Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 4 Scary Deep Woods Horror Stories

Episode Date: April 19, 2024

These are 4 Scary Deep Woods Horror Stories Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/SleeplessFromSundown/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/OnTheHunt237/ ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:17:42 Story 2 00:32:59 Story 3 00:44:43 Story 4 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #scarystoriespodcast #justcreepy #parkrangerstories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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or at Sephora.com today. There is a ghost town high up in the Montana Mountains not far from Yellowstone. Few people know about it. The only road in and out fell into disrepair long ago. To get there requires an intermediate climbing skill set. It can only be attempted when conditions are warm and dry,

which around here amounts to a window of a couple of months each year. My grandfather spoke of it once. The story lacked detail, the particulars lost in the fog of memory, and Pop was never one to embellish once his recollection failed. It was a story he heard as a boy, of a silver mine up in the mountains, of a creature that called the forest home. It was no bear. It was no wolf.

Whatever it was refused to share the land with the miners in the fledgling town built to support them. What followed was a massacre. The survivors abandoned the town and never returned. Last summer, Taylor and I hiked and camped for a week within Yellowstone National Park. We lucked out with the weather. We went off grid and loved every minute. The last night, beside a whispering fire, we promised we would do it again.

As the firmament above turned about the North Star, I told her about the ghost town. She breathed the story in. That's where we would go. A harsh winter is rendered tolerable by the promise of spring. It was the summer, though, that held my attention. A long break from school and a week in the mountains. It is a rare treat to do precise. what you most desire. The warmth of the sun brought with it an unbridled giddiness. The weight was

almost over. We drove as far as we could, winding our way up between mountains stripped of the white caps of winter and smeared with green and blue and brown. Taylor rolled the car to a stop on the shoulder of a lonely dirt track. The crisp mountain air tempered the warmth of the sun. We shouldered our packs and climbed. What is left of the ghost town, as far as we knew, did not amount to much. The Rangers fingered it on a map, though none had been up there. The location was an inherited knowledge. My grandfather could only guess as to the whereabouts. It's up there somewhere, he had said. When I told him our plans and that it was his story that inspired our destination, a smile gave way to pensiveness. He told me to be careful. I told him not to worry.

The spruce trees thinned the higher we climbed. We scrambled up a rocky shoulder and Taylor checked the map. We were making good ground. If luck fell on our side, we would get there by sunset. An impassable chunk of vertical rock face led to a detour that cost us a couple of hours. It would have to be tomorrow. We camped in a clearing with a view of our destination across the plain. In the distance the trees huddled together as if against the cool night air and obscured thicks on the map.

I wondered what we would find. There was a good chance little remained. Perhaps a few stumps where a rudimentary wooden house once stood. We turned our attention to the sky and watched for shooting stars and agreed it didn't matter. Taylor woke me in the dead of the night. The half-moon hung low over the mountains. Her whispered words came out in bursts. My groggy brain took its time assembling them into something coherent.

She had heard something. The crack of a tree branch, sharp. and loud as if it had been snapped like a twig, and now there was a light. In the pale silver glow of the moon, I followed her outstretched hand. Hanging just above the horizon, a yellow light flickered, it gave the impression of a candle burning in a window. Except out here there were no windows, and no one to burn a candle. I could only offer vague solutions, an optical trick played by some atmospheric anomaly, a hunting group around a a campfire, though this was not a usual place for such things. Whatever it was, it lay far enough

away to pose no danger. What neither of us said is that it lay in the direction of our travel. We lay back down. For a time, I opened my right eye at intervals to check if the light remained. It did, and then I slept. We barely spoke in the morning and set off in the direction of the ghost town. I was anxious to uncover a mundane explanation for the light we saw the night before, the remains of a campfire or some hermit living alone up in the mountains. The way Taylor kept her eyes on the trees ahead told me she was thinking the same. We entered into the thick patch of forest. The trees grew close and blocked the sun. Stray branches scratched at our bare legs. The ground undulated, and I found myself instinctively following it down, and soon I was

disoriented. Taylor took out the map and the GPS. Inexplicably, the GPS gave no signal, and she turned her attention to the map. I ventured forward until my boot stubbed against something solid. After a glance down, I jumped back. A wooden stake driven into the hard earth. It had cracked about a foot above the ground, and whatever once had been above, I could only guess at. But then, more emerged from between the trees. To my left, a clear and a clear end. full of them. Wooden crosses arranged haphazardly, dozens of them. I called out to Taylor, my voice thin and small. I stepped through the cemetery, careful not to step on the ground directly in front of any cross, an old superstition difficult to kick. The crucifixes were rudimentary,

simple planks of wood. Some were overtaken by rot, others preserved well enough to read an inscription across the horizontal member, names and dates. The congregation and the congregation in the the back corner contained no less than six, all with the same date. December 7, 1891. The massacre of my grandfather's story, I thought. Probably cholera, Taylor said, voicing her own explanation. If there is anything left of that town, we must be close. Beyond the cemetery, the spruce thinned and the ground rose. We crested the slope and there it was. The remains of the town stood on a plateau of hard earth. A few of the cemetery. A few of the cemetery. of the wooden houses remained as complete structures. The timber warped and cracked and bleached

