In “We Were Only Five,” a group of five lifelong friends embarks on a celebratory camping trip to mark their high school graduation, setting up camp under a sky flickering with strange red lights. As they settle into the wilderness, an unsettling realization dawns: the numbers don’t add up, with an extra presence haunting their circle, chairs inexplicably occupied, and a fire no one remembers lighting.
The night sky pulsed with faint red flashes, like distant embers flickering in the cosmos. They were subtle but unmistakable, as if someone were signaling from the stars with a flare.
My friends and I, sprawled across a clearing in the dense forest, laughed it off, tossing around half-hearted UFO jokes as scary campfire stories as we drove tent stakes into the soft earth. The air was carrying the scent of pine and damp soil, and our breath puffed out in small clouds under the fading twilight.
I was certain there were five of us—friends bound by years of shared memories, from middle school hallway antics to late-night study sessions. This camping trip was our way of celebrating high school graduation, a final hurrah before we scattered to colleges or jobs.
The red glimmers in the sky faded as we worked, our chatter filling the silence. We were setting up camp in a secluded spot, miles from the nearest town, surrounded by towering pines that seemed to lean in, listening.
Dave, always the efficient one, finished his tent first. His lanky frame moved with purpose as he announced he’d gather branches for the fire. I remembered working night shifts with him at the gas station last summer, the two of us cracking jokes to pass the lonely hours. Those shifts were tedious, but Dave’s dry humor made them bearable.
He disappeared into the tree line, his footsteps crunching on pine needles.
Eric, meanwhile, was struggling with his tent, his round glasses slipping down his nose as he squinted at the manual. I recalled copying his math homework once in tenth grade, his neat handwriting saving me from a failing grade.
He mumbled to himself, fumbling with poles, while Ava and my cousin Sally teamed up on their tents. Those two were inseparable, always giggling at school, Ava’s little brother trailing behind them, begging to join. I could still picture him, all freckles and puppy-dog eyes, tugging at Ava’s sleeve.
I’m sure there were five of us. I knew each of them like the back of my hand.
We unfolded five chairs around the fire pit, their metal frames creaking as we arranged them in a loose circle. The sun dipped below the horizon, and darkness crept in, the forest transforming into a maze of long, jagged shadows.
Eric searched in his bag, pulling out a flashlight with a weak, flickering beam. We were starting to wonder why Dave was taking so long—his absence stretched longer than expected, the forest swallowing the sound of his movements. Finally, the bushes rustled, and he emerged, arms full of branches, his face flushed from the effort.
“Geez, you didn’t even set out a chair for me,” Dave said, dropping the branches into the pit with a clatter.
I froze. Five chairs were occupied. My eyes darted around the circle, counting the figures slumped in them. My mind felt sluggish, as if I were trying to think through a fog.
Everything had been clear moments ago, but now, the math didn’t add up. Dave hadn’t sat down yet, so why were all five chairs taken? My thoughts slipped like sand through my fingers, and a deeper unease clawed at my chest, cold and heavy.
I studied the others’ faces, each one taut with the same dread I felt. Eric’s fingers twitched, his flashlight beam jittering as he scanned the group, searching for the extra person. I looked at each face—familiar. My head throbbed, a dull ache spreading behind my eyes.
“It’s… fine, I’ll grab a chair,” Dave said. I stood to help him, my legs unsteady, and he gave me a quick nod.
“How many are here?” I whispered to Dave. He paused, his hands still on a folding chair.
“Five, right? Five chairs,” he said. “We only brought five because they’re heavy to carry.”
“Maybe someone forgot their chair,” I said. My mind recoiled from the question, as if it were trying to protect itself.
Thinking about the sixth person made my headache worsen, a sharp pulse that blurred my vision.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Dave said, his shoulders relaxing as he turned back to the fire pit.
When we returned, two chairs were empty—one for me, one for Dave. The numbers add up now.
Sally suggested we were just exhausted from the long hike, our early start wearing us down. She was probably right; we’d been up since 4 a.m., trudging through the forest with heavy packs. Ava pulled out a six-pack of beer, the cans hissing as we cracked them open, and we settled around the fire pit, trying to reclaim the night.
