Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 5 True Skinwalker Encounter Stories

Episode Date: January 13, 2025

These are 5 True Skinwalker Encounter Horror Stories Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/lilmakk/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/latterdaysinner1/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/ThoughtNinja/ Timestamps: 00:00 Intro 00:00:18 Story 1 00:07:38 Story 2 00:14:32 Story 3 00:23:36 Story 4 00:39:13 Story 5 Music by: ► Myuu's channel http://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Music http://bit.ly/2f9WQpe Thumbnail art: ►Just Creepy Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #skinwalker #cryptids #sleep #narration #reddit 💀As always thanks for watching! 💀

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you'll know it's very diverse. Up north, it's filled with mountains and trees, while down south it's much more city-like. This summer, I decided to take a trip to Lake Tahoe. It's a beautiful place, and it was my first time being upstate. I'm going to chop this story up into segments to make it an easy read. Day one, I settled into the cabin at around 5 p.m. After an eight-hour drive, I was very tired. I went and lay down in the bed in the loft. It was quiet, like being in a different world.

I was so used to cars zooming by and people talking right outside my house. But here, it was silent. I fell asleep fairly quickly. About four hours later, I jerked awake. I looked around for a bit before hearing a strange tapping sound. I tried to figure out where it was coming from, but to no avail. It sounded as if someone was tapping on the window of the back door. I figured I was just paranoid and fell back asleep.

Day two. Nothing happened this day and I slept fine. Day three, early morning. I woke up very early. maybe around 4 a.m. I heard a crash coming from the attic ladder, which was conveniently placed right behind the couch I was sleeping on. I didn't move. Then I heard a few footsteps. You know that feeling when you sense someone staring at you. That's exactly how I felt. I was on my side, staring straight ahead. Suddenly I felt somebody, or something, crawl over me. I felt two hands

on either side of me, and I could tell their face was just inches away from mine. Like I said, I was facing straight ahead, and I wasn't about to turn my head to see who, or what, it was. It felt like they stayed there forever before finally crawling backward and off the couch. I heard the dog let out a muffled bark, and then someone shushed her with a quiet, good girl. The presence lingered for what felt like in eternity, until I heard footsteps going out the back door. Still, I didn't move. I was paralyzed with fear. Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep. Later, when I felt it was safe, I checked on my friends. None of them had left their rooms that night. When I told them what happened, they said I was just being paranoid. I half agreed,

and we went on with our day as planned. Day three, later that day. After a day at the lake with my friends, we returned to a quiet, cozy cabin. The caretakers' told us there was a river a bit farther into the woods, about a 15-minute walk. My friends decided to stay behind and rest, so I took some bug spray, a small backpack with snacks, and my phone, and headed out. The trail was pretty straightforward. Tall grass flanked either side, and the path itself was thin, but easy to follow. I reached the riverbank where there were two picnic tables. I didn't want to get eaten alive by mosquitoes, but I'd stupidly worn sandals. I dropped my bag on one of the tables and started back toward the cabin. For some odd reason, the path suddenly seemed

distorted. What was once a smooth trail was now rough and uneven. I noticed the tall grass on the side of the path had been flattened, as if something huge, and I mean gigantic, had passed through it. At first, I suspected a bear, since the locals warned us they could be a problem this time of year, but the sheer size of whatever caused it made me second guess that. I was startled, but kept going until I made it back to the cabin, and then I returned to the river again. By now, I was a little frightened. I kept telling myself I was just overreacting and should try to enjoy nature. I sat at one of the tables and watched the river for a while.

That's when I started to feel like something was watching me. I looked around, assuming one of my friends was trying to prank me, but there was no one. Across the river, I noticed some disturbed brush. It opened into a small clearing, blocked off by two logs in an X-shape. The longer I sat there, the more uneasy I became. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was hidden behind that thick brush. Hoping to find some sign of life, I moved down to the river's edge. But there was nothing.

