Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 5 True Scary MIDDLE Of NOWHERE Stories | Deep Woods, Forest

Episode Date: February 14, 2025

These are 5 True Scary MIDDLE Of NOWHERE Stories | Deep Woods, ForestLinktree:https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStoryCredits:►Sent in tohttps://www.justcreepy.net/►Danny KTimestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:13:31 Story 200:27:07 Story 300:37:28 Story 400:52:10 Story 5Businessinquiries: ►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Find your euphoria. Discover the euphoria elixir collection by Calvin Klein. I started out from Cheyenne at daybreak, figuring I could knock out most of the drive to Seattle in one long push. I'd triple-checked my old Subaru the night before, oil level, tire pressure, emergency kit, all that stuff. Despite my careful prep, a little voice told me I was forgetting something. I hate that voice. It always seems to show up whenever I'm about to tackle something big. Anyway, the first couple hours were nothing special. the usual empty highways, a few semi-trucks, and my scratchy playlist keeping me awake.

Occasionally, I glanced at the fuel gauge, telling myself I'd grab gas at the next decent stop. Of course, next decent stop kept getting pushed back because each exit seemed sketchier than the last. One was a battered rest area with no visible pumps, another had a motel that looked like a horror movie set. I told myself, I'll keep going. There's bound to be a nicer station further up. After a while, the roads got lonelier, and the wide Wyoming plains started blending into Idaho's emptiness. Clouds crawled across the sky, and an unsettling hush settled over the horizon. My phone signal came and went. When it was gone, I realized how cut off I actually was.

Maybe that's what put me on edge. The next billboard I spotted had half its letters missing, but I made out something about a town called Clarkston, offering gas and home-style meals. The sign looked ancient, faded paint, corners peeling. I veered onto a narrow state road that supposedly led there, noticing no other cars, not a single soul. The fields looked brittle, like they'd been scorched ages ago and never recovered. That sense of isolation started weighing on me.

But the gas tank was nearing the red zone, so I pushed forward. Finally, I rolled into Clarkston. It barely resembled a town. I saw a couple of warped wooden signs, a diner with its front windows boarded up, and a rundown gas station at the edge of Main Street, if you could even call it Main Street. The station had a neon sign in the window, flickering weakly. At first glance it was a relief. At least it was something. I parked by the single pump, hopped out, and listened.

Nothing. No distant trucks, no muffled voices, just the wind brushing against cracked asses. When I yanked the nozzle free and squeezed the handle, I got absolutely zero flow. I tried again, jiggled a lever, peeked at the side of the pump to see if there was some ancient switch. Still nada. There had to be someone inside who knew how to operate this dinosaur. So I walked up to the door. A metal bell clanked overhead when I went in. The air inside was stale, like nobody had propped open that door in years. Rows of dusty candy bars lined the shell. brands I recognized, but with rappers that looked off, like they'd come from a different decade. A newspaper stack near the counter displayed a headline about some local fare.

The date was 2002. I nearly laughed at how bizarre that was, but it only made me more uneasy. I stepped around the counter, calling out a casual, Hello? Even though I was already spooked by the emptiness. A door in the back stood half open, curious, I pushed it a bit wider. A single bulb buzzed on the ceiling, flickering on and off, making the whole room strobe. A coffee mug sat on a desk. The contents dried to a thick residue.

A coat draped over the chair, as though somebody would be right back to grab it. I tried telling myself the owner was outrunning an errand, but who leaves their coffee half finished and vanishes for seven years? Or however long it had actually been. A faint, off-putting smell lingered near one corner, something like metal-shaded. and spoiled meat. I inched closer, saw an old mop bucket filled with slimy water, and backed away. No thanks. By that point the building felt oppressive. My stomach twisted at the idea of continuing further, like the rest of Clarkston might hold sights worse than a crusty mop bucket.

I headed outside again, scanning the row of buildings across the street. They all looked similarly abandoned. Windows caked in dust, doors boarded or hanging off hinges. A battered sign-reading restaurant creaked overhead in the breeze, but the glass was so grimy I couldn't see inside. As much as I wanted to jump back in my car and pray I had enough gas to reach the next town, I hesitated, thinking maybe there was a single living soul around who could help. That's what got me, hope, mixed with dread. So I made the impulsive decision to walk across the cracked pavement and investigate.

If I found someone, maybe they could point me to a working-work. pump. If not, well, I tried not to think about the alternative. With each step toward those silent buildings, the pit in my stomach deepened, and I grew more certain that Clarkston held secrets I might regret uncovering. Still, I kept going, telling myself I'd only peek around for a minute before getting out of there. My gut urged me to turn back, but I pushed that aside. One minute wouldn't hurt, right? That's what I thought. I hesitated in the middle of that cracked, street, as if stepping forward might trigger something awful I couldn't undo. Every building looks so lifeless. Paint curled off the walls, and old broken signs hung overhead, swaying in a small

gust. There wasn't a single working light that I could see, apart from the weak flicker by the gas station. Yet I kept thinking maybe I'd spot movement in one of the windows. Somebody who could explain why this place felt like a ghost had swallowed it whole. When I reached the first storefront, I knocked on the doorframe. No echo, no answer, just a dull thud. Peering through the grimy window, I made out a few tables buried under thick layers of dust, as if time itself had quit on the place. A flyer on the wall inside advertised a summer festival. The image of a ferris wheel loomed in faded colors, making me wonder how long ago someone tacked it up. I moved on before my mind could wander further. The next set of buildings seemed to be houses, small, single-street-story,

stories homes clustered close, yards choked with weeds. One door stood slightly open, the hinges rusted and screechy. Curiosity tugged at me again. I told myself I might find a radio or something inside that still worked, maybe even a set of keys or a functional phone. Plus, the creeping awareness that nobody was around made me braver than I probably should have been. The moment I stepped into that house, the stale air hit my lungs. It smelled like old books and something sour. The living room looked frozen in an ordinary afternoon from who knew when, a couch draped with a blanket, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, and a TV remote perched on the armrest. A layer of grit covered every surface, though, as though the world outside had blown in and never

left. I inched farther in, passing family photos on a wall, smiling faces, cheerful vacations. My gaze settled on a photo where a small kid held a balloon. grinning from ear to ear. It made me wonder if that child grew up elsewhere or simply vanished with the rest of the town. The eerie silence gave me no answers. Toward the back was a narrow hallway. At the end, a door stood ajar. I nudged it with my foot, heart pounding in my ears. Inside, a bedroom's curtains were half drawn, letting in just enough light to see the chaos. Clothes spilled out of a dresser, pictures scattered across the floor. I crouched to pick one up, a snapshot of a teen hugging a dog.

