As the campfire crackles under a starlit sky, there’s nothing like sharing scary campfire stories to send shivers down the spines of your family and friends on a hiking trip. These frightening campfire stories are perfect for gathering around the flickering flames, where every rustle in the dark feels like part of the story.
From haunted clearings that come alive to mysterious entities that defy explanation, this collection of bone-chilling campfire stories will keep your group on edge, trading nervous glances into the shadowy woods.
Each story is crafted to captivate, blending the thrill of the unknown with the primal fear of the forest at night. Whether you’re a seasoned hiker or planning a family camping adventure, these scary campfire stories are designed to spark gasps and uneasy laughter, making your outdoor experience unforgettable.
Get ready to tell tales that linger long after the fire dies out, perfect for creating those spine-tingling moments under the stars.
Table of Contents
Julia’s Cupcakes
Rob just introduced his new girlfriend, Julia, to the yearly cottage retreat. It’s the first time in eight years he’s brought someone, making the group a tidy six. At first, they’re hesitant about welcoming an unfamiliar face, but her warm, easygoing nature quickly won the whole group over.
As a delightful bonus, she’s brought homemade salted caramel cupcakes, which they eagerly enjoy around the campfire while sharing some scary campfire stories.
“You take the first turn, newcomer,” the friends asked.
She shakes her head gently. “I’d prefer to go last, if that’s okay. I want to hear everyone else’s stories first.”
Most of the scary campfire stories the group shared were classic urban legends: “Humans Can Lick, Too”; “Aren’t You Glad You Didn’t Turn On the Light”; and a few variations of a young couple facing tragedy while stranded in a car late at night.
Good stories overall. Nothing to complain about. Scary enough to keep someone awake at night. Then Julia’s moment comes.
“To be honest, gory tales don’t frighten me. They’re so exaggerated, so far-fetched, that they feel more absurd than terrifying. What truly scares me are the psychological twists,” she says, tapping her temple with a finger. “The unforeseen. The mysterious. The mindfuck stories. Not phantoms or chainsaw-wielding lunatics, but regular folks like us.”
Everyone was intrigued. All eyes are on her.
“Take, for instance, a stranger who joins her boyfriend and his friends for a weekend at a cottage,” she says, holding up her uneaten cupcake, “and feeds them her homemade cupcakes with them.”
Read the full “Julia’s Cupcakes” story here: Julia’s Cupcakes | Scary Campfire Story
The Woman In the Well
Last summer, I attended a sleepaway camp. One day, they led us on a trek into the forest, where we pitched tents and kindled a fire. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks and told scary campfire stories.
The new counselor shared a chilling story about a woman cast into a well on a nearby farm a century ago. Her husband, despising her, had thrown her into the well, where she perished. When they discovered her body, the flesh on her fingertips was gone, leaving only bones protruding.
I recall how the guy held his flashlight beneath his chin while leaning closer to the group. His face was a dance of light and shadow in the flashlight’s glow.
“They figured she might’ve scraped her fingers raw, clawing to escape the well,” he said. “But no blood stained the walls. Maybe rain washed it away. Or perhaps… perhaps, trapped in that darkness, she grew so famished she began to eat her own flesh.”
He paused, and the only sound was the fire’s crackle. “They say a creature haunts these woods now. Silent, nearly invisible. But its fingers gleam like wet bones. It creeps toward you, but don’t let it catch you. Because when it does…”
I was already tense as a coiled spring, so when he suddenly pointed behind us and yelled, “Watch out!!” I nearly lost it. I wasn’t alone in my fright.
I also remember how he immediately burst into laughter. And some of the others and I felt foolish, but the fear lingered. A few kids were in tears. He then told us to quit acting like babies, put out the fire, and sent us to our tents.
However, the next morning, something was wrong. I unzipped my tent and stepped out. Mrs Mayer, one of the supervisors, was on her phone, urgently requesting help. Others stood by Nathan’s tent, pale and anxious.
Read the full “The Woman In the Well” story here: The Woman In the Well | Scary Campfire Story
The Perfect Spot
My boyfriend suggested a camping adventure, and it revealed a side of him I’d never seen.
“Slow down,” I gasped, stumbling over tangled roots underfoot, “you’re moving too fast. I can’t keep up with you.”
Matt, my boyfriend, looked back at me from a few steps ahead on the path.
