Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 31 REAL Skinwalker & Wendigo Sightings (COMPILATION)

Episode Date: May 1, 2024

These are 31 REAL Skinwalker & Wendigo Sightings (COMPILATION) Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #skinwalker #wendigo #deepwoods #nationalpark 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

I want to tell you about this crazy thing that happened to me when I was a kid. I'm in my 30s now, but this one experience from my childhood still freaks me out whenever I think about it. Back when I was 14, my class went on a trip to a Navajo reservation. It was supposed to be a sort of cultural learning experience to teach us about Navajo history and traditions. To be honest, I was just excited to get out of the classroom for a bit. We all piled into this big old bus and started the long drive to the reservation. It was me, three of my best friends, the rest of our class, and a few adults, which included the school counselor and a couple of parents who volunteered to chaperone.

The drive felt like it took forever, but we kept ourselves entertained. Hey, do you think we'll see any wild animals out there? My friend James asked. I hope so, Jessica chimed in. I want to see a coyote or something. So long as there's no snakes, Ryan grumbled. I hate snakes. We laughed and joked around, speculating about what the reservation might be like.

None of us had ever been to one before. We were city kids. When we finally arrived, I remember being struck by how vast and empty everything seemed. The reservation was huge, with all these wide-open spaces and rugged landscapes. It was so different from the city we were used. used to. Whoa, look at those mountains out there, James pointed out the window. Those aren't mountains, they're mesas. Jessica corrected him. She was the smarter one and knew it, turning her into quite the know-it-all sometimes. As we stepped off the bus, I felt a sudden

sense of isolation. We really were out in the middle of nowhere, far away from anything familiar, but I was with my friends, so I didn't feel too nervous. The school, counselor, Miss Nate, gathered us all together. All right, everyone, listen up. We're going to be learning a lot about Navajo culture this afternoon. I want you all to be respectful and pay attention to our hosts. We all nodded, but I could tell we were itching to explore. The first thing on our agenda was a meeting with some of the Navajo elders. They greeted us warmly, leading us to this big, open space where we all sat in a circle. The elders began to share stories about Navajo history and traditions. At first, I was kind of bored. I mean, I was

14, and listening to people way older than me talk about history, and that wasn't exactly my idea of fun. But then, one of the elders started to talk about Navajo folklore and legends. I perked up a bit. I wasn't the only one either, because James, always the curious one, raised his hand. Do you have any scary stories? Like about monsters or ghosts. A couple of the elders exchanged glances. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Finally, one of them spoke up. There are many stories in Navajo culture, but some are not meant to be shared with outsiders. It's best we focus on the stories that teach us important lessons about our way of life. That just piqued our interest even more, the idea that there were

certain stories that outsiders like us weren't even allowed to hear. Sadly, the subject was changed quickly. They told us more about Navajo art and music, and even taught us a few words in their language. As the day went on, we explored more of the reservation. We saw some traditional Navajo homes called Hogan's, and even got to try some authentic Navajo food. It was really cool. After a few hours, it was finally time to head back to the bus. I sat with my friends, as usual.

We began to talk about all the things we'd seen and learned as everyone else climbed aboard, and the adults were checking things before leaving. Settling into our seats, James turned to us with a frustrated look on his face. Can you believe those elders wouldn't tell us the scary stories? He complained. I mean, what's the point of learning about Navajo culture if we don't get to hear about the cool stuff? Jessica rolled her eyes. Maybe they just didn't want to scare us.

We're just kids. Come on, James scoffed. We can handle it. Did you see the way they reacted when I asked about monsters and ghosts? They're definitely hiding something. What do you think they're hiding, James? I asked. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. I've heard stories about these things called Skin Walkers.

They're like evil shapeshifters or something. I bet the elders know all about them, but they just don't want to talk about it. Skinwalkers? Ryan repeated, his eyes wide. Just the name sounds creepy. Yep, and apparently, they can turn into animals and stuff, and they're supposed to be really dangerous, James said, clearly enjoying the effect his words were having on us, especially Ryan.

Jessica shook her head. James, that's just a bunch of superstition. There's no such thing as skinwalkers. Legends like that just serve as cautionary tales. You don't know that, James argued. The Navajo have all sorts of legends. and stuff. Just because the elders didn't want to talk about it doesn't mean it's not real. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I didn't know what to believe, but the idea of

Skinwalkers was definitely interesting and unsettling. Maybe we shouldn't talk about it, Ryan suggested. The elders probably had a good reason for not wanting to share those stories. Don't be such a baby, James teased. It's just a story. What's the worst that could happen? As if on on cue the bus suddenly lurched to a stop. The engine sputtered and died, and we all looked around in confusion. What's going on? Ryan asked, peering out the window. Miss Nate stood up at the front of the bus. Well, it looks like we're having some mechanical issues, she said, trying to sound calm. Everyone just sit tight while we figure this out. She and the other chaperone got off the bus to take a look at the engine. We all waited anxiously, wondering what was going to happen. After a while, Miss Nate came back

onto the bus with a worried look on her face. I'm afraid the bus isn't going to start, she said. We're going to have to call your parents to come pick you up. We'll also get a hold of someone to come fix the bus. A murmur of concern went through the bus. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere. Miss Nate and the other chaperone started making phone calls, trying to reach out to parents to come pick us up. However, some of them were unreachable or unable to come until morning. My group of friends and I happened to meet that criteria too. My parents didn't even pick up, while Ryan, James, and Jessica's parents were apparently busy until tomorrow. I knew for a fact James' parents were out of town, but I wasn't sure about Jessica and Ryan's. I remember feeling

a growing sense of dread as the reality of our situation sank in. Were we going to have to spend the night out here on the reservation? I could ask the other kids' parents for a ride, but I didn't really know them. It was after this that things started to get really weird. James's words about Skinwalkers kept echoing in my head as we sat there on the bus, waiting for someone to come fix it. I tried to push the thoughts away, but the more I tried, the more they seemed to take hold. Over the next few hours, the other kids' parents began to show up, and a couple of hours after that, as we were all worried. waiting outside with bottles of water. The last of the parents came to pick up the last of the

children that would go home that night. For us stragglers, Miss Nate came up to us and said, I've got some good news. Your parents will be here in the morning, including you. She pointed at me. I finally managed to get a hold of him. However, we're not going anywhere tonight. Until tomorrow, we'll be staying in the bus. One of the other straggler kids spoke up. Can't we stay in one of the buildings on the reservation? Miss Nate sighed. No. Unfortunately, there's limited indoor space available.

Then James spoke up. There's no room to sleep on that bus. Can we camp outside instead? Enjoy the scenery and the stars. Jessica chimed in with him. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Miss Nate stood there for a moment, thinking about it. Well, we did pack blankets on the bus just in case.

Tell you what, if you all want to camp out here next to the bus, you can do that. But I'm going to be out here with you, and anyone who wants to sleep in the bus can do so. A mixture of excitement and fear rippled through me. Camping outside on this reservation, after everything James said about skin walkers, Jessica nudged me. This is going to be awesome, like a real adventure. James agreed. Ryan seemed to be the only one with reservations about staying on the reservation.

Despite my feelings about the situation, I eventually found myself getting caught up in the enthusiasm. I mean, it did sound cool, camping out under the stars. Miss Nate continued, Everyone needs to stay together and follow instructions, whether you're on the bus or just outside. I'm going to ask the elders if they have anything that might help out. We began to go back into the bus, grabbing the aforementioned blankets and anything else that would help out with our camp. Miss Nate came back with one of the elders. Apparently they did have some tents we could borrow, and some spare pillows.

Heck, they even brought us out some snacks. The elder and Miss Nate helped to set up a small fire. After that, the elder bade us good night and left. Miss Nate and my friends and I gathered around the fire. We could feel the night getting colder on our backs as the others talked about school, gossip, and even homework. I felt more and more uneasy. It started with small things, like the way the shadows seemed to flicker and dance at the edge of the firelight, or the way the wind whistled through the trees nearby, sounding almost like whispers.

I glanced at my friends, wondering if they felt weird too, but they seemed oblivious, caught up in conversation. As the fire began to die down a bit, Miss Nate stood up and stretched. All right, kids, bedtime. We've got a long day tomorrow. We all grumbled a bit, but we began to pile into our tents anyway. Doors and window flaps kept open so we could see and talk to each other. Even as I lay down, sleep just wouldn't come. Every time I closed my eyes, the creepy thoughts of monsters from Navajo folklore came to mind, especially the Skinwalker.

At some point in the night, I heard a twig snap somewhere in the dark beyond our campsite. I sat up, my heart pounding. Did you hear that? I whispered to Jessica, who I was sharing my tent with. She mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, already asleep apparently. I strained my ears, listening for any other sounds. At the moment, all I could hear was the wind and the occasional pop from the low, dying fire. I was about to lie back down, but then I caught sight of something, a pair of glowing eyes staring out at me from the shadows.

I froze my breath catching in my throat. The eyes blinked once, twice, then disappeared. I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I had imagined it, but then I heard another twig snap. It was closer this time. I nudged Jessica, feeling much more urgent than before. Jessica, wake up, there's someone out there. She sat up, blinking sleepily. What are you talking about? I pointed to the shadows where I I'd seen the eyes. I saw something, eyes glowing in the dark. She frowned, peering out into the night. I don't see anything, probably just a nocturnal animal or something. I suddenly heard someone sit up in the other tent. Apparently James was awake. Did you say eyes? Like glowing animal eyes? I nodded, my heart still pounding. James scrambled to his feet, grabbing a flashlight and crawling out of

of his tent. I'm going to go check it out. James, no, Jessica hissed. Miss Nate said we have to stay by the bus together, but James was already heading towards the edge of the campsite, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dark. I glanced at Jessica, then to the other tent, seeing Ryan now awake, looking just as scared as I felt. We couldn't just let James go off on his own, so we went after him, footsteps crunching on the dry ground. James, wait up. up, I called, trying to keep my voice low. But James wouldn't slow down. He kept going, his flashlight sweeping back and forth across the landscape. Then we heard something, a low growl, the kind of sound that instantly sends shivers down your spine. All of us froze,

including James, whose flashlight beam now pointed towards the sound. There, in the light, we saw a creature that could only come from a nightmare. It was huge. easily the size of a wolf, but it looked very, very wrong. Its fur was patchy and mangy, and its face wasn't that of a wolf. It had a flat, human-like snout. The creature stared at us with glowing yellow eyes, lips pulled back in a snarl. What is that? Jessica whispered, her voice trembling. Skinwalker, James breathed, his face pale.

The creature looked extremely mad, even more so than before, its claws digging into the earth, as it took a step towards us. We stumbled back, James's flashlight shaking in his hands. Then, from behind us, we heard Miss Nate's voice. Kids, what are you doing over there? We spun around the beam now landing on Miss Nate's face. Then all four of us turned back around. Where the creature had been, it was no longer there.

Miss Nate hurried over to us, her face etched with worry. What's going on? Why aren't you in your tents sleeping? We all started to talk at once, voices high and panicked. We told her about the eyes we saw in the dark, about that monster we'd seen. Miss Nate's face grew even more concerned. She hustled us back to the campsite, where some of the other kids were now looking out from the windows of the bus.

Miss Nate alone searched the area around the campsite. We were terrified, watching her out there, wondering if that thing was going to drag her away. Thankfully, she saw no sign of the creature. Miss Nate tried to convince us it had probably been a coyote or another animal, but I knew what we'd seen. We all knew. We grabbed our blankets, abandoned our tents, and slept crammed in the bus that night.

Miss Nate kept the door shut and the windows down to circulate some cooler air, so every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves I heard out there, sent fresh waves of terror through me. That night seemed to go on forever. I don't think I slept at all. When the sun finally came up, it felt like a miracle. Our parents showed up at record time, thankfully, and I was more than eager to get off this reservation and get back home.

Miss Nate, before we left, tried to ask us more questions about the night before, but we didn't want to talk about it anymore. We didn't even want to think about it. As I climbed into my parents' car and slowly pulled away, I caught a glimpse of something in our rearview mirror, a lone figure standing at the edge of the reservation, watching us leave. I blinked, and I swear it was gone, just like that. Honestly, I think that trip changed me, changed all my friends. It was like it opened up a door that shouldn't have been opened, one that's impossible to close, a door that told us that there are monsters out there.

And if that bit of folklore happened to be true, what other folklore was real? We live in a world filled with things that defy explanation. When it comes to Skinwalkers, it's best left to the elders. Growing up in Arizona, myths and legends are a part of life. Native traditions, mystic places, vortexes, UFO abductions, and dozens of other stories of the unknown that I always found fascinating. I grew up spending a lot of time wandering around the desert and the mountains, hunting, camping, etc. So I felt very at home in the wilderness. One late spring day on one of my

many hiking adventures, I wandered off the trail and after several hours came upon a small group of old mud adobe houses. A few people heard me coming and came out of the houses to investigate, and after apparently making the collective decision that I was not a threat, one of the elders dressed in old-style traditional native clothing and a headdress came over to greet me. The man spoke slowly and told me that I had wandered onto a Navajo reservation and asked me if I was lost or if I needed help. When I told him no, I was lost. But intentionally, he chuckled and invited me in to eat with his family. The next several hours were one of the great experiences of my life.

The whole thing was like being thrown back in time. While we ate and talked, others from the surrounding houses began coming over to join us, and I got the feeling they didn't get many outside visitors. We shared stories for hours about life, family, their history in the area, and time spent in the wild, and the longer we talked, the more they opened up and the more interesting the elders' stories got. Throughout the time, there was one man who never spoke. He just sat out of the circle listening and watching me. At one point, I told them I did what I called my walkabouts every year around September, where I would go out by myself into the wilderness for three to four weeks at a time, and this got the attention of the one silent old man.

When I finished, he came over to the circle around the fire, sat directly on the ground in front of me, and asked me to join him on the ground. He told me that years ago he used to do the same thing, and went on to tell me about the canyon he went to. He described it as a dangerous but magic place, and that I would see the world differently if I came back. If? It must be for dramatic effect. When he finished, he invited me over to his home.

The house was small, and through an open door in the back room, I could see it was filled with various animal pelts, coyotes, and wolves. He walked over and closed that door, then picked up and handed me an old map, and some written directions, that seemed like he had been holding on to them. for a long time, and just walked away into that back room and closed the door behind him. It was late, and one of the families had invited me to stay the night, which I gladly did. The next morning, as I prepared to leave, one of the old women came over to me with something in her hands, handed me a talisman, and simply said, dip your bullets in the white ash at the hottest part of the fire. Then, just walked away. September came, and as I packed for my walkabout, I saw the talisman in a drawer, and something felt right about

taking it with me. After a beautiful drive, I was very happy to find the Forest Service Road marked on the old map. The entrance to the area was remote and overgrown, and tough to get to, even in my Jeep. It took me much longer to get to than expected, so I decided to make camp and start the hike in the morning. After a few hours on a trail that looked like it had been forgotten, I came to a stream and the entrance to the secret valley. It was a narrow crack in the tall cliffs with about four feet of water running gently through, but too narrow for a kayak or canoe. I hoisted my gear over my head and began to wade sideways through the chest-deep water. The crack and the cliffs seemed to go on forever, but after almost two hours I came to the place

where it opened up into a small lake in an incredible valley surrounded by tall rock faces. this may have been the most remote place i have ever been in the sense that there was no sign that people had ever been there no trash no bullet casings not even the evidence of camp-fires My first night there was the quietest night I have ever spent in the wild. No birds, no frogs, not even crickets, but I didn't feel like I was alone there. In the morning after breakfast, I headed out on my first exploratory hike to explore my new home for the next couple of weeks. After being stalked by a mountain lion on a hike about ten years ago, I make a point of now bringing a pistol with me when I'm out wilderness hiking. After some looking around, I found a narrow path. that appeared to be a game trail that led up the side of one of the cliffs and towards what looked

like caves from the canyon floor. I made my way up to them and came upon an entrance that was much larger than it appeared from below. I made some noise to alert any possible animals I was there, and made my way inside. The cave was an expansive single chamber that went back a couple of hundred feet. As I walked, I inspected as much as I could see with my light, but there were no tracks of any kind in the dirt besides mine. So I decided I was alone in there and pushed on toward the rear of the cave. As I came around the last bend in the cave and approached the end, my headlamp panned across a large pile of bones, some animal, some human, and a very old-looking small candle sitting on a natural stone shelf. This is the first thing that has scared me for as long as I can remember.

But focusing on my wits, I remembered that there were no other tracks in the cave, and figured it was all from a long time ago. I was still a little uneasy as I exited the cave and was ready to get back to camp. As I came out into the light, about 75 feet away, there was the largest wolf I have ever seen that looked like it was coming down from standing on its hind legs. It dropped down to all fours on a rock and just began staring at me, not growling or bearing its teeth, just staring. I pulled my 45 and fired two shots to the side of it to scare it away, but it didn't even flinch. Not only have I never seen a wolf in this part of northern Arizona, but I have never seen a wild animal that did not at least flinch at the sound of a gunshot.

We both stood there staring at each other for a moment. I turned and set my backpack down to grab my binoculars and get a little closer look, but when I turned back, the wolf was gone. I made my way cautiously down the path back towards camp. I have encountered wolves before, and usually it's not the one wolf you can see that should worry you. It's the ones you can't see, so I was extra cautious for the return trip. Back at camp I made sure my gun was fully loaded and got my recurve bow strung just in case the wolves came back. I have seen plenty of predatory animals on my adventures. It's a part of being in the wilderness, so I wasn't too worried, just prepared myself the best I could, and went over to the lake to go fishing. Within about

20 minutes, I caught two of the biggest brown trout I've ever caught, so I decided to stop fishing for the day and take a swim. Back at camp, I made a fire, cleaned my trout, and made dinner while the sun went down. As soon as the sun went down, all of the life in the canyon seemed to go silent again. As I put out my fire and prepared for bed, I noticed there was a small flicker of light coming from the area where the cave I had explored earlier up the cliffside, which didn't make sense. It was a moonless night, and stars don't reflect that way. It couldn't have been the candle I had seen. It was too old and would not have burned so bright. I decided to keep my gun close and try to get some sleep.

I would investigate the cave again the next day. When I woke at sunrise, there was a haze along the ground throughout the whole canyon floor, but as the sun rose, it disappeared quickly, and the area came back to life. I made my breakfast, gathered my gun and bow, and headed back up towards the cave. When I reached the entrance, I saw there were still no tracks besides mine around the entrance and decided to push up the hill further. Just a little further up, I came upon the entrance to another cave, much smaller than the first one. There was a small, flat landing with a large, heavily twisted juniper tree that,

to my absolute surprise, had many small objects hanging from thin, old-looking ropes tied to the branches. There were bones, but there were also old things definitely made by humans, and looked like they were old Native American artifacts. Thinking I might have found the spot where the old man I met on the reservation had stayed, when he was there decades ago, I went into the cave. This cave was much different from the first one. Just a few feet in, I noticed the walls were covered in what looked like ceremonial cave paintings. As I pushed further back, the cave got dramatically colder, much colder than it should have

been, and the walls were completely covered with the paintings the entire way. When I reached the back of the cave, I was not prepared for what I saw. There was what looked like an old altar made of wood and bones. As I looked around, I saw that a little before the back of the back of the cave, I was not that I was of the cave, there was another shaft in the ceiling that went up, and on a ledge about 25 feet up sat the small figure of what appeared to be a woman. She was small and pale with her face painted white, and wearing something like a crown made of woven branches with two small antlers at the front. I stopped and stared for a few minutes, and the figure did not move, so I assumed that it was

mummified remains from a long time ago. Not wanting to disturb a burial site, I turned to walk back out of the cave, but I began to walk. I heard what sounded like a faint voice in an unknown, ancient language. I instinctively looked back up towards the figure, but it was gone. I was immediately terrified and ran from the cave as fast as I could get out, but my headlamp flickered and died. I made my way out, feeling along the wall to find my way, and the whole way I felt like there was something right behind me. When I saw the first light from the cave entrance, I began to sprint toward it. Just before I made it out, I looked back, and there was nothing, so I slowed down, but I could still hear the faint voice, and the volume never changed. When I got outside, all the

bones and artifacts hanging from the tree were gone. I ran down the path as fast as I could, headed back to my campsite by the lake. Just as I reached the floor of the canyon, I noticed the large wolf at the tree line to my left, but this time it stayed standing upright on its hind legs. I stopped running, hoping not to initiate its predatory response to chase me, and again, it just stood there staring at me. I reached my campsite safely, and immediately began packing up. It was too late in the day to make it out before dark, and I did not want to make the hike out at night with all that was going on. I moved my tent so it would back up to the canyon wall by the crack in the cliffside, so I didn't have to worry about anything sneaking up behind me.

I built my fire much larger and knew I wasn't going to get any sleep that night. Just as the sun was going down, I began to hear noises coming from the trees, and I felt like I was being hunted. Finally, in the last light of day, I saw the wolf slowly walking around by, where the path led out of the trees, and it began to slowly walk towards me. This time I drew my gun and fired towards the creature intending to hit it,

and while I saw a couple hit the dirt around it, several bullets hit it. Several rounds from a forty-five will at least slow down anything I've ever encountered, but this giant wolf kept walking towards me like nothing had happened. I continued to fire at it until the inevitable click of an empty magazine. I reached down and fumbled around in my backpack looking for my other magazines to reload, and as I lifted it, the talisman the old woman gave me fell out onto the ground. I picked it up and put it around my neck and immediately. immediately remembered what she had told me.

Dip your bullets in the white ash. I looked around but didn't see my backup magazines. So I grabbed my bow, pulled an arrow that was tipped with a hunting broadhead, and dipped it into the white ashes, drew, and fired. I hit the creature just in front of its right hip, and it let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a person screaming that made my blood curdle.

I can hear that noise in my head to this day. It immediately turned and ran back to the trees, and in the flicker of the firelight, I saw the small woman with the antler crown standing there waiting for it. They both retreated into the trees, and for the rest of the night I could hear the same faint voice I had heard in the cave. I spent the night outside of my tent, as awake as I had ever been, but no longer afraid,

and at dawn I finished packing up so I could get out of that canyon. The next spring, I went back to the small group of houses on the Navajo reservation I had found the, year before. I was wearing the talisman as a necklace, and the first person to greet me was the woman who had given it to me, and she ran up to give me a big hug. You heard me, was all she said. I asked the group about the man who had given me the map, as I was almost desperate to talk to him about the experience I had, so I could compare it to his own. They told me that he had disappeared shortly after I had visited them the first time, and had not been back. Strangely, when I tried to tell

them what had happened to me, no one would let me tell the story. And the oldest man there who sat in the corner kept mumbling the words, Yinald Lushie. We all once again sat and shared other stories of life and a meal. Before I left the next morning, I found the old woman who had given me the talisman and offered it back to her. She smiled and told me I had a good heart, then just closed my hands around it telling me to keep it to watch over my next walkabout. I went back to that small village on the reservation several times over the next 10 years or so till I moved to Oregon, but they never let me tell them what happened. I never went back to the canyon, and while curiosity sometimes gets the best of me, I don't think I ever will. I've been lurking around on the forums for a while now,

and I was about to give up until I found this thread. I've read some similar experiences to my own, so I figured you all would be able to bring more clarity to all of this. This all happened back during this past summer in the state of Kentucky. To protect his identity and out of respect for his family, I will refer to my friend as James. I was spending time together with James, celebrating his completion of finals and my recent promotion, drinking to our hearts content,

and we had the thirst of a Norse warrior at a midsummer festival. Starting with a nice bottle of Japanese whiskey, that lasted all but 30 minutes. We moved on to something a little classier, Jim Beam. We sipped until day became night, and everything got fuzzy around the edges. James took a long pull off the bottle before he turned to me and asked if I wanted to go for a night walk to our favorite stargazing spot. I obliged by taking the final swig.

This was just one of the things James and I would do every weekend, and surprisingly, our parents were okay with it. Ever since we had science class together as kids, we loved stars in outer space, and the clearing was like our own private research facility. We had a large amount of forested area near where we lived, and the clearing was just a mile and a half into the woods. I would pack my budget telescope, and we would get nice views of the moon in its differing phases, as well as nearby planets and visible galaxies. After high school, James had saved up a couple of thousand dollars to spend on one of those fancy scopes that could be remote controlled and could take HD videos. We would often talk about black holes, the inevitable heat death of the universe,

or if there were other Earth-like planets out there with life like ours. We could even recite all the differing spectral types of stars from memory. It was the foundation of our friendship, though James was much more serious and even talked about going to college, for a degree in astronomy once he had finished his general education courses at the local community college. He was the only kid from class who said he wanted to be an astronaut and was serious about it. I was content looking at the stars through my telescope from my backyard, beer in hand, and not being in debt. It was a bad idea, but we did not care. And off into the night

we went. Along the way, there was this drainage ditch we would pass by, alluring today as it was back then, for no good reason other than it was creepy. Being as inebriated as we were, we took the bait and headed down. Being extra careful to scale down the steep incline of the ditch walls we made it inside. It was your standard drainage ditch, a large concrete canal stretching out about 10 miles in both directions, dividing the forested land in two. There was an overpass that ran across a small portion of the ditch like a bridge, connecting the two pieces of land so that people could walk across. Along the graffiti-riddled walls of the canals were drainage holes to help disperse the water should the levels rise high enough. One of these was a drainage tube about two meters

wide and 50 meters long, what we dubbed the butt. The other end of the butt led into the forest on the other side. As kids, we would crawl through it and act like it was a portal to another dimension, or it would take us back in time. James could not resist. Dude, look the butt. I'm going in, man. He exclaimed, I can't believe you actually said that out loud. Be careful you're going to scrape your knees or bonk your head, I warned. Once he got further in, he stopped moving. Any xenomorphs in there? I asked.

Nah, you hear this frog man? Indeed, I could hear the thing from where I was standing. As I approached, I noticed the croaks sounded guttural, throaty, and wet. If you've ever seen the grudge, it sounded like the noise the girl makes, but not as drawn out. At that moment, I just chalked it up to my imagination, alcohol intoxication, or a big frog, though my anxiety was already setting in. But what was strange was that there was a little water still running through the ditch from last week's rain, and typically where there was water, there were frogs. Though the croaks were coming from one source.

Come to think of it, I do not recall any other noises, no bugs, no animals, no typical typical forest sounds. Dead silence except for the frog. What's wrong with Kermit, he said. I don't know, man, just come out. I'm starting to lose my buzz. With that, he scooted out backward, still a bit tipsy. He fell on his way out, then stood up to face me. We climbed out of the drainage ditch and continued along the dirt path. I could still hear the croaking, but it was faint. The sounds of insects and small critters rustling in the foresting. The sounds of insects and small critters rustling in the foliage eventually returned and filled the unnerving silence. The croaking becoming a distant memory, and I settled down a bit. It was a clear night. The moon was clearly visible,

and stars dotted the sky like tinsel strewn about a black canvas. The trees reached tall, towering above us, and a nice cool breeze blew the refreshing smell of pine to our nostrils. It was a few minutes before we arrived at the clearing that James broke the silence. man. What's up? Look, I am not sure how to even say this, but there's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. It's been weighing heavy on my heart, and I just need to get it off my chest. Of course, you know it's just you and I out here. I'm here for you, man. You can tell me anything. Thanks, he sighed. It's just, lately I've been thinking I might, whoa, dude, do you see that? Wide-eyed, he pointed his finger ahead. I followed and saw what he was seeing.

A young buck, a ten-pointer still with velvet around the antlers. Wow, he's beautiful, I said. We had a staring contest for about five minutes. Everything seemed normal about the deer, but most of its body was cloaked by the shadows casted by the trees overhead. What I could see was its head and a portion of its neck. It could have been the glare from the moon overhead, but the eyes looked glossed over, like thick cataracts,

or like it had been dead for a while. It was also trembling, which could have been because of us. The tips of the antlers I can remember clearly, too, the way the moonlight gleamed off them, like the surface was glossy. I tried to take a step closer, and then suddenly the buck sprinted off into the woods. It looked like right before the buck ran off, the antlers twitched, like fingers clenching to form a fist. But I brushed that off too, trying to stave my anxiety once more, and we started walking again. I really should have turned back at this point.

After an additional three minutes, we arrived at the clearing. James and I began walking to the middle, where we lay down on our backs, staring up at the sky. We were far enough from the city where light pollution wasn't visible. We could see a portion of the Milky Way galaxy, and the moon was in its waning gibbous phase. This almost would have been a perfect night for the telescope. In hindsight, I am glad we didn't bring it because it was heavy. and might have weighed me down. Okay, I said.

You didn't finish what you were going to say back there. What's going on with you? Oh, yeah, right. Well, I'm thinking about moving to... Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a scream. It sounded like a young girl, if I had to guess, around the age of ten. Help! Help me! Who's there?

I could not move my body. I couldn't even speak. I felt bad that I wasn't jumping into action. But for reasons I couldn't understand at the time, I was paralyzed. A primal fear had awoken in me, and I could only manage to turn my head slowly towards James. Our gaze locked. It felt like hours had passed. I broke out in a cold sweat and had trouble swallowing.

My words kept catching in my throat, but eventually I managed to form words and spoke to James in a low whisper. What should we do? Call the police? They'd never get here in time. And how do we explain where we are? Yes, officer, we are in some woods. There's dirt and rocks. She sounds hurt. We might need to help her ourselves, he reasoned.

James was the first to get up. Once he did, he extended his hand out to me and hoisted me up. The direction of the scream had come from our right, a little way past the tree line. We waited a while longer to see if the girl would call out again. I think we should head over there, call out to her, She might be lost or hurt, man, James said. I don't know. Something doesn't feel right.

Don't you feel weird about this? I asked. It's probably the booze, man. Regardless of how this feels we need to go over there. We took a few careful steps towards the tree line, and before we got within three feet of the first tree, we heard a noise that has scarred me indefinitely for the rest of my life. For context, when I was younger, me and my friends would love to jump off the swing set at its peak

because it gave us the sensation of flying. One time I managed to get some good height before I let go, but I botched the landing and all my weight landed on my right shoulder. It had become dislocated, and I had to go to the hospital to have in popped back into its place. I am not sure if you all ever had something like that happened to you, but the noise from the shoulder bone being reinserted back into the socket is disgusting. You'd never forget it.

This noise was similar but incredibly loud and wet. I could hear the bones shifting and adjusting even from this distance, muscles, tissues, and sinew being torn with the sound of wet fabric ripping. Then a rustling of leaves and brush, followed by silence. Once again frozen by fear, we could only wait for what would happen next. A voice called out to us, voices to be precise. The girl's voice, but two other voices spoke with it at the same time and with the same cadence. One was a significantly lower pitch, and the other sounded like my own.

Stop. That hurts. Wow. He's beautiful. Hearing my own words and voice was enough. I nearly wet myself in that moment. I don't know much about trauma and how the human brain reacts, but what happened next comes back to me only in fragments.

Thinking about it too hard always results in a panic attack. I remember multiple gaunt limbs, a misshapen head with horns, matted and patchy blonde hair, and a tall and lanky body with saggy leathery skin and postules all over. I remember it running towards us on all fours, body turned sideways. Then came the gunshots, running through the woods. I remember hearing a deer bleat mixed with the sound of a death rattle of a dying old man. And the rest is a blur, but I remember waking up in my own. bed. I haven't seen James since that night. Anytime I would reach out to him, there's no reply,

and his phone goes straight to voicemail. I want to know if that was real, or if we were just drunk and imagining things. I'm thankful he was carrying his firearm that night, because I'm not sure if we would have made it back, but I don't understand why he won't talk to me. I just feel crazy. What was that thing? Has anyone else encountered something similar in the area? I've heard of things called Skinwalkers from the forums on here, could that be what that was? It was capable of mimicry, albeit not particularly good. I received a text message from James today, and it was one of the reasons I decided to share. It simply read, you left me. So I took the last few days of last week off, per the suggestion of some individuals in the comments, to make appointments with a shaman and a

hypnotist. My boss also gave me this week off because I was visibly tired and my performance was suffering, so I am appreciative of that. I haven't slept well since that night, and now, since receiving the text message from James, I keep having this reoccurring nightmare. The dream takes place back in the clearing, my limbs are locked in place, and no matter how hard I think or try to move them, they won't budge. On the other side of the clearing is what looks to be a deer or some four-legged animal. However, the head region is obscured and blurry, so I am not entirely sure what it is. There is an overwhelming sense of doom and darkness that seems to linger, even after the dream has long ended. On Friday, I was able to meet with the hypnotist. During the whole drive there,

I was incredibly uneasy and in disbelief. This whole situation felt like a horror movie. However, reality set in once I pulled up to her shack. I cannot believe I am doing this. I whispered to myself. I parked my vehicle and then began to walk towards the building hut, cautiously scaling up the wooden steps and wrapping on the door a few times. The shaman opened almost immediately, and the sweet smell of incense assaulted my nostrils. Hello, you must be Mr. A? Yes, ma'am. Thank you so much for meeting me. Absolutely, it's my pleasure. Come in. I followed her inside where she closed the large round door behind me. The interior was not what I was expecting from the alternative practitioner.

I had imagined dirt walls, fur rugs, potion bottles, animal bones, and a wicked green fire roaring in a cauldron or something of the like. Rather, this looked like your contemporary doctor's office, albeit with a few ornate light fixtures, feathers, and framed to insect carcasses on the wall and a shelf with some herb-filled glass bottles and CBD oils. We walked into her office, where she pulled a chair in front of her desk, and then took a seat behind it. Sat across from me was an older woman. I'd guess late 60s, of a parent Native American Dexent. She wore a couple of ornate bracelets and necklaces, but for clothing choice, she wore a striped light blue button up and black dress pants. I know. I know. I know,

we spoke briefly on the phone. You had mentioned being troubled by the disappearance of your friend. I first want to tell you how sorry I am, truly. She spoke. I really appreciate that, I replied. She smiled warmly. Now, typically, my customer bases are looking for diet and nutritional advice, ancestral relationship building, or emotional trauma. I'd love to start my program with you if you are trying to recover from this experience and move on in a healthy and natural way. Grieving the lost is tough, and I must let you know that this process will take some time. I swallowed hard, confessing to another soul as to what I saw. I knew I was going to sound crazy. I didn't want to come off as a lunatic and be told to take some herbs and forget about it.

Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. My palms began to perspire. I managed to choke out the first few words. I am actually not here for any of those options. I want to ask you about something, I muttered. A look of genuine concern fell upon her face. Of course, what would you like to ask me about? She spoke. Well, I was there the night when James went missing, but I don't think he just got lost or hurt by some animal. Something that night tried to bait he and I into walking into a thicket of woods. It sounded like a little girl. But when it finally revealed itself, it looked like something out of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, an ungodly hodgepodge of animal and human body parts.

She only stared, her positive and happy demeanor shifted to one of disappointed and irritated. She folded her hands and cast her eyes down. The Ye Nald Lushi. Do you understand the danger you bring here by acknowledging the being? The Navajo do not share this information with outsiders for good reason. It is my professional opinion that you consider moving on from this ordeal, or leave. You only put your family and yourself in danger by prodding further. She growled.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend, but I can't just leave him out there. Is there something I can do? A spell to cast to make it die and he come back? Can't it die like everything else? I asked. The shaman practically leaped up from her chair and leaned across the table, bringing her face closer to mine. Whips of wisdom mixed with her onyx black hair and the wrinkles of time wriggling on her forehead. No shaman is alive today that can reverse the magic those Cretans have cast upon themselves.

Our best remedy is to forget. Seconds of silence had passed between us before I blurted out. If he's alive I am going after him, can you help me or not? With that, she stormed off. For an older lady, she sure. had some speed. I sat twiddling my thumbs as I heard her rummage through things in a separate room. She returned with the fury of the gods and flung a brown satchel at my chest. Ow, seriously, what the? White ash. Now leave. Do not come back. Do not say I did not warn you.

Your people are stubborn. This is the only way you will learn. Leave, she yelled. The woman pointed, trembling with rage, at the rounded wooden door. I grabbed the satchel and took my leave. not wanting to irritate her any further. I turned back once more as I stood on the balcony. She stood there, scowling at me before she barked. Do not look it in the eyes, and promptly slammed the door with the strength of an ox. I sped walk to my car and got in, key in ignition, and then placed the brown satchel in the passenger seat. After that ordeal, I was tired and incredibly thirsty. On my way home, I stopped by the liquor store for some alcohol, paying with cash and dropping the change into the make-a-wish bucket. At least a portion of my bad habit can go to a

noble cause, right. Once I got back to my apartment, I kicked my shoes off and put the alcohol in the fridge except for one. I shuffled over to the couch and sat down, beer on my left, satchel on my right. I sat the bag down in front of me on the coffee table, and then opened the beer. I stared for a few minutes before taking a big gulp, and then pulled out my phone to get on Google. The shaman said white ash before she threw the bag at me, so I researched white ash and its uses for the next hour or so. From what I could turn up, it could be used to hurt and even kill a skinwalker. Some have made white ash bullets. Others have made a paste and coated a blade with the substance. I exhaled loudly, overwhelmed by everything, was I really going to try to fight

this thing. Should I just give up? I was already five beers in and decided to go to bed. The weekend was another opportunity to sulk, and think so I wanted to get a jump start by calling it an early night. The dream came again, only this time the animal had covered a great distance between us. It was close enough that now I could make out finer details. For a lack of words, it was disgusting and fetid. It was in the shape of a deer but had pink human skin, model. and diseased. The antlers were shaped like large bony fingers, nails torn, leaking blood and pus, folded over the face of the beast. Hovering above the ground in front of me, it was shaking and convulsing violently, limbs thrashing about. The fingers opened, revealing a mass of glossy white

eyes. It opened an insect-like maw, the lower jaw extending farther than any normal animal could manage. The jawbones dislocated with a sickening pop, and the skin surrounding them tore like paper. It led out a halacious bleat. The terror was indescribable. I fought inside the prison of my mind for control of my limbs, but they moved to no avail. The acrid stench of sulfur and rot insulted my nostrils. The beast took a long, flemy inhale and began to move towards me, twitching and writhing with excitement, I screamed. I woke to the sound of my own screams, drenched in sweat. The cat shot straight up from his bed to turn and look at me. With a slow blink, he hoisted up his leg, licked it, and promptly went back to sleep. Sorry to disturb you, buddy, I apologized. I rolled over to check my phone to see

it was only 3 a.m. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep, so I made some coffee and started my Saturday morning. I did a little more research on white ash, and decided to opt for the ash-coated knife route. I have no experience making munitions, so this was my only option for defense. I made the mixture of water and ash and put in a plastic bag. I had an old hunting knife around, so I decided it would be the one I used. The rest of the day and Sunday was spent drinking and playing video games, not much else to note other than no nightmares each night. I got some decent sleep those days. I woke up to the sound of my alarm at 6 a.m., though my appointment with the hypnotist was at 10 a.m. I spent the first two hours drinking an entire pot of coffee. I then hopped in the

shower, got ready, and got in the car to go to the appointment. I haven't tried recalling that night for a long time, so I was a bit anxious to be reliving it all again. I pulled into the lot and began walking towards the office. I sat in the waiting room for about 30 minutes. I was a bit nervously bouncing my leg up and down. I was the only one in there other than the receptionist. I began nervously chewing my jaw, tasting iron in my mouth, as the door to the waiting room opened, and a balding, slightly overweight man stepped in. Mr. A? He looked around the empty room jokingly until our eyes met. Ah, it must be you then, he laughed. Looks like it? I chuckled. I'll admit that the joke made me a little less tense. He wasn't as scary as the shaman lady. Well, if you wouldn't

mind following me to my office, we just need to get a little more paperwork done, and then we can begin. I followed his lead. He led me into his office, and thankfully there were no scorpions, rattlesnakes, or shrunken heads. The room was quite cozy. There was a nice gray leather sofa on one side, an oak desk, and two blue leather chairs. A large ornate rug lay in the middle of the room, and I am not sure if he had sprayed air freshener, but it smelled like lavender. I took a seat on the sofa, and he sat at the desk at the far side of the office. Our records show that you haven't visited with us before. Is this your first time with hypnotic therapy?

He asked. Yes, it is, I replied. Great, it's super simple. I'll dangle some swirly object in front of your eyes, say some magic words, and you'll think you're a duck. He laughed. Quack? I sneered. Exactly, it's already working, but really it's a little different than that.

Before we begin, I'd like to know the reason you think hypnotic therapy is right for you. I took a long pause, searching for the words. I'm dealing with trauma from a particular event, and to move on with my life, I feel that it would be healthy for me to embrace the entirety of that moment, instead of drowning it out with alcohol or tasks, to face my emotions. But any time I try on my own terms, I end up having a panic attack. He stroked his chin, tapped his pen a few times, and then jotted something down in his notebook. I see. The road to recovering from trauma is not one I would recommend traveling alone.

The good news is that I believe I can be of use to you today. Now if you wouldn't mind lying down on that sofa and just take some time getting comfortable, I obliged. As I rest my head against the arm of the sofa, the doctor got up from his desk and walked over to one of the chairs. He began scooting it closer to me, and then sat patiently. Now, keep your eyes closed and begin focusing on your breathing. As you do this, I want you to let go of anything and everything in your mind. Troubles, stresses, to-dos that you left at the door when you walked in. Focus on having an empty mind and take as much time as you need. It took me a while, but eventually I was able to clear my head.