No fish. No frogs. No roads. Just mosquitoes. A whole swarm of them. Disappointed I went back to the table. That's when I heard it. a sound I can't accurately describe, like a scream mixed with a gurgle, as if whatever was making

the noise had a mouthful of water. It was inhuman. I froze. I should have run for my life, but I just stood there. I heard rustling in the bushes behind me. Yes, the same bushes I'd been worrying about earlier, and then that scream again, even louder this time. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard. Run. So I did. I sprinted through the forest, but what should have been a quick run back to the cabin turned into anything but. After about ten minutes of full-on sprinting, I realized I was lost. I stopped for a moment, panicking, to see if anything looked familiar. Finally, I spotted a bridge I remembered crossing on my way there. I started running toward it, wondering why that thing hadn't just attacked me when I first froze. That thought haunted.

me. I could hear it chasing me. It felt like a twisted game. Every time I stopped, it stopped too. Eventually I made it back to my cabin. Instead of going inside, I stood on the porch facing the forest and cried. I couldn't see anything unusual out there, but I knew it was there. I didn't want to turn my back on it, so I stayed on the porch for hours, silently crying, checking my phone occasionally, and writing all of this down. I still don't know what that thing was. The only only creature I can compare it to is a Wendigo or Skinwalker. All I know is that I will never go back to that river again. If anyone has insight into what or who might have been out there, I'd appreciate it. These past two days have been too strange not to be connected. Edit. Last day of the trip.

We burned some sage before heading to bed that night. Brett came to me around 4 a.m. and said he couldn't sleep. We watched TV for a while before hearing tapping on the back window again. again. It lasted a few seconds at a time, almost in intervals, if that makes sense. Brett managed to record a video. We decided not to investigate because, frankly, we were scared out of our minds. After about ten minutes, the tapping stopped. Brett and I took turns sleeping, and nothing else happened that night, until we were both woken by loud banging on the shed out back. When we went to check it out, no one was there. I'm leaving in two hours. I can't can't wait to get back to city life and leave all this weirdness behind. Thank you for all your

support and guidance over these past few days. I really appreciate it and wish you all the best. I think my friend and I are being followed by a skin walker. This started a few days ago. I don't know what we did, but ever since about three days ago, we've been noticing very odd things. Our truck started smelling like sulfur and rotten meat, and our trailer, which is very clean. Smells like rotten meat as well. We don't have any meat here. We checked. We hear scratching at night while we're trying to sleep, as well as knocking. But that doesn't make sense because we are in the middle of nowhere in Utah, with no towns for at least 20 miles. There is also a Native American reservation literally 200 feet from our property. We decided to go looking for it last night. We walked about

two miles from our truck and started to smell sulfur. Then we both saw a six or seven foot tall silhouette running toward us. We ran right back to the truck, but it wouldn't start. Pretty cliche, I know. I got out, went to the toolbox on the side, grabbed a wrench, and started taking off the intake. I sprayed some ether in and put the intake back on, and it fired up. Needless to say, we peeled out of there. We were doing about 53 miles per hour heading back to our trailer when I looked back and saw that thing still behind us and keeping up. I told my buddy to punch it because it was right behind us. He floored it, but it wouldn't go any faster.

It can usually do around 70-80, but it wouldn't go past 55. It's a Ford's 6.9 IDI with a turbo kit in case anyone was wondering. We eventually made it the mile or so back to our trailer, shut the truck off, and ran inside as fast as we could. We locked the door and covered all the windows with blankets. As soon as I got the last blanket up, there was something tugging at our door and trying to open it, so I went and held the door shut.

Then, out of nowhere, the lock started to unlock itself. I tied it in the locked position with a bootlace, grabbed a hammer, it's all I had to defend myself, and waited. About a minute later, I got a text from a girl I'm interested in, but who never texts me back, saying that she's in trouble and needs us to come get her right now. I asked what was going on, and she said she was getting kicked out of the house. So I got ready to go because this was my only chance with her.