“Hurry up,” he urged, “We need to reach the spot before nightfall.”
This little hike was supposed to be a “romantic escape.” He’d promised a “perfect place” for our overnight camp, far from crowded tourist trails. I’m a city dweller at heart, but a series of murdered women in town had convinced Matt that the wilderness was safer for a date. I thought I could bear one night of roughing it for his sake. But six hours of trudging through thorns in soggy socks was quickly eroding my patience.
“How much longer?” I asked him, spraying a mist of insect repellent around me.
“Almost there,” he said with a chuckle, “Just wait till you see the scenery.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled as we came out from the forest, “it’s probably nothing… remarkable…”
The sight before me stole my breath. We’d reached a vast mountain clearing, the valley below unfurling like a lush tapestry. The sun was dipping toward the horizon.
“So,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders, “worth the trek?”
I pulled him close for a long, fervent kiss. That was my reply.
The evening felt like a fantasy. We set up camp, and Matt revealed a bottle of wine tucked deep in his pack. We made love beneath the stars.
Until I woke in the darkness.
The tent was pitch-black. I reached for Matt’s warmth but found his sleeping bag empty. Peering outside, I saw only the fading glow of the campfire.
“Matt?” I called, cautiously slipping out of the tent, “Are you out here?”
The unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked answered me, its barrel aimed at my head as he stepped into the faint light.
Just Another Scary Campfire Story?
The campfire crackled and hissed, casting a wavering orange glow over the circle of campers. Their counselor, Rick, leaned in, his face half-hidden in shadow, voice hushed.
“Want to hear something true?” he asked. A few kids nodded eagerly, while others tightened their blankets. Rick’s lips curved into a faint smile. He was about to tell them a scary campfire story.
“There are things in these woods that don’t fit. Not wolves. Not bears. Something different. They call it the Shifter.” His voice grew quieter, drawing them closer. “It looks human. Moves like us. Speaks like us. But sometimes…”
He paused, the wind stirring the trees like soft murmurs. “…its eyes glint. Just a flash, like a spark igniting in the night.”
A boy let out a nervous chuckle. “Like, glowing blue?”
Rick shrugged. “Maybe. Or red. No one survives to tell it twice.”
The group fell silent.
He went on, his voice sinking deeper. “The Shifter steals faces. It could be your best friend, your parent, or the kid in the bunk next to you. It waits until you’re at ease, until you trust it. Then, when the fire’s gone dark, it creeps near. Its mouth opens wide—too wide—bristling with teeth it didn’t have before.”
A camper let out a small whimper. Rick leaned closer to the flames, shadows dancing across his grin. “The worst part? If it bites you, you don’t die right away. You transform. Slowly. Your bones ache, your skin feels wrong, like it’s too tight. You start smiling too much. You stop blinking. Then your eyes glow too.”
The forest around them seemed… quiet, the fire’s crackle was the only sound.
A girl whispered, “That’s not real, is it? That’s just a scary campfire story.”
Read the full “Just Another Scary Campfire Story?” story here: Just Another Scary Campfire Story?
“I Saw the Lights.”
For several summers, I worked as a camp counselor at an overnight camp in the Muskokas. It was my favorite job, despite the meager pay, pesky campers, long hours, short nights, and subpar food.
The best part was telling scary stories. Nothing beats sitting by a fading campfire with Junior High kids clamoring for the most spine-chilling stories I knew. I shared them all: the babysitter and the creepy clown statue, the driver and the eerie gas station worker, and the woman with her licking dog.
I kept my best stories for the overnight trips in Algonquin Park—a vast park in Ontario, covering nearly 8,000 square kilometers—where we spent days canoeing on crystal lakes and nights gathered around the fire, singing, making s’mores, and being as loud as the only people for miles could be.
Once the kids had settled down, I spun all the scary campfire stories I knew. Like the one about a woodland stalker with a face so terrifying it froze its victims, or campers who stayed across the lake from a deserted (or was it?) asylum.
On this particular night, I’d finished my scary stories, swearing they were true, and sent the campers to their tents. It had been a grueling day, and none of the six kids wanted to stay up. My co-counselor also turned in, leaving me alone on a fallen log by the dwindling fire.
I inhaled the crisp, pine-scented air and gazed at the lake. The partial moon glimmered on the still water, and across the way, I saw towering cliffs rising hundreds of feet. I wondered if we could canoe over, climb a short way, and try cliff jumping. I smirked. The camp director would lose it if he found out.