I felt relaxed, calm, and even a bit sleepy. When I began drifting off into sleep, he spoke softly into the silence. Now in your mind, I want you to envision where you were before the events of the ordeal, before the memories become inaccessible. Imagine that you are there now, both fully in mind and body. Immediately the terror crept in. I began breathing faster, sweat building on my brow. In the theater of my mind, the horror show began to play out just as it did that night.

I spoke aloud the events that took place, and in the order in which they did. I got right to the point before the creature came out of the clearing and stopped. Okay now, take a deep breath, focus, dig deep, recall to me the events as they come to you. I took a deep breath, holding for a few seconds. The memories began to materialize amidst the mental fog. The creature galloped out of the woods towards us. We both took a step back. It began to swipe a claw at me when I saw James raise his hands,

taking aim with a small handgun. James fired five times, the bullets hitting the beast in the neck and cheek area. Thick, oily crimson spurting, the creature spun around to face him. Guilt and regret crashing down upon my soul in a wave of sorrow, I recalled running as soon as the creature lost into him. in me. Right before I made it past the trail leading into the clearing, I looked back one last time to see James lying on the ground, the beast towering above him. It stood on its hind legs, and in a moment its ribcage spayed open in hungry gullet, it began to come down on James as he

fired three more shots and trying to kick the monstrosity away. I turned away and kept running and running, my legs numb and lungs burning. I heard James scream then. Hey, hey, help, no, ah! I recalled the bleeding and gurgling on the run home, fumbling my keys in the lock, pushing the door open and slamming it shut behind me. I locked the door, ran into the bathroom, locking that door as well,

and then climbing in the bathtub where I shook and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I remember waking up in the bed. I could feel the warmth of tears streaking down my face, my body convulsing as I fought unavoidable sobs, I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding out a tissue. You don't think I am crazy, do you? I spoke.

Not at all, son. You won't tell anyone about this? Doctor-patient confidentiality. You don't have to worry. I wiped the tears from my face and then began to sit up. I felt as though an enormous weight had lifted from my soul. In its place, enmity began to kindle. For myself, but too for the beast.

I turned to face the doctor, who was scribbling furiously on his, his notepad to ask him, What should I do? I left my friend out there to die. That thing needs to be stopped. I owe it to him. It's all my fault, I shouted in between sobs. I can understand your frustration.

It's natural to feel a sort of obligation or responsibility to the departed. What happened out there was a freak thing. You acted on instinct. You are not required to be a hero in those circumstances. He spoke. Act on instinct as well. I know that some male deer can be aggressive and territorial, and Kentucky is home to a few species of black bear. I know that the females can be very protective of their young. It's very unfortunate that some people can end up in the wrong place

in time with these animals, and I would advise not to travel back to the area to search for him. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My situation was being downplayed, and I began to grow irritated with the doctor. I took a sharp inhale and then spoke. It wasn't a bear or a deer. It was something that could make itself look like an animal. So what? You suggest I just forget about him, do nothing. No, not at all. I can begin a program with you starting. I don't want to do a program. I want my friend back or that thing dead, I interrupted. I jumped up off the sofa and began to walk towards the door. On the way out, I turned to look back at the doctor. a look of empathy on his face.

Look, I appreciate what you've done for me, and I'll pay for today's session. But my mind is made up, either this ends with me or it, and I'm okay with that. With that I left the office and began to plan my next visit to our favorite spot once more. I've heard that hatred weakens the heart, ironic how it feels like it's the only thing keeping mind pumping. I hate that creature, hate it for taking his life. But I hate myself even more. I should have told James no that night. We shouldn't have been walking around at night intoxicated in the first place.

I hate myself for running away, for doing nothing for so long. I sat in my car, arms folded over the steering wheel, head resting on top. A light rain began to tap on the roof of my car. I didn't leave the parking lot until about an hour had passed. Like the rain, I let all the memories wash over me. Then I made my way back to the apartment. I opened the door dripping water all over the carpet, but it was the least of my concerns. It didn't keep the cat away, though. He jumped from his cat tower and made his way towards me,

rubbing up against my soaked pant legs. He always knew when I was upset. I bent down to pet him on the neck, his eyes closing in a moment of bliss. I had it set in my mind and soul that I would go back there and end that thing, or it end me. I needed to prepare, though. I didn't have any experience killing ancient shape-shifting beings, but I knew just going out there with a knife was a brainless idea. Odds are I was going to die either way, but I didn't want to go down without giving a good fight. I recalled the gift my parents had given me for my 16th birthday.

It was an older model, a browning 12-gauge shotgun from the 1960s. Originally owned by my grandfather, it was given to my mother and then passed on to me. In the past, I had shot it multiple times, only at non-living and non-moving targets, though. It was a semi-automatic shotgun, so no pumping was needed. You would load the shells in from the bottom, pull back the slide, and it was ready to fire, and as fast as you could pull the trigger. I had kept it under my bed for years with the intent of using it as a self-defense weapon, but completely forgot about it.

I knelt beside the bed, and bending down, I reached under and grabbed it. the case handle. A nice layer of dust had accumulated on the top. Unlatching the locks, I lifted the lid up, and behold, there it lay. I don't really care for vintage things, but I had to admit there was an undeniable attraction to this weapon. The stock was made of fine-grained mahogany, and the steel was black with a blue sheen. Despite the years it hadn't sustained much damage, save for a few scrapes on the metal and scratches in the wood. I reached in and picked it up, mindful to grab it by the wooden parts, a habit deeply rooted inside my brain thanks to my old man. I brought the stock up to my shoulder, widening my stance. I raised the barrel up and took aim. This would do fine. I kept it

unloaded because a loaded gun in the house just made me nervous, but I pulled the slide back to check, and with a metallic kachink sound, it was empty. As for ammunition, I only had a box of 12-gauge slugs, but there was no way I could open the shells and pour the ash in. I ended up buying an entire shell manufacturing kit, which would come in early Friday. I spent Saturday watching countless tutorials on how to build shotgun shells, how to mix the powder correctly, and practicing making the ammunition. Sunday, I even visited a friend who had a large plot of land and allowed me to assess my ammo. I didn't add any ash, I just wanted to make sure I could make a round that wouldn't blow up on me. Once I verified that I could indeed fashion 12-gauge buckshot, I returned home to make the ash-laced slugs.

The gun can hold eight slugs max, so I made the first eight and loaded them in, then an additional 16 with the supplies I had left. I had bought a utility belt and a couple of satchels as well to hold my ammunition and a bag of the ash mixture for the knife. I had a sheath for the knife on the back of the belt, a satchel of ammunition on my left, and ash on my right. I hoped I didn't have to get close enough to use the knife. I decided Monday that I would head out during the night, even though I would have much preferred going during the day. The issue was being seen armed to the teeth, and people don't take kindly to that sort of behavior nowadays. I had left a note for my mom in the apartment. Surely after not returning her calls for a few days, she'd be over to see if I were okay. It was a

farewell note. I told her everything regarding how I felt, and that I planned to take my life. I didn't mention the creature. She wouldn't believe that part anyway. I left the entire bag of cat food open for the cat so he could gorge himself over the next few days, which would be more than enough time until Mom started to panic. Around 11 p.m., I started my journey to the clearing. I bypassed the drainage ditch, having no interest in going down there anymore, and proceeded towards the trail. The trees loomed above me disconcertingly, and the moon shone above but in an unwelcoming way. Now that the fall season had come, most of the trees had shed their leaves, but there were still a few tinged with red and yellow. An icy chill blew against me,

but what made me shiver was that I heard nothing, no signs of life, just the swaying of trees and rusting of bushes from the wind. I had an overwhelming sense of being watched. I had a held the gun tighter to me, finger right above the trigger. I had to convince myself several times on the walk not to turn back, but finally, the clearing came into view. What once brought me so much joy and peace now brought contrition and despair. I walked upon the desecrated grounds until I reached the center of the clearing. As I reached the center, something caught my eye, the light cast by the moonlight glinting off a small, reflective surface. I bent down to investigate and discovered it was a phone, James's phone to be exact. It was face down, riddle with cracks.

I picked it up and turned it to its front side. The front had sustained even more damage, but it was undoubtedly his, a blue Samsung S-21. As I examined the phone even further, attempting to turn it on, I had completely missed the thunderous pounding of hooves against the earth and looked up to see the beast was charging me on all fours, gaining ground fast. I stood there, petrified, as it continued to close the gap between us. Right as it was a few feet in front of me, fear gave way to rage, and I lifted the shotgun up and took aim. Five shots rang out, ears ringing, and the overwhelming smell of gunpowder in my nostrils. I tried to regain my composure from the recoil as the creature slammed into me.

The force of the beast had launched me several feet away where I landed on my back. The wind knocked out of me. I inhaled deeply, pushing myself up into a sitting position. And then as I began to shift onto my knees, I looked up to see the creature again. It was moving towards me once more. Now it appeared as if it were bleeding, thick viscous blood leaking out of unseen wounds. It stood on its hind legs and turned to face me, opening its maw and letting out a verretel. growl. Then it started to run at me. In a panic I grasped for my gun, but it was about a foot away.

I only had a few seconds before it would reach me, my body already starting to ache and stiffen from the trauma. I leaped out for the gun, grabbed it, and swung it up to aim at the creature, but I was too late. Before I could even pull the trigger, the beast had slapped it out of my hand, my hand nearly flying off my wrist as I watched the shotgun soar off into the distance and crash into the trees. It was over. I had no right thinking this would work. At least I went down fighting. It grabbed me by the shoulders, digging its claws deep, through skin, muscle tissue, all the way down to bone. The pain made me nauseous. I began screaming and writhing in pain as it pinned me down to the ground. I began losing consciousness when it brought its misshapen head towards my face. I caught a glimpse of something familiar. Illuminated in the moonlight I saw the air. I saw the air. I saw the air. I saw the air. I saw the air. I was a little bit of my face. I saw the eyes first, then the nose, it was James' face. But the skin was stretched far too thin over its large skull, tearing in various places and revealing red tissue underneath. The eyes bloodshot. The jaw hung on by a single sinew, and a long black tongue hung haphazardly, flopping as it moved.

Then it stood up, and to keep me in place it brought a hoof down hard onto my shin, splintering the bone into hundreds of pieces. I wasn't going anywhere now. I let out another scream, still looming. It stared at me through his eyes before it began to gurgle out words. I just need to get it off my chest. With that, its ribcage spayed open in a macabre explosion of bone and viscera. It began to lower its torso over me. A void stared back. It was, was though a black hole had nestled into this creature's bosom, and it was going to suck me in and pull me apart from every direction imaginable. I thought of how I was going to be consumed, how it would go on to masquerade itself as me, how it would lure my mom or friends out in the

woods and then mutilate them and continue the cycle. I thought of how it spoke with James' voice, how much that angered me. Was I going to just let this thing eat me like it did James? I was going to die no matter what, so it didn't matter what I did at this point. As it brought its body on top of mine, the rib cage began to close in on my sides, puncturing the skin. An unseen force began to pull me deep inside, like a large vacuum. I arced my back and reached under to pull the knife from the sheath. I brought it up and then quickly stabbed into my satchel, making sure to move it around and coat the blade enough, accidentally stabbing myself in the process. With my other hand, and then, I'm going to hand, I grabbed the beast's neck to leverage myself up and plunge the blade into its neck.

James' eyes stared at me and widened. The creature yelped like a wounded dog and immediately jumped up and off me. I watched as it brought a claw up to its neck and pulled at the blade. It came out with a thunk, more oily liquid shooting out in a geyser-like fashion. It writhed and thrashed about swinging its claws aimlessly before collapsing on the ground next to me. I watched it as it went through its death throes, taking long, labored, and flemy breaths. The breathing eventually stopped, and it was dead. I watched it for a while longer, not sure if I was out of danger just yet, and then I noticed the skin began to shift and bubble. The beast was shrinking in size, reshaping itself. The horns, claws, and fur began to shrivel away, and it began to take the form

of something else. It happened so fast, but right before it disintegrated into a a plume of ash. It looked like a middle-aged man with long black hair. The knife lay in the pile of ash. I crawled over to pick it up and put it back into the sheath. I lay on my back for a few beats to catch my breath before pulling out my phone and dialing emergency services. They managed to dispatch a helicopter since they wouldn't have been able to get an ambulance on the trail, and due to the severity of my injuries. I was losing a lot of blood, so I barely remember being stressed. I was into the gurney and lifted onto the helicopter. I spent the rest of the week in bandages and a leg cast,

enduring hospital food, and my overly concerned mother. I was discharged Thursday and would have to walk on crutches for a little while, but I was glad to be home. My furry friend was thrilled to see me and hasn't left my side since. The first thing I did when I got home was sit down on the couch, and then I cried. I didn't cry that much other than the first night, not even at the funeral we had for James. I don't do well with my emotions.

I tend to drown them out with hard liquor or fixate on something else. I avoid them. But all the tears that had been stored up came out like a dam opening its gates. It was over. I felt like James was at peace, and I sat with my emotions for the first time, embracing them even. I don't know what I will do from now on. I suppose continue with my life now that I have closure.

I am sure I need some sort of psychological help from all of this, and will plan to get that soon. The last few days of this week, I spent a lot of time sleeping, and I had the dream about the clearing again. But this time, when I revisit the dream, I am always in a different place. I feel nothing, though, just emptiness. And I've been feeling that way all week now, come to think of it. Anyway, thank you for reading this and for all the suggestions. This will be my last post.

Stay out of the woods at night, especially when drinking, and ignore any 10-year-old girls you may hear calling out to you amidst the trees. For those involved in dealing with cryptids, if any of you are reading this, why do you do it? Other than the money, of course, I feel a lot of you do it for the rush, the adrenaline, but where's the line drawn? Where does exhilaration evolve into panic? Don't get me wrong, a little risk-taking is food for the soul, but so many factors can go wrong in any situation.

In particular, what do you do when you find the corpse of a cryptid you were hunting, eviscerated and dismembered, when the abrupt realization hits you that there's a bigger fish? My grandpa wasn't quite on the level of monster hunting, but boy was he a crazy idiot. Once, he hunted a grizzly using nothing but a crossbow, wet mud and leaves, and his wit. He's had its head mounted above his forest house fireplace ever since.

I can't say how far back his love for the wilderness is rooted, but I know he grew tired of the city long before retiring from his job as a metropolitan engineer. Since then, he's lived out in an old house, in the northwestern reaches of the Olympic National Forest, about 40 miles from the park itself, Washington State. I can only imagine how lonely it must have been, living out there by himself, but he never seemed any the worse for it. In recent years, I've come to be good friends with a guy I met in college, Martin. I could see the same fire in his eyes as my grandpas when it came to the outdoors, always pestering me to come with him on camping trips, going fishing, hunting, you name it. It was a no-brainer bringing him along for a visit to my grandpa's. Honestly, I feared they might get along too well, and Martin would never return with me.

In the end, it didn't matter, because both of us have been ingrained with a morbid aversion to the woods since that. that day. Martin was particularly eager this time, practically vibrating in the passenger of my Jeep. Last trip, Grandpa promised he'd show him the ropes of skinning and pelts. Martin often went on about how he'd feel sitting afront a roaring fireplace with a great deerskin rug laid out beneath it. My motivation was simply to check up on my grandpa. He hadn't been responding to my attempts to contact him for the past week, so naturally I was a bit worried. We ran into a problem early, driving up the long dirt road to my grandpas. Rounding a corner, I slammed on the brakes, seeing a slew of fallen trees lying across the road. Damn, what happened here? Martin

exclaimed. There haven't been any storms recently, right? I sat with my hands ten and two on the steering wheel, lost for words. Uh, no. It's been pretty clear weather around these parts since March. Weird. Shutting the engine off, I hopped out of the Jeep. The only sounds were the leaves, flittering in the mid-spring breeze, nature's white noise. We were a little over two miles away from the house, an easily walkable distance. Grandpa had enough equipment that we didn't need to bring much of our own, so our bags were light. I had my phone, a flashlight, water, spare clothes, and my utility watch strapped around my wrist. My plan was to get up to grandpas and come back down in his truck

to chop up the fallen logs with a chainsaw. We thought it would be more fun to go through the woods alongside the track. A long dirt road means only boredom after all. We scrambled down the left side slope and began our trek, keeping an eye on the road to follow its route. Only a few minutes later, the smell hit us, putrid carrion. It was nothing unexpected. animals in the forest die all the time. Even so, that hardwired part of my brain was repulsed at the

smell. Damn, something's festering out here, I said. Can't imagine how it had smell in summer. Martin let out a small wretch, but agreed. The stench only grew stronger as we went on. It was at its peak when I almost tripped over a sharp object on the ground. I thought it to be a cluster of branches at first, but the notion quickly dissolved upon seeing their pale ceramic reflections. A decapitated stag's head lay right in front of us. It was wrong, though. The teeth were too long, and the bone of its face was exposed. Even with the odor, I could tell it was fresh from the viscous black liquid that seeped from its neck and mouth. Martin spoke up. Damn, that's freaky. You think a bear did this? I mean, there's only black bears here, right? I doubt they could

off something like this. A cougar, maybe? I don't know. Never seen one straight up decapitate a stag like this, though. My eyes were drawn to a trail of red, forming a jagged streak ahead of us on the ground. My gaze followed it, until it terminated at the stag's grisly mess of a body. Well, it looked quadrupedal from a distance, but as we moved closer, I found myself sorely incorrect. The body was that of a monster, large in stature, but bony and gulf. gaunt, long, razor-sharp claws lying splayed across the ground like kitchen knives, and all covered in patches of dark-wisened fur. Is it bad?

Martin called out, approaching from behind me to get a look. When he saw it, he went still and quiet, as had I. There was no statement that could do the sight justice. I'd heard the old tales of the horrors lurking deep inside the forests, but never experienced them face to face. It was still, lying dead as the fallen leaves beneath it. It looked crushed and broken, littered with what seemed to be wide and deep puncture wounds. Martin managed to speak up.

Is that? But before he could say any more, a sudden snap broke the tension. The snap of a twig. No, a branch. My spine shot straight upright. Against my better judgment, I found my head gradually swiveling in the direction the noise had come from. When I caught a vast, hulking shape in my peripheral vision, I whipped around to face whatever was there.

I saw something, just for a moment, enormous long limbs draped in shaggy hair, the color of pine bark. But as quickly as I'd turned, the image vanished. Rising dread threatened to pry my lips apart in a scream. I looked far and wide, but nothing was there. Kell, what is it? Wait, the cougar isn't still here, is it? Martin whispered.

No, it's nothing. Let's keep going. We can talk about this later with my grandpa, but the cat could still be loitering about somewhere. It's best we don't stay in the same place for too long. Before departing, I snapped a few pictures of the corpse on my phone, zooming in on the head without backtracking to get a better angle. Something told me that turning back, however briefly, would be a terrible mistake. We went on with an urgent pace, pretending to ignore the heavy movements between the trees nearby. Large animals will inevitably give away their movements, but they snap twigs, not entire branches.

Even so, the movements sounded anything but clumsy. No, they sounded calculated, those of a stalking predator. As hard as I tried to filter them out, I caught myself glancing to the sides and behind very often. I don't know whether I was hoping to see something, or nothing. Still, the woods around us were empty, other than ourselves. Hey, Kel, if there's a mountain lion around here, we should go up onto the road for a bit. It'll be easier to bolt if we need to.

I agreed, and we veered off to the right, climbing up the roadside slope. Deep down I knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't a big cat. We only told ourselves that skirting the subject of monsters now made it very real to us. The forest fell silent as we walked along the road. That was far from comforting, though. If the woods are quiet, predators are about. This is a well-known idea among wilderness enthusiasts. What did ease my mind to a degree was the sight of a herd of deer standing on the track.

They cocked their heads to look at us, but didn't seem all too disturbed by our presence. At the same time, the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable grew as a hard lump in my gut. They started to move on as we got closer, wandering off the road and into the woods. One of the deer stayed in place. It wasn't frozen, no, but... Constricted. It twitched and whimpered as it started to rise off of the ground, as if weightless. It happened so quickly.

Its screams were cut off as its limbs were snapped and crushed, and deep wounds erupted over its body. And then, like it had been there the whole time, it stood. It was a nightmare. Huge, unimaginably so, rivaling two elephants stacked up. It was hunched over, resting on impossibly long and thick forelimbs, ending in spindly sloth-like claws. Its body was long, too, ending in a pair of shorter legs, knees inverted with feet supported by spur-like appendages. The lulling head that sat atop an arched neck looked like some bizarre cross between a horse and a crocodile. Hallow pits in place of eyes, the torn skin around its mouth revealing horribly uneven and misshapen teeth that jutted out at irregular angles. The fading sunlight glinted off of the long gashes covering its sides and head. The dead creature from earlier had definitely put up a fight, but it could never have been enough. As we stood, stunned, it reciprocated our stare, the only real movements being the sets of rib-like

appendages undulating on its underside, rendering the deer into a torn sack of flesh and bone fragments. The poor animal seemed to wither before our eyes, as the sharp ribs forced deeper into its body, like a juice box having the last drops sucked out of it. At that moment, we were part of the herd, paralyzed. Some had already run off, but others were as statues in the presence of this beast. Another smell hit us then, different from the stench of decay like earlier, but equally as sickening. Like moist earth, salt. sulfur, methane, and dead fish. Its source was clear as whips of gas from the beast's mouth became thick, billowing fumes, rising into the evening sky. The tension was broken with the deer's

mutilated husk thudding to the ground. The remaining deer took flight, scampering off into the trees, and in response, the beast snapped its head in their direction. Something was wrong with its head, flopping around clumsily as it turned. I took a step back as it let out of the a deep, guttural rattle, before bounding off after the herd, its matted hair swinging violently. It splintered a tree as it went, but was totally unfazed by the impact. We waited until its thundering gallops faded into the quickly darkening night before saying anything. What the hell? What the hell?

What was that thing? Martin sputtered, tears welling up in his eyes. I don't know, man, but we have to get to the house before sundown. I have a feeling our chances that escaping it are little to none in the dark. Are you crazy? We have to go back. I want to get as far from this place as Po. What about my grandpa?

We can't just leave him here with that thing. Martin didn't look over to me, but wasted no time disagreeing, starting his jog up the road. We were already over halfway to my grandpa's house, and even if we wanted to escape, it would be a menial task for the creature to smash the jeep off road. The solitary light in the distance looked like the gates of heaven. It radiated safety, but I knew we couldn't continue out in the open, completely exposed. I looked down at my utility watch, making a mental note of the direction of the house, north-northeast, before grabbing Martin by the arm and leading him off the left side of the road.

Nature's cruel irony manifested in the steepening terrain and the thickening brush, The house's light quickly faded, leaving us with only our bearings to navigate. I thought we might have gone off track for a terrifying moment, but I saw the column of smoke above the distant tree canopy that could only be from my grandpa's chimney. Come on, this way. As we neared, no light became apparent. Maybe he'd already gone to bed. I could only guess with his lack of communication.

We came up onto the lip of a hill, sloping down towards a flat clear, but there was no house. There, the pillar of smoke, but there was no source. It began in mid-air from nothing. As we stopped to look, the point where the smoke came from jerked around in the air. When I picked up on the organic stench, it clicked in my mind. Just like before, there it was, looking directly at us, the thick fumes spewing from its mouth. But I noticed something else this time. Now that the moon hung in the sky, its light glinted off of something beneath the creature's head. Six black orbs, shiny like obsidian, three on either side of its neck. They darted about, independent of each other, and I knew immediately what they were. Eyes. What kind of abomination

was this? If those were its eyes, and it ate the deer with that structure resembling a ribcage, then that must mean it had a false head, a distractor. a defense mechanism maybe. It made sense how this head flopped around limply with the beast's unnatural movements. I blinked in quick succession and looked down to my watch. Due east. We had been misled. It had circled around us to lie in wait. In one motion I gripped onto Martin's shoulder and pulled him in the direction we were meant to be heading in a wild sprint for survival. The beast erupted into movement, ribs rippling as it let out another rumbling trill. rumbling trill. Martin looked over at me, confused. Hey, dude, what are you doing? There's nothing the—shut up! Just run as fast as possible now. Don't stop for anything. Our pounding feet were

matched by heavy thumps and loud cracks of trees being smashed. I dared not steal a glance behind, fearing that even the slightest break in pace would mean death. There, I struggled to see what Martin was talking about, until the yellow light became visible between the tree trunks. We were only few hundred yards away, but I was surprised the creature hadn't already caught up to us. Even the trees in its way stood no chance of impeding it. It had almost caught up. I could feel the air pressure from its massive body charging through the trees behind. It was close enough that, at any moment, I might feel its claws cleave my body into pieces. A saving grace. Coming up on our left was a dense patch of old oak trees. I swerve towards them, leaping through the spaces between

trunks, just large enough for us to get through. I hit the ground, rolling sideways. There wasn't even time to be dazed as an immense slam sounded from where we'd just been. I scrambled backward, looking to see a great arm slinking through the gap. It was thick, but not as thick as the oaks. The claws tapped about, searching blindly for our frail bodies. Go, I shouted, and the both of us shot to our feet and bolted towards the light. As we ran, the sounds grew distant. Was it stunned, or did it still think we were behind those trees? I didn't care. All that mattered was being inside and not out. Gravel clattered against the front of the house as we skidded to a stop. I rapped on the door, devolving into pounding when they went unheard. On what was probably

the twentieth knock, my fist met only air, and I stumbled in through the now-o'-o'-o'-o'-euvre. I stumbled in through the now open doorway. I looked up to meet my grandpa's gaze. His eyes were wild. He didn't look like himself. He glanced behind me at Martin, then behind him. Whatever he saw out there, his pupils contracted in response. Hurry, boys, get inside, he whispered. We filed in, and he went to bolt the door, but hesitated. His hand fell limply. A, no use. He was right. If the beast wanted to pay a visit, it would do so regardless of our home security. We followed him quietly to an uncovered floor hatch. What's this, Mr. Barnett? Martin asked, regarding the hatch.

Huh? Oh, this here's my old wine cellar. Martin went to ask further before being interrupted. Uh, get down the ladder first, son. You can shoot your questions once we're safe. He pulled on a handle, opening the hatch to reveal a sturdy wooden ladder leading into a dim space beneath. One by one, we clambered down its dusty rungs, meeting the cold concrete floor at the bottom. Grandpa was last, tugging a heavy rug over the open hatch before closing and securing it.

I take it you've seen the thing, right? Jesus, Grandad, we barely got away. I gasped, still out of breath from our escape. Unscathed? Yeah, mostly, other than some scratches. Good. He walked over to an upturned crate and plopped down onto it. Martin and I looked at each other and then back at him. Uh, well, Martin said, you seem to know what we were dealing with, so what the hell is it? Grandpa gave Martin a scowl of disapproval, quickly relenting into understanding. I'd scrutinize you on your manners, boy, but now ain't the time. He released a tired gasp, letting his head drop down, before inhaling sharply and looking back up at us. I saw it only once before. in my varsity years.

I had some Danish friends on my course who said I should come visit them over there and do some backpacking in their home country. Denmark has beautiful landscapes, really. Peaks rise out of the trees, you know. Before he could lose himself in a daydream, I cleared my throat to bring him back to reality. Oh, right.

So, we were pretty deep in the woods when it happened. We'd all gotten paranoid because we thought something was following us, something big, elk maybe. But we never saw anything, only heard it. And then God. One of the girls in front of me started to, um, levitate. I don't know. She was just rising up off the ground, gripped by something.

Whatever it was made a mess from her, crunched her up like a meatball being squeezed. I saw it then. Curved bones wrapped around her, stabbing in deep. Ain't never going to forget the sight of it. It's like a stain on my mind. We saw the same thing, Martin piped up. Only it was a deer. Looked like it sucked everything out of it when it was done.

Yeah, I can't say I know how it works. You can only see it if you know something's there. If it's there. Anyway, we ran as fast as we could back down the trail, and we seemed to lose it. The whole time there was this rancid stink, though, eggy and earthy. Ugh.

We wound up back in the town we'd start. from, went straight to the police station, and reported it. Apparently, all they found was a little chunk of meat, a piece of thigh, or something like that. One of the other guys told me about the tale later on. He brought up the smoke we saw rising out of the forest, when we were back in the town. An old Danish legend went that people through history seen smoke columns in the woods, and most who went to check it out never returned. They said it would move around, not like how a fight was a fire,

would spread, but like it was wandering to and fro. Damn, that's a horrible story, Grandpa, I said. It doesn't help us figure out what it is, though. We already know the stuff you've just told us. Well, he replied, I'm sure it's got many names, seeing how it can just pop up where it likes, but I only heard it called the Scorston Deer, means chimney beast, if I'm remembering right.

That makes sense. We thought we were seeing the smoke from your chimney, but it led us right to it. Kel, Grandpa sighed, this house ain't even got a chimney. Martin looked over to me scoffing, then back over to Grandpa. So it lures people in like that?

Sure, but I don't think it means to. I'm going to take a gander and say it started up with the fumes after it ate that deer. Yeah, I replied. Whatever that thing is, it ain't from here. It ain't from anywhere on the planet, I think. It eats something,

then starts giving off smoke, A waste product from digesting, I'd guess. So, crap gas? Martin chuckled. He always was able to find a way to lighten the mood in dire situations, even if just a little. I looked up at the monochrome ceiling above us, mulling over what grandpa had said. I remembered how this whole thing had started and pulled out my phone to bring up my photos. We found this after starting our way up to yours on foot.

I have an inkling, but do you know what it is? grandpa squinted at the screen then took it from my hand scroll to the right that's only the head i said his silent focus was only punctured by the dull taps of his finger on the screen recognition lit up in his eyes his head bobbing up and down well i'll be damned wendigo right i asked ayup i got a say never seen one around these parts before but then again i was never looking for one i doubt you need it but keep that as a reminder for what this beast is capable of i put my phone back in my pocket sighing and letting my chin drop into my hands in any other situation i'd be shocked to find out such a creature was real but not now this is all great mr barnett martin said with quivering uncertainty but it doesn't help us-i'd be shocked to find out such a creature was real but not now this is all great mr barnett martin said with quivering uncertainty but it doesn't help us what are we going to do? What can we do? I don't know. Well, I have a stupid idea, but it's just grasping at straws. Anything over sitting here and waiting to die, Martin breathed, staring off into space. Anything.

Grandpa looked up toward the basement window, the only source of natural light in the room. What little of it remained. While I was checking my traps out east from here, about six, 700 yards into the woods, only when I got there was there this smudge. I don't know what to call it, but that's the best I can describe what it looked like. It was like, looking into it, I couldn't register what I was looking at, hurt my eyes after a while, never seen nothing like it. Was after that I started seeing the Scorston deer, so he trailed off,

like he was struggling to find the words to say. So what? I pressed, leaning forward in anticipation. Again, this is guesswork, but I think that's where it came out from. I threw a rock into it when I was there, but ain't here it hit the ground. Like it went someplace else. If we can just lead it back there, just get it to go back in. Wait, hold on, I interrupted. Shouldn't we call someone police?

The damn army? What do you think will happen to the cops when they come out here, huh? What's a chief and a rookie in one police car going to be able to put up against it? and good luck convincing U.S. military to send out Marines. You'd be lucky if they thought it was a joke. I shut my mouth, swallowing my next words, allowing Grandpa to continue with his proposition. Either the beast leaves or we die. I'm not even going to talk about trying to drive away.

You've seen what it does to the trees. Stealth might work, but it's better at that than we are, big as it is, and I don't want to risk either of you losing your lives. His last remark sent a chill down my spine. He'd said nothing explicitly, but I already began to understand what he meant. Grandad, you... Don't worry about me, champ. I got something, but you got to listen closely.

Both of you. Martin and I focused on him. I wanted to hear his plan, but I really hoped it would be different from my expectations. Now I want to make this clear before anything else. I'm going alone, and you be. boys need to sit tight and do as I say. My heart dropped, plunging into the stone-cold sea of despair. Are you crazy? No, I have to go with you. I... Grandpa cut me off, shushing me. As I say, he commanded. I knew he was right, but in the face of loss, my thoughts wrestled against the idea.

Okay, now I'm going to call you when I'm a ways off. All right. You have to pick up, and stay on the call with me. It's vice. vital you keep your attention on my voice. I need both of you to be brave for the next part. I need you to make as much noise as you can. Martin's eyes bulged in fear. Won't that just get us killed? I haven't finished. That's only up until I call you. When I do, you shut up and you hide in the darkest corner of this cellar, okay? I was heaving for breath now, cold beads of sweat budding on my forehead, but I closed my eyes and stilled myself. Yeah, okay. good once we were connected i'll start we were silenced by a single muffled thump from overhead so forceful that the ceiling spewed cement dust down on us then another thump and another and another

i fell off my perch in shock when a booming crash sounded from above chased by the clattering of rubble the steady thuds drew nearer louder until the only sound was that of the floorboards groaning under immense weight i looked over to grandpa who looked over to me and whipped a finger to his lips. I nodded, then slowly turned toward the basement hatch. The beast was trying its best to move silently. A stifled whimper escaped my lungs as I saw the hatch buckle. A loud bang shook the house's foundations, then nothing. In the silence, I could make out the beast's ticking growl. It was toying with us, trying to catch us out,

make us think we'd been foiled so we'd burst out in a panic and try to flee. Its intelligence terrified me so much more than its grotesque appearance. It tried this bait a few more times before huffing angrily. The heavy creeks grew distant until we could no longer hear it, aside from the single crash of a fallen tree somewhere outside. I stood up, eager to set this plan into motion, only to be dragged back down by a firm grip on my arms. My eyes fell to meet my grandpa's,

looking at me with a wide-eyed scowl. Sit down, he hissed. Not yet. It's clever. It's probably waiting at the tree line, watching for us to come out. The three of us sat in silence, ears attuned for even the slightest noise to indicate its presence. After an excruciating weight, Grandpa rose to his feet and crept over to the ladder. He scaled it, wincing at the creek of a rung, then pushed open the hatch ever so slowly. The rug that had been above was tattered, torn fragments slipping down into the now open space. He peeked out from side to side, checking rigorously that we were safe. As he pressed his hand upward, what sounded like a broken tile was disturbed, clattering to the floor above us. Grandpa froze in

place, visibly tensing. Kriak! The heavy step, followed by the guttural rattle I prayed to God I wouldn't hear, forced Grandpa into action. He pushed himself off of the ladder, tucking and rolling to the floor, right before the hatch was slammed by immense force, cracking it and warping the hinges. Grandpa shot to his feet, adrenaline far outpacing his old age. He glanced around wildly at the floor before looking up at us with newfound determination. Ah, crap, damn it, change of plans. Martin distract it. Make some noise. Kel, give me a leg up to the the window. Martin's jaw fell open and his breathing quickened. Damn! He yelped, pressing fingers into his temples. But to his credit, he turned toward the

hatch and started up a racket straight after. Come get it, you idiot, you ugly sack of crap. While Martin was busy cussing out the chimney beast, grandpa and I hurried over to the window and braced myself in a kneel, fingers locked together forming a foothold, where he planted a foot. one, two, three, I heaved him up, holding my posture while he unlatched and swung the window open. My body was already tired from running away, and Grandpa was heavier than he looked. Still, I hauled him up further until he was out past the waist, and he pulled himself out into the hazy night. I kept my focus on him as he turned around, refusing the urge to look as I heard claws cleaving away ravenously. All right, I'll be calling in a minute, he panted. When I do, tell Martin to zip.

I love you, bud. You too, Grandad. My words latched onto him, fueling a forgotten instinct that slammed his heels into the forest floor, and sent him sprinting into the trees, fading until he was merged with the dark itself. I have grounded again when Martin let out a shriek, and I turned to see him backpedaling from those spindly claws extending through the jagged hole that once was the hatch. A thick trail of crimson smeared from him as he shuffled back, the same crimson that slicked one of the titanic claws. It got me. Ah, God, it hurts, he cried, flipping over and resorting to a belly crawl towards me. I rushed over and dragged him as far away as I could, but he flopped to the floor in shock when I released my grip. His calf was a mess of exposed,

glistening flesh and bone, sliced through like warm butter. His mouth hung half open, but without a sound, so I rushed to build a cacophony in his place. As booming as I tried to make myself sound, I devolved into whimpering shouts. The beast's arm had reached almost halfway across the room, yet still, it slithered further and further through the broken hatch, claws tick-tick-tick-ticking around in search of our flesh. Backed up into the furthest corner alongside Martin, the monstrous hand grew closer, slowly, agonizingly so. I only became aware of the incoming call from the vibration in my jacket pocket. It felt as if, somehow, safety lay in the same. the act of answering my grandpa's call. My hand shot into my pocket and yanked the phone out,

fumbling with the touchscreen and picking it up. Grandad, I, it's so close. It's about to get us. Do something, please. I wailed into my phone. Instead of a reply, a loud crack rang through the night, and then the phone. The beast's arm lurched backward, freezing for a moment, before it tore out from the basement peppering the floor with wood fragments. As simple a sound as it was, I recognized it. His black hawk. He'd taken it with him. I don't know when he picked it up.

He may have had it on him the entire time. Out the window, I saw the hulking silhouette barrel into the trees at speeds rivaling my Jeep in fifth. I jumped when I heard Grandpa abruptly begin shouting over the call. The words were indiscernible, blending in with the scuffled sounds of movement. I took the moment to take off my jacket and then my t-shirt, which I pulled tightly around Martin's upper calf as a tourniquet. Hey, Kel, Grandpa said over the phone, sounding hollow and tinny. Make sure you keep up your aerobics. Gah, it sure as crap doesn't get easier with the ears.

I let out a half-hearted chuckle. I will. I want to go hiking through these woods with you, camping, surviving off of the hunt. I know you do. I... God, I do too, he said, stifling a sob. You're going to have to stay strong for your ma, okay?

There ain't no chance I'm getting out this time. But you. You two are. I broke down then, thick, watery streams lining my cheeks. I'm going to miss you. So, so much, Grandad. Aye, but we had some good times. Amazing times.

I sure as hell did, and well, this is a pretty badass way to go out, right? An unfamiliar comfort swelled up inside me, almost breaking through the tears. Yeah, all right, I'm here, the smudge. No idea what I'll find through there. I could hear the thundering beast across the call as it gained on him, its clicks and rattles too. I'm going in, promise me one thing, though. Anything, granddad. Huh, you be a good kid, and make a good kid.

my daughter proud, that's all. A bizarre noise came from the phone speaker, something akin to the sound of a stone sliding across a frozen lake, followed by a splash that seemed to kill all noise. That dead silence was broken when a shuddering voice spoke again through the phone. What the? Where are you? I yelled, pleading for any small morsel of information he could provide. I don't know. It's... I'm in a pipe, I think. Some kind of glass tube. I can see everything outside. It's all there, all at once. There are more of these tubes so many more.

They're branching and splitting, but... The connection got progressively weaker as he talked, jittering and buzzing in my ears. I'm heading down this tube now and their central one, but it's huge, enormous holy crap. No, I don't think it's the central in the distance. So many... The hell is this place. My exhausted brain couldn't fathom a single thing to say. I just listened, almost as kind of.

confused as he was. Streams of, through some of them, and the... He was cut off by a tremendous splash, but the sound quality at this point made it sound more like a roar. I could only hear his whimpers until that hissing trill crawled its way under my skin once more. It melded with the audio glitches. But then, I heard something I never could have expected,

even after seeing what I'd seen. It sounded as if the creature was studded, clearing, clearing its throat, before it spoke. The unearthly nightmare beast had spoken. Its words were jarring like it was repeating after someone taught it how to talk, broken by animalistic clicks and hisses. Grandpa screamed, but the call lost connection completely, and drew out in a high, sine wave tone. My hand acted off its own accord and loosened its grip, sending the phone clattering to the floor. By the time I had crouched down to grab it, only my home screen greeted me as I pressed the home button. The call failed. I looked down at Martin.

He was out cold, but breathing. The bleeding had died down, but he needed urgent treatment. Even so, I fell to the floor, back slouched up against the cold concrete wall, and decided to wait it out until sunrise. I was certain Grandpa's plan worked, but just the slightest uncertainty held me in place. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off. My limbs ached and my head thumped. I fought against my eyelids, but they felt as if dragged down by anchors. All light vanished, and I faded into sleep. I woke to heat on my face and a red-orange blur.

I opened my eyes grimacing at the rays of sunlight that poured through the destroyed basement hatch directly onto my face. Any notions of a simple nightmare were shattered. Martin. I rolled over on my side, seeing him lying a few feet away. Thank God he was still breathing. The red liquid coating the skin of his left leg was dry and crusted, but a small amount of it still seeped from his mangled limb.

I chose to let him rest while I turned to the broken ladder, hauling myself up what remained of its rungs, and out into the house. What remained of it, at least. Utter devastation, I do not exaggerate when I say almost the entire front portion of the house was gone. Wooden beams jutted out from piles of rubble, and dust, but all was still. Unlike the day prior, birdsong waved throughout the woods and into the ruins. I recall learning about how forest animals would go quiet when a predator is nearby, but I'd been too on edge to notice until their sounds had returned. Still, subtle chills warmed their way up my spine.

