now, I have to survive.

And listen for the crunch.

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