And then, a flicker at the cliff’s peak caught my attention. A small light bobbed along the edge. At first, I thought it was a star, but it was larger, glowing gold. It swayed gently in a small arc. As I straightened up to watch, another light appeared beside it, moving along the cliff’s top. Then another. And another. More followed.
My stomach sank. I grabbed my bag, pulled out my digital camera, and zoomed in on the glowing orbs. I counted them. Then recounted.
“Oh no.”
I bolted to the tents. “Hey, everyone! Wake up. We need to move.”
There was rustling, then seven confused faces peered out. My co-counselor, Laura, looked both worried and furious. “I hate to do this,” I said, “but the clouds look bad. A big storm’s coming. If we get stuck in it, it’ll wreck our trip.”
“Seriously?” Laura asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where would we go?”
I pulled out a map and a flashlight. “There’s a ranger station a few kilometers south.” I traced the route with my finger. Thank goodness. “We can get there in a few hours.”
The campers grumbled. “Can’t we wait until morning?”
“No!” I yelled, my voice echoing over the lake. I softened it. “Come on, let’s pack and go. I’ll tell a story on the way.” I forced a smile, though my lips trembled. “It’s my best one.”
That got them moving, and within ten minutes, we’d packed the tents and started trekking through the dark woods, guided only by small flashlights. Once we were moving steadily, I relaxed slightly and began my favorite campfire tale.
Read the full “I Saw the Lights” story here: I Saw the Lights | Scary Campfire Story
Effie
I stayed overnight in a hotel in Oklahoma City, notorious for its hauntings, especially among visiting NBA players. Built in the early 1900s, it’s said to be haunted by Effie, a maid who had an affair with the hotel’s founder, WB Skirvin. When her pregnancy was discovered, he confined her to a top-floor room. In despair, Effie leaped from a window.
The hotel has a rich history, having served as a speakeasy during Prohibition and hosted many notable figures over the years. It was shuttered for over a decade, falling into ruin and becoming a magnet for urban explorers before a full renovation and reopening. Many guests have reported strange noises, objects moving on their own, and unseen hands touching them.
My experience started pleasantly with dinner at the hotel’s restaurant and a drink at the piano bar. I returned to my room, settled in, and fell asleep easily. At some point, I dreamed of a shadowy figure moving through the room. In the dream, I simply watched it glide across.
When I woke, the room was dark, but a human-shaped shadow stood right beside my bed. It was clearly a person’s form, just standing there. At first, I thought I was still dreaming, but I was too awake, too aware—it wasn’t a dream state.
I reached out to see if it was real. My hand grasped what seemed like its left arm, and I pulled. The figure collapsed onto the bed, its weight pressing across my upper legs. I shouted, bolting upright, shoving at it.
Read the full “Effie” story here: Effie | Scary Campfire Story
The Storyteller
Ed staggered through a tangled forest path, drawn by the sharp scent of a campfire. A flickering glow pierced the underbrush ahead, and he clutched his 12-pack as he pushed through the final thorny bushes.
He arrived in a clearing. At its center, tending a small fire, sat an old, weathered man with a thick, scruffy beard; a modest pile of wood rested beside him.
Ed approached and sat opposite him, pulling two cans from the 12-pack.
“Man, these woods are brutal!” Ed said, offering the man a beer. “Thought I’d be lost forever.”
“Forever’s a long stretch,” the old man replied. “Call me Teddy.” He cracked open the beer and raised it to his lips.
“Ed,” he answered, mirroring the gesture.
They clinked cans, and Ed downed a third of his. Teddy took a slow, deliberate sip.
Ed jerked a thumb toward the woods. “You know the way back to the cabins? I must’ve gotten turned around.”
Teddy gave a faint smile. “Must have. The cabins are right over there,” he said, pointing to the path Ed had come from.
Ed frowned. “No way, I just came from there. Walked for an hour. It’s all forest.”
Teddy nodded. “Mind if I share a story, Eddy?”
“Ed… but yeah, go ahead.”
Teddy took another slow sip.
“A young man ventures into the wilderness. He breathes the fresh air, takes in the sights, and forges his own trail. He loves Nature. And, in time, Nature loves him back. Eventually, Nature loves him so much she wants him to stay.”
Ed raised an eyebrow.