I felt safe, but I'd also felt safe with Grandpa in the basement until the attack. No smoke plumed from anywhere across the tree line, and no stench defiled my nose, but I couldn't shake it. I spent some time scrabbling around in the back half of the house that still stood. Quicker than expected, I found the keys to Grandpa's truck in the corner of the kitchen counter. I practically leaped down into the old wine cellar, then slowed my pace, gently shaking Martin, until he stirred. He was groggy and confused. Don't worry, man. I'm going to get you home. home. I wrapped his left arm over my shoulder, supporting him to the ladder. It was tough getting

him out, but I did, and we hobbled through the ruins to the truck. Driving faster than truly necessary, I swerved, slamming on the brakes when the fallen tree trunks came into view almost out of nowhere. The jolt shook Martin, and he came to attention from the pain in his leg. I apologized for it, but wasted no more time in getting out and helping Martin down from his seat. The stench of death was stronger in the air, the Wendigo corpse festering nearby. It brought me back to the night before, the raw terror, spawning paranoia within me that grew intense over the short walk between the truck and my Jeep. I felt exposed. We made it across the trees and into my Jeep quickly, even with Martin's injury. Still, without any warning signs of the beast, my heart was drumming so hard I could see my chest pulse.

a messy three-point turn, the wheels slipped, kicking up dust before we shot away down the track. We drove until reaching the small police station, where I flew out of the Jeep and burst through its double doors, perhaps a rash action in retrospect, but my mind was elsewhere. Before anything else, I had them call an ambulance for my friend, followed by reporting a severe animal attack. When I was asked what attacked us, I spat out, Cougar. The officer grunted. and I laid out the facts. Grandpa was gone, dragged away by our assailant. An ambulance arrived soon thereafter to pick up Martin.

The EMTs were visibly surprised by the laceration, but attended to him nonetheless. He'd lost a fair bit of blood, but they quickly got him in stable condition at the nearest hospital, where he stayed for the next week. A search party banded together to look for Grandpa, but they found nothing, of course.

I was questioned about the state of his house, but I think the trauma welling up in my eyes was the best defense I could have had. No scorch marks on the rubble to indicate explosives, nothing. It's been a few years since this all happened, and I've made it through the stages of grief in one piece. I'd like to say Grandpa lives on in my memory, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate to say. I can still remember him, our conversations, days out,

the smell of his fireplace, all that. But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what he looked like. That's to say, there's only an imperceptible smudge where he once was in any pictures I still have. I don't know where he ended up, some massive network of tubes, but I get the distinct impression that his grave lies elsewhere

in another place separate from this world. I'm eternally grateful for his sacrifice, yeah, but I can't help but think that it was only our lives that were saved from the Scorsden Deer. Are there more of them, or is it somehow able to relocate itself? Only my grandpa would have answers, but... Yeah, just in case. If you find yourself out in the wilderness and you see a steady plume of smoke rising from the trees,

perhaps even smell the organic stench of digestion, it would be best to call off the occasion entirely. Once it's on to you, well, I only hope you're as lucky as we were on the day my grandpa died. The moment I think back on that trip, a shiver runs down my spine, the kind that doesn't come from the cold but from something buried deep in memory. It's strange, sharing stories like this. A bit like group therapy for those of us who've stared into the eyes of something primal, something that doesn't fit into the neat categories of our modern understanding.

But here I am, ready to share ours. Not because I want to relive those moments, but because maybe, just maybe, it'll serve as a way. warning for someone else. Fresh out of high school, with the naivity of youth still clinging to us like the scent of cheap cologne, we thought a camping trip was the perfect send-off before college. There were four of us, Preston, with his Native American heritage, and a knack for survival that went beyond what you'd find in any manual. Jamie, who knew his way around guns better than anyone I'd ever met, Mark, a friend of Preston's, whose quiet demeanor masked a restless spirit.

and then there was me the glue trying to hold this motley crew together our plan was simple dive deep into the heart of the national forest surround ourselves with the kind of wilderness that makes you forget the world outside and just be we packed my old b m w station wagon to the brim with everything we thought we'd need tents food camping supplies and of course our guns the drive was a mix of anticipation of the drive was a mix of anticipation and nostalgia, the road unwinding like the years we'd spent together, leading us into the unknown. Setting up camp that first day was a breeze, a testament to the countless times we'd done this before. But as we settled down, the crackling fire casting shadows that danced just beyond our circle of light, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. For a moment, I thought I saw a pair of green eyes, framed by what looked like antlers, watching us from the dark. darkness. I brushed it off, chalking it up to the tricks the mind plays, when the sun dips

below the horizon. We spent that first night as if it were any other camping trip, reminiscing about the past and dreaming aloud about the future. The campfire curry we whipped up was a makeshift feast, and the smores that followed felt like a nod to our not-so-distant childhoods. It was perfect, or as perfect as any of us could have hoped for. But as I lay in my tent, the sounds of the night a comforting lullaby, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.

Preston seemed undisturbed, his breathing steady in the quiet of the night, and I forced myself to believe that it was all in my head. Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling. to the eyes that watched us with a curiosity that was far from benign. I wish I had asked Preston about it, but wishes are like leaves in the wind, easily scattered and impossible to gather again. That night, as we slept,

the wilderness around us whispered secrets in a language we were not yet ready to understand, and by the time we would start to decipher them, it would already be too late. The forest greeted us with a dense mist that morning, as if the trees themselves were trying to dissuade us from delving any deeper into their domain. Preston led the way, his steps confident yet cautious, a silent testament to his connection with the land that went beyond mere survival skills.

Jamie, ever the enthusiast, kept close, his eyes scanning the thick foliage with a mix of excitement and wariness. Mark was quieter than usual, his usual nonchalance replaced by a contemplative silence, And then there was me, caught between the thrill of adventure and a growing sense of unease that I couldn't quite shake off. As we trek towards the river, the overcast sky and the lack of clear landmarks made navigation challenging. Preston's unease was palpable, a stark contrast to the man who had always seemed unshakable in the face of the wilderness. When he stopped suddenly, pulling me aside to whisper about a bad omen, I felt my stomach not.

The distant whooping noise that followed his warning sent a chill down my spine, a sound so alien, and yet terrifyingly familiar in a way I couldn't explain. Preston's reaction to the creature we glimpsed through the trees was the first real indication that this trip was veering into uncharted territory. His swear words, spoken in his native tongue, added weight to the gravity of our situation. Despite our arsenal, the creature's swift escape after Preston's shots made it clear that we were dealing with something far beyond our understanding. The mention of a Wendigo, a creature from Preston's cultural lore, marked a turning point in our journey, transforming our adventure into a fight for

survival. The decision to cross the river and sever our only means of retreat by destroying the tramway felt like a desperate gamble. As Preston cut through the rope, sending the tram crashing into the waters below, I realized there was no going back. His actions, driven to by a deep-seated fear of the Wendigo, left us stranded on the far side of the wilderness, cut off from the familiar, and thrust into a realm of ancient fears. Mark's disappearance that night was the blow that shattered any remaining illusions of safety. The realization that we were being actively hunted by something that could snatch one of us away without a trace was paralyzing.

The forest, once a place of freedom and escape, had become a prison, its bars made of towering trees and its guards unseen entities that watched from the shadows. As we prepared to confront whatever had taken Mark, Preston's knowledge of the Wendigo became our only guide. His makeshift torches, crafted with a sense of urgency, were symbolic of the thin line between light and darkness, between hope and despair. The revelation of the Wendigo's nature, a cannibalistic demon with a lust for human blood, cast a dark paw over our camp, transforming our fears into a tangible enemy. That night, as we huddled around the fire, the weight of our situation settled heavily on my shoulders. The stories Preston shared about the Wendigo, tales passed down through generations,

were no longer just stories. They were a grim reality we were living. Our decision to stand and fight, to face the ancient horror that lurked in the depths of the forest, was born out of necessity, a desperate bid for survival in a world that had suddenly turned hostile. As I loaded my gun, the reality of our predicaments sank in. We were no longer just campers or friends on an adventure. We were survivors, warriors pitted against an ancient evil in a battle that would test the limits of our courage, our friendship, and our will to live. The forest, with its hidden dangers and ancient secrets had become our battleground, and the Wendigo, a nightmare made flesh, our adversary.

As dawn broke, the forest seemed to hold its breath, a stillness that belied the turmoil within us. We had fortified our camp as best we could, but as the light filtered through the dense canopy, it only served to highlight our vulnerability. Preston moved with a quiet urgency, his actions a blend of ritual and survival strategy. Jamie kept a vigilant watch,

his usual bravado subdued by the weight of our predicament. The absence of Mark hung over us like a shadow, a constant reminder of the danger that stalked us unseen. The plan was simple in its desperation. Hold our ground and survive. Preston's insistence on watch rotations underscored the severity of our situation. As night approached, the forest seemed to come alive with sinister whispers.

The sounds of nature twisted into ominous portents. When it was my turn to stand watch, the darkness felt oppressive, a tangible entity that pressed in from all sides. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves sent adrenaline coursing through my veins, a primal response to an unseen predator. The fire became our beacon, a fragile barrier between us, and the fire. the malevolent force that lurked in the darkness. Preston's decision to use fire as a weapon against the Wendigo was born out of ancient wisdom, a testament to the enduring struggle between light and dark, life and death. The makeshift torches, their flames flickering in the night, were symbols of defiance,

a declaration that we would not go quietly into the embrace of the forest. The attack when it came was both terrifying and surreal. the Wendigo's howls shattered the night, a sound that seemed to freeze the very blood in our veins. As it emerged from the darkness, the embodiment of nightmares, our preparations were put to the test. The gunfire that tore through the night was a cacophony of fear and determination, each shot a plea for survival. The creature's resilience was unlike anything we had encountered, a being forged from the darkness of the forest itself. Preston's bravery as he faced the creature with fire and steel was a beacon of hope in the chaos.

His knowledge of the Wendigo, passed down through generations, was our only edge. As the night wore on, the lines between hunter and hunted blurred, each encounter with the creature a dance with death. The realization that we were not just fighting for our lives, but engaging in a battle that spanned centuries, lent a grim significance to our struggle. The siege wore on, a test of endurance and will.

The moments of silence were almost worse than the attacks, pregnant with anticipation of the next onslaught. Our resolve was tested, not just by the physical demands of the battle, but by the psychological toll of facing an enemy that was both myth and reality. The fear of becoming like Mark, lost to the darkness, hung over us like a specter, driving us to fight with every ounce of strength we possessed. As dawn approached, the forest seemed to hold its breath,

the night's horrors retreating into the shadows with the coming light. The siege had ended, but the battle was far from over. We were survivors, but at what cost? The scars we bore were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a permanent reminder of the night we stood against the darkness and prevailed. In the aftermath, as we prepared to do it. to face another day. The forest no longer seemed like a sanctuary, but a battleground, a place where ancient evils lurked, waiting for the cover of night to reveal their true nature.

The morning sun did little to dispel the chill that had settled in my bones, a cold that came from within, born of fear and the lingering presence of death, as we prepared to leave the relative safety of our camp. The absence of Mark was a gaping wound among us, a silent testament to the price already paid. The forest around us, once a place of beauty and solitude, now felt like a maze designed by some malevolent architect, each path potentially leading to our doom. Preston led the way, his face set in a grim mask, every line and curve etched by the trials we had endured. Jamie followed, his usual jokes and laughter replaced by a quiet determination, a resolve forged in the fires of our night-long siege.

And then there was me, caught between a desire to flee this nightmare, and the understanding that there was no turning back, not until we faced our demon once more. The illusion of Mark's return was a cruel twist of fate, a momentary spark of hope extinguished by the harsh reality of our situation. The creature that stood before us, wearing Mark's face but devoid of his soul, was an abomination, a mockery of the friend we had lost. The confrontation that followed was a blur of motion, and emotion, a desperate battle against an enemy that was both familiar and utterly alien.

As we faced the Wendigo, armed with little more than our wits and the weapons we carried, the distinction between man and monster blurred. The gunfire that erupted between us and the creature was not just an exchange of bullets, but a battle for our very humanity. With each shot fired, we reaffirmed our refusal to succumb to the darkness, to become like the thing that had taken mark from us. Preston's voice, raised in challenge to the Wendigo, was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the strength that comes from standing together against the odds. As the creature responded, the air between us crackled with the tension of ancient enmities, a battle that transcended time and place.

The Wendigo's Howl, a sound that chilled the soul, was a declaration of war, a challenge that we met with determination and fear. The final battle was a testament to the power of fire and resolve. As I charged makeshift flamethrower in hand, I was driven by a singular purpose, to avenge Mark, to protect my friends, to end this nightmare. The creature's screams, as the flames engulfed it, were a symphony of victory and sorrow, a cacophony that echoed through the forest,

a final farewell to the friend we had lost. In the aftermath, as we stood among the after, of our enemy, the silence was oppressive, a void filled with the ghosts of our actions. Preston's decision to destroy the Wendigo's remains was a solemn duty, an act of respect and a final gesture of defiance against the darkness. As we made our way to the highway, the forest around us seemed to watch, a silent witness to the events that had unfolded within its depths. The journey back to civilization was a procession of the wounded, each step taking us further from the forest, but never truly leaving it behind. The scars we carried were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a reminder of the price paid for our survival. As Preston spoke of his plans to inform his

elders, to ensure that our battle would not be forgotten, I realized that some wars are never truly won. They linger in the shadows, waiting for the next generation to stand against the darkness. In the end, our pact to never speak of what happened was a vow made in blue. blood, a promise to carry the burden of our experiences alone. But as I share this story, breaking the silence that has enveloped us, I do so with the hope that it will serve as a warning, a beacon for those who might find themselves on the edge of the darkness. For in the wilderness, among the beauty and the majesty, there lurks a shadow, a reminder that some myths are born of truth, and some monsters are all too real. The clock was close to striking midnight, and the whole house was

asleep, except for me. In the dimly lit dining room, only the warm glow from the three bulbs above the table broke through the darkness. I could barely make out the hands of the clock as they moved closer to twelve. With a deep breath, I took out the shot glass I'd kept hidden in the back of the cupboard and placed it next to the bottle of Yeagermeister on the table. I don't usually drink, not after what happened to pop. But the first day of September is different. It's the one exception I allow myself. Rubbing my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I felt my mouth go dry, a familiar sensation that always accompanied this moment. The house was silent, so quiet that the ticking of the clock seemed to echo off the walls. And then, right at midnight,

the soft chime rang out, sounding like distant church bells. I filled the shot glass, raised it for a second as if toasting someone only I could see, and swallowed. The familiar slid down my throat, warming me from the inside. After the ritual was complete, I took the shotglass to the kitchen to wash it by the light of the moon shining through the window. Loretta, my wife, wouldn't mind me drinking, but a used shot glass left out would raise questions, and talking about it, well, I've never been good at that. I still have nightmares, all these years later. What I saw up on that mountain left a mark on me deeper than anything else ever has. Deeper than the joy of seeing my children born or the sorrow of watching my father drink

himself to an early grave. Loretta tells me I should talk about it, that it might help. She's probably right. She usually is. So here goes. It was right out of school when I joined the Park Rangers service. School was never my thing. The outdoors always called to me. I spent my school days daydreaming about the weekends when I could escape into nature. hiking or fly fishing with pop. It was our thing, a bond we shared. In the summer of 89, I found myself stationed in the Appalachians. It was my dream job.

Our area covered the trails that wound their way up the mountain, a place where the air felt different, where the spruce trees thinned out, and the clouds hung low, giving everything a touch of mystery. That summer was mostly about cleaning up. The winter storms had left the trails covered in fallen branches and debris. It was considered grunt work, something for the new guy, which I was. But honestly, I didn't mind.

It meant I was out there, in the thick of it all, feeling more alive than I ever did in a classroom. One day, as the summer heat began to wane and the number of visitors dwindled, something happened that would change me forever. It started like any other day, but it ended with me facing something out of my darkest nightmares, something that would stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting my dreams and leading me to this yearly ritual. That's the day I can't forget,

the day that compels me to raise a glass every first day of September, trying to find some peace, some closure. But deep down, I know some experiences cling to you, shaping who you are, forever lurking in the shadows of your mind. It was a morning like any other in the ranger station, damp and misty, the kind of weather that clings to your skin and makes everything feel slower. I was sitting at my desk, thumbing through reports of fallen trees and planning my day when he burst through the door. He looked wild, eyes wide and darting around as if he was seeing ghosts in every corner.

He let out this moan, a sound so full of despair it froze me in my seat, and then collapsed right there on the, floor. Stanley, my fellow Ranger, was quicker to react. He leaned down, trying to prop him up into a sitting position. The guy was soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging to him, dripping water all over the wooden floor. I handed Stanley a cup of water, thinking maybe the guy was just dehydrated or something. But when Stanley tried to get him to drink, he just flailed around, knocking the cup right out of his hand. The glass shattered on the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice. It's out there, he kept saying over and over like a broken record. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but you could hear the fear. It was palpable, filling the room and making the hair on the

back of my neck stand up. What's out there? Stanley asked, trying to keep his voice steady. But the guy just grabbed Stanley's shirt, his hands shaking. He was scared out of his mind. Stanley and I exchanged looks. We'd seen a lot of things in our time as Rangers, but nothing like this. Nothing that could scare a man so badly he could barely speak. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he managed to calm down enough to sit up and look at us. He was a mess, eyes red and face gaunt like he'd been lost in the woods for weeks without food. Stanley gently asked him where he was from, and after a long pause, he said he'd come up from San Diego with a couple of friends for a hiking trip. That's when the story started to come together, but each piece was more troubling than the last.

They'd been planning to hike the trail north, but something went horribly wrong. He pulled out a stack of Polaroids from his backpack, and there they were, his friends, smiling and alive. But the way he looked at those photos, you could tell they were more than just missing. Stanley took charge, marking the map with the last place he'd seen them. My stomach churned as I realized we were heading deep into the mountains, far from the safety of the trails. This wasn't just another rescue mission. It felt like we were walking into a nightmare. We geared up, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling settling over us. The forests seemed different as we set out, more foreboding. Every shadow felt like it was watching us, every rustle in the underbrush a potential threat. As we moved deeper

into the wilderness, away from any path or sign of civilization, I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone, that whatever had terrified that hiker was waiting for us, too. The silence of the forest was a heavy, oppressive thing, broken only by our footsteps, and the occasional distant call of a bird. It felt like the calm before the storm, and I had no idea if we were ready for what was coming. The old cabin in the woods looked like something straight out of a horror movie, its walls rotting and the roof half caved in. By the time we found it, darkness had already swallowed the woods hole, turning everything outside the beam of our flashlights into a sea of shadows. The air felt thick with something unsaid, an ominous silence

that seemed to press down on us from all sides. Stanley was the first to move towards the cabin, his flashlight cutting through the dark. This will have to do for shelter, he muttered, more to himself than to us. I followed close behind, my heart racing. Something about the place felt wrong, like we were intruding on something ancient and malevolent. We barely had time to catch our breath before we heard it. A low, guttural growl that seemed to come from all around us. Stanley froze, his flashlight beam darting around the clearing. Did you guys hear that? He whispered. But before anyone could answer, chaos erupted. Out of the shadows it came at us, a nightmare made flesh, the Wendigo.

Its eyes were like pits of fire in the darkness, and its body was a grotesque mix of human and animal, with long, clawed limbs that seemed to stretch unnaturally. We barely had time to react. Stanley fired his rifle, but the creature moved with terrifying speed, dodging the bullets as if they were nothing. Panic took over. I remember thinking we were going to die out there, torn apart by this monster from the legends.

But then, something clicked inside me. Fire. The creature seemed to recoil from the flames of our torches, hissing as if the light caused it pain. With a desperate burst of adrenaline, I grabbed a branch from the ground, lighting it on fire from one of our torches. Weielding it like a weapon, I lunged at the Wendigo, swinging the makeshift torch with all my might. The creature shrieked, a sound so piercing it felt like it could freeze my blood. For a moment, it faltered, stepping back into the shadows as if afraid. That moment of hesitation was all we needed.

Stanley and Harry joined in, brandishing their own sources of fire, driving the creature further into the darkness. But the relief was short-lived. In the chaos, the cabin caught fire. Flames quickly spread, consuming the old wood with a hunger that mirrored the Wendigoes. We were forced to flee, leaving behind any hope of sanctuary.

As we ran, the fire behind us lit up the night, casting long, sinister shadows among the trees. We didn't stop running until we reached the ranger station, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon. The forest was silent once again, as if nothing had happened. But the scars of that night would stay with us forever.

Looking back now, it all seems like a blur, a nightmare that I can't wake up from. I still don't fully understand what happened out there. All I know is that the Wendigo is real, and it's out there waiting in the darkness of the forest. And every year, on the first day of September, I remember. I remember the terror, the fire, and the faces of my friends who weren't as lucky as I was to make it out alive. Sometimes, late at night, when the world is silent and still, I can still hear the creature's screams echoing in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the night I came face to face with the Wendigo. I'm posting this in hopes that someone out there may be able to help me. I've started writing and deleting this so many times over the last six months or so that it would make your head spin.

At first, I thought that no one would believe me, so why bother? Then it became a matter of not wanting to relive those events again. Now, it's all I can think about, and I just want it to stop. Let me explain. This past June, my wife Michelle and I took our two teenage girls camping. I'd made our reservations online at a campsite we'd never stayed at before, a quaint little place called Lost Creek Campgrounds. It was a little farther away than we usually went,

but the reviews were amazing, and the pictures were absolutely. breathtaking. I just couldn't pass it up. We used their online map and found an isolated spot that looked perfect for us. When we got there, we set the canopy up over the included picnic table, and were putting up the tent when I heard what I thought was a family out hiking. They seemed to enjoy themselves, so I paid little attention until it seemed like they might be lost, calling out to one another for help. I alerted Michelle and was heading to the nearest trailhead to lend a hand when the voices stopped. I chalked it up to a misunderstanding and helped her finish setting up the tent. I was exhausted from the drive and getting camp set up. The kids were complaining about all the bugs

and lack of cell phone service. Michelle's energy kept us all going as she hummed some early 90s tune stuck in her head while getting the campfire going. I started thinking about that family in the woods again, but since I hadn't heard anything in a little while, I could only assume everything turned out okay. It was getting dark, so we roasted some hot dogs, made some smores, and took turns trying to tell the scariest story before turning in. The girls regaled us with some things they'd read on the No Sleep subreddit about a search and rescue officer. I went with some classic campfire stories like the babysitter and the clown statue and the man with the hook. Michelle was the clear winner with some story I'd never heard her tell before about the time she and her siblings encountered

what they thought was a Wendigo while camping in San Antonio. In the morning, we spent some time relaxing at the beach and just enjoying our surroundings. It was a beautiful day, and I couldn't help but think it odd that we were the only ones in the water. There wasn't even a single boat out past the buoys to disturb the still and tranquil lake. It was nice to have the place to ourselves, though. I went swimming with the girls and teased them about all the things they couldn't see in the murky lake water while Michelle laughed from the shore and worked on her tan. We had a few sandwiches for lunch and didn't head back to camp until the early evening.

As night fell, I talked them all into doing some night hiking. It was a family tradition that I insisted we keep up on every trip. We wandered around the circuitous trails near our campsite. The woods were an entirely different place at night. There could be something new and exciting around every twist and turn of the trail. having only the beam of your flashlight to illuminate things added that little taste of adrenaline that kept us going for a few hours heading around the last circuit back to camp

I began hearing familiar voices asking for help this time Michelle and the girls heard them as well we headed toward the voices to offer some assistance but the closer we got to where we thought they were the further into the maples hemlocks and white ash trees the voices could be heard After ten minutes I led us back to camp. I didn't make a big deal about it, but I sensed something was wrong.

I could feel it in my bone somehow. I put on a fake smile and teased the girls about our experience to calm them down. We all decided that it was probably just some bobcats. You couldn't go camping anywhere in Ohio without hearing them at some point or another. Sometimes they could sound like a screaming woman, or even a crying child. They went to bed content with that information, and fell fast asleep in their sleeping bags. Michelle and I curled up by the campfire to enjoy the rare silence together. The older the girls got, the harder it was to come by.

An hour later, we heard our youngest daughter calling for us from the woods. That wasn't possible. She was still curled up asleep in her sleeping bag. We could see her. Before we could react, we heard our other daughter's voice come. coming from the other side of the woods. She was also fast asleep in the sleeping bag next to her sister. We rushed into the tent and locked it down. It was an all-season tent. It was thick and durable with locking zippers. We battened down the hatches and held on to each other while I kept an

eye out through the little window. I must have dozed off because the sound of a zipper woke me up. I had locked them from the inside, so I assumed one of the girls had gone to the bathroom. Still, I moved to the entry, fearing the worst. When I saw everyone in their sleeping bags, my blood went cold. The zipper inched upwards. I grabbed it and held it tight. I saw an impossibly long finger through the screen. I told who or whatever it was to go the hell away.

I took a deep breath as I heard quiet footsteps moving away from the tent. The lock was broken at my feet. Before I could process anything, I heard movement. This time it came. from multiple directions. I considered waking everyone. On one hand, I needed help. On the other, a screaming wife and kids seemed like a bad idea. I let them sleep, for better or worse. I felt surrounded, and I smelled something odd, copper and nag shampa. I could make out enormous shapes through the tent fabric. The voices rang out as more of them moved in close enough to brush against

the tent. I bit my lip till it bled, closing my eyes to steady my nerves. I heard the voices of the family from the first day, the voices of my still-sleeping daughters and wife. I nearly lost my hard-earned composure when I heard my voice whispering near where I crouched. I realized what I had missed in the voices all along. While they sounded like copies of human voices, there was something distinctly off about them. Like mimicking instead of speaking, they were piecing words together to form conversations without matching tones or tempos. I focused so much on how they sounded that I wasn't listening to what they were saying until it became one cacophonic burst of repetition. Hungry, as the first few jagged claws tore long streaks all around the tent, a bright light

filled the camp from an unknown source. Through a rip in the entrance door, I could see one of them. It must have been seven feet tall and was impossibly thin. Its mottled gray skin stretched so tight over its bones that I could see its organs pulse beneath. It glared at me with empty eye so deep that no light could escape them. It lunged at me, ripping the rest of the fabric to shreds as I finally screamed to wake up Michelle and the girls. I knew at that moment that I was dead. There was nowhere to run, and soon we would all be devoured. I shut my eyes as it tore into my chest. An explosion of sound followed by warm liquid raining down on me assaulted my senses.

But somehow, I was alive. By the time I opened my eyes, I'd heard a dozen more small explosions in quick succession, mixed with the confused screams of my family as they were harshly awakened. Men approached the wreckage of our tent, shotguns in hand. They usured us to their trucks and drove us into the nearby town. I had so many questions. but the men stayed quiet till they got us to safety.

They called them forest mimics. Something had been stirring them up over the last few weeks, and more people had gone missing than usual. They'd shut down the campgrounds until they could sort it out. Our online reservation had somehow gone unnoticed, and by the time they stumbled upon our camp, it had nearly been too late. We never went back for our gear.

As a family, we stick to resorts and indoor lodgings these days. days. Michelle and the girls were lucky. They didn't see what I saw. To them, the story has become that time a pack of wild animals attacked our tent. For me, it's something different entirely. I've developed PTSD and severe insomnia since it all happened. Not even the medication I've been prescribed is helping. Some nights I swear I can still hear those voices chanting that word, hungry, in the dark recesses of our home. A month ago the dreams began, and that's why I'm finally posting this now. In those dreams, I can hear more than just that single word.

They call out to me in their staggered amalgam of voices, their legion-like staccato, shrieking and begging me to come home. On those nights, I wake up crying. I don't cry out of fear or some sense of personal preservation, no. I cry because the longing in their voices is palpable. I cry because of the pain that flares up in the scar that they left on my chest. I cry because I'm hungry. I just want to start by saying that dating is hard.

Once you get past all the bots, ads, and scammers and meet a real person, the guessing game begins. Why is this person actually available right now? Are they really just down on their luck? Or is it something else that you're happy? not knowing. Then, once you figure out their deep dark secrets, the question becomes, are they willing to put up with your deep dark secrets? This process can take weeks to sort out, usually resulting in a dead end somewhere, forcing you to start over. The whole thing is frustrating, demeaning, and humiliating enough that you're physically and emotionally exhausted,

making you just want to give up and be a loner. Now I know what you're wondering. What's this got to do with anything? Well, it's kind of simple. A little bit ago, I wrote about how my girlfriend Wendy never eats, and that I heard some unsettling things at her house the last time I visited. Well, I decided to keep seeing Wendy. Sure, she might have some unusual habits, but she makes me feel good about myself, and I'm happy with her.

So what if she never eats or chases off bears while nude in the middle of the night? compared to returning to the dating scene, that's really not so bad. We even have nicknames for each other now, country girl and city boy. I'll let you guess which is which. Anyway, that's a rather long and roundabout way of saying that, yeah, I went on that camping trip with her, and things didn't go quite how I expected. First off, I want to say that she was right. The forest really is beautiful.

The sun's heat, combined with the coolness, of the shade, while listening to the insects drone lazily in the background, seems to slow time to a crawl, making each breath a relaxing experience in and of itself. It's entirely unlike anything you'll experience during your morning commute. Combine all that with the right company, and soon you'll wonder why you'd ever return, and let me tell you, Wendy is 100% the right company. Wendy was quick with tips to make the hike easier, from how to properly distribute your pack load to how to lace your shoes for maximum comfort. During the trek to where we were going to set up camp, she alternated between offering interesting bits of information about the local flora

and fauna and walking in silence, allowing me to get lost in the experience. The whole affair made me want to give up the city life and move to the country. There was just one thing during the walk that wasn't as pleasant as everything else. At one point, we must have walked too close to a skunk or a rotting carcass or something, because the whole area around us started to reek. At first it wasn't so bad, but eventually it got so strong it made me want to gag. I jokingly mentioned it to Wendy, but she just looked ahead like she was determined and told me, pick up the pace, we'll be past it soon enough. Sure enough, we eventually got past the smell, and things quickly became pleasant again. The rest of the hike passed without incident, and Wendy even helped me set up

the tent. Her evident experience in the matter showed through because it took no time. Soon enough, everything was ready, and we even had a nice, cheerful fire roaring. This time, when she pulled out the supplies for dinner, I didn't even bat an eye when it was clearly only enough for one. Whatever was going on with her, this was just the way it was going to be. It was up to me to accept that or move on, and I'd made my call. But I have to say, for someone who never seems to eat, she sure knows how to sear a steak to perfection. After a pleasant evening and an even more pleasant night, we passed out in the tent together, while listening to the crickets and the more distant owls. But of course, if that's all that happened, I wouldn't

be writing about it here. Sometime during the night, I awoke to find I was alone in the tent. This wasn't too unexpected, because Wendy was both an outdoor enthusiast and a bit of a night owl. I debated calling out to her, but something in the air felt like I shouldn't disturb it with such an out-of-place sound. However, Mother Nature did have her demands, and it was time to answer her call. As I unzipped the tent and stepped out, I couldn't help but look up into the night sky. The stars were breathtaking. You never see this many this vibrant in the city. However, their beauty couldn't distract me for long in the face of more urgent demands. Do you know that feeling when you've been holding it in a little too long and finally experience relief?

Maybe it distracted me from the fact that all the usual night sounds had suddenly gone quiet, but it couldn't distract me from the sudden smell of rotting flesh. It was even stronger than it had been on the trail, and was accompanied by the kind of fear that you usually feel when you're very young, and just starting to wonder if there might be reasons sounds go bump in the night. I gagged as I struggled to cut off the stream, zip up my pants, and retreat into the tent again. Once in the tent, I reached for the flashlight, then hesitated. I desperately wanted to see better, but something in the back of my mind told me it was better to remain hidden.

Of course, I don't know how well hidden a blue tent in the middle of the forest can be, but turning on a flashlight would be like activating a beacon for everything within a few miles to see. I sat in the dark for I don't know how long, feeling my heart pounded through my chest, loud enough that I was sure whatever was out there could hear it clearly. Thankfully, the smell eventually faded, but I was still so high on adrenaline that I knew I wouldn't sleep another wink for the rest of the night. Or so I thought. The following day, I awoke with Wendy cuddled in my arm,

with one of her legs and arms draped over me, and once again, she was totally nude. Now I was pretty sure she'd put on some pajamas before going to bed, but as she stirred and I got a good look at what was on display, I suddenly didn't care all that much. Eventually she smiled lazily up at me and spoke. You sleep all right, city boy? You seem to have some pretty rough dreams in the middle of the night.

At the time, those words made perfect sense, In the light of day, it seemed pretty clear that whatever happened last night was probably just a vivid dream brought on by the experiences of the day before and an unfamiliar environment. After a bit more time together, we decided to get up and tackle another day in the forest. However, when I finally crawled out of the tent, I could see our entire camp was in disarray. It was like something had gone through and tossed everything around. A few of the more delicate items were totally demolished. After a moment I called out,

Um, hey, you might want to take a look at this. As Wendy crawled out of the tent, she made a face. Must have been a bear. They usually don't come out this way, so I wasn't too worried about them. I guess that's on me, sorry. A bear. That kind of made sense. At least, I told myself so.

As we were cleaning up, I even saw tracks. Though in my inexperience as a city boy, I would have said they belonged to a dog, not a bear. A huge dog. Maybe a wolf? What was even odder was when I found what looked like hoof prints. Looking at the prince, I realized that deer must be much bigger than they look on TV, since they were more than twice as long as my hand. There isn't much more to say about the day.

We fixed the place up, had breakfast, went on a hike, made dinner, and called it a night, with a few other minor activities sprinkled throughout. I was back to enjoying the trip, so much so that I had mostly forgotten about the night before. But that night, things took a bit of an unexpected turn. Once again, I awoke in the middle of the night. Thankfully, I wasn't alone this time, as Wendy was still asleep, half on top of me again. However, that stench was back and stronger than ever. It was amazing how bright it seemed in the tent.

It must have been a full moon, or at least nearly full, because I could clearly see the shadow of a large deer pass between us and the night sky. But there was something wrong with this deer. It was clearly too tall, as if it was standing on hind legs. And when it opened its mouth, I could even make out a mouthful of very sharp teeth. I couldn't help it. I felt myself breathing more heavily by the second as my heart-werect. rate skyrocketed. My mind went blank when I suddenly felt Wendy Stur, remembering the presence of my

considerably smaller girlfriend. I suddenly felt protective, as if I couldn't let anything happen to her. I was just about to tell her to be quiet when I noticed her looking up at me with a finger on her lips, as if telling me to do the same. Then she whispered to me, stay in the tent, and started to get up. I don't know what I was thinking or if I was thinking. All I knew was. I couldn't let Wendy go out to face whatever that was, so I reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could exit the tent. However, when she looked back at me, I released her immediately, almost as scared of her as whatever was outside the tent. Her eyes reflected light back at me like a cat's, and I could see the nails on her hand growing as I watched. In half a moment she turned back around,

opened the tent, and climbed outside. I will never forget the sound I heard at that moment. After I got home, I looked up the calls of a bunch of wild animals, and in hindsight, I'd say it was like a compilation of an elk call, a rabbit scream, and a mountain lion scream, but impossibly loud. Wendy shouted in answer, her tiny human voice sounding so frail in comparison. At least it did until it started to change, morphing and twisting into the howl of an impossibly large wolf. I couldn't help it.

I peaked out the tent flap, and standing in front of the tent was what I could only describe as a werewolf. The little five-foot-and-change Wendy was now standing at least seven feet tall, covered in fur with claws and fangs that looked like they could tear through steel, and she looked ready for murder. Then, some movement on the opposite end of our camp drew my attention, and I witnessed a living nightmare that suddenly made a werewolf seem like less of a problem. It looked kind of like a deer if a deer had more articulated limbs far too long for its body. The feet ended in hooves, but the hands ended in long, bony claws.

The whole thing looked desiccated, its skin drawn so tight over its ribs and arms, you could make out the skeleton beneath. The fur was spotty and looked partially rotted, with open holes leaking bodily fluids that should never see light. Its teeth were long and serrated, clearly meant for tearing rather than chewing. I sometimes hear hunters talking about deer being eight or ten points, but if I had to estimate this thing had a 30-point antler,

with many of the tines covered in what I suspected to be dried viscera from previous victims. The two monsters charged each other. The nightmare, which I now know was a Wendigo, lowered its head, intending to impale its opponent. But at the last second, Wendy threw herself nearly flat on the ground, only to rock it up into the Wendigo, latching onto its long neck with her powerful jaws while her hind feet kicked gouges into its vulnerable stomach. However, the Wendigo didn't seem willing to give up that easily and tossed Wendy aside. She hit the ground hard

and was soon set upon by the other monster. She raised an arm to defend herself, only for the Wendigo to latch on with its own teeth, easily tearing through her skin and muscles. With a powerful kick, Wendy pushed the nightmare back, then started swiping at him over and over, making it loose ground. However, lowering its head, the Wendigo charged forward again, and this time, Wendy wasn't fast enough as the Wendigo caught her on his antlers and flipped her over his back, with new blood darkening the tips of the tines. But that was its downfall, as Wendy sprung up, and again latched onto its neck with her teeth, this time from behind. The nightmare struggled in vain, occasionally raking Wendy with his claws,

but she refused to let go, and began ripping and tearing her way through its neck until she grabbed hold of its antlers, and with one final jerk, the head came free. I don't have the heart to describe what came next, but let's just say the sound of flesh being torn and eaten is much more distinct through the thin membrane of a tent than a closed cabin window. Time passed. At least an hour, maybe two or three. It's hard to say for sure. I don't know what I expected to happen next. Maybe I was going to be next. Or perhaps I'd wake up from this nightmare. But eventually, the adrenaline passed. My eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep again.

When I awoke in the morning, I was alone this time. There was no sign Wendy had come back. I'd half hoped she'd still be here telling me I'd had another nightmare, but I don't think I would have believed it again. It was kind of sad and lonely packing up our things by myself. I debated bringing Wendy's stuff with me, but I'm not that good of a hiker and wasn't confident I could pull it off, so I just left her things in her pack inside the tent.

When I exited the tent, I was more than a little surprised to see Wendy sitting calmly by the fire pit with no wounds in sight. She smiled sadly. So, I guess I owe you an explanation. I remember hesitating, my mind blank, before I settled on the thought I had earlier. What? You're not going to try and convince me it was a nightmare again? She looked around at all the destruction in the campsite. Earth was kicked up, trees had claw marks gouged out, and there were signs of blood splatter everywhere. I didn't think I could. I could convince you this time. I nodded as I looked around. Yeah, I guess not. Then, I looked back at her.

You know, for a bit there, I was starting to think you were the monster-eating people out here. Wendy pointed at herself, then laughed. Wait, me? Wendy, the Wendigo? Don't you think that's a little too on the nose? I couldn't help it. As weird and messed up as everything was, as disturbing as everything I learned was. This was the Wendy I knew and cared for. So I laughed with her. Yeah, maybe so. Long story short, we're still together. Sure, my girlfriend might be a seven-foot-tall monster that eats other monsters for fun, but everyone has their quirks. Besides, dating is hard, and I'm happy where I am. The first time I realized that the world wasn't as it seemed, I was just a kid, a sprout really, with more.

more courage than sense. That's how it is growing up in Greenville, a town so small it felt like a secret, tucked away in the cradle of the mountains, and bordered by an expanse of national forests so vast it seemed like another world. Douglas and I, we were inseparable back then. Two halves of the same coin,

always itching for the next adventure, the next mystery to unravel in the wilds that lay just beyond our backyards. We thought we knew every inch of those woods. every secret trail and hidden glade, but the forest kept its deepest secrets hidden, revealing them only to those with the audacity to look. It was the summer of 1999, the kind of summer that sticks in your memory,

bright and searing, filled with the endless possibilities that only childhood can believe in. Our dads had taken us camping, a tradition, but for Douglas and me, it was just another chance to explore. Once the camp was set and our fathers settled into their routine of fishing and fireside stories, we seized our moment, slipping away into the thickening woods as the shadows grew long. We played at being explorers, charting unmarked territories,

daring each other to venture further, to discover what lay beyond the next ridge or underneath the rotting log. It was a game, until it wasn't. Dusk crept upon us like a thief, stealing. the light and our sense of direction. The familiar turned foreign, and the sounds of the forest, once comforting, now carried a hint of menace. Dad, where are you? Our calls went unanswered, the forest swallowing the sound. The realization that we were lost, truly lost, settled in with the darkness. I'm scared, Douglas admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. I wanted to tell him I was, was too, but the words felt like a betrayal of the unspoken pact of bravery between us.

