Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 4 Extremely CREEPY HUNTING HORROR STORIES

Episode Date: May 21, 2025

These are 4 Extremely CREEPY HUNTING HORROR STORIESLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Timestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:20:02 Story 200:35:44 Story 300:47:55 Story 4Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s► Myuu's channelhttp://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Musichttp://bit.ly/2f9WQpeBusiness inquiries: ►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories #huntingstories #deepwoods #cryptids 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel is California's number one entertainment destination for today's superstars. Catch the Jonas Brothers return to the Yamava Theater stage on April 30th, the powerful vocals of Demi Lovato on May 17th, and the signature Southern Country Rock of Eric Church on July 19th. Tickets on sale now at Yamavat Theater.com, only at Yamava Resort and Casino, celebrating its 40th anniversary. You in? Must be 21 to enter. It was late November. one of those cold gray afternoons in the Allegheny National Forest when the woods go quiet. My best friend Reed and I were in the final hour of the season,

trying to fill our last tag before darkness forced us back home empty-handed. We'd hunted these hills since we were teenagers, a tradition passed down from our fathers. Everything felt familiar, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath our boots, the bitter chill seeping through layers of wool and camouflage, and the scent of damp earth that always reminded me of simpler times. Tom, over there, Reed whispered sharply,

nodding toward a thick cluster of hemlocks on the opposite ridge. I saw the movement too, a buck stepping carefully, its antlers barely visible through the gathering dusk. Slowly, I raised my rifle and took aim, steadying my breath. The buck paused just long enough, its silhouette clear against the fading orange light of the sky. My finger tightened on the trigger, and the gunshot shattered the silence. The buck collapsed instantly, a clean kill.

Reed clapped me on the shoulder, grinning. Nice shot, he said relieved. Let's get him out before it gets too dark. We made our way down into the gully, boots sliding on slick patches of moss and mud. As we approached the buck, the last glow of daylight drained away, leaving the forest washed in deepening shadows. reed knelt beside the animal flashlight beam sweeping across its body i came up behind him and something immediately felt off where's the blood reed muttered confusion in his voice he was right

i'd hunted long enough to know a kill shot always left a trail crimson splashes soaking fur and earth alike but there was nothing here not a single drop my chest tightened unease prickling the back of my neck. Flip it over, I told him, my voice quieter than I intended. We grabbed its legs and rolled it carefully onto its side. A chill raced down my spine at what we saw, or rather what we didn't. The buck's eyes were gone, its sockets hollowed out cleanly, as if someone had carefully removed them. The empty sockets stared up at us, darker than the night around them. What the hell? Reed murmured, rising quickly to his feet. I tried to rationalize, could be scavengers. Maybe birds got to it before we got here. Reed shook his head slowly,

unconvinced. No scavenger does something this precise. We stood there, the forest growing darker by the second, the silence around us suddenly oppressive and unnatural. I'd spent my life in these woods, but never had I felt so profoundly unwelcome. Reed glanced around nervously, and without another word, we grabbed the buck by the antlers and began hauling it toward his truck. The carcass felt heavier than it should have, the antlers digging painfully into my palms. It almost seemed like the buck was resisting us, somehow anchoring itself to the forest floor. After a short struggle, we heaved it into the truck bed, both of us panting more from nerves than exertion. Reed slammed the tailgate shut and stepped back.

We'll figure it out back at your cabin, he said, trying and failing to sound calm. As we climbed into the truck, I glanced back at the bus. in the bed. Even in the shadows, those empty eye sockets stood out. Black pits aimed directly at me. I shook myself and turned away. The drive out of the woods should have been familiar, comforting even, but tonight it felt different. Every tree in turn more sinister, the darkness pressing closer. Reed fiddled anxiously with the radio, catching only bursts of static and garbled voices that came and went like ghostly whispers. Reception's crap tonight. Reception's night, he mumbled. I nodded absently, my eyes repeatedly flicking to the passenger-side mirror,

unable to shake the feeling we were being watched. Then I heard it, the first howl. At first it was distant, barely audible beneath the hum of the engine. But as Reed slowed slightly, it grew clearer, a guttural mournful cry echoing through the trees. It sounded like a wounded deer, but deeper, almost human. My blood turned to ice. Probably coyotes, Reed said unconvincingly, gripping the wheel tighter. But I knew the sound of coyotes, and this wasn't it. As the wailing continued, louder now, each note drawn out with eerie clarity, I felt my pulse quicken.

Glancing back at the truck bed, I froze. Stop the truck, I said suddenly. Reed looked at me bewildered. What? Why? Just stop. My voice cracked, betraying my panic. He slammed on the brake. gravel scattering beneath the tires as we lurched to a halt. Without a word I leapt from the cab,

flashlight in hand, heart hammering. Reed joined me a second later, breath clouding in the crisp night air as he rounded the back. The bed was empty. The deer was gone, vanished without a trace. There was no blood, no drag marks, nothing but wet, muddy hoof prints, leading inexplicably toward the back edge of the tailgate and disappearing into the road. Reed shone his light down the road and into the trees, his face pale, eyes wide. What's happening, Tom? He whispered shakily. I couldn't answer. My mouth had gone dry, fear gripping my chest tightly. From the darkness of the forest around us, that dreadful howling rose again, closer now, accompanied by something worse, a deep wheezing breath just beyond our line of sight. We need

to leave, I said urgently. Neither of us spoke as we scrambled back into the cab, slamming the door shut. Reed punched the accelerator, and the truck jolted forward, racing down the narrow road, branches scratching at the sides, darkness closing in like it wanted to swallow us whole. But as we sped away, my mind replayed the impossible scene again and again, those wet hoofprints, that empty truck bed, and the unexplainable absence of any blood. worst of all, the lingering question gnawed at me relentlessly. If the buck wasn't dead, what exactly had we brought into our truck, and where had it gone? Reed floored the accelerator, sending the truck barreling down the narrow forestry road,

gravel and dirt flying behind us. Neither of us spoke at first. The silence between us filled with a thousand questions neither dared to ask aloud. My eyes kept flicking to the side mirror. My pulse quickening every time I caught the blur of shadow or brand. Behind us, the forest had become a black void, swallowing the red glow of our taillights as quickly as they appeared. What the hell happened back there, Tom?