“One day, the man treads a familiar path. But this time, it twists into an odd loop. Before he knows it, he’s in a clearing. At its heart sits an old man, tending a fire. The young man sits with him, and soon, a story passes between them. Like most things of weight, the story’s meaning escapes the young man.”
Ed smirked, sipping his beer.
Teddy smiled too, but sadly. “You were right, Eddy. These woods are a beast. And this story is her favorite.”
Read the full “The Storyteller” story here: The Storyteller | Scary Campfire Story
We Were Only Five
Red flashes lit up the sky, faint but distinct, like someone waving a flare from the stars. We chuckled, tossing around UFO quips as we hammered our tent stakes into the earth.
I was certain there were five of us—friends since middle school, celebrating our high school graduation with this wilderness escape. The red glimmers faded as we chatted, setting up our tents.
Dave finished his tent first and announced he’d gather branches for the fire. I recalled working night shifts with him at the gas station last year, which made the job bearable despite being a lonely experience.
Eric, fidgeting with his round glasses, was still puzzling over his tent manual in the corner. I wasn’t as tight with him, but I remembered copying his math homework once. Ava and my cousin Sally were teaming up, tackling one tent at a time. I had vivid memories of them—hanging out at school, Ava’s little brother always begging to tag along.
I’m sure there were five of us, and I knew each of them.
Dave went for branches as we unfolded five chairs around the fire pit. As the sun sank, darkness enveloped the forest, casting long, tree shadows around us. A chill settled in with the dropping temperature and a faint breeze.
Eric grabbed a flashlight from his bag while we wondered why Dave was taking so long. Soon, the rustle of bushes announced his return. We were bundled in jackets, sunk into our chairs.
“Geez, you didn’t even set out a chair for me,” Dave said, arranging branches in the pit.
Five chairs were occupied. I tried to make sense of it, but my mind felt foggy, as if I were underwater. Everything was clear until I questioned why five chairs were taken when Dave hadn’t sat yet. My thoughts seemed to slip away, as if something was plucking them out. A deeper unease gripped me.
The forest fell silent.
I glanced at the others’ faces—each tense, reflecting my dread. Eric’s fingers twitched, scanning the group for the extra person, but it was no use. I studied every face, all worried, except—
“It’s… fine, I’ll grab a chair,” Dave said, breaking the quiet, easing the tension slightly. I stood to help him, and he gave me a knowing nod. We moved toward the tents, my eyes fixed on the group.
“How many are here?” I whispered to Dave, who noticed we’d only brought five chairs—one for each person, as they were heavy to carry.
“Five, right? Five chairs,” Dave said, his voice unsteady.
“Maybe someone forgot their chair,” I suggested, my mind dodging the issue, seeking excuses. It felt like I wasn’t in control of my thoughts, as if I were trying to swim in a dream. Focusing on the sixth person made my head throb.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Dave said, relaxing as he headed back.
When we returned, two chairs were empty—one for me, one for Dave. It added up now, though we’d all agreed something was off before. Sally said we were probably exhausted from the long hike and needed to get some sleep. She might’ve been right; we were all sleep-deprived from an early start. Ava pulled out a six-pack, and we emptied it.
We huddled closer to the crackling fire, sipping drinks and reminiscing about last year. Ava was recounting a creepy night alone at her house when a sudden chill hit me, despite the fire’s warmth. Something clicked.
“Who lit the fire?” I asked, cutting Ava off, shattering the group’s focus.
They looked annoyed until they realized no one had an answer. I scanned their faces, lit by the fire’s glow, all familiar and pale with fear.
The Clearing
I’m in a motel, writing this to get it out of my head, to warn others. I had to abandon my tent.
I’m a seasoned hiker, not one for easy trails. I love the deep woods, where you can wander all day without seeing anyone. On a long weekend, I chose a remote trail in a state forest hours from home. The plan: hike five or six miles, camp overnight, and hike out. Simple.
The hike was stunning. Crisp air, clear blue sky, and late autumn sun casting golden beams through the trees. The only sounds were my boots crunching leaves, distant sparrows, and the breeze whispering through branches. This is why I hike—to escape the world’s noise.
After hours of hiking, I searched for a campsite: flat, off the trail, near water. Then I found it.
It wasn’t just good—it was flawless. Unnaturally so.
