That evening we all gathered around the campfire, passing around snacks and trading random jokes,

when my friend settled in across from me.

Normally, he was one of the livelier folks, always laughing, always ready with a comeback.

But that night, his face looked drawn, and he kept tapping his foot on the dirt like he was working up the nerve to say something.

I waited, because whatever had him on edge was no silly ghost story.

He started by explaining a bit about his LDS mission, how it covered a broad area, including a reservation that he didn't visit often. Truth be told,

none of us were expecting more than a mild anecdote. Then he let slip that this reservation region

had an eerie reputation among the locals. We all went quiet, even the ones who'd been

whispering or fiddling with their phones. Something about his tone felt heavier than any cheap campfire tale.

He cleared his throat and told us about a day he and his companion had to travel far out

of their normal route.

They met some new investigators who wanted to learn about the faith, and that part went

smoothly.

The real trouble started after, when they discovered they were nearly out of gas.

Nobody was around to help, so they sat there in a stretch of nothingness, until someone

finally came by with a spare can of fuel.

By the time they were on the road again, the sky was dark and the roads were almost deserted.

He paused to stare into the flames, recalling every detail.

It was late, and his companion had fallen asleep in the passenger seat.

My friend had one goal, get them both home as fast as possible.

He even admitted to pushing the speed limit. He figured the biggest worry was

wildlife or a stray deer darting across his path. But that changed fast. He said that while

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