Reed finally muttered, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I don't know, I admitted, struggling to steady my voice. Maybe it fell out. He shot me a look that told me he knew that was impossible. A buck that size wouldn't have simply slid out of the truck without a sound, especially not without leaving a trail or marks. No matter how we tried to rationalize it, nothing made sense. Then we heard it again, the howl, louder now, closer,

tearing through the night with that strange mixture of animal pain and almost human agony. It came from behind, following us down the road, growing louder despite our speed. That ain't no coyote, Reed whispered through clenched teeth. The truck's headlights cut narrow beams through the pitch blackest. ahead, illuminating little more than 50 feet at a time. The rest was darkness, impenetrable, endless, and increasingly hostile. Reed's hands were trembling slightly as he fought to keep us straight on the narrow track, eyes locked forward. Suddenly, the truck sputtered, radio flaring

briefly to life with static that crackled and snapped in short, broken fragments. The garbled, distorted voices rose and fell, an eerie chorus punctuated by bursts of what sounded disturbing like laughter. Then the engine faltered, coughing sharply. No, Reed growled, panic rising in his voice, not now. He slammed the dashboard with a palm, as if sheer force could keep the truck running. It didn't. With one last choked gasp, the engine died completely, leaving us coasting forward into the dark silence. Reed steered the vehicle slowly off the side of the narrow road, the tires crunching to a final halt on gravel. For a long moment, we sat frozen, staring at each other,

listening to the crackling static of the dying radio as it too faded into silence. Outside nothing moved, nothing breathed. The forest around us felt impossibly still, as though the entire world was waiting, holding its breath. Grab your rifle, I said quietly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. Reed reached behind his seat, pulling out his gun with trembling fingers, as I did the same. Slowly, cautiously, we stepped out of the truck, boots crunching into gravel that seemed too

loud in the oppressive silence. Flashlights trembling, we swept our beams across the empty bed. The wet hoof prints were still there, glistening oddly beneath our lights, but otherwise the bed was empty. Tom, Reed whispered, pointing his flashlight at something on the ground. I followed his gaze. My stomach twisted. There, leading from the truck toward the edge of the forest, were more hoof prints,

but something was wrong with them. They faced backward, as if whatever made them had walked toward the truck, not away from it. A chill crawled up my spine, colder than anything the November air could produce. Let's get the truck started, Reed said, his voice tight, urgency sharpening his tone. I'll check under the hood, watch my back. I nodded, heart thudding in my ears as Reed popped the hood and leaned in, flashlight tucked under his chin. I stood behind him, sweeping the beam of my flashlight around us,

paranoia now tightening every muscle in my body. The trees were motionless, the silence absolute. It felt as though the forest itself were watching, waiting for something. Then, from somewhere deep in the woods to our left, the howling returned, this time louder, clearer, closer. It was followed by a rasping, wet breathing sound, like lungs choking on fluid. I swung my flashlight toward the sound. Branches swayed slightly, though there was no wind.

Reed, hurry, I hissed. Almost there, he muttered, voice barely audible beneath the hood. Loose wire, just give me. His voice cut off suddenly. I spun around just in time to see his head snap upward, eyes wide, locked on something behind me. Tom, his voice trembled, slowly. Dread settling in my chest like ice, I turned. Just beyond the edge of our headlights, standing utterly still, was the buck we'd shot.

Only now it was upright, balanced precariously on two hind legs, head hanging grotesquely to one side, antlers silhouetted starkly against the blackness. The empty eye socket stared directly at us, two deep holes of pure darkness. What in God's name? Reed whispered, fumbling backward into the truck. Without warning, the deer opened. its mouth impossibly wide, unleashing another ghastly howl, this time distorted into an eerie mimicry of human speech, stretched painfully through an animal's throat. It wailed a single word, garbled and chillingly clear at once. Go! My blood ran cold. Reed slammed the hood shut and jumped into the driver's seat,

desperately twisting the key again. After a heart-stopping moment, the engine roared back to life. I hurled myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as Reed punched the accelerator, gravel flying wildly beneath us as we tore away. In the side mirror I watched in horror as the buck dropped back onto all fours, its grotesque form dissolving into shadows, melting away into the darkness behind us. We raced down the forestry road in silence, our breaths ragged, pulses pounding in time with the frantic hum of the engine. Neither of us spoke until the first dimmed. lights of cane appeared through the trees, faintly reassuring yet unable to erase the fresh terror we'd just experienced. But even as the forest fell away behind us, I knew the night wasn't over.

Whatever that thing had been, whatever it had become, wasn't done with us yet. The buck, the creature, had told us to go, but deep down I felt certain that it wasn't letting us escape. It was just giving us a head start. By the time we reached my cabin on the outskirts of Kane, neither of us had said a word for at least ten miles. Reed's hands trembled visibly as he parked the truck, knuckles white around the wheel. When he finally spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper. I need to get home, Tom. I can't do this right now. I nodded slowly, understanding, but a small voice inside urged me to keep him close. It felt safer somehow. You sure you don't want to stay here tonight? It's late. Reed shook his head, refusing to

meet my eyes. I just need to clear my head. We'll talk in the morning. He backed the truck down my driveway, headlights slicing through the darkness, and vanished into the night. For a long minute I stood alone, listening to the distant hum of his engine fading away, until silence enveloped me again. A bitter wind whispered through the woods, carrying a scent of rod and damp earth. The woods around me had never felt so ominous, so aware. I moved slowly towards. I moved slowly toward the cabin, my boots crunching on frost-covered gravel. The porch creaked beneath my weight, the old wood groaning as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar warmth of home did nothing to soothe the unease twisting through my chest. Sleep refused to find me. I lay in bed,

staring blankly at the darkened ceiling, replaying every impossible moment of the night. Each howl, each twisted hoof print, each image of the eyeless buck haunted my thoughts. I tossed and turned, sweat soaking my sheets despite the chill in the air. Then something outside scraped against the cabin wall, a faint, deliberate scratching. I sat up sharply, pulse hammering in my ears. Grabbing my flashlight and rifle from beside the bed, I crept through the dark cabin to the front door. I hesitated, heart thudding, before stepping out onto the porch. My flashlight beam darted around the yard, probing the shadows. Nothing.