The dog's fur was a blur, like it was mid-wiggle when the camera clicked. Something about that caught me off guard and I nearly dropped the photo. Everything looked so alive in these snapshots, yet there I was in an empty house in a dead town. Down the hallway, a smaller room's door was painted with stars and planets, chipped and faded. I pushed it open, a child's bed, stuffed animals tossed around. A teddy bear stared at me with one missing eye. Its fur seemed stiff, matted with who knows what. A coloring book lay face down, crayons left scattered.

It felt intrusive to be standing there, as if I'd barged in on a family's private moment. Only the family was long gone. Suddenly, I thought I heard a slight creak, like a floorboard adjusting under weight. my heart thudded. I paused, holding my breath, scanning the dark corners. I saw no one, but the sensation that I wasn't alone locked my muscles. The next few seconds felt like hours. When nothing else happened, I convinced myself it was the wind or my own footsteps echoing. Still, the tension remained in my gut. I backed out, nearly stumbling over an overturned chair in the hallway. My nerves screamed at me to get out of there. Back to my heart.

my car, back to anywhere else. Once outside I fought to inhale fresh air, though it tasted of dust and despair. Street lamps were either broken or had never existed in the first place, and twilight was setting in. The sky dimmed, painting everything in dull purples and grays. I jogged to my Subaru, half expecting the engine to fail me, or worse, to find it gone. But it was still there, silent as ever. I got in, slammed the door, and locked it. The fuel gauge was dangerously low. I cranked the ignition, which coughed twice before kicking to life. Static buzzed through the radio speakers.

I twisted the dial frantically, hoping for any station that could reassure me civilization existed somewhere nearby, just faint crackles and hisses. At least the engine was running, so I had a shot at getting out of Clarkston. I rolled through the main strip, eyes were. flicking to the side mirrors, worried a shape might pop up behind me. Not a single figure stirred. I passed that old diner, its neon sign dark and dead, and I caught a glimpse of the gas station again. The memory of those outdated candy bars and that coffee cup frozen in time made me grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. Eventually, I saw a battered sign reading, leaving Clarkston.

Someone had spray-painted something over it, maybe. a faded message, but I couldn't make sense of the letters in the dim light. I drove on, the road ahead practically pitch black, the headlights illuminating only the cracked asphalt and tumbleweeds. Relief battled with lingering dread, each competing for space in my mind. Finally, I spotted a more modern road sign pointing to Mountain Home. My heart surged at the idea of a real town with functioning lights, open gas stations, and living, breathing people. By the I got there, the Subaru was running on fumes. I yanked up to the pump, and pure relief flooded me when I heard the pump start humming. Inside the convenience store, I babbled something about

just driving through a ghost town. The clerk stared like I was unhinged. She asked, What town? And I nearly snapped. Clarkston, back that way. But she only shrugged, never heard of it. Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and tried calling the local sheriff's office to ask if they knew anything. After a few transfers, a deputy told me, Yeah, might be an old settlement folks abandoned. He didn't sound very curious, or even particularly surprised. He offered no real details, just mumbled something about farmland drying up and moved on. Once I got on the road again, my mind replayed the images of dust-choked rooms,

that child's teddy bear, the unblinking emptiness of Clarkston. Even as I reached Boise, checked into a motel, and finally let myself relax, I couldn't shake the heavy thoughts. Were those people gone by choice, or by force? Something about the place felt worse than just an economic collapse. It felt like people had left in the middle of ordinary life and never looked back. By the time I reached Seattle, I tried forcing myself not to dwell on it. it. My friend laughed off my story, suggesting maybe I'd stumbled into some deserted area that never rebounded from a recession. Still, every so often, I'd get a flash of that bedroom with

scattered crayons and wonder if something bad happened. If the truth was locked away in a battered file at some sheriff's office I'd never visit. Part of me longed to know the answer, but the rest of me knew it'd be better if I never set foot in Clarkston again. I was 13 when my mom decided I I was old enough to handle the worst corners of our run-down neighborhood all by myself. I lived with her and my little sister in a cramped duplex on the very edge of Riverton. The paint on our place had peeled away to reveal sun-fated boards, and the porch light flickered like it struggled to stay alive. Our street felt drained, too.

A few folks still lived around us, but they rarely stepped outside. My mother didn't seem concerned about any of that. She had her own orbit of interest that never seemed to involve me or my sister. Whether it was borrowing groceries or delivering some package, she always found a way to send me out after dark. As if the time of day made no difference. If anything, she looked downright smug whenever she forced me to go. One chilly November night, she barged into the living room

and announced I needed to haul a huge laundry bag over to my uncle's place so he could wash our clothes. We had no working machine, so that part made sense, but it was the timing that got under my skin. Nighttime seemed darker than usual, and that flickering porch light didn't help. Still, she didn't leave room for debate. I was a big kid, a solid 280 pounds. Yet the thought of strolling through those gloomy streets by myself

sent an instant jolt of worry through my chest. I'd grown used to feeling on edge. Sometimes my hands would shake when no one was looking, and my temples would throb from tension. Even so, I grabbed the oversized laundry bag, zipped up my hoodie, and told myself I'd be fine. But right before I stepped out, I slid a steak knife into my hoodie pocket. I couldn't explain why, but everything in me said I might need protection. Once outside, the cool air pressed in on me.

The street was unusually silent, not a single car humming by, no porch gatherings, not even a bark from the usual stray dogs. The sidewalk felt strange under my worn sneakers. Every step seemed too loud. With each block, I adjusted my grip on the laundry bag, trying to keep it from dragging, and every time I paused, I picked up this faint tapping noise. At first, I thought it was a trick of my imagination,

metal hitting something, like a coin flicked against concrete. I shook off the weirdness and forced myself to keep walking. My uncle's place was about six blocks away, Rather than trudge down the main street, I veered into a side alley, hoping to shave off time. Dim security lights flickered on and off, casting jagged shadows. I couldn't get over the idea someone, or something, was studying me from behind a fence or a dumpster. But I hadn't seen another soul, so it had to be my own mind playing games. When I finally turned onto my uncle's block, I exhaled in relief.