Then we heard it, the crunch of heavy footsteps, deliberate and fast, coming towards us. My heart hammered against my ribcage, a wild drumbeat signaling danger. Through the dim light, a shadow darted between the trees, too fast to be natural. It zigzagged, an impossible movement, drawing closer with every heartbeat. What the hell is that? Douglas's voice cracked with fear. I didn't have an answer. Panic took hold and we ran. The thud of our footsteps and the crashing of our pursuer blending into a terrifying symphony. Glancing back, I saw it, a blur of movement and a flash of amber eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of the night. miraculously we broke free from the grip of the trees stumbling onto a trail lit by the beams of flashlights the search party our dads at the forefront had found us

relief washed over me only to be replaced by frustration as our tale of the shadow creature was met with skepticism lying in my tent that night the sounds of the forest all around I understood for the first time that there were things out there beyond our understanding ancient and hidden. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Greenville and its surrounding woods held secrets darker and deeper than I could have ever imagined. It was a revelation that would shape the years to come, drawing me back to those shadows time and again, searching for answers I was only beginning to understand I needed. Turning 21 in the wilderness

of the mountains surrounding Greenville was meant to be a rite of passage, a step into manhood with the wilderness as my witness. My father, with his rough hands and weathered face carved from years of working under the open sky, had planned it all out, a father and son camping trip with a bottle of Jack Daniels as the centerpiece. To celebrate your stepping into being a man,

he had said with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The day was spent setting up camp and recounting tales of past adventures, of days when Greenville was even smaller, and the forest even more mysterious. As night fell, the forest around us came alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, a symphony of the wild that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, not out of fear, but reverence.

After my third shot of whiskey, the world felt slightly askew, a pleasant buzz softening the edges. That's when the night tore open with a screech that curdled my blood. My dad, off in the trees relieving himself, laughed off my startled jump. What's the matter, kiddo? Jack on the rocks too strong for you. His amusement faded when the screech cut through the night air again, closer this time. A sound so alien it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones. What in the hell? he muttered, a rare note of uncertainty in his voice as he stumbled back to the campfire. His face etched with concern.

He fetched our rifles, his old lever action and my 22-long rifle, handling them to me with a seriousness I'd rarely. seen. What was that? I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. Boy, I don't know, he replied, his gaze darting through the darkness that enveloped our camp. Been hunting out here for years, and I ain't never heard nothing like that. The screech tore through the air again, this time right above us, so close I could almost feel the vibration of it. It was a sound that defied natural explanation, a blend of agony and anger that seemed to come from something neither human nor animal. Without thinking, my dad raised his rifle and fired into the darkness, the muzzle flash illuminating the forest for a fleeting moment. The echo of the gunshot was followed by a heavy thud,

as if something massive had dropped from the trees. The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with unspoken fears. We sat back to back for the rest of the night, rifles in our laps, jumping at every crack and rustle in the underbrush. Sleep was an impossible dream, the whiskey in our veins no match for the adrenaline coursing through us. As dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, the forest seemed to return to its usual self, the terror of the night fading like mist in the sunlight. But the memory of that screech, and the undeniable feeling of being hunted, lingered long after we packed up camp. and headed back to civilization.

That trip, meant to mark my passage into adulthood, did more than that. It peeled back the veneer of the natural world, revealing a glimpse of something older, wilder, and utterly unfathomable. It was a birthday to remember, a stark reminder that there are things in this world, hidden in the dark and wild places that defy understanding. The disappearance of Jessica cut through Greenville like a cold wind, leaving a chill of worry and fear in its wake.

She was one of our own, a familiar face in the small constellation of our community, and her sudden absence cast a shadow over the town. It was Douglas who came to me, his eyes burning with a mix of concern and something else, something deeper. Jessica wasn't just another missing person to him. She was the one who got away, the object of a quietly held affection that he'd never had the courage to act on. We have to do something, he said, his voice tight with determination.

The resolve in his eyes was something I couldn't argue with, not that I wanted to. Despite the fear that twisted in my gut, the thought of not stepping up to help was worse. The search party gathered at dawn, a motley crew of locals armed with nothing but flashlights and a shared sense of purpose. We were assigned to the northeastern section of the forest, an area so thwarted. thick with underbrush, it felt like moving through another world. Douglas led the way, his usual easygoing nature replaced by a focused intensity I'd rarely seen in him. Jessica, are you out here?

Our voices echoed through the trees, hopeful calls met with silence. The search felt endless, a futile gesture against the vastness of the wilderness. As the day wore on, the optimism that had buoyed us began to wane, replaced by the heavy realization of just how easy it was to disappear in these woods. It was Douglas who spotted the cave, an ominous gash in the side of the mountain that seemed to swallow the fading light. She could be in there, he said, his voice a mix of hope and fear. Everything in me screamed to stay away, memories of shadowy figures and unexplained screeches flooding back with a vengeance. But Douglas was already moving toward the cave's mouth,

his flashlight cutting through the twilight like a beacon of desperation. I'll wait here, I called after him, my voice sounding small and hollow in the gathering darkness. There was a part of me that knew I should follow, that leaving him to face whatever might be lurking in that cave alone was a betrayal of our friendship. But fear rooted me to the spot, a cold, heavy weight that refused to budge. Time stretched, each minute feeling like an eternity as I waited for Douglas to reemer. The forest around me grew darker, the sounds of the night creeping closer, than a voice, my voice echoed from the depths of the cave, a perfect mimicry that sent a jolt of terror through me. Before I could process it, Douglas's scream shattered the silence, a sound of pure terror

that had him stumbling out of the cave, his face ashen, eyes wide with horror. He couldn't speak, couldn't form the words to tell me what he'd seen in the darkness. All I could do was stand by him, a silent guardian against the night, as the sounds of something unspeakable echoed from the cave behind us. That night changed us, deepened the bond between us with a shared secret too terrifying to speak aloud. Whatever Douglas had seen in the cave, whatever had chased us from the woods that day, it was a reminder of the thin veil between our world and something much older, much darker.

We had peered into the abyss, and the abyss had been. stared back, leaving its mark on us forever. The wildfire that swept through the national forests surrounding Greenville in the summer of 2021 was unlike anything our community had ever witnessed. It consumed everything in its path, with a ferocity that left us breathless, heartbroken, and, in a way, I couldn't fully understand at the time, relieved. The fire seemed like a cleansing force, purging the forest of its dark secrets, and, perhaps, the creatures that lurked within its shadows. In the aftermath, as our town struggled to rebuild from the ashes, I couldn't shake the feeling that the fire had been more than a mere act of nature.

The memories of that night in the cave, of Douglas's terror and the inhuman sounds echoing from the darkness, haunted me. The forest had held a malevolence, a presence that felt ancient and hungry, and now it was gone, reduced to char and ash. But it was the arrival of the government officials in the days leading up to the wildfire that truly set my mind racing. They came without warning, a convoy of black SUVs rolling into Greenville with an air of authority that was impossible to ignore. I watched them from the porch of the Ranger Station, a nod of unease growing in my stomach. They spoke in hush tones with the park superintendent. Their questions pointed, and their glances toward the forest filled with a weight I couldn't decipher.

When they ventured into the woods, they were gone for hours, emerging with expressions that were hard to read. And then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone. Six days later, the fire started. The pieces of the puzzle were there, but fitting them together painted a picture that was hard to accept. The government had known something, had been sort of. searching for something in the woods around Greenville, and whatever they found, or didn't find, had led to a decision that changed everything.

As I pieced together the evidence, the theory that formed was one of desperation and last resorts. The fire had been no accident but a containment measure, an attempt to eradicate whatever had been haunting the forest. The Wendigo, or whatever it had been, posed a threat that couldn't be controlled or understood. good. Fire, a primal force as old as the creatures themselves, had been the answer. Living with this knowledge, this suspicion, was like carrying a weight that never eased. I found myself looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows, wondering if the fire had truly been enough. The disappearances had stopped,

yes, but at what cost? And was it a permanent solution or merely a temporary reprieve? In the quiet moments, when the wind whispers through the trees that have begun to reclaim the burned land, I can't help but wonder about the balance of nature and the unseen forces that move within it. The government's intervention, if that's what it had been, felt like a breach of some ancient pact, a violation that could have consequences beyond our understanding. Greenville has begun to heal, but the scars remain, both on the land and in the hearts of those who remember what was lost. The fire took so much from us, but it also gave us a chance to start anew,

to rebuild not just our town, but our understanding of the world and the mysteries it holds. As for me, I keep searching, keep looking for answers in the ash and the new growth, because to forget, to let the memories and the warnings fade would be the real tragedy. The forest will always be a part of me, a place of wonder and terror, of beauty, and darkness. And I know deep down that the story isn't over. The shadows may have receded, but they're still there, waiting, watching, reminding us that we're not alone in this world. And maybe just maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. For the sake of keeping things on the down low, let's just say my name is Howard. Looking back, I could never have guessed how that weekend at Lake

Huron would turn my world upside down. It was late 2018, and I was just a 13-year-old kid, trying to navigate the world one day at a time. That weekend my family and I were heading to my mom's friend Carissa's place, nestled about a mile off the coast in the northern woods of Michigan. The thought alone sent shivers down my spine. I've always had a thing for forests, just not the creatures that might be lurking in them. The journey from our home in the south of Michigan was a quiet one, at least for me. My mind raced with images of wolves and bears, hiding just beyond the tree line, watching, waiting. I don't want to go.

I remember muttering more than once during the drive. My mom, in her usual comforting tone, would reply, It'll be fine, Howard. If anything happens, we'll protect you. But words were just words, and they did little to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach. We rolled into Bay City just as the sky began to dim, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to reach out from the forest,

The lakehouse sat in a large clearing, with the dense woods encircling it like a dark, unending maze. That sense of dread I tried so hard to shake off? It hit me full force the moment we arrived. But there was no turning back now. Trying to push my fears aside, I made an effort to mingle with Carissa and the others. They were nice enough, and for a short while, I managed to forget about the encroaching darkness just beyond the windows. We had pizza, laughed, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Well, everyone except me.

The forest loomed large in my mind, a silent watcher just waiting for the right moment. Later that evening, while the adults hung out in the basement, I found myself alone in the kitchen, my only company being a YouTube video playing on my phone. That's when I heard it, a scraping sound coming from outside, right on the other side of the wall, my heart jumped into my throat. I was frozen, too scared to move, too scared to even breathe. The noise continued, relentless, as if something, or someone, was trying to claw their way in. But then, as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped. Curiosity overcame fear, and I mustered the courage to peek outside. To my relief, it was just a deer, its antlers likely the culprits of the

sound. My mom checked on me shortly after, chuckling when I told her about my scare. Dear are a symbol of peace and freedom, Howard, nothing to be afraid of, she reassured me. I wanted to believe her. I really did. That night I crashed on the couch with my Jurassic World blanket, the events of the evening still playing in my mind. Despite everything, I slept surprisingly well, comforted by the thought that maybe, just maybe, my feet were unfounded. But as I would soon discover, some fears are rooted in a very dark reality. The next morning came way too fast for my liking. Carissa, with her morning person energy, chirped, Hey Howard, wake up, buddy, it's bright outside. I grogily opened my eyes, shocked to see it

was already 2 p.m. How did I sleep in so late? Not that I was complaining. It just meant fewer hours of daylight to worry about the woods. After a quick breakfast, or lunch, I guess, Carissa decided we should all head to the lake. The idea didn't excite me. The lake meant the beach, and the beach meant people, lots of them. And I've never been one to thrive in crowds. To make matters worse, when we got there, I found out that people included a bunch of little kids. Great, just my luck. I've had enough experiences with my young. I've had enough experiences with my younger cousin from Tennessee to know that kids, especially the loud and energetic ones, were not my cup of tea. So I did what any antisocial teenager would do. I grabbed my phone and planted

myself just beyond the tree line, far enough to avoid unwanted interaction, but close enough to not seem like I was planning a solo expedition into the forest. I figured I'd just watch some YouTube videos until it was time to go back. The Hodgett Wins always knew how to get a laugh out of me, even when I was feeling completely out of my element. But then something strange happened. I was halfway through a video, laughing quietly to myself, when I heard it. A voice, unmistakably like my grandmothers, calling out to me from the woods. Howard, come here, boy.

It was exactly how she'd call me whenever she needed help with something. My initial reaction was confusion, then fear. I knew for a fact my grandmother was back on the beach with my mom. I could see them from where I was sitting. The voice sounded so real, so convincing, yet slightly off. Like when my grandma is out of breath after climbing the stairs to her apartment. Every instinct in me screamed that this was wrong, that I shouldn't head towards the voice. So I didn't.

I ran back to my grandmother and my mom, my heart pounding out of my chest. When I told them what happened, they looked at it. me like I had grown a second head. It sounded like Grandma, I insisted, but they brushed it off, thinking I was making it up or trying to find an excuse to go home. But I wasn't. I knew what I heard, and it chilled me to the bone. We stayed at the beach for another hour or so, but I couldn't relax. Every sound from the forest made me tense up. Every shadow seemed to move. It was like the woods were alive, watching me, waiting for me to let my guard. down. The ride back to the house was quiet, at least for me. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts,

trying to make sense of what had happened. But one thing was clear, I was not alone in feeling uneasy. The forest had eyes, and it had chosen me for some reason. What that reason was, I couldn't tell. But as the sun began to set and we approached the house, surrounded by the dark outline of the trees, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. After the beach incident, the day dragged on like a bad dream. I tried to stay close to my mom and Carissa, hoping their presence would somehow protect me from whatever was out there. But as evening fell, my sense of unease grew stronger. The woods seemed to close in around us, a dark, impenetrable wall of shadows and secrets. Dinner passed in a blur. I,

I wasn't hungry, my stomach tied in knots. Everyone else seemed to move on from the day's events, laughing and joking as if we weren't surrounded by miles of wilderness that harbored who knows what. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that something was waiting for the right moment to strike. The breaking point came later that evening. We were all hanging out outside, trying to enjoy our last night at the lakehouse. Blitz, Carissa's husky, had been my one source of comfort throughout this trip. He was always so happy and energetic, a welcome distraction from my fears, but even Blitz seemed on edge tonight. His ears perked up, his eyes scanning the dark tree line. Then it happened. One of the kids, probably frustrated by Blitz's lack of interest in playing,

kicked him hard. Blitz reacted instantly, lunging at the boy with a growl that sent shivers down my spine. I managed to grab his collar just in time. holding him back from doing any real harm. The parents rushed over, scolding and soothing, but the damage was done. The atmosphere had shifted, tension crackling in the air like electricity. Carissa was furious, not just with the kid, but with Blitz too. I couldn't believe it. How could she blame the dog for defending himself? I stayed outside with Blitz, trying to calm him down, but my mind was elsewhere. The forest seemed to press closer.

The night sounds louder and more sinister than before. And then, I heard it, a stick snapping in the darkness, heavy and deliberate. Blitz tensed, his growl low and menacing. He stared into the woods, his body rigid with aggression. And before I could react, he bolted into the trees, disappearing into the night. Panic took over. Carrissa's husband, Steve, and my stepdad grabbed their guns and charged after blitz, vanishing into the darkness.

The rest of us huddled inside, the windows now menacing eyes peering into the soul of the forest. We turned off the lights, hoping to see or hear something, anything, that would tell us they were okay. But there was only silence. An oppressive, terrifying silence that seemed to swallow up all hope. After what felt like hours, faint gunshots shattered the night, far off and desperate. Carissa wanted to go after them, but Reason held us back. We had to stay inside, safe, and wait for them to return. But they didn't come back.

The night dragged on, an endless cycle of fear and waiting. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and we fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of shadows and screams. When morning finally came, it brought no relief, only horror. The sight that greeted us on the back porch will haunt me forever. Steve and my stepdad, or what was left of them, lay torn apart, a gruesome testament to the savagery of the night's events. It was clear then that we were dealing with something beyond our understanding,

something ancient and malevolent that called the Dark Woods of Michigan its home. As the police arrived and questions were asked, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of dread. Whatever had attacked them was still out there, watching, waiting, and I knew deep down that our nightmare was far from over. I didn't sleep that night. How could I? The images of Steve and my stepdad, mangled and lifeless,

played over and over in my mind like a horror movie I couldn't pause. The house felt different now, tainted by death and fear. Every creek and whisper of wind sounded like a prelude to another nightmare. I lay on the couch, clutching my Jurassic World blanket, listening to the silence and wishing for mourning. But morning seemed a lifetime away. My thoughts raced, trying to piece together what could have done such a thing. Bears, wolves, no, the savagery of it. It was something else, something worse. I remembered the stories I'd heard, legends of creatures that roamed these woods, tales I'd dismissed as just that, stories, but now, faced with the unimaginable, I wasn't so sure. Then, in the deepest shadows of the night,

I heard it again. The scraping, but this time it was different, closer, personal. My heart froze. The sound wasn't coming from outside. It was right there, on the other side of the wall. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Whatever was out there wasn't just passing by. It was here for me. I didn't dare move. I barely breathed. The scraping continued, each sound a step closer to my doom.

And then, silence. Defening silence. I strained my ears, hoping, praying it was gone. But the nightmare was far from over. The next sound I heard was the back door, slowly creaking open. A cold draught swept through the room, carrying with it the stench of decay and death. My eyes watered, not just from the smell, but from fear. I was too scared to move, too scared to even scream. I just lay there, hidden under my blanket, hoping it would somehow protect me from whatever horror

was creeping into the house. And then I saw it, a shadow, tall and thin, moving with an eerie grace. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before, a creature of nightmares brought to life. It paused, as if sensing my presence, and turned its skull-like head in my direction. I could see its eyes, dark pits of malice, staring right at me. I remembered the stories then, the legends of the Wendigo, a creature of hunger and horror. It all made sense, the disappearances, the savagery, the voice mimicking my grander. This was no bear. This was something much, much worse. The Wendigo moved closer, its clawed hand reaching out towards me. I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but just lie there. But I was paralyzed, trapped by my own fear. It spoke then, in a voice so like my grandmothers, yet filled with a hunger that chilled my blood. Come with me, boy, it said. But I remained silent, refusing to give in. into its call. Just when I thought it was over that I was about to meet the same fate as Steve and my

stepdad, I heard footsteps. Someone else was awake, moving around the house. The Wendigo hesitated, then turned and vanished into the night as silently as it had come. The next morning couldn't come soon enough. As we drove away from the lakehouse, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The forest seemed alive with unseen eyes, and I knew, deep, deep, down that we were leaving something evil behind. We never talked about what happened, not really. The official story was a bear attack, but I knew the truth. The Wendigo was out there, waiting, hungering, and I had survived its call. But the nightmare wasn't over. A month later, Carissa and her family disappeared, vanished without a trace. The only thing left behind was a

kid's shoe and a blanket. The police searched, but they never found a thing. It was as if the forest had swallowed them whole. I still think about that weekend, about the horror we faced. I don't know if I'll ever truly understand what happened, but I know one thing for sure. I'll never forget the Wendigo, and I'll never, ever go back to those woods again. It was one of those blazing summer days in Indiana when you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, and honestly, I was over it. Over the heat, over the endless days of doing absolutely nothing, and definitely over the boredom that clung to me like a second skin.

That's why when my cousins called me up, inviting me for a camping trip to some hidden gem in northern Ohio, I didn't think twice. Ohio has to be better than Indiana, right? I'm used to myself, packing a bag with a mix of excitement and a dash of adventure. The drive to my cousin's house was the first leg of my escape, from monotony. I arrived to find them already buzzing with energy. Their gear spread out like they were planning an expedition to uncharted territories. We packed everything into the back of an old

but sturdy truck that had seen better days, squeezing in between coolers and camping gear, the anticipation building with every mile we put behind us. The journey to our destination was a mix of old tunes blasting through crackling speakers and tales of what awaited us. My cousins were vague about the details, teasing me with hints of breathtaking views and nights under a sea of stars. As we ventured further from civilization, the paved roads gave way to gravel, and then to nothing but dirt and dust. I remember waking up from a nap to the truck bouncing on uneven ground, surrounded by wilderness as far as the eye could see. We're off the grid now, my cousin declared with a grin, and I couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought. We parked the truck at the foot of a hill and hiked up to our campsite, our gear weighing us down but spirits high.

The spot they had chosen was on top of a hill, overlooking a valley framed by dense woods. It was beautiful, serene, and so incredibly peaceful. Setting up camp didn't take long, and soon we were sitting around a campfire, the flames casting shadows that danced in the twilight. As darkness enveloped us, the conversation was. turned to the land we were on. In between fits of laughter, my cousins revealed that we weren't actually in a state park but on Native American land. They said it was some sacred hill, but the way they were chuckling made me think they were pulling my leg. Yeah, right, I thought,

not fully buying it, but intrigued by the idea. They mentioned the name of a tribe, which sounded legit, but I was too caught up in the adventure to question it further. It wasn't until the first scream shattered the night that the laughter died in our throats. It was a sound that seemed to come from another world, a howl that carried across the hills and settled in the pit of my stomach. We tried to laugh it off, but the unease was palpable. The more we heard it, the closer it seemed to get, and the more we realized this was no ordinary camping trip. The night had wrapped us in its cool embrace, a stark contrast to the day's heat. Our campfire crackled. Our campfire crackles, the only light in a sea of darkness that surrounded us atop the hill.

After the revelation about the land being sacred, a part of me felt a strange thrill at the thought, while another part couldn't shake off a creeping unease. That unease turned into cold dread when the first scream pierced the night. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard, a howl, a scream, something that seemed to tear through the fabric of the peaceful night and embed itself into our bones. We all froze, the laughter dying on our lips, as we tried to convince each other it was just an animal.

But deep down, we knew this was no animal sound we were familiar with. The screams continued, each one sounding closer than the last, turning our initial fear into panic. I remember exchanging looks with my cousins, the same question reflected in our eyes. What should we do? Before we could answer, another scream, this one so close it felt like it was right next to us, made up our minds. Then, from the darkness of the tree line across the valley, it appeared. At first, all I saw was a shape, a shadow that seemed too tall, too thin to be human. But as it stepped into the faint glow of the moonlight, there was no denying what we were seeing.

A creature, humanoid but grotesquely elongated, sprinted towards us with unnerving speed. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare, and for a moment, we were too. too shocked to move. The shock quickly turned to terror, and without a word, we all turned and ran. The woods, dark and foreboding, seemed to close in on us as we stumbled through, driven by the primal fear of being chased by something we couldn't even begin to understand. The creature's screams followed us, a haunting soundtrack to our desperate escape. Those woods felt endless, and the terror seemed to stretch every second into eternity. I don't know how much. I don't know how we did it, but eventually we burst out of the tree line, the sight of the truck, a beacon of hope

in the darkness. We didn't pause, didn't look back, just drove as fast as we could away from that hill, away from the screams. We ended up at a McDonald's, the only place open at that ungodly hour, trying to calm our racing hearts and shaking hands. None of us spoke much, what was there to say? We had come face to face with something inexplicable, something terrible. Something terrible. When dawn broke, we knew we had to go back. Our gear, our belongings. They were all still up there. Returning to the campsite felt like walking back into a nightmare.

But in the light of day, everything seemed peaceful, untouched. It was almost as if the previous night had been a collective hallucination. But the fear we felt was real. The screams we heard were real. And the creature... It had to be real, too. real, too. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I looked up creatures of folklore online, stumbling upon the legend of the Wendigo. The descriptions matched too closely to what we saw,

sending a shiver down my spine. It was a chilling confirmation that what we encountered was not just a figment of our imagination. It was real, and it was out there, in the dark, waiting. The screams echoed through the trees. I couldn't tell if they were human or animal. I couldn't tell if they were human or animal. All I knew was they were loud, which meant they were close. As I listened to the high-pitched shrieks, it almost sounded like a couple of people having a shouting match. If I had been at my apartment in town, that's exactly what I would have thought the sound was. But then, the pitch changed, and it took on a feral quality. I knew whoever or whatever was making the sound, I wanted nothing to do with them. Thinking you're alone in the wilderness is one thing. It gives a certain

freeing feeling like you're so close to nature, but knowing you're alone and hearing the terrifying, nearly indescribable sound, sent chills down my spine. I quickly questioned how much longer I would be alone, or alive. Did those things know I was here? Were they planning their attack? Or was it just a gathering of something, like a harmless chill session, in the woods, in the dead of night? My survival instinct was screaming for me to get out of there as quickly as possible. To hell with the tent in my supplies, just leave. For a brief moment I nearly listened. Later I would wish I had.

Fortunately I hadn't made a fire yet and decided against one now. If by some miracle those things didn't know I was here, a fire would draw them in like flies to, well, something I didn't want to be in. Even though the screaming was still going at a fever pitch, I quietly snuck into my tent and zipped it shut, as if some flimsy material would magically keep at bay whatever beasts were raging out there. Searching through my pack, I found my Swiss army knife and kept it firm in my grasp as I lay down on my sleeping bag. I didn't dare settle in for the night,

sleeping through being attacked by wild, whatever, and torn to shreds can be bad for my health. As I lay there, eyes wide, listening to the horrible shrieks that seemed to come from, from everywhere, they suddenly stopped. At first, this was a relief. But when the sound stopped, so did all the other noises in the forest. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on all of nature. I heard a loud thumping sound that sounded like drums beating faster and faster, until I realized it was my heart. Trying to calm myself so I didn't have a heart attack on the spot was a challenge. I tried to think of calm blue oceans and sunrises. of beautiful things that had nothing to do with the situation i was in apparently i did my job too well i don't remember falling asleep but i remember waking up in a panic jumping up i looked all around for the beasts that were coming to get me

when all that stared back at me were the contents of my backpack and the four walls of the tent i allowed myself to take a few deep breaths it was morning the sun was up and the birds were singing i took both of those as good signs being a very good signs being a very long as the sun was up and the birds were singing i took both of those as good signs being a very strong alive was a bonus as well. It was decision time. Should I pack up and cut my trip short by two days? Or should I write off last night's incident as a rare occurrence and not worry about it today in the daylight as the sun bathed me in warmth? It's funny how fear manifests itself so much stronger at night. Last night the forest seemed like the most horrifying place I'd ever been. Today, it looks like all the beauty of nature is spread out before me. I couldn't imagine anything bad. I couldn't imagine anything happening in such a picturesque place. As I looked out over the clearing in the woods, I saw a large dark spot that was moving towards me. I dove into my tent and emerged with a pair of binoculars.

Peering through them, I saw the spot was a bear, and it was headed my way, so much for nothing bad happening in nature. My plan of action was to hide and hope it went away, or turn down another path before it got here. That plan didn't work out so well. within fifteen minutes i could hear it snuffling around the campsite looking for something to eat i hoped it wouldn't be eating fresh camper the can of bear spray was firmly in my hand with my white knuckles clenching it having it was one thing using it was another that was my last resort spray and run the sniffing got louder and i could see a large nose pushing into the bottom edges of the tent my knuckles grew a little whiter as i followed its progress along the edge and around the tent and And then there was a pause, a dreadful pause, the kind of pause that horrible decisions are born from. I was contemplating my own horrible decision when the sniffing started again, this time leading away from the tent. Breathing a cautiously optimistic sigh of relief, I opened the tent flap just enough to see the bear lumbering off into the woods.

Again I held a silent vote, just like the song said, should I stay or should I go? I'd only been camping up here once before, but I didn't remember it being this dangerous. Maybe I just got lucky last time. Not wanting my luck to run out, I packed up my tent and got ready to leave. The sun was already high in the sky, leaving me just a few hours to hike out of what had taken me a full day to hike in. I looked for bear tracks to see which way it had left, but the ground was dry, so there was nothing to see. crossing my fingers I headed out on the trail, hoping it had gone some other way. It was easy going, making the terror of last night fade even more. I still kept a wary eye for the bear, though.

No use in getting so caught up in nature that I ignore her dangers. After around an hour of walking, I found a large rock on the side of the trail and decided to take a break. Pulling out a granola bar and a bottle of water, I looked around as I snacked. There was a clearing in the woods and a rough path leading to it. It wasn't any official path, just one that happens when a lot of feet go the same way and tramp down the foliage. There was a faint whiff of smoke coming from the clearing, but I couldn't see exactly what was causing it. My curiosity wanted to see what was there, but my common sense said no way. In the end, curiosity fought dirty and said the smoke meant there had been a fire, and the ashes could blow into the trees if the wind picked up and

cause a wildfire. It was a good point, even though the wind was uncannily still at the moment. I took a quick look around to make sure the bear wasn't sneaking up on me, then started down the narrow path. The trees blocked out some of the light as I headed down the path toward the clearing, making me literally descend into darkness. It wasn't a good feeling. My eyes darted around looking for anything out of the ordinary, and I slowed my pace. Then suddenly the trees opened up and daylight shone brightly on the clearing, and the remnants of a fire with a wisp of smoke still rising. Whoever had made it had been dangerously uncaring about the safety of the woods.

The fire sat right in the middle of a patch of grass, with no ring of stone surrounding it. My ire rose at the carelessness of this person. I found myself wishing very bad things on them when I noticed something else. There were splotches of red all around the fire. It was like someone had spilled red paint all around. It was strange. Why would someone bring paint out here to the middle of the woods? I stalked around the other side of the fire, looking for the answer to this mystery.

Unfortunately, I found it. There was something pale sitting just outside the burnt grass of the fire. It was next to a splotch of red. I bent down and moved the grass to see. see more clearly. Picking it up, I saw it was a severed human toe. I dropped it and stood up like a shot. The red splotches made sense to me now. They weren't painted. They were blood. A chill ran down my spine. I suddenly felt very alone and surrounded. My eyes darted all around the clearing and into the trees as I did a slow circle, searching for whatever was about to attack.

As I searched, I saw the red splotches led off into the woods in the opposite direction of the trail. Curiosity tried to get me to follow, but I told it to shut the hell up and high-tailed it out of there, my head on a swivel searching for threats. Just as I was about to reach the main trail, I literally ran into the bear. I'd been so busy watching behind me for whatever might be chasing me that I didn't see what was in front of me. It turned to face me, showing its red teeth. Then it stood on its hind legs, dwarfing me, and roared. I wished I'd worn the brown pants because I soiled myself in fear.

I was so terrified I didn't move. I couldn't. I was paralyzed. It dropped back down onto its front legs and approached me. Teeth bared. I knew right then it was responsible for the screams and the dismembered toe. The only thing I couldn't figure out was the fire. I'd never heard of bears being able to start a fire.

This was, unfortunately, the last thought going through my head before being eaten. It sniffed and took a step back. If I'd known dropping a load in my pants would save me, I would have done it last night. As I looked into the eyes of my death, it wasn't looking back at me. It was looking past me. I wasn't sure what kind of trick this bear was pulling. It wasn't like it had to fool me or anything. It had me dead to rights.

Curiosity made me turn and follow the bear. gaze. I instantly regretted it. Standing near the clearing was a monster. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. It stood on hind legs, at least eight feet tall. It had the horns of a deer, but the face looked like a deer's skull with no skin on it. Its shoulders were covered in what looked like a cloak made of another animal's skin. The bear let out a deep growl full of menace. I took the opportunity to back away and allow the bear a clear path to its adversary. It glanced at me for a moment, then started toward the monster. As soon as it was past me, I dropped my pack and ran down the trail with every ounce of speed I could muster.

It didn't matter that my car was miles away. It didn't matter there was no way I could sprint all the way there without collapsing and having a heart attack. Just then, I heard the fight. The growling, roaring, slashing, knocking trees down, fight that would have been awesome to watch. from inside a bunker with two-foot-thick concrete walls. Just me, alone, without a rocket launcher to defend myself, there was no way I was sticking around. I ran for a solid ten minutes before the stitch in my side told me I had to at least slow to a walk.

I didn't dare stop. I knew I had to keep moving. It was my only chance of surviving by some miracle. The sounds of the fight echoed throughout the trees, making it seem surreal to hear it, then hear it echo back again. It sounded like the fight was slowing down. I hoped it would last for a while longer.

Maybe whichever one would forget about me or be too tired to track me down. My walk had become a limp. I was nearly out of energy and had a mile to go to the relative safety of my car. Surely by now I could take it easy. As the thought rolled through my brain, the sounds of the fight ceased. The fading echo was all that remained. I wondered which one had been victorious and comforted myself that the victor was surely enjoying the spoils by feasting on the fallen adversary. But in the back of my mind, unease grew.

What if it didn't forget me? What if it was following me right now? I found myself walking a little faster, much to the pain and chagrin of my legs. The silence that fell in the aftermath of the fight was disconcerting. The animals around me that had been chattering away, suddenly falling silent, was alarming. I started jogging, each step a new exercise in pain. There was no doubt I was being followed. The footsteps behind me were getting louder by the moment.

My car was in sight. I was almost free. The footsteps behind me were very loud now. I knew it was right behind me, but I didn't dare look back. Run, don't think, just run. My thought screamed at me. Even my curiosity had no desire to look back. 10 steps from the car, I dug in my pocket looking for my keys.

For a brief, terrifying moment, I couldn't find them. Then I dug a little deeper and came away with my prize. I hit the remote to unlock the car and dove into the driver's seat. The engine had just roared to life when the monster appeared. I threw the car in reverse and stomped on the gas, whipping around and making the monster miss crashing through the windshield. I jammed it into drive and floored it as the monster recovered. covered and started after me. For a long, horrid moment, it seemed to be catching up to me.

The road was gravel and had several potholes in it. I found myself swerving to miss the biggest one so my car wouldn't bottom out. But by doing so, the monster gained ground. It was almost within reach of my rear bumper when I slid sideways onto the main road. Once on the pavement, I floored it and watched with satisfaction as the monster fell behind. I breathed a sigh of relief as I relaxed and settled in for the ride home. It wasn't long until I was pulling into my driveway and parking. My head fell back against the headrest, and I was tempted to take a nap right there

when my nose reminded me of the state of my pants. Walking and empty-handed was a mixed blessing. I'd left hundreds of dollars in equipment behind, but at least I was alive. My shower called to me. I stripped, through my pants and underwear in the tracks, then settled into the longest, most rewarding shower of my life. After drying, I threw on a Metallica T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

I came back out to the living room and settled in to watch a movie. Horror was out. I knew I'd have nightmares for weeks about my ordeal. I decided to watch an episode of Wipeout. Three episodes later, I found my eyelids fighting gravity and exhaustion. Heading to bed, I turned out the lights and stepped up to the living room window. Looking out over the lights of town, I sighed, seeing the trees of the park far in the distance and knowing I'd never visit there again.

Before I turned toward my bedroom, something caught my eye. It was impossible. I rubbed my eyes to be sure. The monster was creeping out of the woods and coming straight toward my house. As I watched, it looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. Mine full of fear. It's full of menace.

I ran through the house, making sure every door and every door and window was locked. After that, I went to my bedstand and pulled out my snub nose 38, checking to make sure it was loaded and grabbing a handful of extra bullets, shoving them in my pocket. Running back out to the living room, I looked out the window, but it was gone. Pressing my face against the glass, I searched the front yard, but it wasn't there. For an instant, I wondered if my imagination had been playing tricks on me. I went to the kitchen window and looked into the backyard. It was dark and I couldn't see much.

Reaching for the light switch, I hesitated, not wanting to see it suddenly appear in front of me. But I had to know if this thing was real or not. I would rather that I was going crazy than ever see that thing again. Flicking on the light, I took a half step back. Nothing was there. I scanned the entire backyard all the way to the woods that bordered my property. Nothing. I shrugged and was about to go to bed when I heard it.

My foot stopped on the first step, and I turned back toward the door. Someone or something was scraping against the front door. Feeling like I was in a trance, I was drawn to the door. Leaning up to the peephole, I closed my eyes and breathed a silent prayer that nothing would be there. My prayers were answered. There was nothing out there. As tempted as I was to just accept this audible hallucination, my shaking hand reached for the

door knob. The distance between my hand and the door seemed to be. to fade, like one of those scenes in a horror movie where the camera zooms in while going backward. I turned the knob and held my breath while opening the door. Nothing was there. I released a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Looking around, the yard was empty, just the evening mist clinging to the lawn. My imagination had gotten the best of me. I turned to go back inside and saw the door and doorframe had long scratches on it. My blood froze. It was real. It was here. It had tracked me down. As terror gripped me, I saw a flash of brown fur

an instant before it charged me. In sheer desperation, I fell back into the door just as it hit the doorframe. Its antlers slammed into the doorframe, sending splinters flying as it struggled to get loose from the destroyed wood. I lay on the door, watching in grim fascination, stunned by the fact that it had missed gouging my eyes by a mere fraction of an inch. The doorway had saved me. the same doorway that was rapidly disappearing under the monster's onslaught. I regained myself and ran. As I darted through the living room, somehow, I had the presence of mine to grab the house phone

and dial 911 as I headed down the basement steps slamming the door behind me. 911, what's your emergency? Came the lady operator's voice. I'm being chased by a monster who's trying to kill me, I said, vaulting down the stairs. I'm sorry. Could you repeat that? I'm being chased by a monster who's trying to kill me.

Are you talking about a person? No, what do you not understand about the word monster? I shouted. All right, it's my duty to inform you that prank calls will be reported to the police, and you could face charges. Fine, send the cops. Maybe they can fight off the monster long enough to put me in cuffs. The line disconnected. Son of a, I said as I heard the monster stalking around in some.

the house. I squeezed myself into the far corner between the wall and the oil tank and tried to be as quiet as possible. Barley breathing, I listened to its measured steps as it crept from room to room. The floorboards complained with loud creaks, telling me this thing weighed considerably more than me. I heard it turned toward the stairs and thought about making a run for the cellar door that led outside when my phone rang. Hello, I whisper screamed, trying to be as quiet as possible. Is this the person who just called 911 about a monster? Yes, who is this?

There was a pause as I heard the footsteps change direction. I'm from another agency, he said. Could you describe the monster for me? So you're from one of those three letter agencies that always say they don't spy on our phone calls? Could you describe the monster for me? It's huge, I whispered. At least eight feet tall, covered in fur,

and wearing the fur of another animal over its shoulders. Oh, and it has antlers like a deer. I heard a sharp intake of air. Where is it? I gave him my address. I meant where is it in the house. It's on the first floor, and I'm in the basement, I whispered. But I think it's coming down here. Just then I heard the basement door open.

Gotta go, I whispered, then hung up the phone. The basement stairs groaned under the weight. I hoped that the wood would collapse under the weight and it would fall, snapping its neck. No such luck. The stairs creaked as it continued to the bottom. I had to duck in this basement, so I was sure it was on all fours to keep from getting tangled in the rafters. My heart pounded. I struggled to keep my breathing quiet, so I wouldn't give away my position.

The chuffing of the monster's breathing was getting closer. I wanted to close my eyes but had to know when it came close enough. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the gun. Aiming it at the corner, I waited. The skeletal snout appeared, but I didn't shoot. The shot would just bounce off of bone. I wanted to hit something more vital and hope that I might somehow survive. The rest of the bony skull made its appearance and went by without noticing me.

Next came the neck and the rest of the body. I wasn't sure where this thing's vital organs were, so I held off, hoping that it might not notice me at all. Those hopes were dashed when it sniffed, then whipped around and stared right at me. I took that as a sign to shoot it in the chest. The gunshot was deafening, especially in such a closed space. My ears were ringing so loud I could barely hear the monster screaming and tearing my oil tank limb from limb, trying to get to me.

I fired again, trying to hit any part of its body as oil flew from it thrashing around. We were both covered in heating oil, and yet it still kept coming. Three more shots didn't even slow it down. It was so close the muzzle of the gun was nearly touching it. I shoved the barrel in one of its eye sockets and pulled the trigger. The flame from the exploding gunpowder set the oil on fire. I don't know if it was that, or the bullet bouncing around in its skull that made it shriek even louder. Flame engulfed its screaming form, making it look like a demon straight from hell.

It ran out of the basement through the outside doors, bursting out into the open air and disappearing into the night. I was so relieved I didn't notice right away that I was on fire. The oil that had splashed on me had ignited when the monster caught fire. I tried to push my way out quickly, but the monster had shoved the tank closer to the wall, pinning me. The fire devoured the oil on my clothes and my bare skin, making me scream in agony, as I tried in vain to get away from the fire. This was it. I would die this horrible agonizing death. trapped in an inferno. The monster would get its revenge and not even know it. Maybe once it extinguished its own fire, it would come back and devour what was left of me, like a well-done stake. I must have

been hallucinating. I could have sworn a cloud enveloped me just before I died. I woke in a white room with an annoying beeping sound that wouldn't stop. There was a smiling face sitting in the corner staring back at me attached to a man I'd never met. are you feeling, he said, stepping over to the hospital bed. Am I dead? I rasped. Not yet, he chuckled. It was close, though. If we hadn't gotten to you when we did, you would have been a shish kebab. I tried to lean up, but the pain put me back in bed. Yeah, you're not going to be taking any hiking trips for a while, he said. You've got burns all over your legs that'll need some time to heal. I'm never going hiking again, I said.

Are you the guy I talked to on the phone? Yeah, do you mind telling me the rest of what happened? He said, pulling out a pen and notepad. Sure, I said shrugging. Since you saved my life, it's the least I could do. He pulled his chair over and got comfortable. What happened to the monster anyway? I said.

He hesitated. It got away, didn't it? Yeah, he said lowering his head a little. We lost the trail after it extinguished itself, but don't worry, we'll find it. I didn't comment on my opinion of the competency of government agencies out of respect for the man who saved my life, but suffice it to say I wouldn't be sleeping very deeply once I got back home. Where would you like me to start? I said. The beginning is always a good place. Hiding in plain sight. I never paid much attention to that phrase before I started my new job. Wanted, nighttime security guard.