Just silence. But as I moved toward the shed where I'd usually store any game we brought back, my stomach twisted. The shed door was open, swinging lightly in the cold breeze, the lock dangling uselessly. Approaching cautiously I shined the flashlight into the darkness. My breath caught sharply. Wet, muddy hoof prints were scattered across the wooden floorboards, leading inside. They stopped abruptly at the far wall, as though whatever had made them had simply vanished. The walls were untouched, the windows intact, yet somehow the thing had gotten inside without breaking anything.

I stumbled backward my pulse racing as I scanned the trees beyond the yard. There was nothing but empty darkness, yet the sensation of being watched was overwhelming. Back inside the cabin, I fumbled to lock the doors, checking every window twice. I placed my loaded rifle next to my bed, hands trembling, and eventually drifted into an uneasy half-sleep, plagued by dreams filled with hollow-eyed creatures and endless forests. I awoke some time later to a sound I knew instantly, the howling, only now it wasn't distant. It was right outside my bedroom window, so close I could hear the rattling breath beneath the shrieking cry. Swallowing the terror rising in my throat, I slowly got up, gripping the right

tightly, creeping toward the window. With a shaking hand, I moved the curtain aside just enough to peer outside. There, at the edge of the tree line illuminated by moonlight, stood the buck. My heart nearly stopped. It stood upright again, its unnatural posture grotesque and contorted. Its antlers, now impossibly large, branched upward like claws grasping at the night sky. The empty black sockets where eyes should have been stared directly. at me. Then, with terrifying deliberateness, the creature turned its head slightly and smiled, a hideous, toothy grin no deer could ever produce. My breath seized in my lungs as panic set in. Without hesitation, I stepped outside, adrenaline overpowering fear.

Leave me alone, I shouted, voice cracking as I raised my rifle, aiming straight between those empty haunting sockets. It didn't move, didn't flinch, it just stood, grinning horribly. mocking me with its presence. Fingers trembling, I squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked loudly, echoing through the trees. My shot was perfect, directly into its chest. But the buck didn't even twitch. Instead, with sickening slowness, it dissolved.

Its body unraveling into a dark mist, pulled into itself until nothing remained but empty air. The night fell silent once more, leaving me shaking and alone. I ran back inside, locking the doors again and spent the rest of the night awake, waiting for dawn. Morning brought no relief. Instead, it brought dread. My phone buzzed, jolting me from exhausted stupor. Reed's wife, panic in her voice, was asking if he'd stayed with me. My gut twisted

painfully as she explained that Reed hadn't come home. Hours later they found his truck abandoned on Route 66, doors wide open, keys still in the ignition. There was no blood. No sign of struggle, nothing, except the now familiar muddy, backward hoof prints trailing off into the forest. I sold the cabin within weeks. I left Cain, left the woods, and moved somewhere far away, somewhere bright and crowded. I told myself I could outrun it, bury the memories in the noise of city life. But the truth still haunted me, whispered in quiet moments when I lay awake at night. You can't outrun something like that.

Once it sees you, once you see it, you're marked. There's one last thing I kept hidden, a secret locked away in my dresser drawer. On my last night in the cabin, I checked the game camera outside the shed. It showed nothing for hours, just empty darkness. But at exactly 2.47 a.m., the image glitched, distorted into lines and static, before briefly clearing to reveal one final, impossible image. The Buck, standing in my driveway, Antler's silhouette. wetted sharply against moonlight, head tilted, empty eye sockets staring directly into the lens,

and it was still smiling. I parked my truck at the end of the gravel access road, 10 miles south of the trailhead near the Grove-Antra wilderness boundary. The forest lay quiet under a blanket of fresh snow that had fallen overnight, broken only by the occasional creek of branches under the snow's weight. After my divorce, I'd come to appreciate trips like this more, quiet, lonely, simple. Nothing cleared my head like being alone in the Wyoming backcountry with only a bow and camera for company. I strapped my gear tight, shouldered my pack, and moved through knee-high drifts toward the ridge locals called the shelf. It took me almost four hours to reach the spot, my legs burning from the climb, but it was worth the effort. From that vantage, the entire valley

spread below me, tucked between slopes dense with lodgepole pines and patches of open meadow. I set up my small tent near an abandoned Forest Service fire ring just as dusk tinted the sky, pale orange. While gathering kindling from my fire, a sound echoed across the valley, an elk bugle, drawn out and rough-edged, different from what I'd ever heard in my years hunting. I paused, trying to pinpoint its origin, but found nothing. Silence soon returned, leaving me unsure if I'd really heard anything at all. That night, sleep came slowly. As I lay in my sleeping bag, my ears strained to pick up the smallest noise outside. Just as my eyes began to feel heavy, the sound returned. It drifted closer this time, louder, sharper, almost painful to hear. There was a thick,

ragged quality to it, like an animal struggling to breathe. I sat up, heart racing, gripping the handle of my knife out of instinct more than reason. It stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving only my own shaky breaths filling the tent. Morning arrived gray and bitterly cold. I rubbed feeling back into my numb fingers, gathered my gear, and crept to the edge of the ridge. A movement near a downed pine caught my attention. A bull elk stood partially obscured by a angle of fallen branches. My pulse quickened. The bull was huge, a trophy animal easily 10 years old by the looks of its antlers. But as I raised my binoculars, something about the elk seemed off. Its body stood rigid, muscles twitching oddly beneath its hide. Through the binoculars,

