Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 27 Scary DEEP WOODS Horror Stories (COMPILATION) | VOL 2

Episode Date: August 29, 2024

These are 27 Scary DEEP WOODS Horror Stories (COMPILATION) | VOL 2 Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #compilation #parkrangerstories #deepwoods #nationalpark 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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listening to people read these stories and then being unable to sleep at night. Now that I'm older, I find it humorous how I would regret it at night, and then be filled with excitement during the day. That's just who I was. I had loved the idea of cryptids and skinwalkers roaming in the thick woods and deep in mountain caves, but as I grew older and my rational thinking overtook my naivete, those thoughts became just that. Thoughts.

It may come as a surprise, but I don't believe in the supernatural. With the digitalization of the world, how could there not be video evidence of the supernatural? Sure, there are videos out there, some easier to debunk than others, that claim to have definitive proof of the supernatural. I never found a video convincing, and as I studied CGI and SFX, well, a video could no longer cut it for me. I had to experience it. I guess that's what pushed me into solo camping in the first place. experiencing something firsthand would change my entire life and way of thinking. It'd go beyond my thought that all we were here for is to be, just as a leaf blows in the wind.

But let me reiterate, this story I'm about to tell isn't about the supernatural. No, it's about a horror that's scarier than any ghoul, ghost, or crypted. It's about a horror that can only be produced by one thing, another human. At the tail end of my last year in college, I had finally decided what I was, wanted to do with my life. I moved to Lexington, Kentucky, while continuing my studies of CGI and special effects. I'm from New York, and found that Lexington provided the perfect balance of city life and space to keep me happy. On Friday nights I'd go out on the town, and on Saturday nights, I'd choose to spend them out in the wilderness. The Appalachian Mountains were, not accounting for

the two-hour drive, practically in my backyard. I was no stranger to the stories and legends the Appalachian Trail held and the countless warnings against solo camping. Still, many did it, and many returned, disappointed that their hopes of an unexplainable occurrence were crushed. Nothing ever happened, but yet the reputation of the trails grew darker. Naturally, if I wanted firsthand experience of something otherworldly, this had to be the place to go. The first time I went camping, I went with two of my coworkers who were quickly becoming my best friends, Eric and Nate. So do you believe all the stories?

I asked. We had just gotten out of the city and were making our way deeper into forested areas. Believe what? Eric asked as he drove us along with Nate in the passenger seat. The skin walkers and the urban legends,

you know, the don't be out past dark stuff. Eric and Nate looked at each other and then began laughing. What's so funny? I asked while cracking a smile. Ah, nothing. Nate sighed. Just the longer you live here, the more you'll get it. So you don't believe it? Eric followed the curve of the road and up ahead, I could see trees

becoming thicker. The seemingly ending fields had turned into mountains and small rocky cliffs. I don't believe in a lot of things, but I tell you what, you will not see me out there alone, especially not at night. Nate scoffed. There are only two things to be scared of, and they only from these woods. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, if you're so certain, then what are they? Eric asked.

Just then I felt my ears pop. Silence and darkness. If you've got those two things, suddenly you're in a nightmare. Sit alone, in the dark, and in your silent bedroom. You'll start thinking things that aren't there. Nate pointed to his temple.

Your mind is the most terrifying place you can be. We pulled into a visitor center deep in the smoky mountains, and began the hike to our campsite a couple of hours before noon. When asked where I'd like to camp, I told them the most reclusive and cut-off place we could go. Nate said he knew a spot, but that it would take a couple of hours of hiking. I said that was fine. Hiking can for most people be very fun,

but there's another side to hiking that isn't known until you've actually experienced it. It's grueling. There are bugs, sweat, hills, son, and if you aren't wearing the proper shoes like Eric, there are also blisters. Nate and I had a better time. Sure, there were moments when I felt each step, but when I looked up and around at where I was, those steps seemed to fade. And then, before I knew it, we were at our campsite.

To call it a campsite was a massive understatement. It was more of an open field, nothing more, and nothing less. But it did offer one thing that was unique. there was a shelter a little over a mile away. After setting up our tent, we ventured to the shelter before it would be too dark. We were about halfway there, according to my estimation, when a sign on a tree caught my attention. Rusted and faded as can be, it read, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.

Right underneath it were two tall stones sticking out from the ground. Gravestones, Eric said. He must have seen me staring. I looked at Eric. For what? Eric began walking past me and stopped. I don't know, but I've never seen a hidden burial ground this... Hidden.

Then Eric continued walking. I hesitated for a moment, taking one last glance. The tree broken light from the setting sun bathed the sign and stones in an orange glow. And suddenly, I had second guesses about staying the night. You coming? Eric yelled. That feeling disappeared. Yeah.

And I left the rusted sign and stone. behind. The shelter was pretty underwhelming. From what I've come to learn, shelters have a sort of negative connotation to them. The amount of bugs, mice, and snakes aren't the only off-putting aspects of a shelter for hikers. Sometimes shelters can be filled with campers, and sleeping next to someone you don't know in a secluded area is worse than any mouse or snake. But there is one thing about shelters that I didn't know about until that night. There are shelter logs. For those who don't know, some shelters have a notebook for hikers to write in. It's Nate's favorite part of hiking along the Appalachian mountains. He pulled the black notebook

out from a Ziploc bag. You can find good stories in these things. It's fun to see the changes from shelter to shelter. I asked what it was, and Nate explained it to me. We began from the beginning, everything from short-dated logs to drawings. That was, until Nate flipped to to the last two pages. Holy crap, he said. Eric, who was taking pictures, was now intrigued. What is it? Nate dropped the notebook showing us what was inside.

There, from top to bottom, was the same phrase, God help me. It was written large, and then small. Sometimes the ink was dark and rips in the paper. Other times the ink was thin and almost faded. This is new writing, Nate said. Well, that's a bit unsettling. Eric nervously chuckled. I grabbed the notebook for a closer look. Man, I don't believe in God, but this is pretty creepy. Nate took the notebook from my hands and put it back in the Ziploc bag.

Hey, probably just some kids messing with everyone. We need to get back anyway. It's getting too dark. Nate was right. By the time we got back to camp, the sun had completed its daily rotation and plunged us into darkness. And after starting a fire, the night went by without any complications. We roasted hot dogs, burnt s'mores, told childhood stories, and eventually tried our best to sleep. I think I was the last one to fall asleep. I remember thinking that night just how vulnerable sleep truly is. All of our senses are briefly shut down, and for those who are heavy sleepers, their muted senses don't return until the body allows them to. I was a heavy sleeper and couldn't hear those nighttime forest sounds. That night was normal, and so were the other

couple of times I went camping with those two. I had learned to appreciate the stiffness of the ground, the dirt, the bugs, and most importantly, the quiet noises at night. I don't know if it was the overconfidence or me being naive, but today, almost two months later, I returned, this time alone. Nate gave me the address and the trail map. This was all after I assured him that I wasn't going alone. Before I left work that Friday afternoon, he got real quiet. You have to be careful. Of course, I said.

No. He looked at me more seriously than I'd ever seen him look. I mean really careful. What do you mean? He sighed. Last week I went camping just down the trail from where we all went. Most hikers hiked the same direction. So logically I checked the log from the next shelter in line.

There was nothing. Oh, I said. All right. You don't get it, man. There was nothing like what we saw. No God save us. No writing from the top to bottom, not even a mention of God. Wait, so.

Bring your 9mm, he said, while walking back towards his desk. I know we told you not to bring it last time, but this time, I would. And then Nate disappeared around the corner. The next day, I arrived at the visitor center around noon. With it being in the middle of summer, the sun would stay out for just a bit longer, and without Eric's stops, I was in no rush. I made it to my campsite within five hours. It was exactly as I remembered it, a small, open field hardly with enough room to fit more than a tent and a campfire.

The sun was still out, but it was late afternoon and nothing came quicker than nightfall. I settled in, and then I set out to find that shelter. After what Nate told me, the shelter log was the first thing on my mind. I had no idea where exactly it was. There were only two things I knew. One, the general direction, and two, there would be a distinct landmark. And so, I set off. If I could find that graveyard, then I knew I was on the right track.

I pushed through trees and bushes, and wasn't too concerned with stepping in the right spots, because the moment I stopped and looked up, I saw it. That same rusted and faded sign, only this time, the G. and God, was faded almost completely off. I approached the tree and placed a lantern from my bag on one of the stones. I would be back here once night hit. As I imagined, the shelter wasn't hard to get to after finding the hidden gravesite. It was in the same state of underwhelmingness as before. I wouldn't imagine a hiker staying in this. This time, I noticed something carved into one of the logs. It was tally marks, and after counting, I determined there were 57 tallies, and that's when I grabbed the shelter log. This time, though,

the notebook was significantly lighter than last time. In fact, there were only a couple of sheets of paper in it. I opened it to see the same God Save Us messages. And then I saw that all the other pages of logs were ripped out. The next page was different, only slightly. This time, God Save Me was written from top to bottom. I kept flipping the pages until I read what sent chills down my spine. Your God can't save me. For the previous pages, the handwriting was scribbled, hard to read, and ugly. This time the handwriting was clean, like it had come from a typewriter or printer. I flipped the page. Emmerse your soul before your God fails you, yet again. I flipped to the last page. He's awake. There was something very wrong. These weren't preachings of religion.

And if the messages weren't enough, the ink on the last page looked wet. The messages on the last page had just been written. I suddenly felt as though someone had been watching me. I threw the log down and looked through the trees. It was all nothing but silence. From what I could see, there was no one near me, no one watching me, but I knew I had to get away from that shelter. I hiked away from that place and kept looking behind. My nerves didn't calm until I had made it to the hidden gravesite. To do what I had planned, it needed to be nighttime. I tied a string to a nearby tree and then made my way back to my campsite. There I made dinner, and when it was too dark to see more than 20 feet in front of you, I grabbed my 9mm and followed the string. With a flashlight

you can hardly see in the dark. Sure, it helps, but it only illuminates the things nearest to you. What a flashlight in the dark does more effectively is let anything else see you. I was thinking about that at the time. Before long, I was back at the gravesite. I kneeled before the stones and opened my bag. There, I took out an EMF reader. I had read that this would help me communicate with spirits, and where else would be a better spot than to ghost hunt by a hidden gravesite, at night, alone, and in the middle of the woods. I turned off my light, but before I could turn on the EMF reader, I heard it. I see you. It was a high-pitched, playful voice. like a man trying to intimidate a child.

My heart dropped and beat out of my chest all at once. Regret instantly filled my blood. I had to be anywhere else but here. I didn't respond and put my hands over the flashlight. Then I turned the flashlight on. With my hands letting out a small amount of light, I grabbed onto the string and tiptoed through the leaves. Every second I prayed I wouldn't hear another voice

or more leaves rustling other than my own. Even when I saw my campfire, I didn't feel any relief. I was a five-hour hike away from my car, and at night, the hike would take much longer. I had no other thing to do but stay the night. There was nothing interesting for me to stay awake. I poured water on the fire and then climbed into my tent. I brought everything inside my tent, including my 9mm. In the middle of the woods, and without the snoring of your camping buddies,

Every sound is amplified and imagined into something that it's not. The small breeze of a wind can cause sticks to fall, sounding like heavy footsteps. The nightly routine of a raccoon can sound like a person walking up to your tent. The howling of a coyote can sound like demented screams of a lost hiker. Owl screeches, crickets chirping, cicadas buzzing. All of these can play tricks on your mind. Nate was right. Your mind can turn nothing into something horridges.

nothing into something horrid. This would already be true, but with the pressing concern that I was not alone out here, it wasn't the noises that got to me, it was the anticipation of a noise. Sitting in silence, hoping that you don't hear something is almost worse than actually hearing it. And that's the state I laid in for an hour. Holding my nine-millimeter and paranoid, I rested my head against my pillow, praying that I'd make it through. My eyes became heavy, my breathing slowed, my senses started going out starting with my smell, and thankfully my hearing was last to go out, because just then I heard the faintest laugh. My eyes shot open and adrenaline took the place of melatonin. I gripped the 9mm and felt my heartbeat through my fingers. Help me.

This time the voice was much louder and closer, but once again sounded high-pitched. I didn't get a chance to think or respond because just then I heard someone running straight. straight towards me. Leaves and branches flew through the forest as this man flew towards me. Get the hell back! I have a gun! I yelled while raising the gun to the tent door. The man stopped running. For a moment there was a pained silence while I began to feel tears fall down my eyes. I want to see you again. Then I shot my gun. I hadn't actually shot my gun without ear protection on. I always heard that gunshots were loud, and I was prepared for it. Or at least I thought I was. A gunshot is louder than you'd imagine. My ears started ringing, and I couldn't tell whether the man

left or stayed. I couldn't move. I laid there pointing the gun at the zipper until my body gave out. Eventually, I fell asleep and woke at sunrise. I don't imagine I need to oversell how relieved I was once I had woken up, but I can't begin to describe the despair I felt when I slid open the zipper to the tent. There on the ground in front of me was the head of a bunny, nothing else but the head. I screamed then in horror. Being a heavy sleeper didn't just mean I tuned out Eric and Nate's snoring. It tuned out everything. After grabbing my backpack and leaving my tent behind, I made the hike back, only putting away my 9mm halfway down the mountain. I got home early in the afternoon. I began to unpack my bag, but there was something in it that wasn't mine.

the shelter log. That man was in my tent. He saw me sleeping. Besides my cards in my wallet being out of order, there was nothing else gone or added. It's hard to remember the exact way your wallet is, but I always keep my debit first. Now it was in the middle. With the knowledge of what it contained, I stared at the shelter log for what seemed like forever. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to open it. The first couple of pages were the same religious scripture. What terror the first pages had had nothing compared to the next. There was only one sentence on the next page. I will see you again, Caleb. And I started crying. I don't know how he knew my name. Then it clicked. My cards in my wallet were out of order. He hadn't just been inside my tent.

He was also in my backpack. But that was hardly the worst of it, because if he was, if he was, he had seen my ID, my name wasn't the only thing on there. My address was, too. I've never been much for rules, not like some folks seem to be. You know the type, with their meticulous habits and self-righteous talk about leaving the woods better than they found them. My old man wasn't cut from that cloth, and neither am I. When we camped, it was about freedom, the kind that doesn't sweat a trail of empty beer cans or a crushed styrofoam cooler left behind. The woods are old, they'd survive us. That Friday, I loaded up the back of my pickup, a few crates of beer, a pack of hot dogs, and my trusty old hammock. My buddy from work had been running his mouth

about some overlook an hour outside the city near the Santa Lucia mountain range. Perfect spot to unwind, he'd said. Maybe he was right. I needed the kind of weekend where the world shrunk down to a fire pit and a piece of sky. The drive out there was typical California scenery, rolling hills giving way to rugged mountain vistas. By the time I turned off the main road, the city noise had faded, replaced by the sound of my tires crunching on gravel and dirt. I found the overlook around noon, just as the day was heating up. It was more beautiful than I'd expected, a sweeping view of the valley below, thick with greenery and silent as a promise. I set up camp with practiced ease, slinging my hammock between two sturdy pines and the

setting out my fire logs. I wasn't planning on much, maybe read a bit, or just watch the clouds roll by while I let the calm of the place seep into my bones. First order of business, though, was lunch. I made a sandwich, popped open a beer, and rolled a joint to take the edge off the week. It was as I settled into my hammock, the buzz of the high mingling with the drowsy afternoon heat, that I first noticed them, just silhouettes at first against the. the bright sky on the ridge across from me. My heart kicked up a notch. Rangers, cops, I couldn't be sure.

They just stood there, wide-brimmed hats like something out of an old cereal box cartoon, not moving, not speaking. I watched them, and they watched me. My fire was small, but it would be visible from up there. A chill ran down my spine despite the warmth of the day. Why were they just standing there? they expect me to pack up and leave or come down and slap a fine in my hand. But as the sun dipped lower, they vanished as quietly as they had appeared. I told myself I was being paranoid,

city nerves that didn't know how to handle the deep quiet of the wilderness. The rest of the evening passed in a haze of smoke and the crackle of fire. I roasted my hot dogs as the sun set, painting the sky with strokes of orange and purple. By the time I crawled into my hammock, The only sounds were the distant calls of nightbirds and the whisper of the wind through the trees. But sleep didn't come easy. I twisted and turned. The image of those figures burned into the backs of my eyelids. When I finally drifted off, it wasn't to rest, but to dream.

They were there in my dreams too. Those watchers on the ridge, close enough now that I could almost touch them. They stood silent and judging, their outlines sharp against the firelight, and me, I could only lie there, caught between sleep and waking, wondering what they wanted from me. The morning light crept through the pines like a slow apology, but it did nothing to ease the weight of my dreams. I woke with a start, half expecting to find those silhouetted watchers still standing around my hammock, but there was only the empty forest and the remains of last night's fire. Maybe it had all been just a whiskey dream, stirred up by too much solitude,

and the eerie quiet of the mountains. Still, as I fired up the stove for breakfast, the eggs sizzling in the pan couldn't drown out the whispers of unease that buzzed at the back of my mind. I scanned the ridge repeatedly, half expecting to see the watchers return with the morning mist. But the ridge remained empty, and I felt foolish for the fear that nagged at me.

I washed down breakfast with a cold beer and decided a long hike might clear my head. I packed up some beers in my backpack, slinging it over a shoulder as I set off deeper into the woods. The forest was dense here, the sunlight dappling through the thick canopy overhead, and every snap of a twig underfoot echoed like a gunshot. I tossed empty cans into the underbrush, a breadcrumb trail of aluminum and disregard, telling myself it was no big deal.

But the deeper I wandered, the more I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone. It wasn't just the usual rustle of wildlife or the whisper of the trees. It was like something was watching me, a presence I felt in the pit of my stomach. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, forming shapes that were almost human, almost too real. I tried to laugh it off, blame it on the beer and the isolation, but laughter died in my throat as quick as it came. When I stumbled upon a stream, it's water clear and cold. I plunged my face into it, trying to wash away the cobwebs of fear. My father's words echoed in my mind. Running water is fine, as I drank deeply. But then,

a branch snapped nearby, sharp and close, and I jerked upright, water dripping from my chin, every sense suddenly alert. I scanned the trees, heart hammering in my chest. Nothing moved, but the feeling of being watched grew heavier, more oppressive. I felt it then, a primal urge to flee, the instinct of a prey animal when it knows a predator is near. I didn't wait. I ran, crashing through the underbrush, driven by a fear I couldn't name. The forest blurred past, a smear of green and brown, until I tripped over a root and went sprawling. I lay there, chest heaving, waiting for the end I was sure was coming. But nothing happened. Only the forest, watching and waiting.

When I finally stood, it was with a grim determination. I couldn't spend another night here, not with the shadows and the watchers and the whispers. The walk back to camp was torturous, every rustle a threat, every shadow a watcher. By the time I got back, the sun was low and the fear had settled deep in my bones. I couldn't bear to look at the ridge, but I couldn't keep my eyes off it either. there they were again, just as before, silhouettes against the dying light. Dinner was a hasty affair. I burnt the hot dogs, my hands shaking as I turned them over the fire. The watchers didn't move, didn't speak, but their silence was louder than any threat. As darkness fell, I crawled into my

hammock, every muscle tensed for flight. That night the forest seemed to hold its breath, and as I lay there, the watchers whispered their judgment, and I finally understood, I was the intruder here, and it was time to make things right. The final night in the mountains arrived like a verdict. Despite my attempts to rationalize the day's eerie happenings, a cold dread had settled deep within me, one I could no longer ignore. My hammock swayed gently as the shadows lengthened, and the sun dipped behind the ridge, casting the forest into an early gloom.

I lay there, too frightened to close my eyes, watching the ridge where the watchers had stood. As twilight deepened into night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change, something final and terrifying. The air grew thick, the usual sounds of the forest muted, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation. I strained my ears, hoping for any sound that would break the silence,

but there was nothing. Only the oppressive, thick, quiet of a forest too still. The ridge was a dark outline against the starless sky, but I knew they were there. The watchers. I could feel their eyes on me, their silent judgment heavier than the darkness itself. The fire I had kept small and controlled flickered, as if it too felt the weight of their gaze, its light stammering like a failing heartbeat. Then as the last light of my fire died down to glowing embers, they appeared. Not on the ridge this time, but all around my campsite. Shadows within shadows, darker than the night. Their forms more distinct now, more threatening. They were no longer merely watching. This time they approached, a slow and deliberate procession

that surrounded me. There was no escape. I tried to stand, to flee into the protective embrace of the forest, but my legs wouldn't obey, paralyzed, not by. the cold, but by an unearthly fear, I could only watch as they drew closer. Each step seemed to drain the warmth from the air, a creeping chill that whispered a forgotten things, ancient and vengeful. The leader, taller and more imposing than the others, stepped forward. His silhouette was blurred, like a smudge of darkness, but his presence was commanding, almost royal in its disdain. He carried a staff, or perhaps it was a branch, twisted and gnarled like the trees themselves. He stopped just at the edge of the firelight, the embers casting eerie shadows

across his formless face. You have been warned, his voice was the rustle of dead leaves, the crack of breaking branches. You have seen the signs, yet you persist in your ignorance. I tried to speak, to plead for understanding, to explain that I had learned my lesson, that I would change, but my voice was gone, stolen by the wind that now rose around us, carrying with it the cold of the deep woods. Too late, he whispered, and the forest echoed his verdict. The womb of creation does not suffer fools. With a sweeping motion, he brought the branch down, striking the ground with a force that seemed to shake the earth itself. The world spun, the ground beneath me opening up, swallowing the light, the warmth, the very air I breathed.

And then, there was nothing but darkness, a suffocating, all-encompassing black that filled my senses. I could no longer see the forest, the watchers, or the sky above. I was alone, utterly alone in a darkness that would never end. As I lay there, consumed by the void, the last thing I heard was the fading whisper of the forest, a mournful sound that might have been the wind, or perhaps a final chilling farewell. You will never desecrate these woods again. You will remain forgotten as a warning to all. The darkness was complete, and I knew no more.

I never thought a small town like Millbrook could feel so eerie. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I could tell this place was different. The air felt heavy, and even the way people glanced at me made me shiver a little. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, clutching my bag which held my camera, notebook, and recorder. Tools of my trade as a freelance journalist who chases stories about unknown creatures and spooky legends. I made my way through the narrow streets of the town to the only inn around, called the sleeping bear. It looked quaint and cozy from the outside, with its flower boxes and warm light glowing from the windows. But the second I mentioned why I was there, the mood shifted.

The innkeeper, a burly man named Tom, frowned deeply. You're here about the whisperer, aren't you? Tom's voice was rough like gravel, and it made me more nervous than I wanted to admit. I nodded, trying to seem braver than I felt. Yes, I've heard stories. I want to find out more about it. Tom glanced around nervously, then leaned closer. Listen, miss, it's best if you forget all about those tales,

and head back where you came from. Nothing good comes from stirring up old stories, especially not here. But I wasn't about to leave, not when I was this close to discovering something big. Over the next couple of days, I talked to as many locals as I could. They were reluctant at first, but my curiosity seemed to win them over. I learned that the whisperer was a creature of the shadows, as old as the forest itself. Some said it was a beast with glowing eyes and sharp claws, while others whispered that it could look just like a person to trick you into following it.

Each story added to the chilling picture of what might be lurking in Blackwood Forest. Despite the warnings, I knew I had to go see for myself. I planned to take a short trip into the forest to gather some photos and maybe record any strange sounds. I couldn't shake off the feeling that this might be my biggest story yet. On the morning of my hike, the air was cool and misty. I packed my backpack with everything I might need, extra batteries, a flashlight, some snacks, and plenty of water. Just as I was about to head out, Tom stopped me at the door of the inn. Please, he said, his eyes filled with genuine fear. Don't go into that forest. My daughter,

she went in and, and... He couldn't finish, but he didn't have to. I could see the pain in his eyes, and it made my heart sink. I'm really sorry about your daughter, Tom, I said softly. I'll be careful, I promise. With that, I stepped outside, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back. The forest loomed in the distance, tall and foreboding, the trees like dark sentinels guarding their secrets. I took a deep breath and walked towards it, my boots crunching on the gravel road. The moment I crossed into the shadow of the trees, the world seemed to change. The sounds of the town faded away, and a deep silence enveloped me. It was like stepping into another world, one waiting just for me.

I turned on my voice recorder and whispered into the microphone. Here goes nothing. As I ventured deeper, the light dimmed and the air grew colder. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting, but I pushed four determined to uncover the truth hidden in the shadows of Blackwood Forest. The deeper I walked into Blackwood Forest, the stranger things felt. The trees grew so close together their branches tangled up like they were holding hands, blocking out most of the sunlight.

It was like walking into twilight even though it was only midday. The air was cool and damp, and everything was so quiet, too quiet. I kept expecting to hear birds or see squirrels, but there was nothing. Just silence. I kept my camera ready and my ears open, hoping to catch any sign of the whisperer. With each step, I told myself I was just here to take some photos and record sounds, nothing more, but a part of me was both scared and excited at the chance of actually seeing something. As evening approached, I decided to set up camp.

I found a small clearing and pitched my tent. Then I gathered some sticks and lit a small fire to keep. warm and maybe roast some marshmallows I brought along. Sitting there, with the fire crackling, the forest around me felt less scary. I pulled out my notebook and began writing down everything I had seen and heard so far, which wasn't much. That's when it started. At first I thought I was imagining it, the faintest whisper, like someone saying, come closer. I froze, my heart thumping hard. I grabbed my voice recorder and held it out, hoping to catch it. the whispers again.

Hello? I called out, trying to sound braver than I felt. Is someone there? The whisper came again, a bit louder this time. Closer, come closer. It felt like the voice was coming from all around me, swirling in the wind. I shivered, not just from the cold. I grabbed my flashlight and shined it around the clearing, but there was only the forest,

dark and silent beyond the firelight. Suddenly a twig snapped behind me. I spun around, my flashlight cutting through the darkness. For a split second, I saw two glowing eyes high off the ground, watching me. Then, they disappeared. My heart raced, and I could barely breathe. Was that the whisperer? I didn't sleep much that night.

I kept hearing whispers, and every little noise made me jump. By the time dawn broke, I was a bundle of nerves. I quickly packed up my camp, eager to get back to the inn. but as I tried to find my way back, nothing looked familiar. The trail I had followed into the forest seemed to have vanished. I walked and walked, but everything just looked the same. Trees, mist, and more trees. It was like the forest had changed overnight.

Panic started to set in. The mist grew thicker, making it hard to see very far. I kept hearing those whispers, now saying things like, Lost, so lost, and stay with us. Then, when I thought things couldn't get worse, I stumbled upon a creepy old cabin in the middle of nowhere. The door creaked open as I approached, like it was inviting me in. Inside, the cabin was dark and musty.

Drawings and writings covered the walls, all of them about the whisperer. I barely had time to look around when I heard a loud shriek outside. Something slammed against the cabin, shaking the walls. I dropped to the floor, covering my head, as the whole place trembled. The last thing I remember before everything went quiet was thinking, I should have listened to Tom. When I dared to look up, the cabin was still. I was too scared to move, but I knew I couldn't stay there.

I had to get out and find my way back. But as I peaked outside, the forest seemed even denser, the trees closing in around the cabin, and on the nearest tree carved deep into the bark where the words, we'll be waiting. I knew then that the forest and the whisperer were, weren't going to let me go easily, but I also knew I couldn't give up. I had to get back to Millbrook and warn everyone about the whisperer before it was too late.

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awesome vehicle? It really is the recreational activity vehicle. The stylish 2020 26 Toyota Rav4 Limited. What's your rap for? My name is Alex, and I was super excited to go camping at Point Lookout State Park with my boyfriend, Dan, and another couple who were our friends. We were all looking forward to getting away for a weekend in May 2016, hoping to relax and have some fun. When we got there, the park was beautiful, sitting right at the southernmost tip of Maryland, surrounded by the Chesapeake Bay. As soon as we arrived, we picked the best spot to set up our camp. It was right on the water, but hidden from the main road by a tall curtain of grass. It felt like our little private hideaway, where we could hang out without anyone bothering us.

This was perfect, because we had brought along some snacks and stuff to chill out with. Dan and I weren't really experts at camping. In fact, this was my first time, and I was just thrilled to be out there, even though our tent setup was pretty pathetic. It was loose and wobbly, but we didn't mind since we planned to spend most of our time outside exploring anyway. After setting up the tent, we all decided to walk around and check out the area. The park was huge, with different camping loops.

Two of the loops were tucked away in wooded areas, but we chose the one by the water because it felt special and had fewer people around. There was also this old lighthouse not too far from our loop. We made a mental note to visit it the next day since it looked really neat and mysterious. As we walked, I felt a mix of excitement and a weird kind of feeling I couldn't quite place. The place was stunning, with wide open spaces and a quiet that was different from the city noise I was used to. It was peaceful, yet there was something about it that felt, heavy, like when you're happy, but you can't shake off a slight worry at the back of your mind.

While we were exploring, I needed to take a quick break, so I headed to the bathroom by myself. On my way, something really strange happened. I saw a huge tortoise crossing the path right in front of me. It was massive, way bigger than any tortoise should be, and it looked straight at me as it passed. It didn't seem scared or in a hurry. It just walked slowly, watching me as I watched it. By the time I came out of the bathroom, the tortoise was gone. It had been moving so slowly, but there was no sign of it anywhere.

I looked around thinking it couldn't have gone far, but it was like it vanished into thin air. That really spooked me, but I shrugged it off and went back to find my friends. The first night was the toughest. Our campsite, although perfect during the day, felt different as the night rolled in. The wind picked up, and since our tent wasn't pitched properly, it flapped and rustled all night long. It felt like it would just lift off the ground and fly away with us inside. I barely slept, listening to the sounds of the tent and the wind howling around us. It was an adventurous start to our camping trip, but little did I know.

The real adventure hadn't even started yet. The next morning, after a night of barely sleeping, thanks to the noisy, flapping tent, we all woke up a bit grumpy but excited for the day ahead. We had planned to visit the old lighthouse we had seen. the day before. It was just a short drive from our campsite and I couldn't wait to check it out. I've always loved lighthouses. There's something magical about them, like they're from another time. After a quick breakfast of cereal and fruit, we headed over to the lighthouse. The weather was perfect, sunny and clear, not too hot, just right for exploring. When we got there, we joined a small

group of tourists for a guided tour. The tour guide was an older man who knew lots of stories about the lighthouse and the area around it. As we climbed the narrow stairs inside the lighthouse, the guide told us about the people who had lived there long ago. He mentioned something that stuck with me, the man who built the lighthouse, and the next two owners all died not long after moving in. He said it so casually, but it sent chills down my spine. It made me wonder if there was something mysterious or even haunted about the lighthouse. The view from the top was breathtaking. We could see the entire park and the sparkling water of the Chesapeake Bay. It was beautiful, but standing there, looking out, I couldn't shake off the eerie feeling the guide stories had left in me.

Later that day, we went back to our campsite and spent the afternoon hiking around the park. We found a little secluded spot by the shore and hung out there, skipping stones and laughing a lot. It was fun, and for a while I forgot about my uneasy feelings. But as night fell, everything changed. The wind that had howled the previous night was gone. Instead, there was a deep, unsettling silence that settled over the campground. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. That silence was creepy, and I felt exposed and vulnerable out there in the open. We had a campfire going, and we roasted marshmallows and told silly stories to try and lighten the mood. But I couldn't fully relax. I kept looking over my shoulder,

half expecting to see something or someone lurking in the shadows. We eventually put out the fire and crawled into our tents. I was exhausted and hoped I'd sleep better than the night before. Just as I was drifting off, Dan shook me awake. His face was pale and his eyes were wide with fear. Babe, did you hear that? he whispered. Hear what? I was almost asleep, I whispered back, my heart starting to race.

I heard someone yell hey outside our tent. he said, his voice tense. I think there's someone out there. At first I thought he was just trying to scare me, but then we both heard it, footsteps. They were slow and heavy, crunching on the gravel around our tent. It sounded like someone wearing big, heavy boots was walking around our campsite. The footsteps went around and around the tent, and then they stopped.

Dan and I lay there, hardly breathing, listening to the silence that followed. I was terrified, and from the look on Dan's face, he was too. We didn't know what to do, just hoping whoever it was would go away. But the night was far from over, and the real fright had just begun. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Dan and I decided we couldn't stay another minute at that creepy campground. We woke up our friends, who were surprised to see us packing up so early. They had slept through everything and didn't understand.

why we were in such a hurry to leave. As we packed, I told them about the strange noises and the footsteps we heard circling our tent. They looked at each other, half in disbelief, but they knew we were genuinely scared. So without much discussion, everyone agreed it was best to head home. The drive back was quiet. Dan and I kept replaying the sounds we heard, trying to make sense of it all. The eerie silence, the heavy footsteps, it was all too much. When we finally got home I was relieved but still felt uneasy.

I needed answers. I spent the rest of the day online searching for anything that could explain what happened. That's when I stumbled upon the history of Point Lookout State Park. My heart raced as I read about its past. During the Civil War, the park had been a prison camp where many Confederate soldiers were kept in brutal conditions. It was notorious for its overcrowding and the harsh treatment of prisoners. Many had died there, and it was said that their spirit still haunted the park. I read stories from other visitors who had experienced strange occurrences, just like us.

