Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 4 SCARY Middle Of Nowhere Horror Stories You Won't Believe

Episode Date: June 7, 2024

Prepare to be chilled to the bone with these 4 true and disturbing middle of nowhere horror stories that will make you question what lurks in the isolated corners of the world. From eerie encounters in the dead of night to inexplicable phenomena in the wilderness, these tales will keep you on the edge of your seat. Watch if you dare, but remember, the middle of nowhere is never as empty as it seems. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:28:59 Story 2 00:37:34 Story 3 00:54:58 Story 4 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #horrorstories #redditstories #scarystories #middleofnowhere 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Just tell the manager you'll sue. Instant room upgrade. Stop taking bad travel advice. Start comparing hundreds of sites with kayak and get your trip right. Bad advice? You talking to me? Kayak, got that right. I'll never forget the summer of 2006.

I was a drifter, always looking for a place to crash and a good time. What had started out as a great year quickly turned into misfortune. The guy I was seeing ditched me, literally leaving me behind for another town. I had zero money, no job, and only trouble on my mind. I couldn't tell you what brought me to that little town up north, but I can tell you what made me leave. I was living in Clemens, North Carolina, hanging out at a local bar, nursing a whiskey on the rocks. There was this art retreat I tried to get into, but I failed and got denied. I didn't even meet half the requirements.

Now I was drifting, sleeping on couches, and rapidly running out of options. I wasn't planning on living in Clemens forever, but it had a quaintness, and the people had their own vibe. I wasn't exactly racing to get out of town or anything. I figured something would come along eventually, just like it always does when you need it to. That's when I met him. Pizzu, or Pee, as he liked to be called, came in alone and totally caught my eye, tall and lean, with dreadlocks and ink on every inch of his body. His arm, arms, face and throat, were all marked up with something. He took a seat in total silence and didn't seem to have a relationship with the bartender,

just ordered a straight whiskey. Needless to say, this guy had my attention. I moved down the bar and he started chatting me up right away. He said he lived in town, his mom did too, and he'd been local his whole life. He said he owned some properties throughout the community, which, once you get to the end of the story, you'll know is total crap. I think what he meant by property was really bodies. He had bodies buried all over the community. Obviously, I didn't know this at the time. All I saw was this mysterious, edgy-looking guy making eyes at me from the next bar stool over.

He was charming in this twisted sort of way, with a wicked grin and a glint in his eye. He invited me to stay with him and his friends, and I jumped at the chance. I mean, who wouldn't want a free place to stay? Totally free, I asked. He said, Everything in life should be free. The only price we pay for anything should be sin. I thought this was his attempt at poetry,

but I'd find out just how wrong I was. We got to the house, and it was a total dump. I don't really know what I was expecting, but after the stories I heard at the bar, I kind of thought he had money. It was what looked like a double-wide train, set atop a brick basement foundation, a dingy site-built home very common throughout the Carolinas. He led us in through the ground entrance, where I discovered the ultimate bachelor pad,

spray paint on the walls, food in the sink, and empty beer cans cluttered on every surface. It was a dump on the outside and a putrid mess on the inside, even carrying its own moldy smell, one I'd never really experienced before. P. didn't apologize or even address the level of filth he lived in. He showed me a room that had some semblance of normalcy, a mattress with an end table, pretty much empty otherwise. He said he rented this one out periodically, usually when he needed the money, but I could sleep there for free.

For some reason he lied to me and wanted to take me under his wing. At first, it was a party. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, and we lived life. life on the edge. The first night he threw a party, it was just for me, literally painted a welcome message for me on the wall adorned with this quote about how evil was the only way to live. His friends were nuts too, but nowhere near the level of depravity that P was on. They sat in circles, chanted, did rituals with their own blood, and talked about the craziest stuff that I've ever heard, not just about the occult, but what they wanted to happen to the world.

the crazy messages painted on the wall started to make sense to me. These guys truly believed they were agents of evil sent to bring hate to the earth. I'll admit P was fascinating. His stories of Satanism and the occult intrigued and intimidated me, but I wanted to fit in, so I played along, pretending to be interested in his dark rituals and sacrifices. Honestly, it wasn't that hard. Like I said, he went out of his way to make me feel comfortable that first night, maybe even that whole first week. I was in a perpetual state of drunkenness, getting fed a steady dosage of pretty much whatever drug I wanted. He had hookups, and somehow had the leverage to make deals and always score, whether it be booze or drugs. He claimed it was the work he did for Satan. He said

the darkness would never let him go without what he needed. That is a direct quote, and he meant it every time he said it. P. truly believed there was an evil spirit that looked out for him, paving the path anywhere he went. Regardless, I paid it no mind, and enjoyed the free couch and the non-stop party. But as the days went by, things began to get weird. The house was a mess. The dirty dishes piled up, unwashed clothes scattered everywhere, holes in the wall. It was like they didn't care about anything, least of all hygiene.

I was starting to hear P. gloat about his daily services for the devil. He claimed he hadn't showered in three years, and that by keeping his body in that natural composition, Satan made it impossible for him to get sick. Infection was a thing of the past for him, hence the disgusting filth that he lived in. P. used the grime in Greece as a method of warding away the normal, the good, the decent. It was a repellent for anyone who also didn't worship the devil. Pee also said that he stopped brushing his teeth, which I noticed he had personally manipulated. I didn't see them in the bar, but after a few nights together, I saw the brown rot,

but I also saw something else too. He had literally filed his teeth into points. He looked like he had the mouth of an animal or a demon. He did everything in his power to make himself unapproachable, and if you did approach him like I had, you would never be comfortable around him. And then there were the animals. Pea had all kinds of creatures, from snakes to spiders, and he loved to torture them. I tried to ignore it, but it was hard to stomach.