I saw its chest heaving violently, breath steaming in frantic puffs. Every few seconds its head jerked sideways, as though reacting to unseen irritations. Ignoring the growing unease in my gut, I knocked an arrow and lifted my bow. My breath steadied as I aimed carefully behind its front leg. My finger tightened around the bowstring, muscles tensed, eyes fixed. Then the elk jerked its head upward and let out a piercing, terrified scream. A scream exactly like a man begging desperately for help. Somebody help me? The voice reverberated down into the valley, echoing. painfully in my ears. My arrow sailed harmlessly past the elk into the underbrush. I staggered back in shock, the bow slipping from my fingers. The elk remained still a moment longer, its wild,

panicked eyes locked directly on mine. Then it turned abruptly and bolted into the trees, vanishing without a sound. My knees buckled, and I crouched low in the snow, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I waited a long time for my breathing to slow, trying to rattle. rationalize what I'd heard, telling myself it had been a trick of acoustics or nerves, but every explanation fell flat. Cautiously, I approached where the elk had stood. My eyes scanned the ground for any sign of the animal's flight, any tracks or blood, but found nothing except a pair of shallow hoof prints

that vanished abruptly mid-stride, leaving no clear trail away. Back at camp, I packed hastily. I didn't care that I'd planned to stay longer, didn't care about the wasted trip. All I wanted was to leave the valley and whatever had happened behind. But as darkness fell faster than expected, clouds blocking the remaining daylight, I was forced to reconsider. With no choice but to wait until morning, I stoked the fire high and sat rigid, listening, watching shadows dance against the surrounding trees. It was late, perhaps midnight, when the noises began again. Soft at first, growing louder.

hooves crunching snow, circling slowly around my camp. A familiar strained elk call echoed through the darkness, followed by a wet, choking cough. I reached quietly for my rifle, fingers trembling on the cold metal. The sound stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but a silence heavier than before. My eyes scanned the darkness waiting. Just as I thought it was over, a voice, low, hoarse, and horribly human spoke from someone somewhere behind the trees. Somebody helped me. At the first hint of dawn, I abandoned my camp and moved north through thick brush toward the logging trail I'd seen on the way in. My legs ached

from the cold, sleepless night. I kept glancing behind, checking my trail, searching the trees. The forest felt heavy, watchful, every sound louder than it should have been, but I reminded myself, focus ahead, keep moving. After an hour, exhaustion slowed me to a steady walk. Each step crunched through the thin layer of snow. Gradually I realized that my footsteps were echoing strangely, each step seemingly mirrored by another. When I stopped abruptly, the sounds continued for one more step, then halted. A sudden chill crawled up my spine.

Hello? I called out voice barely steady. Anyone out there? My words faded unanswered into the trees. I moved forward, more cautiously now, gripping my rifle tight enough to make my knuckles ache. I listened intently between my breaths, but heard nothing unusual, only the normal sounds of wind moving branches. Then from somewhere in the trees to my right, a voice drifted toward me. Bailey!

It sounded exactly like my voice, but younger, sharper, like a recording from years past. Bailey had been my retriever, dead nearly four years now. A wave of nausea hit my stomach, making me stumble and brace against a tree. I held still, breath locked in my throat. The voice called again. Bailey, come here, boy. This time clearer or closer. Who's there?

I shouted, spinning toward the sound, eyes straining through dense brush. This isn't funny, silence returned. I listened desperately for movement, a snapped twig, anything. But the woods stayed quiet, mocking me with the emptiness. Shaken, I kept moving forward, faster now,

anxiety pulling at every nerve. Half an hour later, I emerged into a clearing and stopped dead in my tracks. Something hung from the branches directly ahead. A ragged shape strung up, swaying gently in the breeze. Moving closer, I saw it clearly. A torn elk hide stretched wide and nailed crudely to the bark with sharpened twigs. Dark fluid dripped slowly from the edges onto the snow below, staining it black. The smell hit me a second later.

Thick, rotten, sickening. What the hell? My words were barely a whisper. I backed away, nearly losing my footing. As I turned, the woods erupted around me with my own voice, urgent and terrified. Clay, Clay, help me, Clay! Panic surged through me, my heart hammering painfully in my chest. I scrambled away, breaking into a blind run through the trees.

Branches tore at my jacket, slapped my face, and snagged at my boots, but I didn't slow down. behind me my voice kept screaming becoming distorted frantic as though mocking my own fear eventually exhaustion forced me to slow down gasping for breath i scanned the unfamiliar terrain i had run far from my intended route my map was back in the tent i'd left behind and i had only a rough idea of where i stood despair began creeping into my thoughts but i pushed it aside survival first panic later With daylight fading, I found a cluster of rocks and built a crude shelter beneath a shallow outcrop. The wind picked up sharply, pushing bitter cold into every crevice, but I had no choice. I wrapped myself tight in my coat, rifle clutched to my chest. I didn't dare build a fire too afraid of what it might attract. Darkness filled the forest, bringing an unnatural quiet. For hours I lay awake, nerves raw, listening.

Just when I believed I might escape the night. undisturbed, a slow, rasping breath moved through the air outside my shelter. The breathing drew closer, louder, heavy and wet, like someone drowning. My muscles froze, my heartbeat echoing painfully loud in my ears. Then a voice whispered softly into the dark, right next to my hiding place. Help me. Please, Clay. Help me. It was my voice, low and broken, repeating endlessly in an awful monotone, drifting just inches away. I couldn't move, could barely breathe. Seconds passed like hours, each whisper stabbing deep into my mind.

Finally, I gathered enough courage to move. My hand trembling, I reached for the flare gun on my belt and pulled myself upright. With a final burst of desperation, I lunged from beneath the outcrop and aimed the flare into the darkness. The flare exploded upward, bathing everything in sharp crimson light. For an instant, it illuminated a figure hunched low behind. a fallen tree, thin, elongated limbs twisted unnaturally beneath antlers too large and jagged to belong to any elk I had ever seen. It stared back at me, eyes reflecting red in the dying flare, its long fingers curled into the snow. Then the flare burned out, plunging me back into darkness.