I asked if she had money for diesel, and she asked me why. I told her we were coming to get her, and she then said, Why would I want to see you? We haven't talked in months. Um, what, you just texted me three minutes ago. So I decided it was probably in our best interest. to stay inside that night. I started hearing my name being called from outside by vaguely familiar voices, but I couldn't quite place them. I never looked outside last night for fear that this thing was just outside the door. I put salt around the door because someone told me that would help,

and nothing got in last night, so it must have worked. Now it's morning, and there's almost no sign that anything happened last night. No scratch marks on the trailer, no dents, no footprints, paw prints, nothing. So here I am writing this and hoping someone believes me because I need help. I don't know how to get rid of this thing. If you read this far, I just want to say thank you, and I will have another update tonight. To clarify, this post is not me trying to seek attention. I'm just saying I'm scared to death and don't know what to do. There are people saying that it's fake, but I'm just explaining the events that happened and asking for help. I appreciate those of you who are trying to help me and keep me safe.

Unfortunately, I cannot leave my property since I have nowhere else to go, but I am taking the necessary precautions to stay safe. I'm going to the gas station soon to buy salt to make a barrier around my trailer. Thanks for the help, y'all. Again, feel free to downvote my post if you like. All I need is help.

I understand the skepticism. I really do, as I didn't think it was real either. The thing that really shook me was when the door started to shake and began to unlock. Thanks for reading. Edit 2. Another thing I forgot to mention is that my flashlight did flicker on and off a few times. I don't know if that's paranormal or just the battery dying, but I thought I should mention it.

Edit 3, Day 4. It's now nighttime, and I haven't experienced anything yet today. I plan on keeping a log of everything that happens. The reason it says Day 4 is because this whole thing started about four days ago. Even though it's dark, I really want to capture some video for everyone, and that's what I'll be doing. I'm not going to try to piss it off, but I am going to record. Not sure how I'll upload it yet, but I'll find a way and be back with an update. Thanks again to everyone who is genuinely trying to help me.

Ever since I followed your advice, I've had fewer experiences, but that could just be because it was daytime. Also, side note, I went to the reservation today, but no luck. My buddy and I asked everyone who drove by where the tribe is, and nobody knew. We might have to try again tomorrow. I wish I could just call them, but I don't know where to find their number. I'll be back with an update in a couple of hours, hopefully. Edit 4. Day 5.

I listened to everyone's advice and made a salt barrier. There are also a lot of people saying that it's a demon, not a skinwalker, so I've been researching demons. I found one very helpful point. If you don't give it the power to mess with you, you won't get messed with. So I did exactly that last night. I didn't focus on it. In fact, y'all told me to pray, so I prayed.

I didn't hear any knocking or scratching last night. No light flickering, nothing. Thank you to everyone who has helped me fight off this entity, whatever it is. You guys don't understand how much you helped me stay calm and fight it off. Also, if I do have any more experiences, I will try to record it and communicate with you. with it using an EVP app. Not sure if the app works, but I might as well try. Thanks again, y'all.

I'll be back with an update later. Edit 5 and most likely final update. No new occurrences. I still haven't gotten any help from the reservation, but nothing has happened in the last couple of days. We also got a dog, and it hasn't acted weird at all these last couple of days. I think that whatever was bothering us is gone for good.

I just want to say, I'm so, so glad I had y'all to help me through this and keep me calm. I may or may not post more updates, depending on what happens next. Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel is California's number one entertainment destination for today's superstars. Catch the Jonas Brothers return to the Yamava Theater stage on April 30th, the powerful vocals of Demi Lovato on May 17th, and the signature Southern Country Rock of Eric Church on July 19th. Tickets on sale now at Yamava Theater. Only a Yamava Resort and Casino, celebrating its 40th anniversary.