He would torture them with different tools, like a lighter, or even put them in the freezer, claiming that he was conducting a ritual to control the weather. Satan had gifted him these animals to use to control the world around him. If he set the spider's feet on fire, it would be a warm day. If he put it in the freezer, it would be a cold, dark day. Very strange, simplistic thinking, but I will say this. It may have been the drugs, or just my method of nodding and smiling every time he spoke, but it seemed like the weather actually followed his actions.

If he burned the spider, I always remember the next day being a goddamn scorcher, although he could have just been checking the weather and pretending it was a magic trick. Then there were the confessions. Pee would get drunk and start talking about all the things he'd done. At first I thought he was just bragging, trying to shock me, but as the stories went on, I quickly realized that he was telling the truth. He went on at length about the piles of animals he'd killed for rituals and sacrifices. Dogs, cats, rabbits, literally anything he could get his hands on.

There's nothing like taking a bite out of a still beating heart, he said at the top of his lungs one night. Better than any drug on earth. It's pure ecstasy straight to the bloodstream. And it's even better if the animal dies while you're eating it. talk about a rush. It's hard to take something like that seriously when you hear it in real life, but it's even harder when you're living with the person. I think I was overwhelmed with denial that this guy couldn't be as crazy as he seemed.

That second week really turned the tables, as he was in a constant state of blackout drunkenness, but then would randomly recover and seem coherent, well-spoken. He said it was because demons were in and out of his body, helping him get things done. Those confessions got worse to the point of being outright heinous. P. said he killed a number of sex workers over the last couple of years. He said they were the easiest, and no one was looking for them.

By society's standards they were already missing, so P just did the work of the darkness and brought them suffering of a different caliber. It wasn't just that he was claiming to be a murderer. Pee said that he ate their corpses, feasted on them for multiple days before burning their bodies, and disposing of the remains in the rivers and forests outside of town. Killing them brought terror to the world, and eating them brought power to the underworld,

opening the doorway for just a moment, as he said. I remember we exchanged a look, and I think P could tell that I didn't believe him. He just nodded and said, You'll see, you'll see the fires. By the third week things had really escalated. I woke up, and it was like I was in a totally different house. The smell was worse. The wasteland of trash was worse. Everything was worse. I could see that

P was getting more and more strung out on the drugs and alcohol, teetering on violent and manic. I found him one morning painting the walls with blood. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He said he needed protection. Soon, I wanted to ask, protection from what? But decided to ask where he decided to ask where he got that blood from. He pointed to the backyard and said he spent the morning butchering an animal and draining every drop of fluid from it. Killing animals in the backyard was one thing, but by the next day, there were literal pieces of these animals strung up on fishing line, dangling from the ceiling, legs, paws, ears, eyes. What wasn't suspended from the ceiling was stored

in a cooler by the fridge, and pee would ritualistically eat the raw, rotting flesh. This was when the flies started to build up, and I'm talking hundreds, if not thousands. The house was disgusting when I arrived, but it turned into something else during that last week, and P did not care. He liked it, felt like it gave him power. It was a house of horrors, and for some reason I was voluntarily living there. It was a hub for outcasts and misfits of all kinds, as was the company that P. kept. With the spiral, though, it didn't feel safe anymore, especially not for women. I returned back to his house one night as he'd left for the woods, and I didn't want to go. When I got back, I heard weird sounds coming from the basement.

When I entered, I found a group of strangers engaging in twisted rituals. Obviously, I recognized P and a couple of his friends, but the rest were unknown to me, half of them women. They were painted in what looked like blood, partaking in some of the strangest, scariest sex that I've ever seen, masks, open wounds, and lots of drugs. P gave me this gross, distant, menacing stare before beckoning me over. I didn't go, simply turned and barreled back out into the cool night air. Better believe I kept running.

I knew I would be leaving this house soon. I was living in a complete nightmare, and I didn't know how to wake up from it. I'd been so scared to leave before, but now I was too scared to stay. What the hell had I gotten myself into? It occurred to me that everything he told me could be true, that I could end up with my throat cut deep in the Carolina wilderness, getting danced around and spit on by people using me for what they believed was magic. Finally, after weeks of living in terror, I found the courage to leave.

I wish I could say it was more dramatic, but I simply bided my time until he was out of the house, then made my move. I packed my bag and slipped out of the house unnoticed and unseen. I didn't stop running until I was out of that town, eventually out of the state and far away from Pizzou-Algarad. I never looked back, and I never spoke about those weeks again, at least not until his case broke national headlines. It turned out a lot of us passing through Clemens had stayed with this lunatic. I was very fortunate to get out when I did, as I read he openly murdered more people later in life. Those memories haunt me still to this day.

I know I'll never be the same. I've seen some terrible things in my time as a detective, but the case of Pazuzu Algarad was something completely else. This guy has a rap sheet, quite a colorful history, and it's always bothered me a bit. I feel like we should have had a lot more data on this guy, but the reality is he terrified everyone that he came in contact with. The people that knew him and lived around him avoided that guy at all costs,

and for good reason. Not only was he disgusting as a person, but he was very violent, very unpredictable. Everything about his persona screamed isolation, mental illness, and this open disdain for not just authority, but mankind in general. This guy was out to have a bad day every day, and he didn't make that a secret. It started from a tip from a local resident who reported a strange smell coming from the house in town, a house we all knew well. When we arrived, we found two bodies buried in the backyard. The house was literally covered in blood and filth.

To this day, it goes down as the most disturbing case that I've ever witnessed. The home itself was a pigsty, an unbelievable amount of filth on every surface, including human waste. As we dug deeper, we discovered that Pizzou was a self-proclaimed Satanist, who had a fascination with the occult and a history of animal cruelty. He had a group of followers who were just as twisted as he was, and together they had committed some of the most heinous crimes I've ever seen. Followers might be a strong word. A rag-tag group of losers is more appropriate, but they were all loyal to pee. They never ratted on him, didn't give up the game they were playing, regardless of the rules or the stakes. They would just go

along with whatever insane deranged plans this guy made and laugh with him about it later. He even managed to keep girlfriends and a couple of fiancés throughout his stint. Honestly, he kind of reminded me of Charles Manson, cunning, clever, but pure evil at his core. The difference, though, between Manson and P. was that P. was the one who wanted to do the stabbing and the killing. He didn't send in his followers. He was first in line to draw blood or drink it. He didn't want to just talk about it. His victims were mostly prostitutes and drifters. People were people. who wouldn't be missed. Pazuzu would lure them into his house, where he would torture and kill them, then burn their remains in the woods. It was this sickening ritual, and one that he seemed to enjoy.