His house was a little beat up, but his porch light was not. nice and bright. He opened the door with a snort that told me he already suspected my mother's reason for sending me. I handed off the laundry bag, and he offered to let me stay for a bit. But of course, that's when the phone rang. My mother, irritated and yelling that I needed to head right back. My uncle tried to argue, but she wasn't having it. I shrugged and said I'd handle it. Honestly, I just wanted to get out of that conversation. The walk back felt darker. Clouds had rolled in, blotting out any hint of moon or stars. The streetlights along my route were spaced too far apart,

leaving long stretches of near blackness in between. That's when I heard the tapping again. Closer, more deliberate. My pulse hammered so hard I worried I might tip over. Trying to keep calm, I picked up my pace. I told myself it was nothing, maybe a loose gutter dripping somewhere. Then I spotted movement up ahead. tall, gaunt figure stood partially behind a battered chain-link fence, motionless except for the

tilt of its head. My mind churned, trying to peg it as a person, or maybe a dog on hind legs. But it was too tall, too narrow in the torso, and had a glossy, almost sickly sheen to its skin under the weak light. My fingers automatically curled around the hidden knife in my pocket. When the figure slunk forward, I realized its limbs bent in an unsettling way. almost like it was used to walking on all fours, but could stand upright if it wanted. A wave of dread shot through me. I tore my eyes away long enough to sidestep onto a side street, ditching the main road entirely. The thing rustled against the fence as it shifted, making that tapping noise again.

Nails on metal, maybe. Without warning, the shape vaulted over the fence, landing a few yards away from me. That was all it took. I started running, lugging the laundry bag. my legs protesting with every ragged step. The bag kept swinging, nearly tripping me. The tapping turned into scraping, like claws skidding over pavement. I dared a quick glance behind me and glimps something bounding along the asphalt,

arms and legs working in sink, eyes reflecting a strange red glimmer. I veered off into a yard ignoring the no trespassing signs. The yard was a mess of weeds and stray junk. My foot slammed into a half-buried cinder block, and I tumbled hard. Knees and hands scraping raw. With shaking limbs I tried to scramble to my feet, but a cold presence was already looming over me. The stench rolling off it was overwhelming, like a mix of stagnant water and decaying leaves. I lifted my gaze.

It was on all fours now, saliva trailing from a mouth full of jagged teeth. Without thinking, I yanked out the steak knife and swiped upward. The blade connected with something solid, and the creature emitted a noise that was part hiss, part roar. I managed to twist away as it smacked my wrist, nearly causing me to lose my grip on the knife. A split second later, headlights from a passing pickup burst across the yard. The bright beams revealed everything, its eyes shining like embers, the papery-looking skin stretched over lean muscles, and scars criss-crossing its sides. It staggered back, then let out a guttural sound that nearly cracked my resolve in half.

But just as the truck moved on, it bolted into the shell. shadows, leaving me sprawled on the cold ground, unable to even gasp properly. I don't recall much after that, other than waking up in a cramped clinic room with stitched cuts along my forearm and bruises dotting my legs. My uncle stood there, relief plain on his face. He demanded an explanation, but I muttered something about a stray dog. I couldn't bring myself to say what I'd really seen. Part of me wanted to believe it was just my anxiety-twisting reality, but Deep down, I knew. That thing was out there, somewhere, and I doubted that single knife strike would make it forget me anytime soon. It's been 13 years since that night in Riverton.

I'm 26 now, living in a small one-story house in Meadowview with my grandmother. Her health's taken a dip these last few years, heart issues, arthritic knees, and she can't handle day-to-day tasks on her own anymore. Considering she's the only one who ever really took care of me, it feels right to be here for her. Still, the old fear from Riverton has stayed buried in the back of my head, like a bad dream that never quite lets go. The first few months after moving in were calm enough. I'd occasionally get jumpy if a branch creaked outside late at night, but I'd learn to shove those nerves aside. My grandmother's presence alone made me feel safer, and Meadowview had a quieter vibe than Riverton ever did. It helped that that

house was better kept, no peeling paint, no flickering bulbs. Everything seemed normal, at least at a glance. But little things started adding up. Early in the morning, I'd find weird scratch marks on the side of the trash bin, like some stray animal had tried to dig through it. Once, I discovered large paw-like prints in the muddy patch by the driveway, bigger than any dog I've ever seen. A next-door neighbor grumbled about strange footprints in his backyard. Some of the Some folks blamed raccoons, others blamed coyotes. I tried to do the same, telling myself it had to be local wildlife. But those prints looked wrong, like the front and back legs weren't quite in the right alignment.

Sleep became a mess. Even the slightest noise outside felt magnified, pulling me to the window to check the yard. Most times I'd see nothing but darkness and an empty street. I told myself I was overreacting. all, more than a decade had passed since that horrifying encounter. That was back in Riverton, and I was older now, smarter, tougher, right? One night around 1 a.m., I heard a loud clatter from the backyard. Grabbing a flashlight and a heavy-duty crowbar that I'd been using as a doorstop, I went outside. My breath hitched in my throat the moment I clicked on the flashlight.

The trash can was knocked over, and this gangly figure was hunched beside it, rummaging through the scattered garbage. A pungent odor like rotting leaves hung in the air. I aimed the beam at the intruder's back, and it turned its head toward me. When those eyes reflected in the light, everything froze. My limbs stiffened, and the flashlight wobbled in my hand. Staring back was something tall enough that even crouched, it looked half my height. Pale, scabbed skin clung to a wiry frame, and faded scars trailed across its shoulders and ribcage. Before I could fully process the sight, it bolted. In a single fluid motion, it lunged over the chain-link fence and vanished into the brush behind my grandmother's house. The yard fell silent, like reality had paused.