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encounter is secondhand, but it was told to me on multiple occasions by the person who experienced it. I am a natural skeptic and cynic, so I can't say I 100% believe it. However, his telling of the story was simple yet concise, and it never varied between retellings. I've known him for many years. I've known him for many years, and his advice and input on just about everything are well-reasoned and always helpful, so I'll take his word for it, even if with a grain of salt. Also, keep in mind I am not a seasoned writer. My past and present tenses may get a little jumbled, but I'll keep it as clear and accurate as I can. Now, let's get down to business. My friend, we'll call him Marv, likes to go solitary camping on occasion to be one with nature and experience everything that goes along with that.

He's also an avid gun collector and enthusiast. I don't remember exactly when he said this took place, but it was a few years back when he decided to go camping on a whim. He packed his gear and a few guns, a hunting rifle and a 45 sidearm specifically, and headed out into the country onto a vast swath of property owned by a friend of his. He had full permission and the works. This happened near the Cassachi National Forest in south-central Louisiana. I won't be any more specific than that.

that. Suffice it to say, it's miles and miles of forest and wilderness. He liked to hike in pretty deep and camp at a specific spot he had found on a few previous trips. These details are sparse, as they're not really the meat and potatoes of this encounter. After making his way in, he set up camp in his usual small clearing for the night. Skipping ahead a few hours, it was late afternoon, when he heard leaves crunching and twigs snapping. He assumed it was an animal at first and got up from cooking something on the fire to take a look. He gazed in the direction of the noise and saw a man approaching through the trees. Still a good many yards away, Marv has described his etiquette for dealing with people in

very remote places as always being cautious because more often than not, the people he comes across are armed, just like him. He tries to stay friendly while keeping his guard up, always on the lookout for ulterior motives, because you never know what some folks are up to in the middle of nowhere. He'll make small talk with them, find out generally what they're doing if he can, and occasionally share a meal. He's never really met anyone nefarious until this situation, and maybe one other, but that's a whole other ordeal.

One thing that set off small alarm bells for him was that he knew he was the only one with permission to be on this property. Secondly, the guy was not dressed for this location at all. He said the man was wearing a white t-shirt, short blue jogging shirt. shorts and white socks and sneakers. Keep in mind, Marv was miles out in the middle of the woods, away from any paths, roads, houses, or anything else. Nobody would casually stroll into that location dressed like that unless they were lost or confused. It was early fall, but not quite cool, very normal for Louisiana. So there were tons of mosquitoes, ticks, and other insects

a plenty. You wouldn't want most of your skin exposed if you could help it, especially deep in the woods. I know that all too well from personal experience. Marv assumed something might be off and called out, Hey there, do you need help or something? Loudly. Definitely loud enough to be heard. The man kept walking forward, staring directly at him. Marv started to feel uneasy, which is unusual for him because he's typically cool as a cucumber in tense situations. As the man kept closing the distance, Marv stood up and said loudly, Hey, man, can I help you with something or what? The guy was now about 15 to 20 feet away from Marv, standing at the edge of the clearing and the forest.

Looking Marv dead in the eye, the man spoke clearly. Help me. Marv said he was already starting to get worried at this point because the way the man said it made it seem like something that didn't quite know how to talk. At least that was his first impression. It didn't sound right. The man, still unmoving, said, Help me, again.

Slightly more emphatic, but only slightly louder. Marv said that's when he picked up on what was really wrong. He noticed the timbre of the voice was more feminine and actually sounded like a recording being played back. The man's lip and mouth movements weren't matching the words. It was as if he was just opening his mouth, emitting the phrase, then closing it again. again. Marve asked, what do you need help with? Not daring to back up or move at all. The man,

still standing motionless, still looking directly at Marve, said, help me again, and repeated the phrase another three times slowly, but not any louder. Now, completely unsure of what the hell was going on, Marv interrupted him by barking, All right, you need to go now unless you actually need my help. He continued, loud and firm. Do you need my help or not? The man didn't miss a beat. He started up with the help me again and made as if to take another step toward Marv. Marve told me he did the only thing that made sense in that moment. He drew his 45 semi-auto pistol and pointed it at the man, telling him again, you need to go, I don't care what you want. The man grew more animated and agitated, actually starting to say the phrase louder and louder.