the color of the ground. A few more were relieved of roofs and parts of walls leaving a fragile relic of what had been. My eyes swept up the sloping mountain beyond where a rusted red limb of mining equipment poked above the rocks. Taylor approached the closest house and pushed the door. The gentle force tore the door from its hinge and it slapped against the dirt interior of the house. Needles from the surrounding spruce littered the floor. She ventured inside. I lingered on the outside and examined a pair of grooves in the timber siding. Weather had worn the edges. I ran my fingers down them and wondered what could have made such marks. This is cool, Taylor said. She was right. Some of the houses contained old tables and chairs and bed frames left behind before the move

back down the mountain. We found little else, save a lone glass bottle half buried in the ground. We dumped our gear beside the house closest to the cemetery and set about scaling the rock in the direction of the mining equipment beyond. We found a crude staircase cut into the rock and powered to the top. What remained of the mining equipment amounted to an A-frame with a bucket on rails to extract the dirt and a few abandoned picks. A shaft cut into the earth and was soon swallowed by darkness. We could only guess at the depth. I scrambled up a slope beyond and sat on a small rock platform with a lookout over the valley below, my legs dangling over the side. In the distance, the mountains looked blue. We lingered there for a time until the sun kissed the peaks to the

west. Tonight we would camp at the ghost town, and we would stay a few days. The first sign of trouble was my red windbreaker lying on the ground beside a half-collapsed house at the back of the ghost town. When we left, the windbreaker was packed tightly into my backpack. Something had messed with my bag. It wouldn't be the first time. Squirrels or birds had done it before, but I was sure the windbreaker was deep down in my bag. It would take a persistent squirrel to get to it.

A second option had my heart thumping. A bear. Our gear was a mess. Our clothes and sleeping bags were strewn across the ground. The small gas burner was upturned. My backpack had two parallel tears running top to bottom. I ran my hand over them like I had the two grooves in the siding on the house. This was no squirrel.

Taylor picked up her black pan and turned it in her hand. She showed me. One side buckled inwards. Taylor gripped it and pulled at the metal to bring it back into shape. It did not budge. A bear, I said. It had to be. I fumbled in my bag for the canister of bear mace.

My muscles tensed and my hands worked frantically until I found it, stored where I had left it. At least we still had that. We searched the ground and looked for bare tracks, the tell-tale wide paws and grouping of front and back legs together. I found a depression in the ground. I hovered my foot above the footprint, my shoe dwarfed in comparison. And no second print. Whatever came into our camp did so on two legs, and at the base of those two legs were extraordinary. feet. It can't be true. Someone is messing with us. Taylor inspected the print. Neither of us had ever

seen anything like it. I looked west and the sun was already gone, the sky turning a shade of orange at the horizon. Light would fade fast. We had few options. Whatever it was that had been here was not here now. We had planned to camp outside under the stars, but with something stalking the forest we rolled our sleeping bags and mats inside one of the the houses. At least it provided some semblance of security. We did not risk a fire. Darkness overwhelmed the light quickly and completely. Clouds rolled in from the west at nightfall. A light breeze carried a faint hint of moisture. The forecast had warned of possible storms. I stuck my head out one of the windows, and aside from a blurred smudge of the moon through

the clouds, the sky gave no light. We were on edge. Inside the house, it was a deep, pitch black. I set the canister of bear mace beside my pillow, periodically palming it to make sure it was still there. Every crack and rustle from the forest had us twitching and turning our ears to the sound. I buried my head between my knees and wondered how I could tolerate the hours left until morning. I apologized to Taylor for suggesting we come out here. She laughed it off. We'd get through it and have an amazing story to tell. Her voice trembled. I don't know what time I fell asleep. When I woke, it was still dark, and my pillow was wet. Light rain made a gentle wrapping on the roof. A hole in the roof let through a small drip. I dragged my sleeping bag over to a dry section of

floor. In the distance, thunder rumbled, low and ominous. Then something else, closer. A crack from the forest, not a twig, but something more substantial, and then a growl, low, and deep. I shook Taylor awake. In the darkness, we listened, nothing. Had I dreamed it? No, I couldn't have. There was something out there. Should we risk turning on the torch? No, we had to be quiet. I closed my hands around the bear mace. The drumming on the roof intensified. The drip, drip of the leak in the roof turned to a constant dribble. A flash lit up the sky, and on its heels a clap of thunder that shook the flimsy structure we had chosen as our protector. The door flew open. I let out an involuntary scream. In the strengthening wind, the door flapped back

and forth, wrapping on the wall. I froze in place, fear rendering my muscles useless. Taylor made a rustling beside me, and I guessed she was moving for the door. Another flash of lightning confirmed my guess, the silhouette of Taylor fumbling in the dark for the door. She used the brief moment of light to gather her bearings and grip the door. A second flash followed the first, and through the doorway, a figure emerged. Big and black, it was no bear. In the moment of light, it looks stationary, but my imagination soon put it in motion. lumbering for the open door.

Shut the door, I yelled. Taylor clapped shut the door, and a deep growl mixed with the thunder. Help me, Taylor screamed. Her voice shifted my brain into gear. I jumped up, scrambled forward, and fell into the door. I braced my legs and pressed my shoulder against the old cracked timber. Did you see it? I asked. Yes.