Some heard voices, others saw ghostly figures walking through the park at night. There was even a tale about a woman who roamed the beach, asking people to help her find her missing headstone. I called Dan over, and we read the stories together. It was chilling to think we might have encountered the ghosts of point-looking. knowing the park's haunted history made our experience feel even more real. It wasn't just our imaginations. Others had felt the presence of the past there too.

The more I learned, the more I felt a strange pull to go back. I wanted to see if we could experience these things again, now that we knew what to look out for. I shared my thoughts with Dan, and surprisingly he agreed. Maybe next time we'd be more prepared to face the ghosts of Point Lookout. lookout. I decided to write about our experience and share it on a blog for people who were interested in haunted places. I asked readers to share their stories if they had been to point lookout. The responses poured in, with many recounting their eerie experiences. Each story was different,

but they all had a similar feeling of an unseen presence. As the days passed, my fear turned into fascination. I read every book I could find on the paranormal and started planning our next trip to Point Lookout. This time, we would go with more friends, better equipment, and maybe even a professional ghost hunter. The thought of returning to the park was both terrifying and exciting. But no matter what, I knew one thing for sure. Point Lookout had left a mark on me, and I couldn't wait to uncover more of its mysterious past. Maybe, just maybe, we'd come face to face with the ghosts that still wandered its grounds. In the fall of 2017, a friend and I decided to go hiking late in the afternoon in a densely wooded wilderness area of a state park in the mountains near Fayetteville,

Arkansas. My friend Ron, close to 60 at the time, and recovering from a triple bypass he had undergone around 16 months earlier, had been hiking this and other trails for about a year to strengthen his cardiovascular health. On that day, a weekday, I hiked with a bottle of water, my wallet, and my keys, but nothing else, nothing to protect myself. The trail we picked was popular and usually had a lot of people hiking on the weekend. We had hiked this spot dozens of times before. We were both comfortable with the hike and had never had any problems on the path or any other for that matter. While Ron is older and at the time a little feebler after his health problems, I was in my mid-40s, well over six feet tall and in fairly good shape, so I was not very

worried about our safety. The trail we were on is in a state park adjacent to federal parkland. It is an outdoor enthusiast dream. Most of our track that day was completely uneventful. We just enjoyed the autumn leaves and chatted casually as the sun dropped lower in the evening sky. We had seen nobody else that day, which was probably to be expected given that we chose to hike late afternoon on a weekday. We had completed about four miles of the six-mile loop, and up to that point it was as uneventful as any other. On our way back to the car, and about two miles away from the parking area, we spotted someone through an opening in the trees.

I saw a young woman, probably a college student, on the trail ahead of us, moving in our direction. At first, I paid her extraordinarily little attention. As the distance between us narrowed, that changed. I did not know her, so I could have been mistaken, but there was something about her posture and expression that just seemed off. As she got closer, it struck me that she had a semi-panicked look on her face as she was moving quite quickly. She was in athletic gear, so maybe she was just booking it for some cardio. However, she occasionally turned her head and stared over her shoulder.

I followed her eyes and eventually noted another human about 50 yards behind her, walking up the path through the trees. This second woman was not wearing any hiking gear. In fact, her clothing struck me as totally inappropriate. It was a warm afternoon, and we were well inside a wooded state park a couple of miles from any homes, but she was wearing semi-formal, office-casual attire in a light jacket. I thought the clothes must have been second-hand because they were tattered, ill-fitting, and did not look washed at all.

She was fit and athletic-looking, who could not have been more than twenty-year-old. or 30 years of age. It was so bizarre. The clothes were wrong for the trail and wrong for someone her age. Everything was off about her. Her shoes struck me as odd, being even more peculiar. When she got closer, I noticed she was wearing scuffed leather flats, casual shoes with no ankle support. I found it completely odd because you do not just see people on trails dressed as she was, and you never see them wearing shoes like that. My hiking partner, Ron, had not noticed anything apparently, as he was completely involved in the conversation and just kept on talking. The second woman briefly glanced up and made eye contact as she neared us.

Alarm bells went off in my head like no other. There was something in her eyes that made me feel uncomfortable. I do not know what she was thinking if I am being honest, but I swear she had contempt in her face. Part of me wondered if I had offended her by staring, so I diverted my eyes and kept walking. I tried to tell myself that maybe she was homeless. Maybe she was just wearing the only thing she had, and I was just being rude, but the warning bells were still going off in my head like sirens. I am not a paranoid person at all, so having a sixth sense go off in my head left me very unsettled. I have fantastic peripheral vision, so I turned my face toward Ron and acted like I was listening to him, but I was watching the creepy woman out of the corner of my eye.

The moment we passed, she spun her head around to study us. She slowed her pace a bit. My internal alarms grew louder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her come to a stop and drop her face toward the ground. Her body half turned on the trail. It was very odd behavior. Ron and I kept walking for about fifty yards further. We made it around a bend in the path, and I looked back at the woman before the trees obscured

her from view. She was just standing there, her face was down, but she was staring a hole through us in the corner of her eyes. That was the first time I realized that I could not see her hands. One was inside her jacket pocket, and the other was hidden from my view on the other side of her body. It creeped me the hell out. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

For half a mile I did not see her again, and had begun to wonder whether the first woman, the Coed, had felt danger as well. she had, I thought, and that is why she practically was running through the woods at dusk. It also struck me that the creepy woman had stopped and studied Ron and me like she was deciding whom to follow. We were not moving as fast, we were walking as quickly as Ron could manage, and he was clearly feebler than the co-ed. Those thoughts amped up my senses, and I still felt uneasy, so I periodically checked behind us. At certain points through the woods, I could see see more than 100 yards, and I never saw anything. I began to worry about the co-ed. My hair stood it

for a second time as I felt the strangest sensation of being watched again, thinking I was paranoid and half-mocking myself for being afraid of the creepy woman. I turned my head around to assure myself she was not there. I was wrong. She was there, following with her head down and moving briskly about 100 yards behind us, but with her hands hidden. I turned my head back to the trail in front of us, and we kept walking, still trying to convince myself that there was nothing out of the ordinary happening, that I was just being rude because she was dressed like a homeless woman. About 200 yards further along the path, I turned my head back to Ron, and my heart raced a bit. She closed the distance by half or more each time we would walk around the bend in the woods. Her

would be obscured, but she would emerge much closer to us on the next opening. I told myself that I was just being paranoid, but nevertheless, I was trying to get Ron to pick up his speed just a little bit. By this time he was clearly aware that we were being followed, and he was uncomfortable as well, though to his credit he did keep talking. With a half-mile to go before we reached the parking area, I turned my head once again, and she was just ten feet behind us. I had not seen or heard her get that close, and it freaked me out. I literally jumped out of my skin. One of her hands was in her pocket, and the other was behind her back.

I got the distinct feeling that she had a weapon of some kind, and that she had no fear of me, even though I was considerably taller, albeit several years older. There was no mistaking her demeanor. She meant to do us harm, or, at the very least, to intimidate us. I weaved my car keys between my knuckles in my right hand, handed my water bottle to Ron, and made an obvious fist with my hand. With a half mile left in our hike, I thought to myself, if this is nothing, she'll pass us and move on, as clearly she was moving a lot faster than we were.

I was accustomed to people overtaking us when I walked with Ron, but she did not pass and never acted like she knew we were there, which was the creepiest part. I kept my head turned toward her as I walked and tried to get her to make eye contact, but she did not look me in the eyes. At first, she kept acting like neither Ron nor I were there on the path, just a few feet ahead of her. She had slowed to follow closely behind. I was completely unnerved, and that made me angry. I wanted her to see how upset I was, and to convey with a look that messing with me was a mistake.

When she finally did make eye contact with me, I glist. with a clenched fist. There was an instant where I could not read her expression, she was simply blank. But as she studied my face, she appeared to be simultaneously agitated, and a little less confident. I was conveying one thing with the look on my face, back the hell off, and at this point I did not care if it appeared rude. She apparently thought better of whatever she was doing, and slowed her pace so that the distance between us began to grow to about 20 feet. But she was tense and kept whatever she had in her hand very closely hidden behind her back. I never saw her hands this entire time. I know she had to have some kind of weapon,

and I believe that she meant to do us harm. But I also know she recognized that I was ready to fight. I was mentally preparing to charge at her if I saw a gun or a knife, as I knew Ron could not outrun her. I thought to myself I might just surprise her. I also realized that I needed to have her in front of us. A few hundred feet further, about a quarter mile away from where we were parked, she was still stalking us, and I had had enough. I was in equal measures afraid and furious. I told Ron that we were going to stop and let her pass, loud enough for her to hear. Just as I was getting ready to stop on the trail and make her walk in front of us, she veered into a small clearing, plowing through the waist-high brush, crossed a ditch, and scurried through a tree-line of trees,

to a road that ran through the woods in between the main road and the parking area. I kept my eyes on her the whole time. She had a car. It was parked alongside this little service road, partially hidden by shrubs, not in the parking lot. The last time we made eye contact, just before she climbed into her car, it was clear from the expression on her face that she was incredibly angry. I glared at her, expressing my own anger, but kept walking. When her car started and she drove away, Ron got quiet.

it before asking me what in the hell she was doing. Did she have a gun? I told him I did not know. I never saw a weapon. We walked back to our car without saying another word. Once the engine was on and the doors were shut, we chatted a bit more about this weird situation and decided to call the authorities and report the incident, just to make sure that they have it on record and to maybe have them check on the poor co-ed who had passed us first. To this day, I have no idea what that crew, creepy woman was doing and what she was planning on doing to us. Maybe she was going to rob us, harm us, scare us. I have no idea. I am just thankful she decided better of it. I have hiked that trail more than 50 times since then, and have never seen her again. My husband and I are a team of

wildlife biologists specializing in large predator tracking and population studies. We often find ourselves camping in remote areas for days at a time while collecting data and setting up trail cameras. A few months ago, we were assigned to a project in Yellowstone National Park. The goal was to gather information on Wolfpack movements and their impact on the local ecosystem. It was supposed to be a routine trip. We had done this countless times before, but what happened during those three days in Yellowstone still haunts me. We arrived at our designated campsite on a Tuesday afternoon. The weather was perfect, with clear skies, a light breeze, and the promise of a starry night ahead. As we set up our tent and equipment,

I remember feeling excited about the work we'd be doing. My husband, whom I'll call Tom here, was in high spirits too, cracking jokes about how we should open up a five-star wilderness resort with our expert tent pitching skills. After a simple dinner of dehydrated camping meals, which Tom insists are getting better, though I'm not convinced, we sat by the fire going over our plans for the next few days. By then the sun had set, and the forest around us came alive with the sounds of owls hooting,

and small animals moving in the underbrush. It was very peaceful, very familiar, but that didn't last long. We were sleeping in the tent when suddenly, around midnight, Tom sat up alert, causing me to wake up too.

Did you hear that? he whispered. I hadn't, but the look on his face made me strain my ears. There it was, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving through the trees near our campsite. Tom grabbed his flashlight and stepped out of the tent. I watched as his beam of light cut through the darkness, sweeping through the tree line, nothing, and the footsteps had stopped.

Probably just a deer, Tom said as he crawled back into the tent, but I could tell he wasn't convinced. This scene repeated itself three more times throughout the night. Each time Tom would hear the footsteps, go out to investigate, and find nothing. By the time dawn broke, he was exhausted and on edge. I swear, he said over his third cup of coffee in the morning. Those weren't animal footsteps. They sounded human. I tried to reassure him, suggesting it could have been another camper,

maybe even a park ranger doing nightly rounds. But deep down, I agreed. Something felt off. Why wouldn't they respond when Tom called out to them? Why did the sounds always stop just as he went to investigate? Despite his lack of sleep, we had work to do. We spent the next day hiking to our research sites, setting up cameras and collecting samples.

Tom was quieter than usual, his eyes constantly scanning the trees around us. I caught myself doing the same, that vague sense of unease growing stronger every hour that passed. It was mid-afternoon when things took a turn from unseen, settling to downright terrifying. We were checking a trail camera we'd set up a while back when Tom froze, his hand gripping my arm. Look, he whispered, pointing to a clearing about 50 yards away. At first, I didn't see anything, but then a figure stepped out from behind a large pine

tree. It was tall, impossibly tall, and thin too, with limbs that seemed too long for its body. For a split second I thought it was just a trick of the light. Shadows were. playing on a tree trunk of some sort, but then I saw it move. The figure's movements were jerky and unnatural. They reminded me of a marionette being pulled by strings. It took three long strides into the clearing, its head swiveling in a way that made my stomach churn. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone, melting back into the shadows of the forest. Tom and I stood there, rooted to the spot. When I finally found my voice, it came out as a hoarse whisper. What was that? I don't know, Tom replied, his face pale,

but I think we should head back to camp now. The walk back was tense, to say the least. We moved quickly, constantly looking over our shoulders. Every snapping twig or rustle of leaves made us jump. By the time we made it back to our campsite, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the ground. Neither of us had much of an appetite, but we forced down some food anyway, knowing we needed the energy. We didn't talk much, not much to say, I guess. We knew that we'd both seen something, something that shouldn't exist, or some sort of illusion that really freaked us out. As darkness fell, we retreated to our tent.

Tom insisted on staying up to keep watch, but I could see he was running on fumes. Eventually, sheer exhaustion won out, and we both drifted at. into an uneasy sleep. I'm not sure what woke me up. A sound maybe, or maybe that prickling sense of wrongness that had been following us all day. What I do know is that when I open my eyes, Tom was gone. Panic seized me. I fumbled for my phone, activating the flashlight app with shaking fingers. The tent was empty. Tom's sleeping bag pushed to the side. Tom, I called out, my voice trembling. There was no response. Heart pounding, I unzipped the tent and stepped outside. The night was cool and still. All I could

hear was my own breathing. I swept the flashlight beam across our campsite, seeing nothing out of place so far. Tom, I called again, louder this time. Still nothing. Memories of the strange figure we'd seen flooded my mind. What if it had taken Tom? What if he was out there somewhere, hurt, or worse? I started towards the tree line, my legs feeling like. lead. The beam of my flashlight seemed pathetically small against the vast forest. I'd only gone a few steps when I heard it. Footsteps behind me, coming from the direction of our tent. I whirled around, relief washing over me as I saw a silhouette enter the tent. Tom, he must have gone to use the bathroom or check on something in the truck. Feeling a bit foolish for my panic,

I hurried back to the tent. Tom, you scared me half to death, I said as I climbed inside. where'd you go off to? There was no answer, but I felt movement as Tom settled into his sleeping bag. I got back into mine, still a bit shaken up but mostly relieved. I felt Tom's arm drape over me. It made me feel so much better, and despite the strangeness of the past few days, I found myself drifting back to sleep. I woke up to bright sunlight filtering through the tent walls.

Tom's arm was no longer around me, and his sleeping bag was empty. Figuring he must have gotten an early start, I got dressed and stepped outside. I spotted Tom by our truck, closing the driver's side door. The man looked awful, dark circles under his eyes, his movements slow and clumsy. Rough night, I asked, walking over to him. He nodded, stifling a yawn. Yeah, couldn't sleep in the tent again, kept hearing those darn footsteps, ended up sleeping in the truck.

I frowned, confused. The truck? Wait, when did you leave the tent last night? Tom gave me an odd look. Around midnight, I guess. I tried to wake you up to see if you wanted to join me, but you were out cold. A chill ran down my spine. My mind raced. Tom, I said slowly. What time did you come back to the tent this morning? He shook his head. I didn't. This is the first time I've been out of the truck since midnight. I felt the blood drained from my face as the full implication of his words hit me. If Tom had been in the truck all night, then who, or what, had been with me in the tent.

Whose arm had held me as I slept? I opened my mouth, trying to find the words to explain what happened, but nothing came out. Tom must have seen the horror on my face because he stepped closer and asked, "'Hun, are you okay? What's wrong?' I took a deep breath. My voice barely above a whisper as I replied. There was someone else in our tent last night. We left Yellowstone that day, abandoning our research project.

We requested a transfer to a different area, citing personal reasons. Tom and I keep the story to ourselves, afraid of what other people might think, but knowing that our experiences were very real. And we know that that thing wasn't exactly human. Even when I write this now, I feel the phantom weight of that arm on me. It makes me feel so violated and unsafe. I try not to wonder, but still, I do. What would have happened if I had turned to look at that thing lying next to me in the dark?

When we first drove up the gravel road leading to our new home in the Appalachian Mountains, I remember feeling a mix of excitement and a little fear. It was like one of those adventures you'd read about in books, where families find hidden treasures in old houses. Only our treasure was supposed to be the farm itself, sprawling across 50 acres of land. Dad was the happiest I'd ever seen him. He kept saying things like, This is it, kids, our own piece of paradise.

He had big dreams of fixing up the place. The farm had been abandoned for a long time, and nature had pretty much taken over, but to Dad, it was perfect. Our first day there was like a scene from a movie. We all got out of the car and stretched, breathing in the fresh mountain air. Dad started filming with his old camera,

capturing every laugh and every step we took exploring our new home. Mom was smiling, her eyes bright with hopes of a fresh start. My younger siblings ran around, their laughter echoing off the trees. The house itself was a bit creepy, though. It was at the base of the mountain, tucked away in a hollow like it was hiding. The woods around us were thick and dense, making our house feel even more secluded. Sometimes, the way the shadows moved made me uneasy, as if the trees were whispering secrets to each other.

Strange things started happening a few weeks after we moved in. Small accidents at first. Tools going missing. Windows that we had fixed suddenly found cracked again. Weird noises at night that none of us could explain. Dad said it was all part of living in an old place, but I wasn't so sure. As time went on, Dad began to change. The joy he felt when we first arrived started to fade.

He spent more in the way. more time alone, often just staring out into the woods with a worried look on his face. He stopped filming our adventures, and sometimes he didn't even seem to hear us when we talked to him. One night I woke up to the sound of him talking in the living room. I crept down the stairs and saw him sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the moon shining through the window. He was talking to someone, but no one was there. I called out to him and he jumped, like I'd startled him from a deep thought. He just shook his head and said he was fine, but I knew he wasn't. Those shadows in his eyes weren't just from the lack of sleep. Things kept getting worse.

Dad started forgetting things, like picking us up from school or locking the doors at night. Mom tried to help him, but whatever was happening to him seemed to be pulling him further and further away from us. I started feeling scared, not just of the dark or the strange sounds in the woods, but of what was happening to Dad. It was like the farm, with all its whispered promises, was swallowing him whole, and I didn't know how to help him. All I could do was watch as the dad I knew was slowly disappearing, replaced by someone or something that seemed lost in the shadows of the old Appalachian farm. After that summer, things went from bad to worse. Our trailer felt more like a haunted house than a home. The walls and floors were falling apart, and sometimes when

the wind blew, it felt like the whole place might just blow away with it. Dad said we just needed to tough it out a bit longer, but I could see the worry in his eyes every time he looked around at the crumbling walls. The whispers that I once thought were just whined through the leaves had turned into voices by then. At night I could hear them, and they weren't friendly. They said mean things, filling the air with cold and fear. I knew Dad heard them too, because sometimes I'd catch him arguing back, whispering fiercely into the darkness. Then came that awful night. It was so hot that the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on us. Mom and Dad were fighting again. Their voices were loud and angry, and I could feel that something terrible was

about to happen. I was in the living room with my siblings, trying to keep them calm, but we all were scared. Suddenly everything went quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it's screaming. Dad walked into the room, and his face was different. It was like all the shadows in the house had settled on him, making him look darker, scarier. He had a gun in his hand. I'd never seen it before, and it made my heart stop. The whispers were there too, louder than ever, swirling around him like dark smoke. They were saying terrible things, pushing him, telling him we'd be better off without him.

I wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, but I was frozen. Dad just stood there for what felt like forever. Then slowly he walked over to his chair across the room and sat down. He looked so tired and so sad. Tears were running down his cheeks as he looked at us and said, I'm so sorry for everything. His voice broke, and it was the most heartbreaking sound I'd ever heard.

He lifted the gun, and I felt my sister's hands cover my eyes. I heard a loud bang, louder than anything I'd ever heard. I screamed, and when my sister finally let go, I saw Dad slumped in the chair, but he was still breathing, still alive. That night changed everything. Dad survived, and something about that night made him want to fight the shadows. We left the farm not long after, seeking help and hoping to escape the darkness that had taken over our lives.

Even though we moved away, the memories of that night followed us. Dad got better, but he was never the same. The farm stayed with us too, like a bad dream that wouldn't end. We never went back, but sometimes I'd catch Dad staring out the window, a distant look in his eyes, as if he was still listening to the whispers of that old haunted farm. My friends Andrea, Mario, and I had always been up for an adventure, especially when it involved the great outdoors. That's why, when we decided to explore the Tahoe National Forest, I was super excited. I knew it was going to be an adventure we'd never forget.

I'm the kind of person who loves hiking and camping, and I was thrilled to share this trip with my friends. We packed up my old Jeep Grand Cherokee with everything we thought we'd need. A couple of sleeping bags, a tent just in case, plenty of stuff. snacks, and of course, Mario's camera equipment. Mario is a photographer, and he was especially eager to take some cool shots of the wilderness and the stars at night. As for me, all I brought was my trusty fishing rod and a couple of knives. After all, I felt at home in the woods and liked to keep things simple.

The drive to Tahoe was filled with our favorite tunes and lots of laughter. We talked about the places we might explore and the kind of photos Mario wanted to take. The further we drove from the city, the more the scenery changed. Tall buildings and busy streets gave way to open skies and towering trees. It was like entering another world, one that was quieter and wilder. As we drove deeper into the forest, our cell phones lost service. I wasn't worried, though. I had been in situations like this many times before, but I could tell Andrea was a bit nervous.

I reassured her that everything was going to be fine, that it was. was part of the adventure. Finally, we found the perfect spot to park the Jeep and set up camp for the night. It was a small clearing off a bumpy dirt road. We weren't going to set up the tent yet since we decided to sleep in the Jeep. It might sound weird, sleeping all crammed in a car, but it was actually pretty cozy and fun. Plus, it felt like a little adventure on its own. We spent the evening chilling out. Mario took some pictures of the sunset while Andrea and I prepared our sleeping area in the back of the Jeep. As night fell, the forest came alive with sounds, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, and the occasional snap of a

twig. It was both exciting and a tiny bit spooky. We had our dinner, sandwiches and chips, nothing fancy, and then spent some time stargazing. Mario tried to capture some of the beauty with his camera, although it was really dark. We talked and joking. around until our eyelids began to droop. By then, the forest felt like a second home, or maybe a mysterious new planet we had just landed on. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have friends who were up for this kind of thing. As we settled into our sleeping bags, the last thing I said was, this is the best, we should do this more often. And with that, we drifted off to sleep, not knowing that the real adventure was just about to begin. It was the perfect, the perfect

start to our trip, but as I would soon learn, the wilderness had surprises waiting for us that would test our courage and show us how unpredictable nature could be. That night, after we all tried to sleep for a bit in the cramped back of the Jeep, something weird happened. It was like the whole forest decided to wake up. I could hear twigs snapping outside, and even though it was a hot night and we had the windows cracked open a bit, the sounds made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Did you guys hear that? I whispered to Andrea and Mario. They were both awake too, looking a bit scared. What was that sound? Andrea asked. Her voice barely a whisper. I didn't want to freak them out, but I was pretty curious about what was out there. Maybe it was just a deer or some

small animal, I thought. But part of me wanted to check it out. After all, isn't that part of the adventure? Let's go see what it is, I suggested. trying to sound braver than I felt. Mario was always up for taking photos, so he grabbed his camera and I took my crossbow, just in case. We carefully opened the Jeep door, trying not to make too much noise. Andrea decided to stay behind. You guys are crazy, she said, but she handed me the car keys, just in case.

With only our headlamps to light the way, Mario and I walked into the forest. The night was super dark. and every little sound seemed louder. We didn't talk much. We just listened to the owls and the rustle of leaves under our feet. We walked like that for about 15 minutes, looking for a good spot where Mario could take a photo of the sky. That's when we found a little creek,

its water flowing quietly in the dark. I was about to say something when Mario suddenly stopped. He put a hand up to signal me to be quiet. Listen, he whispered. I stood really still and listened, but it was the strangest thing. There were no sounds, no crickets, no frogs, nothing. It was like the forest had gone completely silent. I had never heard such silence before.

It was eerie. Then, out of nowhere, there it was, a pair of glowing eyes watching us from about 40 feet away. They were reflecting light from our headlamps, staring at us from behind a tree. I felt a chill run down my spine. Whatever it was, it wasn't just any forest animal. This thing was big, and it was standing on two legs, almost as if it was trying to hide and watch us at the same time. I quickly turned off my headlamp and loaded an arrow into my crossbow.

Turn off your light, Mario, I whispered, but he was frozen, just staring at the creature. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the creature moved. It stepped out from behind the tree, and we could see it more clearly, two large yellow eyes and a huge dark figure. It had no fur, and its head was oddly shaped, almost round. I didn't think. I just acted. I aimed and shot an arrow towards it. The creature was fast, though. It dodged the arrow and took off running on all fours towards the creek. Mario finally snapped out of it, and we both ran back to the Jeep as fast as we could.

my heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything else. When we got back, Andrea was waiting, worried. You guys look like you've seen a ghost, she said as we climb back inside, locking the doors behind us. We need to leave, now, I told her, still trying to catch my breath. We didn't sleep much after that, too shaken by what we had seen. What was that thing? And were we safe? These questions kept us wide awake until the first light of dawn.

After what we saw in the woods, none of us could sleep. We were too scared and had too many questions. As soon as the sun started to light up the sky a little, we decided it was safe enough to leave our camping spot. We drove back to town, still trying to make sense of everything. I kept replaying the sight of those glowing eyes and the eerie silence that had fallen over the forest. When we got back to civilization, we went straight to a diner to grab some breakfast.

We were all hungry, but more than that, we needed to be around other people. As we sat at our table, Andrea and Mario talked about the creature, trying to guess what it could have been. I mostly listened, still feeling a bit shaken. While we were eating, I noticed some people at the next table glancing over at us. I must have mentioned the creature a little too loudly, because soon, one of them walked over to our table. He was an older man, and he had a look of concern on his face. I couldn't help but overhear you folks talking about seeing something strange in the woods, he said in a low voice. You're not the only ones. There have been stories about that place for years. He pulled up a chair and told us

about a few encounters locals had experienced, similar to ours. Some said it was a ghost. Others thought it was a creature that lived deep in the forest. Listening to him, I felt a little better knowing we weren't the only ones who had seen something weird. We talked with the man for a while, and then the waitress came over. She had heard a bit of our conversation and mentioned that her cousin had seen something similar last year. It seemed like everyone in town had a story or knew someone who did. After breakfast, we decided to try and enjoy the rest of our day. We rented some kayaks and spent the afternoon paddling around Lake Tahoe.

The water was calm, and being out of the day, out there helped us relax. Mario took some beautiful photos, and Andrea seemed to be in better spirits, laughing and splashing water at us. As the day went on, we talked less and less about the creature. It felt like a distant memory, something from a dream. We were just three friends enjoying a day out on the lake, and for a while, we could almost forget about the night before. but as we packed up the kayaks, I looked back at the forest lining the shore. It was beautiful and peaceful from a distance, but I knew that somewhere in there was something unexplained, something mysterious.

That evening, we found a vista point overlooking the lake and decided to camp there for the night. It was a clear night, and the stars were incredible. We set up our sleeping area again, and finally managed to fall asleep. The next morning, we woke up feeling refreshed. The sun was shining, and after the scare we had, it felt good to see the daylight. We packed up and drove home, talking about when we might come back. Even though we had been scared, we knew we had experienced something extraordinary, and somehow I think it made us closer as friends.

We had shared something that we would probably never fully understand, but we had faced it together, and that meant something. I'd always felt at home in the wild, the rougher the terrain, the better. The gnarled paths of the Cascade Mountains were as familiar to me as the streets of my own neighborhood. This time, though, as I parked my old Subaru at the trailhead, there was a subtle whisper in the wind that seemed to speak of caution. Perhaps it was the overcast sky or the slight drizzle that started as I gathered my gear, but something felt off.

The trail to Green Mountain Lookout was a favorite of mine, one-eyed tackled numerous times in all seasons. But on this damp November morning, the remoteness of the trail seemed more pronounced. The parking area, a generous term for the gravel patch capable of holding maybe half a dozen cars, was nearly empty. Just one other vehicle was there, a beat-up truck that looked like it had seen better days. It was unusual to see anyone else out here, especially with the weather turning sour and the promise of snow in higher elevations. I slung my pack over my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight settle against my back. The solitude of these hikes was something I relished.

It wasn't just about testing my limits, but also about finding that rare piece that only comes from being completely alone in nature. Today, however, the silence of the woods seemed more pronounced. There was a stillness, an absence of the usual rustle of wildlife, that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I chalked it up to the season. Most of the birds had migrated, and the smaller critters were likely holed up away from the damp chill. The trail started with a gentle incline, weaving through towering Douglas firs and western hemlocks,

whose branches dripped with moisture. My boots pressed into the soft earth, each step sinking slightly into the mud. I always kept my gaze mostly downward when I hiked alone, not just to watch my footing, but to keep an eye out for tracks. It wasn't just out of habit from my search and rescue days. Tracking was like a puzzle, part of the thrill of being out here. A mile in, the forest gave way to the edge of an alpine meadow. The transition from the dark, dense woods to the open, grassy field felt abrupt.

The meadow, usually alive with color in the summer months, lay subdued under a blanket of dying browns and the last stubborn greens of late fall. It was there I met them, two hikers, a man and a woman, coming down the trail. Their light trail runners and the sheen of sweat on their faces spoke of a quicker pace than my own. We exchanged nods, a brief connection in the mutual acknowledgement of the trail's condition. They warned of the snow further up, and mentioned they had enjoyed having the trail to themselves. I watched them disappear around a bend in the path before continuing on. The further I hiked, the deeper the silence seemed.

to grow. It was as if the mountain itself was holding its breath. By the time I reached the first dusting of snow, marking the beginning of the higher elevations, the sense of isolation was complete. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a prickling sensation that made me glance over my shoulder more than once. But every time I looked back, all I saw were the empty, winding paths of the Cascade Mountains, shrouded in mist and mystery. The trail steepened, and the tree line thinned as I pushed higher into the mountains. I was deep into the heart of the cascades now, a place that usually filled me with a sense of exhilaration. But today, each step seemed to echo against the silence, a stark reminder of my isolation. As I moved through the transition zone,

where the forest's dense embrace gave way to the more open alpine meadows, my eyes were automatically drawn to the ground. Tracking was second nature to me, a skill honed through through years of necessity and passion. It was then I noticed them, tracks that didn't match the typical wildlife or hiker prints one would expect. One set appeared to belong to a large dog, perhaps a mastiff, given the size and depth. Beside them, partially obscured by a thin dusting of fresh snow,

were boot prints much larger than any standard size. These were no ordinary tracks. I paused, considering the possibilities. No one in their right mind would be out here with a dog that size, not in these conditions, and certainly not without proper gear. And the boot prints, they were unusually large, too large for even the most robust hiker. A chill ran down my spine as I scanned the surrounding woods and meadows, half expecting to see their owner watching me from the tree line. The meadow lay open before me, a broad expanse that in summer would be a wash with color, blooms of Indian paintbrush, lupine, and glacier lilies.

Now it was a muted tapestry of greens and browns, beautiful but desolate in its wintry transition. It was just past this point, as the land began to rise again, that I saw it. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, or perhaps a leftover patch of snow that hadn't yet melted. But as I squinted against the gray light, the outline of the shape became clearer. It was white and roughly humanoid, standing out starkly against the dull colors of the meadow. The figure seemed to be looking right at me, its posture unnaturally straight for something created by nature. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood frozen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Could it be a hunter in some kind of gear? No, that didn't make sense. The figure was too stark, too eerily still. A scarecrow, perhaps, left by someone with a strange. sense of humor. But out here, I took a tentative step forward, my eyes never leaving the shape. It was then, in the shifting light and the silence of the high meadow, that I saw it move, or thought I saw it move, a subtle shift, like a man adjusting his stance. I stopped, every instinct screaming at me to turn and run, but I was rooted to the spot. As I watched,

paralyzed with a mix of fear and fascination, I realized the figure was indeed facing me. Where there should have been nothing, I could now discern the dark spots of eyes and a slit that might have been a mouth. It was as if the mountain itself had conjured a guardian, and now it stood sentinel over its domain, watching me with an intensity that felt almost personal. With a deep, steadying breath, I made the only decision I could. I turned back the way I had come, my steps quick and uneven as the figure watched me retreat. The silence of the mountain pressed in on me, heavy with unspoken threats, as I hurried away from the unsettling sentinel in the meadow. I've always believed in listening to my gut, a lesson that's kept me

alive more times than I can count out here in the wild. As I turned my back on that strange, white figure standing alone in the alpine meadow, every instinct was telling me that I needed to get out of there, fast. My heart was pounding against my ribs like a hammer, and the stillness of the mountain air felt oppressive, as if it were pushing me forward with a sense of urgency I couldn't ignore. As I retraced my steps, the landscape seemed transformed. The familiar path now loomed ominous and foreboding, and the overhanging branches felt like fingers reaching out to snag at my jacket. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. I glanced back over my shoulder, repeated, half expecting to see that white figure gliding silently after me, but the trail behind was

empty every time I checked. The silence was unnerving. Not a bird stirred in the cold air, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. All I could hear was the crunch of my boots on the sparse snow and the thud of my own heartbeat. It was the kind of quiet that screamed danger. I picked up the pace, my strides growing longer and more urgent. Every shadow between the trees seemed darker. Every natural noise made me jump. I knew better than to run. Running would only invite chase from whatever might be lurking unseen. But damn, it was hard to keep that walk from breaking into a sprint. The tracks I had seen earlier crossed my mind again. They hadn't made sense then, and now, thinking back, they seemed like a warning I had foolishly ignored. Could they have belonged

to the owner of that white figure? The thought was chilling, and it spurred me on. faster. About a mile down from where I had turned around, I realized just how isolated I was. My only lifeline was the trail beneath my feet, leading me back to my car. I found myself regretting not bringing my heavier gear, specifically the .357 Magnum that I had debated over. It weighed six pounds, a hefty addition to my pack that I had opted against. Now the decision seemed foolhardy. As the trail curved back into the thicker tree cover, the forest felt denser, darker. I unholstered my bear spray, holding it ready as I moved. The primal part of my brain was on high alert, treating every brush of wind against leaf as a potential threat.