but he neither stepped closer nor backed away. Marve did what he thought was right, given his predicament. Assuming he was dealing with an unstable or potentially dangerous individual, he discharged around into the ground in front of the man. Here's where it gets fully absolutely crazy. I'm not kidding. The man stopped uttering the phrase, went silent, and while still staring at Marve,

did a full back-flip somersault, the kind gymnasts do, backward into the woods, disappearing immediately from sight. Yes, you read that right. I know what you're thinking because I had, and still have, the same reaction. That sounds like bull crap. But Marv gave no indication of lying and told me this story multiple times, every time in a dead serious manner. Marve said the man back flipped away effortlessly, as if pulled by an unseen tensioned coil. He described it as completely unnatural and totally out of place. The man had just appeared, repeated the same phrase over and over, and became almost frantic before Marv fired at the ground in front of him, causing him, or it, to flee. Marv stood there, focused on the spot in the forest where the man

had vanished. He saw and heard no further movement. It was as if the guy had never been there at all. He stayed like that as the sun began to set, and the normal night noise was. crept in. As I mentioned before, Marv is pretty unshakable, and actually stayed in the area for the rest of that night and the next, with no further incident. When he told me and some other friends about this, of course we had many questions. We asked him to elaborate on the man's speech. He said the more he thought about it afterward, the more sure he was that it was definitely a female voice coming from the man. It was like he or it had heard someone say, help me. and was mimicking it like a parrot or some other talking bird, almost like a lure.

He doesn't know what it wanted. It didn't give any indication that it wanted Marv to follow or do anything else. It reacted immediately to the gunshot, and you know what followed. Marve has been back to the property since, with no other strange occurrences. The only other small detail I can think of is that during the early morning of that first night, he remembered hearing what sounded like a gunshot in the distance. It sounded eerily similar to his 45. He thought he might have heard it again on his hike back out.

Of course, there are people who hunt in the area, so it could have just been that. He couldn't be sure. Since this incident, and one other, which happened in a completely different location, Marv has done some online research of the whole Kasachi area and found many legends, stories, and supposed encounters dealing with skinwalkers and other unnerving bits of Native American folklore in region, not to mention mimics and other similar supposed creatures. A lot of his encounter lines up with these tales. There's nothing tangible to prove it, of course, but even as a skeptic, it makes me wonder about strange things in remote and untouched areas of our world that can't be explained.

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Get this new must-have concealer at Sephora or at Sephora.com today. The mornings here are quiet, usually very quiet, silence that stretches, yawns, and swallows sound whole. No birds, no wind, just the soft creak of the cabin settling in the cool September air. That morning wasn't any different, at least not at first. Bo was scratching at the door like usual, his way of saying, walk now or deal with me later. I grabbed his leash, threw on my boots, and stepped outside. The air was

sharp, crisp enough to wake me up faster than coffee. We started our walk along the edge of the property, where the pines press in on one side and the wheat field sprawls out on the other. Bo always loved this route, nose to the ground, tail wagging like he was on the trail of something big. But today, he was different. His nose stayed up, ears twitching at every rustle in the field. His steps weren't playful. They were cautious, deliberate. It put me on edge. even if I didn't want to admit it. The wheat was high that year, taller than me in some spots. I hated it, couldn't see a damn thing past the first couple rows,

and it always felt like something was just out of sight, watching. Bo stopped, his body stiff. His growl started low, the kind that made your stomach knot up, the kind that said, we're not alone. Coyotes probably, I muttered, trying to convince myself as much as him. But coyotes didn't usually make Bo act like this. He pulled at the leash, digging his paws into the dirt like he wanted to drag me straight into the wheat. Knock it off, Bo, I said, yanking him back.