What was that? I don't know. Guilt flooded my brain. It had been my idea to come out here. I had pushed for a second summer in the mountains. Taylor could have joined her college friends in Mexico. This trip had been, at least in part, a sense of duty for her. I thought of the cemetery and the dozens of graves, six on a single day,

and the scratch marks on the house made by a powerful hand. The stories were true, at least in the important details. Something lived up here, something that did not care to share its home with humans. Taylor's voice cut through my thoughts. Should we run? No, run where? We had to stay together. The creature pushed at the door with such force, I felt about as big and strong as a toddler. We pushed back and the door slammed back into place. The timber pinched at my shoulder. I felt with my hands and found a split in the wood. The door would not hold much longer. Through the torrent of rain, the creature snorted and spat, its hot breath penetrating the crack in the door. door and blowing over my neck. It pushed a second time, and that was enough. We fell to the ground, fragments of the splintered door clattering to the floor around us. I landed heavily on my right side, the canister of Bermace spilling from my grasp and rolling away into the darkness.

I crawled after it, feeling in the dark and expecting at any moment to be lifted in the air by my ankles. Behind me, Taylor screamed. It had her. Finally, the The edge of my index finger hit the cold steel of the canister. I fumbled it into my hands and stood. I saw nothing in the darkness. The rain beat on the roof. The wind howled. The creature snarled.

And in among it all, I found no compass. I prepared to fire the mace in random hope and hesitated a second, enough for a jagged fork of lightning to illuminate the sky. The animal held Taylor close to its chest in the corner of the room. I jumped a single step. And as the world went dark again, I sprayed and hoped. The creature wailed in pain and Taylor thudded to the ground at my feet. Heavy footsteps sloshed on the sodden ground outside the house and then stopped.

He wasn't gone yet. I stepped out into the rain. The waterlogged ground saturated my woolen socks. The rain fell thick and cold. A freezing wind sucked the warmth from my body. I listened. I waited. I shivered.

The first dose may not have sent it fleeing to the forest, but a second might. Where was the lightning? Was the storm spent? A hand gripped my bicep and pulled me close. Lightning lit up the sky. My face was inches from his, eyes eerily human, a thick mat of black hair soaked from the rain. With my free hand, I pushed the canister to his flat nose and sprayed. He threw his hands in the air and lifted me clean off the ground.

For a moment I felt weightless. and then came crashing back down. Soggy footfalls faded into the distance. It was gone. We huddled in the back corner of the house until daybreak. With the rising of the sun, the rain turned to drizzle and finally stopped. We kicked at the fragments of the splintered door. Outside, several vague footprints pressed into the mud,

partially destroyed by the rain. We gathered our things and began the walk home. The crosses standing in the cemetery, hammered home that we had been lucky. Before commencing our descent down the shoulder of rock, I turned and looked back up the slope. In the gloom, a lone light shone on the hill where the ghost town and the cemetery stood. Not a welcome light, but a warning. Own it all. Pay off your home, travel for life, drive a Ferrari. In celebration of the world premiere of the Monopoly Big Board Buckslot Machine by Aristocrat Gaming, Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel

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Kayak, got that right. Around three years ago, I was pretty down in the dumps. My long-term girlfriend had just left me. I was back to living in my parents' basement and to top it all off. Apparently the world was supposed to end in a few months according to some old calendar. Who knows what sort of stuff could happen? I'd rather be safe than sorry. Anyway, I had been doing some pretty heavy research into Bigfoot sightings.

Gigantopithecus, dude in an ape suit, some other undiscovered primate, nobody knows. But I know it's out there, somewhere. I looked through page after page trying to gather as much information as I possibly could. I was determined. It didn't take me long to decide I was going to head out into the wilderness on my own and search for this elusive thing. I figured we all only had a few months to live anyway. What did I have to lose? I saved up some cash and went to a sporting goods store to pick up some gear, a good tent and sleeping bag,

as well as some other assorted camping supplies. I even nabbed some night vision goggles from eBay. I was prepared. I got a plane ticket to walk. Washington State, I'd read that's where a lot of the sightings were, and flew out there within the week. The plane ride was uneventful, except for one very strange occurrence. After polishing off quite a few rum and coax, hell the world's ending soon, right? As I stumbled my way down the aisle, I suddenly felt every single passenger's eyes on me, even the ones who had been sleeping.

I mean every single one, children included. I think I saw a friggin' baby giving me the evil eye. It was dead silent, even though moments before the plane sounded like Mardi Gras. I kept looking back at the passengers when my hands found the bathroom door. They all had their heads turned around, still pointing their dark gazes at me. I slowly turned my head around to find an old woman inches from my face. Her eyes were all white. Blood trickled from her nose. She grabbed me by face and pulled me closer still. Her rancid breath whist. something to me. Find us. We're waiting, the hag whispered.

I practically threw myself into the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind me. What the hell was going on? Did I fall asleep on the plane and am now dreaming? Did somebody spike my drink and I'm now tripping out? Were the conspiracy nuts right and the world is ending? It took me about five minutes to calm myself down. I wasn't a huge fan of flying to begin with, let alone flying straight in. into a Twilight Zone episode. I decided to peek my head out of the bathroom

to see if old demon eyes was still there. She wasn't. It actually looked normal again. I stepped out of the bathroom and walked back to my seat. Nobody was staring at me anymore. Had I imagined all that? I wish I could say that I had in fact imagined it all. But unfortunately, as I sat down,

I noticed there was a small piece of paper in my seat. It was a business card. It was all white, plain, with nothing but an address on it. 237 Highway 12 East, Packwood, Washington. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. At this time, we'd like to ask y'all to please return to your seats and buckle up, as we'll be preparing to make our touchdown in the beautiful Emerald City of Seattle. The plane taxied to a halt, and I got off, eager to get the hell out of there.