I tried to stay calm, to keep my breathing even, but my lungs didn't seem to get the message. The last stretch of the trail was the worst. The trees closed in tight, the path narrowed, and every other. step seemed to echo through the woods. I was close to the parking area now. I could almost smell the cold metal of my car, the safety of enclosed space. When I finally burst out of the tree line and saw my Subaru sitting alone in the parking lot, the relief was palpable. I practically threw my gear into the back seat and didn't relax until the doors were locked, and I was speeding down the mountain road, away from whatever secrets lay hidden in the silent, watching woods. I didn't look

back. Whatever mystery the mountain held, it could keep it. I had no intention of finding out. I was 20 years old and a sophomore at a college in Southern California when this happened. It was a Thursday night, and I had just worked the closing shift at my campus's coffee shop. That particular night, my coworkers and I headed over to the taco place next door for a few beers and some food. For context, most of my co-workers were students either at the university, or one of the local community colleges. Everyone was cool for the most part, so it was pretty typical for us to go for drinks or smoke in the parking lot

after closing up the cafe to chat, joke around, and decompress at the end of a long, busy shift. Despite our late closing hour, we usually had a constant stream of customers right up until we locked up at midnight, college students and their late-night caffeine needs after all. This night was a little different, though, because one of the usual closers had called out sick. My manager had called around to see if someone could cover for him.

That's how we ended up closing with Eric. On the one hand, I was grateful because every time I'd had to close while we were short a worker, we would leave the cafe nearly an hour later than usual. On the other hand, I really wished that it had been anyone but Eric who had agreed to come in. While most of my male co-workers were great and treated me like a sister, Eric was the one co-worker who had always unsettled me slightly. He was older, probably in his early 30s, and usually worked the midday shift. Because of my classes, I almost always worked the closing shift, so we would often overlap by a few hours.

At first I thought nothing of him, and assumed he was a graduate student or maybe just a random local. I was friendly and cordial with him, like I am with all my coworkers. But the more we worked together, the more he made up. odd comments and jokes around me. I remember he once offered me a sausage breakfast sandwich that had been left uncollected on the pickup counter. When I declined, he smiled weirdly at me and said, Are you sure? I thought you'd want it. Then he winked at me. I told him that I was sure before turning and walking away. I thought that was weird. Being a young bunch of mostly students, we messed around a lot at work, so I thought maybe he was trying to make a joke that fell flat.

or maybe he'd made some sort of reference that I wasn't understanding. I didn't think more of it until a couple of weeks later. We had just gotten the first shipments of cookie straws. Yes, actual cookies in the shape of straws, which we'd be selling all summer. My coworker broke a few into pieces so we could all try them. After sampling the cookie, I got back to my closing duties of preparing bottles of caramel drizzle and whipped cream for the next day. Eric was preparing drinks at the espresso bar when he came closer to where I was working to use the blender.

He said to me, Hey, I bet if we had a cookie straw eating contest you'd be able to fit the most in your mouth. I don't remember exactly how I reacted. I was somewhat taken aback. I probably just awkwardly laughed it off. I thought about his strange words for the rest of my shift. The joke didn't really make sense. and an eating contest is obviously different from a stick as many in your mouth as you can contest.

But despite my naivity, I understood what he was trying to get across. Like I said, my coworkers would joke around a lot, and sexual jokes were not uncommon. I tried to brush it off, thinking I had no other choice because it wasn't a big deal. These strange encounters weren't over, though. A few weeks later, when I was eating a banana in the back, scrolling on my phone, He joked that I could probably fit the whole thing in before grabbing a sleeve of cups and heading back to the front. Later that same night, over drinks, after Eric was gone, I asked my other co-workers what they thought of him. None of them said they had any issues with him, just that he was a quiet guy who didn't interact with them much.

I thought about repeating his idiotic jokes to them but decided against it. I didn't want to seem like I was blowing anything out of proportion. All that background happened a couple of months ago. shortly after the banana incident. We hired a new barista, and Eric was moved to the opening shift, so we no longer overlapped much, to my relief. That brings us back to this Thursday night.

My co-workers and I had already been planning to get drinks after work, so one of them cordially invited Eric, and he agreed. I tried to interact normally with him throughout the shift, but something about the way he kept looking at me unsettled me. While I changed the trash bins in the lobby, I would turn around in time to see him staring right at me before he turned back to whichever drink he was making behind the counter. We even made brief eye contact a few times.

When I began sweeping the lobby, I noticed him staring again. When I came behind the counter to sweep, he suddenly turned to me and asked, Need a ride home tonight? Uh, no thanks, I responded reflexively. I would often accept rides from my co-workers' home as I lived a couple of miles off campus, but the thought of taking a ride with this guy sent a shiver down my spine. He didn't respond to this and continued to stare as I quickly finished up sweeping.

By the time we were locking up and heading next door for drinks, I was contemplating just going straight home. I simply didn't like being around Eric. His presence gave me a nod in my stomach, but when I floated the idea of bailing to my other two co-workers, they begged me to stay for at least one round on them. As an underage and broke college student, I rarely looked a gift horse in the mouth, so I agreed. Plus, I again figured that I was probably overreacting to some degree. Sure, Eric was a little off, but he was probably just a socially awkward, harmless guy, right? That night, we opted for a bottle of white wine to go with our usual huge basket of chips in salsa. One of my other co-workers named Chris tried to make friendly conversation with,

Eric. That's when Eric first mentioned his fiancé, and I felt the nod in my stomach lift partially. Thinking back now, it was naive of me to think this new information was evidence that I really had been reading too deeply into his comments and looks from before. Regardless, in the moment, I was more at ease, figuring he just had an unfortunate and immature sense of humor. So, I stuck around when someone ordered a second bottle of wine, this time pink. I was feeling pretty warm and loose by the time the taco place closed and we had to leave. We all said goodbye, and Chris and I walked over to the bus stop and waited together. We both lived off campus, and I always took the bus. Most nights Chris's girlfriend would come to pick him up after work,

but she was out of town that week. For some reason, even at this hour, there were usually still a few college students milling about so close to campus, but Chris's presence put me even more at ease. We boarded the city bus a few minutes later. The bus was less than half full, so Chris and I sat in two seats beside each other and continued to chat. I lived further out from campus than Chris, so when we got to his stop, we said goodbye, and I watched as he climbed off the bus and into the night. I popped my earbuds in, resuming the audio book I'd been listening to on my way to work. I should let you know here that when I was younger, I had a bad habit of not paying much attention to my surroundings when I was out.

so I sat there and looked out the window for the remainder of my ride. I rang the bell when my stop was next and stood to get off the bus as it came to a familiar curb. As I exited from the front door, I noticed someone in a dark hoodie getting off the bus from the side exit. My stop wasn't a busy one at this hour. More often than not, I would be the only one getting off the bus here. But still, I didn't think much of it as I began my 20-minute walk home. At the time, I lived in a residential area with lots of houses and apartment complexes. It was much cheaper to live out here than closer to campus.

I was just enjoying my audiobook when the chapter came to an end, and I paused it. Then I heard it, footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, feigning to look at a sign as I passed it. I glimpsed a dark figure a few hundred feet from me, walking in the same direction on the same side of the street. The figure seemed to keep a steady distance, but I could feel my heart rate quicken. It was probably just another person heading home, I told myself, yet unease settled in my gut, reminiscent of the feeling I'd had around Eric. I tried to shake it off, telling myself I was being paranoid.

I picked up my pace slightly, hoping to create some more distance. I took out one earbud, listening for the sound of footsteps. They quickened, too, matching myself. speed. My mind raced with thoughts of the strange comments and the unsettling stare from my co-worker earlier. I turned at the next corner, hoping to lose whoever it was, but the footsteps turned with me. My apartment complex was only a few blocks away now. I glanced back again, and the figure was closer. I could make out the shape of the hooded person, their face still obscured by the shadows. My pulse pounded in my ears, my mind screaming at me to move faster and I obeyed, no longer

caring about appearing paranoid. Suddenly I heard a voice, gruff, gravelly, and deep, as it called out, Need a ride home, Stephanie. My blood ran cold. Then, this person knew my name. The voice sounded strange, as though a man was trying to disguise his normal voice. I knew in my gut it was Eric. My breath came in ragged gasps as I broke into a full,

sprint towards my building. I desperately fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The footsteps grew louder, closer, and I managed to unlock the door and slam it shut behind me, locking it with trembling fingers. I backed away from the door, heart racing, grabbing my phone to call the police. In a trembling voice, I told the woman on the phone that someone had followed me home. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door, and I nearly screamed into the receiving He's at my door. I gasped between sobs. Please send someone. The woman assured me that help was on the way. I was so scared that I begged her to stay on the line with me. She promised she would. Then when the knocking at my door turned into full-on pounding, I was convinced this person was

actually about to break in, busting my thin wooden door down as I sobbed incoherently. The woman directed me to lock myself in the bathroom until help arrived. As I waited, for the police, I cowered in my own bathtub, listening to the banging at the door. After the longest wait, the banging stopped abruptly. At first, I was relieved, but then I was even more scared because what was he doing now? Was he going to try the windows? God, had I even remembered to lock all the windows? As I strained to listen, I thought I heard footsteps pacing on my front porch until even that sound went away. When the police finally showed up, they found no one. They took my statement and assured me they would patrol the area, but even after they

left, I could not shake the feeling of being watched. I called in sick from my classes, and from work the next day. I contemplated what to do. I didn't have proof per se that it was Eric who chased me home, but I knew deep down in my gut, it had to be him. Who else knew my name? Who else would have offered me a ride home in that creepy way? The next stay at work, I finally decided to report Eric to my manager and told her about all these strange comments over the past few months, and my terrifying walk home the other night. I expected her to say I was overreacting, but instead, she said that he would be fired immediately. I remember him dropping by that Friday afternoon to pick up his last check and tips. I tried to busy myself

with random tasks behind the bar. I didn't want to interact with him or even look at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him approach the register. None of my other co-workers knew what had happened yet, so my co-worker at the register cheerfully asked him if he wanted a drink before he headed out. Eric proceeded to order a cappuccino. I begrudgingly dumped milk into the milk frother and started pulling shots of espresso. Before my co-worker handed me the cup, I made the drink and quickly put it on the pickup counter before heading to the back to restock the milk. I hoped by the time I came back out front, he would be gone. I was wrong. In fact, he stood at the pickup counter looking angrily at me. This is too heavy. I want this dry. I tried to keep my expression

neutral as I set out to remake his drink. For those who don't know, a cappuccino is supposed to be espresso shots with even parts of milk and foam. A dry cappuccino means the customer wants more foam than milk. This is obviously the kind of thing that is most helpful to be told before making the drink, but I swallowed my attitude down and set the second lighter cappuccino in front of him wordlessly. I just wanted him out of the store at this point. He picked it up. Still too heavy. I want it bone dry. My jaw tightened. I was irritated, and it was obvious what he was doing. A bone dry cappuccino means the person essentially wants only foam with their espresso. I said nothing as I dumped the prior two drinks in the sink and set about

pouring even more milk. I steamed two pitchers full and painstakingly separated the foam from the milk with a spoon. I nearly threw the drink down on the counter at him and told him to have a good day in a tone that suggested I would not be remaking his stupid drink again. I turned away to tidy up the bar and noticed him lingering there at the pickup counter for a few more seconds before leaving. For a while, I feared that he would come to the cafe while I worked or follow me home again, but week after week passed, and he didn't show back up. After a while, I assumed it was over, until around four months later, I found a note tucked into my front doorframe.

I figured it was my lease renewal from the landlord. I grabbed it on my way in, locking the door behind me. After settling in, I absent-mindedly remembered the notice at the door and unfolded it. I swear my heart stopped. In a neat, almost childlike script, the paper read. why did you tell on me? I was genuinely terrified. I knew getting the police involved would be unlikely to be helpful for me, as I had no way of proving who this note was from, or that Eric had even followed me home in the first place. I started to spend most of my nights at friends' houses

until I saved up enough to move closer to campus. A few months after that, I found a new job on campus. I was sad to leave my coworkers at the cafe, many of whom I was close with at that point, but I couldn't stand the anxiety and paranoia that Eric would show up again, or appear behind me on one of my walks home. Thankfully, I never saw Eric again. Even now, years later, I still get that unshakable feeling that someone is watching me or following me when I walk home alone. I find myself constantly checking over my shoulder, my heart quickening at the slightest. sound behind me. Looking back, I wish I had trusted my instincts and reported Eric's behavior to my manager and the authorities sooner, instead of brushing off my unease and convincing myself that

it was simply nothing. Maybe then I could have spared myself from the nightmares I've had since. The air had that crispness about it, the kind that signaled summer was making its last grand stand, before giving way to the colors of fall. As the pickup truck rattled along the gravel road toward beaver mines. I couldn't shake the feeling that this trip was going to be one for the books. Tim was at the wheel, his eyes fixed on the winding path ahead, while Caleb fiddled with the radio, trying to find a signal amidst the static. We're really doing this, huh? Caleb grinned, finally giving up on the radio and settling back into his seat. Yeah, and it's going to be epic. Tim replied, his voice filled with the kind of easy confidence.

that comes from being the de facto leader of our little trio. The truck crested a hill, and the forest stretched out before us like a vast, unexplored wilderness. I felt a twinge of excitement mixed with a whisper of apprehension, as I thought about the stories we'd heard around campfires and in the dimly lit corners of our favorite diner, stories of the wilds of Alberta, of creatures that roam the dense forests,

legends that were always dismissed by the light of day. We arrived at our campsite by late afternoon. The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows on the ground as we unloaded our gear. Our camp was a simple affair, a tent, a fire pit, and a few logs pulled up around it for seats. As we set up, the laughter and banter flowed freely, easing the lingering nerves about being so far from everything familiar.

By nightfall, our campfire was crackling, sending sparks up to compete with the stars. Tim pulled out a bag of marshmallows, and soon we were roasting them over the flames, the sticky sweetness perfect against the chill in the air. You guys remember the story of the Wendigo? Tim asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned closer to the fire,

making shadows dance wildly behind him. Caleb rolled his eyes. Not that again, it's just a story to scare kids. I wasn't so sure. there was something about being out here, surrounded by the ancient trees in the deepening dark, that made those old tales feel a little too real. As the night deepened, we settled into our tent, the fabric walls are only barrier against the vast dark forest outside. I lay there, listening to the symphony of the night, the distant call of an owl, the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze.

It was peaceful, it was perfect, until it wasn't. It started as a faint rustling, like the wind picking up, only there was no wind. The night had grown eerily still. Tim and Caleb heard it too. I saw their shadows shift as they sat up. What was that? Caleb whispered, his voice tight with tension. Probably just a deer, Tim murmured, but even he didn't sound convinced. Curiosity overcame us, and we grabbed our flashlights, unzipping the tent with hands that trembled just slightly.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, landing on the trees that surrounded our camp. There was nothing out of place, nothing moving. And then we saw them, two glowing eyes, unnaturally high off the ground, staring back at us from the darkness. The figure was tall, gaunt, almost ghostly. None of us moved, none of us breathed. We were caught in its gaze, trapped in a moment of primal fear that seemed to stretch into eternity. We backed away slowly, retreating to the supposed safety of our tent. We told ourselves it was nothing, just a trick of the light or our imagination fueled by the ghost stories.

But as we lay back down, listening to the silence that had once seemed so peaceful, we knew something was out there. And it had seen us. The morning light filtered softly through the canvas of our tent, a stark contrast to the darkness of the previous night. I was the first to stir, my mind a whirl of unsettling dreams and the haunting image of those glowing eyes. As I nudged Tim and Caleb awake, the silence of the forest felt oppressive, as if it were waiting for something. We should go for a hike, I suggested, more for the sake of doing something to shake off the remnants of fear than for any real enthusiasm for the activity.

Tim nodded, pulling on his boots. Yeah, let's check out the area. Maybe we'll see that deer everyone keeps talking about around here. The forest was dense, the underbrush thick with late summer growth, making our hike less leisurely and more of a struggle. The sounds of our passage seemed overly loud in the quiet, the snapping of twigs underfoot like gunshots in the still air. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched,

and I caught Caleb looking over his shoulder more than once, his eyes wide and searching. We had been walking for about an hour when Tim stopped so abruptly that I nearly ran into him. Look, he whispered, pointing at the ground ahead. It was a deer or what was left of it. The carcass was torn open, its entrails spread grotesquely across the forest floor, flies buzzed loudly, the only sound in a suffocating silence. This wasn't just any predator, Caleb said, his voice low.

Look at the marks, too brutal, a bear. We stood there, the gravity of our situation settling in like a heavy cloak. The forest didn't feel like ours to explore anymore. It felt like we had intruded into something ancient, something wild and unforgiving. As we turned to head back to camp, a crackling in the bushes froze us in our tracks. There, not twenty feet from where we stood, was the creature from last night. It was hunched over another deer, its movements jerky and savage as it fed. Its skin was pulled tight over its bones, making it look skeletal, and its eyes, those same glowing eyes, were hollow, yet burning with a ravenous hunger. We backed away

slowly, not daring to take our eyes off it. The creature paused, its head snapping up to fix its gaze on us. It let out a sound, a chilling mix of a growl and a scream that echoed through the trees and chilled my blood. We didn't wait to see what it would do now. We turned and ran, branches whipping against our faces, roots threatening to trip us at every step. The camp had never seemed so far away. Back at the safety of our sight, the fire from last night now nothing but smoldering ashes, we packed our things with shaking hands.

The decision was unspoken, but unanimous. We couldn't stay here, not with that thing out there. But as we hurried to break camp, the woods around us seemed to close in. The once welcoming trees now looming like silent sentinels. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, had us jumpy and tense. We'll leave at dusk, Tim said, his voice firm despite the fear I saw in his eyes. We'll use the remaining daylight to get ready. But as the shadows grew longer and the forest around us seemed to whisper, I wondered if

we would even make it until dusk. The sky was painted with streaks of crimson as the sun began. began its descent, the light fading from the forest around us. We had decided to wait until the cover of darkness to make our escape, hoping the night would shield us from whatever stalked these woods. Every minute that ticked by was a minute spent in agonizing anticipation, the air thick with the scent of our fear. We gathered our belongings, the normality of the action at odds with the tremor in our hands and the tightness in our chests. Caleb kept glancing at the trees, his flashlight flicking on at every slight sound. Tim was quiet, his eyes focused,

a hard edge to his jaw. Let's do this, Tim finally said, his voice a low rumble in the growing darkness. Stick close, and whatever happens, don't run off alone. We turned our flashlights on, the beams slicing through the darkness as we stepped into the woods. The path back to the truck was a familiar one, but tonight it felt entirely alien, as if the trail had shifted, reshaped by our fears into something sinister. We hadn't gone far when the unmistakable crack of a branch had us freezing in place. The sounds of the forest had ceased, a heavy silence falling over everything. Then, a low growl rolled through the trees, the sound visceral and chilling. It was close, too close. Without a word we broke into a run, the beams of our flashlight,

jerky and wild as we navigated the uneven ground. The growls grew louder, closer, joined by the heavy, thudding steps of something large moving swiftly through the underbrush. We need to hide, I gasped out, my lungs burning with the effort of our panicked flight. The only cover in sight were a couple of old porta-potties left by some long-forgotten construction crew. It was a desperate plan, but it was all we had. We darted inside, squeezing into the cramped spaces. The smell was overpowering, but the fear of what was outside was greater. We barely breathed, listening as the steps approached, then circled around our flimsy hiding spots. The Wendigo was searching for us. It's breathing ragged and hungry. It scratched at the plastic,

the sound making my heart stop each time. I closed my eyes, praying it would move on. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the sounds began to fade. We waited, counting endless heartbeats before we dared to emerge. The forest was dark, the path uncertain under the moon's scant light. We moved quickly now, no longer trying to avoid making noise, our only thought to put as much distance as possible between us and that creature. When the parking lot finally came into view, it was like seeing the gates of heaven. We threw our gear into the back of the truck and didn't stop to secure it.

Jumping into the cab, Tim hit the gas the moment the doors were shut, the tires crunching over the gravel as we sped away. I looked back once, my breath catching in my throat. There, at the edge of the trees, stood the Wendigo. Its eyes glowed faintly in the headlights before it turned and disappeared into the darkness. We drove in silence, the weight of what we had experienced settling over us like a cold shroud. Beaver minds had changed us, shown us a world. Beyond our understanding, a world we were lucky to escape. I knew then, as the forest faded into

the distance, that the wild had secrets best left undiscovered. Crispy chicken sandwich from 7-Eleven, people always call me loud. And I'm like, yeah, I know, I'm crispy. Did you expect me to whisper? If you want quiet, go eat some soup and reflect. Like, I know I'm a handful. I'm bold, I'm juicy. Throw some pickles and barbecue sauce on me, and baby I'm a whole meal. And with seven rewards, I'm just $4. Quiet, No, crispy, saucy, and $4? Very. Only at 7-Eleven. Valley through 62326

Participating stores only while supplies lastly out for full terms. This episode is brought to you by Netflix's remarkably bright creatures. What if a Pacific octopus held the key to a mystery that could heal your heart? Well, that's Tova's reality. An elderly widow working at an aquarium. Tova forms an unlikely friendship with their crumudgeonly, Marcellus, whose remarkable intelligence leads her to a life-changing discovery. Watch remarkably bright creatures with your remarkable moms this Mother's Day weekend.

Only on Netflix May 8th. Greetings all. My granddaughter led me here, told me it's a place where people who enjoy the spooky and the supernatural come to get their fix. She is helping me share my own story, thought you folks might be tickled by it. These events came back to me at a recent family reunion. For fun, The Last of Us Awake that night went in a circle and swapped our scariest moments stories. It was a good time, and as family members shared UFOs and creaky addicts and near-death experiences, a trick floorboard in my mind popped up, exposing something my subconscious had long kept hidden, perhaps for my own good.

So when their eyes all turned to Grammy K, likely expecting tales of past-era poverty or teenagers with tattoos or the trials of childbirth, I leaned in and recounted to them the time I found a lost man in the woods. It caused quite a stir with the family, and at the insistence of my darling granddaughter, I share it with you now. This is something that happened when I was in my twenties. I won't embarrass myself by telling you how long ago that was, but suffice to say, I am quite a bit grayer above the ears these days. My first husband, Ronald, was a ranger, and for five years, we lived together on BLM land.

Our regular backcountry excursions instilled in me a passion for the out-of-doors, that was uncommon for a lady back then. Women might be found on a long walk or at a national park with their husband and children in tow, sure. But I was partial to taking a knapsack and charging into pure, isolating wilderness, often spending two or three days at a time following trails or inventing my own.

Those excursions were often my greatest peace, especially after Ronald passed in our sixth year together. It was about a year after Ronald's passing and I was setting out for a two-day trek in the Pacific northwest. Washington or Oregon, I think, though that detail still remains beneath the floorboards. The trail looked attractive on the map, as it followed a river through a vast mountain valley that separated two small towns. I believe it had once served as a supply route between the towns before the road system came, after which it was merely a recreation trail, though not one to be

taken lightly. The locals would warn all but the most avid outdoorsmen to avoid the route, as there was a point in the valley that required a difficult river fording. This ford occasionally took the lives of the cocky or the unprepared, sending their bodies bobbing downstream to be recovered by the town at the other end. But I reckoned I was avid enough. A friend dropped me off at the trailhead as I had left my car parked in the town at the other end of the valley. I was immediately put to task by a steep hike up to a mountain saddle and a precarious descent down the other side. It was past midday before I was rewarded with even terrain in the valley below. I managed the infamous river crossing cautiously and without incident,

then resumed the trek on the opposite bank. The trail followed the river a few more miles before it leaned away, sending me from high grass and wildflowers into a forest of evergreens. The sun was beginning to angle towards the western range as the trees closed in behind me, shrouding my world in a gentle emerald dim. I made my way over the soft earth beneath the trees, grateful for the shade after a day exposed beneath the summer sun. The air was muted by a mossy quiet,

and the limbs of the evergreen sliced the light into haphazard bars of gold. It was a dense, verdant, old-growth forest, the kind that feels like a cathedral, proud and reverent and secretive. I have always loved and sought such places. The trail took me downhill, and the shade grew darker still. There came a point where the pine needles underfoot fully obscured the path, and I paused, carefully peeking around Evergreens to spot where it might pick up again, trying not to lose my place. I had my compass and map, but only food enough for a day and a half, and didn't want to be lost

in the boondocks if I could help it. This was all before the age of the satellite phone, mind you. After a few moments of unsuccessful scanning, I decided to backtrack to see if there was perhaps a why in the trail I had missed. I turned 180 degrees to find myself looking into the eyes of a man, some ten or twelve feet behind me. I had no clue how long he had been there. My brain, in the panic of the moment, skipped right past surprise and landed directly on bewilderment. Oh goodness, hello, I spit out, mostly on impulse.

I am sure he could see the shock in my face, but he gave no sign of it. Sure easy to get lost out here, isn't it? He replied in simple, even tones. His appearance was the perfect outdoorsman, practically out of a sportsman's magazine of the day. Work boots and canvas pants held up with suspenders that ran over a navy double-breasted shirt. The plaid cuffs of his sleeves were rolled up above the elbow, and the sleeping bag strapped atop his rucksack poked up from behind his head. Yet, despite his textbook appearance, he didn't feel like a woodsman to me.

His bearded face was middle-aged, but the skin was deeply creased, and drooping at the neck and jowls, as if much older. Beneath wild black eyebrows were grayish eyes that seemed unable to focus on any spot in particular. Splotches of sweat darkened the pits and neckline of his shirt, and he gave off a rank odor that disgusts me even in memory. He offered me a strained, toothy smile, as if he had heard descriptions of smiles but was trying it out for the first time. It certainly could be, I replied with exaggerated politeness,

re-centering myself internally. Sorry for my surprise, I didn't hear you come up behind me. The man ignored the comment. Are you lost out here too? He asked. His expression remained polite earnest, but behind the foggy gray eyes, I detected something else,

something I couldn't put a word to. Instinctively, I began to take a mental inventory of what weapons I had at my disposal. The best I could come up with was my Swiss Army knife, which was unfortunately tucked into the bottom of my knapsack. I could hear Ronald's deep, stern voice echo in the back of my head somewhere saying, You should be packing a gun, Christy. You never know what you'll run into.

I shooed Ronald's ghost and it's I told you so away and turn my focus back to the man. Certainly not lost, no, I responded carefully, not wishing to make myself any more vulnerable than I already was. But you said too, are you lost out here? The man rocked on his feet, his eyes scanning vacantly in my direction. Yes, lost. People wander out here. Get lost, he replied.

His voice was gravely, delivered in flat, dead tones. But sometimes I find them. Find them wandering through the forest, stepping and breaking, trying to find their way. So I help them. Take them back to the river so they can follow it out. I can help you too. Help you find the river. At that he set his empty eyes upon me, truly locking his with mine.

His expression transformed into something equal parts pained and furious, as if I had betrayed him in some horrible, intimate way. A primordial part of me awoke and a wave of adrenaline screamed to sprint into the maze of Evergreen surrounding us. But a firm, clear voice of instinct told me to stand still. So, like a mouse being fixed upon by a house cat, still I stood. well, I'm not lost, though I am sure this trail can be a bit of trouble for some. I certainly appreciate the offer, though, I said, in the most friendly tones I could muster.

Few sunbeams were making it through the trees overhead and knew I needed to move things along, but I think I better get moving while I still have some light. I have some friends hiking in from the other end expecting to meet me at camp tonight, so I can't afford to get too off of schedule. This was a lie, of course, but I wanted him. to think others would be coming along soon. That I was expected, but inside I wished more then than ever that Ronald was with me again. The man practiced his disconcerting smile once more, and his eyes blissfully unfocused. Yes, still have some light, he echoed in his staccato.

The walkers get lost, making little circles in the forest. If you lose the way, I'll lead you to the river. In the tension of the moment, I I didn't process his words, but it was clear that something insidious glared out from behind them at me. Oh, of course thanks, I'll keep that in mind. Happy trails, I practically shouted, eager to detach, and commenced a rigorous power walk in the direction I had left off at, unsure if I was continuing on the true trail or not. After a few dozen paces, I began blessedly to see indications of the path and took back to

it. A few minutes of concerted near-jogging later, my heart. heart thumping in my ears and my pack thumping against my back. I slowed to a walk and watched over my shoulder to see if the strange man was following me. I had put in some considerable distance, and in the greenish dark murk of the forest, I saw nothing but ferns and evergreens. Then, coming around far back on the trail, there he was. Not necessarily following, I suppose, but walking in my same direction, staggering down the path about 60 yards behind me. He moved, awkwardly, almost drunken, like someone learning to walk on a prosthetic. In the moment my eye

caught him, his head snapped up, and even from that distance I could feel cold gray eyes locked to mine. And I knew then it wasn't a coincidence. I was being followed. I whipped my face forward and picked my pace. The last miles of that day were hiked briskly and stressed. No matter how much speed I put into my pace, the man would always somehow catch up behind me down the trail, despite his disjointed walk. I would lose him for five or ten minutes, then catch some sight or sound of him, persisting ever forward. And so I had no peace.

Never breaking, often run jogging, but never able to get more than a few minutes of isolation, before I would hear his feet cracking branches along the path, or see his dark silhouette come around a bend in the trail far behind me. The last tangerine rays of sun had faded from the forest floor when I realized I was have to stop. I was losing the last of my visibility, and although I was tempted, I knew that hiking in the pitch was foolish. Using my torch to find my way around would make me a beacon to the man in the night, but on the other hand, hiking blindly would mean almost certainly losing the trail,

getting me no closer to escape, and could mean injury or death if I was unlucky, and I was not feeling lucky. Instead, I resolved to make my way as far off trail as I dared, quietly set up camp and wait for the first light of daybreak to serve as a starter pistol for a mad dash to the end of the valley. I didn't love the plan but no better ideas came to me. So I crept past the tree line, quiet as a fox, and gingerly set up my one-man pup tent behind a couple interlocked evergreens that stood vanguard between my camp and the direction of the trail. The spot was encircled by ferns and brambles, the best cover I could find, from amber dusk to pale moonlight, I had just enough light to see what I was doing as I moved quietly on sore legs and blistered feet.

I didn't bother with dinner or coffee or any of my rituals typical of a trip to the backcountry. I scarcely remember drinking water. What I do remember is laying atop my sleeping bag, unwilling to constrict myself within it, fully dressed, with my Swiss army knife clutched in my fist, the blade out and ready. I spent my time breathing evenly, staying silent, and, listening. After a couple hours I began to calm. The man had never been more than about 15 minutes behind me down the trail, so if he was a tracker, he would have long since traced me to camp. If not a tracker, I suspected he had already overshot my camp, making a successful backtrack to my location near impossible. I was just beginning to form an estimate as to how long before daybreak

when I heard movement in the woods. It was the snapping, cracking of something moving ponderously over the forest floor, probably 20 to 40 yards away. I prayed, for the first and only time, that it was a bear. The only other thing in those woods heavy enough to make that much noise would be an ungulate, which tend not to move so sporadically or loudly. My every muscle froze, as the intermittent creaking and snapping moved towards my camp. I held my knife to my chest like a cross, watching the moonlit side of my tent wall for a shape to take form. Then, After a light snap some ten yards to my left, the woods went silent. I laid there, tense as a plank of wood, terrified to so much as breath.

I stared at the shadows of the ferns and tree boughs that the moon cast against my tent wall, waiting for one of them to transform into the shape of the man and lunge. But no phantom assailant came. The shadows slowly lengthened and dissipated as the moon moved through the heavens up above. but I remained fixated on the bluish wall of my pup tent, counted breaths, and waited. It must have been hours before I dared to turn my head away from the direction of the snapping in the forest. The moon by that time had angled in the sky towards the other side of camp, and as I righted myself, I saw, on the opposite wall of my tent, the shadow of the man.

He loomed above the canopy, perfectly still, perhaps just an arm's reach away. I was taken with panic, and in the wan late evening light, the silhouette's head turned ever so slightly, so as to look directly down at me. Little Walker, I knew you'd get lost. Let me help you find the river. The man's voice had changed. It was no longer the masculine voice I had heard delivered in gravelly staccato on the trail earlier. It was vaguely feminine, sweet and melodic, every word dripping with acid.

It was the voice that would come from a spider if a spider could speak. And when I heard it, I knew I was going to die. I'm not lost, I thought. Or perhaps I whispered it. Either way, I remember it took all I had to make the words come. I know where I'm going. At that, the man reached out and pressed his palm against the upper wall of the tent, imprinting a black handprint against the fabric.