I stayed standing, breath locked painfully in my lungs, waiting helplessly for whatever came next. At dawn, I abandoned anything non-essential. My pack felt like dead weight. My rifle was my only comfort, gripped tightly as I stumbled downhill toward the Snake River range, hoping for a cell signal or a break in the endless forest. My throat was dry, my legs numb. Every sound caused me to spin around, rifle raised, eyes wide. By late morning, I started noticing deep claw marks carved into the trunk's

around me. Fresh grooves scraped through bark into raw wood beneath. Each set rose well above my head, a cold dread settled heavily in my gut. An hour later, the forest gave way to an old fire road. Relief flooded through me. If I followed it far enough, I knew it would lead back towards civilization, or at least to a ranger station. But as I started down the road, I spotted someone standing at the far end, partially obscured by shadows. The figure was dressed like a hunter, wearing gear similar to mine. Dark jacket, boots, and cap pulled low. My pulse quickened.

After days alone, seeing another person felt unreal. I raised a hand cautiously, trying not to appear as terrified as I felt. Hey! I called out, voice raw and weak. You lost? The figure waved back stiffly, its posture bent forward oddly. I felt a sudden tightness in my chest. it spoke. My stomach churned at the sound of my own voice coming from its direction, flat,

emotionless. Hey, it called back, repeating my earlier greeting exactly. You lost? A wave of nausea surged upward. My hands shook uncontrollably, rifle-barrel wavering in the air. Slowly I backed up, careful not to turn away from whatever stood in front of me. Stay right there, I shouted. My voice cracked under pressure. Don't move! But in the Instead, the figure stepped forward. Its steps were wrong, awkward, unnatural strides that twisted its legs at strange angles. Then it dropped suddenly to all fours, charging forward, limbs flailing wildly,

its antlers scraping branches as it moved. A high piercing scream filled the air again, the same anguished human whale from the elk. Fear exploded inside me. I raised my rifle, aimed wildly, and fired three times. times in rapid succession. The gunshots echoed through the trees, leaving a painful ringing in my ears. The figure tumbled sideways, rolling violently down the slope into thick brush. For a moment, everything fell silent. I stood frozen, heart pounding. Slowly, I approached the spot where it had vanished. On the ground lay strands of coarse elk hair scattered across the snow,

mingled with dark streaks of blood. Beside them was a single white object. a human tooth, perfectly intact. My stomach clenched. I turned away, fighting off panic, forcing my trembling legs to move again. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I forced myself forward, stumbling along the winding road. Shadows lengthened, trees crowding closer as dusk approached. Just before twilight fully enveloped the forest, I finally spotted the dim lights of a small ranger outpost. Weak with relief, I staggered toward it, knocking hard enough to splinter my knuckles on the weathered wood door. Two rangers answered quickly, guiding me inside. They stared silently as I babbled about antlers, screams, and my own voice chasing me through the woods. They exchanged

careful glances. The younger one handed me water. While the older ranger, gray-haired and walking with a limp, sat quietly nearby, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Eventually, the younger ranger stepped outside to radio for assistance. When he was gone, the older man leaned toward me, his voice low and firm. You saw the one that hunts with voices, didn't you? He asked quietly, eyes locked on mine. I nodded slowly, afraid to speak aloud. He sighed, shaking his head as though recalling some distant memory. Don't tell anyone else. He continued softly, not for their sake, for yours. Hours later, safely away in the back of an ambulance, I deleted every video file on my camera without even looking at them. I wanted nothing left of whatever I'd

experienced out there. Nothing to remind me of the thing in the woods that stole voices and wore antlers. A year passed before I found the courage to return to that spot on the ridge, compelled by guilt and curiosity. I wanted closure. I carried a small wooden cross with me, hoping to leave it behind at the tree where I first encountered the elk. But when I arrived, the tree was gone entirely, replaced by a circle of elk skulls arranged neatly around a bare patch of earth. They pointed inward toward emptiness. I turned around and never went back.

I pulled my truck off the narrow dirt access road into a little clearing about a mile east of Sylvan Lake. I'd hunted here every November for the past eight years. It was still dark just after five in the morning. the kind of chill that settles deep into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. I switched off the headlights, instantly plunging the forest into blackness. The quiet hum of the engine faded, replaced by the hushed stillness of the trees around me. Grabbing my rifle and backpack from the passenger seat, I stepped into the crisp air,

my breath forming tiny clouds illuminated by the weak glow of my flashlight. The frosty ground crackled beneath my boots as I carefully made my way toward my usual spot. My tree stand was set back deep in a cluster of pines, positioned perfectly for the deer that liked to cross the hollow just after dawn. My heart rate slowed as I climbed the cold metal ladder, each rung stinging my fingers even through gloves. Settling into position 20 feet above the ground, I scanned my surroundings. Visibility was poor in the pre-dawn darkness, but the first faint blush of dawn had started to seep into the sky. I sat perfectly still rifle across my lap, waiting patiently as I'd done countless times before. Minutes passed

slowly, daylight gradually erasing the darkness around me. It wasn't until the forest had fully emerged from shadows that I began to feel something was off. Usually by this hour, squirrels were already scampering through fallen leaves, and chickadees would be softly calling from branch to branch. But this morning, nothing stirred. No birds, no movement. Only a total. oppressive silence that seemed to wrap itself around my chest. I shifted uncomfortably, scanning the trees again through my binoculars, searching for signs of movement. My fingers tightened involuntarily around my rifle, unease prickling the back of my neck. Something deep in my gut told me this wasn't normal. Then, just beyond the thick stand of pines, a shadow moved.