Pushing through ferns, I entered a clearing straight out of a storybook. A perfect circle, about forty feet wide, carpeted with soft, vibrant green grass, like a manicured lawn. Tall oaks and pines formed a seamless ring, their branches interlocking overhead, framing a perfect skyward circle. It felt safe, like a private sanctuary gifted by the forest.
A small part of my mind noted the oddity—clearings aren’t this symmetrical, grass shouldn’t be this uniform—. Still, I brushed it off as urban skepticism. I’d hit the campsite jackpot.
I dropped my pack with a satisfied exhale and set up. The tent stakes sank easily into the soft earth. I gathered branches from just outside the clearing and built a tidy fire pit. Soon, a cozy fire crackled, chasing away the evening chill. I cooked dehydrated chili and sat on a log, watching flames dance as the sky turned orange and purple.
This, I thought, is perfection. This is why I do it.
As darkness fell, the forest shifted, becoming a realm of shadows and unseen stirrings. But I felt secure in my circle of light. After cleaning my cookware, I doused the fire completely and crawled into my tent.
I zipped the flap, settled into my sleeping bag, and tried to sleep. That’s when the perfection unraveled.
It started with a sensation beneath me, a faint wriggling under the tent floor, like a swarm of insects. I tried to ignore it—bugs are a normal part of the woods. I pulled my sleeping bag tighter, focusing on the sounds of the night. But the feeling persisted, a subtle, creepy movement against my back. It wasn’t painful, just wrong.
Then came the noises.
The Black Bear
As a child, I was terrified of bears—a reasonable fear, given their size and strength, capable of outrunning me and crushing my skull. At ten, I saw a horror movie about a killer bear stalking people in the woods, picking them off one by one. My parents didn’t mean for me to see it; I watched it at my friend George’s house, where his lenient parents let him watch anything.
I kept my fear secret, even when my family went on a week-long camping trip to the mountains.
My twin sister, Esther, and I were taught safety rules for the dense forest: stay close, avoid keeping food in tents to deter bears, and carry bear mace. My dad, a cautious man who always said “better safe than sorry,” brought a licensed rifle. He warned us of dangers—animal or otherwise—in the isolated woods, far from rangers or other campers.
I didn’t argue, but nightmares of bears sniffing outside my tent haunted me.
I slept alone in a small tent, as did Esther. Our parents trusted us, independent kids, to handle our own tents while they shared a larger one. Sheltered from life’s harsher realities and scary movies, we weren’t as afraid of the dark as other kids. I hadn’t needed a nightlight since I was three, but that movie changed me.
George’s lax parents let him indulge in horror films, from campy flops to terrifying gems. He dragged me into his hobby, and it warped my mind. Every creak at home became an intruder, every shadow a lurking killer. Yet, like an addiction, I kept watching with him.
This scary campfire story, from that camping trip, still baffles and terrifies me. The week was mostly typical: swimming in the lake, roasting sausages and s’mores, Dad’s cheesy campfire stories, Mom’s goodnight kisses.
But I dreaded bedtime, when the fire was doused, plunging us into darkness. I hated being the last awake, feeling isolated, or needing to pee at night, scanning the dark with my flashlight in paranoia. Dawn’s light and birdsong brought instant relief.
One night dragged on forever. That day started normally, with a swim in the lake. A trail looped the midsized lake, and while our parents relaxed on the shore with beers, Esther and I walked it, joking about Dad’s short shorts. We found bear paw prints in the dirt, heading our way.
Esther knelt, grinning. “Bear tracks! Mom said black bears are common in this area. I think they’re the cutest.” She saw my unease. “What’s wrong, Eli? Scared of bears?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” I snapped, sharper than intended. “Let’s go. Those look fresh. It’s probably nearby.”
Esther didn’t budge, looking puzzled. “These are rear paws,” she said, pointing. “You can tell by their length. I read a book on bears.”
Her animal obsession wasn’t new—she dreamed of being a zoologist—but I wasn’t in the mood for facts. “So? Let’s move!” I grew edgier, scanning the trees for a hulking beast.
Esther frowned, tracing the prints to a bush. “Eli, there’s only rear paws. Like it was walking upright.” She laughed. “Picture it! So funny! So cute!”
I rolled my eyes. A cute bear? We returned to the lake, told our parents, who weren’t worried, and stayed another hour. While swimming backward, I saw movement across the lake. Relaxed, I thought it might be a stag. Then a furry arm moved behind a tree.
