Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 4 TRUE Disturbing Stories from Deep in the Woods

Episode Date: May 29, 2024

In this chilling video, listen to 4 terrifying and true stories that will make you think twice about venturing into the woods alone. From encounters with mysterious creatures to unexplainable phenomena, these spine-tingling tales will have you on the edge of your seat. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Brian ►Jen ►Tyler P. ►James R. Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:20:42 Story 2 00:32:01 Story 3 00:47:07 Story 4 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #deepwoods #truescarystories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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It matters where you stay. Hilton, for the stay. My name is Brian. I'm 31 years old, and I've been living in Idaho for the last four years. For transparency's sake, I didn't write up this account specifically as a submission for your channel, but after it popped into my recommended feed and I saw you taking submissions, I figured I'd found the perfect home for the warning I'm about to give you and your viewers. Although I have no doubt that what you're about to read might frighten or disturb you,

I can assure you that it's not by design. My only wish is that you and your subscribers take heed of what. what I'm about to say. You see, I think there's someone living off the grid up here in the Beaverhead Deer Lodge National Forest, and I know for a fact that this person is very, very dangerous. Part of the reason I moved up to Boise from my native California, aside from all the financial reasons, is that there are a total of 10 national forests within driving distance of the city. I was a Boy Scout growing up. My dad and uncles used to take my cousins and me during summer vacations, and I found a group of fellow college students to hike with when I was at UC Irvine.

So when it came time to choose a place to start a new life, Boise climbed my wish list pretty damn quickly once I realized that it combined urban amenities, a low cost of living, and the kind of natural beauty that made Southern California feel more like Manhattan than Malibu. During that first year in Idaho, I spent a lot of time hiking Boise National Forest and the Snake River conservation areas right on our doorstep two. But then, as time went by, I started to travel a little farther a field with each trip just to get a feel for all the different forests in the region. I drove over to Sawtooth one time, went up to Payette for a weekend, then went as far as Bitterroot, salmon chalice, and then eventually Beaverhead Deer Lodge. I made multiple trips to each of

the previously mentioned parks. I mean, you don't truly get to know a place after just one or two hikes, But I only ever made one trip to Beaverhead, and if I ever do get over my fear of the place, you can bet your dollar I'm staying the hell away from the hills between Maverick and Stuart Mountains, and if you value your life, so should you. Now in the southern portion of Beaverhead Forest lies the valley between Maverick and Stuart Mountains. At its westernmost point, where two creeks meet, the valley is open and treeless. But then, travel further east, and the trails taper off into what I can only. only describe as a capillary system of narrow trails. It kind of reminded me of one of those old

hedge mazes, like the kind from the shining, just on a much bigger scale. All the trails look pretty much identical, with wide open grass trails and pine-covered hills obscuring your view on either side. You can't really get lost these days, not if you're armed with the correct skills and equipment, but if there was ever a place I felt slightly disoriented by the lay of the land, it was there. You'd make a couple of turns, think that you were back on the main strip again, and then boom, the trail would narrow off, and you'd find yourself at a dead end. I guess to a less experienced hiker, that might have been a cause for concern, but for me, it was almost nostalgic. I hadn't been even close to lost for coming up on 15 years by that point, so for me, there was something almost thrilling about it. It's been years since I felt that same sense of adventure while out on a hike.

I also enjoyed them, but I'd long since lost that sense of childlike awe and wonder. So, to have it back, that was really something. I kept on exploring for about an hour or so, just wandering up and down the trails to try and familiarize myself with that part of the valley. Then, as I was moseying down this one particular stretch of trail, I began to smell something that smelled a lot like campfire smoke. For quite a while now, I've been in the habit of introducing myself to, any fellow hikers and campers I might run into. Some might call that intrusive or even bothersome,

but to me, those are big city ideas. I understand where my critics are coming from, but at the risk of sounding melodramatic, the woods aren't the kind of place that you want to go unnoticed. Part of it is just being friendly, shooting the breeze with some kindly strangers, but there's a practical side to it too. I do a lot of solo hiking, and as much as I take all the necessary precautions, I'm still much more vulnerable than most. I like folks knowing I'm there, and I like knowing just a little about who I'm sharing a trail or park with. That way, if I detect even the slightest of bad vibes, I can make myself scarce before trouble so much as toots in the wind. And so I smelled the campfire smoke, and I suspected it was coming from up the hill

to my right. I wandered up the slope a little, and then lo and behold, the smell of smoke got more and more intense the further I walked. And so off I went, following the smell like some human bloodhound, until eventually the pines thinned out, and I reached a kind of treeless shelf on the hillside. It was almost completely hidden from view, and just as I was thinking this is flat enough to build on, I realized someone already had. About 50 yards away, someone had built what looked like a small two-room cabin, complete with the beginnings of a little vegetable garden out front and a short-woven fence marking the property's boundary. My first thought upon looking at it was, this can't be legal, because as much as many national parks and forests might encourage

overnight campers, any kind of permanent dwelling is strictly prohibited. But at the same time, this person's dwelling was an impressive piece of work, and it obviously wasn't constructed overnight. In which case, how had he managed to stay up there for so long without getting himself into trouble with the Forest Service? All this is going through my head, and I'm just sort of staring at the little cabin in amazement, when all of a sudden the cabin's front door swings open, and outsteps a bald guy of around 40 to 50 years of age wearing a dirty wife-beater and a pair of blue jeans. Now, his cabin had a pair of windows complete with what looked to be hinged shutters,

but he hadn't looked out of them before exiting his home. So the moment he sees me, I see the startled look come over his face, and he does not look pleased to see me. I figured I'd obviously given him a bit of a jump scare, so the first thing I think to do is raise a hand and wave, just to let him know that I didn't have any ill intentions. He doesn't return the wave.