I froze, binoculars locked on that spot, heart suddenly hammering. At first I thought it might be a mountain lion, a rare enough sight here but not impossible. It moved cautiously, staying low to the ground, slowly creeping out into clearer view. As I watched more closely, a wave of cold dread washed over me. It wasn't right. Its shape was twisted somehow. Limbs stretched longer than any cougar I'd ever seen, moving with jerky, unnatural strides. The fur was ragged and patchy, like badly sewn high draped loosely over bones,

that were too thin, too angular. My breathing grew shallow as it crept further into the clearing. The creature stopped abruptly, head cocking sideways. Through my binoculars, I saw its eyes clearly for the first time. They were pale, almost white, reflecting faintly in the weak morning sunlight, and they were fixed directly on me. An overwhelming panic rose in my chest, my pulse throbbing painfully at my temples. My vision blurred at the edges.

dizziness flooding my head as if I'd stood too fast. I fought to steady myself, gripping the railing of the tree stand, but it felt as if all strength had drained from my limbs. The pale-eyed creature below remained perfectly still, watching, wading. Then darkness surged up, swallowing my vision completely. My last coherent thought was a simple, desperate plea, please let me wake up. I woke with dirt pressed cold against my cheek, my body heavy and numb. My mouth tasted metallic, gritty like earth. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself upright, blinking away the blur in my eyes. The midday sun filtered through the trees, too bright, sharp against my pounding skull. My stomach churned, nauseous from dizziness and confusion. For a few moments nothing made sense.

I squinted, taking in my surroundings. I was sprawled beside my truck, parked haphazardly along the narrow access road near Sylvan Lake. My rifle lay beside me, its polished wooden stock now scarred by deep, jagged gouges, as if something had clawed at it fiercely. My chest tightened, cold dread washing over me as fragmented memories surfaced. Those unnaturally pale eyes locked on mine through binoculars, that twisted thing moving silently through the pines. I scrambled backward, heart thundering, and struggled to my feet.

My legs shook beneath me, but I forced myself to stand, to assess. My fingers brushed gingerly over my neck, my arms, my torso, nothing broken or bleeding, just dirt-caked clothes and fresh bruises. I breathed heavily, trying to steady my nerves, rationalize away the panic rising in my throat. But the marks on the rifle were too real to dismiss. Something had attacked, had followed me back here. My pulse raced as I circled the truck, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. That's when I noticed the tracks in the soft dirt.

They were larger than any mountain lion print I'd ever seen, elongated and misshapen, too narrow yet frighteningly deep. They circled my truck in uneven loops, pacing repeatedly. I felt sick. How long had it lingered here, watching while I lay unconscious? The silence around me returned, no rustling leaves, No distant bird song, just suffocating stillness. I climbed into the driver's seat,

locking the door and gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles whitened. I turned the key, engine roaring to life, shattering the oppressive quiet. I drove out of the forest faster than I ever had, dirt and gravel sprang behind me. The trees seemed to press closer now, an endless maze of shadows. My eyes darted frantically to the mirrors, terrified I'd see something pale-eyed and distorted, running alongside me.

It took every ounce of self-control not to lose my nerve entirely. Half an hour later, I pulled shakily into the parking lot of a small diner in Hill City. The reassuring presence of civilization calmed me slightly as I stumbled inside. People glanced briefly, returning to their conversations and meals, unaware of the terror still gripping my chest. I slid into a booth, hands trembling, and ordered black coffee, hoping to settle my nerves. Across from me, a man about my age nodded sympathetically. He introduced himself as Jim Redford, a local hunter. His eyes narrowed when he saw the condition of my rifle.

Rough morning, Jim asked cautiously. I hesitated, then quietly told him what happened. At first he nodded slowly, skeptical. But as I described the creature, the stretched limbs, pale eyes, its impossible movements. Jim's face went grim. He glanced around the diner before leaning closer. There's a name for it around here, he whispered. Some call it the hill walker. Older folks mostly. They won't talk openly about it, but hunters have whispered about it for years. It stalks, it waits, and it's nothing you'd ever want to see twice. A chill ran down my spine as he spoke. The fear I'd been desperately trying to bury surged back, cold or cold, and sharper than before.

I knew then I couldn't go back into those woods alone, and deep down, I wasn't sure I could ever set foot there again. Twilight crept over the hills as Jim and I drove back toward the spot where I'd seen that thing earlier. My pulse quickened as the familiar outlines of trees grew darker against the fading sky. Jim had insisted we needed to investigate, to see if what I'd encountered matched the legends whispered through generations around these hills.

I wasn't sure why I agreed, except that fear needed answers, and hiding wouldn't make this go away. The headlights sliced thinly through the darkness as we parked close to where I'd left my truck hours before. We stepped out cautiously, flashlights flicking nervously through the shadows as we move deeper into the forest. Soon we reached my original hunting spot, and the same unnatural silence descended again, heavy enough to press the breath from my lungs. Jim paused, shining his beam upward. My tree stand still hung silently 20 feet above us, untouched, but beneath it, the earth had been disturbed, churned as if something had paced there obsessively. The flashlight beams traced the tracks, elongated prints, deep and unsettlingly sharp-edged,

overlapping again and again. My throat tightened as I whispered, it waited here. Jim nodded grimly, eyes tense, scanning the darkness around us, We shouldn't stay long. Whatever this is, it isn't something we can handle easily. A branch snapped nearby, startlingly loud in the oppressive quiet. Both flashlights swung sharply toward the sound. My pulse thumped painfully as shadows flickered, something moving rapidly just beyond the reach of our lights. A second crack of twigs, closer now.

I caught a glimpse of distorted shapes darting between trees, quick and erratic. Then it emerged, stepping into our lights. with slow deliberate motions. My breath froze in my chest. The creature was taller than I'd realized earlier, grotesquely elongated. Patchwork fur hung from limbs that twisted strangely beneath its weight. Its arms reached almost to the ground, fingers ending in dark claws. The face was more unsettling, a distorted blend of human and animal, sharp teeth visible behind a fixed terrible grin. Those pale eyes caught our lights, reflecting a ghostly sheen. as they locked onto us.

Jim. My voice came out barely a whisper. He raised his rifle, face pale, eyes wide with horror. Back away slowly. Keep your gun steady. The creature made a harsh, rasping noise, low at first but rising sharply to a chilling guttural shriek. It lunged forward, limbs unfolding grotesquely.