I blinked a few times, chest tight, trying to wrap my head around it. The shape, the scars, the eyes. I couldn't shake the idea that I'd seen all of this before. My first impulse was to call the police. The dispatcher sounded half asleep when I told her a large animal had knocked over my garbage. She promised a patrol car would circle the neighborhood, but I could already guess what that meant. The next day, I set out on a mission to secure the yard. I replaced the flimsy gate lock, shoved bricks around the base of the fence, and even rigged up some old wind chimes near the back corner so I'd hear if anything approached. My grandmother watched me from the porch, an uneasy expression on her face. I tried to smile and make it seem like a minor nuisance, but she's known me too

long to buy it. She asked, is this about that thing you saw years ago? I sidestepped the question, just saying I felt uneasy. She stayed quiet, but I could tell she wanted me to open up. I got more and more paranoid. Each evening I'd check the window locks, test the doorknobs, and flick the backyard light on and off a dozen times. I'd peer through the curtains at random intervals, searching for a silhouette that wasn't supposed to be there. The dread was worse than a mosquito bite you can't scratch. It stayed under my skin, making me jumpy and exhausted. A few nights later, while I was up reading in the living room, I caught movement outside through the corner of my eye. The old street lamp near the curb flickered.

For a split second, something seemed to linger beneath it, shoulders hunched, almost like it was waiting. I shot off the couch and scrambled to the window, but by the time I yanked the curtain aside, there was nothing but a dark stretch of pavement. Eventually, I found myself on the back porch at two in the morning, armed with a flashlight and a kitchen knife. My grandmother was asleep, and I wasn't about to tell her I planned on standing guard until sunrise. I settled into a rickety wooden chair with the porch light off so I could see into the yard better, heart pounding in my ears, scanning every shape for that familiar silhouette. Hours dragged by.

At some point, I nearly dozed off, only to be startled awake by the clang of the wind chimes. My hand went straight to the knife. I crept down the steps, searching the perimeter of the fence with the flashlight's beam. Was the wind chime rattling because of a breeze, or had to be? something triggered it. The silent yard offered no clues, just a faint smell of damp grass. The tension in my chest refused to settle. It seemed logical to go inside, lock up, and attempt to sleep, but I stayed out there, convinced that whatever lurked in the shadows was biting its time. Sunlight eventually stained the horizon, and birds started chirping in the

distance. My eyes stung from sleeplessness, but I'd made it through the night unscathed. Still, there was no comfort in that. If anything, it felt like the calm before a bigger storm. I was certain that the same creature, scarred and monstrous, the one that nearly took me out all those years ago, had found me again. And the worst part, it didn't seem in any hurry to leave. This is a Bose moment. It's ten blocks from the train to your apartment door.

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That night, I finally snapped. I needed a break, something, anything. to clear my mind. So I pulled on my sneakers, grabbed my headlamp, and headed out to a trail I used to walk all the time. It was past midnight, but I convinced myself a bit of fresh air would do me good. From the start, the trail was darker than I remembered. The trees stood like silent watchers on all sides, and the crunch of leaves under my feet was almost too loud. I clicked on my headlamp, illuminating a narrow path that curved ahead. Usually this place felt calming, but something was off. I shrugged it away, attributing it to my own nerves. Overthinking, right?

I continued further until my fitness watch chimed around the mile mark. That's when I caught a hint of motion in the underbrush off to the side. Could have been a rabbit or some other small animal, but it felt heavier. I paused, switched off my headlamp, and listened for any sound. Each second crept by, nothing. Eventually I flicked the light back on and started walking again, quickening my pace now, just in case. A few minutes down the trail I heard leaves shifting again, but this time it came from behind me. My mind raced. Another walker? A stray dog? Maybe a deer? Except it wasn't that casual rustling noise wildlife usually makes. It had a pattern like footfalls trying to match mine. I whipped around, pointed my

headlamp into the darkness, but only caught glimpses of branches and tangled roots. No person, no animal. Silence again. I tried to reassure myself. Maybe my imagination was an overdrive. Still, I couldn't ignore how the night felt heavier. I yelled out something about calling the cops if anyone was messing with me. No response.

The trail just stretched on under the weak glow of my lamp. That's when my beam caught a shape off to the right. a blur of pale skin low to the ground. It moved like it belonged there, on all fours, smooth and unnerving. I only saw it for a second or two, but it was enough to send my pulse skyrocketing. Nobody crawls that way. Nobody is that quiet, that fast. I shouted again, nonsense words tumbling out of my mouth, half threat, half plea. Instead of running toward me, it darted away with a terrifying speed that made me feel rooted in place. A laugh echoed, not a normal human laugh.

It had a high-pitched, mocking edge, almost giddy. That shattered my last ounce of self-control. I took off, stumbling over rocks and kicking up dirt. Everything else blurred into a single purpose. Get out. The faint light of neighborhood houses eventually appeared beyond the edge of the woods. My legs burned, lungs felt ready to burst, but I didn't care. I just needed the safety of streetlights and the thought of other people nearby.

I fumbled for my phone and called the police, barely able to form coherent sentences. A man, something, following me, the trail. I left out anything that sounded too outrageous. As soon as the call ended, I locked myself in my room. It didn't feel like home, though. Even inside my own walls, I was on edge. I kept replaying that strange. shape darting on all fours and that warped laugh ringing in my head. The next morning they told

me they found no one out there, just disturbed leaves and footprints leading off trail, which eventually disappeared. No sign of trespassers, no obvious clues. They didn't exactly call me crazy, but their shrugs and nods said enough. Once they left, I stayed by my window, staring into the night. I knew I couldn't let it end like that. whatever I encountered wasn't gone, and I sensed I'd go back. Despite common sense, curiosity and fear were already dragging me toward another walk in that dark stretch of forest. It took me a couple of days to work up the nerve, but I couldn't bear feeling powerless.

I described everything to my three friends, every eerie footstep, every glimpse of that pale shape crouching in the trees. Naturally, they were skeptical. They called me dramatic. but I saw a spark of interest in their eyes. The more I told them, the more they got hooked on the idea of investigating. A little adventure never scared them, or so they claimed. We agreed to meet at my place around 9.30 at night.