He just walks back into his little cabin, then emerges seconds later armed with what appeared to be a bolt-action hunting rifle, i just want to make it clear that i did not step on to this man's property and the word property is quite purposely in quotation marks as i'm writing here now neither was i bearing any kind of weapon or trekking-pole with me when he saw me all the guy saw was a four-eyed overweight dork with a floppy hat and a patchy beard and his first move was to go grab his rifle the second i saw it i turned on the spot and started walking back down the hill towards the tree line and then as i walked i shouted back All right, Mr. I get the message I'm leaving. Hindsight is always 20-20, I guess. And I guess I should have just run as fast as I could. But in the moment, I figured running would be the loudest way to announce my guilt,

run off through the trees. And he'd think that I was up to no good. Maybe fire off a shot at me, and that'd be all she wrote. But if I walked, hands in the air, not going for my own weapon, and just trying to de-escalate, then maybe everything would just be fine. I was armed at the time, by the way, nothing too big, just a handgun in case of bears and whatnot.

But then, the last thing I wanted to do was potentially start a gunfight in the middle of the woods. If I pulled out my weapon, that constituted a serious escalation, and the more this guy believed that he was in control, the less likely he was probably to shoot me, or rather that's what I mistakenly believed at the time. I remember giving him a second round of, I'm going okay, I don't want any trouble.

And in reply, all I heard was, you stay right where you are. Have you seen those new Dune movies? There's a thing in it, something they call the voice. It's like a magical power. You speak, and people obey, whether they want to or not. And I'm telling you, it was like that guy had the voice. He spoke, and suddenly my feet were in cement blocks. I wanted to keep walking.

Hell, I just wanted to run the second I saw his rifle. But whatever kept him feeling in control, and his fingers off the trigger felt like my best course of action in the moment. I also literally cannot over-emphasize how little I wanted to shoot this guy and turn a relaxing afternoon's hike into one of the single darkest chapters of my entire life. So he tells me to stop, but I obviously want to face the guy as I'm talking to him. So I start to turn around. Big mistake.

The guy raises his rifle, works the bolt to force around into the chamber, and then points it at me so aggressively that I could practically feel it. He was ready to fire by that point. My life was in serious danger, but all that was going through my head as I had my arms way up in the air was, please don't pee your pants, please don't pee your pants. I didn't, and before you all go thinking, ha ha, what a baby. I cannot overstate how fast your mind works in those sorts of situations. I was so scared I felt like I could taste the air. My arms and legs felt like they were encased in concrete,

and I was sweating in places I didn't know you could sweat from. So having all those irrational thoughts like that, not running when I had the chance, it all seems like part and parcel of all that raw, primal fear that I was feeling in the moment. Like I said, I started turning to face him, but he racked his rifle and then started yelling things like, Did I tell you to move?

Did I say move another muscle? Watch what happens. All I could think to say was all the same stuff I'd repeated already, stuff about me wanting to leave, about how I just stumbled across his place and was nothing more than just curious. He looked at me up and down for a second, then asked me if I was from the government.

I told him no, that I was just a hiker, and in an attempt to reinforce that I wasn't some kind of fed, I told him I worked for a financial firm back in Boise, which was the truth. I told him the name of the place, my position, and then added that he could call them right then and there if he didn't believe me because the office was open on weekends. I only told him all that because he quite clearly had a problem with cops or rangers, and probably just about anyone in a position of authority.

That, and once I got talking, I found it unusually difficult to stop. I was still talking when he told me to shut up, and then, after a few seconds of what looked like thinking, he asked me a few seconds of what looked like thinking, he asked me a question that had me once again questioning whether I was about to pee my pants or not. The guy lowered his rifle just a little, which was kind of reassuring but not by much. And then he asked me, Do you believe in God? Make no mistake, I am not prejudiced against religious types.

I had a very Baptist grandmother who volunteered with the church until just months before she passed, and she was just about as saintly a person as it's possible to meet. Any other context, that question would have provoked anything except an honest answer. But in light of the rifle I had pointed at my stomach, I presume it gave the question a hell of a lot of weight. On another day, I might have just spoken my mind and told him I considered myself something of an agnostic. I feel like there's something going on in terms of creation and evolution, whatever you want to call it. I just don't think we can so easily put a label like God on it, and imagine him up there as this big old friend. friendly white guy with a beard of clouds and a sunny demeanor. But then, having considered my

position, I decided honesty almost certainly wasn't the best policy. So instead of the truth, I lied and told him, sure, I believe in God. I thought that might have gotten me out of the woods, purely metaphorically, of course, but then he asked me, which God? My gut told me that saying anything apart from Protestant Christian would have probably been bad news for me, So I went with my instinct and told him that I was Baptist, just like my grandma. When I saw him give me this little nod of approval, I felt so relieved that my knees almost buckled. But unfortunately, the guy wasn't through with me just yet. Starting and stopping as he tried to find the right words,

he began to explain how only two people in the world knew that he was up there, and he couldn't tolerate a third. I think he must have seen the terror in my face, because he went on to explain that he didn't actually want to shoot me. I guess he intended that to be reassuring, but somehow it was not, and that's the point where things turned back to why he'd asked me if I believed in God. He needed to know that I believed in something so he could make me swear on my life that I wouldn't tell anyone I'd seen him. Right away, I told him, I swear to God I won't tell anyone I saw you, and I did it so promptly

because I very nearly believed that he might actually let me walk away. but just the words alone weren't good enough for him. Holding the rifle at his hip now, the guy points it at me just a little more directly, and then tells me to get on my knees. All I remember is saying, please. But all that did was make him raise the gun all the way up so he could aim down the sights at me. He then repeated himself and told me to get on my knees. And from that moment I was convinced that I was going to die.