Gunshots exploded through the silence, echoing violently between the trees. The creature staggered, jerking back, but did. didn't fall. Instead it retreated into the shadows, howling in fury as it circled us, staying just beyond our lights. Run! Jim shouted, his voice raw with panic. We turned, sprinting blindly back toward the trucks, flashlights bouncing wildly ahead. Branches whipped at my face, tearing skin as I stumbled through undergrowth. My breath came ragged, adrenaline scorching my veins.

Behind us the creature moved through the darkness, shrieking again, impossibly fast and agile. Finally, the trucks appeared ahead, outlined faintly by the moonlight. I lunged into my vehicle, slamming the door, Jim doing the same beside me. Tires spinning, engines roaring, we tore back onto the access road. I glanced into the rearview mirror one final time, catching a flash of pale eyes at the edge of the woods, fixed on us as we sped away. Days later, standing at Jim's cabin in Hill City, my hands shook as I packed my gear. He watched silently, his face grave. We'd spoken little about that night since returning, both unwilling to relive it.

You won't come back, Jim said quietly. It wasn't a question. No, I replied, voice tight. Never again. As I pulled onto the main highway away from the Black Hills, I glanced toward the tree line one last time, unable to shake the feeling that somewhere out there, hidden deep in the shadows, pale eyes still watched, waiting patiently for another chance. The air was cold and sharp that morning,

stinging the inside of my nostrils as I climbed slowly up the creek bed toward the ridge. The Selway Bitterroot Wilderness was rugged country, dense pines and twisted cedars stacked upon steep hillsides, thick brush scraping against my legs with every step. Garrett and I had hunted these mountains plenty, but today something felt different. Maybe it was the silence, too heavy,

like it was pressing down from above. Birds were scarce, squirrels absent. Even the creek seemed muted. Garrett had split off toward the higher ground an hour earlier, hoping to flush an elk toward my position in the gulch. We had tracking collars synced to each other's GPS devices for safety, though we'd never had reason to use them before. The screen on my unit showed him ascending steadily,

climbing about 300 yards ahead of me. I paused to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my, my forehead. I checked the GPS again. Garrett had stopped moving, strange, considering we planned to rendezvous further along the ridge. Just as I was about to radio him, I heard his scream. It ripped through the silence, sudden and ragged, raw panic mixed with pain. Adrenaline flooded my veins, my heart slamming into my ribs as I took off running toward the sound. My feet slipped in loose pine needles and damp earth, nearly pitching me face first into the hillside, but I kept scrambling upward, ignoring the burn in my lungs.

Garrett, I shouted as loudly as I could manage, listening for any response. None came, only the oppressive quiet, somehow deeper than before. I pushed myself harder, gripping low-hanging branches to haul myself up the steepening slope. When I finally crested the ridge, my legs trembled beneath me. I stopped abruptly, nearly falling forward as the scene unfolded before my eyes. The dirt was disturbed violently, clawed and gouged as if something heavy had thrashed across it. Garrett's bright orange glove lay shredded on the ground, streaked dark red, blood splattered across the pine needles in a chaotic pattern, pooling in places,

then dragged upward along the trunk of a massive Douglas fir, climbing impossibly high. I forced myself to breathe steadily, eyes darting around for Garrett or some sign of what had attacked him. But there was nothing. No movement, no sound. Only the blood, gleaming fresh in patches, marking a grisly path upward into the trees. A sudden flicker of movement above caught my attention. Instinctively, I jerked my head upward, rifle raised.

High in the branches, I glimps something pale and sinewy vanish quickly between trees. It moved silently, effortlessly, like something accustomed to traveling where nothing should be able to climb. I stared hard, trying to. to make sense of the figure I'd just seen, hoping it was my imagination playing tricks on me in the shadows. Garrett! I yelled again, desperation cracking my voice.

My words echoed emptily through the forest, returning unanswered. I paced nervously, scanning upward, helplessness gnawing at my chest. What could have dragged Garrett upward so swiftly? I couldn't imagine an animal capable of it. My eyes traced the dark smears higher and higher, disappearing into dense force. foliage. That's when I spotted Garrett's hunting cap, tangled in a branch far overhead. The fabric was ripped, soaked dark red at the edges, swaying slightly in the wind. I sank slowly onto my knees, unable to look away. Fear took hold, deeper and colder than anything I'd ever felt. Whatever had taken

Garrett was still out there, watching from somewhere above. The woods around me were silent and still, but I knew, with awful certainty, that I was not alone. I stumbled back into our camp just as dusk was settling over Paradise Meadows. The thin orange glow of sunset faded quickly, replaced by a thick, impenetrable darkness that felt suffocating. My hands trembled as I struggled to light the fire. Matches slipped from my shaking fingers one after another, until finally a flame caught the tinder, crackling weakly to life. Sitting close to the small fire, I gripped my rifle tightly, eyes darting between the trees around me.

Every shadow seemed deeper than usual. Each movement of branches overhead pulled my attention sharply upward. My thoughts raced chaotically, replaying the image of Garrett's shredded glove, the blood-streaked trees, and that brief glimpse of something agile and impossibly pale swinging between the branches. I stared numbly into the fire, occasionally glancing down at my GPS unit. it. Garrett's signal was offline now, frozen at his last known location, a ghostly dot far up slope. Without any cell reception and darkness swallowing the landscape, hiking out tonight was impossible. I was stuck until dawn, trapped alone in the middle of nowhere, waiting. That's when

the scratching started. At first it was subtle, a faint scraping, high in the trees. My muscles went rigid as I strained to hear better, holding my breath. Silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Just as I began to think I'd imagined it, the scratching resumed. Clearer this time, deliberate and rhythmic directly above me. I slowly lifted my gaze upward, but the branches were too thick, the canopy too dense, revealing nothing. Yet the scratching persisted, a quiet, persistent rasping noise that slowly moved from one tree to another. My heart, thudded painfully in my chest as I raised the rifle, aiming vaguely into the shadows. Who's up there? My voice echoed weakly through the trees, the question hanging unanswered.