As we investigated, we found evidence of Pazuzu's crimes everywhere. There were bloodstains on the walls, bones in the backyard, and a collection of satanic artifacts that would make your skin crawl. It was like he wanted us to know what he'd done, like he was proud of all of his crimes. The most disturbing thing was the way he seemed to manipulate people. He had this charm, a charisma that drew people in, made them do his bidding. His followers were brainwashed, completely under his control. They would do anything that he asked. One of his close friends had this to say about him.

He had this twisted sort of charisma. It's the kind of charisma that isn't going to appeal to everyone, but certain minds are going to be drawn in by it, the misfits. the outcasts, people living on the edge, or people who wanted to live on the edge. Here's the crazy part. We had reports from his friends that were beyond outlandish. We'd collect some of these people that were connected to P, jam them up pretty hard just to get some info to help build the case.

They told us about crazy sex orgies, animal killing. But they also told us something that we hadn't heard yet. Pee would throw parties wherein all the attendees would use the same knife to cut themselves open. Then pee would drink everything that came out. We're talking quarts of blood in this guy's stomach. Absolutely disgusting. Next-level stuff. Like I said before, this guy had been on our radar for a long time, but it wasn't until 2010 that it all started to close in around him. He took in a friend who had shot and killed a man in the woodland outside of town, and when his body was discovered the next day, authorities had pieced the crime together pretty quickly. By that, I mean we were

looking for a named suspect. When we approached P, he lied, misdirected us, muddied the waters of the investigation. Only later did we realize the suspect was being harbored at P's house. So we arrested him as an accessory, gifted him some charges that would be on his record forever. Once he was on the radar, it wasn't long before we had a warrant for his property. The neighbors were already calling in for the smells, strange sightings, threats, all kinds of stuff. On top of that, authorities had their own pile of questions and evidence that could only be answered by taking pee and walking his property. When the officers arrived, one half moved inside to situate the Satanist, make sure he couldn't run or grab a weapon or conceal anything else. The other half of the officers patrolled the front and backyards, quickly finding what we were looking for, two shallow graves very near one another, housing the brutalized remains of two different people,

Tommy Welsh and Josh Wetzler, both of whom had been missing since 2009. The handcuffs came out, and we arrested both P. and his fiancé at the time, a woman named Amber Birch, who was complicit in essentially everything. Both men had been shot and killed, but there was evidence of further desecration of their corpses, as well as possible cannibalism. We locked them up, as well as a few other accomplices, and the rest is pretty much history. The town bulldozed that hellhole of a house, deemed it unlivable after they discovered what was going on within it, only to never let it see another sunrise. P. went on to kill himself almost exactly one year later in prison, or at least that's the story. For some reason, I just can't believe that prick would commit suicide. He was too proud, too much of a narcissist to ever do something like that.

If it wasn't obvious from his behavior, the guy was desperate for attention. Now he was a person. Now he was a on the world stage behind bars. Part of me thinks some kind of shady justice got dealt to him. North Carolina is a heavily Christian state, especially Clemens. It wouldn't surprise me if a couple of correction officers, or even someone higher up, made sure peace stopped breathing that night. I can't even imagine how much he annoyed the guards in prison. This guy was constantly talking crap and giving any kind of attitude. But even now, I can't shake that feeling of unease that this case has left me with. Pazuzu Algarad was a monster, true evil, and I'm just glad that he's dead and can't harm anyone else. I've lived in this neighborhood for over 20 years, and I've seen a lot of

things, but nothing could have ever prepared me for the terror that was Pazuzu Algarad. That was the name that came later, though. I originally knew him as a boy named John Lawson and his mother, Cynthia. They moved in when John was still a boy, but that didn't mean he was normal or anything like that. He was just about the angriest kid on the block, always blowing up and yelling threats at people. We'd see him, or hear him screaming insults at his mother at least once a week, either inside the house or even in the front yard. She seemed to be a woman at her wits end, and I could see why. John made everything difficult, and honestly, he seemed like he enjoyed doing it. It was absolutely no surprise when we would later learn he called himself a satanist.

All the clothes, piercings, tattoos, it all started to add up. Whenever we saw a pentagram painted on a sign or a brick wall, we assumed it was him and his stupid friends. At first, he was just a kid always getting into trouble. I'd see the cops bringing him home or stopping by for a chat at odd hours, his mom always apologizing, always making excuses for his behavior. But I knew there was something off about him even back then. As he got older, things only got worse.

He started hanging out with a rough crowd. I'd see them gathered around his house, smoking and drinking. I'd hear strange noises coming from inside, like chanting and screaming. I tried my best to stay out of it, but it was hard to ignore. We lived right there. This was right around the time that he actually changed his name. We started hearing Pazuzu up and down the block. Now I myself am a god-fearing man.

I've gone to church every week for 40 years. I recognize the name that he gave him to. from the movie The Exorcist. Again, I'm a Christian, but I enjoy a good scare. I remember hearing that name in the flick, so I decided to look it up for myself. It turned out that the name Pazuzu was a real demon in Mesopotamian culture. He was considered the king of all demons. His surname in the full right means, the Lord of the Locust, in Arabic, a truly frightening title for a kid who lives up the street from you. But at this point, he was starting to turn into a man. He was a legal adult. He could change his name. I only know his surname because it was

spray painted in the parks. The guy was a problem throughout the community, but no one had the brass to approach him. The cops had been involved in his life since he moved to the neighborhood, but for whatever reason, nothing ever really stuck. They'd come, ask questions, then leave, then do it all again the next month, the same song and dance. I'm sure P. and his followers said it was due to Satan and their sacrifices. Satan was protecting them from recourse, and who knows, that could have been true. It didn't last very long, as I'll never forget the afternoon the cops flooded our neighborhood, patrols up and down the block, and a group going to knock on the door.