I opened the map app on my phone and typed in the address from the business card. The app couldn't find the address, typical of that buggy piece of crap, but it did show me where Packwood was. I knew I'd heard of it before. It was a little town deep in the wilderness between Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens, prime territory for Bigfoot sightings. I'd planned on going through there any way on my way south so I could stop off for supplies before heading into the forest.

I turned the card over in my hand. hands, and I shrugged. I figured the hell with it. I'm out here for adventure, aren't I? Might as well check the place out. I got my bag, haggled with the rent-a-car clerk for a bit, and started the two-hour drive south. I listened to the radio, the station selection slowly dying out the further I got from Seattle. For the last 20 minutes, the only thing coming in was a single station playing old-timey music on an endless loop. The same strange tune, over and over, fuzzed with little bursts of static now and again. By the time I reached Packwood, it was starting to get to me. I thought I could hear someone whispering in the static. It was the middle of the night when I reached the town.

I drove down Highway 12, noting the address signs as I went, looking for the address on the card. All the numbers were in the 13,000s. Whoever wrote down 237, must have made a mistake. I pulled into the Packwood Inn and went into the office. No one was there, just a few keys laid out on the counter and a handwritten note that said, Pay up in the morning. I grabbed one and opened up a room.

I was exhausted from the long trip, and I plopped down on the bed. I messed around on my phone for a bit. Thought about texting my ex-girlfriend. You said I should have more ambition? Well, how about Bigfoot hunting? I typed before deleting it, and I fell asleep. I woke up a couple of hours later.

It was still dark out. I have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places, so I decided to just get an early start on the day. I went into the bathroom and pulled my shirt off to take a shower. I froze. I stared into the bathroom mirror, unable to process what I was seeing. The number 237 had been written on my chest in crimson red paint.

I freaked instantly, jumping in the shower and soaking my bottoms in the process. The red numbers melted slowly into formless pink and red shapes. I fought down the panic as the shower warmed from its biting cold, and I scrubbed the last remnants of the numbers off of my chest. Someone had been in my room, and somehow painted numbers on my chest, all without waking me up. I had no idea what this meant, but I knew it wasn't safe to hang around my room any longer. I hadn't unpacked much at all, and I grabbed everything that I had brought with me,

and hurried down the empty hallways. I passed the desk again, still empty, but the sign had been pulled down, off of it, the only sign of another human I had seen. As I saw the lobby doors, my hurried walk turned into a jog, and I stepped into the surprisingly crisp night air. I turned the rental car onto the same old-timey music. Screw that noise, I growled.

to no one but myself, turning the radio off with comforting decisiveness. Despite the lack of people, or maybe because of it, I felt watched. There was a full moon out and the clock in my car told me that I should be getting the benefits of dawn soon, so I kept the headlights off until I eased out of the parking lot and was back on the main town road, back on Highway 12. I drove north. Although the technical area of Packwood was large, most of the buildings were clustered in the center near the

in tourism centers. As I drove with a slowly growing sense of tension, I passed a church. Then, the only sign that I was still in Packwood were paths that cut into the trees and disappeared, and side roads that led to nestled houses in the forest. I should have just kept going and left the entire town behind. I didn't. Something red flashed in the dim edges of my headlights, and I stopped, mind whirling towards the numbers that had been painted on my chest. I suppose One thing all Bigfoot hunters have in common is undying curiosity and placing personal comfort and safety below the thrill of the chase. I gathered all of my survival gear that I had thrown in the back seat and put it on,

just in case. I shone the flashlight around looking for what I had seen. The trees were marked, marked with crimson paint. Unlike what had been on my chest, this paint was faded, worn away on the bark save for the well preserved. could still make out the shapes of the markings through the paint that was preserved in the cracks with a little effort. I knew from both my research on Bigfoot sightings and the brief search on Packwood I had done after receiving the address that the town had, for most of its history,

been a lumber town. The industry had collapsed in the late 1990s, and the town's big lumber mill had closed down suddenly. These trees had been marked for harvesting but had never made it. Most were marked with simple Xs, but my flashlight fell. on red lettering. 134, not the number I had been given. But there were other trees. Not very many were marked with numbers. There were several 134s, but I saw 222 and swallowed.

My heart was racing now, and I jumped as the handheld radio in my pack suddenly crackled to life. The music nothing but broken words fighting to cut through static now. Find us. The words echoed and I felt compelled. I broke into the trees, abandoning the highway as I panned my flashlight tree to tree, searching and working deeper into the swatch of trees that had been marked. In my head I went over everything I knew about Packwood.

Unfortunately, my knowledge of its actual history mostly ended at the lumber mill, and most of what I knew revolved around Bigfoot sightings. Packwood wasn't exactly a mainstream destination for Bigfoot sightings. It had only really started getting any amount of significant sightings around ten years, ago, and even then, nothing conclusive. Really you would only know to look for Bigfoot at Packwood if you were the kind of obsessive hunter that had already exhausted the mainstream spots, the kind that went into further and further remote regions, trusting success to slimmer and slimmer chances, the more underground the better. I personally had even considered Packwood

nothing serious, not until the hag on the plane. The kind of hunters who no one was surprised went missing, the thought crossing my mind the same moment my light crossed a hulking pitch-black pine, 237 scrawled across its trunk in fresh crimson letters. The radio was hissing static like whispers, and the phrase, We're waiting, we're waiting, we're waiting, droned through my mind. Once my light had found the one tree I saw another, there was a whole scattering of black pines, trunks twice as thick as the ones around them, a dense sleek black only marred by the bright red numbers on each of their trunks. Find us. We're waiting.