The fire crackled to life, its warm glow pushing back the darkness. We sipped our drinks, reminiscing about senior year—pranks in the cafeteria, late-night drives, the time we snuck into the school pool.
“Who lit the fire?” I asked. My voice sounded sharper than I meant, shattering the group’s focus.
Their faces turned to me, annoyed at first, then confused. No one answered. I scanned the group, their features lit by the flickering flames, all pale with the same fear I felt.
“Wasn’t it you, Dave?” Eric asked.
Dave shook his head.
“I think the person behind Jenny did it,” Sally said, staring at me.
I whipped around, heart pounding. Nothing but dark trees loomed behind me, making me feel exposed, like a lost bird in an open field.
“Wait, I… I don’t know,” Sally stammered, her eyes wide, trembling. Ava moved to calm her, placing her hands on her shoulders.
“We should get out of here,” Ava said, voice shaking.
“Something’s wrong, but I can’t pin it down,” Dave added.
“It’s too dark to navigate the forest now,” someone said.
“Yeah, let’s stay and leave at first light,” Eric agreed.
I wanted to argue, but Eric was right—the woods were too dark to traverse.
“Let’s not sleep alone in our tents,” Sally said. We agreed. Our one-person tents could fit two if we were to squeeze.
We paired up: me with Dave, Sally with Ava. Eric complained he had no partner, but we insisted he did. He wouldn’t buy it. Then it hit us—there were only five of us. We huddled in the clearing’s center.
“Why do we keep thinking there’s six?” Eric asked, sweat beading despite the cold.
We’d nearly left him alone, assuming another person was there. My stomach churned as I tried to list everyone. My head throbbed, but I pushed through.
“There’s me, Dave, Eric, Ava, Sally, and…” I pointed at each, retching when I passed Sally.
Pain stabbed my skull, vision blurring. Dave steadied me as we moved toward the tents, someone dousing the fire.
Dave helped me into a tent while the others planned outside. I caught fragments of their talk as pain pulsed in my head. Sally suggested arranging three tents in a U-shape, openings facing inward, to stay close and limit access. Dave started to help, but I grabbed his hand, begging him to stay.
It took time to set up the tents. I felt better once everyone settled in. A headcount confirmed five. Eric would sleep alone but felt safer with the tents close. Looking back, I think he was just being brave. I regret letting him sleep alone—he was always less part of the group, knowing no one would pair with him. We agreed to leave at dawn.
Before sleeping, I glanced outside. The wind swayed the trees, and beyond our clearing lay pure darkness, as if the forest were closing in. In the faint moonlight, I saw someone standing by the two unused tents.
Sleep came quickly despite everything.
Ava’s scream woke me. Dave and I tore open our tent to find Sally and Ava staring into Eric’s. We pushed past. Eric’s sleeping bag was rolled up, his head in the center, face twisted in agony, body wrapped in blood-soaked fabric. Dave zipped the tent shut. Ava was in shock, eyes glassy. Sally shook her, tears streaming. Dave grabbed his torch and yelled to run.
We fled the campsite, hitting the trail we’d come from. The five of us huddled, Dave leading with his weak flashlight. Its small beam was our only guide through the dense foliage, the moon useless.
Ava tripped, twisting her ankle. We stopped. Someone said they could splint it. Instead, they dragged her into the woods. It happened too fast to react. Sally broke free from Dave’s grip, chasing Ava’s screams. I started to follow, but Dave grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.
“We have to get out, Jenny, please,” he said.
I hesitated, but Sally’s screams cut off. Dave and I ran, aiming for the car. At some point, a third person was running behind us.
“Who’s behind us, Dave?” I gasped, heart pounding, legs burning. He looked at me, confusion turning to fear, then rage.
“Keep running,” he said, pulling a pocket knife and handing me the car keys. He turned, lunging at whoever followed. I ran as the sounds of a struggle faded behind me.
I tripped and stumbled for what felt like hours, never stopping. When the trail ended at the car park, I nearly wept. I sprinted to the car, started it, and sped onto the highway in a matter of seconds.