The patrols were just in case he tried to flee, I suspect. Running never really seemed his style. P liked conflict, liked confrontation, and anyone in our neighborhood would definitely agree with me. But again, after a bit of questioning, they left again, this time only for a week or so. The police would later come back, much more subtly this time, and ran what was going to be a full raid on his house. He ended up stepping out and giving himself up. I'm almost positive they were prepared to kick in his door and everything. P. caught his charge as an accessory to murder, and served a short stint, as I remember him appearing back just a few months later, maybe a year at

most. At this point, there was a girl with him all the time, always in and out of the house. She was nowhere near as scary as P was, but she had a mean face and a bad attitude. She never really had anything kind to say. We avoided her just as much as we did her boyfriend. There would be parties, loud music, sometimes dozens of people showing up to do drugs or whatever else they were up to. The rumors themselves were horrific. Sex cults, drug overdoses, abduct and kill animals from the neighborhood, all that usual satanic panic kind of stuff. We avoided the house at all costs. But even if there was any kind of racket, no one ever left their house, music blasting,

people screaming, all that going on at two in the morning. What do you do? Go over to the psychotic Satanist's house and risk being murdered, not a chance. We'd call the police, and they usually wouldn't even bother showing up. P. controlled the neighborhood back in those days. It's a mark of shame for all of us who lived there. But then 2014 came along, and the real story broke. It was much the same, though, cops crawling up and down the street,

but this time they actually went in the house, lots of them. The rest paraded into the front and backyards, outfitted with metal detectors and cadaver dogs. It wasn't long until we heard barking and a whole lot of shouting. Then we heard it again. Two hits, I suspected, and later confirmed. by a voice shouting to the others. Get the commander on the line, we've got bodies back here.

It was a gruesome thing. Two men had been buried back there for as long as five years. They'd been missing since 2009, local boys. They'd likely run with groups somehow affiliated with Pizzou. Either someone spoke out of line, a drug deal went bad, or something occurred for P to kill them. Until we learned that his girlfriend had actually killed the second, a real duo made in hell, if you will.

It was a huge relief to the community when both he and her were arrested and never seen in town again. By April of the next year, after the case closed and all the charges were properly filed, the city came in to demolish the house. It was a bittersweet day. Many of us were happy to see it go,

especially after the police went through it. The building itself was full of blood, carcasses, and human excrement. The amount of work required to make. make it livable again would have been ungodly, and after so many crimes throughout so many years, it was just time to bury it. Literally, the whole block came out to watch it get pushed over and loaded up into the back of a big dump truck. By the second day, there was nothing left but the rubble of the foundation. It was relieving, and still is to this day. P. and his cronies disappeared, and apparently, the guy offed himself not long after being arrested. So much for him.

the Lord of the Locust. Although I must confess, part of me was still drawn to the whole thing. I couldn't believe how close to my life all of this had gone down. I found myself thinking about the evil that lurked just across the street. I wondered if it would linger. One night, I found myself curious enough to walk over to the empty lot and just look at it. I needed to see that there weren't ghosts dancing under the moonlight or corpses crawling up out of the dirt. I got over there and found nothing, just random leftover debris from the demo. The only thing unpleasant that lingered was a smell, and honestly, it took a couple of weeks to dissipate.

That level of death and decay doesn't just go away, even if you destroy every scrap of the home. It's literally in the earth at that point. The only other thing that remained was just a heavy presence. When I crossed the street, I felt a weight just come down on my shoulders like I didn't want to be over there, but I needed to see it for myself. There was nothing. I turned back after 10 or 15 minutes of studying the area. When I did, I heard something, a voice. I don't know what it said, but it was unmistakable. It sounded like pee. I'd heard that kid yelling up and down

the street for more than a decade at that point, so I knew his voice for many others. It sounded like a laugh, but also sounded like words. Dumbass old man is what my brain pieced together, but here I am ten years later, still unsure to this day. But I can tell you there's nobody over there. I think it was just a fragment of my imagination. Years of terror have been put to rest, but my brain still thought he could be around. He wasn't. He died in a cell not long after that night. I don't hear him anymore, and the air on my streets smells better than it ever has. 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

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By 5.30 a.m., I was on the road, the sky just beginning to lighten. There's something about the early morning hours that I love. The world feels fresh, untouched. I adjusted my mirrors, set the GPS, and glanced at the map spread out on the passenger seat. I felt like Kit Carson, preparing for a trek into unknown territory. California was a long way off, and I knew I'd have to stop for the night somewhere before hitting the Rockies. The drive was uneventful at first. I hopped onto the interstate, the miles ticking by as the radio played softly in the background. The scenery changed from the lush greens of Colorado to the arid, open spaces of Nevada. As the day wore on, the heat intensified, but the promise of a new destination kept me going. By the time the sun began to set, fatigue was setting

in. I consulted the map again, and decided to stop in a small town in northern Nevada. Or at least, that's what I thought it was. As I approached, it became clear that town was a generous description. The GPS directed me off the main road and onto a dark, narrow path. I drove slowly, my headlights cutting through the inky blackness. The town, if you could call it that, consisted of an old gas station in a rundown motel. There were no other cars in sight, no lights, no signs of life. This doesn't look like an incorporated area.

muttered to myself. I pulled over, peering into the darkness, hoping to find something more promising up ahead. But the map confirmed it. There was nowhere else to stay the night until after the Rockies. I glanced at the gas station. It was clearly abandoned. The windows broken, and the pumps covered in rust. The motel, set back about 200 feet from the road, wasn't much better. It looked like it hadn't seen a guest in years. Still, the thought of driving any first, Further, half asleep at the wheel, wasn't appealing. As I debated my next move, I saw a flicker of movement near the motel. A dark figure slipped behind the building, vanishing into the shadows.

