Brian always thought the forest behind his cabin was peaceful—until his son came running inside, pale and shaking.
“Dad… there’s a man in the woods calling my name.”
Brian grabbed his flashlight, stepped outside, and shouted for whoever it was to leave. Silence.
Until he heard it too.
A perfect copy of his son’s voice echoing from deep between the trees:
“Daddy… come help me…”
But his real son was clinging to his leg, whispering, “Don’t go. That’s not me.”
Brian Keller had lived in his Montana cabin for seven years, and in all that time the forest behind his home had been nothing but quiet—elk grazing at dawn, wind brushing through the pines, the occasional hiker passing by in the distance. Nothing dangerous. Nothing unusual.
Until tonight.
His nine-year-old son, Ethan, burst through the back door at dusk—breathless, trembling, face drained of color.
“Dad,” he gasped, gripping Brian’s shirt, “there’s a man in the woods calling my name.”
Brian felt his stomach drop. “A man? What man?”
Ethan shook his head violently. “I didn’t see him! I was just by the stream and he started saying my name—like he knew me.”
Brian didn’t waste a second. He grabbed his flashlight from the kitchen hook, shoved his feet into boots, and stepped out onto the porch.
“HEY!” he shouted into the trees. “WHOEVER YOU ARE—LEAVE NOW!”
Silence.
Only the rustling of branches in the fading light.
Brian scanned the tree line, jaw clenched. “If you come near my son again, I’m calling the sheriff!”
Still no answer.
He took a step forward, raising the flashlight—
And then he heard it.
A child’s voice.
Thin.
Soft.
Echoing from somewhere deep between the pines.
“Daaaad… help me…”
Brian’s blood froze.
The voice was perfect.
Identical.
Ethan pressed himself into Brian’s leg, crying softly. “Dad—don’t go. That’s not me. I’m right here.”
Brian felt every instinct in him scream to run, to grab his son and get inside. But a different instinct—the one that needed to protect, to confront whatever danger lurked out there—held him in place.
He raised his flashlight again, voice shaking. “Who’s out there?”
No response.
Only the forest breathing.
And then the voice came again, more urgent, more pleading:
“Daddy… help me… I’m stuck…”
Brian’s heart pounded. Whoever it was… whoever was mimicking his son that perfectly… they were doing it on purpose.
A chill crawled up his spine as he realized:
This wasn’t someone lost.
This wasn’t an accident.
Someone in those woods had been watching his family long enough to copy Ethan’s voice.
And they wanted Brian to follow.
Brian scooped Ethan into his arms and backed toward the cabin. Every muscle in his body trembled—not from fear of the dark, but from the horrifying precision of that voice.
Inside, he locked all three deadbolts, pulled the curtains tight, and grabbed his phone to call the sheriff.
Sheriff Cal Norton picked up on the second ring. “Brian? Everything okay?”
“There’s someone in my woods,” Brian said, breath uneven. “He’s calling my son’s name. He’s—he’s mimicking his voice.”
A pause on the line. “Stay inside. I’m coming.”
When the call ended, Brian crouched to meet Ethan’s eyes. “Did you see anything? Anything at all?”
Ethan sniffed. “I heard branches snapping. And footsteps. Then he said my name—like he was right behind me. I ran.”
Brian hugged him tightly. “You did the right thing.”
Twenty minutes later, red-blue lights flashed through the trees as Sheriff Norton arrived with two deputies. Brian stepped outside, careful to keep Ethan behind him.
“What exactly did you hear?” Norton asked.
Brian replayed the voice, the mimicry, the chilling accuracy. The sheriff’s face tightened.
“We’ve had reports,” he admitted. “Not of voices—but of trespassers. Someone’s been leaving food wrappers, cigarette butts. Tracks too small for a bear, too heavy for a deer.”
“Someone’s living out there?” Brian whispered.
“Maybe,” Norton said. “Or watching.”
The deputies swept the first twenty yards of forest. Nothing.
But then one of them called out, “Sheriff—you need to see this.”
Brian followed reluctantly.
There, in a patch of soft earth, were footprints. Human. Adult. Barefoot.
And beside them—smaller footprints. Barely the size of Ethan’s.
Brian felt the air leave his lungs. “He was that close?”
Norton crouched. “These tracks follow the stream. Whoever did this waited for Ethan to wander far enough from the cabin.”
“And the voice?” Brian asked.
The sheriff stood slowly. “There are apps. Devices. You can record a voice and play it back. Doesn’t take much.”
Brian’s chest tightened. Someone had recorded his son without him knowing. Someone lurking close enough to hear Ethan playing outside.
Norton placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Go inside. Keep the doors locked. We’ll search the woods.”
As the deputies disappeared into the trees, the wind shifted—and Brian realized something else:
The mimicry wasn’t to scare him.
It was to lure him.
Someone out there wanted him to come alone.
Hours passed with no news. Ethan finally fell asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, still shaking whenever the floor creaked.
Brian sat in the dark living room, shotgun across his lap, phone beside him. He knew the sheriff was doing what he could, but the forest was endless, and whoever was hiding out there had chosen it carefully.
At 3:42 a.m., his phone buzzed.
Sheriff Norton: “We found a campsite. Abandoned. Whoever it was left in a hurry.”
Brian: “Anything else?”
Sheriff Norton: “Yes. Your son’s name carved into a tree.”
Brian’s breath stopped.
He read the message twice.
Three times.
Ethan’s name. Carved.
Not random.
Not coincidence.
Not mischief.
Targeted.
At sunrise, Norton returned to the cabin. He placed a plastic evidence bag on the table—inside it, a small black handheld device.
“A voice recorder,” Norton said. “We found it in the camp. Looks like he used it to capture Ethan’s voice.”
“How long…?” Brian whispered. “How long has he been watching us?”
“Long enough,” the sheriff answered softly. “But we think he’s gone. Packed up fast. No tracks after midnight.”
“He’ll be back,” Brian said quietly, staring at the recorder. “People like that always come back.”
“Not if we relocate you temporarily,” Norton suggested. “Happens more than you think. Sometimes drifters fixate on a family. Sometimes they imitate voices to lure kids or parents. It’s rare—but not unheard of.”
Brian nodded slowly. “We’ll go.”
Within twelve hours, Brian and Ethan were placed in a rental home closer to the sheriff’s department. The cabin would stay empty until the investigation ended.
That night, as Ethan slept safely upstairs, Brian stepped out onto the porch of the temporary house. He breathed deeply, inhaling the morning air, trying to shake the memory of that voice.
But he knew he never would.
He had always thought danger came with warnings—growls, threats, snarls, alarms.
But danger could sound gentle.
Soft.
Familiar.
It could sound exactly like the person you love most.
Inside, Ethan stirred, mumbling in his sleep. Brian went to him immediately.
No one would ever mimic his son again.
No one would ever get close enough.
And Brian would make sure of it.