And I'm honestly not sure if I dropped to my knees. knees deliberately, or simply because they just gave out altogether. I thought that any second I'd simply go from being wide awake and terrified to just darkness. He'd blow my brains out with a single shot of that rifle, and it had switched me off like a light. You know I literally remember thinking to myself, at least it'll be quick. But then, instead of pulling the trigger, he spoke again. The guy told me to swear again to God that I'd never tell another living soul that I'd seen him or where he was living or what we talked about. So I did. I put my hands together like I was praying, but I didn't dare close my eyes. Then I swore out loud that never in a million years

would I ever tell another of God's creations about anything that had occurred that day. I don't think I said it quite like that, but you get the idea. When I was done, he just said again, louder, and I did what I was told. Then once again, once I was finished, he starts yelling something like, swear on your family. Tell him to strike you down dead if you breathe a word to anybody. I wasn't in a position to refuse him, and as much as I probably could have lunged for his rifle or something, I'm also not an idiot, so I didn't even consider that an option at the time. Instead, I just tried my best to ensure that he kept that sense of control, because the moment he lost it, the chances of me getting switched off increased exponentially.

I swore on my whole extended family that I'd never, ever speak of our encounter. for as long as I lived. I told him, and God, and anything else listening for that matter, that I would happily bury my loved ones if I broke my word and bond. And not just that, but I'd happily follow them to hell afterward, if I ever breathed the word of our encounter. I said just about anything and everything that came to mind. But once I really thought about my mom and dad and how devastated they'd be

to hear about my body being found up there on that hill, That's when I felt myself starting to well up. I guess that's what really satisfied him in the end, seeing me get sort of emotional like that, not just scared but sad or broken. Only then did he lower the rifle, and only then did he let me find my feet, and only then was I allowed to walk back down the hillside towards the trail.

He yelled a reminder through the trees after me, reminding me of my promises. And so naturally, the first thing I did once I got some real cell phone signal was to report the entire goddamn thing in excruciating detail to the Beaverhead County Sheriff. Like I said, I'm not religious in the traditional sense, and even if I was, I wouldn't have let that guy manipulate my faith in such a way.

This also isn't some made-up story where I'm going to keep the guy's secret, or one in which I'm so scared that he'll come after me that I remain silent. I'm willing to admit that I was terrified at the time. I was shaking like a leaf as I walked down that hill, But by the time I got back to my car, I was just about angrier than I'd ever been in my entire life.

The mood I was in when I was pacing back and forth, calling 911, I could have ended that dude three times over, but again, that would not have been the right play to make. The grown-up responsible thing to do would be to let law enforcement handle it, and that's what I tried to do. The only trouble was, after about a week of hounding the sheriff into dealing with our potential fugitive, I realized that nothing was being done regarding my complaint. First off, piles of red tape meant that the sheriff was forced to inform beaverhead contingent forest rangers of the situation,

who in turn took the task off his hands after assuring him they'd be in touch regarding their search of the area. The day before I called the sheriff for a third time, the rangers had informed him that they'd been unable to locate any such cabin in the valley beneath Maverick Mountain. Naturally, I told the sheriff that was impossible, since I'd seen the cabin and its occupant with my own two eyes. I then went to the effort of providing him with at least what I believed were the exact coordinates

denoting the cabin's location. 45 degrees, 28 minutes, 30.9 seconds north, and 1.13 degrees, 12 minutes 41.1.1 seconds west. After that, the Rangers promised to send out a second search party, and although this one actually found the guy's cabin, the man himself was nowhere to be found, and the structure appeared to have been unoccupied for quite some time. I was furious, to say the least. I have a lot of respect for people that choose to serve this country, no matter what form that service may take. But the ineptitude, on the part of the authorities in allowing a dangerous fugitive to slip through their fingers, is as staggering as it is frightening to me.

I don't know for certain who I encountered up in Beaverhead that day, but I think that 90% of you would agree that the man was most probably some kind of criminal, and that in all likelihood he was using that cabin and valley as cover to hide from law enforcement. That, or he was just a kind of psychopathic doomsday prepper, who took pleasure in terrorizing just some kindly stranger. And either way, the idea of a second encounter filled me with a dread so intense I'm not sure that I could put it into words. And that's why I haven't been back to beaverhead since.

And if I did happen to visit those parts in the future, I'd stay the hell away from Maverick Mountain. Regardless of that sadistic old Pricks' motives, I guess he figured that I wasn't going to be true to my word because, as I said, when the Rangers finally did make it out to his cabin, the man who almost shot me was long gone. But that in turn takes me all the way back

to the beginning of this email. when I said it wasn't so much a campfire story, but rather a grave warning to anyone planning on hiking in southwestern Montana, north of Idaho. I think that guy is still out there living off the grid. In fact, I'm certain of it. My only concern is that the next person who stumbles across him won't be as fortunate as I was.

And rather than just being asked, do you believe in God, I'm scared they'll be sent to meet him. From sauce to dust to nuggets. It's Taco Bell's new Diablo-dusted, crispy chicken. Are they mild? If they were mild that have to change the name to little rascal nuggets or minor nuisance nuggets, definitely Diablo. New Diablo-Dusted Krispy Chicken Nuggets, a brand new classic.