The scratching abruptly stopped. Silence fell again, heavy and absolute. I lowered the rifle slightly, blinking sweat from my eyes. Maybe it was just a squirrel or some nocturnal bird, but deep down, I knew that wasn't true. Animals didn't move like that, didn't wait and watch silently, calculating each movement. A sudden, piercing scream shattered the quiet, high-pitched and twisted, nearly human, but distorted by pain. It echoed eerily through the valley, chilling my blood, squeezing my chest until breathing hurt. It sounded like Garrett's scream from earlier, mocked, twisted, and thrown back at me from somewhere deep within the forest. Panic surged through my limbs. I swung the rifle wildly around, spinning to check every direction.

Something rustled overhead, and I jerked my head upward, just as a heavy wet object fell from the branches above, landing with a dull thud just beyond the fire's edge. My body froze, heart pounding loudly in my ears as I stared at the spot. Trembling I slowly moved forward, rifle held tight against my shoulder, finger resting lightly on the trigger. As I drew closer, I noticed a faint blue glow flickering in the grass. My throat tightened in dread when I recognized it. It was Garrett's GPS collar.

The screen cracked and splattered with fresh blood. Kneeling slowly, I picked it up, my fingers slick with crimson. The device felt impossibly heavy in my hand, evidence of something unnatural and terrifying above me. Instinct forced my head upward once again. With shaking fingers I raised my flashlight and aimed it toward the branches directly overhead. The beam sliced through the shadows, briefly illuminating a pale, elongated. figure crouched upside down against the trunk. Its limbs were thin and twisted, impossibly long

fingers gripping the bark. Reflective eyes stared unblinking, fixed directly on me. Lips pulled back in a silent, predatory grin. I jerked backward, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The flashlight dropped from my numb grip, clattering to the ground, plunging the trees back into darkness. The image burned into my mind, seared in place. The creature still crouched above, waiting, observing. I huddled closer to the fire, gripping my rifle until my knuckles turned white. I knew it was still up there, hidden in the darkness, watching me intently. Whatever it was, I understood clearly.

I wasn't leaving this place unless it allowed me to. I barely slept, jolting awake every few minutes as if I'd been shocked. Dawn crept in slowly, pale light filtering through the branches above. The fire had burned down to gray ashes, and the morning air felt damp and heavy, chilling me straight to my bones. My body ached from exhaustion, muscles stiff, and nerves raw. I shoved a few supplies into my pack moving quickly and quietly. My goal was simple. Get out of the wilderness and find help.

Each sound seemed amplified as I moved, twigs snapping under my boots, fabric scraping against brush. I felt exposed, vulnerable beneath the canopy that loomed overhead. My eyes constantly scanned upward, wary of any movement among the treetops. The silence broke abruptly, branches cracking violently above me. My head snapped upward, my heart nearly stopping as I saw glimpses of something pale and spindly moving swiftly through the branches, leaping easily between the trees, descending toward me. Panic exploded through my chest. adrenaline overriding the stiffness in my limbs. I sprinted blindly through the brush, branches clawing at my face and neck, not daring to look back. My foot caught on something

hidden beneath fallen leaves, and suddenly I was tumbling downward. My shoulder slammed painfully into the earth, momentum rolling me down a steep, rocky incline. I crashed into brush, my vision blurring with pain. Struggling to my feet, I realized I'd fallen into a thick patch of twisted trees and undergrowth. Thorns dug into my arms, tangled branches grabbing at my clothes. Above me, the violent crashing continued, louder and closer. I raised my rifle unsteadily, scanning the branches, breathing raggedly as panic squeezed my chest. I couldn't see clearly through the tangled foliage, but I knew something was approaching rapidly. Another loud snap echoed from above. Twigs and needles rained down around me, stinging my face. Through the

Through the gaps, I caught sight of it again. It crouched on a branch just overhead, its body thin and sinewy, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Its skin was colorless and stretched tight over elongated bones. Eyes, cold and reflective, stared down at me with intent. Curved claws flexed silently around the branch. Each finger tipped with hooked nails darkened by dried blood. My heart thundered wildly in my ears. The creature shifted forward slightly. The creature shifted forward slightly, lips pulling back in anticipation. I raised my rifle, aimed directly upward, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot shattered the silence. The recoil jolted painfully into my shoulder, ears ringing. An inhuman scream pierced the air sharp and furious. The pale figure recoiled

violently, losing its balance and tumbling awkwardly through the branches. Without waiting to see where it landed, I turned and scrambled desperately through the brush. forcing myself through the tangled mess of trees and thorns. My lungs burned painfully, each breath feeling like glass shards scraping inside my chest. I ran wildly, stumbling, tripping, refusing to slow down until I burst free of the underbrush onto a familiar path. The trailhead to Paradise lay just ahead, visible through the thinning trees. My strength gave out then, knees buckling as I fell hard onto gravel and dirt. voices shouted nearby, distant at first, then suddenly close.

Hands grab my shoulders pulling me upright, concerned faces appearing in my blurred vision. Hikers staring at me with wide eyes and urgent questions. I tried to speak to explain about Garrett, the creature, the terror above the trees, but words wouldn't come. My throat tightened, vision dimming as the adrenaline faded, leaving only exhaustion and fear. rescuers eventually arrived, guiding me safely out of the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness. They searched for Garrett for days, scouring the ridges, combing the woods. They found no body, no sign of him besides his shredded glove, cap, and GPS.

Eventually they stopped looking, labeling it a tragic wildlife attack. I moved away shortly afterward, abandoning Idaho and its forests for the bright lights of Boise, desperate for distance between myself and those towering trees. But despite leaving, despite moving hundreds of miles away, I know I'm not truly free. Even now, in the silence of my new home, I wake in the dark, listening to scratching sounds outside my window, convinced that whatever took Garrett, whatever lurked high above in those woods, has never stopped watching me.