That's all the ad said, along with a phone number. The town I live in isn't very big, barely a dot on the map on the way to somewhere else. But for whatever reason, we have a museum. I have no idea how it's still in business. I can't recall ever seeing a single person walk through their doors. But when I called the number, the man who answered told me to come to this address this evening for my interview. He seemed a little over-excited that I had answered the ad. When I asked him about the job, he said,

Oh, you know, the usual thing for a security guard. I've read some pretty unusual things about security guards and subredits, but I'm sure those stories are made up. Walking up the wide stone steps built to accommodate crowds of people was a little intimidating and creepy, with no one for company besides the glowing lamps mounted on the sides of the railings. The whole thing gave off a very dystopian, ghost town, zombie apocalypse vibe. I guess the stone gargoyles staring down at me didn't help much.

I gazed into their eyes, half expecting them to jump down and carry me off to be sacrificed to Gozer. If I hadn't already discussed my hourly wage, I would have turned and high-tailed at home. But the wage was more than acceptable for a security guard. It was downright generous. I was wondering why he would pay so much, but walking up those desolate stairs gave me a clue. Nobody wanted to go near this place. The word haunted had been mentioned more than once. Looking up at the front of the building,

the sporadic lights made shadows fall all around and gave it an intimidating presence. I paused at the top of the stairs, thinking about every horror movie I've ever seen. There's always that one moment where the characters could turn back and live another day, but they never do. The wind whipped up, blowing against me, threatening to push me back down the stairs, almost as if warning me not to go inside.

For a moment, I considered heating the warning and climbing back down the stairs. Knowing that my rent and car payment were due made me reevaluate that decision. I stepped up and opened the door, wondering if I would ever come out. Fully expecting the door to creak on its hinges, I was pleasantly surprised when it opened silently and with little effort, despite feeling quite heavy. The ornate decorations and beautiful decor took my breath away. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I found myself regretting that this was the first time I had ever visited this museum.

I hadn't made it two steps until an elegantly dressed man appeared and smiled at me. He didn't so much as walk up to me. Rather, he glided, showing an air of dignity bordering on royalty. Mr. Welton, I presume, he said, wearing a warm smile. Yes, sir, I said, offering my hand. He glanced at it with an amused look. Right then, follow me, and I'll show you your duties, he said, turning on his heels and gliding away. I pretended to smooth my hair as I followed, feeling like an idiot for offering my hand. He glided past several works of art, toward a small desk.

Right then, he said, you'll be in charge of checking the doors so nothing gets in, he paused, or out. You mean stolen? I said. Yes, he said slowly. Stolen. So I got the job? He stared at me blankly. Did you show up? I nodded.

You got the job. Do I need a uniform or anything? Let's see how your first night goes, he said. There's a set of rules on the paper on your desk. Please adhere to them. You must do at least one round per night through every room and check every door. One round? That's it?

This place is rather large and challenging. I looked around with a hint of hesitation. Maybe there was a reason why it paid so much. He smiled. If you have any problems, just call the number on the paper. That's it? I believe so. I'll lock the door on my way out and unlock it again at nine o'clock on my way back in.

I stepped over to the desk and began reading the paper. What does this mean? I said turning around, but he was gone. Hello? I called, but only my voice echoed back to me. I looked at the puzzling paper again and read the rules. Rule number one, there are no rules. Rule number two, there are no rules. What is this fight club? I said to myself.

Every time you break a rule, return to rule number one. Wait a minute. How can I break a rule when there are no rules? Rule number three, how you follow the rules is as important as why you follow the rules. That made no sense at all. Rule number four, if you are caught breaking the rules, the penalties may be severe. Okay, there's something wrong here. This is just talking in circles. I read back over the rules and they looked strange.

More than just the strangeness of the rules non-rules themselves, it was the way they were written. I went back and looked at each letter. Then I paid attention to the letters that were capitalized. It looked like some hidden message. They're watching. I hesitated. Who's watching? I decided to keep reading in hopes that this would begin to make some sense.

Rule number five, do not under any circumstances make noise every time you do around. Message received. Don't move. I stood there, immobile. Wondering how long I was meant to play this game and if someone would come by and tag me to unfreeze me and allow me to my round. As I waited, chuckling to myself at the ludicrousness of this insane game of freeze-tag, I felt the air grow cold. Clouds chugged out of my mouth like an old steam train as I fought the urge to rub my arms. A chill that had little to do with the sudden temperature drop ran down my spine as I felt a presence in the room. It crept up behind me, silent as the grave.

I could feel its hot breath wash over me as it sniffed. Instead of enjoying the sudden warmth, My temperature plummeted. My heart hammered in my chest. It was all I could do to keep from running away in sheer terror. As it passed by, I was overwhelmed by the stench of death. This thing was every nightmare I've ever had, personified. I refused to open my eyes and see its hideous form for fear of passing out. Instead, I focused on imitating a statue,

which was nearly impossible with my freezing body aching to shiver in frozen dread. The nameless terror passed to the far side of the room, taking some of the cold with it, and then as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The room returned to normal temperature, but I waited a few moments before moving, just to be sure. Once I felt it was safe, I nearly collapsed to the floor in relief. After giving myself a moment to recover, I glanced at the paper with a newfound fear. Was this a harbinger of doom or a warning label meant to keep me safe? Unsure if I wanted to read the rest, I took a moment to reevaluate my current career choice.

Could I just walk out and say I quit? After a brief internal debate, I decided it wasn't worth the money if I was about to be dragged through a portal to hell. Just a short time ago, I would have considered that thought laughably ludicrous, but it was seeming more plausible by the moment. I started toward the exit door with every intention of calling and telling my boss I wouldn't be finishing the shift. Unfortunately, the door had other plans. When I pushed on the crash bar, nothing happened. I tried turning the deadbolt, but it refused to move. After a few minutes of futility, I gave up, frustrated and determined to just sit in this room

until morning came around. Sitting at the desk, I spun around in the chair, waiting for the next nine hours and 13 minutes to pass quickly. Five minutes later, out of sheer boredom, I glanced at the paper. Rule number six, you can't just sit at the desk and wait for the door to open at the end of your shift. Suck it up. Are you serious? I said in frustration. Someone thinks they're funny, huh?

Glancing back at the paper, below Rule 6, was three letters. Y-E-S. I backed away and got up to do my round, if nothing else to get away from this all-seeing sheet of paper that I had grown afraid to look at. Hesitating, I reached for the door to the room where the nightmare had disappeared. Glancing up, I saw a slip of paper taped to the door. It said, The only way out is through. Sying heavily, my trembling hand turned the knob and slowly opened the door. As I closed it, on the other side was another slip of paper.

This one said, avoid eye contact and you'll be fine. Confused by the cryptic statement, I turned and realized what it meant. The room was full of stuffed creatures of many shapes and sizes. Most of them seemed to be mythical in nature of the crypted variety. There was a Bigfoot, Skinwalker, Dogman, Jersey Devil, Wendigo, and many others. As my eyes scanned the room, I noticed movement. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The Skinwalker turned its head just slightly to look right at me.

I quickly darted my eyes away in fear and disbelief when the dogman turned its head to stare at me. As panic coursed through my veins, I turned to go back through the door, remembering what the piece of paper on both sides of the door said. The only way out is through, and avoid eye contact, and you'll be fine. I felt the last statement was akin to saying, If you hold on tight enough on a roller coaster, you won't need the safety harness. Aiming my eyes at the floor, I turned and started toward the far side of the room. I hoped that all they would do was watch. that hope was dashed.

I heard growls and footsteps from all around the room. Hesitating, I wondered if I would need a clean pair of pants by the time I reached the far side. That is, if I survived. The sounds of footsteps grew louder behind me, when suddenly there was a pair of hairy legs blocking my path. I stopped as a low growl made the air vibrate. Oh, dear God, I whispered, knowing that my life was about to end horribly and painfully. fighting the urge to look up, I sidestepped and went around the legs, hoping to pass unnoticed.

I counted my footsteps, hoping each one wouldn't be my last. Silently praying, I continued toward the door with my eyes aimed down, watching nothing more than my feet. It seemed like the longest walk of my life, listening to the mythical creatures behind me come to life, and sounding every bit like they were following me, just waiting for the right moment to grab me and turn me into a late-night-night-night. snack. It came as a surprise when I bumped my head into the far wall. Shocked not only that I had made it, but that I had missed the door, I glanced over and found my glorious escape route. As I opened the door, I accidentally glanced back into the room and made eye contact with the Wendigo. Its roar of rage is something I'll never forget. It charged at me with blinding speed and claws unsheathed,

fangs ready to tear me to shreds as I dove through the door in the nick of time, slamming it behind me. The impact on the other side of the wall made dust settle to the floor, causing me to sneeze. I stood and saw another piece of paper taped to the door. Whatever you do, don't make a sound, it said. As I was about to make a comment about it being too late, a giant set of fangs flew at me from the semi-darkness. Attached to them was the biggest snake I'd ever seen or heard of. It shook off the impact with the door as my legs took over and sprinted for the far side of the room. The dim lighting made it impossible to see the far door as well as rocks, and other obstacles littering the floor, as I made my desperate dash to safety. I swear the rock

that tripped me moved into my path on its own. Instead of a death sentence, it saved my life as the snake flew over my prone body, having tracked me down. Had I not tripped, its massive fangs would have gone straight through me. Not waiting around to celebrate my accidental good fortune, I jumped up and race toward the door again. It was now within sight, but so was the snake. It had recovered and was coiling for another strike. Running around a large boulder to make myself a harder target, I aimed for a spot five feet from the door. When I was almost to the door, I dove just as the snake passed over me, slamming into the wall as I jumped up and opened the door. Closing the door behind me, I took a moment to catch my breath and think about asking a lot more questions when I interview

for my next job. I tried to open my eyes but realized they were already open. The room was engulfed in total darkness. Pulling out my flashlight, I shone it around, but couldn't see anything aside from the door and the floor in front of me. There was no sign of anything in the room, not even a ceiling. It was as if the darkness sucked the light into itself, never to escape. Being robbed of sight, I relied on hearing. Taking a long listen, I went. waited to hear any growls or slithers, anything to give me a hint of what I might have to deal with. But there was nothing, only soul-crushing silence. Having scanned the room the best I could, I set out to find the far door.

Nothing seemed strange. Even the echo sounded like a normal large room. It was just devoid of light. The normalness of it terrified me. All I could find out of place was a slight scent of disinfectant. I wasn't sure if that was because whatever horrible creature that called this room its home had killed people here, and they wanted to cover the smell, or if the creature itself had passed away, leaving some poor janitor to clean up the mess. In either case, I was on full alert. They say that when one of your senses falters, the others become more acute to make up for it. The same thing was happening with my paranoia. I imagined shadows moving around in the total pitch of darkness.

My steps were small and slow as my arms waved in front of me acting as my eyes, searching for any obstacles. It took what seemed like an eternity to get to the far side walking so slow. I guess that's the price of being careful. As I approached the wall, the flashlight and vision became useful once again. I must have gotten off track as I walked because the door was far off to the side. I had to walk a good 50 feet along the wall to find it. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a horrible sight.

The snake was coiled up in front of it. I quickly shut the door as it prepared to strike. Why would they have two snake rooms? But then why wasn't much of a relevant question in this place? My mind came up with a terrible answer. It wasn't a second snake. It was the same one. I must have gotten turned around in the darkness and done a circle.

As my brain had a go-around with denial, I tried to figure out a way to get across this room without unintentionally doubling back. Keeping in mind that even though I had yet to see or hear anything in this room, didn't mean it wasn't there. Searching for any ideas, I looked down at my flashlight, then squared my shoulders against the wall to regain my bearings, and tossed the flashlight straight in front of me. It landed with a loud clatter, then rolled around in a playful circle before coming to rest.

If there was anything in the room, most likely I'd just woken it up and showed it exactly where I was. I stood still and listened. After a few minutes, I didn't hear any movement. It seemed safe to walk to my flashlight, pick it up, and toss it another 15 feet, hopefully in a straight line. I did this the whole way across the room, still listening for sounds, but becoming more confident with each step that I wouldn't hear any. The door was just a few feet to the side of where I'd aimed. Somehow, I'd gone in a straight line. Grabbing the doorknob, I slowly turned it so as not to alert the snake if, by some trick, I ended up back in that room.

But there was no trick, and no snake. The door opened to a blinding light. I covered my eyes to give them time to adjust. Once they had acclimated, I looked around at a beautiful room full of clouds. There were even clouds on the floor. It was disconcerting at first and almost made me lose my balance because they were so well painted that it literally looked like I was walking on clouds. I took a tentative step into the room, making sure that it was an illusion, and I wasn't about

to fall thousands of feet to my death. Holding my breath, I stepped on to the first cloud and let go of the doorframe. It was firm like a floor should be. My second and third steps were more confident, as I realized how effective the illusion was. Once I acclimated, walking on clouds was fun. This was turning out to be the easiest room I'd been in so far. That's when I heard the scream. It was deafening and seemed to come from everywhere at once. I dove to the floor only to realize there was nowhere to hide from whatever it was. I stood out like a sore thumb against the blue sky and fluffy white clouds painted on every

surface of the room. The scream sounded again, and I began to run, having no idea which way I was going or where the screaming was coming from. For all I knew, I was running toward whatever it was. I just knew it didn't sound human, and I had no desire to find out what it was. Soon, the choice was taken out of my hands. I saw a dark spot appear against the clouds that quickly became larger. It was almost on me when I dove to the floor, feeling something sharp rake my back. back. Pain shot through me as I reached around and found the back of my shirt in shreds. Not only that, but my hand was covered in blood. Whatever it was had sliced my back open and I was bleeding. Adrenaline kicked in, and I ran faster than I ever have. The problem was, I didn't know where I was

running to, or what I was running from. I was just running. I heard wings flapping, and I looked back just in time to see the largest bird of prey I've ever seen. It looked like a good, golden eagle, only the thing was massive. The wingspan was easily 20 feet. As I was running, I turned to get a closer look at this thing at the same time I was trying to get away from it. My feet got tangled up, and I fell backward just as the razor-sharp talons passed over mere inches away from my face. I jumped up and started running again. As I glanced back to find my attacker, I was met with the strangest sight. There was a smear of blood on the floor where I had just been lying. It looked like someone had wiped blood on a cloud. The wings flapped again.

I knew it was close. I had run out of luck. It would be ready for anything this time. Its razor-sharp talons would rip me to pieces. There was no doubt about it. There was only one option. I jumped and whipped around in mid-air, throwing my flashlight as hard as I could. It connected with its head that was mere feet away. It screamed and dove off to the side, impacting with the floor so hard I felt the vibration and landing in a heap. I didn't stop to check on it. The door loomed ahead of me, and I pushed myself for every ounce of speed my body could muster. Turning the knob and opening the door in one smooth motion, I dove through and slammed it shut. Laying on the floor, breathing hard, trying to catch my

breath, I knew I was a sitting duck for whatever monster lurked in this room. I rolled over to get in some defensive position for whatever was about to attack when I saw I was back in the main hall. I had somehow survived my first, and as far as I was concerned, last round. I stumbled my way to the restroom, in the back of my mind wondering what kind of insanity I would find in there. Would I have to crawl through the mirror into another dimension to get a roll of toilet paper? Fortunately, the restroom held no surprises. I took off my destroyed shirt and ran water over it to clean up my back as best I could. When I was done, I put some paper towels on the wound and put my jacket on top of it. The desk and chair were where I spent the rest of the night.

Surprisingly, it had taken me almost an hour to complete the round. As I sat there, pondering if I could survive another night at this job, I saw a dark spot form on the wall and detach itself only to float over toward me. I closed my eyes and sat perfectly still, ignoring the sudden drop in The stench of death surrounded me, but I refused to move. For a moment I thought I heard a sound like sniffing, and then it seemed to diminish. Once the temperature rose again, I opened my eyes, and the apparition was gone. As bored as I was for the next few hours, I wasn't tempted to do another round, not even in the slightest. When nine o'clock rolled around, the boss curator appeared, and glided over to me, wearing a little grin. I see you managed to make a

it through, he said. Congratulations, you're the first one in some time. The first one to make it through a single round? He nodded. How many others have there been? I said with a haunted look in my eyes. He shook his head. Let's not worry about that, shall we? He said. Here is the amount we we agreed upon. He handed me a stack of bills, and I gladly took them. Would you be interested in staying on and being my permanent nighttime guard? I looked at a the money inside. As much as I'd like to, I don't see how this job could be called permanent when the mortal danger is so real. It is a challenge I'll admit. However, you rose to it last night, he said. I'm prepared to offer you twice the amount I gave you if you agreed to stay on.

I stared at the fistful of money and imagined not having to struggle with bills or any other expenses. Then I turned a little, and my back painfully reminded me of the dangers. I'd have to think about it, I said. While you're thinking, consider this. You have yet to see the basement. Basement? He nodded. It's considerably more challenging. I'll let you know. Very well. You can see yourself out. I recommend getting that back tended to. With that, he vanished into thin air right in front of my eyes. I looked at the money, wondering if it would vanish as well. Fortunately, it remained firmly in my grasp as I walked toward the front door. For some reason, I felt hesitant to open it and leave.

It was as if some force was exerting itself against me like the museum didn't want me to go. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, more like a dog losing its favorite toy. I pushed the doors open and left. This whole ordeal made me ponder my concepts of reality, as well as being terrified of the day, when the things in the building would escape somehow. The big question was, did I need the money that badly? Was I willing to put myself in mortal peril just for a few measly dollars? I turned and looked back at the museum.

In the daylight, it looked innocent. None of the terrors that lay within showed on the outside. As I turned to head home, I swore I saw a fleeting glimpse of the apparition. It seemed to be following me. I looked again, and it was gone. Must have been my imagination. 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 the cramudgeonly 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. I don't know when you're going to read this, but I can tell you when it started. I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me.

It was beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it hid, there were no trees. Where it crept closer, there was no grass. Through the ark, it leaped at me. There was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all. As it struck, I felt the distinct sensation

of claws puncturing me somewhere unseen, somewhere I'd never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso seemed fine, and I wasn't bleeding, but I knew I'd been injured somehow. As I fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less. I was vaguely tired, and it was hard to focus at times. The solution at that early stage was easy. A big cup of coffee helped me feel normal again. For a while, that subtle drain on my spirit became lost in the same. the ebb and flow of caffeine in my system. You could say my life began that week, actually, because that was when I met Mar. She and I got along great, though. To be honest, I'm pretty sure I fell in love with her over the phone before we even met. It was almost as if the strong

emotions of that first week made the entity fight back. It was still with me, latched on to some invisible part of my being. The first few incidents were minor, and I hardly worried about them. The color of a neighbor's car changed from dark blue to black one morning, and I stared at it before shaking my head and shrugging off the difference. Two days later, at work, a co-worker's name changed from Fred to Dan. I carefully asked around, but everyone said his name had always been Dan. I figured I'd just been mistaken. Then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I was peeing in my bathroom at home when I suddenly found myself on a random street. I was still in my pajamas, pants down, but now in full view of a dozen people at a bus stop.

Horrified, I pulled up my clothes and ran before someone called the cops. I did manage to get home, but the experience forced me to admit that I was still in danger. The entity was doing something to me, and I didn't understand how to fight back. Marr showed up that evening, but she had her own key. Hey, I asked her with confusion. How'd you get a key? She just laughed. You're cute.

Are you sure you're okay with this? She opened a door and entered a room full of boxes. I know living together is a big step, especially when we've only been dating three months. Living together? I'd literally just met her the week before. The thing was, my mother had always called me a smart cookie for a reason.

I knew when to shut my yap. Instead of causing a scene, I told her everything was fine. and then I went straight to my room and began investigating. My things were just as I had left them with no sign of a three-month gap in habitation, but I did find something out of the ordinary, the date. I shivered angrily as I processed the truth. The entity had eaten three months of my life.

What the hell was I facing? What kind of creature could consume pieces of one's soul like that? I'd miss the most exciting part of a new relationship, and I would never understand any shared stories or in jokes from that period. Something absurdly precious had been taken from me, and I was furious. That fury helped suppress the entity. I never imbibed alcohol. I drank coffee religiously.

I checked the date every time I woke up. For three years I managed to live each day while observing nothing more than minor alterations. A social fact here and there. Someone's job. How many kids they had? that sort of thing. The layout of nearby streets. The time my favorite television show aired, that kind of thing. Always, those changes reminded me the creature still had its claws sunk into my spirit. Not once in three years did I ever let myself zone out. One day, I grew careless.

I let myself get really into the season finale of my favorite show. It was gripping, a fantastic story. Right at the height of the action, a young boy came up to my lounger and shook my arm. Surprised, I asked, Who are you? How did you get in here? He laughed and smiled brightly. Silly Daddy. My heart sank in my chest. I knew immediately what had happened. After a few masked questions, I discovered that he was two years old, and that he was my son. The agony and heartache filling my chest was nearly unbearable. Not only had I missed the birth of my son, I would never see or know the first years of his life. Mar and I had obviously gotten married and started a family in the time I'd lost, and I had no idea what joys or pains

those years contained. It was snowing outside. Holding my sudden sun in my lap, I sat and watched the flakes fall outside. What kind of life was this going to be if slips in concentration could cost me years? I had to get help. The church had no idea what to do. The priest didn't believe me, and told me I had a health issue rather than some sort of possession. The doctors didn't have any clue. Nothing showed up on all their scans and tests, but they happily took my money in return for nothing. By the time I ran out of options, I'd decided to tell Mar. There was no way to know what this all looked like from her side.

What was I like when I wasn't there? Did I still take our son to school? Did I still do my job? clearly I did because she seemed to be none the wiser, but I still had a horrible feeling that something must have been missing in her life when I wasn't actually home inside my own head. But the night I set up a nice dinner in preparation, she arrived not by unlocking the front door, but by knocking on it. I answered and found that she was in a nice dress. She was happily surprised by the settings on the table.

A fancy dinner for a second date? I knew you were sweet on me. Thank the Lord I knew when to keep my mouth shut. If I'd gone on about being married and having a son, she might have run for the hills. Instead, I took her coat and sat down for our second date. Through carefully crafted questions, I managed to deduce the truth. This really was our second date. She saw relief and happiness in me, but interpreted that as dating jitters. I was just excited to realize that the entity wasn't necessarily eating whole portions of my life.

The symptoms, as I was beginning to understand them, were more like the consequences of a shattered soul. The creature had wounded me, broken me into pieces. Perhaps I was to live my life out of order, but at least I would actually get to live it. And so it went for a few years, from my perspective. While minor changes in politics or geography would happen daily, major shifts in my mental location only happened every couple of months. When I found myself in a new place and time in my life, I just shut up and listened, making sure to get the lay of the land before doing anything to avoid making mistakes. On the farthest flung leap yet, I met my six-year-old grandson, and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

He said, writer, I told him that was a fine idea. Then, I was back in month two of my relationship with Mar, and I had the best night with her on the riverfront. When I say the best, I mean the best. Knowing how special she would become to me, I asked her to move in. I got to live through what I'd missed the first go-around, and I came to understand that I was never mentally absent. I would always be there, eventually. When we were moving her boxes in,

she stopped for a moment and said she marveled at my great love, as if I'd known her for a lifetime and never once doubted she was the one. That was the first time I'd truly laughed freely and hold. wholeheartedly since the entity had wounded me. She was right about my love for her, but for exactly the reason she'd considered a silly romantic analogy. I had known her my whole life, and I'd come to terms with my situation and found peace with it. It wasn't so bad to have sneak peeks at all the best parts ahead. But of course I wouldn't be writing this if it hadn't gotten worse. The entity was still with me. It had not wounded me, and departed like I'd wanted to believe. The closest

I can describe my growing understanding was that the creature was burrowing deeper into my psyche, fracturing it into smaller pieces. Instead of months between major shifts, I began having only weeks. Once I noticed that trend, I feared my ultimate fate

would be to jump between times in my life, heartbeat by heartbeat, forever confused, forever lost. Only an instant in each time meant I would never be able to speak with anyone else, never be able to hold a conversation, never express or receive love. As the true depth of that fear came upon me, I sat in an older version of myself and watched

the snow falling outside. That was the one constant in my life. The weather didn't care who I was or what pains I had to face. Nature was always there. The falling snow was always like a little hook that kept me in a place. The pure emotional peace it brought was like a panacea on my mental wounds, and I'd never yet shifted while watching the pattern of falling white, and thinking of the times I'd gone sledding, or built a snow fort as a child. A teenager touched my arm. Grandpa? A? He'd startled me out of my thoughts, so I was less careful than usual. Who are you? He half grinned, as if not sure whether I was joking. Handing me a stack of papers, he said. It's my first attempt at a novel. Would you read it and tell me

what you think? Ah, of course. Pursuing that dream of being a writer, I see. He burned bright red, trying to, anyway. All right, run off. I'll read this right now. The words were blurry and, annoyed. I looked for glasses I probably had for reading. Being old was terrible, and I wanted to leap back into a younger year, but not before I read his book. I found my glasses in a sweater pocket and began leafing through. Mar puttered in and out of the living room, still beautiful, but I had to focus. I didn't know how much time I would have there. It seemed that we had relatives over. Was it Christmas? A pair of adults and a couple of kids I didn't recognize tromped through the hallway, and I saw my son, now an adult, walk by with his wife on the way out

the door. As a group, the extended family began sledding outside. Finally, I finished reading the story, and I called out for my grandson. He rushed down the stairs and into the living room. How was it? Well, it's terrible, I told him truthfully, but it's terrible for all the right reasons. You're still a young man, so your characters behave like young people, but the structure of the story itself is very solid. I paused. I didn't expect it to turn out to be a horror story. He nodded. It's a reflection of the times. Expectations for the future are dismal, not hopeful like they used to be. You're far too young to be aware like that, I told him.

An idea occurred to me. If you're into horror, do you know anything about strange creatures? Sure, I read everything I can. I love it. Wharily, I scanned the entrances to the living room. Everyone was busy outside. For the first time, I opened up to someone in my life about what I was experiencing. In hush tones, I told him about my fragmented consciousness. For a teenager, he took it well.

You're serious? Yes. He dawned the determined look of a grown man accepting a quest. I'll look into it. See what I can find out. You should start writing down everything you experience. Build some data. Maybe we can map your psychic wound.

Wow. Sounds like a plan. I was surprised. That made sense. and I hadn't expected him to have a serious response. But how will I get all the notes in one place? Let's come up with somewhere for you to leave them, he said, frowning with thought. Then I'll get them, and we can trace the path you're taking through your own life,

see if there's a pattern. For the first time since the situation had gotten worse, I felt hope again. How about under the stairs? Nobody ever goes under there. Sure. He turned and left the living room. I peered after him. I heard him banging around near the stairs. Finally he returned with a box, laid it on the carpet, and opened it to reveal a bursting stack of papers.

He exclaimed, Holy crap! But of course, being a teenager, he didn't really say crap. Taken aback, I blinked rapidly, forgiving his cussing because of the shock. Did I write those? He looked up at me with wonder. Yeah, or you will.

You still have to write them and put them under the stairs. after this. He gazed back down at the papers, then covered the box. So you probably shouldn't see what they say. That could get weird. That much I understood. Right. He gulped. There are like 50 boxes under there, all filled up like this. Deciphering these will take a very long time. His tone dropped to deadly seriousness. But I will save you, Grandpa, because I don't think anyone else can. tears flowed down my cheeks then and I couldn't help but sob once or twice. I hadn't realized how lonely I'd become in my shifting prison of awareness until I finally had someone who understood.

Thank you. Thank you so much. And then I was young again and at work on a random Tuesday. Once the sadness and relief faded, anger and determination replaced them. After I finished my work, I grabbed some paper and began writing. While the weeks shifted around me, while those weeks became days, and then hours, I wrote every single spare moment about when and where I thought I was. I put them under the stairs out of order. My first box was actually the 30th, and my last box was the first. Once I had over 50 boxes written from my perspective, and once my shifting became a matter of minutes, I knew it was up to my grandson to take it from there.

I put my head down and stopped looking. I couldn't stand the wrong. river of changing awareness any longer. Names and places and dates and jobs and colors and people were all wrong and different. I'd never been older. I sat watching the snowfall, a man of at least 30, whom I vaguely recognized entered the room. Come on, I think I finally figured it out. I was so frail that moving was painful. Are you him?

Are you my grandson? Yes. He took me to a room filled with strange equipment and sat me in a rubber chair facing a large mirror twice the height of a man. The pattern finally revealed itself. How long have you worked on this? I asked him aghast. Tell me you didn't miss your life like I'm missing mine. His expression was both stone cold and furiously resolute. It'll be worth it. He brought two thin metal rods close to my arm and then nodded at the mirror. Look, this shock is carefully calibrated. The electric zap from his device was startling, but not painful.

In the mirror, I saw a rapid, arcing, light silhouette appear above my head and shoulder. The electricity moved through the creature like a wave, briefly revealing the terrible nature of what was happening to me. A bulging, leech-like mouth was wrapped around the back of my head, coming down to my eyebrows and touching each ear, and its slug-like body ran over my shoulder and into my very soul. It was a parasite, and it was feeding on my mind. My now adult grandson held my hand as I took in the horror.

After a moment, he asked, Removing it is going to hurt very badly. Are you up for this? Fearful, I asked. Is Mar here? His face softened. No, not for a few years now. I could tell from his reaction what had happened,

but I didn't want it to be true. How? We have this conversation a lot, he responded. Are you sure you want to know? It never makes you feel better. tears brimmed in my eyes. Then I don't care if it hurts, or if I die, I don't want to stay in a time where she's not alive.

He made a sympathetic noise of understanding, and then returned to his machines to hook several wires, diodes, and other bits of technology to my limbs and forehead. While he did so, he talked. I've worked for two decades to figure this out, and I've had a ton of help from other researchers of the occult. This parasite doesn't technically exist in our plane. It's one of the lesser spons of Zen,

and it feeds on the plexus of mind, soul, and quantum consciousness, reality. When details like names and colors of objects changed, you weren't going crazy. The web of your existence was merely losing strands as the creature ate its way through you. I didn't fully understand. I looked up in confusion as he placed a circle of electronics like, a crown on my head, an exact line with where the parasite's mouth had ringed me. What's zen? He paused his work and grew pale. I forgot that you wouldn't know. You're lucky, believe me. After a deep breath, he began moving again and placed his fingers near a few switches.

Ready? This is carefully tuned to make your nervous system extremely unappetizing to the parasite, but it's basically electroshock therapy. I could still see Mars smile, even though she was dead, I'd just been with her moments ago. Do it. The click of a switch echoed in my ears, and I almost laughed at how mild the electricity was. It didn't feel like anything, at least at first. Then I saw the mirror shaking, and my body within that image convulsing. Oh, no, it did hurt. Nothing had ever been more painful. It was just so excruciating that my mind hadn't been able to immediately process it. As my vision shook and the fire burned in every nerve in my body, I could see the reflected trembling light silhouette of the parasite on my head, as it writhed in agony

equal to mine. It had claws, six clawed lizard-like limbs under its leech-like body, and it cut into me in an attempt to stay latched on. The electricity made my memories flare. Mars' smile was foremost, lit brightly in front of a warm fire as the snow fell past the window behind her. The edges of that memory began lighting up, and I realized that my life was one continuous stretch of experience. It was only the awareness of it that had been fragmented by that feasting evil on my back. I'd never managed to be there for the birth of my son. I'd jumped around it a dozen times, but never actually lived it. For the first time, I got to hold Mar's hand and be there for her. No, no. That moment had shifted seemingly.

into holding her hand as she lay in a hospital bed for a very different reason. Not this. God, why? It was so merciless to make me remember this. I broke down in tears as nurses rushed into the room. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to experience it. I'd seen all the good parts, but I hadn't wanted the worst part, the inevitable end that all would one day face. It wasn't worth it. It was tainted. All that joy was given back ten thousandfold as pain. The fire in my body and in my brain surged to sheer white torture, and I screamed. My scream faded into a surprised shout as the machines in electricity and chair faded away. Snow was no longer falling around my life.

I was out in the woods on a bright summer day. Oh God! I turned to see the creature approaching me. It was the same absence of meaning, the same blank on reality. It crept forward, just like before. But this time, it hissed and turned away. I stood astounded at being young again and freed from the parasite. My grandson had actually done it.

He'd made me an unappetizing meal, so the predator of mind and soul had moved on in search of a different snack. I returned home in a daze, and while I was sitting there processing all that had happened, the phone rang. I looked at it in awe and sadness. I knew who it was. it was Marjorie, calling for the first time for some trivial reason she'd admit thirty years later was made up just to talk to me.

But all I could see was her lying in that hospital bed dying. It was going to end an unspeakable pain and loneliness. I would become an old man, left to sit by myself in an empty house, his soulmate gone long before him. At the end of it all, the only thing I would have left, sitting and watching the falling snow. But now, thanks to my soul, grandson I would also have my memories. It would be a wild ride, no matter how it ended.

On a sudden impulse I picked up the phone. With a smile I asked, Hey, who's this? Even though I already knew. My great grandpa's story is something that still haunts me to this day. He was a young man of 23 when he was drafted into World War II in 1943, and now, at the astonishing age of 103, He shared with me an experience that he claimed was the most terrifying of his life. It was a tale so chilling that even the memory of it gave him nightmares. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked him if the story involved the vicious Japanese soldiers of that time. But he shook his head and told me it was something else entirely, something that no one

ever believed. He had been stationed in the Philippines in 1943, tasked with holding off the Japanese forces along with his comrades. One fateful day, he and his friend Samuel got separated from their platoon while navigating a forest within the mountainous region. The exact province eluded my great grandpa's memory, but he remembered the dense forests and scattered villages that surrounded them. As they called out for their comrades, they ventured deeper into the wilderness until they reached the forest's end. I asked him why they didn't simply radio their platoon for help. He explained that they tried, but for some inexplicable reason, their communications were scrambled and unintelligible,

a fact that unsettled both him and Samuel. Still, they continued, mindful of the possibility of encountering Japanese soldiers. Emerging from the forest, they noticed that the sun was about to set, prompting my great-grandpa to suggest setting up camp. Samuel agreed, and as they prepared, they noticed a small wooden hut in the distance. Curiosity led them to approach the mysterious structure. They knocked on the door, but there was no sign of anyone inside, only scattered clothes strewn about the floor. My great-grandpa suggested that the inhabitants might have fled in a panic,

a theory Samuel concurred with. They decided to make camp inside the hut, but something felt off. As they ate dinner, Samuel proposed taking shifts to keep. watch throughout the night, wary of the potential danger they could face. While my great-grandpa slept, Samuel abruptly woke him up, his voice trembling with fear. He claimed to have seen movement outside, and my great-grandpa grabbed his rifle, demanding to know what he had spotted. Samuel handed him binoculars and pointed towards a field 300 yards away. At first, my great-grandpa saw nothing, but then he noticed a figure moving

in the darkness. As he focused his binoculars, he realized it was just a wild boar, and he reassured Samuel. However, their peace was short-lived. The oil lamp inside the hut began to flicker and went out. My great-grandpa went to relight it, but despite the abundance of oil, it repeatedly extinguished. Samuel started feeling uneasy about the situation, and they couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. Suddenly, the wild boar disappeared into thin air, leaving them both puzzled. A loud thud from above startled them, as if something had landed on the hut's roof. My great-grandpa and Samuel grabbed their rifles, sensing impending danger. Samuel urged them to leave immediately, and as they gathered their belongings and exited the cabin, my great-grandpa turned his

light toward the roof. What he saw still haunts him to this day, a grotesque. A grotesque, and malevolent creature perched there. It had a humanoid appearance, with enormous wings resembling a mix of bats and hawks, blood-red eyes that glowed in the dark, jet-black skin, wild unkempt hair, and enormous fangs that protruded from its closed mouth. Terrified, my great-grandpa fired his rifle at the creature, and Samuel did the same. To their astonishment, the creature remained unfazed, its gaze fixed upon them. Panic set in, and they started screaming as they fled for their lives, running blindly through the night. Miraculously, the creature did not pursue them, and they eventually stumbled upon a small village

where they found refuge. The locals explained that what had attacked them was known as an ass-wang, a common supernatural entity in the countryside. They considered my great-grandpa and Samuel fortunate to have survived such an encounter. reunited with their platoon after a few days, they shared their harrowing tale, but only a few believed them. Most assumed they had been intoxicated and encountered enemy fire, attributing Samuel's neck wound to that. After the war ended, they returned home, haunted by the traumatic encounter. Samuel, however, passed away at the age of 80 due to a stroke. The story sent shivers down my spine,

and I spent hours researching Aswongs to learn more about. these terrifying creatures. It's a tale that has left an indelible mark on me, leaving me with more questions than answers about the unknown horrors that my great-grandpa and Samuel face that night. As I loaded up my motorbike with the essentials for my solo hunting trip, the crisp air of Ross River nipped at my skin, reminding me that summer in Yukon was nothing but a fleeting guest. I'm Kevin, just a regular guy with a taste for the wilderness and a knack for hunting. Ross River, my little corner of the world, is a place where the untamed beauty of Canada's wilderness meets the quiet life of a small community. It's the kind of place where everyone

knows everyone, and the land feels like an extension of your own backyard. The plan was simple. Head out to a secluded spot between Sheldon Lake and McQuestan, meet up with a couple of pals from work the next day, and spend three days hunting moose before returning to the humdrum of everyday life. Seemed like the perfect getaway, but as I revved up my bike and set off on the North Canole Road, a sense of unease settled in my gut. It was a feeling I couldn't shake off, like a shadow clinging to my back. The weather was turning, and not for the better. The temperature had dropped noticeably since I left home, and the sky was a brooding canvas of gray, ready to spill its contents at any moment. I've always been the kind who respects nature's moods, but

But on that day, it felt more ominous than ever. The gentle onset of rain soon turned into a steady downpour, forcing me to pull over and layer up. Wet and cold, I continued my journey, the discomfort a small price for the anticipation of the hunt. There's something about the wilderness that speaks to me, something raw and untamed. As I rode, the vast expanse of the Yukon enveloped me, its wild beauty a sharp contrast to the growing unease in my mind. was a strange day. Even the birds seemed to sense it. Their songs muted and distant.

By the time I reached the trailer at Dewhurst Creek, dusk was creeping in, uninvited. Soaked through, I shivered as I lit a fire, the flames casting eerie shadows against the walls. Hunger was the last thing on my mind, but I forced down a quick meal before exhaustion claimed me. I remember thinking, as I drifted off to sleep, that tomorrow would be a new day, clear skies, and hopefully a successful hunt. But the wilderness has its own plans, and sometimes they don't align with ours. As dawn broke, I was greeted by a clear sky,

the rain having retreated as abruptly as it had arrived. Eager to make the most of the day, I dressed quickly, loaded my firearm, and hopped back on my bike. The air was fresh, and the world seemed renewed, washed clean by the night's downpour. I rode at a leisurely pace, the engines hum a comforting companion.

The landscape unfolded before me, a tapestry of greens and browns, punctuated by the rugged mountains in the distance. It was picturesque, serene, and for a moment I let myself get lost in it, the earlier unease momentarily forgotten. But life, I've learned, is full of unexpected turns, and what happened next was as unexpected as it gets.

The morning was unfolding like any hunter's run. dream. The air was crisp and clean, the kind that fills your lungs with a refreshing chill. I was in my element, the wilderness of Yukon embracing me in its vast, untouched splendor. There's a unique kind of silence out here, the kind that makes you feel both insignificant and at one with the world. I've always found comfort in this solitude, a piece that the bustling streets of Ross River couldn't offer. As I navigated the rugged terrain on my bike, scouting for signs of moose, the sun began to cast its early light, painting the mountains in hues of gold and amber. It was during one of those moments, the kind when you feel like you're

the only soul for miles, that I saw it. At first glance, it looked like an airplane, a silhouette against the brightening sky, but something was off. It was too low, too quiet. I saw a squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. It was large, about the size of a school bus, and it moved with a purposeful grace, slicing through the air without a sound. It seemed to flicker, like it was struggling to stay in this world. I remember feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. This was no plane. It was something else, something otherworldly, a UFO, perhaps. The thought should have scared me, should have sent me racing back to Ross River. But it didn't. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm, as if whatever was out there in the sky was telling me that everything was all right. I instinctively reached for my camera, a habit I've developed over the years to capture the raw beauty of Yukon. But as my fingers grazed the lens, that same calming sensation washed over me again. It whispered to me, in a way that words can't describe, that I didn't need to take a picture, that this moment was meant for my

eyes only. And just like that, the object was gone, vanishing behind a conical hill, leaving me alone with the rising sun and a heart full of wonder. I stood there for a while, trying to make sense of what I'd just witnessed. Was it real? A trick of the light, or something more. As I pondered, a sudden noise snapped me back to reality. It was a sharp metallic clang, like the sound of a heavy trunk slamming shut. It came from, just around the bend in the road, and my hunter's instinct kicked in. Quietly I walked towards the sound, my senses on high alert. Rounding the corner, the sight that greeted me was something straight out of a science fiction novel. There, standing in the tall grass, were two figures.