Maybe it was the motel owner? I got out of the car and called out, Hey, can I get a room? Where's the office? My voice echoed in the stillness, but there was no reply. Curiosity got the better of me. I walked around to where I'd seen the figure disappear. finding a door that looked like it led to a cellar. For a moment, I thought I heard a faint moaning sound.

I shook it off, probably just the wind. I headed back to the front of the motel and pushed open the door. Inside, it was pitch black. I fumbled for my flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. The air was stale, filled with the scent of decay and disuse. As I moved further inside, I heard a faint crackling sound like a radio tuned to static. It was coming from behind a door at the end of the hall.

A shiver ran down my spine. Something about this place wasn't right. I decided it was better to push on through the night than stay here. But as I turned to leave, I caught sight of the dark figure again, this time standing just outside the window, watching me. My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn't see their face clearly, but there was something unsettling about the way they stood,

unmoving, staring. I had to get out of there. I bolted for the door, my footsteps echoing in the empty motel. As I reached my car, I glanced back one last time. The figure was still there, now standing in the doorway, their silhouette framed by the dim light of my headlights. I didn't wait to find out what they wanted. I jumped into the car, started the engine, and drove off into the night. My heart racing, the eerie image of the figure burned into my mind. The motel room was a step above a cave. The bed was old, the mattress sagging in the middle like a tired old horse. But it was a bed, and after the day I'd had, that was enough. I locked the door behind me, bolted it for good measure, and dropped my bag on the floor. I tore

open a pack of jerky and a loaf of bread, the meager dinner doing little to settle my nerves. I tried to shake off the encounter with the dark figure, convincing myself that fatigue was playing tricks on me. I looked around the room, my eyes settling on a vent at the base of the wall. Strange, given there was no visible air conditioning or heating system, just one more oddity in a place full of them. I lay down on the bed, staring at the vent, trying to dismiss the eerie feeling creeping over me. The mattress was uncomfortable, but exhaustion eventually pulled me under. I woke to a sound, faint, but persistent. I lay still, listening intently.

It was coming from the vent. The same wheezing breath I'd heard from the creature earlier. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I stayed motionless, trying to control my breathing, hoping the sound would stop, but it continued, steady, and relentless. Hello? I whispered, my voice trembling. The wheezing stopped abruptly. The silence was worse, an oppressive void,

filled with my rising panic. I sat up slowly, every muscle tense. I had to get out of there. I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text to my parents, hoping they'd see it when they woke up. Hey, dad and mom, I'm at a motel in northern Nevada. Creepy place, saw a weird guy, heard moaning from a cellar. There's wheezing coming from a vent, leaving as soon as possible. No sooner had I sent the message than my phone buzzed with a reply. My parents must have had their phones nearby. Son, your mother and I just saw a report on the news. A missing person was reported in that area. Multiple disappearances linked to an abandoned motel. Get out now. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath came in short, rapid gasps.

The vent weased again, louder this time, almost like it was mocking me. I grabbed my keys and shoved my phone into my pocket. I couldn't stay here another second. I crept to the window and peered out into the darkness. The car was right where I left it, and there was no sign of the figure. I tried to steady my nerves and unbolted the door as quietly as I could. The wheezing from the vent grew more insistent, a garbled noise mingling with the breath, as if the creature was trying to speak. I yank the door open and bolted for the car. Behind me, I heard a guttural scream, a sound that froze my blood. The creature was right behind me, its deformed face contorted with rage.

I fumbled with the keys, finally managing to unlock the car and jump inside. I started the engine, my hands shaking uncontrollably. As I sped away, I saw the creature in my rearview mirror, its mouth flopping around, emitting that horrible wheezing noise. I drove into the darkness, the headlights cutting through the night,

my heart racing with fear and adrenaline. By the time I reached my parents' house, I was beyond exhausted, but too wired to sleep. I told them everything, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. My father called the police, and soon the FBI was involved. It was then that I learned the motel's dark history, decades of disappearances, never solved. I had narrowly escaped becoming another victim. The memory of that night stayed with me, a shadow that never quite faded,

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Who knew your questionable music taste would be a money-making machine? Your style can make you cash. Start selling on Deepop, where taste, recognize his taste. I've lived in this remote cabin for five years now, surrounded by nothing but trees and snow as far as the eye can see. It's a place where winter rains supreme, and the storms that roll in can be catastrophic.

I've learned to prepare for them, stockpiling firewood and food, and making sure my generator is in good working order. This isn't where I live all the time. I inherited the cabin from a relative after he passed and honor the memory of the family traditions built there. I try to spend a few months out of my year residing in this cabin to maintain many of its more delicate features, as well as escape the droning hum of city life. I came here seeking solitude, a place to escape the hustle and bustle of city life.

I was a writer, or at least I tried to be, but the constant noise and distractions made it almost impossible for me to focus. Out here, I can work on my craft without interruption, and the silence is almost palpable. feel like I am connected to my family being in that cabin, and I also feel connected to myself. I rekindled my old hobby, started making progress in a number of different projects, most notably a novel that I still haven't finished yet. My days out there are fairly simple. I wake up early, tend to my fire, and then spend some time writing. After that, I usually take a walk in the woods, exploring the trails and streams that crisscross the forest. It's amazing how much beauty there is in a desolate landscape.

When I'm not doing the fun stuff, I spend an incredible amount of time splitting wood, fire-wising the property, fixing the multitude of creaky stepboards, or splitting windowsills. The back and forth of extreme seasons is really hard on the cabin exterior, and if it isn't addressed each year,

it becomes a bigger problem very quickly. My uncle left the roof unattended for two years and had a leak not long after. It's just the name of the game living in a structure that your grandpa made with his bare hands. That is to say, it isn't winter all the time here. Spring comes, and everything is wet for two months, absolutely saturated to the point of flooding. The last month's break, and suddenly a heat wave comes in, dries everything out and even threatens a drought. Fall brings those whipping winds that blow away the last rays of summer.