If you are here, then you are lost, replied the voice from inside. the man, and the lost belonged to me. The handprint against my tent spasmed, and I watched as the head of the silhouette convulsed and rolled back. Black shapes emerged from where the man's mouth was, slender tendrils that twisted and unfurled upward from the man's throat, coiling and writhing in the air around his head, making a grotesque shadow puppet show out of the moonlit wall of my tent. In the terror of the moment my impulse was to scream, but somehow, in the hot foam of fury and indignation that I should die at the will of this incomprehensible thing, the scream choked out in the form of words.

I am not lost. I surged up, and in a miraculously clean cut, sliced the tense fabric from the canopy to the floor in the direction of the man's shadow. The hand pulled away and I sprang outward, blindly prepared to sink the Swiss Army knife into anything it might find purchase. But before I could clear my exit, I heard a man's, hey yo, from the trees not far off camp. It was a deep, soulful bellow that rattled me and carried like wind around the evergreens and brambles. I knew the sound in my heart. It was Ronald's voice,

the call he would make when we would hike together in the wilderness to ward off bears. Only now it came with such force that I felt it in and around me, a wave of feeling and a foghorn of sound. In that same moment, I heard the garbled, vicious words of the things speak. I know not what, and by the time I was righted to my feet outside the tent, ready to attack, there was only silence. I scanned the shifty darkness of the woods, watching the trees and shadows around me like a hair watches the skies. My heart was pounding, my body still ready for the fight. But I was alone, no man, no silhouette, no creature, no Ronald. just a woman alone in nature, panting through the adrenaline and fear.

After some time I shook off my dread, stuffed my ruined tent back into my knapsack, retrieved my torch, and carefully picked my way back to the trail in the dark. From there I began the route again, holding my torch out like a night watchman, eyeing the tree line while being careful not to lose the beaten path. Occasionally I thought I heard movement far back behind me on the trail, but the light of my torch never caught anything in the shadows of the forest. A few miles later, daylight began to trickle through the canopy of the evergreens. An hour or so after that, I noticed the trees becoming smaller, farther apart,

and the rush of the river in the distance became the soundtrack to my walk. By the time the trail rejoined the river, the woods were well behind me, and I soldiered on through open valley in a stupor. At some point I reached the meager town where, I had left my car parked. By the time I realized I was walking on pavement, I was practically at town center. I am sure I drew disconcerted looks from the locals at the tap house when I staggered in, a mess of matted hair and sunken eyes, with my knapsack bulging and half-zipped. But I took no notice. It had always been my and Ronald's tradition after coming back out of the backcountry to

celebrate with a bourbon and a beer. I ordered two of each, as I knew he had joined me for a final hike, but that it was on me to drink on his behalf. The barmaid took my order with the pouty indifference of someone who had served stranger orders to stranger patrons and went to task. I had finished both bourbons and most of the second beer when a commotion broke me from the solitude of my thoughts. The excitement was directed at a tiny television mounted in a corner behind the bar, and the pouty barmaid turned up the volume at a request.

It was the county news station, where a pallid man in a sports jacket was breaking a press release from the sheriff's office. The news ticker read, Sheriff recovers body of drowned hiker. The camera cut to the sheriff explaining that the man was a hiker from Canada, who likely drowned while attempting to ford the river in the valley pass. He had been dead for three days before washing into town on the high river later that morning. Several bar patrons issued tuts and low whistles, the dirge of the cynical and unsympathetic. While the sheriff issued a tired warning that the river fording was dangerous and not be attempted by those without proper training and experience, my thoughts went to the man. To the confident pilgrim of nature he must have been, perhaps too

confident even, until a few days ago, when he got himself lost in some very old woods, where he weaved and wandered through the evergreens hunting for a trail, until something found him, something that took him to the river, where it takes all its lost travelers. But I was was never lost. On the night of November 14, 2015, two Welsh brothers named Andrew and Mark Middle were out camping in the Cloquinole Forest in northern Wales. They were there to watch the 2015 Wales Rally, an annual off-road car racing event, about which both brothers were extremely enthusiastic. So enthusiastic in fact that they opted to camp out in almost sub-zero temperatures to maintain the perfect vantage point, to watch the powerful vehicles hurdle past them.

Given the cold, the brothers naturally needed to maintain a campfire to keep warm, and as anyone who has had to keep a campfire going overnight knows, it requires a lot of firewood. The brothers had collected an ample stack of dry kindling that afternoon, but as the night set in and a brisk November chill set in, they found their supplies of firewood dwindling. Apparently it was Mark's turn to go out and collect some, so he grabbed his flashlight, threw on his woolly gloves and hat, and set off into the pitch-black forest to gather firewood. It's more than likely that, given the time of year, the forest floor was very cold and damp during the night,

and we can quite safely assume that Mark Middles' search for sufficiently dry kindling took him much further from his campsite than he would have liked. Then, before he knew it, all the trees started to look the same. and among the dense verdant foliage, he realized he'd lost sight of the warm glow of his campfire. Realizing he was lost, Mark called out to his brother, who immediately responded. Then all Mark had to do was follow the sound of his brother's voice, and he'd soon be back at camp. Yet the Kloch-Nog forest is so dense and wild in places that a few blind footsteps might send him crashing into the dirt below. So, to ensure this didn't happen, Mark shone his own.

flashlight on the ground beneath him to make sure that he was clear of trip hazards. Back at camp, Andrew Middle was only mildly concerned about his brother calling out to him. Although it was very dark, Mark hadn't walked far, and he would most definitely be able to find his way back to camp from the sound of his voice. What followed was a variation on the famous pool game, Mark O'Polo. Mark would call out to Andrew, and Andrew would call back, until suddenly Mark went quiet. Then, through the pitch darkness, Andrew quite clearly heard his brother, in a voice that sounded both astounded and horrified, say, Oh my God.

Andrew recognized the fear in Mark's voice immediately and asked his brother what the problem was. Mark stayed quiet for a second, staring in disbelief at the object at his feet, then called out to his brother, I think you better come and see this. Andrew grabbed his own flashlight and rushed out to find his brother, white as a sheet, and staring at the ground. Andrew then looked down to see what he was looking at, then muttered his own exclamation of, Jesus Christ. Half buried in the earth, caked in moss and filth, was a human skull. Mark and Andrew quickly made their way back to their campsite and immediately contacted the police. Emergency services received the call at approximately 8.35 p.m., and by 9 that night,

a local police officer had arrived at the scene to confirm the discovery. The officer was quickly followed by a forensics team who sequestered the area off before searching for additional human remains hidden just beneath the earth. The team discovered a complete human skeleton that they believed had been deposited there between the years of 1995 and 2005. It was only then that the Middle brothers were informed of something truly horrifying, that the ground they'd been camping on had once been used by notorious serial killer Peter Moore as a dumping ground for men he had murdered. They hadn't just pitched their tent on any old patch of forest. They'd made a camp on a veritable graveyard.

What followed was a five-week-long investigation that involved combing missing persons databases, pathological examinations, and intensive DNA profiling. It was determined that the man died from blunt trauma to the head, and that he had been murdered in an unknown location, between 2004 and 2010. The victim was said to have been a well-built man in his 60s at the time of his death. Standing between 5'8 and 5 foot 10, some items of clothing were found near the body,

consisting of a dark green Pringle jumper and some dark red decomposed marks in Spencer underwear. But it could not be confirmed that they were associated with the victim. Numerous attempts to identify the man via his DNA and teeth were unsuccessful. and in March of 2017, police confirmed that they had approached Peter Moore with questions regarding the man's identity. Moore claimed that the body did indeed belong to one of his victims, a 46-year-old mature student at Aberystwyth University, who had disappeared in 1996. Moore refused to reveal the victim's name,

but journalists identified a Roger Evans of Bradley near Stoke-on-Trent as a mature student who had indeed gone missing in 1996. However, police later announced that this theory had been discounted due to conflicting dates, and to this day, the identities of both the victim and his murderer remain a complete mystery. However, the prevailing theory is that Peter Moore is indeed the man's killer, and simply fed the police a string of false information in order to throw them off the scent. Moore was famous for claiming that his murders had actually been committed by a fictitious homosexual lover he nicknamed Jason, after the killer in the Friday the 13th movie series. He might have found a great deal of satisfaction in finally having deceived those that sent him to prison on a whole life order.

The identity of Moore's apparently murderous lover was never uncovered, and despite jurors having decided that his claims were a complete fiction, they might have been very, very, wrong. Moore was not only aware of someone who had gone missing in the year following his string of killings, but the victim was found mere yards away from where Moore's other videos, had been found. There's a very good chance that Moore was indeed involved in the murder in some capacity, but if he didn't personally murder the victim, who did? Is it possible that Moore wasn't lying when he spoke of this Jason character? Is it possible that he'd been part of some

kind of kill team back in 1995 when he committed his crimes? Or did the body simply belong to Moore's uncredited fifth victim, one his record will forever remain untainted by, thanks to a well-thought-out deception. As frustrating as it may be, these are questions that might never be answered, and with more rapidly approaching his 76th birthday, the time to get concrete answers is quickly running out. So next time you're camping and you're out collecting firewood, be careful where you tread. Instead of finding something to warm your bones, you might find something that will make your blood run cold. On April 5, 2017, 22-year-old Californian cyclist Jacob Gray set off from Washington State's Port Townsend, intent on cycling through the

Olympic National Park. The bike he was riding was a specialized hard rock that some believed was slightly too small for Jacob. He was just an inch below six feet, yet the bike had sentimental value, as it was a promotional model that his father had won at a contractor's show raffle. Attached to the rear of the bike was a used red and yellow child trailer, one that Jacob had loaded with camping gear before setting off into the wilderness. Jacob was later cited in Indian Valley in a Long Crescent Lake on April 5th. On the morning of April 6th, a woman drove past him as he rode down the Soul Duke Hot Springs Road. Later that afternoon, she noticed his distinctive red and yellow trailer on the side of the road.

It wasn't a good place to camp or stash a bike for long, as it was highly visible among the foliage. Jacob was nowhere to be seen, but little did the woman know, Jacob would never be. be seen again. A few hours later, his abandoned gear was found by park rangers, who noted something odd about the setup. A bow was lying on the ground next to the abandoned bike and trailer, and not only were arrows jammed into the dirt near the bike itself, but arrows seemed to have struck the red and yellow trailer, which held Jacob's possessions. The ranger in question, a man named John Bowie, then proceeded to search the immediate area, believing the bike's owner may have stopped in the nearby spring to collect water. But again, Jacob was

nowhere to be seen. Bowie then contacted a fellow park ranger and asked him to recheck the area. The following morning, he expected the bike's owner to have returned to remove his gear, but the frame and trailer were still there on the morning of April 7th. A park ranger then searched Jacob's abandoned gear and found a list of phone numbers, which identified the gear's owner as Jacob. He then contacted one of the people on the list, who turned out to be Jacob's sister, Mallory. Once Jacob's parents were informed of his abandoned gear, the grave nature of the situation became clear. At that point, Jacob Gray officially became a missing person. The next day, the Clallum County Sheriff's Department combed over the area using around 30 different deputies

and sniffer dogs to try to track down the missing cyclist. Even with all the manpower, they failed to locate him. A few days later, the sheriff's department enlisted the help of volunteer trackers from the Olympic Mountain Rescue. This team of dedicated specialists was much more adept at tracking the movements of missing people. As they searched, they made a series of curious discoveries. They found compelling evidence that someone, most likely Jacob, had swapped a pair of hiking boots for running shoes before walking to the edge of a nearby river. There they appeared to have slipped and fallen, leaving a distinct mark on a mossy rock. About 30 yards downstream, there were signs that this person had managed to pull themselves out of the river, eliminating the prospect

that Jacob had drowned before being carried down river. They doubled down on this theory by having team members search the log jams further down the river, but no trace of anybody was found, and the search continued. Yet despite the ongoing efforts, on April 14th, the staff The status of the search for Jacob Gray was changed to that of a limited continuous search. This meant that Rangers were no longer looking for a living person, as it was believed to be impossible for Jacob to have survived almost two weeks without protection from the elements. Search and rescue teams moved on to other tasks, leaving the search for Jacob to be headed up by volunteers only.

This was extremely demoralizing for Jacob's family, but they refused to give up, and over the coming months, they personally organized at least a dozen searches of the Olympic National Park. Flyers were posted on park kiosks and gas stations in the Port Angeles area, and a team consisting of Jacob's friends and relatives handed out leaflets to people hiking through the park. This culminated in a huge hundred-man search along the Sol Duke River in July of 2017, but only a pair of Burnside brand shorts, in Jacob's size, were recovered, a pair that matched an item he'd been given as a Christmas gift the previous year. This briefly renewed the family's hope of finding Jacob alive,

but over the year that followed, the lack of any additional findings meant that the searches had to be scaled back, and a grim acceptance set in that they'd never see their beloved Jacob alive again. More than a year later, on Friday, August 10, 2018, a team of biologists ventured into the Olympic National Park to study marmots. They found themselves atop a ridge above whole lake, and it was there that they made a horrifying discussion. Along with his clothing, some of his gear, and his wallet, the team of scientists found what remained of Jacob Gray's lifeless body.

This spot was more than 15 miles from where Jacob had abandoned his bicycle. So what exactly prompted the young man to abandon his things before climbing up so far into the mountains? Despite the discovery of a bow and arrows near his abandoned bicycle, and after identifying Jacob via his dental records, a coroner argued that there was very little evidence of foul play. He had a cigarette lighter, insulated clothing, and plenty of food with him at the scene where the body was found. Yet, it was soon determined that the only rational explanation was that Jacob had somehow succumbed to hypothermia,

as during the April he went missing, the terrain had been covered in a thick blanket of snow. However, this completely ignores the fact that Jacob's remains were little, more than skeletal by the time they were found. There could have been any number of fatal wounds to Jacob's biodegradable tissues that would have been impossible to identify. It's also worth noting that when lost in the wilderness, most people know well enough to head downhill instead of climbing them.

The last thing you want to do is end up stranded on a mountain when you could hike down to more temperate climates. But a person being pursued by someone or something might well climb up a mountainside in order to escape something chasing them, especially if that thing had previously fired at them with a bow and arrow. There's something else worth noting too, and that involves the items found in the vicinity of Jacob's skeletal remains. He was carrying a Bible with him.

It seems when he abandoned his bicycle, he grabbed only what was completely essential for his survival, the lighter, the food, and the warm clothing. What would possess him to bring the Bible along? It's possible that he wished to use the pages as kindling, yet despite how badly degraded they were by the elements, the Bible's pages showed no signs of being ripped or torn. Just what was it about a Bible that Jacob saw as being essential to his survival?

What was chasing him that he believed a holy text might be a salvation? There have been many that argued that Jacob's intention was to take his own life, and that carrying the Bible with him was an attempt to counterbalance the mortal sin that he perceived. himself to be doing. But this raises the question, if Jacob intended on taking his own life, why bother bringing so much survival gear on a trip that would ultimately end in his death? It's entirely likely that Jacob wanted one last biking trip before going through with the act, but that theory completely ignores the fact that a bow and arrow were found at the site of his abandoned vehicle. It's not out of the question that Jacob brought these items along with him,

and intended to use them as part of a survivalist-style exercise. Yet, if that was the case, why were arrows shot into the ground at an angle which would suggest they were being fired at Jacob? And if he was being attacked, he could have at least tried using the bow to defend himself, only he didn't, which leads us to believe that an attacker was wielding the bow. But what kind of psychopath stalks through the forests of Washington, hunting for human game? Who could have terrified Jacob so much that he'd have preferred to risk the freezing mountainside rather than risk walking back down into the woods?

Did Jacob really get lost in the woods as some people contend? Or rather, was he stalked, attacked, and then chased up the mountain by someone who still walks among us today? From the very start, I was not a child of the city, of the concrete, or of the predictable paths of Lima's bustling streets. My first breath was drawn in the humid air of the Peruvian capital, yes, but my soul, my very essence, was carved out in the vast, untamed expanse of the Amazon jungle. My parents, both dedicated German biologists, had traded the sterility of lab work for the

wilds of Panguana, a research station they established deep within the heart's shadow of the rainforest. Even as a toddler, I was more familiar with the calls of Macaughan, and the chattering of tamarins than the sounds of cars and chatter of crowded marketplaces. My playground was the dense undergrowth. My playmates, the creatures and plants my parents studied. My father, Hans Wilhelm, taught me the language of the earth, soil under our feet, the intricate ecosystem we were part of. My mother, Maria, an ornithologist, taught me to look up, to observe the life that thrived in the canopy above, and to respect the delicate balance that kept it thriving. Life at Panguana was not

just about survival. It was about living in consonance with nature. Every day brought new lessons that no conventional schoolroom could ever hope to impart. I learned to navigate the labyrinth of the jungle, not with a compass, but by reading the sun's position, the vegetation's density, and the river's flow. My father often said, the jungle speech. speaks to those who listen, and listen I did. I knew which plants could heal and which could harm, which berries were an invitation to dine, and which were a forewarning of danger. My education was unconventional, sure.

There were no blackboards, no rows of desks, no school bells to command the start and end of learning periods. Instead, there was the ever-changing environment around us, the constant cycle of life and death, and decay. My parents were strict, though, ensuring I wasn't just a child of the wild, but also equipped with the knowledge from books. They imported textbooks on math, science, and literature from Germany, and I studied by lanternlight, the nocturnal sounds of the jungle, a constant backdrop. As I grew older, the necessity of formal education beckoned me back to Lima. At 17 I returned to take my school's levers exam at Lima's journal,

German school. The city was a stark contrast to my jungle home. Its edges sharp, it smells acrid, its noises jarring. I missed the symphony of the Amazon, the scent of rain on leaves, the soft forgiving earth underfoot. But I adapted, as I had been taught. I passed my exams with flying colors, my results a ticket back to my verdant sanctuary. Yet, as I prepared to leave the city once more. A part of me lingered over the sights from high-rise buildings, the buzz of electric lights, and the undeniable pulse of human innovation. On December 23rd, 1971, with my exams behind me and my future sprawling wild and green before me, I was ready to return. I was ready to go home to Panguana. Little did I know, as my mother and I boarded the plane back to our jungle, just how

drastically our plans would change. We were flying on borrowed time, on wings not just of hope, but of impending fate. The morning was overcast as we made our way to the airport, the sky, a heavy gray blanket that seemed to press down on the city of Lima. My mother was quiet, a rare solemnity about her that mirrored the unease clawing at my own insides. My father's warnings about Lanza, the airline notorious for its lax safety standards, echoed in my head. but our options were limited. It was the only way to get back to Panguana in time for Christmas. The plane was older, its interior worn and smelling faintly of mildew and stale air.

As we ascended, the city fell away, replaced by the vast expanse of the Amazon. I pressed my face against the small window, watching the world transform below. My mother, perhaps sensing my unease, squeezed my hand. It's just another adventure, she whispered, trying to infuse the moment with a levity I knew she didn't feel. Then, without warning, the adventure turned nightmare. About an hour into the flight, the aircraft shook violently. A deafening boom, like the sky itself splitting, reverberated through the cabin. Lightning.

The pilots lost control and the plane began a sickening nose dive. Screams filled the air, a cacophony of terror that matched. the roaring in my ears. I remember looking at my mother, her eyes wide with fear, and then, nothing but a blinding white flash, I awoke to a silence profound and unsettling. Disoriented, I found myself still strapped to my seat, miraculously intact amid the wreckage strewn across the jungle floor. The plane had disintegrated around us, scattering debris like a child's discarded toys. I was alone, utterly and terrifyingly alone. No sounds of rescue, no cries of other survivors, just the deep, omnipresent hum of the jungle.

The realization that I was the sole survivor weighed on me with a crushing grief. My mother was gone, and with her, any semblance of the world I had known. But survival, my father's voice instructed, my mother's eyes implored, was paramount. I checked myself for injuries, a broken collarbone, cuts, bruises, and a deep gash on my arm that throbial. with the beat of my panicked heart. Drawing on the lessons of my childhood, I fashioned a sling from part of my seat cover, wincing as I maneuvered my arm into a less painful position.

My first task was to find water, then shelter. Every step was agony. But the jungle, which had once been a playground, now presented itself as a labyrinth of potential threats and scarce resources. Days blended into a continuous loop of survival tasks. tasks. I found water in a stream, its coolness a small mercy. Food was harder to come by, but I managed to gather some fruits and nuts, mindful of the teachings on which plants were safe. Nights were the hardest. The darkness brought new sounds, menacing and close, and the pain

of my injuries and the itch of insect bites made sleep a fleeting escape. Each day I pushed forward, driven by a singular need to survive, to honor my mother's memory by living. the skills my parents had instilled in me, once academic exercises, were now matters of life and death. I navigated through the dense foliage, avoiding natural hazards, each step a testament to the harsh lessons taught by the wild. I was a child of the jungle, yes, but never before had it demanded so much, or exacted such a painful toll. The ninth day dawned just as cruelly as the eight before it, with the relentless sun filtering through the dense canopy, mocking my desolation. My body was a map of bruises and bites, my clothes tattered to shreds, and my spirit teetering on the edge. I stumbled through the undergrowth,

my thoughts a chaotic whirl of pain and despair, when I broke into a small clearing and saw salvation, a missionary camp, deserted, but promising shelter, and perhaps more. My heart surged with a mix of relief and anxiety as I approached the camp. The place was empty, left in a but it was stocked. I rummaged through the supplies, finding antiseptic, bandages, and, mercifully, a small cache of food. My first act was to tend my wounds. The gash on my arm was infected, maggots thriving in the festering mess. The pain was blinding as I cleaned it with the antiseptic, each wipe a new level of agony. It wasn't enough. In a moment of desperation I found a can of gasoline. I knew the risks, but the maggots had to go. Pouring the feet of,

fuel over the wound, I screamed into the empty forest as the pain erupted, but the maggots writhed and died. Exhaustion overtook me, and I collapsed onto a cot, sleep enveloping me like a dark, silent wave. It was in this state of vulnerable slumber that the missionaries found me. I awoke to faces blurred by my disorientation, voices that seemed both alien and divine. They had returned to resupply, and instead found a barely alive jungle girl, a sort of a sort of a woman. A sort of survivor against all odds. With efficient care and whispered prayers, they arranged for my evacuation. A helicopter churned the air above as I was hoisted aboard, the jungle receding below me, a tapestry of green that had been both a cradle and a crucible. The hospital in Lima was a blur of white

walls and clinical smells, a stark contrast to the earthy tones of the jungle. My father was there, his face a canvas of relief and sorrow. We grieved together for my mother, for the life we had lost. My recovery was slow, marked by the physical scars that healed, and the emotional ones that lingered. Driven by a need to confront the tragedy, I joined the efforts to locate the crash site. The government had organized search parties, and I guided them through the jungle. My intimate knowledge of the terrain proving invaluable. We found the wreckage.

a graveyard of twisted metal and lost lives, including my mothers. The closure was painful yet necessary. Her remains repatriated to Germany for a burial that was both an ending and a beginning. In the years that followed, I embraced my heritage, studying biology like my mother before me. I returned to Panguana, not just as a survivor, but as its steward, continuing the research my parents had devoted their lives to. The jungle, had tested me, forged me, in its relentless crucible, and I emerged, not unscathed, but undeterred. Werner Herzog's film, Wings of Hope, later chronicled my ordeal, linking our fates, his decision to cancel his seat on that ill-fated flight and my miraculous survival.

It was a story of what ifs and happenstances, a reminder of how closely life skirts the precipice of death, and how profoundly it can be altered by the simple twist of fate. Back when I was in university, I joined the Walking and Hiking Society. In stark contrast to its rather dull name, they organized some of the most exciting trips abroad the university had to offer. Every year, they organized trips to some of the best hiking spots in the world. During my second year, the destination happened to be the Carpathian Mountains. For those who don't know, the Carpathians run through several Central European countries,

but the vast majority of them are in Romania. The Carpathians are home to some of the wildest forests in all of Europe and are also home to rather frightening wildlife, including brown bears, wolves, and lynxes, definitely creatures you wouldn't want to encounter during an early morning bathroom break. However, it wasn't the wildlife that made our Carpathians trip so creepy. It was a group of people we ran into after getting ourselves lost

in the Rodney Mountains National Park. You're never really lost in the Worcathians' national park. woods, not if you're a good enough navigator. If you have a map and a compass, some food, and some water, you can always push on until you figure out where you are based on landmarks and whatnot. That's why, when the leader of our hiking group, a young professor we called George, said we might have taken a wrong turn down one of the trails, we weren't panicking. In fact, it felt quite exciting, thinking that we were venturing into the unknown. After all, you never improve your skills unless they're actually tested, and there's never

any real growth without true discomfort. We knew we had to cross one particular mountain, and the key was finding this one particular mountain pass. As you can imagine, that's easy enough to do. All you have to do is find the spot where the mountains dip low enough, and bobs your uncle, there's your way through. So it was simply a case of finding an elevated position, finding where the river. range dipped, then just orienting ourselves towards it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, I thought.

Then off we marched in the direction of the pass. There was just one little problem, and that was the issue of sustenance. Because we all focused on having an ultra-light kit, we'd taken minimal food and water with us, planning to stop off at various little villages along the route to take on supplies. Given that we'd missed one of our village stops due to getting ourselves a bit lost, we ended up running out of our substantial food supplies. This wasn't a huge problem, as we still had a few cereal bars and glucose gel packs to keep us going, and finding fresh water from mountain streams was surprisingly easy. But on the day before we planned to navigate the pass, we were all starting to feel pretty

hangary as a result of the shortage. At one point, we all decided to take a break, while George and another member of the group decided to scout the area to see if they could find any sources of food, wild or otherwise. About two hours after they departed, they returned with some good news. They'd spotted what looked like a small village up in the mountains, one that wasn't on our maps, but was definitely populated, as there was smoke coming from various chimneys. The plan was to show up, be very polite,

and offer them some cash in exchange for whatever food they could give us. We didn't care if we had to pay over the odds for it. We were that hungry and would have paid triple the going rate for a decent hot meal. So that was all it took to get us moving again. And with the promise of full stomachs, we found ourselves with renewed energy to walk a few miles up to the Mountain Village. It was definitely a bit nerve-wracking. I mean, what if they weren't friendly or just straight-up refused to sell us anything despite us offering them a fistful of cash? If we took the gamble and didn't pay off, we'd have a terrible time crossing the mountain pass.

A person can go a long time without food, and we had enough water to last us, but we'd definitely be in a bad way once we got to the next village after the pass. Passing out from hunger is bad enough at the best of times, but pass out and tumble down the mountainside, and that could be the end of you. So you can imagine how elated and grateful we were when we reached the village, and they were actually quite welcoming to us. I say quite, because as much as the bloke we offered money to, seemed over the moon to have us trudge into his village, some of the other villagers seemed less than impressed by our presence. I really don't mean this to sound too mean or ungrateful because they literally saved our butts out there, but a lot of them just didn't look right if that makes sense.

I wouldn't have been surprised if there was a bit of inbreeding going on, to put it that way, and some of them had this far-away, glassy look in their eyes like their way. wasn't too much going on between their ears if you get my drift. So, as much as we were happy to be eating some proper food for the first time in like 24 hours, we were quite keen on getting out of there too. We were offered goat milk and goat meat, a few baked potatoes, pretty basic food like that, and my God did it taste amazing, even with what little seasoning they used. After that, we spent about an hour just relaxing and digesting with full-on food babies until we realized, in a bit of a panic, that sunset was fast approaching. But then, when it came to asking the village headman to help us find the mountain pass,

he casually refused and kept making hand gestures that we interpreted as tomorrow, or in the morning. A quick show of hands showed that almost no one was focused on bedding down in the village overnight. And given that some of the other girls complained that some of the village boys had been giving them some rather unsavory looks, they'd rather take their chances, camped out on the mountainside than stay in the village overnight. And given how we could literally hear wolves howling on the preceding nights, that was really saying something.

So that's how we ended up packing up our gear, thanking the village head guy after giving him a big chunk of change, and heading off into the twilight to find somewhere to camp. Once we walked a fair distance away from the village, we all started setting up our little tents and whatnot, got a few fires going, and after warming ourselves, and laughing about the close call we had,

we all tried to get some sleep before the busy day ahead of us. We really did need to get all the sleep we could get, as traversing the mountain pass was going to be a heck of a lot of work, even with the food in our bellies. It turns out no one would get any decent sleep on account of the visitor we received in the middle of the night.

I remember being shaken awake by the girl I was sharing a tent with, who told me in this really shaky, scared voice to put my boots on. The next thing I know, I can hear George, the professor leading our group, calling out to someone. He was saying things like, Do you speak English? Are you from the village? We're leaving in the morning and we don't want any trouble.

Whoever he was talking to wasn't saying anything back, and it was around then that I put my boots on and stuck my head outside of the tent to see if I could get a look at the person, only it wasn't just one person. It was about four or five different people standing on a rise above our campsite, shining flashlights down onto us. At least I think it was only that many because that's how many torches they were shining down on us. There could have been a lot more that we couldn't see.

We didn't know who they were or what their intentions were. We had no idea if they were from the village or not, if they intended to rob us and take the rest of our money, or something even worse. Like I said, there were a few of the village boys who seemed to have taken an unhealthy, liking to some of the girls in our group, and my own personal worst fear was just that they'd found our camp and were intent on dragging one or two of us away for,

You know what? Thankfully, a few of the guys came out of their tents to see what was going on. The torches switched off, and we heard the sound of boots on rocks, then silence, meaning whoever it was had retreated, and we all breathed this collective sigh of relief. But like I said, sleep didn't come easy after that, and then that's if you were able to get any sleep at all. At first light, we packed up our things and headed off in the direction of the mountain pass. It was seriously tough on next to no sleep, but thankfully the food in our bellies and the fear in our chests motivated us sufficiently

to make it all the way to the other side by the early afternoon. We were all elated by the time we made it across and down onto the lush green fields on the other side. It was like a little slice of paradise right before our eyes, and the best thing was, we could clearly see quite a large village just a mile or two away, one that would certainly have access to food, and more importantly, alcohol. I personally needed a strong one after the day we'd had, and luckily, there was a small bar in the village square that was only too happy to provide us with these big bottles of plum brandy they called Palinka.

The owner of the bar was quite proficient in English too, which certainly made our lives easier, and he ended up asking us about our trip. Obviously, one of the first things we told him about was our run-in at the mountain village and how it started out as a rather nervy encounter that turned into a seriously creepy midnight confrontation. When we told him, he gave us this rather bemused look before telling us that we must have been confused. According to him, there were no villages around the mountain pass and that they'd all been demolished

during the communist era, with the occupants being moved on to collective. farms. We all sort of gave each other these funny looks as if to say, well, that can't be right, before informing him that he was mistaken. If the government had deported all those mountain people, it looked like they'd moved right back up there as soon as the iron curtain fell, so to speak. The conversation then moved on to us asking why the government had done something so cruel as to deport entire villages away from their homes, and shockingly, the bar owner seemed to have very little sympathy for them. He launched off into some speech about it being the best thing for them, how they were all illiterate,

and they needed to be dragged kicking and screaming into the modern world. We thought this was a bit harsh, honestly. I mean, everyone is entitled to live the way they want to. At least that's the way I see it. But he disagreed. He said if we knew the truth about what they did up there, we wouldn't be so sympathetic. Then, without a hint of jest or hyperbole to his words, he tells us that they're cannibals, and that they eat the weakest of their own number in order to conserve resources.

Not only that, but they steal the breast milk of their pregnant women to distribute among the men of the village. That's when one of us piped up that one of the first things they'd shared with us was meat and milk. Of course, they'd claimed it was goat milk, but none of us had ever drunk it before, so how would we know the difference? The man looked absolutely horrified when we told him this. then promptly walked away from our table before disappearing behind the bar. Our group looked equally horrified, at least until a few of the older members spoke up that the bloke was either seriously misinformed, horrifically bigoted,

or was just playing some elaborate joke on us that he could share with his regulars for a good old laugh. This one guy named Adrian was saying something like, there was absolutely no chance that they were a bit backwards but cannibals, no bloody chance, and I'm very much inclined to agree with him on that. We were in Romania, not some random isolated island, and given the grinding poverty they were suffering, it was almost an impossibility that they'd share anything as precious as milk with us,

even if they were bloody paying. After all, there were tons of goats trotting around the village, plenty of females with swollen udders too, so I can almost categorically say that we didn't engage in cannibalism, nor did we drink any of the women's milk, so to speak. The only thing that really still scares me to this day is the gang of mysterious people who we encountered, the ones who shone torches down on us from the ridge line above.

No one with any innocent intentions just rolls up on a camp of sleeping people like that. They didn't say a word to us, didn't greet us in Romanian, and you'd think they'd at least say something to us to ensure their good intentions, even if it was in a language we couldn't understand. After all, it's all in the tone of voice, and not so much exactly what you're saying. It makes me wonder what would have happened if there hadn't been so many of us, if it had been just all girls, or the lads hadn't come out of their tents for an unintentional show of force.

Sometimes I don't think they were just curious about us. Sometimes I think that they had something very, very bad in mind for us, and we're all extremely lucky that they didn't go ahead with whatever they were planning. I don't think it was the nicer guy who fed us either. I don't think it had anything to do with him. I think it was the younger lads who had been ogling the girls in our group, and I think they'd have been monsters given half the chance. All in all, it was a wonderful trip,

just one that was slightly marred by a rather unpleasant nocturnal encounter. The people we met in Romania were, for the most part, some of the kindest, most welcoming people one could ever wish to meet. But there were a small few. and I say this in no uncertain terms, that might have done things to us that meant we never made it home alive. Kira pulled into the parking lot of the campground and was surprised to see that it was nearly full. F-150s with boat trailers and obnoxious RVs filled multiple spots, completely disregarding other campers. She sighed.