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And the winner, by knockout, is Hatterday. Hatterday, bring it on. The stars were spread across the sky like a spill of diamonds, twinkling above the southwestern desert. It was a perfect night for camping, just me, my friend Billy, and our dads. We had picked our favorite spot, nestled close to a calm river, and far enough from the main roads to feel secluded, yet close enough to make a quick escape if we needed to. The day had been filled with laughter, and the kind of contentment that comes from being outdoors, away from the distractions of daily life. We spent the afternoon hiking along the river, skipping stones and sharing stories. By dusk, the campfire crackled and popped, casting flickering.

shadows on the tent walls. After a hearty dinner, we settled into our tents. Billy and I in one, our dads in another. The air was cool, and the rhythmic sounds of the river soon lulled everyone but me to sleep. I've always found it hard to sleep on campouts, my mind racing with the excitement of the day, and the endless possibilities of the night. I lay there, listening to Billy's steady breathing beside me, the hoot of an owl in the distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. It must have been around 11 p.m. when I finally drifted off. Some time later I jolted awake. I glanced at my watch. It was 2 a.m. My heart pounded as I tried to figure out what had woken me. The night was silent, too silent. Then I heard it, a shuffling noise just outside the tent.

I froze, my imagination running wild. I told myself it was probably my dad, or Billy's dad, up for a late-night bathroom break. But there was no sound of a tent zipper or the rustling of fabric. The noise continued, slow and deliberate, circling the tent. I hunkered down into my sleeping bag, my heart racing. That's when I heard the yipping. If you've ever heard coyotes, you know they don't howl like wolves. They make a series of high-pitched yips and wines, almost playful,

but this was different. It was solitary, desperate. it circled the tent, yipping and snuffling, the sound growing louder, and then fading, as if it was moving in and out of earshot. Billy slept on, undisturbed, and I strained to hear any movement from our dad's tent, but there was nothing. Whatever was out there, it was alone. I lay still, my body tense, my mind racing. Normally coyotes travel in packs and their calls are answered by others, but this one was alone, answered. Eventually the noises stopped. I waited, breath held, but there was only the sound of the

river and the distant call of an owl. I must have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, the sun was peeking over the horizon. I crawled out of the tent, eager to see if there was any evidence of our midnight visitor. The ground was soft near the riverbank, perfect for capturing tracks, but I found nothing. No paw prints. no tufts of fur, no scat. I checked around the tents, expanding my search, but it was as if nothing had been there at all. When the others finally woke,

I asked if anyone had heard anything during the night. Billy shook his head, groggy and confused. Our dads shrugged, saying they'd slept soundly. After breakfast we packed up camp, still discussing the odd noises. Billy did find one thing, though, a single bare human footprint in the sand along the riverbank. No shoe print, just a naked human foot.

A day later, a massive storm rolled through, flooding the river and washing away any trace of our campsite. At the time, I chalked it up to coincidence. But as I would soon learn, this was just the beginning of my encounters with the unknown. The summer nights in the southwest can be unbearably hot, so I'd taken to sleeping on the covered balcony of our house. The night breeze did wonders to keep the heat at bay, and I relished the sounds of the desert as I drifted off to sleep. It had been a long day outside, and I was tired,

grateful for the cool air that kissed my skin as I lay on my cot, the stars just visible through the screen. I'd fallen asleep easily enough, the memories of the camping trip still fresh, but starting to fade. It was around 1 a.m. when I woke up, feeling uneasy, the kind of unease that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. I lay still, listening. At first, there was nothing but the usual sounds,

the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a nightbird. Then I heard it, the yipping. That same high-pitched yipping that had haunted me a year before. My heart skipped a beat as I sat up slowly, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound. It was coming from the front of the house. just beyond the balcony. I crept to the edge of the balcony, peering through the wire screen, my eyes scanning the darkness. The yipping continued, but this time I was determined to see what

was making the noise. I squinted into the night, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. There, in the shadows, I saw it. It was crouched low to the ground, moving with a strange, almost shuffling gate. It wasn't a coyote. I could see that much. It was roughly, the size of a man hunched over its movements deliberate and unsettling. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure moved slowly, yipping occasionally, but it never looked up. It stayed low, moving along the front of the house, and then it was gone, disappearing behind the row of houses across the street. I stood there for a long time, staring into the darkness, my mind racing. Eventually I crawled back onto my cot, but sleep wouldn't come.

I lay there, replaying the scene in my head, trying to make sense of what I'd seen. The yipping had sounded so familiar, but the figure, it was anything but. The night dragged on, and I counted the hours until dawn, the unease settling deep in my bones. The next day, a storm rolled in, just like the year before. The sky darkened, and rain pounded against the roof, the wind howling through the trees. I couldn't shake the feeling that the storm was somehow connected to the encounter. It was too similar to be a coincidence, the timing too perfect. As the rain poured down, I told my parents about what I'd seen.

They listened, but their faces were etched with skepticism. My dad suggested it was just a coyote, my imagination running wild in the dark. But I knew what I had seen. I knew it was something else, something that didn't belong. The storm raged on, and I spent the day. day in a fog, my mind replaying the events of the night before. I couldn't shake the feeling that the entity was trying to tell me something, trying to reach out. I didn't know what it wanted, but I knew that this wasn't the last I'd see of it. The yipping had become a part of my life,

a sound that now brought with it a sense of dread and foreboding, and deep down, I knew that it would return. By the time I was 15, I'd almost convinced myself that the encounters with the yipping creature were nothing more than childhood imaginings. We had moved to the Pacific Northwest, where the air was cooler and the forests denser. Life was different here, slower and somehow more serene, and I welcomed the change. The memories of the past still lingered, but they felt distant, like echoes from another world. One afternoon, I stepped off the school bus and started the familiar walk home. The path wound through a stretch of woods before opening up to our native, and I liked this part of the walk. It gave me a moment to unwind and breathe in the fresh,

pine-scented air. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I was lost in thought when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I stopped, my heart rate quickening as I turned to see what it was. Standing at the edge of the road, just beyond the tree line, was a coyote. At first I was relieved. Coyotes were a common sight. here, nothing unusual, but then I met its eyes. There was something unsettling about the way it looked at me. Its eyes were sharp and intelligent, more so than any animal I'd ever seen. We stood there, locked in a silent stare. Normally, wild animals avoid eye contact, but this coyote held my gaze. I felt a chill run down my spine. It was as if it recognized me. I broke

eye contact looking away, but I couldn't help glancing back. The coyote remained still, watching me, its eyes following my every move. The encounter felt like it stretched on for hours, though it was only a few minutes. Eventually the coyote turned and loped off into the forest, disappearing among the trees. I stood there for a moment longer, trying to shake off the feeling of dread that had settled over me. When I finally continued home, my mind was racing, memories of the previous encounters flooding back. The yipping, the storms, the sense of being watched. It all came rushing back with a clarity that made my skin crawl.