And then, silence. The radio stopped. The whispers ended. It was nothing but me and the sound of the night. That all-encompassing quiet that steals all that you are into its own blackness. Until it was disturbed, I hardly noticed it at first. grew slowly into my consciousness, a sound that I was familiar with but somehow didn't know, a droning, wispy sound, but not one I should have been hearing there. There was something behind the pine. From where I was standing, it was hard to make out. Its shape was near the tree,

but it was bigger, longer, man-made. I moved toward it, and suddenly the sound made sense to me. There, crashed and dilapidated into the middle of the trees, was an airplane. And suddenly the sound made sense to me. I was hearing an engine. It was torn and broken, but it somehow still seemed to be ready for flight. Its doors gleamed out like an invitation and one that I wasn't going to dismiss. Curiosity, as it always does, got the best of me. I wrenched the door ajar, orange rust preventing it from moving any smoother.

It was impossible to get in with all of my gear, so I left it by the door to retrieve it, just in case. The moment I entered, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't see or hear anything, but every other sense just felt wrong. The ground was wrong. The smell was wrong. Even the very air of it was wrong. I reached back through the door to grab my flashlight. I shone it around me, my immediate area at first, and then at the preceding aisles before me.

And it was wrong. I was not alone on the airplane. Every seat was full of crumbling skin and slack-jawed bones, buckled in as if it were just now making the descent. The strange thing was, they were all in different levels of decay. The remains of a dressed-up woman cradled a swaddle of death in her arms, while a fairly intact man with glasses studied an in-flight magazine. And near the back, an old woman with a toothy, blood-stained grin stared at me. They all stared at me, every single one. They all watched me with dark gazes from eyes they didn't have, judged me with sneers of faceless expressions. Every face, every aisle, every seat, every seat save one. It was empty, on the aisle, and strangely familiar. I walked to it slowly, the empty eyes of every passenger watching me pass. It was labeled 37, but beside it, someone had painted a crimson two. And then, I knew. I knew why it all felt so familiar. Why the plane was like a distant memory and the seat deja vu. This was my seat. On the plane, this was my seat. And this was my seat now.

I sat down and it was right, just right. I buckled myself in because safety first. My tray table was secure, but I was sure that any minute now the pilot would announce refreshments, and I would get a rum and Coke and maybe take a nap. And their eyes weren't on me anymore because we were ready, up, up, and away. They were waiting, and I had found them. And then, 17 hours later, she found me. Her name was Deanna.

She was a hunter, just like me. She pulled me from the plane and from the brink of insanity. She'd been out camping and found the numbers, followed them just as I had. When she heard the droning of the plane engine, curiosity got the better of her. That's when she found me, still in the seat, still mindlessly staring into blissful nothingness. She brought me to her camp and then back into town. She left me at the bus station and I never saw her again. Olivia Rodriguez, the unraveled Tuss North America, with special guests.

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Each call, each voice on the line, told the same unnerving tale. A solitary figure in a black jacket, a presence felt more than seen, trailing hikers through the dense forest with a persistence that turned the stomach. No words exchanged, just the silent, oppressive weight of being followed. My gut churned. Trouble was brewing in the woods, and it was our mess to clean up. The forest in its vast silence has a way of playing tricks on the mind. Shadows twist into figures, and the isolation weighs heavy on the soul. But these calls were different.

The fear in those voices was palpable, real. Three sightings, all up over the ridge to the west of our station, a place where the trees stand a little closer, and the shadows linger a bit longer. Jim and I, we've handled our share of oddities reported by hikers and campers. Lost folks, injured wildlife, even the occasional poacher. But this was something else. With a resigned sigh, we knew it was time to face whatever was out there. Rock, paper, scissors.

Our go-to for the undesirable tasks. As luck would have it, the man seemed to read my mind, and I lost. A tight nod from Jim, and I was strapping on my belt, clipping my radio, in place, the weight of the situation settling in. Driving up the slope, the truck's engine strained against the incline, the wilderness enveloping me with each mile. I couldn't help but wonder, why here? This part of the ridge wasn't known for scenic views or easy trails. It was remote, challenging, and frankly, unsettling. The thought nagged at me, an unwelcome companion as I pushed further into the unknown. Parking the truck at the end of the navigable road, I stepped out into

the morning air, crisp and laced with the scent of pine and damp earth. The worst of the ridge lay ahead. Its steep inclines a physical echo of my growing apprehension. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a sensation that crawled under my skin as I made my way through the dense underbrush. And then I saw him. A silhouette against the gray light of dawn, stand. standing among the birches. His black jacket was unmistakable, the hood drawn tight around his face, a void where his features should be. Even from a distance, the air around him felt charged, heavy with an unspoken threat. I paused, considering my approach. The rational part of my brain reasoned that he was just a man, lost, or perhaps up to no good, but nothing beyond the scope

of our usual dealings. Yet, as he took to him, he took. turned, half facing me. Something in his posture suggested he was anything but ordinary. Closing the distance, I raised my hand in greeting, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Hello? My voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the forest, the single word hanging between us. He didn't respond, just turned and began to walk away, disappearing into the trees with a grace that belied his ominous appearance. The chase was brief. Curiosity propelled. me forward, each step drawing me deeper into his world. As I reached out to grab him, a shock ran through me, a jolt that set my nerves alight. In that moment everything changed. The forest

around me seemed to shift, the ground underfoot a mere afterthought. When I opened my eyes, the world had transformed. A clearing, sunlit and serene, lay before me, and at its heart, an old stone well. The man in black stood on the other side. an invitation in his gesture. As I approached, the sense of foreboding grew. This was no ordinary encounter, no simple task of a forest ranger. I was on the brink of something profound, something terrifying, and there was no turning back. The clearing was an oasis of sunlight, a stark contrast to the dense forest that seemed to press in from all sides. The old stone well sat like a relic in the center, its presence both comforting and its presence.