The one weekend I get off, and everyone decides to go camping here, she whispered to herself. She drove by the packed rows, frustrated and nearly ready to leave, but as luck would have it, a small single spot revealed itself to her. She waited ever so briefly to weigh her options. I should just go back home. I don't even like camping, she told herself. However, a car behind her honked, interrupting her moment of reflection, and she pulled into the spot. She got out of the car, grabbed her large backpack, and went to the mouth of the trail. The need of the need of the next nearby lake was slightly less crowded, but people lined most of the nearby lake shore, and a few dozen watercrafts were out enjoying their day. Oh, how Kira wished she could be

out there with friends, basking in the sun and cool water, enjoying her time, perhaps drinking and gossiping about work or boys. But that wasn't the case for her. She had lived mostly a sheltered life, never taking risks, never acting on desires outside of her control. She was a loner, but not by choice. Her anxiety and depression had a firm grip on her, one that she felt she would never be released from. She proceeded to the trail and glanced to both sides. Colorful tents and camping chairs lined fire pits, and the woods were bright and full of people playing various yard games. Each campsite seemed full. She continued her way down to the end of the trail, where thick woods seemed to provide a barrier from the joyful campsites in the bleak woods beyond.

She glanced back one last time, and much like her life, there was no room for her here amongst the happy people. She wanted to cut her losses and head back home, but remembered that her therapist had promised that if she did something outside of her comfort zone, she'd begin to grow. She pressed forward through the woods, still able to hear the commotion of the other campers. Near the trail ahead of her was a similar view of land, but much more cleared out. Although talking to normal people in everyday situations was really hard for her. She loved the lonesomeness that the woods provided. Nighttime especially. The darkness seemed to call to her.

She secretly longed for it, the blackness of the void to cover her and erase her from this painful world. The worn trail seemed to be less maintained the further she went into the woods. The twists and turns made it feel like this path went on forever. Instead of just camping off the trail, an idea had crept into her mind. What lies beyond, she thought, just further down into the woods, perhaps there was the perfect spot for seclusion, a nice dark little nook just for her, what she lacked in social ability she made up for in curiosity.

Maybe just out of earshot of the other campers, she thought, as she hiked into the darker recesses of the woods. The untouched portion of the woods was less appealing to the eye, but much of the more gratifying overall. This was real nature, not the ideal construct of what people tend to make it out to be, but the real unfiltered nature that she so desperately needed. Time didn't seem to affect her as she eventually found herself a good ways in, beyond the sight or sound of anyone else. She began to set up her one main tent by clearing the litter of leaves out of the area. The uneven ground proved difficult, but once the tent was fully erect,

didn't seem to matter. Once the site was fully set up, she realized that there was much more daylight left than she had anticipated. Simply sitting in her tent didn't appeal to her. The idea of walking back over to the overpopulated campsites to try to make friends seem troublesome, but taking a reflective hike deeper into the woods was far more appealing. She set her stuff down and didn't bother taking her phone. She only brought her half-full hydroflask and a small jacket, just on the off chance that the weather decided to take a turn for the worse. She made sure to keep a mental note of where she was going, so as not to get lost in the unfamiliar woods alone, but she wasn't terribly worried. Despite her being tucked away in the portion of unmarked woods,

she quickly found an old trail that led deeper into the forest. The path was unkempt, almost unrecognizable had she not been looking for it, but now that she was on it, it was almost impossible to miss. She placed a single earbud in, and played an audiobook while also keeping an ear out for nature. Normally she would indulge herself with an additional substance like shrooms or THC, but seeing how she was alone in an unfamiliar forest, she decided to hold off until after her hike. About an hour into the hike,

she began to realize that the atmosphere she had seen earlier was nearly the opposite. The lively chatter of nearby campers was replaced by an unsettling silence. Birds and small insects had ceased their noise, the overall vibe matching that of a cemetery. However, this was exactly the kind of piece she was looking for, but not to this degree. Silence was always welcome to her, but this was something else. She looked around and removed her earbud to better ground herself in where she was. Trees surrounded the trail, but up ahead a couple of hundred yards or so, a small clearing indicated something of value might be there.

The walk to the clearing was much different than the entirety of the hike. Fear, perhaps of stumbling upon someone's remote cabin, crept into the back of her mind. She had heard her fair share of horror stories of hermits occupying remote cabins to make drugs or perform ungodly acts away from society. However, this all dissipated almost instantly once she reached the mouth of the clearing. Sitting in the open field, perhaps 100 feet in the air or so, was a gargantuan structure.

The metal frame and its supports were old and rusted, but still seemed to support the small viewing station sitting on top. Kira racked her brain for a few moments, but quickly realized that this was a fire tower. There were no signs posted at the base of the stairs, and no indicators of restricted access. She quickly walked over and examined the stairs up. She listened briefly, but the overwhelming silence persisted.

The option to turn back at this point was going to have to wait. Kira had been able to follow the old trail to a hidden treasure tucked away in the woods, all for herself to examine. She began up the stairs, excited to see what wonders she would be able to see from the new perspective she had found. An unobstured view of the lake was most likely an option. Her excitement was beginning to cloud her judgment. She speedily ascended the stairs, not worrying about the potential dangers of going inside an old structure. The tower creaked slowly as its frame moved slightly in the wind. Her footsteps sounded up the tower, filling the silence of the forest nearby with excitement.

Unaware of her pace, she ended up stopping about three-quarters of the way to catch her breath. Her legs began to burn slightly as the hour hike plus the rigorous stairs began to take their toll. Looking out from the staircase, she could already see above the tree line. Far stretches of green met her gaze as she drank in all that needed. nature had to offer. She prepped herself for the last few flights before reaching the top. Her hike was going to be much slower, but she didn't mind. Before she started up the stairs again, the excitement of the fire tower was beginning to diminish. She was now more aware. She bent down to tighten both shoes and noticed that the stairs, mixed with their rust, also had dried stains.

Surely this could have been mud or tracks of other people, but the thought crept into her mind. Once the realization hit, she listened, not just for the enjoyment of nature, but to try to see if there was something else nearby. Again, the silence was far too heavy, but now she was actively conscious of it. She continued, but much slower this time. For some bizarre reason, her anxiety, the one thing she was trying to escape from, had returned. Her brain was on high alert, telling her that something was wrong, but it had yet to provide any reason or proof to convince her to decline the view from the top. Her mind would soon be validated as the pressing silence she endured for the last 20 minutes or so began to leave. A mysterious sound began to

emanate from above, a soft and rhythmic humming seeming to come from the tower. Her mind was still aware, but the sound was so bizarre that curiosity replaced her anxiety. At first, The sound gave her the brief impression that it could have been the hooting of an owl. But that theory was quickly thrown out the closer she reached the top. The low humming began to reveal itself as the melancholy sounds of sobbing. Someone was here, out in the middle of nowhere, standing in this tower, and they were sobbing. Something was not right. Kira now stood two flights of stairs away from reaching the top, but that was no longer appealing.

her breathing began to get heavy as she was now concerned about alerting whoever this disturbed person was to her presence. Thankfully, the winds at this height gave her a slight cushion as they covered most of the sounds. Kira glanced at the stairs and noticed more stains smeared across the walkway. However, these were far fresher. Some of the stains still dripped a thick, dark liquid, indicating that something was probably dragged up here. After seeing the stains, Kira gasped. Once she did, the sobbing from above suddenly stopped. The wind had betrayed her as it now held its gust, and silence once again filled the air.

She stepped backward, hoping that whoever was above was oblivious to her presence. Motion could be heard from above, and Kira now knew it was time to get out of there. She ran down the stairs as quickly as her body would allow. She didn't bother with sound at this point, as speed was her main concern. An ear-piercing scream came from above, sending chills down her spine. Had she not already been moving, she would have most likely been petrified in place. She quickly reached the bottom of the stairs and knew better than to look back. She knew if she did, she would see something she wouldn't like.

Kira struggled to find the old trail back to her camp, but fate was again on her side. She eventually found it. A quick glance behind her, while a good portion down the trail, confirmed that she was not being followed. A sigh of relief began to wash over her. She began to calm down as she got closer to her camp. Before she reached her camp, she saw a peculiar sight. Standing in the middle of the trail ahead of her was a park ranger mounted on an old horse.

He wore a uniform in badge, including the iconic hat. He appeared to be old and unaware of her presence. She caught him off guard as she said hello while approaching. Whoa, what are you doing out here? he said, legitimately surprised. Sorry, I'm just out for a hike, she said. His old crusty gaze peered over her in a disapproving way. You shouldn't be out here. You need to stay on the posted trail so you don't get lost.

Kira nodded. Okay, I can do that, she said politely. I ought to write you a ticket, but I don't have a pen. Next time, you won't be so lucky. Kira nodded. Oh, by the way, there's someone crying in the fire tower at the end of the trail, Kira mentioned as she passed the ranger on the trail. The ranger had a bizarre look on his face. You've been to the fire tower?

He said, legitimately confused. She stopped. I didn't go inside, but I could hear someone crying from outside. The ranger was silent as he clearly contemplated this new information. All right. Well, no one's supposed to be able to see. to be out there, but I'll go take a quick look. Kira noticed that the ranger had a rifle tucked into his saddle as well as a pistol holstered at

his hip. The two went separate ways, and Kira was slightly frustrated. She made her way back to camp and could hear the noise again of the other joyful campers. The atmosphere had shifted again, but this time for the positive. The warm sun soon began to set, as brilliant oranges and pinks filled the sky. Kira debated moving her camp closer to the others, but felt it would be too much work, especially as it was getting dark. Nighttime eventually came, and her strange encounter in the woods faded from her mind. She got a small fire going and began eating the food she had brought as she relaxed under the stars. Kira called it an early night and put out her fire, making sure to get rid of any trash and food so that critters wouldn't

get into them. Her hike had taken its toll on her, and she drifted off quickly into her sleeping bag. As soft and sweet as her dreams were, they didn't last long. Kira was awoken several hours later by the sound of something heavy moving outside her tent. It jolted her awake. Something large could be heard moving outside, and she slowly began to panic at her newfound situation. However, it didn't take her long to recognize the familiar sounds. As she poked her head out from the tent, she shined her light on the familiar horse she had seen earlier that day. The horse was walking with a limp, and its rider, the grouchy old ranger, was nowhere to be seen. She got out of the tent and went to inspect the large animal, seeing that both the horse and the saddle had several

scratches on them. The horse was slightly shaking, but enjoyed her embrace. What happened to you? as she gently rubbed the horse. Surprisingly enough, the saddle still had its rifle on it. She racked her mind for what could have possibly happened, but was unsure. Maybe a bear attack or even a cougar could have done this. The horse then began to walk away, back out onto the trail leading back to the fire tower. She couldn't just let the horse go, not after what she had seen. The horse then stopped and waited as she slowly began to follow behind it with her flashlight. she realized that the horse was leading her somewhere, most likely to the scene of the incident. After seeing what the horse was doing, she grabbed the rifle from the saddle and continued to follow.

Her light shook as they walked side by side, unsure of what they were about to see. The old trail was much different at night. Darkness seemed to fill all parts of the path, except for the small area where the flashlight shined. The only thing that was the same was that eerie silence. Shadows cast by branches and tree limbs gave off terrible portraits of potential monsters lurking in the woods. Kira tried her best to stay focused and not be so jumpy. After a long walk deeper into the woods, the horse finally stopped. Kira shined her light around, hoping for anything to explain what was going on,

but was only left with more questions. Her light eventually landed briefly on a figure lying face down on the ground. The familiar uniform revealed to her ahead of time, who it most, likely was. She walked over quietly and took the rifle off her shoulder. Her light revealed small portions of blood and torn clothing laying around the lifeless body. She bent down and nudged it softly to find that it was firm and cold. She turned it over to confirm that it was indeed the old ranger from before. His torso had several scratches running across it, but the bizarre thing about it was his face. A look of horror still held on his face, as it as it was a

his mouth hung open, his jaw broken, and making his expression even more extreme. Red stains smeared across his beard and neck as more scratches could be found. It was his eyes that startled Kira. Instead of his eyes having pupils or even being removed altogether, his eyes were even more terrifying. A milky white color seemed to fill the entire eyeball with no traces of color. Kira gasped in horror as something inexplicable had clearly occurred here. She tried to move his body, but he was far too heavy. Kira quickly turned back to the horse. I can't move him.

We need more help, she whispered to the horse. Kira put the rifle on her back and tried to pull the horse along, but it wouldn't budge. The horse was loyal to its owner, even though he had clearly passed. She quickly made her way back to her tent where she tried calling the police. Of course, she couldn't get a connection in the woods, so she had to quickly make her way out to the parking lot. Once she called the police, they gave her an estimate of when she could expect the two officers to arrive. Kira waited in her car for 45 minutes before they showed up. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning.

The police arrived with their lights on, but no siren. Kira met them, but made sure to leave the ranger's rifle in the car. I'm the one that called about the body, she said frantically as she approached the two officers. Let's try to calm our voices down. We don't want to alarm the other campers, one officer said in a hushed tone. I should also mention that I found his rifle out in the woods. I grabbed it to make sure no one else did anything stupid with it. She pointed to her car.

The second officer peered inside. I'm going to grab this as evidence, he said. But instead of putting the rifle in the police cruiser, he slung it on his shoulder. Okay, show us where the body is. Kira led the two officers out into the woods. They found the small trail and followed it while doing their best to be quiet. All three of them had flashlights and shine them in different directions as they quietly ventured to the scene. Once they arrived where Kira had left the body, a shocking discovery was made.

The horse, which had been determined to stay there, was still there but was no longer in one piece. Its body was absolutely destroyed, and aside from its head, no other part was recognizable. The body of the Ranger, however, was no longer there. This is where the body was, Kira whispered. Both officers were silent as they scanned the woods around them. One of the officers then shushed Kira as they listened intently. The same stillness of the forest hung quietly, but a familiar sound could be heard down the trail, the sound of crying.

The two officers then looked at one another and proceeded to go towards the noise. Wait, Kira whispered, Something's not right about this. The second officer removed the rifle from his shoulder. It's clear that someone's under stress, and we need to look into this. Kira then followed them but made sure to stay behind, just on the off chance that something bad would happen. The three eventually reached the source of the sound,

and to everyone's surprise, just sitting off the main trail was a tall man. He was slightly hunched over and facing a tree. His forearms were covered in a dark liquid, but that wasn't what concerned them. The tall figure was bald and completely naked. His lanky arms looked brittle, with hands and feet that were too large. Sir, is everything okay?

The first officer said while slowly drawing his pistol. The figure then stopped crying as they all stood there in silence, not responding. Tension began to build as both officers slowly got closer to the mysterious figure. Sir, I'm going to need you to turn around, the officer said again. No response. Kira had backed up at this point. Before both officers could issue a final warning,

the figure slowly turned to reveal a horrifying face. Blood ran from its teeth-filled mouth, and milky white eyes stared at the officers. The creature had no exterior nose, just a hole in its head. The officers were stunned as the creature sprinted off into the woods at an alarming speed. They had clearly come across something that they didn't have a rational explanation for. The three silently agreed that the best option was to get out of there quickly. Their pace was quickened by the thought of that thing returning.

Once back at the main campgrounds, both officers quickly got in their cruisers while alerting no one about the situation. Whatever it was that we saw out there, it's beyond our ability to assist, the second officer said before driving off. Kira sat in the dark parking lot as the taillight slowly faded off into the distance. I have spent the last hour Google. the name of my hometown. Nothing is there. All the local schools and restaurants are gone. Even my social media is messed up. I can't find any of my friends online. I can't find anybody.

I'm actually kind of freaking out about it. Has anybody ever experienced anything like this before? Don't believe me? Try it yourself. Fallaten City High. Gone. Fallaten Middle. Gone. Fallaten elementary school, gone. Fallerton City College, gone. That preschool behind the tire place and next to that McDonald's where my mom took us growing up. You get the idea. All gone. Thousands of people. Dozens of places. I can't find information for anybody. It's like we disappeared. I can't even reach the cops. I wish that were the only problem. My family and I woke up this morning to a total blackout. Every single house on the block lost power. That does tend to happen out here in the valley, often enough that my older brother Mark rigged his computer to get a connection via

satellite. The two of us are currently crouched beside the generator, desperately trying to get a handle on the past few hours. My parents are panicking. They won't say anything. They won't say why. But we have our suspicions. I saw something in the woods last night. Right before the power went out, when it was still dark outside, Mark woke me up and pulled me over to his bedside window. He pointed frantically into the trees behind our house. It was raining. The mist made it difficult for my eyes to adjust. But after a moment, something big, we only agree on something big, darted toward the neighbor's back porch.

A thick branch fell in its wake. Then somebody screamed. My parents rushed into the room right at that moment. moment. I guess they heard the commotion and freaked. Mom beckoned for us to get away from the window. I gave in right away, because my parents can be scary when we don't listen, but Mark lingered there a little while longer. I didn't see what he saw. Mark whispered that he saw somebody running. He said it looked like they were running away from something. My father turned off the lights, I found that odd, and pushed my brother aside. He squinted out the window in silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he concluded nothing was there, just wind in the trees. Then the power went out. My parents have been acting very weird ever since. During the day, my mom tried to keep us in the kitchen. She made breakfast, lunch, and dinner over the fireplace. She even broke out a board game in the afternoon, and we played for a couple of hours. She kept asking about schoolwork, football, baseball, or anything but the odd situation we were in. We tried to change the subject, tried to ask her what was happening outside, but it was no use. She ignored our questions. My father had a wild look in his eyes. Mark and I can't recall anything like it. He kept rushing to check the window every few minutes. Then he would sit down

to check his cell phone. Then back to the window. Then back to his phone. Like clockwork. Each rotation left him more agitated than the last. The cable didn't work. The internet had been body. There was really nothing to do but read a book or play a game. Mark asked to go for a walk before dinner. I thought mom might pop the temple out of her forehead. Nobody goes outside, she snapped. There could be live wires on the ground. Mark snorted. Watch your attitude, she barked, and keep the windows closed. I asked why, and she just stared at me with these deadly, fearful eyes that made me really uncomfortable. She looked like she wanted to tell me something. But my father answered instead. Nobody goes outside. I returned to my book without argument. I found one of my

mom's old Stephen King collections and stumbled onto a story about rats in a basement bigger than a man. Time moved a little faster while I read. The walls of my house started to evaporate. It didn't take long for my imagination to disappear down the stairwell in the story, plunging further into the darkness with each step, listening to untold things move around me perilously through the blackness. Someone knocked on the door around 10 p.m. After an entire day of endless boredom, I thought this might be salvation. Thank God. Maybe a maintenance worker.

Maybe a neighbor. Maybe my friend from down the block finally convinced his mother to traverse the minefield of imaginary live wire. I got up from my chair to answer the door. My father sprinted across the room to block me. I don't think I had ever seen him run before. He put his hand over my mouth. I tried to protest. He squeezed my arm. He didn't look angry. He looked scared. His eyes were on fire. It grew quiet outside, like someone was listening. One finger over his lips told me to shut up.

I looked over to my mom and saw her doing the same thing to my brother. He looked like he wanted to cry. The knocking resumed. The pace was pleasant at first. Your typical, formal, but friendly, rat-tap-tap. then a pause, then rat tap tap tap. I was confused. Why were they scared? Why would a burglar knock? I thought that this could be someone who could tell us what was going on, and it annoyed me that my parents were paranoid,

so I got the idea to try saying something anyway. Not my best thought. He... My father grabbed me by the throat and pushed me up against the wall. His sweaty palm slipped against my mouth. He raised one finger to his lips. and held it there. The knocking continued. My brother whimpered in the corner. The door hinges wind from the pressure of the knocks. My father reached into his pocket with the hand that was

formerly placed around my neck. I knew he had a knife in there. The knocking continued. And just as soon as it started, the knocking stopped. The house got quiet again. My father let go of me. It's been hours since the knocker left. My partner left. My parents still won't talk to us. My mom is sleeping on the couch. My dad is sitting in front of the door with a gun across his lap. Can someone please tell us what's happening in Falaton City? I still can't find anything online. We are available through message and comment as long as our connection holds. I don't think I'll sleep much tonight. It's too quiet. Do you know what happens when you search online for Falaton City now? This post comes up. I'm not quite sure how

to describe that feeling. We are a community of hundreds, if not thousands, of people, each with countless stories and worries of our own. You are only hearing one of them now. I cannot understand how our digital footprint could disappear overnight, but here we are, day two in a missing city. I didn't get much sleep last night. Mark spent most of it glued to our bedroom window. He woke me and called me over every now and again. Sometimes he saw flashes of light in the distance, Sometimes he saw movement in the trees. Mostly we saw fog. Thick blankets of it descended on our house like a comforter.

It also never stopped raining. Big gusts of wind thumped the house hard enough to make us jump. But the most uncomfortable parts of the previous night were the periods of complete and total silence. Something about that quiet can really make you crazy. In any given suburb, there are a million background noises at once, even in a storm, even at night. at night. Birds should be chirping. Insects should be buzzing. Car engines or motorcycles or air conditioners should all be gently humming in unison. But we didn't hear any of it, not a single sound

but our own. I couldn't stop thinking about the neighborhood dogs. Shouldn't they be barking? There was one in particular, a yappy little thing named Sazar, which never passed up a good opportunity to wake you up in favor of a scrambling squirrel or rabbit. Did our neighbors have time to get them inside? Did something else happen to them? What happened to Cesar? Mark woke me up for the final time around five. I tried and failed to shrug him off. I heard something in the street, he whispered. Let's go. I asked him what he heard. Clicking, he answered. He got up and walked towards the living room without another word. I didn't want to go. I was freaked out enough. I didn't and still don't need to add another messed up layer to this situation. Blissful ignorance is sometimes the best approach,

but I got a gut feeling that this wasn't something that should be missed, and I didn't want Mark to be there alone for it, so I followed him. The hallway that leads to the living room passes by my parents' bedroom. We could hear my mother snoring softly on the other side. A baseball bat was propped up by her nightstand. Her cell phone was at the ready right beside it. We tiptoed past the creaking wood floor and arrived at the entrance to the kitchen. The clicking became clearer by that point. Mark pointed over to an alcove by the couch. I followed him to the corner. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. My father was sleeping with the gun in his hand. There was a window behind him that looked out into our entire living room. Staring through the other side was a giant black eyeball.

We froze. The eye darted back and forth across the room. We were in plain sight, just standing. there in the kitchen like a couple of idiots, but for some reason the eye didn't seem to notice us. It passed by a couple of times to focus on the toaster or something else. My father must have subconsciously read the tension in the air. He stirred and moved to roll over. When he did, thankfully, we locked eyes. I put one finger to my lips, a sober understanding dawned on his face. He took the safety off his gun. The eye responded to the movement of the gun, and in one swift jolt disappeared from behind the window,

leaving a wake of leaves and scattered footsteps behind it. The air left my lungs. Something big ascended the wood steps to our porch. My dad turned to aim the gun. The knocking continued. This time we didn't need anyone to tell us. We all stayed quiet.

We sat in still silence for the better part of the early morning. My mother awoke some hours later and got prepared to make breakfast, and only then did it feel safe enough to move around the house. Nobody told her what happened. I didn't think we needed to. My father certainly wasn't going to. I got the feeling from the look on his face that he would prefer not to talk at all for as long as he could. Mark returned to his spot by the window. Dad disappeared downstairs to get another box of ammo for his gun. I helped Mom cook over the fire,

and we all went about our tasks in complete and total silence. Nobody tried to fake conversation, anymore. There wasn't any point in arguing about what was out there. We had enough food. We had enough water. Nobody was going anywhere. A knock came at the door just after noon. Each of us instantly stopped what we were doing. A sigh of relief echoed through the room when the familiar voice of our neighbor, Mr. Hallow, followed. He was looking for us. The door pounded harder. No time to explain, please, he shouted. Can you let us in? My father walked in and stood awkwardly between my mother and the door. I could tell that he would prefer to ignore it, but she would never let him live it down, the true married man's dilemma. Please, folks, if you're in there,

open up, we don't have a lot of time, he said. Mark shook his head, please, he begged, Jean is hurt, my mom bit her nails. Dad gave in and reluctantly looked through the peephole. Satisfied with his view of the other side, he slid the pistol into his back pocket, unlatched the lock and opened the door. Thank you, he said. Mr. Hallow is a big burly guy. He took my father into his arms and slapped his back so hard the sound echoed down the hall. He moved over to chase my mother down for a kiss on the cheek as his wife and daughter trailed meekly behind. Thank you, he bellowed. Thank you, thank you. We didn't know if we'd see anybody else. My dad nodded awkwardly. My mom stepped up and hugged Mrs. Hallow tight. A quiet, pitiful moan

escaped her lips as she did. The two of them were usually thick as thieves. My neighbor was a nice lady, the type that usually never shuts up, but now she couldn't get a word out. A thin line of blood trickled behind her foot. It didn't take long to notice the source. Her slacks were cut from the ankle to the knee. My dad slammed the door. Come on, Jeannie, my mother cooed. Let's get you cleaned up. The two of them walked hand in hand to the kitchen. Mr. Hallow sat down on our couch and wiped the sweat from his forehead and t-shirt. His daughter, Alice, perched herself neatly on the arm beside him. Like I said, he said while catching his breath, lucky we found somebody.

My father nodded again. Did you see it? Mark asked. Whatever's out there, I mean. Mr. Hallow stared back at him. He took a second before he spoke, like he wanted to pick his words, which didn't quite fit for a guy like him. one of them got in the house, he said definitively. An open window, downstairs, we, we trapped it in the basement. My father held up his hand.

Didn't feel safe staying there, though, he continued. My father interrupted. Enough, he whispered. Take a break, Mike. Let's talk. Mr. Hallow nodded in bewilderment. He got up and shuffled after my father towards the dining room, leaving Mark and I uncomfortably with Alice. Alice Hallow is around my age. She's short,

with dark hair and dark eyes. She has this awkwardly adorable round head that she covers up with a bow or pin or some other new accessory every other day. I've had a crush on her since grade school. I know that's probably not relevant, but I just want to point out what may later become obvious. Mark elbowed me in the ribs. I ignored it. So did you see anything? I asked. Like, did you see anybody out there? She paused and then shook her head. Well, what does it look like outside? Mark asked. Normal, quiet, she answered.

And you really didn't see anything? I asked again. When it started, I mean. She looked at me and shook her head, paused, then relented. We were all inside sleeping like you probably were. It was late, she started. Or early. I don't know.

My dad was upstairs. I was upstairs. My mom doesn't sleep much so she was doing some laundry in the basement. She continued. She hesitated. I don't know what woke me up first, her screaming or the power going out. They both seemed to happen at the same time. My dad started shouting her name, you know, Jeannie, Jeannie,

and my mom was just wailing from the basement. We both got to the kitchen and we could see her running up the steps. She was screaming at my dad, you know, close the door. close the door. But my dad couldn't stop looking at whatever was behind her. He just froze, she said. Right, Mark whispered. Can't blame him.

So I reach out and slam the door. Just as my mom makes it through, and something wedges itself in the doorway, she said. Holy crap, I murmured. What was it? I don't know, something thick and sharp, like a claw, I guess. It was wet too. It left a stain.

Anyway, I couldn't get the door. shut because of it. I was panicking. I kicked my dad in the shin, and he threw his body weight against the frame. The lock finally clicked, and we heard whatever it was fall down the stairs on the other side, she said. She paused. It didn't come up again, she said. My father re-emerged from the dining room some moments after our awkward silence. Mr. Hallow trailed sheepishly behind. Who's ready to eat, he asked. We ate our fire-cooked meal in relative silence. All four parents made it abundantly clear through menacing stairs that the topic of the crap show outside would not be discussed with children present.

Mark again asked if he could go for a walk. Nobody dignified him with a response. After our dishes were done and disposed of, we retreated into various alcoves of our suddenly cramped three-bedroom. Mark and I went back to our room. Alice set up shop in the office with her mom. My mother retired to bed early and both dads stood, sat, guard in the living room. The house grew quiet again.

The wind and rain finally seemed to slow down. My Stephen King novella kept me company. I couldn't help but empathize with the main character. Somewhere between tales of rats and armor, bat rats, and albino rats who never saw the sun, sleep came easily and comfortably under my familiar warm sheets. I woke up to a rude shaking. Alice was standing over me. She didn't say anything.

I guess she didn't have to. Mark and I rubbed the last remaining ounce of sleep out of our eyes and followed her wordlessly into the office. Two cots were set up in the room. One looked disheveled. The other was still made. Alice pointed to the open window. Her mother was gone. My hometown is dying, and I don't want to die with it. I know it sounds ridiculous to be lamenting on an internet forum while the world is melting around me. At the moment, it definitely feels ridiculous. But you have to understand. If we don't survive, which we almost certainly won't, this story will be my town's last living record. That's important to me. That's important to them. I have to let someone know what happened here, even if it's only you.

The truth is obvious now. We are being exterminated. This town and its people are being erased. Folleton City is all but wiped from the collective subconscious already. All that's remaining are the survivors, the creatures, and this story. I'll keep it going as long as they let me. I don't know why this is happening. I don't particularly care. Not anymore. I just want to get out of here.

This will be my last post from inside my childhood home, the only home I've ever known. My brother and I have decided that we won't die here. Mark packed a couple of essentials in our school backpack. The only thing that's remaining is this laptop in a frank conversation with my parents. I know they're scared. We're all scared. But we have to do something. Mrs. Hallow didn't come back last night. Alice only stopped crying long enough to tell the adults what she knew, which wasn't much. She fell asleep sometime around midnight.

Her mother was in the room at the time. She was acting strange though, you know? She sobbed. She just kept repeating the same things over and over, and her face was white, like really, really white. I thought it was just shock over what happened. The scratch, the attack, you know. I didn't know. I didn't know. Mr. Hallow was inconsolable. Well, we have to find her, Jack, he bellowed. Me, you, and the boys.

Alice can come too if she's up to it. We've got weapons, don't we? You've got a small arsenal here, Richardson. They're big, but the damn things are stupid enough. My father just shook his head and pursed his lips. I won't risk my family's safety, Dad insisted, especially not at night. Mr. Hallow's already red face turned a particular shade of scarlet. He looked like he might blow a gasket.

Then he calmed himself and delivered the next bit like a sermon. Fine, he spit. Stay inside and cower, lie to your kids. Keep them underneath the covers long enough, and maybe they won't think there's monsters outside. You raise your family how you want, jerk. But don't you dare tell me how to take care of it. of mine. Mark looked down at his feet. I avoided my father's glance. Alice, let's go, Mr. Hallow beckoned. Get what you got. Please, my father interrupted. Just wait a minute. We're not staying, Mr.

Hallow finished. You're not convincing me to abandon my wife out there. You know me better than that, Jack. My father reached out and handed him a gun. We have extra. He paused. You'll need it more. Mr. Hallow nodded awkwardly. He took the pistol and stuffed it into an oversized coat pocket before turning and heading for the door. My mom met him there with some bread and other things stuffed into a plastic bag. There wasn't much, but I think she felt like she had to do something, and she looked like she wanted to say more.

But she didn't. Alice reached out and gave me a warm hug. She held on longer than expected. Right around that time, I really wish she would stay. Not because of my feelings for her, but because a piece of each of us knew what would happen next. It all just happened so fast. Thank you for the hospitality, she said. Mr. Hallow shook each of our hands one last time. My father opened the door for him. Without another word, the pair descended the front porch into a thick evening fog. Alice turned back to wave, then she turned around and they were gone. My father shut the door. Dad shuffled back to the couch and collapsed.

Mom waited at the door like they might change their minds. Mark perched at the window. He looked over and shook his head at me. Just as an all-too-familiar clicking echoed down the block. I could feel my body instinctively tensing. I had no true preparation for what came next. The sound started quietly, before it seemed to fill the air. Soon it was as if a thousand crickets suddenly invaded Follatin and all decided to chirp at the same time.

The ringing, awful cacophony of it was deafening. Somebody outside screamed. I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. The chirping erupted even louder and seemed to devour their voice. My father held his head in his hands. He motioned for us to block our ears. My mother started to cry. Underneath the clicking, underneath the screams,

one word became clearer as it repeated over and over again in the distance. Jeannie, Jeannie, Jeannie, Jeannie, the man screamed. The gun went off soon after. Jeannie, he said. One shot at first, then two, three, four in quick succession. Somebody else started screaming. I knew that. That had to be Alice.

The pain behind that scream made my stomach turn. The gun went off one more time. The clicking dissipated. The screams stopped. And then it was quiet again. My father got up and quietly led my brother away from the window. Mom fell to a heap in front of the couch. I could feel the tears forming in the corner of my eyes and desperately fought them back.

You knew that would happen, I accused my dad. Why did you let her go? He stared back at me. His eyes were cold. Heavy footsteps echoed on the porch. The knocking continued. My mother couldn't control her sobs. My father dropped onto the floor to silence her. It was no use. The two of them ended up in this awkward wrestling embrace. The pounding outside continued. We killed them, Mark whimpered, and now they're going to kill us. The footsteps left the porch and circled the house. We heard a knocking from my bedroom window. Then the office window.