Then it's dark, dreary. and snow-packed once again. Winter changes everything. The storms can last for days, and the snow drifts can reach up to the windows of my cabin, sometimes well beyond that. It's a time of quiet and contemplation, and the only sound is the howling wind and the creaking of the trees. Sometimes the wolves will call up to the moon, but things like that don't really frighten me. They never have. What frightens me is people. This is the story from my family cabin that happened in 2001. After one particularly bad storm, I noticed something strange. Footprints in the snow wandering around my property and out into the woods. They were light, as if whoever made them

was trying not to leave a trace. This is weird because there aren't any other cabins out here for at least 25 miles. This was deep in the national forest, prime backpacker and hunting territory, but there were about a dozen of us that had property scattered around the mountainside. Parsals of land without running water, just walls, and a roof. Footprints in my area might not be the strangest thing, as there was a lake further up the mountain, but for the most part the cabin properties were tucked away and done so on purpose. Usually, if someone accidentally came upon my property, they would quickly turn around, perhaps wave if we saw each other, then go back the way they came. These footprints, however, seemed to circle around the outskirts of my property over and over

again. I counted at least five laps, which took me nearly 30 minutes to complete. Whoever was walking around out there had some sort of agenda. I kept an eye out for anyone hanging around the woods, but as the snow melted, the prince slowly disappeared too. I never saw anyone. I just assumed it was a distant hiker passing through. The laps around my cabin were weird, but I chalked it up to being something logical, like maybe he was looking for service or something, thought maybe my cabin would have better luck getting a signal. I looked to see what direction he may have gone after wandering off, but the overlapping nature of the tracks made it really hard to tell.

Three or four days went by, and I didn't see anyone else, but periodically there would be fresh prints in the snow. There were these little dustings coming through, replenishing the melted snowfall on the ground. Every single time it snowed, there would be a new set of tracks somewhere outside, that same weird boot print. By the end of the week, I was getting uncomfortable with this situation,

as I was totally alone out there. There wasn't a quick way for the sheriffs to get to me. Then one morning, I actually saw him. I was fixing a cup of coffee and stoking the fire when I caught sight of something outside the window, a figure lurking at the edge of the forest, dressed in these tattered clothes, with these hypereratic movements.

My gut immediately told me that something was off. This person should not be here. I tried to get a better look, but they vanished into the trees before I even could. This shook me up so much that I didn't know what to do. Obviously, I wanted to barrel out of the door and chase after him, but something in my gut told me I would never find him. He was poking around but doing everything in his power not to be discovered. I realized I've been thinking about this person.

and situation non-stop for the better part of six days. Then it came to me. This was a perfect thing to write about. The following is a real piece that I wrote the morning after seeing that stranger. I've seen him now, getting closer and closer to my cabin and barn. I know it's him, the stranger from the woods. I don't know what he wants, but I know I don't want him here. Why would he walk around here for so long, and in the middle of the night no less. The light is fading now, the shadows are growing sinister. I can feel a presence out there watching me, waiting for its moment to strike. I'll keep my rifle close and my eyes open, but I know I'm still unprepared. What could he want? What has he seen? The days blend together in a haze of snow and darkness.

I've taken to keeping my rifle by my side at all times now, even when I'm inside the cabin. I've seen the stranger's footprints every day now, always getting closer, always circling around my property like some sort of predator stalking its prey. I feel like a rabbit before a wolf, trembling and desperate. I should go outside and empty the clip of my rifle in the air just to remind both him and me that I'm not a rabbit, but a man. I've tried to stay alert, to keep watch for any sign of him. The isolation is starting to get to me. I'm jumpy. Every little creak and groan of the cabin makes me spin around expecting to see him just standing there. His eyes fixed on me, lips poised to speak. I wonder what he would say to me in that moment, a threat. What would the

last words I'd ever hear be? I've tried to distract myself with my writing, but the words won't come. My mind is a jumble of fear and paranoia. I can't focus on anything, except. I've tried to distract myself. the stranger and his intentions. I've taken to pacing back and forth in front of the windows, scanning the trees for any signs of movement. The snow is deep and untouched, a pristine expanse of white that stretches out to the horizon, but I know he's out there, watching me, waiting for his moment to strike. And then, one night, I see him. He's standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes fixed on me with an unblinking stare. I raise my rifle, my heart raised, racing and take aim. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, just keep staring, his eyes

boring into my soul like a cold, dead weight. I hold my breath, my finger trembling on the trigger, then suddenly he's gone, vanished into thin air, leaving me shaken and confused. I tried to tell myself it was just a hallucination, a trick of the light in the shadows, but deep down I know it was him, and I know he'll be back. The next day, I saw his footprints again. Closer than ever before. They were right up against the cabin, as if he was trying to taunt me. Show me that he can come and go as he pleases. I knew I had to do something, but I didn't know what.