That night, as I lay in bed, the wind began to howl. A storm was brewing, the kind that rattles windows and shakes the house to its foundations. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I felt a familiar sense of unease. I tried to convince myself it was just a normal storm, but deep. Deep down, I knew better. In the morning, I found a tree had fallen across our yard, its massive trunk resting just feet from the corner of the house where my bedroom was. The damage was extensive, but miraculously, the house itself had been spared.

As I stood there looking at the fallen tree, I couldn't shake the feeling that the entity was somehow involved, that it had been watching, waiting. The encounters, the storms, they couldn't be mere coincidences. The coyote's gaze, filled with an intelligence that bordered on human, haunted me. I knew that this wasn't over. The entity, whatever it was, was still out there. Part of me wanted to understand it, to find some sense of closure, but another part of me was terrified of what that understanding might bring.

The Pacific Northwest was supposed to be a fresh start, a place where I could leave the past behind. But the past had followed me, and the yipping that had once been a distant memory was now a present threat. As I stood there, the sound of the wind in the trees echoing in my ears, I made a silent vow to face whatever it was head on. I needed answers, and I was determined to find them, no matter the cost. USAA knows dynamic duos can save the day, like superheroes and sidekicks,

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Don't miss Sol de Janeiro's limited edition perfume mist collection only at Sephora. I've been hiking for as long as I can remember. My dad was an army vet and his brother was a bow-hunting fanatic. Most summer, our family would pack up and head into the woods south of Abbeville, South Carolina, for a few days of hiking and camping. It was a tradition that brought us all closer together. After my dad passed away, I found that these trips into the forest helped me feel connected to him. even if it was just a few hours of hiking on a Sunday afternoon.

I moved to Augusta after my dad died, and while there were some nice patches of woods near Aiken's Bluff, I found the areas between Stevens Creek and Hamilton Branch State Park to be much more like the woods we used to hike in when I was a kid. For clarity's sake, I'm referring to Stevens Creek in South Carolina, not the neighborhood in North Augusta. In these woods, you could walk for miles and miles without seeing anyone but the occasional fishermen. It was peaceful and serene, a perfect escape from the stresses of everyday life.

One Sunday afternoon, I drove up from Augusta, eager to lose myself in the tranquility of the forest. I parked my car near Clark's Hill and started my hike along Stevens Creek. About two miles in, something odd caught my eye. To my left in the dense woods was a large, dark shape, used to seeing nothing but trees and the odd squirrel. This unexpected sight grabbed my attention right away. I stopped and turned to get a better look. There, leaning against a tree, was a makeshift shelter constructed out of old dead wood.

Someone had stacked the wood at an angle, creating a sort of primitive lean-to. It had a creepy, almost witchy vibe to it, but I couldn't help but admire the effort and skill it took to build it. I thought maybe a fisherman had built it for fun. or as a place to rest. Curious, but not overly concerned, I continued my hike. About ten minutes later, I saw another one of those shelters.

This one was bigger and more elaborate, with larger pieces of wood carefully bound together. It was clear that someone had put a lot of work into it. I'd never seen anything like it on any of my previous hikes, but I still wasn't worried. I figured maybe a dad and his kids had built them the day before, using their time in the woods to practice some survival skills. As I walked further, I spotted a man up ahead, working on one of the shelters.

He looked to be in his 50s or 60s, around the same age my dad was when he passed. He had thinning gray hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore colorful hiking gear. When he saw me approaching, he stopped what he was doing, waved, and wished me a good afternoon. We talked for a little while, and he introduced me. himself as Ron. He told me he was out there practicing the construction of impromptu shelters, hoping to camp out one night under the stars. I joked that he might end up looking up at nothing but raindrops if he didn't master his shelters before the fall. We shared a few laughs, and then I continued with my hike. My usual routine was to hike until I reached the area near Hamilton

Branch, then turn back and retrace my steps along the creek. I thought I might see Ron again on my way back, but he was gone by the time I reached his shelters. As I drove back to Augusta, I felt a sense of satisfaction. The woods had once again provided a peaceful escape, and meeting Ron added a new and interesting element to my usual hike. Little did I know. This encounter was just the beginning of a series of unsettling events that would soon unfold in these familiar woods. Over the next few weeks, I returned to Stevens Creek several times. Each time I went back, I saw more of Ron's shelters. They seemed to be popping up everywhere, like mushrooms after a rainstorm.