They were short, maybe five feet tall, clad in blue jumpsuits that hugged their slender frames. But it was their heads that caught my attention. They weren't human. They were insect-like, with pointed gray faces and enormous eyes that seemed to pierce through me. For a moment, time stood still. Then one of them raised a hand, holding what looked like a flashlight, a bright flash enveloped me, and the world went black. In that instant, I felt a sense of detachment, as if my very being pulled away from my body, stretching towards the sky.

And then, nothing. In the days that followed that inexplicable encounter on the North Canole Road, my mind was a tumultuous river of confusion and fragmented memories. I found myself back at the trailer, the events between seeing those insect-like beings and waking up on the roadside lost in a fog of uncertainty. The shadows of the trees told a story of missing time, hours unaccounted for,

and the sun was already beginning its descent. I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was fatigue, maybe a trick of the mind, but deep down, I knew something extraordinary had happened. The wilderness had always been my place of clarity, but now it felt like a labyrinth of unanswered questions.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, snippets of memories began to surface like debris after a storm. They came in flashes, unexpected and disorienting. I remembered the sensation of being scrutinized by those gray beings, their large, unblinking eyes examining me with an intelligence. that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. I recalled the interior of what I could only describe as their craft, a place that defied the laws of physics as I knew them.

There were glimpses of being led through corridors that seemed to shift and change, and the feeling of being both a specimen and a guest. The most vivid memory was standing before a window, or what I thought was a window, gazing out at the vastness of space. There were stars, gallowsy, and celestial bodies I couldn't name, all spread out in an infinite canvas. A gray being, its presence somehow comforting and authoritative, communicated to me, not in words but in thoughts, showing me visions of Earth from afar, a tiny, fragile orb in the void.

They told me I would forget that it was necessary, and for a long time I did, but the mind has a way of holding onto truths, no matter how deep we bury them, I found myself drawn to stories of others who had experienced similar encounters, tales that spanned across cultures and decades. It became clear that what I experienced was not unique, that these beings, these insectoids, had been visiting us for longer than we could fathom. The more I delved into the world of U.Fology,

the more I realized how complex and layered the phenomenon was. It wasn't just about lights in the sky or mysterious crafts. It was about a connection, however elusive, with something beyond our understanding. But understanding was what I craved. I needed to make sense of what happened to me, to know that I wasn't losing my grip on reality. I poured over books, interviewed experts, and even tried reaching out to other experiencers. Each story added a piece to the puzzle, yet the complete picture remained elusive. I wrestled with questions that had no answers.

why me? What did they want? Were they observers, guardians, or something else entirely? The more I searched, the more I realized that some truths might be beyond our grasp. As time passed, I learned to live with the mystery, to accept that some things are meant to be experienced, not explained. But the longing for understanding, the need to connect the dots, never really left me. It became a part of who I was, a silent companion on my journey through life. Months turned into years since that surreal morning on the North Canole Road, but the encounter never faded from my mind. It was like a shadow, always there, always lurking in the background of my thoughts. I had come to terms with the fact that I might never fully understand what happened to me,

but that didn't stop me from seeking answers. I spent countless hours researching, diving deep into the world of UFology. I found stories from all corners of the globe, each as bewildering and varied as my own. From the dense forests of Yukon to the sprawling deserts of the American Southwest, people had encountered beings that defied explanation. The mantis-like creatures I had seen were just one part of a much larger, more complex phenomenon. These stories, these encounters, they weren't just, isolated incidents, they were part of a tapestry that stretched back through history. From ancient

folklore to modern day sightings, the narrative remained consistent, beings from the stars visiting our little blue planet. Some encounters were benign, others terrifying, but all were transformative in their own way. I couldn't help but wonder about the purpose of these visits. Were they simply observing us, like scientists studying a lesser-known species, or was there a greater agenda at play, something beyond our comprehension? The theories were as varied as the encounters themselves. Some spoke of intergalactic diplomacy, others of sinister experiments. The truth, it seemed, was as elusive as the beings themselves. Despite the myriad of stories and theories, one thing became clear. These encounters had a profound impact on those who experienced them.

Like me, they struggled to reconcile their experiences with the reality they had known. Their lives were forever changed, marked by a sense of otherness, a connection to something greater than themselves. In my quest for answers, I came across other experiencers. We shared our stories, our theories, and our frustrations. In each other, we found a sense of camaraderie, a mutual understanding that was hard to come by in the outside world. We were a community bound by our experiences, seekers on a journey for truth. But the truth, I learned, was a tricky thing. The more I searched, the more I realized that some mysteries might never be solved. Perhaps that was the point, not to find answers,

but to keep seeking, to keep questioning. Our encounters had opened our minds to possibilities we had never imagined. And maybe that was the real gift. As I sat on the porch of my cabin in Ross River, looking up at the star-filled sky, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. The universe was vast and mysterious, full of wonders we had yet to discover. My encounter with the unknown had been a small glimpse into that vastness, a reminder of how little we truly understand. The questions remained, but so did the sense of wonder. The universe was a puzzle. and we were all pieces, trying to find our place in the grand scheme of things. My encounter with the mantis-like beings was a part of my journey,

a chapter in a story that was still being written. As the night deepened and the stars shone brighter, I realized that some mysteries were meant to be embraced, not solved. And in that embrace, there was a kind of peace, a recognition that we are all part of something much larger than ourselves. The enigma of my encounter would always be with me, but so would the sense of wonder, the unending quest for understanding in a universe full of mysteries. I've always believed that some nights are just different, you know,

like they have this weird energy that makes you do things you wouldn't normally consider. That Friday night was one of those. I'm Sullivan, by the way, the guy with a quarter Native American blood and an uncomfortable knack for feeling when things are about to get weird. Alex and Ted, my two best friends since middle school, were with me, aimlessly driving around the streets of our small New Jersey town. Ted, the Joker of our trio, was behind the wheel of his beat-up Ford, and Alex, who could best be described as the brains of our operation, road shotgun.

I was lounging in the back seat, my head resting against the window, watching streetlights flicker by. Guys, what if we did something different tonight? Alex suddenly said, breaking the silence. Like what? Drive to another town and find a new diner? Ted joked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. No, something more adventurous.

What about that lake between central and north Jersey? The one people say is haunted or something? Alex proposed, his eyes lighting up. Ted's grin widened. Haunted, you say? Now we're talking. I sat up straighter. You mean the lake near the Pine Barrens,

the one supposedly built over an Indian burial ground, I added, a bit uneasy. My grandma used to tell me stories about, respecting such places. Yeah, exactly that one, Alex confirmed. I hesitated. Something about the idea seemed off, but the thrill of adventure and the excitement in my friend's eyes were too contagious to resist. All right, let's do it, I finally agreed, trying to shake off my apprehension. We drove to the lake, the car filled with a mix of excitement and nervous energy. The pine barons at night were like something out of an eerie movie, with tall, shadowy trees and an unsettling stillness.

As we reached the trailhead, the last rays of the sun were disappearing, casting a golden glow on the dense foliage around us. We began our hike towards the lake, the sounds of nature are only company. I couldn't help but feel a deep connection to the land, a reminder of my heritage. Ted and Alex were in high spirits, laughing and joking as we walked, but I couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. It was like the forest was watching us, aware of our every step. We talked about school, the latest video games and girls, trying to keep the mood light. Yet the deeper we ventured, the more I felt a strange energy in the air. It was as if the forest

had a secret, one that it wasn't keen on sharing with outsiders like us. And then, Ted, in his typical fashion to lighten the mood, pulled up some creepy goat man sounds on his phone. This will make things more interesting. He chuckled, playing the eerie noises. I frowned, feeling a chill run down my spine. We should be respectful, you know. This is native land, I warned, half joking, half serious. Ted laughed it off, but I couldn't help but feel that we were not alone. Little did we know, our light-hearted adventure was about to take a turn into something much darker and more inexplicable than any of us could have imagined. As we walked deeper into the pine barons, the playful banter between Ted and Alex continued, but I couldn't shake off a

growing sense of unease. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, and the woods around us were bathed in twilight. The beauty of the setting was undeniable, but so was the eerie feeling that we weren't alone. I've heard stories about this place, I said. My voice a bit more serious than intended. They say the spirits of the land aren't too fond of visitors. Alex rolled his eyes. Sullivan, you and your ghost stories, he said with a laugh. Ted, however, seemed intrigued. What kind of spirits? he asked, his eyes scanning the darkening woods. Old ones. Native American legends speak of spirits that protect these lands, I explained, feeling a strange responsibility to share my heritage's lore. They say some can be vengeful.

But Ted, ever the prankster, wasn't going to let the opportunity pass to add some spookiness to our adventure. He played those goat man sounds from his phone again, the eerie cries echoing unnaturally in the dense forest. I felt a shiver run down my spine. Dude, cut it out, I said, half joking, half serious. You might attract something we don't want to meet. Ted laughed, but his laughter was cut short. We all stopped in our tracks. There behind us was a figure. It was distant, barely visible in the fading light, but unmistakably there.

What is that? Alex whispered, his usual skepticism replaced by fear. I squinted trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The figure was tall, too tall to be human, and unnaturally thin. It stood motionless, watching us. It's probably just a tree or something, Ted said, but his voice lacked conviction. We hesitated, then continued walking, picking up our pace. I glanced back and my heart skipped a beat. The figure was following us, matching our speed with an eerie grace. It's following us, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Don't be ridiculous, Alex said, but I could hear the fear in his voice.

We walked faster, the jokes and laughter now replaced by tense silence. Every time I looked back, the figure was there, always the, same distance behind us. Guys, what if it's a, I started to say, but I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence. The word Skinwalker lingered in my mind, unspoken. We reached a clearing and for a moment we thought we had lost it, but then there it was, at the edge of the woods, watching us with its unnerving stillness. Run, I said, and we did.

We ran as fast as we could, not daring to look back. The sounds of our heavy breathing and the pounding of our feet on the trail were the only things we could hear. But even as we ran, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were not running from something, but towards something even more terrifying. The shadows of the pine barren seemed to close in around us, and I knew our night was far from over. We didn't stop running until we reached a part of the trail closer to the main road, where the sounds of distant cars brought a small sense of relief.

panting, we leaned on our knees, trying to catch our breaths. The eerie silence of the woods was now replaced by the distant hum of traffic. We lost it, right? Alex panted, looking back towards the dense trees. I wanted to believe we did, but something deep inside me said otherwise. I'm not sure, I admitted, my voice shaky. That thing. It wasn't normal. Ted, who was usually the bravest among us, looked genuinely. I was genuinely scared.

What was that, Sullivan? You know about this stuff. Tell us it was just a bear or something. I wished I could. I wished I could explain it away as a trick of the light or an animal. But the image of that tall, slender figure silently trailing us was burned into my mind. I don't know, I whispered. But we should keep moving.

We resumed our walk, but now with a heightened sense of vigilance. Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig made us jump. The playful adventure had turned into a nightmare, and I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. As we approached an open area near the road, I thought we were safe. But when I turned around to check once more, my heart sank. It was there, barely a hundred feet behind us. It had followed us, silent and relentless. It's still there, I said, my voice barely audible.

Ted and Alex turned, and I saw their faces drain of color. The creature was closer now, and in the dim light of the road, we could see it more clearly. It was humanoid but grotesquely thin, its skin pale and stretched over its bones. It had no face, just a blank expanse of skin where features should have been. We need to get out of here, Ted said, and we started running again, fueled by pure fear. We sprinted down the trail, the creature's silent pursuit haunting every step. As we neared the parking area, our hopes were dashed. The lot was empty except for Ted's car.

It was a stark reminder that we were alone out here. Quick, get in the car! Ted yelled, fumbling for his keys. We piled into the car, slamming the doors shut and locking them. Ted started the engine and floored it, the tires screeching as we sped away from the trail. As we drove, I looked back through the rear window, half expecting to see the creature following us. but there was nothing, just the dark, empty road. None of us spoke as we drove.

The radio, usually blaring our favorite songs, was now silent. We were all processing the terror we had just experienced. When we finally reached my house, we sat in the car for a moment, the safety of familiar surroundings doing little to ease our shaken nerves. That thing, what was it? Alex finally broke the silence. I shook my head, unable to provide an answer. I don't know, I said, but I have a feeling this isn't the last we've seen of it.

Little did I know how right I would be. The next day was eerie in its normalcy. The sun shone brightly, and birds chirped as if last night's horrors were just a figment of our imagination. I couldn't shake off the events, though. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat. Every noise made me jump. While walking my dogs, a sense of dread washed over me. as a stray cat emerged from the woods, its eyes fixed on me.

Grandma's stories echoed in my head about skin walkers, creatures from Native American lore that could mimic any animal. I hurried back inside, my heart racing. Was this paranoia or had last night's terror followed me home? Later that day, Ted called. Hey, can I come over? I don't want to be alone, he said, his voice trembling. Sure, man, I'll pick you up.

I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. But when I pulled up to Ted's house, something was off. He climbed into the car, his face pale, his eyes darting around nervously. Ted, you okay? I asked as we drove back to my place. He was silent for a moment before he spoke. Sullivan, I need to tell you something. When we got back to your house last night, I saw it, that thing.

It was outside. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Outside my house, I managed to ask. My voice barely above a whisper. Ted nodded. I didn't want to scare you, but I think... I think it's following us. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

The creature had followed us out of the pine barons. But why? And what did it want? We spent the evening trying to distract ourselves with video games, but our hearts weren't in it. Every creek of the house, every rustle of the wind outside, sent waves of fear through us. That night, lying in bed, I couldn't sleep.

The shadows in my room seemed to move, and every small sound was magnified. I kept picturing that faceless creature lurking just beyond my window. The following days were a blur of anxiety and fear. Ted and I tried to act normal, but the shared experience had changed us. We jumped at shadows, avoided the woods, and barely spoke of what happened. A week later, Alex called a meeting at his house.

We need to talk about what happened, he said, his usual skepticism gone. We sat in his living room, the three of us, a sense of solemnity hanging in the air. Do you think it was a skinwalker, Alex asked, looking directly at me. I sighed. I don't know. But whatever it was, it's not something we should take lightly. We can't just pretend it didn't happen, Ted added, his voice shaky. We agreed to do some research, to try and understand what we had encountered.

But deep down, I knew some mysteries were better left unsolved. The Pine Barons had revealed a glimpse of something ancient and terrifying, a reminder that some legends are rooted in truth. And as we delve deeper into the lore, trying to find answers, I couldn't shake off the feeling that the creature was still out there, watching, waiting. The shadows of the Pine Barons had followed us, and our lives would never be the same again. I've seen my fair share of mysteries in my time, but nothing quite like the enigma that is the Round Valley Reservoir. They call it the Bermuda Triangle of New Jersey, and the more I delved into its history, the more I understood why.

It wasn't just a catchy nickname. It was a warning. It started back in 71, with Thomas Trimblit and his brother-in-law, Christopher. Just a couple of guys out fishing on a clear day. They were in a 12-foot aluminum boat, the kind that's as common as cattails around these parts. No one thought much of it until they didn't come home. The search party found their capsized boat, but of Thomas and Christopher, there was no sign. Not then, not ever.

it was as if the reservoir had swallowed them whole. I remember talking to one of the old timers at the local diner about it. He had this way of stirring his coffee, slow, deliberate. It's not just the drowning that gets you, he said, his voice a low rumble. It's the not-knowing, the unanswered questions that haunt you. And haunt they did. As years past, the reservoir claimed more victims. Craig Steer and Andrew Fenella vanished while walking along the northern shoreline.

One moment they were there, the next, just gone. No screams, no struggle, nothing. It was as if they'd stepped into another world. The locals started to talk. You'd hear whispers at the grocery store, see the fear in people's eyes at the gas station. It wasn't just a series of tragic accidents. Something more sinister was at play. It's funny how a place can change in the eyes of those who live there.

I remember when the reservoir was a spot for family picnics and lazy fishing days, but after these disappearances, it morphed into something else. A mystery, a place of unease. I could feel it every time I drove past, a chill that wasn't just from the breeze off the water. But it wasn't just the disappearances that got to me. It was the lack of closure. Take Jeffrey Moore and take Jeffrey Moore and.

and Raymond Barr, for example. Their boat capsized on a day as calm as any. Ray was rescued, but Jeff, he was just gone, vanished into thin air. I talked to Ray once, and the guilt in his eyes was something I won't forget. We were just fishing, he kept saying, as if he was trying to convince himself,

it was all just a normal day. The more I dug into these stories, the more I realized how deep the fear ran. It wasn't just the reservoirs, It was the unknown, the unexplained, that had everyone on edge. I'd sit at the bar and listen to the theories, curses, vortexes, even alien abductions. Each tale was wilder than the last, but in their voices I heard something real, fear. As I looked out over the still waters of the Round Valley Reservoir, I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding.

This wasn't just a body of water. It was a mystery, a keeper of secrets, and I knew, deep down, that some secrets are never meant to be uncovered. The Round Valley Reservoir had a way of keeping its secrets. As the years passed, each disappearance seemed to deepen the mystery, like layers of silt settling on a sunken object, obscuring it from view. 1989 brought a new chapter to this unsettling saga with the disappearance of John Kubu and Albert Lawson. They went out fishing, much like those before them, and only one came back, but not in the way anyone hoped.

Lawson's body was recovered years later, but John. John was just another question mark in the reservoir's murky depths. I remember when the news broke about Lawson's body being found. It was a cold morning in 93. the kind that bites at your cheeks and numbs your fingers. I was at the station, nursing a cup of coffee that did little to warm me. The discovery brought a grim sort of closure, but it was like closing a book when half the pages were still missing. The case of Jeffrey Moore and Raymond Barr was a different kind of puzzle. Their boat capsized on a day that couldn't have been more perfect,

clear skies, calm waters. Ray was saved, but Jeff, it was as if the reservoir had just reached up and plucked him from the surface. No trace, no clue, nothing. The locals couldn't make heads or tails of it. If a man could disappear on a day like that, what did it say about the rest of us? The authorities did what they could. They brought in a submersible in 77, state-of-the-art at the time. Andre Galler piloted it, a man who'd worked with the famed Jacques Cousteau. If anyone could find answers at the bottom of that reservoir, it was him. But after a week of searching, the waters gave up nothing. It was like looking for ghosts. State troopers trained in underwater recovery, took up the

torch in the years that followed. They scoured the depths, combed through every inch they could reach, but the reservoir was stingy with its secrets. I spoke to one of the divers once, over a beer. His eyes had that far-off look of a man who'd seen too much and found too little. It's like the water just swallows them whole, he said, a hint of bewilderment in his voice. In 2006, the community rallied again, armed with another state-of-the-art submersible. Hope has a way of hanging on, even in the face of relentless uncertainty. But again, the reservoir remained silent, its depths impenetrable, its secrets, locked away. I'd often drive by the reservoir, my thoughts as turbulent as the waters were calm.

The place had a way of getting under your skin, of making you question the line between the natural and the supernatural. In the diner, in the bars, the theories flew like sparks from a fire, curses, hidden underwater chasms, even a submerged ghost town. But beneath all the speculation and fear, a sad truth lingered, people had vanished. leaving behind families, friends, and a community grappling with the unknown. As I gazed out over the still water, I couldn't shake the feeling that some mysteries are too deep, too dark, to ever see the light of day. And in those depths, the truth about the Round Valley Reservoir lay waiting, silent, and inscrutable. There's a strange comfort in knowing,

even when what you learn is grim. The Round Valley Reservoir, with its penchant for for keeping its secrets, finally yielded some answers, albeit few and far between. Like a puzzle slowly piecing together, each recovery brought a fragment of truth, but the full picture remained elusive. In 2013, the reservoir gave up one of its long-held secrets. Kenneth Harton, a 56-year-old fisherman, was found in 70 feet of water. The state police's marine unit had picked up an unusual signal, an anomaly that stood out like a sore thumb in the otherwise mundane readings of the lakebed. Divers were dispatched, and there, in the depths, they found him.

The community was a buzz with the news, a mix of relief and renewed anxiety. If Harton could be found after all these years, who else might still be down there? I remember standing on the shore the day they brought Harton up. The sky was a steel gray, the kind that presses down on you. heavy with unshed rain. There was a solemnity in the air, a quiet acknowledgement of the man's fate finally coming to light. It was closure, yes, but it was also a stark reminder of all those still missing, their stories untold, their fates unknown. The discovery of Harton prompted fresh talks, theories, and speculations. Some clung to logical explanations. The reservoir's unique geography

creating sudden lethal weather conditions. The frigid waters, slowing decomposition, keeping bodies hidden in its depths. It made sense, in a cold, scientific way, but it lacked the finality, the absolute answers we all craved. The more outlandish theories continued to circulate, too. Curses, supernatural forces,

even extraterrestrial intervention were discussed in hushed tones in the corners of diners and bars. It was easier for some to believe in the fantastical than to confront the harsh randomness of nature. Then there was the discovery by those amateur divers, a reminder that sometimes the truth was more straightforward than we wanted to admit. They had stumbled upon the remains of a fisherman who had gone missing in 1976. It was a grim find, a skeleton still clad in rubber boots and tattered clothing.

Eleven months later, another body was found, in almost. the same condition. It was a chilling echo of the past, a reminder that the reservoir held more than just water in its depths. These discoveries, as sparse as they were, brought a kind of solace. They were proof that not all was lost to the murky waters, that answers could still surface, even after decades. But with each answer came more questions, more wise and hows that lingered in the air, as palpable as the mist that often hung over the reservoir in the early morning. As I walked away from the water's edge, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The Round Valley Reservoir was more than just a body of water.

It was a keeper of stories, a holder of secrets. And for every secret revealed, it seemed a dozen more were born. The truth, it seemed, was as elusive and deep as the reservoir itself. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Round Valley Reservoir, I found myself reflecting on the legacy of this enigmatic place. It was more than just a body of water. It was a symbol of the unexplainable, a testament to the mysteries that lie just beneath the surface of our understanding.

Over the years, I've seen how this reservoir has gripped the imagination of the community and beyond. It's a place where logic meets legend, where fact intertwines with folklore. Each disappearance, each unexplained incident, added another, layer to its mystique, and despite the occasional breakthroughs, the reservoir retained its air of mystery, its ability to both fascinate and terrify. I've walked these shores more times than I can count, each visit leaving me with more questions than answers. Theories about the reservoir ran the gamut from scientific to supernatural. Some folks spoke of underwater ghost towns, remnants of a bygone era submerged beneath the placid waters, fueling the reservoir's eerie reds

reputation, others whispered of curses laid by displaced Native American tribes, their spirits restless and vengeful. But amid the tales and theories, there was a palpable sense of loss, a collective mourning for those who had vanished without a trace. It was a reminder that behind each mystery, there were real people, families left grappling with the unknown, their grief a constant undercurrent in the community. The reservoir, with its dark waters and deeper secrets, had become a character in its own right, an enigmatic presence that loomed large in our collective consciousness. I've seen the way people's eyes would flicker to the water when they spoke of it, a mix of fear, respect, and awe. It was as if they were acknowledging an old, inscrutable adversary.

As I stood there, the chill of the evening air creeping through my jacket, I couldn't shake the feeling that the reservoir was watching, listening. It was as though it was aware of its own legend, basking in the intrigue and speculation it inspired. The truth, I had come to realize, was as elusive as the shadows that played on the water's surface. Perhaps some mysteries weren't meant to be solved, their secrets destined to remain hidden in the depths.

And maybe that was okay. After all, it's the unknown that draws us in, that stirs our imagination and keeps us searching. Even when we know some answers may forever, elude us. As I turned to leave, casting one last glance over the darkening waters, I knew that the legacy of the Round Valley Reservoir would endure. Its stories passed down through generations. It would continue to haunt, to intrigue, to remind us of the thin line between the known and the unknown. And in that space, in the gap between light and shadow, truth and legend,

the reservoir would remain, a silent sentinel, keeping its secrets in the deep. I remember that day like it was just yesterday. The woods near our neighborhood were always a sort of sanctuary for me, a place where the tall trees whispered secrets in the wind, and the small creeks babbled stories of faraway lands. It was the kind of place where kids from all around would come to ride their bikes through the winding trails, the sound of their laughter, mingling with the rustling leaves. I loved those woods, not just for their beauty, but for the

sense of adventure they offered. On that particular afternoon, around 4 p.m., the sun was casting golden beams through the canopy, creating a tapestry of light and shadow on the forest floor. I had decided to take Bertha, my faithful Labrador, for our usual walk. She was more than just a pet. She was my companion, my confidant. As we got out of the car, Bertha's tail wagged with excitement, her brown eyes gleaming with the joy of another adventure in our special place. We began our walk along the familiar trail, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the scent of pine and earth filling the air. Bertha led the way, her nose to the ground, eagerly sniffing out the sense of the forest. Everything was as it always was, serene and peaceful, until something strange happened.

It started subtly at first, a faint tingling sensation that washed over me, like the gentle touch of an unseen hand. It wasn't fear or apprehension. Rather, it was a feeling of unexplained happiness, a sudden lightness of being that seemed to lift the weight of the world from my shoulders. My usual aches and pains, the remnants of an old football injury, vanished as if they had never been. A smile spread across my face, and a laugh bubbled up from deep. within me. Wow, I feel so good, I thought to myself. I feel like a little kid. I'm brand new. This euphoria lasted for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality, it was probably only about 20 seconds. That's when everything changed. It was as if the forest itself had decided to reveal one of its secrets. From the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in the bushes.

It wasn't the usual rustle of a small animal scurrying away. This was different. The bush shook violently, as if something or someone was holding onto it, intertwined in its branches, trying desperately to remain hidden. Bertha reacted instantly, her body tensing, a low growl emanating from her throat. She lunged towards the bush, pulling me along. I struggled to hold her back, my heart pounding in my chest. Whatever was in that bush was big. and it was close. I could hear it moving, heavy thuds like the footsteps of a giant, accompanied by the sound of branches snapping under its weight. I wanted to run, to take Bertha and flee back to the safety of my car. But something held me there, rooted to the spot.

Curiosity, fear, I couldn't tell. All I knew was that I had to see what was making that noise. As I stood there, heart racing, the forest around me seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would happen next. The creature, whatever it was, moved again. This time, through another bush, its presence felt more than seen. I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was on the verge of discovering something extraordinary, something that would change everything. And so, with a mixture of fear and excitement, I stepped closer to the unknown. The mysterious rustling in the bushes had only deepened the enigma of the woods.

Each step I took now felt heavier, as if I was walking into a story yet to be told. Bertha, sensing my apprehension, stayed close. Her ears perked up, alert to every sound. That day, as we ventured deeper into the woods, the atmosphere seemed to thicken with suspense. The once familiar trees now appeared as looming specters, their branches reaching out like the fingers of a giant hand. My heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. What was hiding in these woods?

A part of me wanted to turn back, but curiosity propelled me forward. Then it happened again. The same heavy rhythmic thumping that we had heard the day before, but louder this time, closer. It was as if something massive was walking, or rather stomping, just beyond the line of sight. Bertha growled, her body tensed, ready to bolt or fight, whichever came first. My mind raced, the sound was unlike anything I had heard before.

It was like the footsteps of a colossal creature, something out of a monster movie. The ground vibrated with each thud, sending shivers up my spine. Yet for all the noise it made, there was nothing to see. The bushes shook and the leaves rustled, but there was no visible cause. It was then that the most terrifying sound of all filled the air, a loud, guttural roar, so deep and resonant it seemed to come from the very earth beneath our feet. It was like the roar of a T-Rex from the movies, only this was real, happening right in front of me. Bertha and I stood frozen, our eyes scanning the woods for any sign of the creature.

Sounds like a T-Rex from the movies, I whispered aloud, my voice. barely a breath. The stomping stopped abruptly as if the creature had heard me. A chilling silence fell over the woods. I could feel the vibrations of the last footstep fading away, leaving us in a suspenseful stillness. Despite the fear gripping my heart, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of connection to this unseen being. It was as if it was aware of us, maybe even curious about us. But why couldn't we see it? What was it hiding from? Or perhaps, what was it hiding? For what felt like an eternity, Bertha and I stood there, staring into the woods, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. The creature, if that's what it was, had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. As we made our way back home, my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and questions. What was this invisible person? presence. Why did it make such terrifying sounds? Was it watching us now, hidden among the trees? The woods, once a place of joy and adventure, now held a secret, a mystery that both scared and

fascinated me. That night, as I lay in bed, the sounds of the forest replayed in my mind, the rustling bushes, the heavy footsteps, the roar that shook the ground. I knew one thing for sure, I had to find out what was lurking in those woods. And so, with a mixture of dread and determination, I resolved to return to the forest, to uncover the truth behind the invisible terror that haunted it. The next few days passed in a blur of restless thoughts and endless questions. The woods had always been my escape, a place where I could forget the world and just be, but now they were a puzzle, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and I was drawn to it. unable to stay away. Each walk with Bertha became a mission, a search for answers. We treaded the

same paths, but now with a heightened sense of awareness, every rustle of leaves sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. The invisible presence remained just that, invisible. But its effects were palpable, a feeling of being watched, of something just out of sight, always there, lurking in the shadows. Then, one day, it happened. It was an experience so fleeting, yet so profound, that it shook the very foundations of my reality. We were walking along a familiar trail, the air crisp with the scent of pine. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting a dappled pattern on the ground. I stopped for a moment to take in the beauty of it all, the serene tranquility of nature.

As I stood there, lost in thought, a movement caught my eye. It was quick, just a blur, but it was there. Something large, something impossible. It moved between the trees, a mere 80 feet away, but in that fraction of a second I saw it. It was humanoid, at least ten feet tall, with broad muscular shoulders and a large head. Its appearance was like nothing I had ever seen,

a perfect blend of human and beast. But what was truly astonishing was its skin. It shimmered, reflecting the woods around it. like the predator from the movies, cloaked and almost invisible. The sight of it left me breathless, my mind struggling to process what my eyes had just seen. It was as if my brain had captured a snapshot of the creature, etching every detail into my memory. The thick, shiny hair on its leg, the contours of its muscles, the way it blended into the surroundings. It was all so vivid, so real.

I stood there, rooted to the spot. My heart pounding in my chest. Bertha, sensing my shock, whined softly, nuzzling my hand. The creature, whatever it was, had vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving no trace behind. As we walked back home, my mind raced with questions. What was this being? Why was it here? And most importantly, why had it run from me?

Did it sense my presence? Or was it startled by something else? The encounter left me with a sense of all. and a deep respect for the mysteries of the natural world. It also brought a newfound caution. The woods were no longer just a place of beauty and peace. They were a realm where the unknown lurked, where the line between reality and legend blurred. From that day on, I became more vigilant on our walks, always keeping an eye on the shadows, always listening for the slightest sound. I didn't know what the creature was, or what it wanted, but I knew what

thing for sure. The woods were its domain, and we were just visitors, treading lightly in a world we barely understood. Ever since that day, when the impossible became possible before my eyes, the woods have never been the same for me. They have transformed from a simple escape into a place of profound mystery and wonder. Each time I walk with Bertha along those familiar paths, I find myself looking at the world around me with new eyes. seeing beauty and complexity in every leaf, and every whisper of the wind. In the days following the encounter with the mysterious cloaked being, I found myself lost in a sea of thoughts.

What was it? Why did it choose to reveal itself to me, even if only for a brief moment? These questions spun around in my head, unanswered but impossible to ignore. Yet, despite the uncertainty and fear that accompanied these thoughts, there was also a sense of exhilaration, a feeling of being part of something larger and more mysterious than I had ever imagined. I began to realize that perhaps we are not alone in our journey through this world. Maybe there are beings, entities, or forces that exist just beyond the reach of our understanding, watching over us, guiding us, or simply co-existing in a parallel reality we seldom perceive.

One of the most profound changes in me was my newfound appreciation for Bertha. She was no longer just a pet, but a companion, a guardian who seemed to understand far more than I had given her credit for. Dogs, I mused, might be more attuned to the mysteries of the world than we are. They seem to sense things we cannot, perceive things beyond our comprehension. Maybe, in their own way, they are here to help us, to guide us through the unseen, and the unknown. This journey through the woods, through the unknown, had also taught me a valuable lesson about life. It reminded me that there is so much more to the world than what meets the eye. It encouraged me to live fearlessly, to embrace the unknown, and to find joy in the

journey, no matter how mysterious or frightening it may seem. As I continued my walks with Bertha, I made it a point to tell someone where I was going, to take precautions. The woods were beautiful, but they were also wild and unpredictable. I had learned to respect their secrets, and to tread lightly in their realm. But more than anything, this experience had changed me in a good way. It had opened my eyes to the wonders and mysteries of life, to the possibility of the extraordinary existing alongside the ordinary. It made me realize that sometimes the most incredible adventures are not those we seek,

but those that find us. And so, as I walk through the woods now, I do so with a sense of awe and respect. I listen to the whispers of the trees and the songs of the creeks, wondering what other secrets they might hold. I watch the shadows and the light, always aware, always ready for the next encounter, the next revelation. These woods, once just a place for a walk,

have become a gateway to a world of wonder, a reminder that life is a beautiful mystery, waiting to be discovered. And I, along with Bertha by my side, I'm ready to embrace whatever comes our way, with no fear, only curiosity and a sense of adventure. Good evening, and thank you for sharing my story. This encounter still troubles me to this day. It was the summer of 2010, and I had recently turned 13.

My family thought it would be a great summer for a cabin trip, a departure from my usual Boy Scout camp adventures. We embarked on a journey from our home in Florida to South Carolina, where my grandparen, parents from Canada would meet us. The cabin we had rented was nestled in a serene location, offering a breathtaking view of the lake and even its private beach. My excitement knew no bounds as I was the first to jump out of the car upon our arrival. However, my initial enthusiasm was met with an encounter that would haunt me for years to come. As I explored the surroundings, I came across a man who seemed to be in his late 50s, the owner of the cabin. He greeted me with a warm smile that gradually morphed into an uneasy grin. This strange reaction caught my attention,

but being a shy kid, I decided to move along and continue my exploration. My curiosity led me to a peculiar circular pit beneath the cabin. It was an unsettling sight, but it didn't initially bother me. I then spotted a treehouse under construction by the owner down at the beach. Ignoring his warning to be cautious, I ascended the ladder. The top of the treehouse, was riddled with protruding nails, but I managed to find a secure spot to stand and gaze back at the cabin. The wood cabin, while appearing old, exuded an air of sturdiness. It boasted a spacious porch and outdoor storage underneath, where my attention was drawn once more to the enigmatic circular pit. It was unlike anything I had ever seen in the woods, resembling a colossal spinning

ball dipped into the earth. I pointed it out to my father, and the owner, who was still present, casually remarked that a bear used to nest there but had long moved on. His explanation didn't sit right with me, considering the strange appearance of the pit. Shrugging off my unease, I entered the cabin and claimed one of the bunk beds before my siblings could. The initial days of our trip were filled with outdoor activities like hiking and swimming, typical summer fun. However, we knew that once our grandparents arrived, we would spend more time with them. On the seventh night, something unsettling occurred that would forever change the course of our trip. I was roused from my sleep by strange sounds outside.

The shifting of dirt near the left side of the cabin caught my attention, where the trash bins were placed next to the kitchen door. I heard something pushing the bins around, and I assumed it was raccoons or some curious animal. Being a Boy Scout, it was my duty to shoe them away. I climbed down from my bunk, and as I did, the noises abruptly see. I noticed a few rays of sunlight streaming into the room, which struck me as odd. I made my way to the kitchen window to investigate, but before I could reach it, I heard long, scratching noises emanating from the walls of the cabin. It sounded as if long nails were digging deep into the sheets of a bed. Fear gripped me, and I slowly backed away from the source of the

eerie sounds. Then, a powerful bang shook the cabin door, causing me to jump in fright. My brother and our loyal dog were the only ones downstairs with me at the time. My dog, sensing danger, race towards the door, barking and growling as if ready to confront whatever threat lurked outside. This commotion woke up my brother, who acted swiftly. He grabbed me and handed me his hunting knife, his eyes conveying reassurance. He instructed me to make my way to our parents' room while he headed towards the door, flinging it open and stepping out. My dog, followed, barking fiercely. The barks and running soon receded into the distance as I climbed the stairs and woke up my father. It took about 30 minutes for my brother and father to return.

My dog was limping but had displayed remarkable courage throughout the ordeal. My brother, who had always been a brave and capable older sibling, now wore an expression I had never seen before, and one I would never see again. He was typically unfazed by getting dirty in the woods, but this experience had unnerved him to the core. With our dog's wound attended to, my mother and grandmother rushed him to the local vet. While they were gone, my father, grandfather, my oldest second brother and I inspected the cabin for evidence of the strange events. I stayed close to the cabin, still trembling with fear.

The trash bins had been punctured with gaping holes as if something had punched them open. Above the bins, the cabin wall bore deep. claw marks, reaching about six feet from the ground. Amidst the eerie aftermath, I detected an unusual odor that didn't originate from the trash cans. My anxiety grew as I crouched down to peer under the cabin, where the strange pit had piqued my curiosity earlier. There, I discovered a gruesome sight, a dead fox, torn into shreds. I immediately alerted my father, and he, along with my brother, swiftly removed the remains using a shovel and disposed of them. My father contacted the cabin owner, who tried to downplay the situation but provided us with a flare gun

and bear mace as a precaution. A few days passed, and my parents took the rest of the family to a nearby restaurant, leaving me behind with my oldest brother, who had chased the intruder previously, and our injured dog. An hour after they departed, I found myself gazing out of the second floor window in the direction my brother had run towards during his previous encounter. At that moment, I was petting our dog, who suddenly raised his head, alert, and sniffing the air. I glanced outside and saw a monstrous, bear-like creature perched high in one of the trees. This creature defied typical bear characteristics. Instead of a rotund body, it possessed a lean, muscular physique, resembling that of a human.

Its eyes were the most unnerving part, piercing and yellow, akin to perfect human eyes that locked onto mine. Fear surged through me, triggering a fight-or-flight response. My dog, sensing my distress, joined in by growling and howling at the window. In a state of panic, I turned and sprinted towards my brother's room, tears streaming down my face as I yelled about the terrifying beast outside. My brother, with a worried expression, told me, This territory doesn't belong to us. He then rose from his bed, grabbed his knife and baseball bat, and descended the stairs.

I armed myself with the flare gun and bear mace, preparing for the possibility of the creature breaking in and attacking us. Suddenly, a tremendous impact against the cabin's rear wall sent the entire structure shaking like a boat. My dog's barks and growls continued, and I could hear heavy breathing from outside, accompanied by objects being hurled at the cabin. A rock shattered one of the front windows and struck my left leg, causing me to wince in pain. Without hesitation, I turned and fired the flare gun out of the window,

the bright burst of light followed by a chorus of profanities and enraged shouting. Then, abruptly, everything fell silent. My dog remained vigilant, growling and fixated on a corner of the room. room that lacked a window. I couldn't see what had captured his attention, but I could only assume that the creature was lurking there. Several minutes of tense silence passed before my brother and I decided to call the police and our parents. With trepidation, we ventured out the front door and cautiously made our way around to the right side of the cabin. A slow snarl emanated from behind a bush, and my dog inside went berserk, leaping and scratching at the door.

My brother began shouting at the unseen creature and hurled his baseball bat in its direction. The sound of impact, however, didn't hit a tree. It struck the creature. It emitted a pained grunt before a massive, black, furry mass darted out from behind the bush and sprinted down the dirt road. We lost sight of it in an instant. Panicked, we rushed back inside the cabin, barricading the doors and retreating upstairs. Moments later, gunshots echoed in the air. distance, and my father's truck pulled into view. I flung open the door, and the rest of my family rushed inside. My father recounted that a large bear had been chased away, and he had fired a few rounds at it. The police eventually arrived, after some difficulty locating the cabin. We provided

them with a story about an aggressive bear attempting to breach our cabin. That night we left, and my family often recalls the tale of how my son and my oldest brother bravely fended off a hungry bear. However, for my brother and me, the truth was far more unsettling. Upon our return to Florida, I retreated to my room, still shaken by the harrowing experience. My brother entered locking eyes with me and uttered the chilling words. It looked human, didn't it? I simply nodded, prompting him to elaborate on his earlier remark about territory. He explained that every animal has its territory, but when something bigger comes along and takes it, that's when things change.

The memory of that encounter remains etched in my mind, and I can't help but wonder if the cabin owner knew more about the danger in the area than he had let on. It's a story I can't forget, a tale of a nightmarish encounter with a creature that defied explanation, and a lingering sense of unease that continues to haunt me to this day. A year ago, I had the opportunity to meet a fascinating man who would later become a close friend. Let's call him Jake to protect his identity. We both shared a military background, which naturally led to conversations about our past experiences. However, Jake had a story that was unexpectedly haunting, and when I finally got this channel up and running, I knew I had to share it with you. So, here we go.