I was literally trapped here, alone and vulnerable, with no way to call for help. All I could do is wait and watch and hope he didn't come for me. I made a vow that if I spotted him again, I would go straight to my neighbors and tell them what was going on. As the days passed, the snow began to make him. melt, and the footprints vanished as well. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the stranger had finally moved on. It was possible that he was a backpacker lost between cabins, maybe a friend on the mountainside. The woods were treacherous and very easy to get turned around in. I was telling myself all manner of stories to keep the denial going. A day went by, then another. Soon I was

coasting back to normality, but my peace was very short-lived. One morning, I woke up to find a fresh pair of boot prints leading straight into my property. My heart sank as I followed them around my home and barn, watching as they circled each window, as if the stranger was searching for something. This was the exact kind of thing that I didn't want to find, and I knew I was no longer safe. Whoever this was was a complete whack job. All my denial went down the drain. The tracks wound back into the trees, then meandered into the bus,

barn. I can't tell you how nauseating it was, seeing them stomp into the darkness of that old building, one step at a time. There wasn't even any electricity in there, so I couldn't just peek in and see what was going on. I needed a flashlight, and I needed to actually enter the structure. I did a full circle of the building and paused. There were no exit tracks. Whoever entered my barn was still inside there. Despite the chill in the air, my body turned to absolute ice when I realized he was probably looking out at me through the boards. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight, mind racing with the worst-case scenario. As I entered the barn, I followed the muddy, snowy tracks, the stalls and bales, my heart pounding in my chest. Whoever this was, they did a pretty thorough

job exploring. I followed the tracks all over and saw all the stuff they had touched. This was a pretty decent-sized barn, a few hundred square feet. Grandpa kept animals on the property during his day, So this is where they stayed throughout the winter. Now it just housed extra equipment, stuff to make repairs, and apparently some drifting lunatic hiding somewhere inside the dark. Then I saw him, a dingy homeless man with fire red hair hiding behind the boards and hoses in the back. He looked up at me with this crazy glint in his eye, and I knew I was in trouble. Hey, mister, he said in this monotone voice.

I didn't respond to him. I just watched the cold clouds of our breath reach out and meet with, one another. I confronted him with the rifle, forcing him outside into the daylight. He was wearing ripped jeans and a dirty old poncho, had this placid look on his face as if this were a typical Monday morning for him. The clothing he had was seriously dated. I could tell he'd been wearing the same outfit for years. His boots were all but blown out, and now I understand why those tracks look so funny. They had absolutely no tread on them. It was long worn to nothing. i kept a healthy distance and the barrel trained right on him none of this even bothered the guy at all though we got out into the yard and i continued questioning him but he just gave me these nonsense answers his words tumbling out in a mad stream

i realized he was mentally unwell and my fear quickly turned into pity he was tall and skinny almost emaciated his hands looked severely injured as if he'd broken them before and they never properly healed His red hair was frizzy and long, tucked under a beanie cap. He had a red, bushy beard like a caveman. He was covered in freckles and said his name was Adam. Honestly, now that I saw him, I wanted to ask him some questions, but I knew it would lead to nowhere. I'd never find out where he came from or what his story was. Instead, I just told him to leave my property, giving him loose directions back to town.

He nodded, but I could see the madness in his eyes. As he turned to leave, he produced this red bick lighter from his pocket. Would you take this? he asked. For what? I countered. Anything. I'm not supposed to have it, he explained. I might use it. What are you asking me? I tried to clarify. A drink, anything, he said. I eyed the lighter warily, but refused. Just leave, I said, my voice firm.

I didn't want to get tied up with this guy any more than I already was. You can drink some snowmelt, but you can't stay here. I'm sorry, but you need to go, man. He wandered off into the freezing woodland, never looking back. The last thing I heard was him just talking to himself. His words a dark, dreadful litany of crazy insane things. It almost sounded like he thought he was in school or something. He referred to me as Mr. Schooner,

and I could hear him referring to other Mr. and Mrs. underneath his breath. He was having flashbacks of some kind, and I have no idea where he actually was. I watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and unease. I knew I had to tell the local sheriff deputies about the stranger and those strange occurrences on my property. As I turned back to my cabin, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just encountered something dangerous, something that lurked beyond just the edge of insanity.

As I settled back into my routine, I couldn't help but wonder if I had really seen the last of that red-headed stranger, or if he would return, his madness burning brighter than ever. I wondered a lot about that lighter and what he was trying to communicate to me. He wasn't allowed to have it. What did that mean? Weird stuff, but I guess that guy was crazy after all. Two days of calm had passed since that red-headed stranger's departure. I almost convinced myself that the encounter was just a strange anomaly, a blip on the radar of my isolated life. But then I saw it, a smokestack rising in the distance in an area where no houses stood.

The black smoke rolling away was a dead giveaway. Wildfire. My heart racing I radioed in, only to find out that it had already been reported and responders were on the way. But I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The memory of the dirty lighter that the stranger had offered me, lingered in my mind like a shadow. He hadn't just entered my barn but my very psyche. He lurked in the great folds of my brain too. Curious, I hopped in my truck and drove toward the fire, arriving just as the first wildland firefighters were pulling up as well. And then I saw him, that red-headed stranger, shirtless,

waving a smoking branch around as he ran between the trees. I approached the firefighters explaining the situation with Adam, and they quickly radioed for law enforcement support. Soon the police arrived, the fire was doused, and the stranger was arrested. I watched gratefully as the chaos was brought under control. Adam didn't try to resist at all, simply surrendering to the law the moment they asked him to. As I drove back to my cabin, I couldn't help but wonder if the stranger's madness had been the spark that set that fire. I also knew I'd come very close to disaster. My property almost burned to the ground by the whims of a madman.

He turned out to be a wakadoo from the next state over, had quite the reputation for getting himself into trouble, usually in the depths of winter. He was a roadside drifter, heavily addicted to hard drugs, which further exacerbated whatever underlying mental illness he already struggled with. Deputies got him to a clinic for treatment and evaluation,

and I didn't hear much more after that. What I do know is this. I think I'm very fortunate not to have fallen victim to that guy. I don't think he was actually capable of killing me, but he definitely could have set my house and my barn on fire. That was definitely a year I'll never forget. This is Euphoria Calvin Klein, the new elixir collection,

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I settled into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking beneath me as I adjusted my position. The familiar scent of the car, a mix of old coffee, Max's Cologne, and the faint smell of gas. gasoline, wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. Max, my boyfriend of five years, flashed me a tired smile. His dark eyes held a mix of exhaustion and excitement as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I felt a thrill of anticipation wash over me. We were finally heading home. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the campus as we pulled

out of the parking lot. We had spent the last few hours scrambling to pack our belongings, saying goodbye to friends, and grabbing a quick dinner before hitting the road. It had been a whirlwind, and we were both fried, but the prospect of surprising our families for the holiday weekend kept us going. They had no idea we were coming, and the thought of their reactions filled me with a giddy excitement. Max merged onto the highway, and the darkness seemed to swallow us whole. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft murmur of the radio playing some obscure indie station that Max was obsessed with. I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes, and letting the rhythmic thrum of the wheels on the pavement lull me into a state of relaxation.