Two buddies came armed with pistols. Another showed up with a shotgun, and I had my own sidearm tucked under my jacket. Let's be real. None of us were serious hunters. We just felt safer holding something that might give us a fighting chance if things turned ugly. One friend held the flashlights, plus his phone to record if we got lucky enough to capture footage. Stepping onto the trail again felt surreal. In the dim glow of our flashlights, we retraced my path, each of us unusually quiet. Even the jokesters of the group had run out of

wisecracks. Every so often, someone would crack a branch underfoot, and all of us would jump. It was ridiculous, but we were on edge. I knew they were all thinking about how I'd described that thing in the woods. We marched past my usual stopping point, somewhere close to a mile and a half in, without any sign of trouble. That brought me zero comfort, though. A hush seemed to follow us, like the forest had decided to keep its secrets locked away. The canopy overhead blocked most of the moonlight, making the beams from our flashlights look puny. The further we went, the more claustrophobic it felt. Eventually, a distant rustling reached our ears. It sounded like someone trudging through deep leaves.

And it wasn't stationary. It was circling, far off the trail. One friend switched off his light, motioning the rest of us to do the same. Darkness swallowed us. The footsteps edged closer, unsteady for a moment, then suddenly sped up like a gallop. Each stride pounded the ground. Our hearts hammered so loudly I expected them to give us away.

We snapped the lights on, scanning frantically. shadows jumped across the tree trunks, but we couldn't see anything moving. My friend started yelling, Who's out there? Show yourself. That's when the sound stopped, just froze, as if it had never existed. In that silence, we all stood there, listening hard enough to hear our own breathing. Then came the shriek, a single piercing cry that seemed half human and half animal.

It jolted us so badly that someone pulled the trigger. light flashed, the gunshot echoed, and my ears felt stuffed with static. In that burst of brightness, I saw something pale and long-limbed dart across my vision, hugging a tree as if it had suction cups for hands. No normal person could move like that. A second shot rang out, another flash, more ringing in my ears. We stood there waiting for a body to drop, but nothing hit the ground. No cry of pain or rustle of leaves suggested we'd landed a single shot.

Instead, that cackling laughter answered us from a darker spot in the forest. It felt like it was mocking our attempts to catch it off guard. Everything in me screamed to leave. I glanced around at my friends and they all had the same wild look. We couldn't keep shooting blindly, it was too risky and clearly not working. One friend was convinced he'd blasted it, but there was no sign of blood or any body on the ground, just a newly shredded patch of bark on the nearest tree. That cackle came again, but this time it was further out, like the thing was leading us even deeper.

We had two choices, follow the noise or backtrack. Nobody said a word. We just started retreating in jerky steps, half expecting it to launch itself at us. Flashlights swung in every direction, revealing nothing but more darkness and twisted branches. The entire time I imagined that shape slithering behind the trunks, waiting. Eventually, the sight of a lone street lamp beyond the trail entrance filled us with relief. Once we'd reached the road, we realized how fast we'd been going.

Sweat clung to our clothes, and we were all gasping for breath. My house wasn't far. We huddled in my living room, each one trying to describe exactly what we'd witnessed. The shotgun guy admitted he'd caught a glimpse of something tall, but he couldn't make out a face, if it even had one. rattled around the room. We had weapons, we had flashlights, and still we'd been left shaking in our boots. Worst of all, we didn't get a shred of proof. Our designated camera guy confessed he forgot to open his phone's camera in the panic, and nobody else thought to do it either. We were kicking

ourselves for letting that chance slip. Before the night was over, we made a plan. Next time, we'd be prepared with actual cameras rolling from the start. Someone even suggested grabbing a game camera or two, rigging them to trees at intervals. Part of me knew how reckless it sounded, and yet I couldn't ignore that gnawing urge to find closure. Whatever was lurking in those woods was still out there, mocking us. The idea that a point-blank shotgun blast didn't drop it made my blood run cold. We spent hours talking, strategizing, trying to rationalize what we'd seen. But deep down, I think we all understood we were crossing a line into unknown territory. none of us was ready to admit it though we parted ways with a plan armed recording no more messing around and i lay awake into the early morning listening to the echo of that laugh over and over questioning whether we were making the worst mistake of our lives by going back

i always trusted the woods they were familiar to me like the worn grip of my shotgun or the weight of a lantern in my hand i grew up in these hollows of tennessee my boots sinking into the same dirt paths my father hunted on and his father before him. But that night, that night the woods changed. It started like any other hunt. The sun dipped below the tree line, casting long shadows that stretched like claws over the undergrowth. I remember the way the air felt, heavy, like the trees were holding their breath. Eli and I trudged down the old fence line, our boots crunching softly against the frost-bitten leaves. The dogs, copper and red, were ahead of us, noses to the ground, tails wagging with the kind of confidence that made me feel like nothing in these woods could surprise us. But even then, I could feel it, a wrongness in the air,

like something was watching from the shadows just beyond our lantern's glow. You feel that? I muttered more to myself than Eli. He snorted, the sound forced. Feel what? The cold. But his eyes darted to the tree line, and I knew he felt it too. We pushed deeper into the woods. The fence line our guide through the thickening dark. Usually the woods hummed with life at night. The chirp of crickets, the hoot of owls, the rustling of raccoons in the brush. But not tonight.

Tonight the woods were silent. And then the dog stopped. Copper, the older of the two, froze mid-step. His nose lifted to the wind. Red let out a low growl, the fur on his back bristling. I'd seen them face down bobcats, even a bear once, and they never flinched like this. What's gotten into them?

Eli whispered, his voice tight. Before I could answer, I heard it. Crunch, not on the ground, above us. We froze, our lanterns casting shaky light into the tangled branches overhead. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but shadows. Then my eyes caught it, a shape, too big and too still,

crouched in the branches of an old oak. It was watching us. The thing was massive. Its black fur blending into the night, but its eyes. Its eyes glowed, not like the reflection you see in an animal's eyes when the light hits just right. These eyes were aware, calculating. Christ, Eli breathed. Wait, I hissed, but it was too late.

Crack! The shot echoed through the woods, loud and sharp. The bullet hit. I saw the flick of movement in the creature's shoulder, but it didn't flinch. It didn't even blink. It just kept staring. Then it moved. With a sound like tearing flesh, the thing dropped from the tree. Fifteen feet, straight down, landing on all fours with a thud that rattled my bones.