They're checking for weaknesses, Mark whispered, trying to find a way in. The sound ascended to the roof. Heavy footsteps paced back and forth above us. The chimney kicked back smoke. It's too small, my father murmured. They can't fit. Please God, they can't fit. My mother wrapped her arms around her head.

The knocking surrounded us. There had to be a dozen of them, all checking. various points of entry, all clicking their disturbingly loud song in unison. Staying quiet would be no use. They had to know we were inside. Mark gestured for me to look through the peephole. I squinted and noticed something in the distance. It was still dark, but the sun started to rise on the horizon, and with it came a few tentative beads of light which softly illuminated the neighborhood. I realized I was staring at the home of Yapi-Cesar. Standing in front of it was something I hope to never see again. The creature stood at least two to three times the height of a

man. It held itself up on two massive legs that bent wildly at the knee, almost like pincers, and behind it were smaller legs that trailed behind sort of uselessly. I thought at the time that they looked like fins. One of the bent legs reached out to my neighbor's glass. There was a moment's pause. Their window opened. I had to fight my instincts as a woman leaned outside, as if to greet the creature, which gently took her into its hind legs and rambled down the hill. The unrelenting clicking soon gave way to the scurrying of heavy footsteps. A massive weight lifted itself off our roof. The sun came up.

We were alone again. We have to leave today. We can't take no for an answer. We have no choice. These things know we're here. They will get inside tonight. If I don't make it, you know what happened. But please wish me luck.

I feel better knowing that some trace of my town will live on this forum. I can hardly describe driving through the complete devastation of my hometown. We passed dozens of familiar homes from over the years. Some of them had bullet holes. Some had bent frames or broken glass. Some had dead bodies in their front yards. And I tried not to look at those too long, because I knew the faces. But it's hard to stop yourself from looking once you start, you know?

I saw Alice, I saw Mr. Hallow, I saw neighbors, I saw friends, some of them died running, some died fighting, but all of them seemed to end up the same way, in scattered bits and pieces, cast like trash, almost decorating their own immaculately made front lawns. My father drove the car, only one road led us out of town, but it passed through a few hiccups along the way. The supermarket on Grand Street sat behind two apartment complex that tended to be crowded. The gas station on Maine would allow us to fill up, but they didn't call it Maine for nothing,

and more people would almost certainly lead to more problems. All of these issues swirled around my head in unison with the backdrop of my entire town carved up like origami right in front of my face. And my dad didn't even seem phased by it. He actually hummed for the first ten minutes of the trip. My dad is not the type to hum. At first I thought it might be a nervous thing, but then my mother started to join him.

Guys? I called out. Mark glued himself to the car window. He wouldn't look at me, not even a shared glance of misery. I knew from his reaction that something bad was about to happen. I guess I just didn't want to admit it to myself.

Dad, I said. My father slowed down around the grocery store. He pulled into the lot unceremoniously, as if it were any other Tuesday, while the corpses of our neighbors lined the store. streets among us, clearly baking in the heat of the rising sun. I actually thought we hit one of them. What are we doing? I asked. Nobody answered me. Hello? I tried again. My father parked the car. He leaned over to give my mom a peck on the forehead. She nodded and smiled back. After a moment of

silence, he gingerly unclipped the seatbelt and moved to get out. Nobody bothered to stop him. Dad? I shouted. Wait, are you serious? you can't go out there. He smiled at me one last time, looking back. I like to think there was still some small part of my dad in that smile. He looked like a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders, like he got us this far, like his job was done. I didn't understand it then. I do now. I only saw the scratch when he got up, right above the belt, hip to hip. His shirt had always been tucked. My mother took a deep breath. Mom? I begged. Mom, no, no, no, please. She looked back at me and grasped my hand. She was cold to the touch. Mark whimpered something small. I knew then that he knew all along.

It happened the first night, he whispered. They can't fight it anymore, Maddie. It won't let them. The car door opened. Mom, you can't go out there, I said. She pulled her hand away. "'mom, please,' I said. "'It's okay, honey,' she murmured dreamily. "'Okay, honey, okay, honey.' She got out of the car and sprinted after my father. I never saw my mother sprint before. She looked so strange doing it.

I watched the two of them go towards the store, hand in hand. In a moment they were there, and the next they were gone. "'We have to follow them, I begged, please.' A soft boom sounded from somewhere inside. Okay, he whispered hesitantly, but be ready to run when I say run, deal. A second boom followed. Deal, I muttered. I am the oldest, he insisted.

We don't know what we're going to see inside there. You have to listen to me. Shut up and let's go, I said. We hopped out of the car and ran across the empty lot. Rain and heavy wind swooped in with our arrival. Mark slipped and fell into a particularly nasty pool of blood. I race back to help him. By the time we both made it inside, our parents were gone.

We looked around for a minute. The store seemed to be shelled. Overturned shelves made it difficult to get around. Smeared floors made the entire place stink worse than a slaughterhouse. At the center of the store was a staircase that leads to the basement level. Normally larger items like water jugs are stored down there. We got the distinct feeling that we weren't totally alone, because we could hear some kind of movement in that area, so we moved towards it.

it. Mark found some cover behind a blown-out register. We used it to peek down the staircase. An enormous pit sat below us. We couldn't actually see where it ended. Mark picked up a can and dropped it. Ten to fifteen seconds later it made contact with the bottom. The closer we inch towards the center, the more that movement seemed rhythmic, almost pulsing like a heartbeat. We heard footsteps. Mark ripped my collar and pulled me back. Approaching the center, center of the store were a man and woman who both looked familiar to me from different places. That was my first thought. You know, that they must be together without me realizing, and that it really is a small city after all. The couple walked up casually to the edge of the pit. They looked

at each other and smiled. Then they jumped, hand in hand, as if expecting to land in a ball pit. The splat came after the boom. The store grew quiet. Something seemed to be slurping down below. What the hell? Mark whispered. You don't think. It drinks the blood, I said. Suddenly the pulsing grew louder. Horrible scraping ripped somewhere below it. I can't adequately describe this sound.

Almost like a giant moth breaking its way out of a cocoon. A familiar rhythm to the din took over. Checking for weaknesses, Mark muttered. Even at birth. The knocking continued. Time to go, Mark shouted. Definitely, I answered. Each of us put in our best track performances to date. The building gave way as if an earthquake were underneath it. We skid it out of the front entrance just as the overhang dipped down to smash the carousel door. My brother got to the car before me. He jumped into the driver's seat and thank God the keys were still in the ignition. He smashed the gas and all but left me with the passenger door popped open. I hopped in at the last possible moment. The store collapsed behind me. Mark doesn't know crap about driving, and neither do I,

but any idiot can hit the gas and steer away from the explosion. We picked up speed while debris rocked the car. Just as we got back on the road, Mark pointed into the rear view, and I wish he didn't. Standing in the wake of the grocery store was a creature three times its size. I didn't look at it twice. We managed to drive to the gas station before nightfall. We found it pretty much untouched. I don't think anybody else made it that far.

We took the mountain road into the next town and drove past sundown. We are safe and sound now in a place called White Valley. The people here are friendly, but none of them, including the sheriff, can tell me a damn thing about Folleton or what happened to it the past few days. Go figure. I hope more than anything that my post can help drive more survivors out of the woodwork. Please, please message me if you or someone you know lived through the attack on Follaton's city. I can't over-stress the importance of that plea. We cannot let our town be forgotten.

One day we will go back. I don't care if it's just Mark and me. I know we can find the entrance the same way we found the exit. We don't expect to find anybody alive. That's just hope that's not worth having. But we all have a right to know what is living there instead. Signing off for now, Matt. This is Euphoria Calvin Klein, the new Elixir Collection, featuring three perfume intense scents. inspired by a unique orchid accord, paired with vanilla, each with its own distinct attitude, each with its own universe, bold elixir, sensual, woody, addictive, magnetic elixir, sweet and

romantic like a lingering touch, solar elixir, a radiant expression of joy, ultra-concentrated for amplified impact and lasting power. Find your euphoria. Discover the euphoria elixir collection by Calvin Klein. My family moved to rural Pennsylvania when I was four. I was immediately entranced with living in the country, with several acres of woods behind us, and the house seemed huge to me at the time. However, as a kid, I was always sensitive to spiritual energy, and there were definitely some creepy things going on in that house. My parents noticed that I stayed with our dog, Bambi, a lot. He was a small sheepdog and my adventure buddy when we were out in the woods. In case you're questioning my parents, they trusted me as young as age five to walk alone,

as long as I was with my dog, as he was very protective of me. My dad would also give me his cell phone to carry with me in case I needed any help. Up until I was about 15, I spent a lot of time alone by choice. After school, I'd be home by 3.20. In grade school, I'd eat lunch and immediately take Bambi out into the woods. We'd explore the surrounding forests, fields, meadows, and ponds together. He was always right by my side and seemed attuned to spiritual stuff as well. If I felt something was in the house, he'd bark at it or whine, or I'd watch him follow it around. Usually he picked up on the presence of something at the same time I would. From the backyard to the left, there's a small strip of trees. In the fall and winter, when the branches are bare, you can see the field next door,

which is about 300 yards from my house. There's a big shed up there in a kind of runway where my neighbor would fly his biplanes off of. What's important to the story is that I have no neighbors for a mile in every direction. It's pretty rare to see any kind of people on the surrounding properties, unless it's my neighbors hanging the fields in the summer.

One day in early fall, I had been tromping through the woods with Bambi for several hours. I let him run off the leash most of the time, but he would run only about 20 feet ahead and keep turning around to check that I was still there. If I lost sight of him, he'd retrace his steps and find me again. That day, I got caught up whittling something, so Bambi ran off for a little bit, and I suddenly realized that I was alone. Suddenly there was a lot of crashing deeper into the woods,

and I heard Bambi's alarm bark, and a lot of yelping and then some screeching. Raccoons and gophers make really scary distress sounds, so I figured that that's what it was. I called for Bambi, and he popped out of some brush covered in pickers. Since I was spooked, I ran back home with him. Right as I got to the back door, I stopped to catch my breath, and Bambi and I were just standing there when I spotted something standing on the edge of the runway. It ran along the higher end of the field,

and then there was a steep drop off the edge of the hill at the very end of it. They didn't appear to be wearing anything distinctive, but even in the dusk, I could still see that they appeared completely black, or everything about them was very shadowy and dark. This is the part that gives me shivers now. They were standing facing off of the runway, and then I saw them hunched over, then slowly raised their head and yell Bambi,

in the same high-pitched voice I used to call him. They had the same vocal inflection as me too, but it sounded like they were really trying hard to sound like me. Next to me, Bambi tucked his tail under, lowered his head, and growled softly. They called again, but this time it sounded like they were losing their voice, as if they'd been calling for a while. In my eight-year-old logic, I assumed that someone was trying to steal my dog, but why would they stand in the middle of the field and be obvious about it? When I told my parents about that night, they just dismissed the story. The next day, I went to my cousin's house two miles up the road.

road and my uncle told me about an animal he saw the night before that he was trying to identify. He said it looked like an emaciated cow sprinting across the bridge over the creek, which is about 300 yards from the runway. And also, since then, anyone who's been at my house has always been uneasy around the creek and the plainshed runway, whether or not they're interested at all in the paranormal. I know a lot of deaths have happened in nature, but I've also found several goats ripped up in the field. The nearest house with any amount of goats or farm animals is nearly four miles away, and a lot of unexplained things have happened there. Okay, so I've tried to figure out what exactly has been going on with my situation since its most

recent occurrence, but it ended up going nowhere. I found stories and folklore that were somewhat similar, but not exact enough for me to understand what I encountered. Given my failed search for answers, I'm hoping I can gain something from talking about what happened, whether that be a new lead for me to follow, a piece of folklore I missed, or even a definitive answer from whoever may read this. My first experience is rather fuzzy for me, as it happened when I was five years old. I'm part of a hunting family, and even at that age I was taken along on hunts whether I wanted to or not. During one hunt in either the fall or winter, there was a lot of snow, so it was one of those seasons. We ended up in the woods somewhere in Jasper, Alberta. I don't remember what we were hunting,

not that it matters. It was me, my dad, and a hunting friend of his. The three of us were deep in the woods, and I remember our camp was set up in a wall tent. It was spacious inside, the walls made out of some kind of thick canvas or another white textile, and there was no light. Even the small furnace in the tent provided only a dim orange glow. On the night of the second day, as we were getting ready for bed on some uncomfortable cots, my dad and his friend fell asleep while I was awake, bored and uncomfortable. Since I was a kid taken on a hunt I didn't want to be on, I couldn't sleep, so I ended up taking a flashlight to explore the forest around the tent. It was just meant to be for a little while, and in my mind, I had nothing to fear. I had spent plenty of

of time in the woods at that point, so I believed there was little to no danger, and there were guns in the tent so I'd be safe. The only thing of note I remember from my exploration, besides the darkness of the forest and the freezing cold, was a large animal I caught a glimpse of. I don't remember much about it, just that I shone my light into the trees for a few seconds, before there was movement of something moving away. Shortly after, I went back to the tent and got into my cot to sleep. I remember waking up to my dad's friend stoking the furnace or adding a log to it or something. He then left the tent momentarily with a flashlight, presumably to take a leak. I tried to go back to sleep, but that was interrupted by my dad's friend yelling. My dad immediately

woke up and grabbed his rifle that was next to him before leaving the tent. I was scared and stayed frozen in my cot, unsure about what to do. I don't know how much time passed, but before there were gunshots and I think yelling. My dad ran back, his friend absent from whatever was going on. After zipping the entrance, he ordered me to stay with him in the middle of the tent. Given the distance between us and the walls of the tent, if whatever was out there were to rip open the walls, my dad would have time to react. I'm not sure how much time passed with us just sitting in the middle of the tent, but eventually,

the sound of quick footsteps began circling the tent. I think I might have closed my eyes and covered my ears in anticipation of my dad's shooting or something else happening. After circling the tent a few times, I remember hearing the sound of something dragging across the tent's fabric, which made my dad shoot in that general direction. Whatever it was ran off, and the two of us remained in the same spot the rest of the night, only moving whenever my dad had to add more logs to the furnace. When day broke, we hurriedly packed up our bags before my dad gave me his friend.

friend's rifle, and we left. I was worried about what had happened to his friend since he never came back to the tent, and we just left without him on our long hike back to my dad's truck. After that point, I just remember my dad driving us home as he talked to, I think the police on his flip phone. I talked with my dad about that night only a couple of times after that, and from what he told me, he never saw his friend when he went looking for him after he yelled. He looked around and came across a tall humanoid figure standing behind some pine trees, possibly hiding from him. He couldn't see any details, just the silhouette of something inhumanly tall. He shot at it before coming back to the tent.

When I asked him about the dragging along the tent, he said he just saw what seemed to be the indent of a finger touching it from the other side, as if it was trying to identify the material of the walls. After we left, he told me the police showed up a few hours later, and he had to lead them out into the woods and back to the tent. The tent had been searched through, although nothing was taken. The zippers weren't used to enter the tent either. The walls were cut open by an animal. They found some blood nearby, along with some tracks that looked like a cross between a canine and a human. It was snowing by the time the police were out there, but they did manage to find the

dead body of my dad's friend before the trail was covered up. He was partially devoured, and after a investigation by the RCMP, they deemed it to be an animal attack despite the humanoid figure scene in the finger examining the tent. Nothing else came from that case after that, besides my family moving away from Jasper and never returning for any reason. We essentially forbade ourselves from going anywhere near Jasper unless we were passing through to BC for whatever reason. The second time I encountered this creature was when I was 10 years old. My class had this field trip where we all would go to this one patch of woods that had small cabins, a small wreck center, and other amenities. It was supposed to be a trip where you show up, spend the day doing whatever,

spend the night in a cabin with whatever group you made, and leave at around noon the next day. I don't remember the exact area we were in, but it was somewhere northwest of Edmonton, which would be pretty far away from Jasper. We went up there, and things were normal the first day. we would have been there for the second day if that creature hadn't shown up. When it was really dark out, we had a game of manhunt. Basically, two or three seekers were picked to look for the hiders who could hide anywhere around the forest as long as they didn't stray too far. If a seeker found a hider, the hider would become a seeker and help them.

At the end of the game, there was a prize to be won if you were deemed the best seeker or the best hider. I was supposed to hide, so my friend at the time, and I ended up heading down this trail, which led to a more lush part of the forest nearby. We figured it would be the best area to hide, given all the bushes and trees. It wasn't out of bounds, but still deep enough in the trees, so if any of the seekers came looking for us,

they would have to come pretty deep into the brush to get us. Some seekers eventually did come by, but they only found my friend who was hiding close to me, but not with me. And he didn't snitch on me, so they all left, leaving me alone. Some time passed as I remained hunched in a small circle of trees that almost perfectly covered me.

The only way I could be seen would be if someone looked thoroughly through the trees in front of me, or if someone came from behind me where I was more exposed. There wasn't much covering me there, so if anyone came by, I would have to hope they wouldn't walk behind my cover. At my hiding spot, I had the advantage of being able to see anyone coming up the trail here if I just pulled the branches in front of me aside.

I also could see the moon through the branches if I looked to my right, the white dot in the sky preventing that area from being a solid black void like everything else around me. I remember sitting there for so long I actually started to shiver from the nightly chill, and the boredom slowly started to get to me. I think I had an iPod 5 at the time, and since I figured no one would come back here, I took it out along with my earbuds and started to play some games on it, occasionally doing a quick 360-degree scan of my area in case any seekers were about.

I remember 30 or so minutes had passed at that point, which meant any minute now some teacher would come ringing a bell to mark the end of the game, the winning hiders being given a reward. I kept my eyes on my iPod, continuing to do my occasional scans of my area for any seekers. During one of my scans, I resumed playing games as usual, but I had this off feeling now. I didn't see anything, but I felt like something was wrong. I remember hearing somewhere that the feeling of being watched comes from you seeing something out of place, but not exactly registering what it is.

I'm pretty sure that was what I was feeling, so I turned around and looked around more thoroughly, examining what little I could see given how it was all pitch black. There was nothing behind me, but the feeling persisted. Some panic began to slowly surge through me despite the fact I hadn't seen anything yet. I considered getting up to leave, but someone would come ringing a bell soon, and I didn't want to miss out on the reward. Why would I leave if there really was nothing here? After this feeling kept picking at me, I eventually felt courageous enough to shine a light around me. My iPod had a flashlight on it, albeit one that wasn't very powerful.

I raised it and turned it on, scanning the area behind me since I assumed someone would be watching me from where I was exposed. I could see a few meters behind me and only saw pine trees, small plants, and other typical things you'd expect. I felt safer knowing there wasn't anything behind me, so I turned the light off. I resumed my game, the feeling still persisting but a sense of security now instilled. Nothing was behind me. As I played games and waited, I thought about that. Nothing was behind me. I only searched the area behind me, not that.

the areas off to my sides, or in front of me. This new realization worried me, so I pushed the branches out of the way to see in front of me, and there was nothing but a barely visible trail back to the cabin, which was to be expected. I glanced over to my sides, the area to my left harboring nothing but blackness past the trees. I checked my right, also nothing but a black void past the trees. I was about to go back to my game, but I realized there was something wrong. There was nothing to my right. Where was the previously visible moon behind the branches there? I remember looking over, realizing the moon was indeed gone, which could only happen if something were to be blocking it. I froze, realizing someone had been standing behind the branches to my right, for who knows how long.

My breathing picked up as I stared in that direction, it becoming obvious I noticed whatever was there. Still, whoever it was didn't move. They didn't say anything. They didn't even attack me. The sound of a distant bell ringing snapped me back to reality, and I sprung up from my sitting position and ran through the pine branches in front of me, getting whipped and pricked by the needles. I reached the clearing in front of me and ran down the trail as fast as I could. When I saw a teacher ahead of me coming up the trail, I ran to her out of breath.

I tried to explain what happened, her not understanding me because of how frantic I was. When I calmed down, I said someone was in the trees watching me, and they were not a seeker or hider or anyone else. She went from chill to serious and asked me if I was sure. After confirming that I was indeed stalked by someone who wasn't a fellow classmate, she led me back to my cabin where my group was, including my friend. She told us to lock the doors before she left and talked to someone on her radio.

Me, my friend, and three other kids were left in that cabin, which had a small window on both doors, and a large window on one of the walls, all of which didn't have curtains. We were missing one of our members, who had left to refill their water bottle at the rec center before I showed up. My group asked me what happened, and I told them someone who wasn't a seeker was watching me. They seemed skeptical, but my friend believed me since he knew me better than the rest of them, and he knew no one else came up that trail to where I was. Around half an hour passed where nothing happened.

No teachers came back. Our other group member did not come back. It was just us five. One of us wanted to leave to use the washroom at one point, and I pleaded with him to not leave. I think he realized I was serious about no one leaving since he stayed. The cabin felt safe. We had the doors locked.

There were other people here, and the teachers knew about the thing in the woods. More time passed where nothing happened. No teachers or nothing. The kids still needed to leave, but I figured things had been settled. so didn't try to stop him. He dug around his stuff for his water bottle so he could refill it while he was out. Before he could leave, there was a loud knock on the wall of our cabin,

thankfully the wall without a window. We all looked at each other before there was the sound of dragging along the side of it. I turned off the light and we all hid under our beds. It led from the middle of the wall to the corner, then over to the door. There was a loud tap on the glass, followed by another, and then another. The doorknob was tried to, momentarily, the lock stopping it, before the tapping on the glass continued. When it finally stopped, there was a minute of silence before the tapping resumed on the larger window on the wall of the cabin. I was facing it, but couldn't see anything. The tapping stopped, and I assumed they would start tapping on the window to the other door. I waited in anticipation for it, before a loud

crash came from the window that was just touched. A sporadic ringing came from an thrown through the window before it ricocheted off the wall and onto the ground near me, the object letting out one last ring. I felt like I was going to die. It would get inside through the window, then it would kill us. I closed my eyes, thinking about my eventual death. It never came, though. My eyes remained closed as even more time passed, as if whatever threw the bell through the window was just taking their time. I'm not sure how long it was, but eventually. Eventually, we heard footsteps near the cabin before there was a knock on the door. A light shined through the window as a man shouted that they were the police.

We were relieved and got up to open the door. It was indeed an officer, and he started to ask us if we were okay. As my group explained what happened, I looked back at the object thrown through the window since there was light. It turned out to be a bell the teacher used to end the game, this bell being bloody. After he talked to us, he led us back to the rec center where more police, teachers, and students were. The rest of the night was spent there in the lobby as the police searched the area. Parents were notified, and they began to arrive to get us. Before they did, the police asked students if they saw anything,

and when they got to me, I explained everything I experienced from being watched while hiding to our cabin window being broken. When talking to my group members, they said that after the window was broken, broken, the large silhouette of a head or something stuck through the open window and briefly looked around. My mom arrived the next morning, taking me away from that hellish forest. One of the last things I remember when leaving the place was two officers talking, one of them mentioning a body being found. I learned later from my parents that one of the male teachers was found dead and partially devoured. They found the bell he had to get the hiders to have been the same one tossed through my window that night.

When my dad heard the details about the body being devoured, and my telling of something examining the walls and window of the cabin, he immediately recalled our hunting trip when I was five. That was when he explained to me what he saw that night for the first time. My latest experience happened before I went to college. We moved to a rural town near Athabasca that probably had a population of 30 people. There was plenty of forest around us, and being an 18-year-old who had basically forgotten my previous encounters at that point, I felt like I could take on anything that was in the woods besides

grizzly bears or moose for obvious reasons. It was summer vacation, and since I had nothing else to do, I would take my bow and head out to hunt small game like rabbits. By August, I had gone from leaving to hunt for a few hours, to leaving with a tent and a bag of supplies to camp out deep in the forest for a night or two. It was nice, but my last hunt of the summer before college started pretty much ended interaction with the forest for me for the next while. My final hunting camping trip was pretty normal for the first bit of it, which was to be expected. I walked into the forest for about 30 or 40 minutes, which led me to a very flat clearing that was

perfect to sleep in a small tent. I've made this trip to this same spot multiple times at that point. and with the aid of a compass along with some pink ribbons I left tied to trees, it kept me from getting lost on the way there and back. It was very scenic and peaceful, devoid of any sight or sound of people, just pure nature. I set up my camp, did some hunting where I found nothing besides some large bear prints and some dried mud, had this box of cheap dried hash browns for supper, and then chilled out at my camp for the rest of the day while drinking some coolers I brought and blasting loud music to keep any bears away. By the time night enveloped the forest,

I was ready to go to sleep. Sometime later, I woke up. I wasn't sure why, I just happened to. Feeling tired, I tried to go back to sleep until I heard the sound of plastic and cans rustling near my camp. I froze for a moment, not believing what I heard. When the sound rustled again, I sat up and grabbed my hunting knife. My groggy mind, took a moment to think, and I realized that something was digging into my trash bag. I stored any food-related trash in a plastic bag before tying it and hanging it from a tree away from camp in case bears came by, and something was definitely digging in it at that moment. I hung it pretty high, so it was either some scavenger animal that could climb, or a bear. For my sake, I hoped it was

the first option. I just had a bow and a knife, and neither would be much help against a bear, especially if it was a grisly. After a few minutes of rustling, there was silence. I still waited, keeping as quiet as I could to not draw the animal's attention to me. As I waited, I thought about what I would do. Some of my ideas were going back to sleep, some were grabbing my stuff and leaving, and I even had the dumb thought of scaring the animal off if it was still there. I eventually figured that if it was some small animal I'd stay.

If I got any confirmation about it being a bear, I'd pack my stuff and leave the first chance I had. I would check my phone occasionally to see how much time had passed. When around 15 minutes passed, I assumed the animal had left, so I checked the time, seeing that was around 2 a.m. Tired, I tried to settle back into my bag. A roar sounded off in the distance, ruining any chance of me going back to sleep. I sat up, not believing what I heard. I wasn't sure where it came from, but it sounded like a bear's roar.

I'm pretty sure bears only roar when trying to find a mate, or when they are defending territory. And since it wasn't bear mating season, that meant it was likely a territorial dispute. With the confirmation that a bear probably rolled up to my camp, I packed my bag and left my tent, zipping it behind me before I turned on my headlamp. I took out my compass and figured out the general direction of the first ribbon to follow back home. Regardless of the 40-minute hike ahead of me, I hurried toward the first ribbon. My hand rested on the knife attached to my belt, just for the feeling of security, since it's not like I'd be able to fend off a bear with a simple knife. Thankfully, it didn't take long for me to find my first pink ribbon.

It was pretty close to camp, after all. I think I set up a couple dozen of them, so I should come across them every couple of minutes. During the walk, I didn't try to be stealthy. My headlamp lit up a fair amount of area around me, and I loudly charged through the shrubs in plant matter. When I came across the second pink ribbon, I felt more confident about my trip back. Things were on the right track so far.

My confidence faded somewhat when I had gone about five minutes without seeing any new ribbons. They were spaced out a few minutes apart, so I should have found the third one by now. It was dark, though, and I could barely recognize the area. And I was kind of panicked, so my state of mind wasn't completely there. I tried to remember what the tree I tied it to looked like or any kind of landmark near the ribbon I could recognize. But nothing came to mind.

It couldn't be too far, I kept telling myself. So I kept looking around, relying solely on my compass for guidance. Five more minutes passed, which turned into ten minutes of me searching for the third ribbon. Hopelessness started to set in, as I searched around for the third ribbon. or any recognizable landmark with nothing more than a headlamp on and a compass in one hand. I started to blame myself for everything

that was going on as I search for the ribbon. I could have looked for a closer clearing near my house to camp at. I could have stayed back at camp for the night instead of heading home. I could have left for home after finding the large bear print before night fell. I could have just walked in one direction

using the compass and taken even longer but surefire trip back home. I could have done any number of things to have avoided this. I just walked around hopelessly looking for the ribbon, insulting myself in my mind as I did. It all became very distracting for me, and I slowly stopped paying attention to my surroundings. All my focus was just on either my compass, the ground since I believed the ribbon fell off somehow, or other ways I could judge myself. This led to me walking into a large mass that was slightly, obscured by a fallen tree, 15 or so meters away, if I remember correctly, its dead leaves

covering most of it. I stopped walking and looked up, realizing it was a grizzly bear, the front half of it being obscured by the fallen tree. I'm dead. That was the first thing I thought. I couldn't outrun one, and if I were to play dead it would just beat the crap out of me, and probably seriously wound me. And if that were to happen, I would definitely never get home after that. Unsure about what to do, I took out my knife and stared at the grizzly which still hadn't reared its head from behind the leaves. I stood there frozen as I waited, unsure about what to do. The bear had not turned around so its front half was still covered. Despite my fear restraining me from properly functioning, I thought it was odd how it didn't at least move to get a look at me.

More confusion built up in me as I realized how loud I was and how I had my headlamp on this whole time. The bear would have known I was approaching long before I even came across it, and it would have reacted as such. As I slowly regained my senses, I noticed a couple more things I was too fearful to notice before. First, the bear wasn't standing, it was lying down on its stomach. Second, there was blood. Some of it was along the ground. Some was rubbed against trees.

Some was on the bear. I don't know how I felt seeing that. It seemed like it was dead, which meant I was seen. safe from it. However, I didn't know for sure, and if it was alive, I didn't know what that would mean for me. Maybe I should walk away, or be quiet and stand still, or turn off my light, or check to see if the bear was actually dead. I settled for checking on the bear and forced my legs to move me closer as quietly as I could. I kept my distance from the bear because all I wanted to do was confirm it was dead. Once I could see around the fallen tree, I could confirm it was

indeed dead. Its bottom jaw was ripped off and it looked like something tore its neck open. Its front leg was mangled and lifted up, exposing its chest which had been torn open, its bloody contents looking as if they were slightly chewed up. Not a single animal here in Alberta would have done this. A cougar wouldn't enter a grizzly bear's territory and end up killing it for the sole purpose of eating it. And when grizzlies fight with other grizzlies, they typically don't end up in death and devouring, if I remembered correctly. I remember staring at it in morbid awe at this sight, relieved that the grizzly wouldn't hurt me, but worried about what killed the grizzly.

The thoughts of my previous experiences in the past came to mind, and I tried to ignore them and tell myself that makes no sense. I was in Athabasca, which I think is somewhere around 400 kilometers from Jasper, and maybe half that from where I was during my field trip. It could not have found me here, it could never have. That would be impossible. Why would it even follow me? Me, of all people, all this way across the province.

Still, it all felt very similar. Everything from it being night, to it being in the forest, to even the partly devoured corpse. There was one thing missing, though, as I stood there examining the dead grizzly. I realized too late, though, after thinking about all the similar, between this situation and the previous ones. The main difference I came to realize is that I haven't confirmed I was being watched yet. That thought immediately made me want to do a 360 scan of my surroundings. Without even trying, I simply turned my head around and felt numb.

I saw the creature standing around 10 meters from me. It wasn't even hiding, just standing right behind me this whole time watching me. I wanted to drop to my knees and just die there. I didn't want to feel the fear I felt in that moment. I'd rather have just died right there and then as to not feel it anymore. This was the first time I'd ever seen the creature in full. It was around 10 or 12 feet tall, it easily towering over me. It had a humanoid shape, its body, legs and arms being very similar to that of one.

Its hands were large, clawed, and bloody, dark, tattered fur similar to an unkempt moose covered its body. It had a tail, a pretty long and bony one at that. Its head was recognizable to me, it being very similar to that of a moose skull due to how elongated it was. It had no antlers, not even stumps on its head, so maybe it was a female creature. Blood was around its mouth, where instead of the typical herbivore teeth a moose would have, it instead had sharpened, predatory ones. There looked to be a symbol of some sort drawn onto the forehead of its skull and I think charcoal, just something dark. The last thing I noticed, the most out of place for it, was the missing pink ribbon tied around the base of a moose-like ear protruding from the back of its

skull, like a taunting decoration. Its other ear just had this string tied to it with animal bones or something hanging off of it. My first thought was that I was seeing a wendigo, not that knowing what it was would help me at that moment. We stared at each other, not that I wanted to. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I just kept staring into its eyes, or lack thereof, given it just had two empty black voids in place of them. I tightened the grip on my knife, causing its head to tilt slightly and gaze towards it. I'm not sure how much time passed, as we had our standoff, as if it couldn't kill me with ease. The more time passed, the more control I gained over my body. The moment I could move my legs, I took a step back, causing the creature to tilt its head.

more, as if curious about what I had planned. I took another step back, then another. After backing up a few meters, the creature took a single step forward, instantly making our distance between each other the same as before. When it did that, I raised my knife as if that would do anything to ward it off, it tilting its head again. We kept backing up like this, me moving a few meters back with multiple steps before it closed that distance with a single step. I was so lost in this that I bumped into the dead bear, causing me to turn around and look at it. The moment my eyes were off the creature, I heard two quick, loud footsteps and turned back to see it only a few meters away from me, its jaw slightly unhinged. I gave up on being careful at that point.

I had nothing to do besides the primal control of hopelessly fleeing. I turned and ran while trying to drop my backpack and bow that I had over my shoulders. I successfully dropped my bow on the ground, shedding a little weight during my run. I unsuccessfully tried to take my backpack off one-handed as I had my knife in my other hand. Running through and cutting myself on multiple branches didn't help. Still, the creature had not managed or chosen to catch up with me yet. After running through a pine tree's bunch of needles, I ended up reaching a steep ravine. It was around eight feet high, and I didn't see it after running through the tree.