incongruous. The man in the black jacket, a silent sentinel on the far side, motioned me closer. Each step towards the well felt like wading through a current, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline sharp in my veins. I paused a few feet away from the edge, the air between us charged with an unspoken warning. The sun was warm on my back, but it did nothing to ease the chill that had settled deep in my bones. The man pointed to the cold. the well again, a silent command that brooked no argument. The old stones were cool and rough under my fingertips, moss and lichen clinging to them like memories. Carved into the inner wall, nearly obscured by time and growth, were words that sent a shiver down my spine. Truth lies at the

bottom of a well. An ominous promise, or a threat, I couldn't decide. Drawn by a force I couldn't name, I peered into the darkness. The well was deeper than I had anticipated, its secrets cloaked in shadow, but then, a glimmer of light at the bottom caught my eye, a reflection that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Squinting, I leaned closer, the image at the bottom coming into focus. It was the forest, but not as I knew it. The trees were shrouded and mist, bathed in the ethereal light of a full moon. The scene shifted, and I was looking at a road I recognized, one that led back towards civilization, back towards responsibility and reality. And there he was, the man in the black jacket, not a ghost or a specter, but flesh and

blood, thumb outstretched in the universal sign of a traveler in need. Headlights cut through the night, a car care careening down the road with reckless abandon. My breath caught in my throat as I watched, a silent observer to the inevitable tragedy unfolding at the bottom of the well. The car, Jim's car, veered, and in that moment I knew. The scene shifted again, now to the aftermath. Jim, panicked and breathing hard, searching the darkness for any sign of the hitchhiker. And then, the unthinkable act of dragging a body into the shadows, an attempt to erase a mistake that could never be undone.

I stumbled back from the well, the weight of what I had seen pressing down on me. The man in the black jacket watched, his face still hidden in shadow, but I could feel his gaze, heavy with a sadness that was almost tangible. I turned to run, to escape the revelation and the clearing, but his voice stopped me, not spoken aloud but clear in my mind. You must look. My legs carried me back to the well, despite every instinct screaming at me to, flee. The images had faded, leaving only the dark water at the bottom, but the message was clear. The truth had been revealed, and with it a burden I wasn't sure I was strong enough to bear.

The journey back to the truck was a blur, my mind reeling with the implications of what I had witnessed. The forest, once a place of solace and solitude, now felt oppressive, each tree a silent witness to the secrets it concealed. I drove back in a days. the weight of the truth I carried a heavy shackle. What had started as a routine investigation had become a descent into a nightmare, one from which I feared there would be no waking. The morning was crisp,

the kind that hinted at the end of summer, with a bite in the air that told you fall wasn't far behind. I sat in the truck, engine idling, waiting for Jim. The plan was simple, but my mind was anything but. The image of the hitchhiker, The truth at the bottom of the well haunted me. It was a specter that clung closer than my own shadow. Jim slid into the passenger seat, his greeting terse.

The air between us was thick, heavy with unspoken words and secrets. I put the truck in gear, the road ahead familiar yet foreboding. We were retracing the steps of a ghost, and the closer we got to that curve, the tighter the knot in my stomach grew. We're taking a shortcut, I said. said, the lie bitter on my tongue. Jim's confusion was palpable, a mirror to my own inner turmoil. But as we neared the spot, his nervousness became unmistakable. His hands trembled and he couldn't sit still. Guilt, I realized, wears many masks. I stopped the truck, the silence between us

stretching out. We're here, I said, stepping out into the cold morning air. Jim followed reluctantly, his eyes darting around as if looking for an escape. The walk to the gully was a descent into the past. Each step a reminder of the vision that had been seared into my mind. The forest seemed to close in around us, whispering secrets I wished I could unhear. And then, we were there, standing at the edge of the world. Below us, hidden beneath branches and leaves, lay the hitchhiker. The scene was exactly as the well had shown me.

I felt Jim's eyes on me, his fear, a tangible thing. I found something, I called out, my voice steady despite the chaos within. Jim's plea for me to stop, to turn back, went unheeded. I had to see, had to know. The call to the authorities was a blur, the words tumbling out. Jim stood beside me, a statue of denial and despair. When the officers arrived, the forest held its breath. The hitchhiker's body was retrieved, a silent testament to a night gone horribly wrong. The interrogation that followed was a dance of shadows. I spoke of Jim's truck, of coincidences too pointed to ignore,

but the truth, the whole truth, remained locked away. The well, the vision, those were mine alone to bear. Jim's truck vanished, sold or hidden, it didn't matter. The investigation concluded with more questions than answers. The death ruled an accident. but Jim and I, we knew the truth. It hung between us, an unbreakable bond forged in the darkest of nights. I returned to my desk to a life forever altered.