Every hike, there was a new structure to admire, each one more skillfully built than the last. It felt like Ron and I were having a silent conversation through his handiwork. I would see his progress and wonder about his latest adventures in the woods. One early September hike, things took a strange turn. I was about halfway along my usual route, enjoying the road, enjoying the road. peace and quiet, when I got the feeling that I wasn't alone. At first, I brushed it off as paranoia. After all, the woods could play tricks on your mind if you let them. But then, I heard it. A distinct snap of a twig behind me. I stopped in my tracks and turned around, scanning the trees for any

sign of movement. Nothing. Just the usual forest sights and sounds. Still, the uneasy feeling lingered. I continued walking but couldn't shake the sensation that someone or something was watching me. I tried to calm myself, reminding myself that it was probably just a deer or some other harmless animal. But as I walked, the feeling grew stronger, almost oppressive. After a few more minutes I decided to investigate. I turned off the main trail and started walking in the direction where I'd heard the twig snap. I moved slowly and cautiously, keeping my eyes and ears open. for any sign of movement. After about a minute or two, I realized there was no one there. I stood still, straining to hear anything unusual, but there was only silence. I decided to head back to the main

trail. If it wasn't Ron who had made the noise, then it could be something less friendly, like a bear or even a mountain lion. I wasn't keen on finding out. I had my bear spray and my pistol with me just in case, but I hoped I wouldn't need to use them. Back on the trail, I kept glancing over my shoulder, just to be safe. The woods had gone eerily quiet. No birds singing, no insects chirping. It felt like the whole forest was holding its breath. That's when I knew something was definitely off.

It was like one of those moments in a horror movie when everything goes silent right before something bad happens. I picked up my pace, eager to get to the outskirts of Hamilton Branch where I usually turned around. When I reached the halfway point of my hike, I spotted two fly fishermen setting up their gear by the creek. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. At least I wasn't alone out here.

I walked over to them and struck up a conversation, asking if they'd seen anyone else on the trail. To my surprise, they said they had seen someone earlier, but their description didn't match Ron at all. The person they saw was wearing camouflage but didn't have any hunting gear. They mentioned how the person had mumbled something when they greeted him but didn't really respond. This added to my growing unease.

I thanked the fishermen and continued on my way, my mind racing. If it wasn't Ron, then who was it? And why were they out here, seemingly following me? As I walked back to my car, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I decided then and there that I would take a break from hiking at Stevens Creek. The woods no longer felt like the peaceful escape they once were. They felt dangerous, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out why. It had been a couple of weeks since my unsettling hike at Stevens Creek,

and despite my better judgment, I decided to give it one more try. The woods had always been my refuge, a place where I could connect with my dad's memory and escape the pressures of daily life. So, I packed up my gear and headed back, determined to reclaim that sense of peace. I followed my usual route. keeping my senses on high alert. The sun was shining, and the creek babbled happily beside me, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. As I neared the spot where I had met the fisherman, I noticed a pair of them setting up their rods again. I felt a bit of relief. Maybe this time

I could ask them more questions. I approached them with a friendly wave. Hey there, have you guys seen anyone else on the trail today. One of the fishermen looked up and nodded. Yeah, we saw someone earlier. They were heading the opposite direction, but they didn't say much, just kind of mumbled and kept walking. I felt a chill run down my spine. It sounded like the same person from last time. What did he look like? The fisherman squinted, thinking. He was wearing camouflage, but not the usual hunting gear. No bright orange, no weapons. Just looked, off. you know? I nodded, trying to hide my unease. Thanks for the heads up. Stay safe out here. I continued along the trail, my hand never straying far from the bear spray on my belt.

The encounter with the fisherman had only heightened my anxiety. As I walked, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder every few minutes, half expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. About halfway along my route, I decided to take a break. I found a flat rock by the creek, and sat down, listening to the water and trying to calm my racing heart. It was then that I heard it again, the unmistakable snap of a twig behind me. I froze, every muscle in my body tensing up. Slowly I turned my head, scanning the trees. There was no one there, but the silence was deafening.

No birds, no insects, nothing, just the sound of my own breathing and the rush of the creek. I knew then that something or someone was out there. I stood up trying to act casual and started walking back the way I had come. My pace was quick but measured, not wanting to appear panicked. My mind raced with possibilities. Was it an animal? Was it Ron? Or was it someone more sinister? I was about a mile from the trailhead when I heard footsteps behind me. This time, they were unmistakable. I stopped and turned, my heart pounding in my chest. A figure emerged from the trees wearing the same camouflage the fisherman had described. Ron, is that you? I called out, my voice trembling. The figure stopped, staring at me without saying a word.

My hand moved to my pistol, fingers grazing the cold metal. If you're following me, you need to stop. I'm armed, and I know how to use this. For a moment, there was no response. Then the figure turned and melted back into the forest, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. I stood there, heart racing, unsure of what to do next. After a moment I decided to continue to the trailhead, my senses on high alert. When I finally reached my car, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. But I knew I couldn't keep coming back here. The woods, once my sanctuary, now felt like a place of danger. I made up my mind then and there. It was time to find a new place to hike. The memory of my dad would have to follow me to safer trails. It had been a few weeks since my last hike at

Stevens Creek. I had kept my promise to myself and stayed away, but the unsettling experiences still haunted my thoughts. I couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible had almost happened. One evening after getting home from work, my phone rang. I glanced at the number and didn't recognize it, but something told me to pick it up. Hello? Hi, is this Tyler? A male voice asked. Yes, who's this? This is Deputy Tyler. Thompson from the McCormick County Sheriff's Department. I need to ask you a few questions about your hikes up near Stevens Creek. My heart skipped a beat. Sure. What's this about? We've been investigating some incidents in that area. Have you ever encountered an individual building shelters out there? My mind immediately went to Ron. Yes, I met a guy named Ron a few times. He was building these makeshift shelters. Why? There was a pause on the other end of the line.

Can you describe him for me? I described Ron's thinning gray hair, his colorful hiking gear, and his friendly demeanor. I mentioned how we had talked about his shelters and his plans to camp out there. The deputy listened intently. Thank you. We've found two sets of human remains near Stevens Creek, and the individual you described matches the description of our primary suspect. My stomach churned.

What do you mean? Ron is a suspect? Yes, the deputy confirmed. The bodies were found in one of the shelters. We're trying to track down this Ron you mentioned. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. The peaceful woods I had loved so much now seemed sinister. Do you know what happened to the victims?