For a moment it crouched there, its long sinewy tail twitching like a cat ready to pounce. Then it charged. Copper was the first to meet it. My brave, stupid old hound lunged with a bark that turned into a yelp mid-air. The thing caught him in its jaws like he was not. nothing more than a rabbit. And I'll never forget the sound. The crunch of bone quick and final. Red didn't stand a chance.

He leapt, teeth bared, and the thing swiped him aside with a single clawed paw. Red's body hit a tree trunk with a sickening snap, sliding to the ground in a heap of fur and blood. My body moved before my brain caught up. I raised my shotgun, took aim, and fired. Boom! The blast hit the creature square in the shoulder.

close enough that I felt the heat of the discharge on my face. It staggered, snarling, but it didn't fall. It turned its head toward me, and I swear to God it grinned. Its lips peeled back to reveal rows of jagged yellow teeth, too long, too sharp. Eli screamed. I turned just in time to see him trying to run, but the thing was faster. It lunged, swiping at his back. I heard the rip of cloth, saw the flash of blood as his shirt tore like paper.

Eli stumbled forward the lantern flying from his hand and shattering against a rock, plunging us into near darkness. I didn't have time to think. I fired my second shot into the thing's gut. The blast echoed, and the beast let out a roar. A sound that didn't belong in this world. A mix of a wolf's howl and something deeper, something wrong. But it didn't die.

It stumbled, its glowing eyes dimming for just a second, but it kept coming. I could see the blood pouring from its wounds, black and thick like tar, but it wasn't enough. I was out of shells. With no time to reload, I did the only thing I could. I dropped the shotgun and grabbed the nearest fence post, yanking it from the ground with a strength I didn't know I had. The old wood splintered in my hands, but I didn't care. I charged. The beast had its attention on Eli, who was crawling backward in the dirt, his eyes wide with terror. It didn't see me coming. I swung the post with everything I had, the weight of fear and rage driving me forward. The first hit connected with a crack,

splintering against the creature's skull. It let out a whimper, a high, keening sound that sent chills down my spine. It sounded almost human, but it wasn't dead. I swung again, this time bringing the post down across its spine. I felt the bones snap beneath the blow, heard the wet, choking gasp as the beast collapsed to the ground, twitching. For a moment the only sound was my own ragged breathing then the creature let out one last pitiful sound a soft rattling wine like a dying dog and then it was still i dropped the fence post my hands shaking the lantern was out but the moonlight was enough to see the thing's body sprawled in the dirt its head was that of a wolf but too large too elongated its limbs were thick and powerful ending in claws that glistened with blood the fur was black as midnight But in some places, it looked almost mangled, like patches of human skin stretched too tight. And its eyes, even in death, they glowed faintly, as if something inside refused to let go.

Eli was on his knees, staring at the thing like it might get up again. I couldn't blame him. I half expected it to. What the hell is that, James, he whispered, his voice barely audible. I didn't have an answer. I didn't think there was one. But one thing was certain. This was no bear, no panther, no animal we were meant to find in these woods. And whatever it was, I had a sinking feeling this wasn't the end of it. For a long time, neither of us moved.

The thing lay there in the dirt, its twisted body steaming in the cold night air. The woods, which had been silent before, now felt dead. Not just quiet, hollow. Like the trees themselves were holding back something worse, something watching from just beyond the lantern's reach. Eli was still kneeling. His breath ragged. His shirt hanging in tatters from his back where the beast's claws had torn through.

His blood left dark streaks down his spine, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were locked on the creature's body, wide and unblinking. Like he thought if he looked away, it might get back up. I wasn't so sure it wouldn't. My hands trembled as I stepped closer. The fence post still gripped. tight. The beast's chest didn't rise. No breath, no twitch, but its eyes. Jesus, its eyes. Even in death they held a faint unnatural glow like embers that refused to die out. I crouched beside it,

close enough now to see details I wished I never had. Its head was unmistakably wolf-like, but the proportions were wrong. The snout was too long, the teeth too jagged, and where a wolf's eyes should have been wild and animalistic, these were, knowing, human almost. Its fur was thick and black, but patches of it were missing, revealing mottled gray skin beneath, like it was in the middle of becoming something else, or had been something else once. Its paws, if you could call them that, were massive, ending in claws like curved knives. I could still see the blood from copper and red clinging to them. them, thick and dark. The tail was long, almost serpentine, curling around its body even in death.

This ain't right, Eli finally whispered, his voice hoarse. James, this, this ain't right. I didn't have the words to argue. We should have left it there, walked away. But some stubborn part of me needed to prove what we'd seen, needed someone else to look at this thing and tell me I wasn't losing my mind. We're taking it back, I said, my voice steady, though my insides were shaking like a leaf. Eli snapped his head toward me, eyes wide. What? You out of your damn mind? We need to burn it, but I was already reaching for my knife. Help me gut it. We'll drag it back to the cabin. Eli stared at me like I'd sprouted a second head, but in the end, he didn't argue. Maybe he didn't want to be left alone with it, or maybe he too needed proof that we weren't crazy.

The smell hit me the moment I sank the blade into its gut, not like any animal I'd ever hunted. It wasn't just blood and awful, it was wrought, like the thing had been dead for days, maybe longer, but its body was warm, too warm, and then there were its insides. I've gutted deer, bear, all kinds of game, but nothing prepared me for what was inside that beast. Its organs were wrong, twisted in ways that didn't make sense. The heart was too big, pulsing faintly even as I carved it out. The intestines were dark, almost black, and the blood. It wasn't the rich red of life, but a thick, tar-like sludge.