The note I left in Jim's letterbox, a whisper in the night went unacknowledged, but it didn't matter, we both knew. The dreams came, relentless. The hitchhiker, his final moments illuminated by headlights, a life extinguished too soon. and in the quiet moments I would find myself drawn back to the forest searching for a well that remained elusive,

a truth just out of reach. Sometimes I think the well was never meant to be found again, its secrets too heavy for the light of day. And as I sit at my desk, the forest stretching out beyond the window, I can't help but wonder if some truths are better left buried, deep in the heart of the woods. This spring Uber Eats has you covered,

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Ross, work your magic. I've always thought of Alaska as a land of contrasts. Where else can you find such breathtaking beauty that, in the next moment, could turn into a scene straight out of a survival handbook? Anchorage, my hometown, is the perfect example. One look out the window, and you're faced with landscape so stunning, they seem painted by the grandest artist of all. But, as I've learned over the years, with beauty comes danger.

Living in Alaska is like being part of a select group who understand what it really means to coexist with nature. It's not just about the cold, which can freeze your lungs if you're not careful, or the moose that might decide your car looks like a perfect target for a charge. It's about understanding and respecting the land and its creatures, and knowing that, at any moment, nature could remind you of your place within it. My parents, in their own ways, have always been embodiments of this respect and resilience. My stepdad, with his long halls as a trucker, would be away for weeks, braving the vast and lonely roads of Alaska. My mom, working night shifts as a respiratory therapist, often found herself driving through the

eerie quiet of Anchorage's streets, long after most had settled in against the cold night. Despite their demanding jobs, my parents made a point to reconnect with me through our shared love of the outdoors. Alaska might not be teeming with people, but it's rich with state and national parks, each offering its own unique slice of wilderness. Whenever both managed to get some time off together, we'd pack up our camping gear and set off to explore these natural wonders. One of our most memorable trips was to Denali National Park. It's a place of raw beauty, a sprawling expanse of wilderness that captures the heart of what it means to be Alaskan. The park itself is massive, stretching over thousands of square miles of untouched land.

Half of it is cloaked in dense pine forests, home to a network of streams and lakes, while the other half boasts the imposing presence of Mount Danali. With its snow-capped peak and glacier-covered slopes, the mountain stands as a silent guardian over the land. Donali is a paradise for wildlife, too. Bears, wolves, elk, moose, and even the more elusive creatures like foxes and raccoons, roam freely. It's like stepping into a world where nature still reigns supreme, a reminder of how vast and wild our world can be. The dangers of such a place are real, of course.

everyone knows to be cautious of bears and to keep food stored securely. The cold, too, is a constant companion, one that demands respect and preparation. But for all its challenges, Alaska fosters a spirit of community and resilience. Here, offering a helping hand isn't just a courtesy. It's a necessity. You never know when you might be the one in need. As we set out for Denali, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement. excitement and apprehension. The park, with its rugged terrain and abundant wildlife, promised an

adventure like no other, but it also posed challenges and dangers that we would need to navigate carefully. Little did I know, our trip would become a testament to the unpredictable nature of the Alaskan wilderness, and an encounter that would stay with me for the rest of my life. As our car wound its way through the last stretch of road leading to Denali National Park, I pressed my face against the cold window, trying to soak in every detail of the landscape rolling by. The park's entrance loomed ahead, a gateway to an adventure that felt both thrilling and a bit daunting. My stepdad's excited chatter about the fish he hoped to catch mixed with my mom's plans to spot as much wildlife as possible, filling the car with a sense of anticipation. Setting up camp was a familiar routine. Our

movements practiced and efficient. Yet, the backdrop of Denali's towering forests and distant mountains made it feel like a new experience. Our tent, a cozy haven of fabric and poles, stood proudly among the whispering pines, our temporary home in the wild. The first day in Denali was like living in one of those nature documentaries I used to watch with wide-eyed wonder. My stepdad and I headed to a nearby stream, rumored to be a prime spot for fishing. The water was crystal clear, flowing with a gentle hum that spoke of the untamed wilderness surrounding us. Each cast of the line was a moment of hope, the anticipation of what might bite an exciting mystery. To my amazement, the fish seemed to love our bait.

One after another, I reeled them in, feeling like a seasoned fisherman despite my limited experience. My stepdad's proud chuckles, and the cool, fresh air made for a perfect morning. We decided to keep a couple of our catches for dinner, releasing the rest back into the stream with a sense of gratitude for the park's generosity. While we fished, my mom took her binoculars and went in search of wildlife. Her excitement was palpable when she returned, recounting how she had watched a herd of elk gracefully navigate the forest's edge to drink from a stream. It was moments like these, she said, that made all the stresses of her job fade away.

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, we gathered around our campfire. The crackling flames offered warmth against the evening chill, a cozy center for our little family. We cooked the fish we had caught, the smell of it roasting over the fire, filling the air with a rustic aroma.