Don't die on me now, Max said, his hand resting on my thigh. I'm just resting my eyes, I replied smiling. Max chuckled and tickled the inside of my leg, causing. me to jerk upright and laugh. He always knew how to get me. We had already put an hour or two of driving behind us, and Max was holding up like a champ. We had been together since freshman year in high school, so this wasn't our first time driving home together. We were both thrilled to be escaping the chaos of campus life, even if only for a few days. Our families would be ecstatic to see us. I couldn't wait to indulge in some home-cooked meals and quality time with them. Max was excited to get back and wrestle with his little brother on the mat.

Hey, check it out. We got a road buddy, I said, peering into the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights came up the interstate, not so fast that it was alarming, but enough to catch my attention. Once they got maybe a quarter of a mile behind us, they slowed to a more neutral speed and just coasted along. For some reason, I always preferred having cars on the road when driving late at night. It helped me feel like I wasn't completely out there alone. As the miles flew by, the landscape outside my window transformed from suburbs and forests to rolling badlands, hills, scrub brush, and even cactus. The GPS announced our progress in a soothing voice, the screen glowing with an ethereal light. Max and I chatted sporadically, our conversations punctuated by comfortable silences, where we would just jam to whatever song was on.

The night wore on, the stars twinkling above like diamonds scattered across the sky. At some point, I dozed off, my head lolling against the window as Max continued driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The music had changed to some soft rock station, the melodies blending together in a soothing haze. Soon I drifted off to sleep, a temporary one that would come and go for the rest of the night. The hum of the engine, the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and Max's presence beside me created a cocoon of safety. Little did I know, this drive home would be anything but ordinary.

As I drifted in and out of sleep, the darkness outside our windows deepened, and an eerie sense of foreboding began to creep into my dreams. I woke up with a start, the eerie silence of the highway broken by a sudden sharp sound. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I looked around disoriented. The headlights behind us were closer now. almost too close. My heart began to race as I tried to shake off the remnants of sleep. What's going on? I asked. My voice thick with drowsiness. Max's jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. I don't know, but they're driving weird. I'm going to

let them pass. The vehicle behind us didn't seem to want to pass, though. Instead, it stayed right on our tail, its headlights glaring through our rear window. My stomach tightened with unease. Why are they doing this? I muttered, more to myself than to Max. The car behind us suddenly killed its headlights, plunging the road behind us into darkness. My pulse quickened. What the hell? Max's voice was strained as he tried to maintain control. The vehicle swerved into the other lane, then back again, edging closer to our bumper. Panic bubbled up inside me as I clutched the edge of my seat. In an instant, the vehicle rammed into the carmitted. to us, sending our car skidding off the road. Max struggled with the wheel, but it was too late.

We careened through brush and rocks before coming to a jarring halt in a ditch. The world spun around me, and everything went black. When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the taste of blood in my mouth. My head throbbed, and I could hear the same soft rock song from before, now playing through the car's broken speakers. There was a breeze in the car, and I was a breeze in the car, I realized one of the windows must have shattered. Kendall, oh my God, are you okay? Max's voice was a panicked whisper. I nodded, still trying to process what had just happened. Our car was stuck in the ditch, the engine sputtering. The dashboard lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over our surroundings. That's when I saw them, two men emerging from the darkness, their faces twisted

into cruel grins. They stumbled toward us, their boots crunching on the gravel. I could see the beat-up truck they had come from in the red light of our brake lights. Well, well, well, what do we have here? One of them sneered, leering at me through the window. A couple of lovebirds all alone? The other man laughed, planting a boot against the side of our car. The whole vehicle rocked, and I felt the shattered glass from the windshield dig into my lap. I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. and the impact had thrown me forward. Max locked the doors, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone. Call for help, I croaked, my voice barely audible.

The men began to circle our car, their footsteps echoing through the night. Y'all a long way from home, ain't you? One of the men asked, his voice like a rusty gait. Shouldn't be out here all alone? Leave us alone, Max shouted, his voice cracking with fear. The man laughed again. harsh grating sound. Now that ain't very nice, he said, then smashed his fist against Max's window. The glass held, but the thump was so loud, I yelped. Max and I exchanged a terrified

glance. We were trapped, with no way to escape. The men outside were drunk and unpredictable, and I could see a knife glinting in the moonlight. We're going to teach y'all some manners, one of them said, dragging the knife along the side of our car with a screech. The other man laughed and turned back to their truck, saying something about getting a shotgun. Max's grip tightened on the wheel. We can't just sit here, he whispered. We have to do something. Panic surged through me as the man with the knife pressed his face against my window, grinning.

Oh, honey, I like it when you're scared, he said. Max looked at me, determination hardening his features. Stay down, he said, and then he flung open his door, launching himself at the man. with the knife. Chaos erupted. Max tackled the man to the ground, and they struggled in the dirt. The other man turned, shotgun in hand, and I screamed as he aimed it at Max. Time seemed to slow as Max wrestled the knife away, and the shotgun fired, the blast echoing in the night. The next few moments were a blur of movement in noise, and when it was over, Max was standing, bloodied but triumphant, and the men were retreating, their faces pale with fear.

I sagged back in my seat, shaking with adrenaline. Max climbed back into the car, breathing hard. Let's get out of here, he said, and I nodded, my heart still racing. As we drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had just narrowly escaped something far worse than a simple car accident. The night was still dark, the road still long, but we were alive, and that was all that mattered.