Eli gagged beside me, turning away to wretch in the dirt. I didn't blame him. I wanted to do the same. We lashed what was left of the carcass to a makeshift sled, using old fence rails and rope we found nearby. The thing was heavy, impossibly so, like it didn't want to be moved. Every step back to the cabin felt like dragging a piece of the woods itself, something ancient and angry. The forest stayed silent as we moved, but that didn't comfort me. It felt like the trees were watching, holding their breath until we were gone. And more than once, I swore I heard something behind us, soft footes.

steps just out of sight. But when I turned, there was nothing, nothing but the shadows. By the time we reached the cabin, dawn was creeping over the horizon, staining the sky a sickly gray. My muscles burned, my hands raw from the rope, but we didn't stop. We dragged the beast inside, slamming the door shut like it could keep whatever darkness we'd stirred out. Eli collapsed into a chair, his face pale, sweat soaking through his torn shirt. I lit every lantern in the cabin, the flickering light casting long shadows that made the creature's body look even more grotesque. We stared at it in silence for a long time. What now? Eli finally whispered, his voice hollow. I didn't answer right away. My mind was racing,

grasping for something, anything that could explain what we'd seen. Then I thought of Professor Alden Moore, the reclusive scholar who lived on the edge of town. Folks said he knew more about animals than anyone else, maybe too much. Some whispered he dabbled in things better left alone, but I didn't care. If anyone could tell us what this was, it was him. We take it to Moore, I said finally. Eli looked at me like I'd lost my mind again, but he didn't argue. Maybe he didn't have the strength.

Getting the beast to Moore's place was no easier than dragging it out of the woods. By the time we got there, the sun was high, but it didn't feel warm. His house sat at the edge of the forest, a crooked old thing with dark windows that seemed to watch us as we approached. Moore answered the door after the first knock, his thin face pale and drawn, like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes flicked from me to Eli, then to the tarp-covered shape behind us. Without a word, he stepped aside, motioning us in. We dragged the beast into his study, laying it out on a table that creaked under the weight.

The room smelled of old books and something sharp like chemicals. Moore circled the creature, his eyes narrowing as he peeled back the tarp. For a long time he said nothing, just stared. Then his face changed. His skin went even paler, his mouth tightening into a thin line. His hands, steady at first, began to tremble. What is it? Eli whispered. His voice barely audible.

Moore didn't answer right away. He leaned in close, examining the beast's face, its claws, the gaping wound in its gut. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained, like it hurt to say the words. You shouldn't have brought this here, Eli flinched. What do you mean? You know what it is, don't you? More straightened, his eyes darting to the window, then to the dark corners of the room, like he expected something to crawl out of the shadows. I don't want to know, he would.

whispered, and neither do you. I stepped forward, my hands bawling into fists. What the hell does that mean, Moore? We killed this thing. We need to know what it is. But Moore just shook his head. He backed away from the table like the beast might rise up and grab him, his eyes wide with a fear I'd never seen in a man before.

Stay out of the woods at night, he said. His voice barely more than a breath. And pray you didn't bring more than just the body back with you. And with that he was gone. He left us standing there, the beast's carcass between us, the weight of his words settling like a stone in my chest. We went back to the cabin after that, but the beast didn't stay dead for long. Not in the way that mattered.

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That's 1,800flowers.com slash Spotify. I should have known something was off the second we pulled up to the lease. The cabin sat there, hunched in the trees like it had been waiting for us. It's weather-beaten wood sagging under years of storms and silence. It always looked a little rough around the edges. It's been in our family forever. But this time it felt different. The place was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet you expect out in the woods, but something heavier. No wind through the trees. No birds chirping. Not even the usual rustle of small critters in the underbrush. Just silence, thick and unnatural. Even the dogs were weird about it. Normally they'd be jumping out of the truck, tails wagging, ready to sniff every inch of the place. But today, they slinked out slow, ears flat, tails tucked low like they knew something I didn't.

I shook it off. Just tired from the drive, I told myself. The road out here is long and boring, and my mind had a habit of playing tricks when I was exhausted. I grabbed my gear, hauling it toward the cabin, the gravel crunching loud under my boots in the stillness. inside it felt worse the cabin has always been a little cramped filled with old hunting photos and mounted deerheads from trips long before I was born but now the walls felt like they were pressing in

the air was thick like the place hadn't been aired out in years even though we'd just been here last season it smelled like must gunpowder and something else something rotting faint but there my parents barely noticed busy unpacking their stuff and chatting about the morning hunt. I didn't say anything. I've always been the one in the family with a thing for the paranormal,

and I knew if I brought up how weird the place felt, they'd just chalk it up to me spooking myself. I got the small room near the back of the cabin. It wasn't much. Two twin beds squeezed into a space barely big enough to fit them, a rusty rack piled with camo jackets, boots, and two small backpacks hanging off the side like they'd, been there forever. I tossed my bag on one of the beds and sat down, trying to shake the uneasy

feeling that clung to me like humidity. But it didn't go away. That night, I went to bed early, figuring some sleep would clear my head. My parents were two doors down, and the dogs were settled by the fire, finally relaxing a bit. I left my phone on the nightstand, face down, and tried to let the familiar creeks of the cabin lull me to sleep. It didn't last. At exactly 1144, P.m., I snapped awake. No sound, no movement, nothing that should have jolted me out of sleep, but my heart was already pounding like I'd been running. The room was freezing, colder than it had any right to be, and my breath came out in shallow puffs. I knew something was wrong before I even opened my eyes. But when I did, there she was, standing by the rack, half hidden in the shadows,

was a tall, female figure. She wasn't just tall, she was unnaturally tall. She was unnaturally tall. She was Her head brushing against the low ceiling, limbs too long, joints bent at odd angles like she'd been folded wrong and put back together. Her form was black but somehow transparent, like a shadow that shouldn't be there. But it was her face, or what I could see of it, that chilled me to the bone. Her head was tilted to the side, like her neck had been snapped, and her eyes, God, her eyes, were tiny points of pale light, glowing faintly in the dark. locked on to me. And then she spoke. Come on, she whispered. Her voice dry and brittle,

like leaves scraping against old wood. Take a backpack and come with me. I couldn't move. My mind was screaming, but my body was frozen, locked in place by pure, raw terror. What? I croaked. My voice barely more than a whisper. Who are you? She didn't answer. She just repeated it. Her voice lower now, more insistent. Come on. Take a voice. backpack and come with me. That's when I snapped out of it. My hand shot to my side, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers were shaking so bad I almost dropped it, but I managed to flick on the flashlight and point it straight at her, and she was gone, not like she faded out or walked away. She was just gone, like she'd never been there in the first place. But the feeling, the crushing weight

of her presence, was still there, clinging to the air like smoke. I sat down. I sat down. I sat there for what felt like hours, my heart slamming against my ribs, the flashlight trembling in my hand. I whispered prayers under my breath, trying to steady myself, trying to convince myself it was just a dream. But I knew better. I've always believed in this stuff, but believing and experiencing are two different things. Eventually, I convinced myself to lie back down, but I didn't turn the flashlight off. No way in hell was I letting the dark back in. But it did It didn't matter. I must have drifted off because the next thing I knew, I was waking up again. My back was pressed against the wall, and the air felt even colder than before. That's when

I realized it wasn't just cold. It was wrong. I opened my eyes slowly, already dreading what I'd see, and there, in the bed across from me, was a figure sitting up. It wasn't the woman from before. This thing was worse. Its skin was gray, stretched thin over sharp bones, its face hollow with glowing, empty eyes that stared straight at me. It didn't blink, it didn't move, it just stared. My breath caught in my throat, and before I could even process what I was seeing, I felt it, another presence. I turned my head, slow as molasses, and there, by the clothes rack, was another figure, standing exactly where the woman had been. That was it. My body finally kicked into gear.