Dinner was a feast not just of food, but of stories. My parents shared tales from their childhoods, stories of Alaska that seemed to blend the lines between reality and legend. Under the vast star-filled sky, their voices wove a tapestry of life in this beautiful, rugged place. Feeling full and content, I announced that I was heading to bed, the day's adventures having taken their toll. The night air was cool and crisp as I made my way to the tent, the sounds of the night forest a soothing lullaby. I snuggled into my sleeping bag, the excitement of the day giving way to the peaceful embrace of sleep. But the peace was short-lived. I was jolted awake in the

deep, silent hours of the night by a sound that was out of place in the calm wilderness, a soft, rhythmic scratching just outside my tent. My heart raced as I lay frozen, trying to make sense of the noise in the pitch-black night. The tranquil wilderness of Denali had suddenly taken on a more menacing character, and I was about to discover that its beauty was matched only by its mysteries. In the absolute silence of the Alaskan night, every sound feels amplified, like the world is holding its breath. That scratching noise just outside my tent was so unexpected, it cut through the quiet like a knife. I lay there frozen, my heart thumping loud enough to betray my presence to whatever lurked beyond the thin fabric of my shelter. At first, I tried to

convince myself it was nothing, maybe just the wind playing tricks, or a small, animal curiously sniffing around, but the logical part of my brain struggled to find a rational explanation. We hadn't set up camp near any trees, specifically to avoid the risk of pine cones tearing the tent. So what could be making that sound? The minutes stretched out, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness as the scratching continued. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The silence that followed was even more terror. My imagination ran wild with images of what might be lurking just a few inches from where I lay. The stories of bears and wolves that roamed these parks echoed through my mind, turning my blood to ice.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I heard it, a soft footstep, right outside the entrance. The fear that had been a cold stone in my stomach now surged through my veins with icy certainty. This was no small animal. mind scrambled for any reasonable explanation. Maybe it was my stepdad coming to check on me. Clinging to that shred of hope, I mustered the courage to move, my hands shaking as I reached for the tent zipper. That's when I heard the breathing, a deep, guttural sound that seemed too close. My hand froze on the zipper, every muscle in my body locking up again. I was a statue, barely daring to breathe, as the creature outside sniffed the air. I could almost feel

its presence, a heavy weight of menace just beyond the tent wall. Then, a laugh, a sound so unexpected and chilling it sent shivers down my spine. For a moment, relief washed over me. It had to be my dad, right? Trying to scare me as a joke. But the relief was fleeting, replaced by a deep instinctual fear. Whatever was outside, it wasn't human. Gathering every ounce of bravery I didn't know I had, I yanked the zipper down, the metal teeth sounding impossibly loud in the silence. What I saw in the dim light of the moon left me petrified. Crouched at the entrance of my tent, was a creature out of a nightmare. It stood on two legs, covered in fur, with eyes that glowed with an otherworldly amber light. Its snarl revealed sharp fangs, and its ears flattened

in aggression. This was no bear or wolf, but something far more ancient in person. terrifying. I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. All I could do was stare, transfixed by the horror in front of me. Then, as the creature reached towards me with a clawed hand, a gunshot shattered the night. The creature turned, moving with a speed that seemed impossible, and disappeared into the darkness. My stepdad rushed to my side, revolver in hand, his face etched with fear. Are you okay? He asked, his voice shaking. I couldn't answer. Words failed me as I tried to process what had just happened. The wilderness of Alaska, with all its beauty and majesty,

had shown us its hidden face. A reminder that some things in this world are beyond understanding. The night air hung heavy with a silence that felt charged, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath after the gunshot. My stepdad stood guard, his eyes scanning the darkness where the creature had vanished. I was still trembling, the adrenaline making my heart race. I had so many questions, but the words wouldn't come out.

Everything that just happened seemed surreal, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. As dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of pink and orange, we packed up our camp in silence. The beauty of Denali that had so captivated us now seemed overshadowed by the terror of the night. The drive home was quiet. each of us lost in our own thoughts, trying to make sense of the encounter. My parents tried to rationalize it as a bear, but I knew what I saw. Bears don't stand on two legs and laugh. Bears don't have eyes that glow with an amber light.

What I saw was something different, something that didn't belong in the world as I knew it, but trying to explain it felt impossible. How do you describe a nightmare to someone who hasn't seen it? Back in Anchorage, life resumed its own. normal pace, but I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The wilderness had always been a place of adventure and wonder for me, a vast playground to explore. Now it felt like a reminder of how small and vulnerable we really are in the face of the unknown. I spent hours researching, trying to find anything that matched what I saw, legends of creatures that roamed the Alaskan wilderness,

stories passed down through generations, but nothing fit exactly. It seemed like the creature from that night didn't want to be found, existing in the shadows just beyond the reach of explanation. As time passed, the sharp edges of fear dulled, but the curiosity remained. That encounter in Denali changed how I saw the world. It was a reminder that there are mysteries out there, secrets hidden in the deep forests, mountain shadows. Alaska, with all its beauty and danger, was more complex and mysterious than I

had ever imagined. Reflecting on that night, I realized it wasn't just about the terror or the unanswered questions. It was a lesson in humility, a reminder that despite all our advancements and knowledge, there are still things beyond our understanding. It taught me respect for the wilderness, not just for its beauty, but for the unknowns it harbors. The wilderness of Alaska is like a book with pages that can never be fully read. Each visit reveals a new story, a new mystery. And while part of me is still frightened by what I saw that night, another part is drawn to the mystery, eager to explore the unknown.

Maybe one day I'll return to Donali, to the vast wilderness that holds so many secrets. But until then, I'll carry the memory of that encounter as a reminder of the wild heart of Alaska, a place where beauty and mystery walk hand in hand and where the wild things roam free in the shadows. Stitch Fix. Stop shopping, get styled. A plus on the outfit, Miss Turner.

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