This story takes place on an undisclosed. military base, deep within the damp jungles of a remote island. Jake recalls the wilderness being unnervingly quiet for at least a week leading up to the incident. The personnel stationed there attributed the silence to a change in seasons or something of the sort. There were rumors of bizarre sightings, fast-moving creatures, that defied explanation. Anyone who dared mention these sightings was typically met with ridicule from fellow soldiers. These strange sightings were notably inconsistent with one another.

Some claimed to have seen large, unblinking eyes, while others reported smaller ones. Some heard the thunderous trudging of a massive creature through the woods, while others described the sounds of something small and agile rustling through the underbrush. No one had seen anything worth defending against, let alone risking their reputation over. Jake, at the time, served as the desk sergeant, which meant to be able to be able to be a desk sergeant, which meant he heard every report that came in. Anyone who saw or heard something unusual that could potentially impact the base's security would typically seek him out to have it documented and logged.

He never took the more fantastical reports seriously enough to record them officially. Unbeknownst to the concerned soldiers who came to him, some of them just wanted to talk about their experiences off the record. These conversations often ended with them sharing ghost stories of their own. The night in question, Jake and his team were stationed on the far side of the island, an area completely uninhabited, with no human presence for hundreds of miles in any direction. This location had been chosen by the military for storing weapons and explosives. Jake had a partner named Barry, and their mission that night was to conduct nightly checks on the magazine storage areas,

which were several miles deep into the uninhabited zone. As they drove slowly in their Humvee with the windows down, the jungle remained eerily quiet. The silence was almost comforting for their mission, which involved detecting any foreign intelligence operatives, or tampering with U.S. equipment, or dealing with the occasional refugee group that washed ashore. They were traveling along a narrow road that rested in the valley between two imposing mountains, bordered by gigantic hills, thick with tall grass. Then, out of nowhere they heard it, a heavy thud coming from, from the woods. It was a completely unexpected and unnatural sound that emanated clearly from

the tangled growth. The first thud caught their attention, but it was quickly followed by other equally unsettling noises. Barry decided to shut off the headlights in the engine so they could stealthily approach whatever was out there. They knew that anyone attempting to navigate the dense vegetation would have to do so carefully, taking time to avoid injury. But what they encountered next was truly unexpected. Surprisingly, they could hear fast-paced footsteps, accompanied by rustling through the tall grass. After a few moments, the sounds began to move parallel to the road. They decided to restart the vehicle and pursue the noise. The walking continued for a while as they followed it, illuminated only by their running lights. Suddenly, it stopped. They thought

they had lost track of whatever was out there, so they turned the headlights, back on, assuming it might be a deer or some other animal. As Barry turned on the high beams, both men's eyes widened with shock and disbelief. Approximately 30 yards ahead of them stood a humanoid creature. The creature was over two meters tall, with a small oval head. Its movements were eerily swift for its size, almost reminiscent of an impossibly nimble frog. Witnessing this creature instantly sent a chill down Jake's spine, as if he had been punched in the stomach. His heart raced, an adrenaline coursed through his veins so rapidly that he began to feel nauseous, on the verge of vomiting. Jake later lamented the fact that neither he nor Barry had the

courage to chase after the creature. The overwhelming feeling of being at such a disadvantage in the darkness was absolutely petrifying. They couldn't shake the unsettling notion that they might have become the hunted, with this mysterious creature having the tactical advantage in terms of position, and mobility. In a panic, they turned their truck around and sped off into the night, leaving the creature behind. The woods remained silent for at least another week before returning to the usual droning sounds of the local wildlife. In the undisturbed heart of Georgia's wilderness, there's a piece of land that's been mine since the day I was born, passed down through generations since 1810. I often think about how the oaks and pines here

have seen more history than any living soul. My progress, A sprawling expanse of a few thousand acres, complete with a serene 260-acre lake, is the kind of place where the only neighbors are deer, coyotes, and the occasional eagle. My wife and I, we chose this life for the quiet, for the privacy, for a world that belongs just to us and our daughters. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky with strokes of orange and purple, as I sat on the porch, letting the day's work sink in. This land, it demands a lot, but it gives back in peace, in a sense of belonging. But recently, that peace has been different, disturbed by things I can't quite explain. It started with the knocks. Not the kind you hear at the door, but a distant, rhythmic thumping against the trees. I first thought it was just the wind or some animal, but the pattern was too deliberate, too, human. Then,

Then came the rocks, small ones at first, hitting the side of the house in the dead of night. I'd go out with my flashlight, scanning the trees for some prankster, but there was never anyone there. But it's not just the knocks or the rocks. There's a feeling, a change in the air when the sun dips below the horizon. It's like the land itself shifts, becomes something older, something wilder. My wife feels it too. She's got that intuition, a sense of things that can't be seen.

We don't talk about it much in front of the girls. They're only five twins, and the world to them is still simple, still safe. Just last week, I was out at the edge of the property checking the fences. It was getting late, but I wanted to finish up. That's when I heard it first, the footsteps, heavy, deliberate. I've tracked deer, chased off coyotes, but this... This was different. It wasn't fear I felt. Not exactly. It was an awareness that I wasn't alone, that something was sharing the woods with me. I stood still, listening as the steps seemed to circle,

then fade away into the twilight. That night I started digging into the history of this land. There's an old family journal, leather-bound and worn, speaking of the Cherokee who once used these woods as a refuge. Maybe, I thought, there's an answer in the past, a clue to what's happening now. I don't scare easy. Life out here, it toughens you. But there's something going on in these woods, something that doesn't fit into the world as I know it, and I intend to find out what it is. The days on our land are filled with the usual rhythms of nature, the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves, the distant calls of coyotes as evening approaches. But it's the nights that have started to feel foreign, as if the land itself is whispering secrets, it's held for centuries.

Last night was different, though. It was a night that etched itself into my memory, as clear and as sharp as a winter morning. My wife and I were sitting on our back porch, the one overlooking the lake. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the sky was a canvas of deep blues and purples. We sat there, like we often do, watching the day give way tonight. But as the darkness crept in, the usual chorus of wildlife sounds abruptly ceased. It was as if someone had pressed a mute button on the world. In that eerie silence, we heard it. Footsteps.

Not the light familiar tread of a deer, but something heavier, purposeful. They crunched through the underbrush, breaking the stillness of the night. My heart beat a little faster, not out of fear, but a kind of primal alertness. I've lived in these woods all my life, and I know every creature that calls it home. But this, this was different. Then came the sounds that chilled my blood. It wasn't words, not in any language I've heard. It was a chanting, a guttural rhythmic sound that seemed to resonate with the very trees around us.

My wife gripped my hand, her eyes wide. We've heard stories, old tales passed down through generations, but this was no story. This was real, and it was happening just beyond the veil of darkness that shrouded our view. I reached for my battery-powered spotlight, a heavy-duty thing that could light up a good stretch of the woods. But as I swept the light through the trees, there was nothing. No eyes caught in the beam, no movement. Just the trees and the darkness and the sound of that chanting.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The night returned to silence, save for the sound of our own breathing. We sat there for what felt like hours, neither of us willing to break the silence. The darkness felt different now, heavier, as if it was pressing in on us. The last straw was the rock. It came from nowhere, a sudden, jarring thud as it landed on the porch near our feet. It was a big thing, easily two or three pounds. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.

It was just a rock, but it felt like a message. I bagged it, thinking maybe there'd be something on it. A print, a mark, something. I've dealt with trespassers, poachers, and the occasional lost hiker, but this was beyond my understanding. Something was happening on our land, something ancient and unexplainable, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. The morning after the incident with the rock, I was up before the sun.

There's something about the stillness of dawn that makes it easier to think, to piece together the puzzles that life throws your way. As I sat on the porch coffee in hand, I knew it was time to delve deeper into the history of this land. Maybe the past held answers to the present. The family journal, a relic passed down through generations, sat on my desk. Its leather cover was worn, the pages yellowed with age. As a kid, I'd heard stories from it.

tales of hardship and survival, but I'd never really dug into it myself. Now it seemed, was the time. The journal spoke of the early 1800s, a time when this land was a wild frontier. It mentioned a Cherokee tribe that used these woods as a refuge. I'd always known about the Native American presence on this land, but I'd never connected it to what was happening now. Could there be a link between the past and these unexplained occurrences? The more I read, the more intrigued I became.

There were mentions of sacred rituals, of a deep respect for the land and its spirits. The Cherokee believed in a balance, in a harmony between man and nature. But there was also talk of a darker side, of ceremonies meant to appease or ward off something. The details were vague, the words tinged with a superstitious fear that was hard to fully grasp. That afternoon, as I walked through the woods, the journals were, words echoed in my mind. The land didn't feel just like mine anymore. It felt shared, as if I was walking through a history that was still very much alive. The whispers of the past seemed to rustle in the leaves, to flow in the streams. I turned to the internet, to the vast repository of human knowledge,

and typed in cryptozoology. It was a shot in the dark, but what else could explain the footsteps, the chanting, the rock, the screen filled with tales of Bigfoot, of creatures that lived in the fringes of our understanding. I had always considered such things to be the realm of fantasy, but now I wasn't so sure. The idea of Bigfoot being real, walking through my woods, was both absurd and terrifying. But the more I read, the more the pieces seemed to fit. The descriptions of the creatures, their elusive nature, the way they were said to communicate, communicate. It all mirrored what I was experiencing. I didn't know what to believe, but I knew I couldn't ignore it. Something was happening on my land, something that defied easy explanation, and I was determined to uncover it, to understand it. I kept my findings from my daughters. They were too young, too innocent to be burdened with these questions. For them, the world was still a place of wonder and simplicity. I wanted to keep it that way. I wanted to keep it that way. at least for a little while longer.

As the day faded into evening, I resolved to explore the woods again. This time, I'd go further, deeper. I'd find answers, or at least I'd try. The land was speaking, and I needed to listen. The next day, armed with a sense of resolve and a backpack filled with essentials,

camera, flashlight, some food and water. My wife and I set out into the heart of the woods. The morning was crisp, the air fresh with the scent of pine and earth. As we walked, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were stepping into a story much older than ourselves, a narrative written long before our time. We walked in silence, our eyes scanning the dense forest. The woods were alive with the sounds of nature,

yet beneath it all lay a hushed anticipation as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. I couldn't help but feel we were not alone, that unseen eyes were watching our every single. As we ventured deeper, I kept an eye out for any signs, any clues that might shed light on the recent occurrences, broken branches, unusual tracks, anything out of the ordinary. But the forest gave up little, its secrets well guarded. We reached a clearing where the sunlight streamed through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

Here, we paused, taking a moment to rest and gather our thoughts. My wife, always more attuned to the subtleties of nature, suggested we split up to cover more ground. I hesitated, the protective part of me wanting to keep her close, but I knew she was right. We agreed to meet back at the clearing in an hour. As I walked alone, the silence of the woods seemed to deepen. Every snap of a twig underfoot, every rustle of leaves, felt amplified. I found myself glancing over my shoulder, a prided. instinct I hadn't felt since I was a boy. Then, about half an hour into my solitary exploration,

I saw it, a series of deep, indistinct impressions in the soft earth. They were too large for any deer, too irregular for a bear. My heart quickened as I followed the trail, the camera in my hand now a lifeline to reality. The trail led me to the edge of a steep ravine, the ground falling away into shadow. There, perched on the edge, I saw something that, defied explanation. A figure, large and looming, its back to me, covered in what looked like thick fur. It stood motionless, as if gazing into the depths of the ravine. I raised my camera, my hands trembling slightly. This was it, the moment of truth. But just as I was about to take the picture, the figure turned, and for a brief second our eyes met. There was an intelligence there,

a knowing that shook me to my core. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, disappearing into the thicket with a grace that belied its size. I was left standing there, heart pounding. The image of those eyes seared into my memory. I made my way back to the clearing, my mind racing. When I found my wife, I could see in her eyes that she too had experienced something profound. We didn't need words.

Our shared look said it all. as we walked back home the woods seemed to return to normal the sounds of birds and rustling leaves resuming their chorus but we had changed we had touched something ancient something wild and in doing so we had been changed ourselves the land had spoken and we had listened and though we had more questions than answers we knew one thing for certain we were no longer alone in these woods I had the opportunity to hear this chilling story directly from my friend Max during what started as a casual conversation, but quickly evolved into a gripping live interview. Gabriel had recently moved away from our neighborhood, and this was my chance to hear his first-hand account of a spine-tingling experience. As we delved into the realm of the unusual and bizarre, I couldn't help but notice a certain spark in his eyes, a passionate glimmer that hinted at personal encounters with the supernatural. Max, originally from Costa Rica, had spent most of his life there before immigrating to the United States, intrigued by the unusual topics that emerged during our conversation,

ghosts, vampires, dogmen, and glitches. I sense there was a story waiting to be told. Max's eyes widened as he responded to my inquiry about whether he had ever experienced something strange. Yes, I have, he said. his voice filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. The tale he was about to share revolved around a dark night in San Jose Costa Rica when he was just ten years old. He lived with his parents and older brother in a quiet suburb named Las Animas,

aptly translating to the city of lost souls. Their home, a recently constructed one, was situated on a street with only two houses, separated by empty lots. Given the high crime rate in their town, Max's father, a metalworker, had fortified their house with steel doors, door frames, and window bars. Their small backyard was surrounded by walls to deter potential robbers, and guarding it was Rambo, their loyal Doberman. Rambo was trained to accept food only from Max's father,

as local thieves were known to poison guard dogs in attempts to gain access to homes. There was an unspoken curfew for children after dark. If they were away from home and without parental supervision, they were expected to stay put to stay safe. One fateful evening, Max and his brother Miguel were visiting their friend Carlos, who happened to live in the only other house on their street. Time slipped away, and it was well past nightfall when they decided to head home. The debate about walking back ensued,

despite both houses being well lit with floodlights. The daunting prospect was the unlit dirt road and knee-high grass that stretched for about 75 yards between them and home. Their mother, who typically waited outside to ensure their safety, was nowhere in sight this time. This absence added to the boy's apprehension, and as they continued their debate, she finally stepped out and waved for them to return. They started jogging toward home, bidding Carlos and his mother good night. However, as they turned back to look at their mother one last time, she had disappeared. In her place, across the street, in the middle of the field, stood a dog. The boys slowed down, their old tennis shoes scuffing the unpaved road as they tried to make sense of the situation.

It was undoubtedly a dog, but it appeared far larger and more imposing than their Doberman Rambo. A thick chain was wrapped around its neck, and the eerie sound of metal rattling in the night. air sent shivers down their spines. For a moment, they consoled themselves with the thought that it might be Rambo who had broken free. The brothers debated whether it was their faithful guard dog, but as they continued to approach, they realized this was something else entirely. The mysterious dog seemed to grow in size as they got closer, and it became evident that this was not their beloved Rambo. With hearts pounding, the two young boys froze in their tracks. Max Lowe. Max looked at Miguel, whose expression revealed a fear he had never seen in his older brother before.

They didn't know it at the time, but what they were facing was a hellhound, as we know it. The black dog fixated its ominous gaze on them, alternating between their house and the boys, as if acknowledging that a confrontation was imminent. It stood as an imposing barrier between them and safety. The boys realized that returning to Carlos' house was too far, and continuing down the road felt like certain doom. Their only chance was to retrace their steps. Turning back, they heard the front door of their house open, and their mother emerged, shielding her eyes from the floodlights. Fueled by fear, the boys sprinted toward her, their adrenaline surging as they ran harder than they ever had before to reach her. The hounds' heads

snapped toward their mother, and it launched itself into the air, covering at least 30 feet in one terrifying leap before crashing to the ground. the beast began its relentless pursuit of the house, tearing through the tall weeds in the field. The metallic clinking of the chain intensified as it closed in on them. Somehow they managed to reach their mother just in time, slamming the doors shut behind them. Inside, their mother prayed in disbelief as the front door quivered from the furious blows of the enraged creature outside. After a few agonizing moments of terror, the noise abruptly ceased, replaced by a blaring car horn from outside the garage. Max's father shouted at them to activate the metal-clad garage door from inside the

house. Miguel quickly complied, opening the garage door and earning a scolding from his father for supposedly letting the dog out. With trembling hearts, Max and Miguel cautiously opened the front door and looked around, finding no trace of the hellhound. As they continued their investigation, they discovered poor Rambo cowering in fear, hidden in a small crawl space. beneath the porch stoop. As I sat in my studio, listening to Max recount this harrowing experience, his eyes welled up with tears.

He confessed that despite all the mischief they had gotten into, it was the first time he had ever seen his big brother scared. The encounter with the Hellhound had left an indelible mark on their memories, forever etching the nightmarish image of the Hellhound into their minds. Max concluded his tale with a cryptic smile, saying, You know what? I have another story for you. Have you ever heard of La Yorona? I nodded, acknowledging that I had, but we both understood that the chilling legend of La Yerona would have to wait for another time, leaving me eagerly awaiting the next chapter of Max's

spine-tingling tales. It's funny how some nights start so ordinary, you'd never expect them to turn your world upside down. That was how Halloween of 2022 began in Bolton, a quiet, district of Manchester. Around here, we don't really make a big fuss about Halloween. You know, just a few kids in makeshift costumes, wandering about with their little pumpkin buckets. That's about it. I remember settling down in the living room with my family that night. The TV flickered with the eerie scenes of The Exorcist, a classic horror movie that seemed fitting for the occasion. My mom had popped some corn, and my little sister was curled up under her favorite blanket, eyes wide with every suspenseful scene. Dad, as usual, pretended not to be interested,

but I caught him peeking at the screen from behind his newspaper. Just as Reagan was about to do something particularly spooky, a sharp knocking sound cut through the room. It wasn't the front door, that sound was familiar. No, this was coming from the back door. Weird, I thought. To knock there, someone would have to get through our wrought iron gate, and then the door. The that thing was always bolted shut. We all paused, the movie forgotten. The knocking continued, growing louder and more urgent. It wasn't the kind of sound you could ignore. I glanced at my family. Their faces mirrored my confusion. Dad finally set his newspaper aside, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. Who could that be at this time? Mum muttered more to herself than to anyone

else. I stood up first, a mix of curiosity and unease churning in my stomach. At 15, I was already six feet tall, thanks to the boxing training I'd started last summer. Not that I felt particularly brave at that moment. As I moved towards the kitchen, the knocking persisted. I peaked through the window, half expecting to see a neighbor or a lost trick-or-treater. But what I saw made my heart jump into my throat. Out on the lawn, something was moving, something big, dark, and definitely not human. I stifled a gasp and stumbled back, my mind racing. There's something out there, I managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. My mum was at my side in an instant. What is it, love? She asked, concerned lacing her voice. I pointed towards the window,

struggling to find the words. It's big, bird-like, but not a bird. It crawled to the garden corner, I stammered. Mum squinted through the glass but saw nothing. Are you sure? she asked, sounding skeptical. I nodded, unable to shake off the image of that creature from my mind. We returned to the living room, where the knocking had finally stopped. Dad suggested it might have been some local kids playing a Halloween prank.

but I couldn't believe that. What I saw wasn't human, and it certainly wasn't a kid in a costume. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every little sound made me tense. I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination, a trick of the shadows.

But deep down, I knew it was something else, something unexplainable, and the scariest part, I had a feeling it was just the beginning. lying in bed that night I couldn't shake off the image of the creature from my mind it was like a scene straight out of a horror movie but this was real life and it happened in my own backyard i tossed and turned the unease growing with each passing hour as dawn broke i made up my mind i had to find out what that thing was i waited until the house was stirring not wanting to alarm anyone with my early morning escapade slipping on my jacket I grabbed a torch from the drawer and quietly made my way to the back door. The garden looked different in the morning light, less menacing than it had the night before. But the memory of what I had seen was fresh in my mind, propelling me forward. The grass was dewy under my feet as I

walked towards the spot where I had seen the creature. I scanned the area, half expecting it to jump out at me. But there was nothing, just the usual array of bushes and trees. My heart was a raced as I approached the corner of the garden, the place where the creature had vanished. I could still feel the adrenaline from the night before pulsing through my veins. As I reached the spot, a sudden rustling sound from the bushes made me jump. I pointed the torch towards the noise, my hand trembling slightly. Hello? I called out, my voice sounding small in the vastness of the garden. No answer came, just the sound of the leaves in the wind.

I took a step closer, the beam of the torch cutting through the dim morning light. That's when I saw it, a pair of eyes, reflecting the torchlight back at me. My heart stopped for a moment. It was here. The creature was huddled against the fence, its body obscured by the foliage. It was smaller than I remembered, about the size of a small child, but its features were unmistakable. The talons, the wings, the pointed face. It was all there, just as I had seen it the night before. I stood frozen, not sure what to do. The creature stared back at me, its eyes unblinking.

It looked scared, almost vulnerable. But I couldn't shake off the feeling of danger. I took a hesitant step forward, the torchlight revealing more of its form. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, part bird, part something else. Just then, the creature spread its wings, a hithel. missing sound escaping from its beak. I stumbled backward, fear gripping me. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. The creature's wings fluttered, and it seemed to grow in size, its shadow looming over me. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the creature took off,

soaring over the fence, and disappearing into the trees. I was left standing there, my heart pounding in my chest, the torchlight now illuminating an empty patch of garden. I turned, and ran back to the house my mind racing. What was that thing? Where did it come from? And more importantly, would it come back? As I burst through the back door, my family looked up, surprised to see me panting and disheveled. I saw it again, I gasped out, my words tumbling over each other.

The creature. It's real. But as I looked at their faces, I could tell they didn't believe me. They thought it was just a child's overactive imagination, but I knew what I had seen. mean, and I was determined to find out the truth. As I sat at the breakfast table, trying to explain what I saw in the garden, I could feel the skepticism hanging in the air. My family exchanged glances, the kind that said they were humoring me,

but not really buying my story. I couldn't blame them. Even to my ears, the tale sounded fantastical, a bird-like creature in our own backyard. But the fear I felt was real. the image of those glowing eyes etched in my mind. My dad, always the rational one, suggested it might have been an unusually large bird, perhaps an escaped exotic pet. My sister Lily laughed it off, saying it was probably just a Halloween prank by some kids from the neighborhood.

But the more they rationalized it, the more isolated I felt in my conviction. I knew what I saw wasn't normal. It wasn't something that could be easily explained away. Later that day, I found myself at the local library, flipping through books on local wildlife and mythology. I was desperate for any clue that might explain the creature's identity. But the more I read, the more I realized how little we know about the mysteries lurking in our own backyards. I stumbled upon a book about medieval legends and folklore, and there it was, an image that made my heart skip a beat. It was a depiction of a gargoyle, eerily similar to the creature I had seen.

The book described gargoyles as protectors, warding off evil spirits, but sometimes they were said to come to life. I shivered at the thought. Could such a thing be possible? That evening I brought up my findings at dinner. I talked about gargoyles and how some legends spoke of them as more than just stone sculptures. But my family's reaction was predictable. They chuckled, dismissing. it as another one of my wild theories. I could see the disbelief in their eyes, and it hurt. I felt

like I was the only one taking this seriously. The following days were a blur of unease and frustration. I felt torn between wanting to prove what I saw and the fear of encountering the creature again. I spent hours gazing out into the garden, half expecting, half dreading, to see those eyes staring back at me. But there was nothing, just the ordinary, peaceful garden I had always known. At school, I overheard some classmates talking about Halloween pranks and strange sightings around town. For a moment, I considered sharing my experience, but the fear of ridicule held me back. I was the new kid in the boxing class, the tall, quiet one, and I wasn't ready to be labeled as the guy who saw monsters. As Halloween approached,

I couldn't help but feel apprehensive. What if the creature really? returned. What if it wasn't alone? These thoughts haunted my nights, turning my dreams into a swirl of shadows and flapping wings. I realized then that some mysteries might remain unsolved, and some truths might be too strange for others to accept. But I couldn't let go. I needed to know. And so, I decided to keep watching, keep searching for answers, even if I had to do it alone. because deep down I knew what I saw was real, and I couldn't just pretend it never happened. As Halloween drew nearer, the memory of the creature I saw in our garden refused to fade away. My family seemed to have moved on, dismissing it as a product of an overactive imagination.

But I couldn't. Every shadow in the corner of my eye, every rustle of leaves in the wind, brought me back to that night and the morning after. I was trapped in a loop of uncertainty and fear with more questions than answers. Despite their skepticism, my family noticed the change in me. I spent less time with them, more time alone in my room, or wandering aimlessly around the house. My grades started to slip, and my boxing coach commented on my lack of focus. I knew I had to pull myself together, but the thought of that creature lurking somewhere out there made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

I started to avoid the garden, especially as dusk fell. The place that once brought me peace now filled me with dread. My little sister, Lily, who loved to play out there, asked me one day why I didn't come out with her anymore. I didn't know what to tell her. How could I explain that the garden no longer felt safe to me? Halloween night arrived, and with it came a sense of foreboding. I watched from my bedroom window as kids in costume,

roamed the streets, their laughter and chatter filling the air. I wondered if they knew what might be hiding in the shadows, waiting, watching. My parents decided to hand out candy, keeping the tradition alive. But I stayed in my room, the lights off, pretending not to be home. I couldn't face the possibility of seeing that creature again. I felt like a coward, hiding away, but the fear was too much. Then, there was a knock at the back. back door. My heart stopped, not again. I heard my dad's footsteps as he went to answer it. I wanted to shout out, to warn him, but my voice was stuck in my throat. I waited, every second feeling like an eternity. Finally my dad called out, it's just some late trick-or-treaters. Relief washed over me,

followed by a pang of guilt. I was letting my fear control me, affecting not just me but my family as well. The next day, I made a decision. I couldn't live like this, jumping at shadows, afraid of my own backyard. I had to face my fear, whatever it was. I stepped out into the garden, the autumn sun warm on my face. I walked to the spot where I had seen the creature, half expecting it to appear again, but there was nothing, just the familiar sights and sounds of home. Maybe I would never know what I saw that night. Maybe it was a creature from another world, or maybe it was just a figment of my imagination, but I realized that I couldn't let it haunt me. I had to move on, live my life without fear of the unknown. As I turned to go back inside, I took one last look at the garden.

It was just as it had always been, peaceful and beautiful. And in that moment, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I was ready to let go of the mystery and embrace the world in front of me with all its wonders and uncertainties. Life was too short to be lived in fear and I was ready to start living again. It was one of those perfect Michigan summers where the air was just the right kind of warm and the skies were a canvas of unending blue. I was 18, fresh out of high school, and ready for adventure. My name's Emma, by the way. I've lived in the countryside of Michigan all my life, but the thrill of exploring the wild still gets to me. This particular weekend was special. My boyfriend Tony, my older brother Brad, and a couple of our friends decided we'd go camping.

Tony's parents owned this old cabin out in Ludington, surrounded by nothing but woods in a private lake. It was our secret getaway spot, miles away from the nearest neighbor. As we packed our bags with enough snacks to feed an army, and the kind of supplies only teenagers would think of bringing. I could feel the excitement bubbling inside me. I threw in my favorite hoodie, some jeans, and of course, my worn out sneakers. Tony was in charge of the fun supplies, a cooler filled with drinks and enough weed to last us through the weekend. We were rebels in our own right, seeking a break from the mundane. We piled into Tony's beat-up truck, the back filled with camping gear, and set off. The drive was a mix of loud music, off-key, and set off. The drive was a mix of loud music,

and laughter. Brad, sitting beside me, was his usual quiet self, lost in his thoughts. But even he couldn't resist the infectious joy of our little group. The cabin was as rustic as I remembered. Nestled in the heart of the woods, it stood like a relic of simpler times. We unloaded, claiming our spots in the dusty old rooms. There was no cell service out here, which was part of the charm. It was just us and nature, no digital world to distract us. As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, we started our bonfire. The crackling of the fire, the smell of burning wood, and the warmth against the cool evening air was enchanting.

We gathered around, roasting marshmallows and sharing stories. It was one of those moments where you wish you could just pause time. Brad, who had been unusually quiet since we arrived, seemed a bit off. I nudged him, trying to get him to join in the fun, but he just smiled weakly and kept staring into the fire. I knew he had a lot on his mind with starting college in the fall, but I wished he'd let loose for just one night. As the night deepened, so did our conversations.

We talked about our dreams, our fears, and the exciting, uncertain future that lay ahead of us. In the glow of the fire, with the stars twinkling above us, I felt a sense of peace and belonging. Little did I know, this tranquility was about to be shattered, and our little adventure would turn into something out of a nightmare. But for that moment, we were just teenagers, laughing and living without a care in the world. It was the kind of night that memories are made of, the kind that you look back on and smile. And as I looked around at my friends, their faces illumines. by the firelight. I felt grateful for this moment, this night, and this wild, beautiful life. The bonfire crackled and popped, sending sparks dancing into the night sky. We sat around it,

the six of us, engulfed in its warm embrace against the cool night air. I remember thinking how the fires glow made everything feel more intimate, more real. Laughter filled the air as we shared stories and teased each other. It was the kind of night you'd see in movies, perfect and carefree. Tony was in his element, entertaining us with his ridiculous impressions, while the rest of us lounged on logs and makeshift seats. The alcohol made our heads light and our hearts lighter. I sipped my drink, feeling the warmth spread through my body. It was one of those rare moments when everything just felt right. But then, I noticed Brad. He was usually the life of the party.

But that night he was different, distant, and quiet. I nudged him a couple of times, trying to draw him into the fun, but he barely responded. His eyes were fixed on something in the woods, a look of intensity on his face that I had never seen before. It was unsettling. Brad, what's up? I asked, following his gaze into the darkness beyond the firelight. The woods were thick and dark, a wall of shadows and mystery. But there was nothing there, at least. nothing I could see. He didn't respond, just kept staring. The others started to notice too,

and the atmosphere shifted. The laughter died down, replaced by a growing sense of unease. Tony tried to make a joke to lighten the mood, but it fell flat. We were all watching Brad now, trying to figure out what had caught his attention so intensely. And then I saw it. At first, I thought it was a dog, silhouetted against the darkness. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized it was too big to be a dog. My heart started to race. Guys, do you see that? I whispered. My voice barely audible.

The creature, whatever it was, stood unnaturally still. It was as if it was watching us, just as we were watching it. A cold shiver ran down my spine. This was no ordinary animal. The way it stood, the size of it, it was all wrong. Suddenly it stood up on two legs. That's when panic set in. This was no dog. It was something else, something I couldn't explain. It towered over us, at least six feet tall, its eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. We all saw it then, and the air was filled with gasps and muttered curses. The creature's lack of a tail was eerily noticeable, a deep, a deep,

detail that seemed to unnerve us even more. Tony's friend Mark let out a strangled sound, half gasp, half whimper. What is that? One of the girls Jessica asked, her voice trembling. Tony muttered something under his breath, something about it having no tail. Brad's eyes were wide, his face pale in the firelight. He looked more scared than I'd ever seen him, and that scared me more than anything. In that moment, my mind cleared, the alcohol's haze lifting as adrenaline surged through me. I remembered the stories my grandmother used to tell us, stories of creatures that roamed the woods, creatures that weren't quite animal and weren't quite human. Skinwalkers, she called them. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. We were in danger, real danger, and as that creature

stood there, watching us with its unnerving gaze, I knew we had to get out of there. But before we could move. Before we could even process what we were seeing, the creature let out a sound. It was a scream, but unlike any scream I'd ever heard. It was otherworldly, chilling, and it cut through the night like a knife. In that moment, I knew we had to run. We had to get away from this thing, whatever it was. And so I yelled, run! And the night erupted into chaos. My heart was pounding in my ears, a rapid drumbeat echoing the terror that gripped me. The scream of the creature still hung in the air, a haunting sound that seemed to freeze us all in place. But it was my own voice, yelling for everyone to run, that shattered the paralysis.

We scrambled up, tripping over each other in our haste to get to the cabin. The darkness of the woods felt suffocating, as if the trees themselves were closing in on us. I could hear my friends panicked breaths, their feet pounding against the ground. I was running blindly, fueled by adrenaline and fear. fear. Brad was ahead, leading the way. He kept shouting something in our native language, words that I didn't understand, but sounded like a prayer or a plea. His voice was strong, determined, a stark contrast to the fear I felt. We reached the cabin, and I've never been so grateful for a door in my life. We piled inside, slamming it shut behind us. Brad was moving

quickly, turning off all the lights. His movements methodical. and deliberate. In the dim moonlight filtering through the windows, his face was a mask of concentration. He pulled a small pouch from his pocket, spilling its contents, a grayish powder, into his palm. He started at the front door, sprinkling the powder along the threshold, then moved to each window, repeating the action. I realized it was ash, something I remembered our grandmother using in her rituals. What are you doing? Tony whispered. His voice laced with fear. It's to protect us, Brad replied without stopping his movements.

It's supposed to keep evil spirits away. I watched him, a mix of awe and fear churning inside me. I had always known we came from a family with deep native roots, but I'd never seen anything like this. Brad had always been the skeptic, the one who laughed off the old stories. But now, he was chanting, his voice steady and sure, as he moved around the cabin. The rest of us huddled together, too scared to speak, our eyes wide and fixed on Brad.

The cabin felt like a sanctuary, but also like a trap. We were safe for the moment, but the creature was still out there, somewhere in the darkness. After what felt like ours, Brad finished his ritual. He pulled out our dad's pistol, checking it before setting it within arm's reach. The sight of the gun, a stark reminder of the danger we were in. sent a fresh wave of fear through me. No one slept that night. We sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the night,

jumping at every creek and rustle. The reality of what had happened, what we had seen, was too much to process. It felt like a nightmare, but I knew it was all too real. As the first light of dawn crept into the cabin, I looked around at my friends. Their faces were drawn, pale, their eyes haunted. We were all too.

changed by what had happened. The innocence of our carefree camping trip was gone, replaced by a harsh, terrifying reality. I knew we couldn't stay there. We had to leave. Get away from this place. But as we began to pack up in silence, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't over. Whatever we had encountered in the woods, it wasn't going to let us go that easily. The first light of dawn broke through the cabin windows, casting a pale, eerie glow on our exorbit faces. The events of the night, surreal and terrifying, seemed like a bad dream now. But the fear in everyone's eyes told me it was all too real. I was the first to stir, my body stiff from sitting against the cold, hard floor all night. Brad was still awake, his eyes red and weary, the

pistol lying dormant in his lap. The ash he had sprinkled around was still visible, a reminder of the nightmare we had lived. morning i mumbled my voice hoarse from the tension no one responded the cabin was filled with a heavy silence the kind that comes after a storm we were safe but at what cost tony was the next to move he stood up stretching his limbs his face etched with worry we should go he said his voice barely above a whisper no one argued we all knew we couldn't stay here not after what had happened packing up was a silent affair we moved mechanically each lost in our thoughts the fun and laughter from the previous day seemed like a distant memory now there was only the urge to leave to escape this place that had turned from a haven into a horror scene as we loaded the car brad took a moment to look back at the cabin he mumbled something under his breath a final farewell or perhaps another prayer i could just be a moment to look back at the cabin he mumbled something under his breath a final farewell or perhaps another prayer i could see the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He had protected us, but I knew he was thinking about what could have happened. The drive back was quiet. The roads, once welcoming with their

promise of adventure, now felt ominous, as if they were hiding secrets in their bends and curves. Every shadow in the woods seemed sinister, every rustle in the trees a potential threat. At some point, one of the girls, Sarah, broke the silence. What was that thing? she asked. Her voice shaky. But no one answered. Some truths are too frightening to speak aloud. We reached home in the early hours. The sun high and bright, a stark contrast to the darkness we had left behind. My parents were surprised to see us back so early, but didn't press for details. They could see something was wrong, but I wasn't ready to talk about it. None of us were. In the days that followed, we all tried. We all tried. tried to return to our normal lives, but something had shifted. The carefree spirit of our youth had been replaced by a sense of vulnerability, a knowledge of the darkness that lurked just beyond the light. I still think about that night, about the creature in the woods.

I've done some research, talked to my grandmother about the legends of our people. She believes we encountered a skin walker, a being of immense power and danger. She says we were lucky to escape with our lives. I haven't gone back to the woods since then, and I don't think I ever will. Some experiences change you forever, leaving scars that are invisible but deeply felt. That weekend was supposed to be a fun adventure, a memory to cherish. Instead, it became a lesson in respect for the unknown, for the mysteries of the world that are better left undiscovered.

As for my friends, we've grown closer in some ways, but there's also a distance now. a shared trauma that's hard to bridge. We don't talk about that night, but it hangs between us. A silent acknowledgement of the fear we faced, and the unspoken questions we all have. What was that creature? Why did it come to us? Will it ever come back? These are questions I don't have answers to. Maybe I never will. But I've learned to respect the unknown, to understand that some things are beyond our understanding. and sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away and be grateful for the escape.

In 2017, I was a 21-year-old college student in the final semester of my education at a university in the southeastern part of South Dakota. It was a far cry from my childhood in the greater St. Louis area of Missouri, a place that felt like a distant memory, eight long hours away from where I now called home. During my time in South Dakota, I had the privilege of, of meeting people from various backgrounds and cultures. One group that left a lasting impression on me were the Native Americans from the Sioux tribe. Many late-night conversations in the library

with my Sioux classmates exposed me to the rich mythologies of their culture, tales of creatures like the Thunderbird and Sasquatch. As a child, I had been obsessed with researching cryptids and watching shows like Monster Quest and Mountain Monsters. But as I grew older, I became more skeptical of the stories I once believed in. Conversations with my Sioux friends were now driven more by intellectual curiosity, although some of their stories began to creep into my nightmares. Stories of beings capable of shape-shifting and mimicking your loved ones, enough to send shivers down anyone's spine.

Amidst my final semester, my girlfriend and I broke up, and it took a toll on my mental health and schoolwork. She had been my first real relationship, and facing the prospect of being alone, was a new and unscernation. settling experience. My two friends, Rich and Eric, my roommates, noticed my struggles. At first, they gave me space, but as days turned into weeks, their concern grew. One fateful night, around 10 p.m., I was watching TV and sipping on a bang energy drink when Rich knocked on my door so loudly that my star-blast-flavored liquid splattered onto the carpet. With a mischievous grin, he exclaimed, come on bro we're going hunting rich was a self-proclaimed ladies man from the west coast towering at six five

and built like a former offensive lineman much like the three of us who had bonded through football i had hung up my cleats due to an injury the previous year and both rich and eric had their own reasons for quitting over time rich and i had gone from reluctant teammates to close friends while eric hailing from nebraska was about my height six by two and a solid two hundred 185 pounds of pure muscle. He was the quintessential country boy, rarely without chewing tobacco, or a cheap beer in hand. Eric had gone hunting with Rich before, but I had never been the hunting type. My recent breakup had left me sulking in my room, making it hard for me to muster the courage to ask if I could tag along. When Rich urged me to join them, I hesitated for a moment,

contemplating a night of solitude and self-pity. Eventually, I gave in and said, Screw it, let's go. Eric was already in the driver's seat of his truck, as Rich and I locked the front door of our apartment. I reached for a nearly full 30-pack of cheap beer, and Eric asked me to grab one for him. Not the smartest decision, drinking and driving,

but we were young and reckless. For the next two hours, we drove through the back roads of South Dakota, navigating dirt trails that seemed to stretch into infinity. Surrounded by the vast plains cloaked in darkness, the only source of light was the truck's headlights. At one point, Rich and Eric abruptly stopped the truck, and I followed suit. There was a bang, and moments later, Eric retrieved a dead raccoon shot by the tail,

grinning like a mischievous kid. This odd ritual repeated a few times, but then something strange occurred. Eric asked if we needed a bathroom break. and both Rich and I raised our hands like obedient students. Rolling his eyes, Eric slowed the truck to a stop in the middle of a dirt road. To our right, there were about 20 yards of grass, followed by a dense thicket of trees that seemed to stretch endlessly. To the left, the Great Plains stretched out as far as the eye could see.

We got out of the truck to relieve ourselves since there was no one around for miles. We stayed on the dirt road close to the running truck. As I finished and zipped up my pants, I looked over at the tree line and was startled. Two glowing yellow orbs glowed in the darkness, only about 20 yards away. Thinking that the alcohol had caught up with me, I rubbed my eyes vigorously and opened them again. But the eerie yellow orbs remained. I squinted, trying to discern more details, but all I saw was an impenetrable darkness, except for those hauntingly luminous eyes.

Frozen in fear, I dared not look back at Rich and Eric, terrified that turning away would invite the creature to approach. Suddenly a hand rested on my shoulder, causing me to jump out of my skin. It was Eric, his voice calm but firm, saying, We need to make a dash for the truck. If not, we're going to die. I nodded, unable to muster any words. On the count of three, Eric continued. One, two, he never got to three.

As soon as he uttered two, a spine-chilling sound pierced the air. It was a terrifying, other-worldly roar, a symphony of hatred, evil, and imminent danger. The sound was both high-pitched and deep, as though the creature possessed impossibly large lungs. Panic surged through my veins, and I broke free from my petrified state. Eric and I turned and bolted for the truck, our footsteps and heavy breathing echoing in the night. I could hear something in pursuit, closing in on us rapidly. We channeled every ounce of energy into running faster than we'd ever run before. I practically dove into the back of the truck, while Eric jumped into the driver's seat,

slamming the gas pedal as we lurched forward. Glancing back I saw nothing but the dust kicked up by the truck's tires, and in that vast, impenetrable darkness, the two glowing eyes stared at us. They remained fixed in place as we sped back to our apartment. Eric pulled into our driveway, and we stumbled out of the truck, shaken to our cores. I fumbled for the keys and opened the front door, and once inside we tried to process the harrowing encounter. Sean had only heard the roar, not much else.