I bolted out of that room, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I didn't stop until I was in my parents' room, slamming the door behind me, gasping out words I could barely string together. They stared at me wide-eyed as I told them everything. I was shaking so bad I could barely get the words out, my voice trembling like I'd just run a marathon. They didn't laugh. They didn't tell me I was imagining things.

They knew me too well for that. My dad suggested I sleep in the bunks outside their room, near the dog's crates, with their door open. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than going back to that room. I set myself up in the bunk, the dogs at my feet, but I couldn't relax. The whole cabin felt like it was watching me, waiting. Every creek of the wood, every groan of the wind felt like it was coming from something else, something that wanted me to go back to that room. I don't know how long I lay there in the room.

bunk, staring at the ceiling like it might split open and drop something horrible on me. The dogs by the crates were restless, shifting and whining under their breath, their eyes flicking to the dark corners of the room like they saw something I couldn't. The little comfort I thought they'd give me, gone. If even the dogs were scared, what chance did I have? I tried to listen for my parents in the next room, focusing on the soft murmur of their voices, hoping that normal, everyday sounds would pull me back to reality. Maybe I'd wake up and find out none of this had happened, that the woman, the figures, the cold.

It was all some kind of twisted dream. But deep down, I knew better. Just as I was starting to relax, or maybe just too exhausted to care, I heard it. A sudden shout, it came from my parents' room, loud enough to snap me upright in the bunk. My heart was already racing. but now it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.

For a second, I thought maybe my dad was having a nightmare, but then I heard him screaming, not just yelling, but panicking, like something was attacking him. Get it off me, get it off, he bellowed, his voice ragged with terror. I was on my feet before I knew it, fumbling with the bunk railing. The dog started barking, loud and frantic, their claws scraping against the wooden floor as they lunged at their crates, trying to get out. My mom's voice followed, frantic but trying to stay calm like she didn't want to

believe what was happening. It's okay, it's okay, she kept saying, but her voice was shaking too. There's nothing there. There's nothing there. But there was. I knew it. I could feel it. I rushed to their door, but I froze just outside, my hand hovering over the knob. What if it wasn't done yet? What if whatever was in there turned on me next? The thought rooted me to the spot. My body trembling so bad I could barely breathe. Eventually, the noise settled. My dad's yelling faded into heavy, ragged breathing, and my mom's voice softened, turning into low murmurs I couldn't make out. I stood there for a few more minutes, hearts still racing, before I forced myself back to the bunk, though sleep was out of the question now. Morning couldn't come fast enough.

When 5.30 a.m. finally rolled around, I felt like I hadn't slept at all. My head was pounding, and my muscles were sore from how tense I'd been all night. I sat up in the bunk, groaning when I heard it. Bang! It was loud, too loud. It sounded like someone was hitting the wooden walls of the cabin from the inside. I froze. The dogs started growling low in their throats.

Hackles raised. Their bodies stiff as they stared into the shadows. Three distinct knocks, each one deep and deliberate, echoed through the room. I waited holding my breath. The sound stopped. I thought maybe it was just the wood settling or the wind outside, but then, three minutes later it happened again. Bang, bang, bang. This time it felt closer, like it wasn't just random noise, but something moving through the cabin, looking for me.

I jumped up and ran to my parents' room, practically kicking the door open. My mom was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, while my dad sat there pale and silent, staring at the blanket bunched around his waist. I blurted out what I'd heard, my voice barely holding steady. My mom nodded slowly, her face tight with worry. But it was my dad who spoke first. Something tried to pull the blanket off me last night, he whispered. His voice rough, like it hurt to talk.

It wasn't a dream. I felt hands, cold hands, yanking at me. He pulled the blanket back, showing long, ragged tears in the fabric. It looked like someone or something with claws had shredded it. My stomach twisted. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the faint creaking of the cabin as the sun started to rise outside. But even the daylight didn't make me feel any safer. Later that morning, as we prepared for the hunt, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

None of us talked about what happened, but it hung in the air like a bad smell. I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see that tall, shadowy woman standing there, waiting with one of those backpacks. But the worst part, the banging didn't stop. Every few minutes, another set of three knocks echoed through the walls, like something was trying to get our attention. I started noticing a pattern. The knocks would happen after three minutes, then five, then three again. It felt deliberate, like a message. Do you think it's trying to tell us something? I asked my mom quietly while we were loading the gear into the truck. She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the fear in it. I think it's trying to take something. After the hunt, which none of us could really focus on, we returned to the cabin to pack up. The lease was ending soon, and honestly, I couldn't wait to get out of there. But when I went back to my room to grab my bag,

I stopped dead in my tracks. The clothes rack was empty. The backpacks were gone. My heart thudded in my chest. as I scanned the room, my eyes landing on the bed where that figure had sat the night before. There was an indentation in the mattress, deep and unmistakable, like someone, or something, had been sitting there for hours. I didn't wait to find out more. I grabbed my stuff and bolted out of that room, my mind racing with the woman's words echoing in my head. Come on, take a backpack

and come with me. As we drove away from the cabin, I stared out the back window, half expecting to see her standing there watching us leave but the road stayed empty the trees swaying gently in the breeze like nothing had ever happened but i knew better the cabin might have stayed behind but whatever was in there wasn't done with me yet and i had this gnawing feeling deep in my gut it might just follow me home