We can't disclose too many details at this stage, the deputy said. But we believe foul play was involved. Did Ron ever mention any other locations, people, or plans? I racked my brain, but our conversations had been so much had been so ordinary, so innocent. No, he didn't. We mostly talked about the shelters and hiking. I'm sorry I can't be more help. Any information is helpful, the deputy assured me. If you remember anything else, please give us a call. I hung up, my mind racing. The idea that Ron, or whoever he really was, could be responsible for such a horrific crime was almost too much to bear.

I had seen his shelters as a quirky hobby, not a cover for something dark and dangerous. In the days that followed, I couldn't stop thinking about those hikes and my narrow escape. I realized how close I had come to being in real danger. Every time I recalled the feeling of being watched, the snap of the twig, and the figure in camouflage, I felt a chill run down my spine. I tried searching online for any news about the investigation, but there was nothing. It was as if the whole thing had been swallowed by the forest, leaving me with more questions than answers. I even considered going back to Stevens Creek to find more clues, but the thought of it filled me with dread.

In the end, I decided it was best to move on. I found new trails to hike, ones that didn't hold the same dark memories. But the experience changed me. I became more cautious, always aware of my surroundings, never taking my safety for granted. The woods had been my sanctuary, a place where I felt close to my dad and at peace with the world. But now, they were a reminder of how quickly that peace could be shattered. I still hiked, still sought out the tranquility of nature, but I knew I would never look at the wilderness the same way again. I had seen its darker side, and it had left a mark that wouldn't easily fade.

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Grab that boho look for that rooftop dinner, those sandals that can keep up with you, and hang some string lights to give your patio a glow up. Springs calling. Ross, work your magic. It was a warm, sunny day in May 1995, the kind of day that made you glad to be alive in living in America's Kansas.

Devin Eugene Williams, a 29-year-old truck driver, stood in the yard of his new home, watching his three young children play. His wife, Mary Lou, was inside, preparing lunch. devon took a deep breath savoring the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant aroma of barbacue smoke from a neighbor's yard this was the life he had always dreamed of devon was a big man with broad shoulders and a ready smile that made people feel at ease friends described him as patient and good-natured the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back he loved his job loved the open road and loved coming home to his family the new house was the culmination of years of years of his own to his family The new house was the culmination of years of hard work and careful saving. For Devin and Mary Lou, it was the happiest point in their marriage.

But beneath the surface of this idyllic life, something was festering. Devin had been feeling off for weeks, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong. It was just a sense, a vague unease that he couldn't shake. He didn't talk about it with Mary Lou, not wanting to worry her. She had enough on her plate with the kids in the new house. Instead, he kept it to himself, hoping it would pass. On May 23rd, Devin set off on a routine delivery route to California. He had taken this route dozens of times before and knew it like the back of his hand.

The trip out was uneventful, and he delivered his load on time. He reloaded his truck for the return trip to Kansas City and called his boss, Tom Wilson, to check in. Everything seemed fine. Devin was punctual, lucid, and gave no indication that anything was wrong. He did mention having trouble sleeping, but that wasn't unusual for a long-haul trucker. The drive back started smoothly enough.

Devin made good time, crossing into Arizona as the sun began to set. But as the miles ticked by, that sense of unease grew stronger. He felt restless, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't control. He turned up the radio, trying to drown out the noise in his head,

but it didn't help. By the time he reached Kingman, Arizona, he was exhausted, but wired, too keyed up to sleep. On the evening of May 27th, Devin called his boss again. He assured Tom that he'd make it to Kansas City on schedule, but there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. He complained of insomnia, saying he hadn't slept in days. Tom asked if he was sure he could complete the journey. Devin insisted he'd be fine. The next day, Devon's truck was seen careening through Tonto National Forest at breakneck speed. Campers Lynn and Jack Yarrington were hiking nearby when they heard the roar of the engine. They watched in horror as the massive 18-wheeler sped along a road that was most definitely not suited for such a large vehicle.

The truck swerved wildly, narrowly avoiding collisions with trees and boulders. Another group of hikers, traveling by car, had an even closer call. The truck came hurtling toward them, and they barely, managed to swerve out of its path. They later described the driver as a mustachioed man with a disturbingly expressionless face, as if he were in a trance. By late afternoon, the truck had swerved off the road and become stuck in a field. A group on their way to a picnic spotted it and stopped to offer assistance. One man, Charles Hall, approached the driver and asked if he needed help. The reply he received was as chilling as it was confusing. They made,

made me do it, Devin said, his eyes wide with fear. Charles asked who made him do what, but Devin's response was even more unsettling. No, you can't help. No one can. I'll never get it out of there. I'm going to jail. Charles backed away, sensing something deeply wrong, and later contacted the local sheriff's department. By the time Deputy Wells arrived, the truck was abandoned. The cab was locked, and there was no sign of Devon. The happiest point in Devin Williams' life had taken a dark, inexplicable turn. The man who had everything to live for had vanished into the Arizona wilderness, leaving behind more questions than answers.

The search for Devin Eugene Williams began in earnest on the morning of May 29, 1995. America's Kansas was a tight-knit community, and news of Devin's disappearance spread quickly. His friends and co-workers from the trucking company were the first to notice something was wrong when Devin failed to check in or show up as scheduled. Concern turned to alarm when calls to his CB radio and cell phone went unanswered. Mary Lou Williams was beside herself with worry.

She hadn't heard from Devin since he left on his delivery route, and his absence was a gnawing void in her heart. She knew something was terribly wrong. Devin would never abandon his family or his responsibilities without a word. With her three young children clinging to her, she made a desperate call to the local sheriff's department. Deputy Wells was assigned to the case. He was a seasoned lawman with a reputation for thoroughness. Wells started by interviewing Mary Lou and Devin's co-workers, gathering as much information as he could about Devin's last known whereabouts and state of mind. Devin's boss, Tom Wilson, recounted his last conversations with Devin.