I fell and covered my head as I rolled down it, my backpack providing little protection during my tumble. When I finally came to a stop at the end of it, I just felt pain all over me, one very noticeable burning pain on my cheek. During the fall, I think my face bashed into the knife. I was out of breath, my body hurt. I dropped my knife and didn't know where it was, and my headlamp turned off during the fall and fell off my head. with the inability to see or defend myself or even run, being that I was in pain and out of breath, I just laid there and hoped for the best, whatever that could have possibly been. Maybe if I just stayed still, it wouldn't find me, maybe it would be quick when killing me.

I just laid there with my eyes closed, resting my head on my arms. I'm not sure how much time passed like that. There was no sound of the creature being anywhere near me, although that didn't mean anything. It has been close and quiet to me before. Eventually I got to my knees. I didn't know where my headlamp was, and I wasn't too keen on feeling around for it. I took out my phone and turned on its flashlight.

I scanned around, finding the headlamp not too far away from me. I grabbed it, put it on, and prepared myself to turn that one on and look around. There was no way the creature wasn't standing somewhere near me, watching like it usually did. Turning the headlamp on, I did a quick look around, spotting the creature crouched at the top of the hill I fell down.

It was looking down at me, likely watching me during the entire time I laid there. Its head was tilted as per usual, it curiously examining me. I wanted to say something to it, ask it what it wanted, or even just tell it to get it over with, but I just couldn't choke out any words. I rubbed my cheek where the burning sensation was, and sure enough, I had a cut there. The creature lowered itself down the hill with ease, and reached out its hand shortly after I checked my cut. I closed my eyes and waited for the obvious.

It didn't come through. Instead, I felt its hand rub against my face where the cut was. It then grabbed my sides and lifted me up. Unsure about what it was going to do, I just kept my eyes closed as it elevated me. My heart was pounding. I was breathing heavily. The feeling was indescribable.

I have no clue how to use words to explain the feeling I felt at that very very much. moment. I felt something heavy and hard rest atop my head. Confused, I opened my eyes for a moment, realizing that as it held me in the air, it was resting its bony head on top of mine. As it held me in the air like this, I considered raising my legs and kicking it to get it to let go of me, but it's not like I had anywhere to run if I did that. It continued to hold me as I expected something more brutal to happen, but it never did. It stopped resting its head on mine, and gently lowered me to the ground. It stared at me for a few moments.

Then with surprising ease scaled the steep hill, heading back to where we just came from, presumably to finish eating the bear. As for me, I took a moment to lean against a tree in shock. I couldn't comprehend what happened. I was still kind of roughed up from my tumble, and I didn't know where I was. After my moment to rest,

I found the things I dropped, scaled the hill to get my bow. and took out my compass. I settled on just walking southwest, which was the general direction of my town. The walk wasn't fun. I hurt, and I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see it following me.

Around an hour of walking later, I reached a gravel road, which I followed for another 10 or 15 minutes back to my town, and then eventually to my house. It was around 4 in the morning at this point, and everyone was asleep, so I just got some water and went to my room to reflect on what happened before I went to sleep.

I woke up at around 2 p.m., which meant my parents were gone at work. Being alone, I searched the house for the gun-safe keys, which I eventually found hidden in some random decorative candle holder in my parents' bedroom. I grabbed one of our shotguns and left to go retrieve my tent, and whatever else I left in the woods. It was horrible heading back into the woods where I came across that creature less than ten hours beforehand, but I couldn't leave a tent and blankets and other stuff out there to rot. I never encountered the creature again, thankfully,

but when I reached my camp I didn't like what was there. Some dried blood was dragged alongside the tent, so I could assume who examined my tent for a bit. It was unzipped, which meant it learned how to use zippers since the first ever time I encountered it. Inside my tent was my blanket and sleeping bag which were ruffled up as if it looked around in there. The last thing I found was the most messed up. Nearby, left in the charcoal and ashes of my fire, was a dead rabbit. Its head was bitten off, and I could only assume it was some kind of gift or offering or something. After that, I haven't encountered anything creature-related since. By September, I moved away for college to the town of Vermillion, which is surrounded by acres upon acres of empty fields, so no way that thing

is going to come all the way out here unnoticed. Before I moved, I brought up what I had. I encountered with my dad when he got home from work because I had to. He is the only person I know who has encountered the same creature before. He was disturbed, and the last time I talked with him, he planned to move somewhere less rural and away from forests. Looking back on all my experiences, and after some research into cryptids and forest monsters and stuff, I have no idea what that is. At first, I thought it was a Wendigo because of the skullhead, humanoid body, and how it would eat people. Then, after comparing the way they act with my experiences with it, I don't think it is. It had a female moose skullhead instead of a male deer skullhead, which could be excused.

Maybe the female moose skullhead means it's a female variant or something. I don't know I'm not a Wendigo expert. It never mimicked people ever or even spoke any words, which seems to be a thing Wendigos can do. It did eat people, but it also killed and ate a grizzly bear and killed and ate a rabbit's head. It had the symbol on its skull head, and it had decorative stuff on its ears. Lastly, I don't think it's a Wendigo because it let me live. It did chase me, watch me, and somehow follow me across the province, but it wasn't to kill me or hurt me. If anything, it possibly likes me given that when finding me at my weakest, it just held me and rested its head on mine, even leaving me the same animal I had been hunting at my campsite for me.

It just doesn't seem like a Wendigo. I considered Skinwalker after that, but it wasn't canine related, and I've never seen a moose around those areas, surprisingly. I feel like if it was a skinwalker, it would just be a moose, and watch me during the day and I wouldn't notice. No one would. Not only that, the behavior and location are too different to be one. I tried looking into other cryptid and folklore stuff, but none of it is similar enough to my experience of being followed across the province, or to the way the creature looked. I also tried to remember and draw that symbol that was on its head,

but I can't remember any of the details of it besides there being a large black dot within a circle. Overall, I'm just at a loss. None of this makes any sense to me, which is why I'm posting what happened here. I hope someone can provide some insight about what that is, or what it may want with me. As for me, I'm considering a new career choice. The college here in Vermilion is for jobs that typically involve nature, and after that thing

found me twice across the province, I'm pretty sure I don't want a job that takes place in the woods. I'm pretty confident that whatever it is, it would find me again if I did. It doesn't seem to want to kill me. I don't know what it wants with me. Even if I were safe from it, which seems to be the case so far, others wouldn't be because it had probably eat them. I hope someone on here can provide me with some answers or anything. If you're ever driving down Route 106 in Michigan and you see a sign for the Greenbrier Motel, you'd better just keep driving. Because there is something terribly wrong here, and the last thing I would want is for more people to die.

I started working at the Greenbrier Motel a week ago. It wasn't a dream job by any standards, the night shift at the front desk, checking people in and out, and doing some inventory in the back. I liked the peace and quiet, though. as a little rundown motel on an isolated highway, it gave me a lot of time to read and play computer games on the clock. It also helped that the owner, Frank, didn't seem to care that I was a high school dropout with a rap sheet. But on the very first day, I felt that something was terribly off. For one, there was the smell.

When the wind shifted, the entire parking lot smelled like rotting meat. I ran to close the windows, but even then I could still smell it. It seeped in through the HVAC system. The motel is surrounded by deep woods, so I figured maybe we were near the killgrounds of some animal. Or maybe it was just the endless roadkill of deer and possums on the highway. Either way, it was unsettling, and definitely not enjoyable. The other thing that struck me as odd was the guests' rooms. Some of them didn't have windows, and it seemed like that was intentional.

I could see the lines in the paint, the seams outlining where windows had once been. When I asked Frank, he told me that some of the guests asked for windowless rooms, that they were in high demand. He didn't elaborate, and honestly, I was a little scared to press him on it. Things went from strange to downright creepy, however, as soon as Frank left. As I got set up at my desk, a woman walked into the room. She was in her 40s, maybe, with black hair and very pale skin. As soon as she stepped inside, she locked the door behind her. Frank left right? She asked me. Yeah, I replied. Uh, who are you? She introduced herself as Matilda. She'd been working here for a decade, cleaning the motel rooms after the guest checked out. After a few minutes of small talk, she suddenly came up to the counter and lowered her voice.

I want to make sure you're safe around here, she said, glancing back toward the door nervously. So I need you to listen to me, okay? My heart dropped. Okay? Whatever you do, don't ask questions. Just check people in, check them out, and mind your own business. And then, you'll be fine. My stomach did a little flip. Okay, so it was that kind of motel. Illegal business of multiple kinds, probably.

All being conducted under our leaky roof. What? What if the police come? Will I be arrested too? She gave me a blank stare. The police? say they find evidence of illegal activity in one of the rooms. Will that get me in trouble?

I already have shoplifting on my record and can't. She shook her head. Don't worry about the police. Just don't ask questions. And don't make eye contact or look at their faces for too long. I swallowed. They don't want witnesses. They don't want me to be able to pick them out of a lineup, I thought.

Okay. I won't ask questions. And I won't look at them for. too long. Got it. She smiled at me. You have nothing to worry about. As it turned out, though, I did. That night, I checked in three people. They were almost like caricatures, a big, strong guy in sunglasses that looked like he'd stepped right out of the godfather, a woman dressed to the nines wearing more makeup than a clown, a skinny young guy in a hoodie that smelled like something chemical and strange. But I listened to Matilda. I didn't ask questions.

I didn't even ask the questions I should have been asking, like when hoodie guy gave me an ID that was clearly fake. Don't ask questions, and you'll be fine. I kept repeating that to myself, and I kept my eyes glued to the computer screen, never even glancing up at them. When it hit midnight, I assumed the rest of the night would be smooth sailing. On this lonely stretch of highway, it was unlikely anyone else would check in. I pulled up Minesweeper and played some music on my phone. My peace and quiet, however, was interrupted by the door swinging open at 2 a.m. I glanced up to see the guy in sunglasses, the guy who looked like he'd stepped out of the

godfather. Damn, I knew I should have locked the door. I swallowed and kept my eyes glued to the computer screen as he approached. Can I help you? I asked, watching him in my peripheral vision. Do you have any razors for purchase? I froze. Razors? At 2 a.m.?

I instantly got a mental image of him slashing someone up in his room, blood all over the sheets, soaking into the carpet. Uh, no, we don't have any razors, I said, keeping my eyes on the computer screen. Can you just check in the back, please? he asked. I swallowed. I really, really didn't want to go check. As soon as I turned around, he could do anything. Pull out a gun, tackle me, force me into a chokehold and keep me hostage. But refusing him was just as bad, if not one. worse. It might make him mad, really mad. I sat there staring at Minesweeper on the screen,

weighing my options, paying close attention to him out of the corner of my eye, and that's when I saw it. There was something off about this guy. His sunglasses looked like they were slightly too low on his face, like the eyes they were covering weren't in quite the right place, and not only that, but I couldn't see his eyebrows above the frames. or the contours of his brow ridge. Everything above the glasses was perfectly flat and smooth, like he had no eye sockets at all. Can you check in the back, please?

He asked again, his voice taking on an annoyed tone. Yes, sure. I sprang out of the seat and ducked into the back storage area. I quickly glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't following me. He wasn't. I had half a mind to just stay there, hiding out in the back storage room. room until I heard his voice calling out to me again. Did you find them? He sounded angry,

almost furious. Thankfully, I did find a few packaged razors next to some other toiletries we kept. I grabbed them and handed them over. I kept my eyes trained on the floor the whole time. Thank you, he said, sounding pleased. And that was it. He turned around and left. As soon as the door shut, I ran over and locked it. I closed the blinds and sat down. back down at the front desk. My heart was hammering in my chest. All I could picture were the strange shapes of his face. And as I sat there, I realized something. All three guests that I'd checked in since the start of my shift. The Godfather guy, the makeup woman, the hoodie guy. They all had something covering their face or head. I mean, I wasn't exaggerating about the woman

having enough makeup for a clown. She was wearing foundation so thick that it cracked around the corners of her eyes and lips, and she wore false eyelashes so long they looked like spider legs, and hoodie guy had kept his hood pulled so tightly over his head that I couldn't see his ears and hair. It was like they all had something to hide. Morning couldn't come soon enough. As soon as the day shift workers arrived, I got the hell out of there. I floored it back to my house and slept for a long time. I had nightmares all night about faceless people and spidery eyelashes. Then it was time to go back to the motel for night number two. Thankfully, it was a quieter night.

Although the vacancy sign glowed brightly in the darkness, no one checked in during my shift. They must have all come earlier during the day. So I locked the door, sat down with a cup of coffee, and enjoyed some reading in the quiet. Unfortunately, the quiet didn't last long. Around midnight I heard a loud slam from outside. I threw my book down and ran over to the window,

the door to room 16 was wide open. I looked around. Nobody appeared to be outside. The parking lot and the sidewalk were empty. The room itself was dark. None of the lights were on. I walked over to the computer and looked up the room. To my surprise, no one had booked it for tonight. Should I go out and close the door? I hesitated. It was late. There was no one around except for the occasional passing car. If someone had broken into that room and then attacked me, there would be no. no one to hear me scream, so I kept the door locked tight and opened up the security camera feed instead. As I rewound it, I saw what happened. The door had opened, and then a woman had walked out of it. I couldn't see her face, just her long, dark hair. She then disappeared into Room 22. I checked

room 22 on the computer. It was booked to a woman named Cassandra Johnson. I frowned. It looked like Cassandra might be going into our vacant rooms and possibly stealing stuff. Matilda must have forgotten to lock up the room after she cleaned it. I sighed, opened the door, and began walking toward the open room. I thought of knocking on room 22, but then decided against it. Keep your nose out of other people's business. I just lock up room 16 and go back to the lobby like a good little employee. I walked toward the open room, but it's just lock up room.

As soon as I got close, a horrible smell drifted out of the room, like something rotting, decaying. My stomach turned. What did Cassandra do in there? Throw up, stash all her garbage in there? I reached into the darkness of the room, bracing myself, I flicked on the light. The room looked normal. The bed was made. The carpet was clean.

But the smell only got stronger. I pinched my nose as I glanced around, starting to feel nauseous. And then I saw it. There was something on the carpet, just barely poking out from the other side of the bed. What is that? It was tan and folded over itself. Like a beige sheet or pillowcase had been bunched up on the other side. But all our sheets were white.

I stepped into the room, my heart pounding in my chest. Hello? I called out. Nothing. The smell got even worse as I approached the bed. Nausea washed over me. I forced myself to keep going, pinching my nose, swallowing down the urge to throw up. I peered over the side of the bed and froze.

There was a pile of beige, slightly translucent material folded over itself on the other side. But I instantly recognized certain shapes attached to it, awfully familiar shapes, like five fingers. It looked like a glove made of skin, poking out from under one of the folds. It looked like someone had shed their skin. I stepped back, my legs shaking underneath me. It can't be. I backed away toward the door, my throat dry, because it didn't make sense. It didn't even make sense for it to be a murder.

There wasn't any blood on it. It hadn't been cut off someone. It was like a snake skin, clean and perfect, holding the shape of its wearer like a ghost. I ran out of the room and saw, walking toward me down the sidewalk, the woman from room 22. Strands of her dark, straight hair hung over her face. But I could tell, through her hair, that there was something wrong with her face. Her eyes and lips were in slightly the wrong position. She walked toward me, fast.

Her shoes clicked on the pavement. I didn't want to find out what she'd do if she caught me. I whipped around and ran as fast as I could. I could hear her running behind me. She was running much faster than what I thought possible in her heels. But I forced myself to go faster and faster until I was inside the lobby. I clicked the lock shut and collapsed in the back room where she couldn't see me. That's when the whistling started.

Just outside the door I could hear her, whistling. The source of the sound shifted as she circled the lobby area looking for a way in. I heard it at the door, then at the back, then through the side windows, then back at the front door. This went on for an hour. Finally, the whistling faded, but I didn't move. I stayed there. I huddled in the back storage room until dawn broke. As soon as the day shift arrived, I booked it out of there as fast as I could.

I wanted to quit. With everything the way it is, I wanted to just walk away. But I needed the money. I already knew how hard it was, finding a job with a rap sheet. It was either go back to the job. or face eviction. So I went back. When I got on shift though, I pulled Matilda aside and told her what I'd seen. I asked her again and again if my life was in danger, asked her what the hell was going on here, if other people were in danger too. I promise you, as long as you mind your own

business, you'll be safe. So that's what I did. I kept my head down. And for the next few days, nothing really happened. Sure, there were a few people who checked in that were where wearing hats or sunglasses or extra makeup. But I just tried to avoid eye contact with them, tried to keep my head down and my nose out of other people's business. But then came that one night in November. It was raining then, I remember. The rain came down in sheets,

and every so often I heard thunder shake the windows. I wasn't expecting anyone to come in that night. I didn't see that many cars driving by on the highway. The rain seemed to keep everybody in. But then I heard a knock. When I looked up, I saw a man staring in the window. A chill ran down my spine. He was wearing a hoodie that kept his face mostly in shadow,

and he was aggressively banging on the window. It was like he was in a hurry. I grabbed the mace I kept under the counter and slipped it into my pocket. Then I approached the window. Do you have any vacancies? He asked in a low voice. I could barely hear him over the pounding rain. The vacancy sign glowed.

brightly behind him. There's no way he could have missed it. Yeah, come on in, I said. I unlocked the door with one hand and gripped the mace in my pocket with the other. He stepped inside. Rain dripped off his jacket and onto the floor. I barely glanced at him. I just turned around and walked back around the counter. Then I sat down at the computer, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen. In my peripheral vision, I could see him, leaning over the counter. His face was only about a foot or two from mine, so close that I could smell the stale mothball odor coming off his clothes, so close I could hear drops of water plopping onto the counter from his sleeve.

Can you go faster? he asked, his voice raspy in his throat. Sorry, sir, I'm going fast as I can, I replied, my heart starting to pound. It's an old computer. My fingers slipped on the mouse as I rushed to click the buttons. I don't have all day, he growled, leaning even closer to me. I wanted to look at him. My eyes were itching to glance up at the man that was six inches from my face, but I forced myself to stare at the screen.

Whatever the hell was going on here, I was not going to be a witness. I was not going to look up and find myself face to face with a Smith and Wesson. Your name? I asked. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I froze. I needed a name to book the room, that's all. But maybe he wouldn't see it that way. Maybe I wasn't supposed to ask for names. Maybe that was part of Frank's understanding with certain guests.

Thankfully, nothing happened. After a second of hesitation, he replied, Daniel Jones. The name struck me as fake, common first name, common last name. But who even cared at this point? I typed his name into the system and completed the booking process. He paid for the room in cash, which was another thing that made me uneasy, but I tried not to worry about it. I turned my back and took a key off the hook.

Room seven, I said, handing it to him. He thanked me, and then waited by the door. I waited for a minute, then too. But he didn't leave. Do you need something? I asked, careful not to make eye contact. Can you escort me to my room? Oh, hell no.

there was no way I could go out there in the middle of the night with this creepy guy that was like a death sentence I glanced out the window and spotted his car a beat-up sedan in one of the nearby parking spaces the murder scenario played out in my head shove me into the hotel room kill me stick my body in the trunk then throw it in the middle of the woods or maybe worse maybe my skin would end up crumpled on the floor of one of the rooms maybe he'd take him take my form or turn me into something that sheds its skin like a snake, that has eyes too low on its face, or no eye sockets at all. And the longer I looked at him in the corner of my eye, the more I noticed things about him. There were smears of dirt on his sleeves and on the hem of

his pants. Like he's been digging a grave, the voice in my head added. His face, half-hidden in shadow, was sunken and gaunt. His jaw was covered in gray stubble. His teeth were a horrible shade of grayish yellow. Can't you just go yourself? I have something that I, uh, need to do here. My boss is going to get pissed. You can take two minutes to walk me to my room, damn it. I sat there in stunned silence.

He sounded furious. My heart pounded in my ears. Okay, I said finally. My fingers curled around the mace in my pocket, and then I joined him by the door. I'll walk you to your room. He didn't thank me. He just grabbed the door and swung it open. It nearly swung back in my face. I stepped out into the pouring rain with him. The parking lot was like a lake, and our feet sloshed loudly through the water. The cold water seeped through my sneakers, and I shivered. I followed the man to his car, staying a good 15 feet away. He popped the trunk and I held my breath, but thankfully there was only a duffel bag inside. He hoisted it on his shoulder and started for room seven.

I followed him at a distance, staying several feet away, watching him fidget with the key. You got a lot of other people staying here right now? he asked, as he slid the key into the lock. Some, I replied. Not great weather for it, he said. Not really. The storm's supposed to clear tomorrow. It'll be good weather then. Wow, this is taking a while, I thought to myself. That's when I looked down at his hands and noticed that he wasn't really trying to get him. into his room. He was just inserting the key, pausing, and then pulling it out, over and over again. He was stalling for time. He was keeping me here, on purpose. I looked up from his hands just in time to see him staring at me. His blue eyes were intense, studying me. I wanted to run away.

Every inch of me was screaming to get out of there, but the guy had six inches on me and was really thin. He'd probably catch me in seconds. I was never much of a runner. I slipped my hand in my pocket, curling my fingers around the mace. Do you need help getting into your room? I asked. He shook his head. I'm going to go back to the front desk, I said, taking a step back. As soon as I said that, he froze.

His eyes widened as he stared at me. Slowly he shook his head, his lips stretching into a grimace that showed his yellowed teeth. Don't go, he growled. His voice barely audible above the rain. Stay exactly where you are. I leapt into action. I whipped the mace out of my pocket and held it in front of me, pointing it right at him. Don't get any closer.

My finger hovered over the trigger, and then I heard it. Someone was whistling, behind me, somewhere in the rain. The song cut through the raindrops like a knife. It was the same eerie tune that woman had whistled a few days ago. I'm sorry, the man said quietly. his blue eyes locked on mine. But I needed bait. I stared at him.

My brain couldn't even process what he was saying. Bate. I took a stumbling step back. The whistling grew louder. I whipped around. Through the rain I could see someone walking through the parking lot, barely lit by the flickering street lamp. The mace fell from my hands and clattered to the ground.

Then I turned and ran as fast as I could toward the lobby. The whistling stopped, and then I could hear loud splashing footsteps, growing louder with every second behind me. I swung the door open, slammed it shut, and turned the lock. I pulled the blinds down over the window, panting, I opened them with my fingers and peered out into the night. There was a woman standing in the parking lot, the same woman I had seen a week ago. Her hair and clothes were drenched with rain, but she was smiling.

this big crooked grin that sent chills down my spine. And her eyes were strange, wide and wild, incredibly light blue. In the darkness it almost looked like she didn't have irises at all. Just two pinholes for pupils, staring right at my door. She took a step forward. I ran over to my desk, grabbed my cell phone, started dialing 911. Come on, come on. Operator?

I'm at the Greenbrier Motel and there's this guy. and this weird woman. I was cut off by a loud thump nearby. I ran to the window and looked out. The man who'd booked room seven was running toward the woman. He was holding something up in the air, a short dagger, shining silver in the rain. He's attacking her, I screamed into the phone.

The woman's face changed. Her features twisted. Her grin crept up to her eyes. Her arms cracked and stretched. She blinked and her eyes turned pure white. Her body twisted unnatural. at the waist so that she was facing the man. With fast jolted movements, she leapt at him. Within seconds, he was dead. She stood on all fours above him. Her knees bent the wrong way,

her fingers far too long. With another horrible crackling sound, her neck stretched out two feet long, twisting like a snake. And then she looked at me. I leapt away from the window with a scream. I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but only a squeaky. sound came out. By the time I made it back over to the window, the woman was standing there, looking down at her kill. She looked normal. Then she stepped over his body and walked toward the rooms. To my horror, she pulled out a key and opened room 22. Then she disappeared inside. The police arrived a few minutes later. I begged them to check room 22. That something horrible was lurking inside. But then they knocked on the door, and a completely normal looking woman opened it.

I watched from the lobby. I couldn't hear that much of their conversation over the pouring rain, but they weren't arresting her, weren't accusing her. They seemed to just be having a friendly chat, asking her what she'd seen. Then they thanked her, and came back to me. We'll need to see the security tapes from tonight, please, the officer said. But when I showed them the tapes, they got quiet. One of the officers made a call to someone saying something about an infestation.

The other two officers ushered me out into the lobby, their face is serious. They told me not to leave as they talked among themselves in hushed voices in the corner of the room. Then they approached. You didn't see anything tonight, one of the officers said, leaning in close. You got that? But what about... Listen to me very carefully, he interrupted, lowering his voice. You didn't see anything, just like you never...

shoplifted in your life. What? You understand me? he asked. The silence stretched out between us. Yeah, I got it, I said, my voice wavering. I didn't see anything. I left the motel that night and never went back. I planned to never speak of what I saw, to keep my mouth shut just like they told me to. But after many sleepless nights, I realized that I need to warn people. I need to warn you. I can't have another person dying because of these things, whatever they are. So I'm begging you. If you're driving through Michigan and see that there's a vacancy at the Greenbrier Motel, keep driving. I am American, and I've got some Scottish heritage, so I'd always wanted to explore the highlands. I spent some time making my way north from

Edinburgh, staying in hostels and small bed and breakfasts along the way. By the time I reached the Northern Highlands, I was feeling pretty confident in my hiking abilities. I'd done some challenging trails and even wild camped a few times. So when I heard about this remote trail that wasn't on most tourist maps, I thought, why not? It was supposed to lead to this hidden lock that was supposedly one of the most beautiful spots in all of Scotland. The trailhead was near this tiny village.

Honestly, it was more like a handful of houses clustered around a pub. I stopped in for a bite before heading out, figuring I'd stock up on some energy for the hike. The pub was one of those old cozy places with a low ceiling and a fire crackling in the corner. It was pretty empty when I went in, just a couple of old-timers nursing pints at the bar. I ordered some food and got to chatting with the bartender, telling him about my plans to hike out to the lock. The change in atmosphere was noticeable. The bartender got this weird look on his face.

He tried to play it off. saying something about the weather being unpredictable this time of year, but I could tell there was more to it. I pressed a bit, asking if there was something I should know about the trail. That's when one of the old-timers spoke up, apparently overhearing my conversation so far. You don't want to be going out there, lad, he said. That place is not right.

I laughed at first, thinking they were just trying to scare the tourist, but that old man was dead serious. He told me that people had gone missing on that trail over the years. not many and not often, but enough to make the locals wary. There's something out there, he said, his voice low. Something old, something that doesn't like visitors. Now, I'm not usually one for superstition, but the way he said it sent a chill down my spine. Still, I figured they were just being overprotective.

I thanked them for the warning but said I was still planning to go. The bartender sighed and said, if you must go, at least take this. He handed me a small, smooth stone with some kind of symbol carved onto it. Old protection, he said. I pocketed the stone more to be polite than anything else, finished my meal, and headed out. The trail started off easy enough, winding through some beautiful pine forests, but as I got further in, things started to change. The trees got older, thick and overgrown. The undergrowth thickened too, making the trail harder to follow. Before long, there was this smell, kind of musty and sweet at the same time, like rotting flowers. It wasn't strong,

but it was persistent. I'd been hiking for about three hours when I realized I should have reached the lock by now. I checked my map but had definitely made a wrong turn somewhere. I wasn't seeing any of the landmarks I was supposed to be seeing. I tried to backtrack but didn't locate anything familiar. Now get this. As I was walking, the forest was filled with the sounds of nature, and literally, the next single step I took, the moment my foot hit the ground, everything fell silent. That was extremely disturbing. Not too long after that smell got stronger. I was kind of freaked out and decided to set up camp for the night right there and get my bearings in the morning. I found a nice open space and got my tent set up just as it was getting dark. That night, I still have

nightmares about it. I woke up because I was hearing a whispering sound. At first, I thought it was wind through the trees, but it kept getting clearer until I could hear words. Words that I couldn't clearly make out yet, but it was very obviously multiple voices talking over each other, and they seemed to be getting closer. I double-checked my tent, making sure the zipper was all the way up. I told myself to calm down, that it's nothing out of the ordinary. Then I saw she shadows on the tent wall, thanks to it being a clear night with a bright moon. Something was moving around out there, and the shapes they cast were wrong, very tall, very thin, moving in ways that nothing should. I was paralyzed, just frozen there, left to watch. The whispers grew louder,

and I could smell that sickly sweet odor right outside the tent. Then something brushed up against the side. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. This went on, for a few hours. Sometimes the shadows would retreat, and I would think it was over, but then they'd come back even closer than before. By the time dawn finally came, I was a wreck. As soon as there was enough light out, I packed up my things and started hiking again. This time I didn't care which direction, I just wanted out. But no matter how far I walked, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed. Around late afternoon, I could hear running water. I pushed through some bushes and found myself on the shore of a lock, but this wasn't the beautiful, peaceful place I'd been told

about. The water here was dark, almost black, and there was a very thick mist hanging over it. The trees around the shore were twisted and wrong, their branches reaching out over the water like grasping fingers. And there were stones, standing stones forming a rough circle near the water's edge. They were covered in markings similar to the one on the stone the bartender had given me. As I looked at them, I felt a pressure building in my head, like right before a migraine. I suddenly saw ripples forming on the water's surface. Something was moving around out there. Something big, something coming my way.

Before I saw it emerge, I bolted out of there. I don't remember much of what happened next, just crashing through the underbrush, branches whipping my face, that sickly sweet smell all around me. I could hear something moving through the woods behind me too, I swear, but I didn't dare look back. Thank heavens I found my way out somehow. Everything was really just a blur. By the time I came out I was scratched up and babbling about monsters in the lock. The locals didn't seem surprised.

I went back to my hostel, got cleaned up, and drank some strong tea. When I finally settled myself down, I went back to that pub to return the stone. When I tried to give it to the old man, he shook his head. Keep it, he said. You might need it again someday. I left the Highlands the next day, taking some new lifelong memories and scars with me. I was about halfway through my trek along the Great Divide Trail in the Canadian Rockies. It was late August, and the plan was to hike the entire route from Waterton Lakes National Park

up to Kakua Provincial Park. It was a trip I'd been dreaming about for years. I'm from Vancouver, but I'd never really explored much of the wilderness in my own backyard, always too busy with work and life and all that. But I'd finally saved up enough vacation time and money to take a couple of months off and just disappear into the mountains. That particular day had been rough. I'd been pushing myself hard, trying to make up for lost time after waiting out a nasty storm

a few days back. My legs were aching, my feet were blistered, and I was starting to run low on supplies. I knew I'd have to detour off the trail soon to resupply, but I was hoping to push on for one more day. As evening started to set in, I realized I'd miscalculated. I was nowhere near my planned campsite, and the terrain was too steep and rocky to safely set up camp. From there, I spotted a faint light in the distance off to the east of the trail. It had to be a farm or maybe a ranger station, I thought. So, I figured I'd head that way.

see if I could camp on the edge of their property for the night to be safe. Worst case, maybe they'd let me refill my water. It took me about an hour to reach the place. As I got closer, I could make out the shape of a farmhouse, one of those old two-story jobs that looked like it had been there for generations. There was a barn off to one side, and I could see a few outlying buildings that I guessed were sheds or workshops. The whole place was surrounded by fields,

with the forest pressing in close on all sides. I was about to head up to the house when something made me hesitate. I can't really explain it, to be honest. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and something just felt wrong. You spend enough time in the wilderness, I guess you develop a sort of sixth sense for danger.

This felt like that, but different, more unsettling somehow. And then I saw it. Something that at first I thought was a person, There was a figure standing by one of the ground floor windows of the farmhouse. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized it was way too big to be human, and the shape was all wrong. It was tall, maybe seven or eight feet, covered in what looked like shaggy dark fur, but it wasn't shaped like a bear. It was standing on two legs, body hunched forward in a way that looked unnatural.

Its arms, if you could call them that, were like. long and ended in what looked like huge clawed hands. I froze, afraid to move. The creature had not seen or sensed me yet. It was completely focused on that window. As I watched, it leaned in closer, pressing its face against the glass. And then, God, I can barely bring myself to describe it. It began to lick the window, long, slow strokes of its tongue against the glass. The sound carried clearly in the still night air, this wet, raspy noise that made my skin crawl. I'm not sure how long I stood there, paralyzed with fear before finally, the creature pulled back from the window. It turned its head, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought I'd been spotted.

It let out a low, rumbling sound, not quite a growl, not quite a whine, then loped off into the darkness of the surrounding forest. I waited until I was sure it was gone, then practice. I practically ran up to the farmhouse. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely knock on the door. A middle-aged man answered, looking understandably confused to find a disheveled hiker on his doorstep at night. I opened my mouth, ready to spill everything I'd just seen. But the words caught in my throat. How could I explain what I'd witnessed without sounding completely insane? Instead, I forced a sheepish smile and said, I'm so sorry to bother you this late. I was hiking out here and got myself.

completely turned around. Could you possibly point me in the direction of the nearest town? The man's confusion turned to concern. You're pretty far from any marked trails, son. Everything all right? I nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Yeah, just... I took a wrong turn somewhere, lost track of time. He studied me for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder into the house. Look, it's pitch black out there, and the terrain's treacherous if you don't know it. Why don't you come in for a bit. My wife just put on some coffee. I hesitated. Part of me wanted to leave, to put as much distance between myself in this place as possible. But another part, well, I couldn't just leave without saying something, could I? And I really did need to get my bearings.

