How vanishing hikers in national parks inspired my darkest storylines

Since 1916, more than a thousand people have gone missing in U.S. national parks—vanished, really—and that’s just what we know.

They step out to gather firewood, check a fishing line, take a short hike. Then they’re gone. No scream. No blood. No footprints. Sometimes, not even a shoe. Weeks of searching brings nothing. Then, maybe a year later, they turn up in places no one can explain. Clothes folded. Bodies perched like statues on cliffs, or wedged deep into crevices miles away from where they disappeared. In some cases, they’re never found at all.

What makes it worse? It keeps happening the same way.

We like to think we’ve figured out the world. That if we slap a name on a mountain or pave a trail through a forest, it’s tamed. But nature doesn’t play by those rules. Some parts of it never signed up for the deal. And maybe—just maybe—something else is still out there, living off the grid and dragging people off it, too.

A pattern that won’t go away

One of the more persistent voices in this mystery is David Paulides, a former cop who started connecting dots no one else wanted to touch. His books—Missing 411—don’t chase monsters or aliens. They just lay it all out.

People disappearing near boulder fields, berry patches, or water. Tracking dogs losing the scent like it hit a wall. Victims found years later in areas already searched—sometimes with clothes placed neatly like someone laid them out for inspection.

Want a hypothetical case? Kid goes missing. Dogs refuse to track. A week later, his body turns up uphill, over obstacles no adult could climb without gear. He’s barefoot, in freezing temperatures, with no obvious injuries.

And these aren’t just hiker stories. The ages, backgrounds, and locations vary—but the details repeat. Over and over again.

Feral people living in national parks?

As the stories spread, so did the rumors. One of the darker ones? That there are people in the woods—feral people. Off-grid. Raised in isolation. Generations deep into a way of life that’s long forgotten by the rest of us.

Some say they’re the kids of old homesteaders who never came back to town. Others swear they’re cannibals, hiding in the caves, watching. Not myths. Not monsters. Just people who figured out how to vanish, and maybe how to take others with them.

They’re not caught on trail cams. Not busted at campgrounds. But if you’ve ever had the feeling that someone was watching you in the woods, even though no one was around—you’ve already asked the question, haven’t you?

What if they’re real?

For the record, I have a tough time believing the theory, even if it makes for good inspiring content. But, I do believe all legends start somewhere and hold some truth.

Take the Whitakers of West Virginia. A real family. Documented. Isolated. Known for extreme inbreeding, speech issues, and mental delays. Not monsters, not violent—but proof that people can live separate lives, hidden in plain sight, shaped by a different kind of world.

Now imagine that—but two hundred miles into the wild. No roads. No phone towers.

Yeah, it gets your mind going and the creative juices flowing.

What makes this so disturbing yet fascinating?

This isn’t just creepy trivia. It’s story fuel. The disappearances. The feral theory. The government silence. It all builds a foundation—one that shows up in my books at times. Places where the system either can’t reach or chooses not to. Characters who straddle the line between myth and memory. Powers that aren’t born in labs or from ancient bloodlines, but out of trauma, exile, and survival.

The wilderness in my stories? It doesn’t just act as scenery. It watches. It judges. It hides truths the modern world would rather forget or refuse to believe.

Turning real theories into dark fantasy

In my universe, these off-grid survivors evolve. Sometimes they’re failed magical experiments—once-hopefuls, now cast aside by their creators. Other times they’re rebels who vanished into the trees when the empire took over. And in the darkest corners of my work, they’re descendants of cursed bloodlines—tied to the elements, driven half-mad by the cost of power passed down for centuries.

In The Rebellion Awakens, Tage and Sabre cross who they believe are wild people. And their language resembles what you would think comes from a feral human, with animal sounds, hisses, and outright screaming.

But Tage discovers a bilingual group in a thriving underground society while Sabre realizes that these people are smart enough to take and carry out orders. One character from that group, Andie, grows rather prominent as the series continues.

In Liza Fury: Catch 22, Liza and her new friend, Kress Conway, cross into a feral population near the Pennsylvania-Delaware state line. Thanks to their dress and animalistic expressions, Liza can tell these people had been living out there for generations. Something Kress later confirms.

In Spirit and Fire, Mali LaSalle and Caer Cymraeg fight off a group of wild people. There are no casualties, as Mali realizes Spirit Masters possessed these people. Instead of using deadly force on them, she seeks out those who are pulling the strings.

In Cursed Mage, Kaija Jokiharju crosses two people who she later finds out are ‘living off the grid.’ She notes their unusual strength and aggressive demeanor. Her Uncle Vaino then reveals that the duo are members of a family that’s been forced into living off the grid.

The thin line between myth and reality

People like to believe the wild is mapped and marked. But names on a trailhead don’t mean it’s safe. Ask Dennis Martin’s family. Kid disappears in the Smokies. Massive search turns up nothing. A scream, an unkempt man seen running through the trees. That’s all they ever had.

There’s a thin line between history and horror. Between fact and folklore. And in fiction, that line’s where I like to write.

I can go on and on here, but you get the gist of it, I hope. Whether direct or indirect, the belief of ferals living in national parks influenced a lot of my works. Even if I’d rather not believe it for obvious reasons. The very thought is terrifying.

Your invitation into the unknown

If you’ve ever looked at a map and wondered what’s hiding just beyond the edge—welcome. If the official story felt off, and your gut told you there was more to it, you’re not alone.

I build my stories for readers like you. The ones who question things. The ones who walk past the signs that say Keep Out. The ones who know that silence in the woods sometimes speaks louder than words.

So yeah—keep your flashlight handy. Stick close to the trail if you want.

But the good stuff?

It’s always waiting in the dark.

Now, step further into my worlds.

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• Pick up the book.
• And most importantly—keep asking questions.

Because stories, like trails, are best when they lead somewhere unexpected.