The mention of insomnia stood out, but there was nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary. The first real lead came from Charles Hall, the Good Samaritan who had encountered Devin in the Tonto National Forest. Charles' account of Devin's bizarre behavior and his chilling statements were deeply unsettling. Wells decided to follow the trail to Arizona, hoping to find somewhere, clue that would explain Devin's actions and whereabouts. A team was quickly assembled, consisting of local law enforcement officers, search and rescue personnel, and civilian volunteers. They headed to the spot where Devin's truck had been found, deep in the forest, stuck in a muddy field. The massive semi was still there, its refrigeration unit humming quietly,

keeping its cargo of lettuce and strawberries fresh. Wells carefully inspected the truck, noting that the cab was locked, and the interior appeared undisturbed. There were no signs of a struggle or foul play. The search team spread out, combing the surrounding area for any trace of Devon. They scoured the dense forest, using every resource at their disposal. Foot patrols, search dogs, off-road vehicles, and even aerial support. The heat was oppressive, and the thick underbrush made progress slow and arduous. but the searchers were determined

they knew time was of the essence. Days turned into nights, and still there was no sign of Devon. The forest seemed to swallow their efforts, offering no clues, no trail to follow. Lynn and Jack Yarrington's account of their encounter with Devon added to the mystery. The sight of him mumbling to himself

and trying to ignite a $20 bill with a rock painted a picture of a man in the grip of some deep, unfathomable terror. Despite their best efforts, the search team found nothing. No scraps of clothing, no footprints, not even a hint of where Devin might have gone. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. The lack of evidence was maddening, and the searchers were left with more questions than answers. How could a man simply disappear without a trace?

What had driven him to such erratic behavior? Back in Americus, Mary Lou clung to hope. Each day that passed without news was a dagger to her heart, but she refused to give up. Her children needed their father, and she needed answers. The community rallied around her, offering support and prayers, but the uncertainty was a heavy burden to bear. Deputy Wells returned to Kansas, frustrated by the lack of progress. He reviewed the case files, going over every detail again and again, hoping to find

something he had missed. theories abounded from a mental breakdown to foul play, but there was no concrete evidence to support any of them. The search for Devin Eugene Williams had begun, but the mystery of his disappearance only deepened with each passing day. The forest had kept its secrets well, and the man who had once been the heart of his family was now a haunting absence, a question mark that refused to be answered. The discovery of Devin Eugene Williams' skull in May 1990, was a macabre closure to a haunting mystery that had plagued his family and the community of America's Kansas for two long years. The hikers who stumbled upon the skull were tracing the bottom

of Gila County's Magolian Rim, a rugged and remote area that seemed an unlikely place for a man like Devon to end up. Mary Lou Williams sat at her kitchen table, the late afternoon light casting long shadows through the room. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring with news that might finally answer the burning questions in her mind. When it did, the voice on the other end belonged to Deputy Wells, his tone a mix of sympathy and resignation. The dental records had confirmed the worst. The skull belonged to her husband.

The coroner's report offered little solace. The skull had been damaged, but it was impossible to determine if it was the result of a violent act or the natural course of decomposition and scavengers. There was no definitive cause of death, no clear indication of what had happened to Devon in those final, desperate moments. The lack of answers gnawed at Mary Lou, leaving her with a void that seemed impossible to fill. As news of the discovery spread, the theories and speculations resurfaced.

Some suggested Devin had suffered a diabetic episode, though he had no known history of the disease. Others pointed to sleep deprivation, remembering his complaints of insomnia in his last conversations with his boss. There were whispers of mental illness, despite Devon's previously stable demeanor. A few even posited that he might have been a victim of carbon monoxide poisoning from a leak in his truck's cabin. Each theory seemed as plausible as it was unprovable. Mary Lou found herself drifting through the days, her thoughts consumed by the mystery of her husband's fate. She longed for a definitive answer, something that would make sense of the senseless. But as each day passed, hope dwindled.

The discovery of the skull brought a grim kind of closure, but it was a closure riddled with holes, leaving more questions than it answered. Deputy Wells continued his investigation, but there was little to go on. The search for Devin had been exhaustive, yet it had yielded so few clues. The truck, abandoned with its cargo intact,

remained a baffling enigma. Why had Devin left it locked and seemingly untouched? What had driven him to such erratic behavior? in the forest. In Americus, the community rallied around Mary Lou and her children, offering support and sympathy. Yet the absence of Devin hung like a shadow over their lives. The children asked questions that Mary Lou couldn't answer, their young minds struggling to understand the incomprehensible. The unanswered questions about Devin's state of mind continued to haunt everyone involved. Was he lucid when he swerved his truck off the road? Did he suffer a mental breakdown?

or was he driven by an external force, something or someone that terrified him beyond reason? The fact that his skull was found less than a mile from where he disappeared suggested he hadn't gone far, but why had it taken so long to find him, and what had he experienced in those final moments? Mary Lou often found herself staring at the horizon, imagining Devon out there, lost and afraid. The man she had known and loved had become a mystery, a puzzle that refused. to be solved. Theories and speculation offered no comfort, only a reminder of how little they truly knew. In the end, Devon's disappearance in death remained a haunting mystery, a dark chapter in the lives of those he left behind. Mary Lou held on to the hope that

someday, somehow, the truth would come to light. But for now, she lived with the painful reality that some mysteries are never fully resolved, and some questions remain forever unanswered. The forest had claimed Devin Williams, and with him, the answers to a riddle that would continue to haunt all who knew him.