That's really kind of you, thank you, I said, stepping inside. The warmth hit me immediately, making me realize how cold I'd been. The man introduced himself as John. He led me to a cozy kitchen where his wife Sarah was indeed brewing some coffee. She gave me a warm smile and said about pouring me a cup. As I sat there, hands wrapped around the steaming mug. I wrestled with what to say. I couldn't tell them the exact truth, but I couldn't say nothing either. I, uh, actually, I saw something before I came to your door, I started, my heart pounding. I'm not sure how to say this, but, Well, I think I saw a strange man peering through one of your ground floor windows. John and Sarah exchanged a look.

It wasn't the reaction I expected, not shock or fear, but more like resignation. Which window? John asked. His voice low. I pointed in the general direction. Over there, I think, on the side of the house. Sarah's face paled. That's Emily's room, she whispered. John stood up abruptly. I'll go check on her and have a look around outside.

As he left, Sarah turned to me. Thank you for telling us. We've had issues with trespassers before. Not sure why, but this area attracts all sorts of strange folk. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and now wondering if I counted as one of those strange folk. I wanted to say more to her, to warn her about what I'd really seen, but I just couldn't.

John came back a few minutes later. Emily's fine, he said to Sarah, sleeping soundly. Didn't see anyone outside, but I'll do a more thorough check in the morning. They offered to let me sleep in the spare bedroom, next to their bedroom so they could keep an eye on me. John agreed to stay up anyway, in case that man came back, but also probably because he wanted to keep an eye on me too. I gratefully accepted the offer, but truthfully, I spent most of the night staying up and

talking to John, discussing goings-on in the woods, what he does for a living, how life was out on the farm. In the morning, John gave me directions to the nearest town where I could resupply. I thanked them for their hospitality and set off, glad to put some distance between myself and whatever I'd seen the night before. I wish I could say that was the end of it, that I finished my hike and went back to a normal life, chalking the whole thing up to dancing shatter in the night, or maybe just a really big bear. But I still couldn't shake it off. It nagged at me, demanded answers.

About six months later, I found myself driving through that way and decided I would drop by the farm to pay them a visit. I told myself I was just being thorough, tying up loose ends before I wrote up my trail journal, but deep down, I think I wanted to make sure that everyone there was okay. And I was extremely grateful for how kind they were. I don't think I could have walked any further in those woods, further in those woods in the dark, knowing that something like that lived out there.

The farm looked different in the daytime, peaceful and ordinary. John seemed surprised to see me, but he invited me in for coffee. We chatted for a bit about nothing in particular, the weather, how my hike had gone, that sort of thing. At a certain point I asked how Emily was doing. John got real quiet. He looked out the window for a long moment. was a sickly child, weak lungs, the doctor said. To be frank with you, she passed away in her sleep

only a week after you were here. I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. My God, I'm so sorry I managed to finally say. It felt inadequate. The thing is, John continued, his voice barely above a whisper. Do you mind if I share something strange? John asked. I nodded. The night before she died, Emily told us she'd been having dreams, said John, said there was a big dog that would come to her window at night, said it would lick the glass and tell her not to be afraid. I only want to bring it up because it reminds me of the man you saw at her window that night. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. John continued. She said it spoke to her in her dreams, told her, it would take her somewhere she wouldn't be sick anymore. He looked at me,

his eyes starting to shine with unshed tears. I've been wondering if it was the fever talking. I think about it a lot lately, that maybe these dreams she had helped her to pass on. We sat in silence for a long while after that. What could I even say? Eventually, I made my excuses, thanked him profusely again for the coffee,

and for the kindness his family showed me that night, then left. As I drove away, I couldn't shake the image of that creature at the window. Had it really been there for Emily? Despite how disturbing it looked, was it some kind of spirit guide, or was it something darker, something that caused the girl to die? I've turned it over in my mind a thousand times since then, and I still don't know, but I've had plenty of nightmares about it ever since. I'm asking anyone and everyone who hears this story or reads it, What do you think it could have been?

A benign creature or spirit trying to help the little girl, knowing that she was about to pass, or some sort of evil monster that cursed the girl to die. I had gone backpacking through Northern Michigan after graduating from college, wanting to do a solo trip to clear my head before starting my job hunt. Originally from the suburbs of Chicago, I wasn't exactly an experienced outdoorsman, though I had done some camping as a kid.

I figured I could handle a week-long. trek through the Hiawatha National Forest. Looking back, I was pretty naive and under-prepared. I had decent gear, a good backpack, tent, sleeping bag, etc. But I had never really done any serious backcountry hiking before. I plotted out a route that would take me on a big loop through some of the more remote parts of the forest, figuring I'd cover about 10 miles a day. In retrospect, that was way too ambitious for my skill level. The first couple of days were actually actually great. The weather was perfect with clear skies and temperatures in the low 70s. I was making decent time and really enjoying the solitude. There's something magical about being alone

in nature, surrounded by nothing but trees and birdsong. I would stop occasionally to filter water from streams or take photos of particularly scenic spots. At night, I would make camp, eat some trail mix or dehydrated meals, and fall asleep to the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. It was on the third night that things started to get weird. I had hiked a little farther than usual that day, pushing myself to reach a small lake I had marked on my map as a good campsite. By the time I got there, the sun was already dipping below the tree line. I quickly set up my tent and got a small fire going, wanting to eat and get settled before dark really set in. As I sat by the fire heating up some soup, I had the sudden feeling of being watched.

you know, that prickly sensation at the back of your neck, but this was more intense. I looked around scanning the trees at the edge of my little clearing, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling. I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination. Being alone in the woods can play tricks on your mind. But as the night wore on, the feeling only intensified. I kept catching glimpses of movement out of the corner of my eyes. only to turn and see nothing there. The forest's sounds seemed to change too. The usual nighttime chorus of crickets and frogs went quiet,

replaced by an eerie stillness, which was only broken by the occasional snapping of a twig in the dark. I didn't sleep much that night. Every time I'd start to drift off, I would jerk awake, convinced I'd heard footsteps, or breathing just outside my tent. By the time dawn broke, I was exhausted and on edge.

Part of me wanted to pack up and hightail it back to civilization, but I told myself I was just being paranoid. I'd come out here for an adventure after all, so I shouldered my pack and pressed on. The next day was awed. I couldn't quite put my finger on why, but something felt off about the forest. The trees seemed denser, the shadows deeper.

I'd check my maps and compass, only to find that I didn't seem to be making much, progress, not as much as I should. The landmarks I was looking for never seemed to materialize. It was as if the landscape itself was subtly shifting around me. By late afternoon, I had to admit I was lost. None of the terrain matched my map anymore. I thought about trying to backtrack, but I couldn't even be sure which direction I'd come from. The sun was hidden behind a thick canopy and my compass was spinning wildly, the needle swinging in circles. As I began to panic, I stumbled into another clearing. That's when I saw it for the first time. It was,

I don't even know how to describe it right, but I'll do my best. It was a figure, standing at the edge of the clearing, impossibly tall, about eight feet or more. It was thin, like a shadow given 3D form. It didn't seem to have distinct features, just a vague humanoid shape that hurt my eyes to look at directly. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure didn't move, didn't make a sound. It just watched. I don't know how I knew that since I couldn't see any eyes, but I swear I felt its gaze boring into me. After a while, I backed away slowly. The figure remained motionless. As soon as I reached the tree line, I turned. and ran. I crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping at my face, my lungs burning. I ran

until I couldn't run anymore, collapsing in a heap on the forest floor. As I lay there gasping for breath, the shadows lengthened around me. Night was falling again, and I was nowhere near any state to make camp. I knew I should get up, find water, set up a tent, but I was paralyzed by fear, exhaustion, and confusion. That's when I heard it. A chittering, sound, high-pitched and insectile that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and underneath it, a deeper sound, a rhythmic thumping, like massive footsteps getting closer. I scrambled to my feet, all fatigue forgotten in a fresh wave of adrenaline. I picked a direction at random, and ran again, quieter this time, trying to listen for pursuit

over the sound of my own ragged breathing. I'm not sure how long I fled through the darkening forest. time seemed to lose all meaning. The trees began to look twisted into unnatural shapes. The ground beneath my feet felt spongy and uneven. At some point I became aware that the chittering had stopped. The forest was once more deathly quiet. I slowed to a walk, straining my ears for any sign of danger.

And then I saw the lights ahead of me. Weaving between the trees were tiny points of bluish-white light. They moved like fireflies on a mission. Despite every instinct screaming at me to run the other way, I found myself drawn towards them. As I got closer, I realized the lights were coming from small, ethereal figures flitting through the air. They seemed to take notice of me. They began to circle around, and unbelievably, they seemed to form a path through the woods. Some part of me knew I shouldn't follow, but I was beyond rational thought at that point.

I stumbled after the lights, pushed onwards by equal parts curiosity and desperation. I was led into a meadow where the trees began to have these strange symbols carved into their bark. I stopped for a moment, reaching out to touch one of the symbols. As my fingers brushed the rough bark, the world seemed to shift. Or maybe I just blacked out. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes, and the lights were gone, and everything felt, well, normal again. In fact, my surroundings had changed. In the distance, I saw light.

lights, different lights. These were man-made, the outskirts of a small town that was not there before. I made my way there in a hurry, finding the nearest street. People were looking at me strangely. I'm assuming my appearance didn't help. I had to have been filthy, scratched up, and wild-eyed. I found a convenience store and went inside. I went right up to the counter and asked, excuse me, my voice sounding hoarse. Can you tell me where I am? He gave me the name of a town I'd never heard of, in a state hundreds of miles from where I'd started my hike. What day is it? I asked. I dreaded the answer. When he told me, my knees felt weak. Somehow, impossibly, over two weeks had passed since I had entered that forest. Two weeks that I had no

memory of. The convenience store let me use the phone, and I called my parents. They were hysterical. apparently I'd been reported missing after failing to return from my trip on schedule. Search parties had combed the area where I was supposed to be hiking but found no trace of me. I never did come up with a satisfactory explanation for what happened. The official story is that I got lost in the woods and wandered in a delusional state for two weeks before finding my way back to civilization. I know that's not true, but it's easier than trying to explain the unexplainable. I've since gone hiking again.

I still do go hiking on occasion, but I don't go alone anymore, and I never go in too deep. Nowadays, no matter what, I feel like I'm always catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, something darting between the trees, and I wonder if that's PTSD from my experience. The moment I step foot into woods anywhere, I always feel watched. It's funny how some memories from childhood stick with you. Most of the time I can barely remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, but this one night from when I was 11 is burned into my brain like it happened last night. This was back in 92.

I was in the fifth grade. My best friends were Tommy and Jesse. Tommy lived on the edge of town where the suburbs gave way to farmland. His house backed up to this big open field that led to a hill we called the Mound. It wasn't much of a hill, really, but when you're a kid, everything seems to be a little. bigger. It was a Friday night and we were having a sleepover at Tommy's place, but this wasn't going to be any ordinary sleepover. No, we had big plans. We were going to be real adventurers. Tommy's parents had finally agreed to let us camp out on top of the mound. Well, sort of.

We could go up there with our sleeping bags and backpacks, hang out until 9 p.m., then come back to sleep in the house. It wasn't exactly roughing it in the wilderness, but to us, it was the the height of adventure. We'd been planning this for weeks. Our school backpacks were stuffed with all the essentials, flashlights, comic books, enough snacks to feed a small army, and of course, our trusty Swiss Army knives. We felt like real explorers, ready to tame the wild half-mile between Tommy's back porch and the top of the mound. Tommy's mom made us sandwiches for dinner, reminding us for the hundredth time to be careful and stay together. We nodded impatiently. eager to get started on our grand expedition.

As soon as we finished eating we were out the door, our backpacks weighing us down as we set off across the field. The sun was just starting to set as we began our trek. The mound loomed ahead of us, awaiting us under a darkened sky. Jesse was the warrior of the group. He kept glancing back at Tommy's house, which was growing smaller behind us. You're not scared, are you? I teased.

Jesse puffed up. No way. I was just making sure we're going the right direction. Tommy laughed. It's a straight line dummy. We can't get lost. We continued on, the tall grass of the field giving way to the steeper, rockier slope of the mound. It wasn't a difficult climb, but we took our time anyway, pretending we were scaling some great mountain peak.

When we finally reached the top, we were out of breath but grinning from ear to ear. We made it. Tommy crowed, dropping his backpack and raising his arms in victory. We've conquered the mound. Jesse and I cheered along with him, caught up in the moment. We felt like kings of the world, looking down at the twinkling lights of our small town spread out below us. We then set about making our camp, which mostly consisted of laying out our sleeping bags in a rough circle, piling up our snacks in the middle.

Tommy had brought a small battery-powered lantern, which we placed in the center. of the circle. It cast a warm glow over our little campsite as the last traces of daylight faded from the sky. We broke into our snacks and started to tell ghost stories, the usual stuff kids tell around a campfire, like hook-handed killers and vengeful spirits. Jesse was in the middle of a particularly creepy tale about a babysitter and a killer hiding upstairs when Tommy went still. Guys, he said his voice barely above a whisper. Look up there. We followed his gaze up to the night sky. At first, I didn't see anything unusual, just stars twinkling like they always did.

But then I saw it, a light brighter than any star, moving slowly across the sky. It's just a plane, Jesse said, but he didn't sound convinced. The light was moving too slowly to be a plane, and it was getting bigger, brighter, much brighter. Maybe it's a meteor, I suggested, my voice shaking a bit. but it wasn't like any meteor I'd ever seen or read about. The light kept growing, from a pinprick to the size of a dime, then a quarter. It was so bright it was hard to look at directly, but we couldn't take our eyes off it. That's when things got fuzzy.

I remember the light getting so bright it seemed to fill the whole sky. I remember a humming sound so low I felt it more than heard it, and I remember feeling very, very sleepy all of a sudden. The next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes to find Tommy's dad leaning over me, looking worried. You okay? He asked, helping me sit up. We'd been calling for you for about an hour. I looked around, disoriented.

Tommy and Jesse were just waking up too, looking as confused as I felt. Our campsite was a mess, sleeping bags twisted, snacks scattered everywhere. The lantern was off, its batteries apparently dead. What happened, Tommy asked, his voice groggy. His dad sighed. No idea. You had us worried sick. Why didn't you come back at nine? Like we agreed. We looked at each other, baffled. How could it already be past nine? It felt like we just laid down in our sleeping bags only a few minutes ago. We must have fallen asleep, Jesse said, but he didn't sound sure. Tommy's dad helped us pack up our things and let us back down the mound. As we walked, I was trying to

piece together what had happened, the ghost stories, the light in the sky, and then nothing. It was like someone had just erased a few hours of my memory. When we got back to Tommy's house, his mom was waiting for us on the porch. She looked mad at first, then relief washed over her face when she saw us. She hugged each of us in turn, then sent us off to get ready for bed. As I was brushing my teeth, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, and froze. There, just behind my ear, was a small, perfectly round bruise. I hadn't noticed it before, and I had no idea how I'd gotten it. When I asked Tommy and Jesse later, they

both found similar marks on themselves. Tommy on his neck, Jesse on his shoulder. We tried to talk about what happened, but none of us could make sense of it. We agreed to keep it to ourselves. Who was going to believe us? The next morning, Tommy's parents seemed to have chalked up the whole incident to us being irresponsible kids who fell asleep and lost track of time. We didn't correct them. How could we explain something we didn't understand ourselves? Life went on, and for a while, we didn't talk about that night on the mound, but things

had changed. We had changed. Jesse suddenly became obsessed with UFOs and aliens, spending hours in the library reading every book he could find on the topic. Tommy, on the other hand, refused to even look at the mound. He kept his bedroom curtains closed at night and would change the channel if anything about aliens came on TV. As for me, I found myself watching the sky more often, especially at night. I'd wake up sometimes, heart racing, convinced I'd seen a bright light outside my window,

but it was always just the moon or a street light, or me waking from a dream. About a month after our camping trip, Tommy called me in the middle of the night. He was whispering, his voice shaking. It's back, he said. The light. It's over the mound right now. I rushed to my window, peering out into the darkness. I couldn't see the mound from my house, but the sky in that direction did seem brighter than it was supposed to be. What do we do? I asked. Nothing. Tommy replied.

We pretend we never saw it. We never talk about this again, okay? I agreed, wondering why he even called me then, but I couldn't help feeling like we were making a mistake, like we were ignoring something important. The years went by, and we grew up. During high school, Jesse moved away. His family relocated for his dad's job. Tommy and I drifted apart as childhood friends sometimes do. Every now and then I might run into Tommy during one of my college breaks.

Whenever I heard from Jesse again, he was still very much. into UFOs, but in a more academic way. He was studying astronomy, he told me, hoping to work for SETI one day. Tommy, though? Well, Tommy never got over that night. He joined the military right out of high school, saying he wanted to be as far from the mound as possible. Eventually, he got his wish, and I stopped seeing him during those college breaks. I guessed he made it somewhere overseas or to a different state for training. I tried to put it all behind me. I told myself it was simply a weird childhood experience, one possibly fueled by too many sci-fi movies and wild imaginations.

Even so, I wonder, I can't help but feel I'm lying to myself. I've never gone back to the mound, not sure I could even if I wanted to. Last I heard, they built a subdivision there, turning our childhood adventure spot into a cluster of cookie cutter houses. But part of me is glad, at least can't. Kids won't be camping up there anymore, risking, well, whatever it was we encountered. But it also feels like I lost something important. It feels like there was a mystery there, something bigger than us, and we just walked away from it.

Maybe we were made to walk away from it. I don't know. Maybe I should finally give it a rest. Stop thinking about it. Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved after all. I'll leave you with this. Sometimes I still check behind my ear, half expecting to see that point. perfectly round bruise again. And whenever I look up at the night sky, I feel like something

might be looking back. I had always been drawn to the obscure and forgotten tales that linger in the shadows of the world, where the modern age has yet to fully cast its light. Romania, with its rich tapestry of history and mystery, seemed like the perfect canvas for an eager anthropology student like myself. The idea of spending a summer trekking through its remote villages to unearth ancient folklore was romantic, almost like stepping into the pages of a storybook. As the plane descended into Bucharest, the panorama below shifted from sprawling cityscapes to the rolling hills and dense forests that characterize much of the country's landscape. The transition was like watching the past and present collide, a reminder of why I had chosen this

place. I felt a mix of exhilaration and nervous anticipation stirring in my chest as I collected my backpack from the overhead compartment. The first few days were spent navigating through well-trodden paths in cities like Brasov, where Gothic spires and medieval fortresses spoke of centuries past. I conversed with local historians and gathered narratives that, while rich, felt polished by frequent retelling. What I sought was something rar, tales that were woven into the fabric of smaller communities, those not found in tourist guides or history books. Driven by this desire, I rented a car and headed towards the Carpathian Mountains. The drive was scenic, with each winding turn offering vistas of valleys bathed in the golden light of the late June sun.

Yet as the day waned, the shadows seemed to stretch across the road, almost as if they were reaching out from the dense woodlands that flanked my path. I arrived at the village just before dusk. It was the kind of place you might miss if you blinked. A handful of weathered houses clustered around a time-worn church, its steeple piercing the sky. There was no hotel, only a small store that doubled as a post office, its windows displaying an eclectic mix of goods. The villagers eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and wariness as I parked the car and stretched my legs. Their gaze followed me as I approached the store, their whispers barely audible over the creek of the sign swaying gently in the evening.

breeze. Inside I asked the storekeeper about a place to stay. With a cautious glance, she directed me to a house on the outskirts of the village, where an elderly woman rented out a room to the occasional wanderer. Her home was a quaint, ivy-clad cottage, the garden blooming with wildflowers that released their fragrance into the cooling air. The woman, Mrs. Popescu, greeted me with a nod and a cautious smile, her English broken but sufficient. Through a combination of my patchy Romanian and expressive gestures, we agreed on a price, and she showed me to my room. The room was simple, a single bed with a hand-knitted quilt, a wooden chair, and an old wardrobe

that looked as if it could tell stories of its own. The window offered a view of the forest, trees standing like silent sentinels against the sky. I remember thinking how peaceful it looked, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the cities I had left behind. That night, as I lay in bed, the excitement of the day gave way to the silence of the village. It was a silence so profound it almost had a presence of its own. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, a faint sound teased the edges of my consciousness. It was a soft, insistent scratching, like nails gently scraping against glass. Heart pounding, I sat up and looked towards the window. For a moment, I thought I saw something, a face, perhaps. A face, perhaps.

pale and distorted by the glass. I blinked and it was gone, leaving only the whisper of leaves outside. I told myself it was nothing, just the remnants of a dream or the trickery of shadows. But as I lay back down, a small part of me couldn't shake the feeling that something was very different here, and perhaps I had ventured further into the unknown than I had intended. The morning brought with it a mist that clung to the village like a shroud, muting the colors of the wildflowers and casting the houses in a ghostly pallor. I woke early, restless from the previous night's eerie interruption, and decided to immerse myself in the village life, hoping to glean some of the stories hidden within its quiet boundaries. I started with a walk,

the dew-soaked grass whispering under my boots as I moved through the village. The sun, struggling to pierce the fog, cast long, thin shadows that seemed to flicker with my passing. The villagers were already up, tending to gardens or heading off to fields with tools slung over their shoulders. They nodded as I passed, their smiles guarded, and their eyes holding stories that their lips seemed reluctant to tell. I found my way to the small store again, where the elderly storekeeper was arranging bread and other staples on worn wooden shelves. Good morning. I greeted her in my faltering Romanian, which brought a surprise chuckle from her. Her response was warm but cautious, and when I ventured to ask about the village's history,

she paused, her expression turning thoughtful, almost pensive. We are a simple people, she said finally, bound by tradition in the land. Perhaps the church's priest could tell you more. She seemed relieved to divert my inquiries elsewhere. Thanking her, I headed towards the church, its steeple looming ominously against the slowly clearing sky. The priest, a stooped figure with a face as cragged as the Carpathian landscape, was sweeping the front steps. He regarded me with a deep-set discerning gaze as I approached.

You are the visitor staying with Mrs. Popescu, he stated more than asked, his voice deep and resonant. Yes, I'm studying anthropology. I'm interested in the folklore of places like this. Stories that are perhaps not known outside these mountains. The priest set his broom aside. folding his hands. Folklore, yes, we have plenty, but not all tales are for telling.

He sighed, the sound seeming to carry a weight of resignation. But if stories you seek, then you must learn of our stoie. As he spoke of the stoie, his voice dropped to a whisper, as if the mere mention might invoke their presence. They are spirits of the dead,

restless and roaming. They pray on the unwary, those who do not respect the old ways. His eyes flicked to the forest, and a chill ran down my spine as I remembered the face at the window. Why tell me this? I asked. My curiosity peaked despite my unease. Because knowledge can be a lantern in the dark, he replied cryptically. Be wary, young lady. Not all spirits are bound by story alone. The rest of the day I spent wandering the edges of the village, my mind spinning with the priest's words. I tried to do.

to speak with others, but it was as if the mention of the Stoy had erected a wall of silence around me. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the village, I felt a growing sense of dread. What had I stirred by my probing? That night, the scratching returned, more insistent than before. As I lay in my bed, listening to the unsettling sound, I realized that the village's stories were not just remnants of the past, but living, breathing truths that watched from the dark woods and whispered with the wind. And now they were aware of me. The shadows lengthened into evening as a silence settled over the village, deeper and more complete than any night before. My heart beat with a heightened awareness of every small sound, the distant bark of a dog, the whisper of the wind

through the trees, and the soft, eerie scratching at the window that now seemed like a sinister serenade meant just for me. I lay in bed, frozen, the covers pulled up to my chin. The memory of the priest's warning echoed in my mind, a solemn reminder that I had ventured too far into the dark heart of folklore I so naively sought to explore. The scratching continued, persistent and methodical, as if whatever lurked outside knew I was just beyond the thin pane of glass. Let me in, a voice whispered, so faint I thought I might have imagined it.

I'm so cold out here. The voice was soft, almost pitiful, but behind its plea, I sensed a trap. It was the stoie, I was sure of it, using its cunning to seek an invitation. Every tale I had ever read about spirits, and their machinations swirled through my mind, paralyzing me with fear. I was a stranger here, an outsider, exactly the sort of person the old man had said the Stoy prayed upon. I didn't dare move towards the window. I didn't even dare to breathe loudly. My room felt like a cell, and the walls seemed to press in with the cold dampness of the night. Hours dragged by,

marked only by the relentless scratching and the occasional whisper, each plea more desperate than the last. Let me in, but I didn't respond. I couldn't. Instead, I lay there, a silent sentinel in my own besieged fortress, praying for the first light of dawn. The night was a battle of wills, my fear against the cunning of an ancient evil lurking just outside. As the darkness began to thin with the approach of dawn, the scratching faded, the voice dissipated, and a profound stillness took over. When the sun finally broke the horizon, its light felt like a cleansing fire, banishing the night's horrors back into the depths of the forest. I rose from my bed my body stiff from hours of immobility.

My spirit wearied from the ordeal. I didn't bother packing my belongings properly. I just stuffed what I could into my backpack, my hands trembling with the rush to leave. I left some money on the table for Mrs. Popescu, enough to cover my stay and perhaps a bit more, a silent apology for any trouble I might have brought to her door. Without a backward glance I fled the house, my feet carrying me swiftly to the village square, where I caught the first bus heading anywhere but there.

As the village receded in the distance, a part of me mourned the loss of innocence, the harsh lesson learned about the reality of the stories I had so eagerly pursued. I spent the remaining weeks of my trip in cities, surrounded by the comforting anonymity of crowds, and the constant hum of urban life. Yet, even amidst the bustle of civilization,

I kept my curtains tightly drawn each night, a barrier against the dark. I told myself it was just a precaution, a silly habit born from a single terrifying encounter. But sometimes, in the quiet moments just before sleep, I would hear a whisper, carried on the wind, a chill reminder that some doors, once opened, can never be fully closed again.

I had always dreamed of exploring the great mountains, and finally, my chance had come. With my backpack ready and my spirits high, I set off for a solo trek across the magnificent French and Swiss Alps. It was going to be a three-week adventure, and I had everything planned perfectly, or so I thought. The first nine days were like a dream. I hiked through breathtaking landscapes, took pictures of the sunrise, and even saw a few mountain goats. I was alone, but I felt a thrilling connection to nature. Each night I camped under the stars, feeling a little chilly, but mostly excited about the days ahead. But on the 10th day, everything changed. The sky grew dark and the wind began to howl as I crossed over into Switzerland. Soon it wasn't just windy.

It was a full-blown storm. The rain poured down so hard it felt like buckets of cold water were being dumped on me. I struggled against the wind, which seemed determined to knock me off my feet. My waterproof jacket and pants were no match for this storm. As I trudged through the muddy path, my boots squelching and my fingers numb with cold, I spotted a small hut in the distance. It looked old and a bit worn out, but right then, it seemed like the coziest place on earth. pushing against the wind I made my way to the hut, hoping to find shelter and maybe a place to dry off.

When I reached the hut, I was surprised to find that I wasn't alone. Inside, there was an old man sitting calmly by a fire, smoking a pipe. He looked like he had jumped out of a history book, with his wool trousers, suspenders, and a strange old-fashioned hat. Despite his odd appearance, the warm glow of the fire made him look friendly enough. The old man didn't seem surprised to see me at all. He just nodded slightly and gestured for me to come in. I didn't need to be asked twice.

I stepped into the hut, grateful to escape the relentless rain. Hello? I managed to say, shivering as the warmth began to seep into my bones. The old man just nodded again. I'm Klaus, he said, in a voice that sounded like it was used to the quiet of the mountains, more than the chatter of people. I introduced myself, trying not to stare at his old-timey clothes. As I hung my wet jacket near the fire, Klaus resumed his spot by the flames. I pulled up a chair, glad for the heat and the company, even if it was a bit unusual.

We sat in silence for a bit, just listening to the crackle of the fire and the storm raging outside. Then, as if deciding that I was okay, Klaus began to talk. He told me stories about the evening. Alps, tales of adventurers and explorers from long ago. His stories were interesting, but what really got my attention were the legends he shared, stories about creatures that lived in the mountains, mysterious beings that were part human and part beast. As the wind howled like a banshee outside, Klaus's tales grew stranger and scarier. He spoke of echo spirits, eerie creatures that could mimic any sound, even human voices. When the echo

calls your name, that's when you run, he said, looking straight at me with a serious glint in his eyes. I tried to laugh it off. Echo spirits, huh? That sounds spooky, but it's just a legend, right? I wasn't so sure anymore, not with the storm making strange noises outside. Klaus didn't answer. He just stared into the fire, his face flickering with the flames, leaving me to wonder if some legends might be real after all. That night, even though I was tucked away inside the little mouth, mountain hut, sleep didn't come easy. Every sound the storm made seemed louder and scarier, thanks to the creepy stories Klaus had told me about echo spirits. I kept telling myself they were just old legends, nothing more, but every creek of the hut and howl of the wind made me think

twice. The fire eventually burned down to just glowing embers, casting eerie shadows on the walls. I wrapped my sleeping bag tighter around me, trying to shake off the chill and the spooky feeling. I must have finally fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, everything was strangely silent. Morning light was peeking through the small window when I opened my eyes. I sat up, expecting to hear Klaus, tending the fire, or maybe humming an old tune. But there was nothing. No sound of footsteps, no crackling fire, no Klaus. I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and looked around.

The hut was exactly as small and rustic as when I'd entered, but there was no sign of the old man. The chair where he had sat the night before was empty, without even an indent in the cushion. His pipe, his hat, everything was gone. It was as if he had never been there at all. This can't be right, I muttered to myself, my heart starting to race.

I stepped outside, hoping maybe Klaus was just outside gathering more wood, but the area around the hut was deserted. The storm had passed, leaving behind a quiet, crisp morning that made the night's fears seem distant and silly. Still, a part of me couldn't shake off the unease. I packed up my gear quickly, eager to leave the hut and its mysteries behind. As I set out on the trail again, the fresh air and bright sunshine helped lift my spirits. It was just a weird night, I told myself, trying to focus on the beautiful views and the adventure ahead.

The path wound through lush green and the path. meadows and over sparkling streams, and I started to relax and enjoy my hike again. The mountains were peaceful, with only the sounds of birds and the occasional distant rumble of a waterfall. It was easy to believe that the scary stories from the night before were just that. Stories. But then, just as I was getting comfortable, my name echoed across the valley. At first, I thought I was imagining things. Hello? I called out, half-experienced. expecting no reply. But then it came again, my name, clearer this time. It sounded just like Klaus's voice. My heart skipped a beat. This has to be a joke, I thought, looking around

nervously. There was no one in sight. The echo of my name seemed to bounce off the mountains, surrounding me. I remembered Klaus's words. When the echo calls your name, that's when you run. I wasn't about to run, not yet. I was killed. curious, maybe a bit scared too, but I needed to know what was happening. The echo seemed to be coming from a cave nearby. I hesitated for a moment, then walked towards it. Hello? I called again as I approached the cave entrance. The echo that came back was chilling. It was my voice, but underneath it, there were other voices, like a dozen whispers tangled together. It felt wrong, deep in my bones. That was the moment I knew I should have listened to it.

Klaus. Whatever was in that cave wasn't just an echo. It was something else, something that knew my name. Standing at the entrance of the cave, my heart pounded in my chest. The voices echoing back at me weren't just echoes. They were something more, something eerie. I knew I should run, just like Klaus had warned, but my feet felt like they were glued to the ground. The whispers mixed with my name sent chills down my spine. It sounded like the voices were calling me, trying to lure me deeper into the cave. I remembered all the legends Klaus had told me. Stories meant to scare, but maybe they were true. I took a deep breath, and against every instinct screaming inside me, I stepped back from the cave. Time to leave, I muttered to myself, turning away from the dark opening in the mountain. But as soon as I

started to walk away, the voices grew louder, and I could hear my name being called out again, this time more urgently. It felt as if the mountain itself was speaking to me. I broke into a run, my legs finally responding. The path was rocky, and I stumbled a few times, but fear pushed me forward. The echoes followed me, bouncing off the valley walls. It was like a wave of sound chasing me, growing louder with every step I took. The thought of looking back to, and terrified me, so I kept my eyes fixed on the path ahead. My breath came in short gasps, and my muscles ached, but I didn't dare stop. The whispers seemed to be just behind me, always calling my name, mixed with those strange, otherworldly voices. After what felt like

hours, but was probably only a few minutes, I reached a river. The water rushed loudly, and for a moment I hesitated. The river was wide, and the water looked to be. The river was wide, cold and deep, but the voices were still behind me, closer than ever. Without another thought, I jumped into the river. The cold water hit me like a wall, shocking me back to reality. I gasped for air, struggling against the current. The cold seemed to seep into my bones, but as I reached the other side and pulled myself onto the bank, I realized the voices had stopped. The sound of the rushing water had drowned them out. I lay there on the riverbank panting and shivering but relieved. Looking back across the water, the other side seemed so distant now, as if it was another

world where the echoes couldn't reach me. I knew I couldn't go back the same way I came. Finally regaining my strength, I stood up and started walking again, this time towards the nearest town. I was done with the mountains and their secrets for now. The thought of spending another night out there, with those voices possibly finding me again, was too much. When I reached the town, I told you. I told me, I told people I had gotten spooked by the storm and decided to cut my trip short. I didn't mention the echoes or the cave. Who would believe such a story? They'd think I was just a scared kid with too much imagination.

I've since read up on the legends and talked to other hikers online. Some have heard similar things, which makes me wonder. But now, I stick to group hikes where there's safety and numbers. And whenever the wind howls, I never listen too closely, just in case it's not just the wind.