Campfire Stories
"Gather round and hear a tale ..."
The Lantern That Wouldn’t Go Out
They say a flame dies when the air around it chooses silence, but mine refused.
I was trapped in the old copper mines—flooded, cracked, forgotten by any map still in circulation. My lantern should have guttered out a dozen times. I saw the wick drown in its own oil. I felt the cold breath of the tunnels. Still the flame burned—white, not yellow, steady as a heartbeat.
It guided me through shafts I never walked before and over bridges long since collapsed. When I finally stumbled onto daylight, the lantern went dark the moment I lifted it toward the sun. I’ve never lit it again. I don’t think I should.
Ash and Stardust
My wife always said the sky remembers.
On the night of the great meteor fall, I stood on the ridge above the valley, watching streaks of light carve through the dark like burning feathers. One landed close enough that I felt the heat on my cheeks. When the smoke cleared, it wasn’t a rock but a cluster of glowing ash—silver dust that hummed like a lullaby.
I took a handful home. By morning, it had shaped itself into the outline of a woman reaching for me—my wife, gone for three winters.
I returned the ash to the ridge. Some memories aren’t meant to be carried.
Footsteps in the Dew
There’s a path behind the old mill where the grass grows thick and the fog sleeps late. If you walk it before dawn, you’ll hear footsteps behind you—soft, careful, matching your pace.
I tested it once. Stopped walking. The footsteps didn’t. They took one more step past me and paused, as if realizing they no longer had a body to follow.
When I turned, there were fresh prints in the dew leading into the forest… smaller than mine, barefoot, a child’s.
I left them alone. Some spirits aren’t lost. They’re just walking home.
The Watcher in the Tree Line
Every ranger has a story about something looking back, but mine never blinked.
For three nights straight, I made camp at different clearings, miles apart. And each night, just beyond the firelight, two pale eyes hovered between the branches. No sound. No breath. Just watching.
On the fourth morning, I found claw marks carved into the trunk of the tree beside me...clean, straight, almost polite. What ever it was, I knew I wasn't alone those nights.
The Thief Who Returned Everything
There was a bandit once—quick hands, quicker regrets. He’d steal from tents, traveling wagons, even temples if his nerves allowed it.
One night he robbed an old healer sleeping beneath the stars. Took her satchel, her herbs, even a necklace of carved bone. By dawn, every stolen item was back in its place except one: a small silver bell.
The healer said nothing—but every night after, the thief heard that same bell ringing behind him, even miles from any road.
Last anyone saw of him, he was walking into the northern snows, trying to escape the sound.
The River That Answered Back
I used to fish along the Sapphire Run, where the water runs so clear you can see the stones dream.
One night, frustrated from empty nets, I cursed at the river for being stingy.
It cursed back.
A perfect echo, but the voice was older, older than the stones, older than the water. It said my name, slowly, like tasting it.
I never got a fish out of there again.
The Night the Stars Went Missing
We were halfway across the desert when the sky went blank.
No clouds. No moon. No stars. Just a ceiling of ink. Our compasses spun useless. Even the horses went quiet.
Then a single pinprick of light returned. Then another. But they weren’t stars ... they were eyes, dozens of them, watching from above the dunes.
When the sky finally came back, the eyes blinked out one by one, as if deciding we weren’t worth the trouble.
We walked faster after that.
The Bone Bridge
There’s a canyon in the north too wide to cross and too deep to hear your own shout return.
They say if you call the name of someone you’ve lost, a bridge will form ... white and narrow, made of ribs, spines, and delicate little bones arranged like lace.
I saw it once ... could see the person i called on the other side
.
Walked halfway across before I could feel myself becoming sore and heavy.
I turned back. Some crossings you weren’t meant to survive.
Ember-Eyed Maggie
Old Maggie lived in a shack near Frostgrove, where winter never fully leaves.
Her eyes glowed like coals, no lie, no exaggeration. Kids dared each other to knock on her door. Most never made it past her yard.
One night, her house burned to the ground. When the flames died, the ashes were cold… except for two embers.
They found them a mile down the road the next day, glowing, moving slowly toward the village.
No one followed them.
The Last Song of Red Hollow
There was a town that loved music more than bread. Every night the streets hummed with flutes and fiddles and drums played on wine jugs.
Then one winter, the music stopped.
Not because the musicians died—no. Because the town itself began to sing. Low, long notes rising from the earth under their feet, until the people fled in terror.
I passed through years later. The houses were empty, the fields overgrown.
But when the wind blew through the broken windows, the town still hummed.
And I swear… it tried to match my heartbeat.