As I recounted what I'd seen, Sean gave me a perplexed look, but Eric corroborated my story. They had witnessed the same inexplicable phenomenon. Dazed, confused, and uttered. exhausted. We all passed out shortly after. When morning came, I woke up with a slight headache and went to the kitchen, where Eric was already eating breakfast. I grabbed a protein bar and chewed it in silence. Eventually I looked at Eric and asked the question that had been gnawing at me since the previous night. Eric, what the heck was that? He stopped eating and locked eyes with me, a look of someone who had seen such things before. Well, I don't know, he replied slowly, but I can tell you this.

It wasn't human, and it wasn't like anything I've ever hunted. After graduating, I returned to the St. Louis area. Over the years, I lost touch with Eric and Sean, hearing that Sean had gone back to the West Coast, while Eric had returned to Nebraska. I moved on with my life, got engaged and secured a job in law enforcement. Most days were good. But every now, and then, when I found myself driving alone at night, those haunting memories of that encounter in South Dakota would resurface, serving as a chilling reminder of the night I narrowly escaped something beyond comprehension. As I delved into research on cryptids once more, I could only narrow it down to two possibilities, Bigfoot or a skin walker. Regardless of its identity, those

luminous eyes would forever remain etched in my soul. A haunting reminder of that night in South Dakota when I came face to face with the unknown. To the creature in the darkness of South Dakota, I can only say this. Let's not meet again. When I was 13 years old, a young girl navigating the world, this story unfolded, a memory that still sends shivers down my spine despite the many years that have passed. It was a time when innocence mingled with ignorance, and I was blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking in the world. The day began like any other as I embarked on my daily journey home from school. A four-kilometer trek along a bustling road, it was a route I had traversed countless times.

However, on this particular day, I was walking alone, and little did I know that it would be a journey etched into my memory forever. As I crossed intersections, the busy street became a stage for an unsettling encounter. A tall, unkempt man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, caught my eye. Back then, deciphering an adult's age was a puzzle I had yet to master. He began to follow me, his footsteps echoing ominously behind me. With an unsettling smile, he initiated a conversation, repeatedly emphasizing the beauty of the day and his desire for us to become friends.

He probed me with questions, inquiring about my home and whether my parents would be there. I sensed that something was amiss, and his peculiar interest in a child like me only fueled my unease. Politely, I avoided answering his inquiries and quickened my pace. As we neared the block where I lived, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. I knew I couldn't allow him to follow me home. He exuded an eerie aura that adults rarely directed at me. To escape, I concocted a desperate plan. I would give him a fake cell phone.

number, agreeing to answer his calls later, anything to sever the connection and get away from him. In my discomfort, I handed him a fabricated number and fled the scene. Months passed, and I convinced myself that he was merely a random oddity, a disturbing episode best forgotten. Little did I know that the story was far from over. Four months later, the grim specter of that man resurfaced. As I walked home from school, my attention was elsewhere. until the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps jolted me to awareness. I turned, and there he was, that same sinister figure from the past. He slowed his pace, yet his voice pierced the air with anger.

He had discovered my ruse, and fury consumed him. He berated me relentlessly, accusing me of thinking myself superior to him. Panic gripped me. I feared for my safety, but my cries for help went unanswered by the passing motorists. Desperation led me to the nearest petrol station, not too far away, with the man trailing behind, his voice a cacophonous storm. Upon arriving at the station, I caught the attention of two burly men standing next to their pickup truck. They must have seen the terror etched across my face and the man following me. Without hesitation, they rushed to my side their protective instincts

kicking in. Words failed me as I shook my head frantically, seeking refuge behind their imposing figures. The two men demanded to know why the man was pursuing me. He concocted a false story, claiming to be my older brother. Silently, I affirmed their suspicions through my terrified demeanor. Realizing the gravity of the situation, the men berated him, accusing him of actions I couldn't bring myself to articulate. In that moment of chaos, as their attention was drawn to the man, I seized the opportunity to flee. He noticed my escape and made an attempt to pursue me. me. The burly men, incensed by his audacity, reacted swiftly. They tackled him to the ground and deposited him unceremoniously into the back of their pickup truck. His screams filled the air

as they sped off at an astonishing pace, passing me by and disappearing into the distance. Relief washed over me as I watched them drive away with the menacing stranger. I didn't know where they were taking him or what they intended to do, and frankly, I didn't want to know. I didn't know. I ran all the way home, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to make sense of the traumatic encounter. I confided in my parents, and we immediately altered my school route. Thankfully, I never saw that man again, and for that, I remain eternally grateful. Those two kind strangers, who intervened when I couldn't find my voice, saw my distress, and acted selflessly to protect me. Even now, after all these years, I have to be a lot of

I vividly remember the terror that gripped me, and the overwhelming relief when they took him away, saving me from an unthinkable fate. I remember the day I first arrived at the watchtower. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange and red, much like a wildfire itself. I lugged my last bag up the wooden steps of the tower, a structure that seemed both ancient and timeless, perched solemnly amidst the vastness of the forest.

i'm alex matthews not your typical fire-watcher i guess i landed this job partly out of necessity partly out of a desire to escape the clutches of city life there's something about the forest's solitude that appealed to my less social nature but as i stood there on the deck of the tower the forest stretching endlessly in every direction i felt a pang of something akin to fear it was a respect maybe for the sheer enormity of nature The tower was rustic, to put it nicely. Inside, everything smelt of pine and old wood. The walls were lined with shelves holding an array of outdated equipment, maps, and a dusty old radio that would be my only line to the outside world. In the back of a cupboard, I found a leather journal. Left by some previous watcher, I presumed. Flipping through its yellowed pages, I felt a strange connection to those who had come before me. My first night was a symphony of unfamiliar sounds, the creaking of the tower, the whispering of the wind through the trees, and distant calls of nocturnal animals.

I lay in my bunk, listening, learning. The next day, I started my routines. I scanned the horizon for smoke, reported weather conditions, and kept the radio close. It was a life of repetition and vigilance, but the forest had other plans. It was on the third day, that I found the deer skull. I was returning from a routine check when I saw it, lying just outside my door. A chill ran down my spine as I examined it. It was old, weathered, with bits of fur and flesh still clinging to it. It felt like a warning, a sign of something more sinister lurking in the depths of the forest. I recalled the teenagers I had chased off a few nights before and figured it was their idea of a prank. Still, I couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling it left in my gut.

That night, as darkness engulfed the tower, I sat at my desk, the journal open in front of me. I began to write, pouring my thoughts onto paper. It felt cathartic, a way to process the day's eerie discovery. As the days passed, the initial thrill of solitude gave way to a gnawing sense of isolation. The tower, once a symbol of escape, now felt like a cage. The endless expanse of trees seemed to watch me, whispering secrets I couldn't understand. I found myself staring out into the forest, searching for something I couldn't quite define, but the forest kept its secrets, and I, in my isolated watchtower, waited, watched and wondered. Little did I know, the true test of my resolve was yet to come. The days in the watchtower began to blend into, and I,

one another, each indistinguishable from the last. The forest with its sprawling expanse of pines and hidden secrets watched me silently. My daily routines, scanning for smoke, reporting weather conditions, walking the trails, became my lifeline, the only thing anchoring me to reality. It was during one of my routine trail checks that I stumbled upon the old man. He was a small, wiry figure, leaning heavily on a cane, his eyes squinting against the the daylight. Lost, he said. Couldn't find his way back to the car park. I remember thinking how out of place he looked in the wilderness, like a piece of a different puzzle forced into the wrong box. I pointed him towards the trail leading back to the car park, watched him shuffle away,

his steps unsteady but determined. There was something about his resolve that struck a chord in me. Maybe it was the way he clung to his independence or the stubborn set of his jaw. I didn't know I know then that I'd see him again under far different circumstances. The next day, I was woken by a crackle over the radio. A search party was being formed. The old man hadn't made it back to his car. My stomach sank. I joined the search, a sense of responsibility weighing heavily on me.

We found him at the bottom of a steep incline, his leg broken, his face etched with pain and relief. The sight of him, lying there helpless, made him. me feel both guilty and grateful, guilty for not walking him back to the car park, grateful that we found him alive. After that incident, the forest seemed to close in on me, its shadows deeper, its silence is longer. I started noticing things I hadn't before, the way the trees seemed to move in the corner of my eye, the strange arrangements of stones on the trails. One day, I found a series of stones stacked in a precise, unnatural way. It was unsettling, like a message left in a language I couldn't read.

Then came the day I found blood under my station. It was a small, dark stain on the ground, almost easy to miss. But I saw it, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Jonathan, my contact and only lifeline to the outside world, said it was probably an animal. But his words did little to ease my mind. The forest felt alive, watching, waiting. The most disturbing discovery came a few days later. I was walking the mountain trail, my thoughts lost in the monotonous rhythm of my steps,

when I stumbled upon it. A deer, its body mutilated hanging from a tree. Its entrails were strewn about like some grotesque decoration. The sight of it stopped me cold. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath caught in my throat. For a moment I couldn't move, couldn't think. All I could do was stare at the macabre spectacle before me. That night, back in the safety of my tower, I couldn't shake the image of the

deer from my mind. It haunted me, a vivid reminder that the forest was not just trees and trails. It was something ancient, something wild, something that didn't adhere to the rules of the civilized world. And I was a guest in its domain, a fact I was becoming painfully aware of. The days turned colder, and the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to happen. I felt it too, a sense of impending change, a prelude to something dark. My days at the watchtower, once filled with a sense of purpose, now felt tinged with an undefinable dread. The missing hiker, David Green, became my obsession. His name echoed in my mind as I walked the trails, his unseen presence a constant companion.

The forest, once a source of solitude, now felt like a labyrinth, hiding secrets in its dense foliage. The search for David was exhaustive, each day ending with the same result, nothing. Then the fire broke out. It started as a distant glow on the horizon, a small flicker amidst the darkness. But it grew quickly, hungrily, consuming everything in its path. I radioed it in, my voice steady but my hands shaking. The response was swift, a team of firefighters, their faces set in grim determination, their movements practiced and precise.

For six days and nights the battle raged. The fire was relentless, a living thing with a will of its own. We dug trenches, cleared brush, and set backfires. The air was thick with smoke, the heat intense enough to singe the hairs on my arms. My body ached from the constant exertion, but I pushed on,

driven by a sense of duty that was as much about self-preservation as it was about the job. When the fire was finally contained, the forest was a different place. Chard trees stood like sentinels over a scorched earth, a blackened testament to nature's fury. The air smelled of ash and defeat. But there was no time to rest, no time to process what had happened. The missing persons' cases piled up, six in total,

all hikers who had been in the forest when the fire started. Their cars were found in the parking lot, their belongings untouched. belongings untouched. It was as if they had simply vanished into the smoke. Jonathan and I combed our sectors, our search now including the burnt area. The destruction was complete, the landscape unrecognizable. It felt like walking through the aftermath of a war, the silence oppressive, the devastation complete. One morning, as I walked a familiar trail, my mind numb from the endless searching. I stumbled upon a cave, a low, mournful sound emanated from within, like a cry for help. My heart raced as I approached, my flashlight

cutting through the darkness. Inside, I found a mountain lion, its eyes reflecting a primal intelligence, its body tense and ready. The sight of it, so wild and untamed, sent a shiver down my spine. I backed away slowly, my every instinct screaming to flee. That night, back in the watchtower, I couldn't sleep. The image of the mountain lion haunted me, its eyes a mirror to the forest itself, wild, unfathomable, and deeply alive. I realized then that the forest was not just a backdrop to my job. It was a living entity, with its own rules and mysteries. And I was an intruder in its domain, a fact that both terrified and fascinated me. The forest had changed since the fire. The blackened trees stood like grim sentinel.

guarding secrets that the flames couldn't consume. I walked the trails with a sense of purpose, each step taking me deeper into the unknown. The mystery of the missing hikers weighed heavily on me, their absence a constant reminder of the forest's deceptive tranquility. It was during one of these patrols that I found the cave. Tucked away in a part of the forest spared by the fire, it seemed like a dark mouth, ready to swallow anything that dared enter.

The air around it was cold, and as I approached, a sense of unease crept over me. I heard it before I saw it, a low guttural growl that reverberated through the still air, the mountain lion from before, its eyes gleaming in the dim light, watching me with a predator's interest. I backed away slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. There was something about that cave, something ancient and malevolent. I knew I had to explore it further, but not alone, not without being prepared. The next day I returned with Jonathan. He was armed, his revolver a small comfort against the unknown.

We entered the cave cautiously, the beam of our flashlights cutting through the darkness. The cave twisted and turned, leading us deeper into the earth. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else, something metallic. We found the room deep inside the cave. It was like stepping into another world, a place untouched by time. The walls were lined with strange symbols, their meaning lost to the ages. In the center of the room lay a collection of objects. Clothes, tools, things that had no place in a cave deep in the forest.

It was a cache of sorts, a hoarder's treasure trove. Jonathan was tense, his revolver at the ready. We didn't speak, our silence, a mutual agreement, that there were things here beyond our understanding. We left the cave with more questions than answers, the mystery deepening with each step we took, but it was the basement that truly shook me. I found it by accident, a small opening in the ground, hidden by the charred remains of what once was a forest. I descended into the darkness, the air growing colder with each step. The basement was a tomb, a final resting place for things long forgotten. The walls were lined with shelves, each holding jars filled with

unidentifiable substances. In the center of the room lay the bodies. Six of them, arranged in a circle, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. The seventh body lay apart from the others, a dagger clutched in its lifeless hand. I stood there, frozen in shock, the horror of the scene etching itself into my memory. The silence of the basement was oppressive, a tangible reminder of the finality of death. I backed out of the basement, my mind reeling from the discovery. I knew then that the forest held secrets darker than I could have imagined, secrets that were now mine to uncover.

That night, back in the safety of my watchtower, I couldn't sleep. The images of the cave and the basement haunted me, their mysteries a siren call that I couldn't ignore. I knew I had to go back, to delve deeper into the forest's secrets. But I also knew that I was playing a dangerous game, one that could cost me more than I was willing to pay. The forest had become a realm of shadows and whispers, its secrets gnawing at the edges of my sanity. Each night the darkness seemed thicker, pressing against the glass of the watchtower like a tangible force. I felt it watching me, an unseen presence lurking just beyond sight.

The deer creature haunted both my waking hours, and my dreams. Its grotesque form, a twisted mockery of nature, seemed to symbolize the forest's hidden malevolence. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than just a random occurrence, that it was connected to the cave, the basement, and the unexplained disappearances. I spent my days pouring over the cryptic message carved into the deer's body, mutmeromit ihim ednetso. The words were like a puzzle, their meaning just out of reach. I scoured, the old books and maps in the watchtower, searching for any clue that might shed light on the mystery. But the answer alluded me, hidden in the shadows of forgotten lore. Then came the night

that changed everything. It started as a low rumble, a sound that seemed to come from the very heart of the earth. The watchtower shook, its timbers groaning under the strain. I looked out the window and saw it. A fire, but not like any fire I had ever seen. It was alive, writhing and twisting like a living thing. And in its heart, I saw the silhouette of the deer creature, its antlers outlined against the flames. I grabbed my rifle and radio, knowing that this was the moment of truth. The forest was no longer a place of refuge.

It was a battlefield, and I was the only one left to fight. I made my way down the tower, the fire growing larger with each step. The heat was intense, the air thick with smoke and ash. I could hear the deer creature moving through the forest, its footsteps heavy and deliberate. I followed the sound, my rifle at the ready. The fire illuminated the forest in a hellish glow, casting long dancing shadows among the trees. I felt like I was walking through a nightmare, each step taking me deeper into the heart of darkness. Then I saw it, the deer creature standing at the edge of the fire, its eyes glowed with an unholy light, its body twisted and malform.

formed. It stared at me, a silent challenge in its gaze. I raised my rifle, my hands steady, despite the fear that gripped my heart. But before I could fire, the creature moved. It was fast, impossibly fast, a blur of fur and antlers. I fired blindly, the sound of the rifle loud in the silence of the forest. But it was too late. The creature was upon me, its antlers piercing me, its breath toxic and fetid on my face. As I lay there, the life ebbing from my body, I realized the truth. The forest was not just a place of trees and trails. It was a living, breathing entity, ancient and powerful, and I had been nothing but a pawn in its game, a player in a story that was as old as the hills. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the fire,

burning bright against the night sky, a beacon of destruction and renewal. And I knew that that the forest would continue long after I was gone, its secrets hidden in the shadows, waiting for the next unwary soul to stumble upon them. I've always had this strange occurrence in the middle of the night, where I awaken at the eerie hour of three or four a.m., engulfed by an unexpected surge of energy. This peculiar habit began in my childhood, prompting my parents to consult doctors and specialists. They were perplexed, as they would often find me aimlessly darting around the house, attempting to exhaust myself. Fearing for my safety, my parents took a drastic step to prevent me from wandering outside during my teenage years. They relocated my entire bedroom to the

basement and installed a treadmill there. Extensive neurological tests yielded no conclusive results and sleeping pills proved ineffective. Thus, this midnight restlessness became a peculiar facet of my life. Now, as an adult living alone, I have discovered that the best remedy for my nocturnal restlessness is late-night walks. I embark on these solitary journeys, covering a mile or two, until I sense myself gradually winding down. Once I feel the fatigue creeping in, I retrace my steps and return home. Surprisingly, these nighttime strolls have proven to be quite therapeutic, and I've grown to embrace them as an essential part of my nightly routine. I share this background to emphasize that walking in the middle of the night has become second nature to me. I don't

experience hallucinations, fatigue, or any impediments to my senses during these walks. However, what I encountered last night defies all explanation. At precisely three-thirty-thirty, 33 in the morning, I awoke from slumber, the time etched into my memory due to its specificity. Given my history of random awakenings between 3 and 4 a.m., I thought nothing of it, and quickly dawned my sweatshirt and sweatpants. My body was already pulsating with energy, a sensation I'd grown accustomed to. I knew better than to resist the urge to walk. As I stepped out into the deserted street, it was bathed only in the eerie glow of the moon and the dim, yellowish haze of streetlights. I've never been a fan of horror movies, but I could understand why they often

took place at night. Even my tranquil suburban neighborhood assumed a sinister aspect in the hushed stillness of the night. The pounding of my own blood echoed in my ears as I ascended the steep incline toward the forest that crowned our block. Although I walked outside at this hour every night, the disconcerting feeling of unease never waned. I followed my usual weekday route, tracing the path along the tree line and the moderately maintained sidewalk. This route led directly to an elementary school, which, on any ordinary night, would be locked and shrouded in darkness. However, as I approached, I noticed something unusual.

All the lights were on. Not just a few lights, as if a teacher had forgotten to switch them off, but every single light inside the two-story concrete building was illuminated. Moreover, I could discern silhouette. in each window. My initial thought was that some school event was taking place, but then I remembered the time. A sudden realization struck me. I had left my phone at home. Over the course of countless nocturnal walks, I rarely took my phone with me, as it would only serve to keep me awake, contrary to the purpose of these walks. Now, I wished I had it with me. I felt compelled

to investigate further, despite the uneasy sensation that crept up my spine. A chilling shiver ran through me, regardless of the warmth provided by my clothing. Standing in the school's entrance was an impossibly tall figure. Although I was still well over a hundred feet away, I couldn't discern whether it was a man or a woman. They filled the doorway and then some, their hunched posture indicating a height that exceeded nine or ten feet. Common sense urged me to turn back, but my curiosity prevailed. I veered off the path to the left. which led to the woods near the school.

If I intended to share my discovery with anyone, I needed more than just a vague description of a tall, eerie figure near the school. So I stealthily ventured into the woods, all the while keeping an eye on the figure lingering at the entrance as I disappeared into the dense foliage. I had about 20 feet of cover ahead of me

to formulate a plan. I couldn't take any photographs due to the absence of my phone, and if there was any potential danger, it was unlikely that anyone would hear my son. screams from the isolated spot I was in. Nevertheless, I pressed forward. Emerging from the woods near the western entrance of the school, I lost sight of the figure at the front door. This lack of visibility unsettled me, but I continued. I cautiously approached the school, keen to catch a glimpse through one of the many illuminated windows. The first floor, where my niece had attended

school nearly a decade ago, contained homeroom classrooms. I crept closer, not spotting any other figures outside, and peered into my niece's former classroom. Although I stood about 10 feet away from the window, it was evident that something was amiss. The classroom bore no resemblance to a typical school setting. Instead, it resembled a laboratory, massive jars containing murky liquids, tubes running through the hallway, and hefty power cables protruding from the walls filled the room. In the corner lurked, corpulent figure, contorting as if straining against some invisible force. It was too large to be a human, with an almost comical width and roundness, yet it moved in a manner characteristic of a person. Just before it spun around, I hastily lowered myself to avoid being noticed. However, I managed to catch a

glimpse of what it was clutching, an oversized rat-like creature with human eyes and human teeth. It was at that moment I wished I had my phone with me. You see, I failed to mention a significant detail about my sleeping troubles. I also suffered from night terrors. Although they weren't a nightly occurrence, when they did manifest, they were exceptionally vivid. This rat-human hybrid creature was a recurring entity in my night terrors. An entity I had witnessed sitting in the corner of my room since childhood. And now, I was encountering it just up the street. At that moment, I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream, but no matter how many times I pinched myself, I couldn't awaken. I had no choice but to continue observing. The next classroom over was unfamiliar to me,

containing several hooded figures, each with a different size and peculiar physique. They had strapped some grotesque creature to a large gurney, a creature that resembled a real-life boogieman. They showed it a series of photographs of children, while another hooded figure made incisions into its dark, hardened flesh. I couldn't hear what was transpiring inside, but I witnessed the creature snapping and growling at them. I dared not linger there for too long. As I passed by several more classrooms, each more bewildering and terrifying than the last, I eventually reached another unnervingly familiar sight, the elementary school gymnasium. Inside, I saw hundreds, if not thousands, of shadows.

These were not the typical shadow people one might read about online. These were tangible shadows of individuals I knew. It was a common theme in my night terrors. I would encounter the shadow of someone I recognized, only for it to engage in horrifying acts, such as self-harm or attempting to attack me. This particular scene was too much for me to bear, and I decided to head back home. The sights I had witnessed were too bizarre and inexplicable for anyone to believe.

For all I knew, this was still a dream. However, as I turned to make my way back to the woods, I spotted him. The ten-foot tall man from the school's entrance was now traversing the woods. His grotesquely scarred and pallid face, marred, marred, by a gaping hole where his nose should have been, indicated that he was searching for something, or rather, some one. Me. I didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through my veins, and I bolted in the direction of my house. I could hear pounding footsteps behind me, but I dared not glance back. I had stumbled upon something unspeakably horrific and beyond comprehension, and it was abundantly clear

that it did not want to be seen. It didn't want me seeing it. it. I raced back into my house, rushing to my bedroom and slamming the door shut. Trembling, I huddled beneath the covers, feeling like a frightened child. I glanced at the clock, fully expecting hours to have passed, but to my astonishment, the time still read 3.33 in the morning. Desperately, I tried to ward off sleep. I knew it wouldn't end well if I succumbed to slumber. Despite my efforts, my body eventually betrayed me, and I reluctantly drifted into a fitful sleep. I couldn't recall the specifics of my dreams, between 4 a.m. and 7.45 a.m. when I awoke, but I knew they had been nightmarish. Scratches adorned my arms, and my nails were chewed down,

an extreme physical reaction I hadn't experienced since my childhood when my night terrors were at their worst. These nightly walks had typically kept them at bay, but it seemed this particular night had exacerbated them. After witnessing those bizarre scenes in the classrooms, I dreaded to think about what horrors my subconscious had conjured. And then, there was the note. Scrawled in my own handwriting on a slip of paper next to my bed

was a chilling message. Don't come back. I find myself utterly bewildered by the events of last night, and consumed by fear about what may transpire tonight. It's nearing midnight, and I'm apprehensive about succumbing to sleep. I understand how insane this all sounds, but I'm convinced I wasn't dreaming. That school was a nightmarish factory where unspeakable horrors were being created,

horrors that I had only ever encountered in my nightmares. I can't help but wonder if any of you have glimpsed these same terrors that now haunt my waking hours. My name is Ken, and I'm an anthropologist, student who grew up in North America, listening to the mysterious stories my grandfather, an immigrant from the former Soviet Union, used to tell. His house always had an enigmatic atmosphere, filled with memories and peculiar objects from that distinct nation. My family had immigrated from the USSR decades ago, but my grandfather carried with him a baggage of skepticism and a story

that he held dearly. At 86 years old, he remained strong and skeptical, always, ready to discredit or mock certain beliefs, be they folklore or political ideologies. He used to say that ideologies were the mythology of a man who thought himself intelligent. However, there was one specific legend he dared not joke about or even mention. I recall a time when my older cousin Nicholas casually mentioned the name of that creature as a joke during a family gathering at my grandfather's house, only to receive a stern reprimand. after that incident we never spoke of it again, neither at my grandfather's house nor at any other family gathering. I'm sharing this for a reason. He told me about it during our last visit. We have a close relationship,

and I often visit him. Not to brag, and I pray that neither Nicholas nor any of the others see this, but I am his favorite. He always tells me how much I resemble him when he was my age, and I receive many gifts from him. This time, however, I was visiting him with a purpose. In college, we were studying Slavic culture, the differences in the development of Eastern and Western Europe, and who better to talk about it than my old Soviet grandfather. I called him, asking if he was free,

and we arranged to have coffee in the afternoon. He prefers climates that remind him of home, snow, mountains. Therefore, he lives near Aspen, Colorado. It's about a two-hour drive until you spot his castle, by which I mean a wooden cabin he built himself. It's a charming place to say the least. We talked for a long time, losing track of how late it had become. He shared stories of happy days, his childhood running through the streets of Moscow, his beloved babushka, the monks distributing bread in the city. Due to my young age, he didn't provide many details about the war since he

remembers very little. His father was a radio operator and his mother a seamstress. He had a good education, learning to read early, with early exposure to his favorite authors, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche. His stories filled more than ten pages, and while I'd love to share them, they don't fit the purpose of this occasion. I'm here to report what happened next. I glanced at the clock and almost jumped backward. It was almost 9 p.m. and it was really late. I grabbed my coat from the bench, saying I was leaving. He didn't even say goodbye. I thought he hadn't heard. But upon opening the door to go to my car and seeing the snow falling heavily, rapidly increasing in level, I returned and found his sarcastic smile. Ken, he said, you'll have to spend the night here, lad. It's not safe to

hit the road in these conditions. The old man was right, and I believe he was also happy to have some company. Since my grandmother passed away, he feels quite lonely, so I was also glad to keep him company. He made a batch of blackbread and borsed for us to eat. While he poured the hot soup, he looked outside, closed the curtains, and sat in his armchair, more solemn this time. Ken, he said, you came here wanting to know about my history, but there's something I left out. There are reasons why I didn't talk about it, but look, I'm getting old. Don't have much time left, and I need to tell someone. Don't say that, Grandpa, I replied, referring to his earlier remark about not having much time. You're so fit that you could outlive us all. We laughed.

But now, seriously, he continued, I need to tell you what made me leave my country and start a life here. The following account is a transcription of my grandfather's words. I can't vouch for its accuracy. But if a man as skeptical as him asserts it with such certainty, God, what might exist out there without our knowledge. I was around 25 when it happened. You must remember that I was a metallurgical worker, strong and full of vigor at the time. As a result, I enjoyed nights socializing with factory comrades, getting drunk, and going out with girls. He looked at the icon on his table as if reflecting, regretting past indulgences. That night, I hadn't been drinking. I was too busy trying to win over a German beauty at the bar. My friends left while I was still talking to her,

attempting to convince her to come to my place. She left soon after, leaving my night to end sober and alone, a true loss. He chuckled. Without the comfort of vodka to warm my thoughts, I had no choice but to walk home. public transport, already scarce, had ceased its operation at that hour, and vagabonds roamed the streets. If a cop caught you, well, you better have a really good excuse. I must have walked about two blocks after leaving the bar when, turning into a narrow alley, I came across. It.

His gaze was uneasy, as was his voice and the swallow in his throat. It was a slender thing, pale, leaning over a guy I didn't know, but, God rest his soul. The man's coat was stained with blood, a large hole in the fabric revealing a side wound. The thing seemed to be draining the crimson liquid oozing from the wound. I took a few steps back, but it was too late. The devil's spawn had seen me, looked at me while growling, and its eyes were so, so bright. His hand holding the coffee cup was trembling. I turned around to start running, but I could hear its agile footsteps behind me, glancing back, I saw it running on all fours, like an animal. I could see my door just over 50 meters away

when it pounced on me, knocking me down. I turned and saw its deformed face a few inches from mine. It growled while its iron-like breath flooded my nostrils. The creature seemed prepared to make me its victim, just like the previous man, but upon opening my coat, it encountered my crucifix. He clutched the crucifix around his neck, a constant companion. since I can remember. For a brief moment the creature hesitated, fell backward, and I, not being a fool, continued running. I almost broke down my door with the speed I rushed at it. I could see the beast regaining composure and coming, this time more furious. I had already entered, but there was no way to close the door before it arrived. It was a few meters away when it stopped, out of nowhere.

It stared at me. My legs wobbled. It served. for a few moments and then left. I closed the door while breathing heavily, collapsing into the armchair, utterly incapable of standing. My breath condensed into dense, wet clouds when a quick subtle knock on my door made me jump, a knock that seemed to echo the sinister events of that night. He made the sign of the cross. Are you scared, lad? Relax. If it's one of those things, I have a bag of garlic in the kitchen. He laughed again to himself. as he walked to the door. A muffled voice through layers of clothing sounded, Hey, is anyone home? My car is stuck in the snow, and I can't go back home. Can I come in and use your phone?

My eyes met my grandfather's. What kind of twist of fate was this? I looked out the window, someone in a thick orange coat, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face, and a beanie on their head. My grandfather opened the door. Do you want to be? want to use my phone? He said, stepping back. Yes, please. The voice seemed clearer now, without a door in the middle, and she pulled the scarf slightly away from her mouth. My grandfather stared at her. I swear I won't take long, I just... With a subtle movement, my old man had taken off his crucifix. The creature was now retreating. You're getting old, Mikhail. You won't stand there forever. She hissed as she moved away from the door and

disappeared into the forest. That was the same girl from that night. My grandfather seemed somewhat affected. He tried to conceal it with his characteristic manner, but I noticed. He didn't let me leave until he was sure the sun covered the entire plane. I came home, constantly checking my rearview mirror and taking extra care when entering my house. It's been a few months since that happened, and I'm finally reporting it. Two weeks after that encounter, he disappeared.

Shortly afterward, presumed dead, probably some animal got him or his old age and confused mind, made him lose his way. We'll never know. But I know one thing. My grandfather told me that for a reason, and if that thing crossed the ocean to reach him, how much time do I have before someone knocks on my door? I've never been one for ghost stories or tales of things that go bump in the night. My name's Max, and I guess you could say I'm a practical guy. My journey across Canada was meant to be a break from the constant buzz of city life, a chance to find some peace. But, as I was about to find out, sometimes life has other plans. The trip had been pretty uneventful until I reached a town on the edge of this vast,

eerie forest in Canada. That's where I met Sarah. She was the kind of person you feel like you've known forever, even if you've just met. Sarah was an artist, always with a sketchbook in hand, and she seemed to find something magical in every little thing. She was full of stories and had this easygoing charm that made everything seem like an adventure. We hid it off right away, and before I knew it, I was inviting her to join me on my drive through the forest to the next town.

I figured it wouldn't hurt to have some company, and Sarah was more than happy to tag along. The drive was smooth at first. Sarah pointed out every scenic spot and told me all these quirky tales about the area. It was fun, and I found myself enjoying her company more than I expected. Then, as if on cue, my car decided it needed a break. Right in the middle of nowhere, it just sputtered and died. Great, right?

There I was, a guy who prides himself on being prepared, stranded in the middle of a forest with a girl I'd just met. But Sarah, she was incredible. She just laughed it off, joking about forest spirits having a bit of of fun with us. As the sun began to set, the forest started to look different. The shadows grew longer, and everything seemed a bit more, I don't know, mysterious, I guess. I remember trying to sound cool and in control when I suggested we camp there for the night. Inside, though, I was kicking myself for not paying more attention to those stories about the woods.

Sarah seemed thrilled by the idea of an impromptu camping trip. As Twilight wrapped around us, I felt this weird mix of excitement and nervousness. I've always been a city guy, so spending a night in the woods was way out of my comfort zone, but there was something about Sarah's enthusiasm that was contagious. We sat by my car, the only source of light around us. The forest was eerily quiet, and for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the world. Sarah then started talking about the legends of the forest, whispering about ancient spirits and Wendigows.

I tried to laugh it off. You don't really believe in that stuff, do you? I asked. But my voice betrayed a hint of doubt. She just looked at me, her eyes reflecting the dim light, and said something that stuck with me. Sometimes, Max, there are things in this world that can't be explained by logic or reason. I didn't know what to make of it. The forest around us seemed to grow denser, the silence more profound. That's when we heard it.

A howl that comes. cut through the night. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard, a sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sarah's grip on my hand tightened, and for the first time I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. That's just an animal, right? I whispered, more to reassure myself than her. But Sarah didn't answer. She just stared into the darkness, as if she could see something I couldn't. I'll never forget that night, the way the darkness seemed to press in on us. full of secrets and whispers. It was the beginning of an adventure I never expected,

one that would challenge everything I thought I knew. That night in the Canadian forest was like something out of a storybook, except it was real, and I was living it. After the car broke down, Sarah and I decided to make the best of it. We were stranded, but she seemed to find the whole situation exciting.

I tried to match her enthusiasm, but deep down, I was uneasy. As the darkness enveloped the woods, the atmosphere changed. The playful shadows of the afternoon turned into something more ominous. Sarah, who had been full of lively stories during the day, became more reflective. She talked about the legends of the forest, about ancient spirits and mythical creatures like Wendigows, which she said were creatures of the night that preyed on lost souls.

I tried to laugh it off, but her tales, mixed. with the eerie setting made my skin crawl. I've always been a skeptic, but that night, every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves had me jumping. Sarah seemed to sense my unease and squeezed my hand reassuringly. It's just the forest, she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the night. Then, out of nowhere, a dog appeared. It was a strange-looking creature with a collar made of tiny bones.

Sarah was fascinated by it and mentioned, seeing a similar dog on a wanted poster back in town. The dog seemed friendly enough, and its presence was oddly comforting amidst the weirdness of our situation. We sat by the car, the dog at our feet, and watched the stars peek through the treetops. Despite the beauty of the night sky, I couldn't shake off the feeling that we weren't alone. The forest felt alive, watching and waiting. Sarah's stories about the woods continued.

She spoke of people who had disappeared. of strange sightings and unexplained phenomena. I wanted to believe it was all just folklore, but part of me wondered if there was some truth to her tales. That's when it happened. A howl pierced the night. Unlike any animal sound I'd ever heard, it was long, mournful,

and seemed to come from everywhere at once. The dog perked up, its ears twitching, and then bolted into the darkness. Sarah and I exchanged a look of alarm. We should follow it, she said, and without waiting for my response, she was off into the woods. Chasing after her, my heart pounded in my chest. The forest was a maze of shadows and shapes that played tricks on my eyes. Every step felt like we were moving deeper into another world. I called out for the dog, but there was no sign of it, just the sound of our footsteps and the

occasional distant howl. We wandered for what felt like hours, the darknesses, the darkness around us growing thicker with each passing minute. I couldn't help but think about Sarah's stories. My rational mind told me there was a logical explanation for everything we were experiencing, but in the heart of that forest, logic seemed to have little place. Finally, exhausted and lost, we stopped. The dog was nowhere to be found, and the howling had ceased. The silence was oppressive, and for the first time since I started my journey across Canada, I felt truly scared. I looked at Sarah, trying to find some reassurance in her eyes, but she looked just as lost and afraid as I felt. That night in the woods, under the watchful gaze of the ancient trees and the starlit sky,

I began to question everything I thought I knew. The forest held secrets, and Sarah and I had stumbled right into the middle of them. As we huddled together for warmth, waiting for the dawn, I realized that this adventure was only just beginning. The deeper we ventured into the forest, the more I realized how out of my element I was. The once comforting presence of Sarah and the mysterious dog was now replaced by an overwhelming sense of solitude. I had lost track of time and direction. The trees seemed to loom over us, their branches like arms trying to snatch us away. I remember tripping over something. It happened so fast. One moment I was on my feet, the next I was tumbling to the

ground. The world spun, and then there was darkness. When I finally came to, the first thing I noticed was the silence. It was suffocating. I called out for Sarah, but there was no answer. The dog was gone too. Panic set in as I realized I was alone. I scrambled to my feet, my head pounding with a ferocious headache. The forest was a blur of greens and browns, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. I had to find Sarah and the dog. I had to get out of this forest. As I stumbled through the woods, a sense of dread grew within me. The stories Sarah had told me echoed in my mind, tales of spirits and creatures that lurked in the shadows. Every snapped twig or rustling leaf sent a shiver down my spine. I was lost, both physically and mentally, in a world I didn't

understand. After what felt like hours, I came across a cave. It looked ominous, like the mouth of some giant beast. I hesitated, but the thought of Sarah alone and scared pushed me forward. I entered the cave, my heart racing with every step. The cave was darker than the night outside, and the air felt thick and heavy. I moved cautiously, feeling my way along the walls. My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and that's when I saw it, a scene that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Bodies were strewn across the cave floor. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. Among the lifeless figures I saw her, Sarah. She was lying unconscious, her face pale in the dim light. Relief and horror washed over me in equal measure. She was alive, but we were in grave

danger. That's when I heard it, a low, gutteral growl that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. My blood ran cold. I remembered Sarah's stories about the Wendigo, a creature of nightmares. I never believed in them, but now, faced with the unknown, doubt crept in. I knew I had to act fast. Gently, I lifted Sarah into my arms. She was surprisingly light, but every movement was a struggle against fear and uncertainty. I had to get us out of there. As I made my way back towards the cave entrance, every shadow seemed to move, every sound a potential threat. My mind was racing with thoughts of the Wendigo. Was it just a story, or was there truth to the legend? When I finally emerged from the cave, the forest seemed different. It was as if the trees knew what lay hidden

in the depths of that cave. The once welcoming woods now felt like a prison, holding secrets too dark for the light of day. I didn't stop to look back. With Sarah in my arms, I pushed through the underbrush, desperation giving me strength. The forest that had once seemed magical was now a labyrinth of fear and mystery. I had come to Canada seeking peace, but what I found was a nightmare that would stay with me forever. The forest was a blur as I carried Sarah through it.

My mind was a mess of fear and confusion. Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig underfoot, made me flinch. The terrifying encounter in the cave and the shocking discovery of the bodies, along with Sarah unconscious in my arms, weighed heavily on me. But here's the twist. This isn't my story. I'm not Max. I'm a member of the search and rescue team that was sent out to find Max and Sarah after

they went missing. What I'm about to tell you is peace together. from a journal we found near the cave. It belonged to Max, and it was filled with entries that described their journey into the forest, the breakdown of his car, the eerie tales Sarah told, and their terrifying encounter in the cave. As we read through the pages, a sense of dread filled us. The details were vivid, the emotions raw. It wasn't just a story, it felt real, too real. The journal ended abruptly, leaving us with more questions than answers. We knew we had to find the cave Max wrote about.

We found it all right, and it was just as Max had described. The cave was unsettling, an air of danger lingering at its entrance. We ventured inside, our flashlights cutting through the darkness. There were no bodies, no sign of Max or Sarah, just the remnants of that dog Max mentioned, and these weird wooden stick figures with strands of hair that matched the DNA of Max and Sarah. It was creepy, to say the least. We searched the area for days, calling out their names, hoping for a response that never came. The forest seemed to swallow up any sound we made.

It was like stepping into another world, one that was not meant for us. The experience left us shaken. The mystery of what happened to Max and Sarah hung over us like a dark cloud, We had to face the fact that we might never find out the truth. The forest kept its secrets well. After the search was called off, I couldn't shake off the feeling that we had missed something, that there was more to the story than what we found in Max's journal. The tales of the Wendigo, the mysterious dog, the strange figures in the cave.

It all seemed like pieces of a puzzle we couldn't solve. I went back to the forest many times after that, drawn by the forest. a need to understand, to find some closure, but each visit left me with more questions. The forest was silent, as if mocking my efforts. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. Maybe it's a warning to stay away from places that are better left unexplored, or maybe it's just a way to keep the memory of Max and Sarah alive. Their story is a reminder of the mysteries that exist in this world,

mysteries that we may never understand. As for the forest, it remains there, untouched and unyielding, a reminder of the unknown that lurks just beyond the edge of our understanding. And as for Max and Sarah, there are just two more names added to the long list of those who ventured into the unknown and never returned.