His growl turned into a bark, sharp and urgent. Then I heard it, a soft whimper, high-pitched, like a puppy crying out for help. It came from the wheat. I froze. There weren't any dogs around here that I knew of, no neighbors for miles. The sound came again, closer. this time. Probably some stray, I said, though it sounded more like a question. I took a step forward and Bo went wild, barking and pulling harder than ever. All right, all right, I said backing up.

We're going. But as I turned to leave, the whimper changed. It stretched, warbled, like a record spinning too slow. And then it was something else entirely. A growl, deep and guttural, vibrating through my chest. Bo lunged at the wheat, his leash cutting into my hand. Bo, stop! I shouted my voice cracking. The wheat rustled, a heavy sound like something big was moving through it. Not a dog, not a coyote, something bigger. I gripped Bo's leash tighter and pulled, practically dragging him back toward the cabin. The growl followed us, growing louder, sharper, and then it shifted again. This time it sounded human. A scream tore through the air raw and ragged, like someone was being ripped apart. My feet moved faster than my brain could process, dragging Bo along as

he barked and howled like he was trying to fight whatever was in that wheat. We reached the edge of the yard, and I glanced back just once. The wheat was still again, perfectly still, like nothing had ever been there. Bo stopped barking, but kept growling, his eyes locked on the field. didn't wait to see if anything came out. Inside the cabin, I locked the door and leaned against it, trying to steady my breathing. Bo paced in front of the window, still growling low. I grabbed the curtain and yanked it shut. No way was I looking out there again. That scream, though, it stuck. It didn't sound like an animal, didn't sound like a person either. It sounded, wrong, like something trying to sound human and not quite getting it. That night,

As I sat at the kitchen table, Bo curled up at my feet. I thought about the field, about how still it had looked after all that noise. I almost convinced myself it was nothing, just my imagination running wild, just a stray dog or coyote. Then came the tapping on the window, light at first like a bird brushing against the glass, then heavier, deliberate. I didn't move. Bo's head shot up, his ears twitching. He growled low, a sound so deep it rumbled through the floor.

boards. The tapping stopped. I sat there, every muscle locked up, staring at the curtain like it was going to be ripped off at any second. But nothing happened. The cabin stayed quiet, except for Beau's growl and the faint sound of wind whispering through the wheat. I didn't sleep that night, not even a little. I spent the morning cleaning up the scratches on my front door, long, jagged marks that ran deep into the wood, like something with claws had tried to get in. in. Bo sat by the window, watching the tree line, growling under his breath. He hadn't been himself since the day near the wheat, and neither had I. The cabin didn't feel safe anymore. Every creek of the walls, every gust of wind against the glass had me glancing over my shoulder. I needed answers.

Something had been out there, and it wasn't leaving any time soon. I called Walter, my nearest neighbor, if you could call someone living three miles down a dirt road a neighbor. He picked up on the third ring, his voice gruff like he'd been expecting bad news. What's going on, Charlie? I told him everything, the wheat, the scream, the tapping on the window. I even told him about the claw marks, though I could hear how ridiculous it all sounded as the words tumbled out. He didn't laugh, didn't tell me to get some sleep or lay off the whiskey. Instead, there was a long pause, followed by a quiet, you need to come by. I packed Bo into the truck and headed over.

The drive felt longer than usual, the pine trees pressing in on either side of the road like they were trying to swallow it whole. Even Bo was uneasy, his ears twitching at every sound. Walter was waiting on the porch, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked older than I remembered. His face lined like someone who'd spent too many years staring into the woods. He didn't say much.

just waved me inside. His house was cluttered, walls lined with hunting trophies and old photographs. He poured us coffee and sat down, his hands trembling slightly as he lit another cigarette. What you're dealing with, he started. Ain't something you can shoot or scare off. It's older than that. Old as the land itself. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. Walter went on to tell me about a story he'd heard growing up. A legend passed down from the Ojibwe people who used to live on this land. They spoke of a guardian spirit, something tied to the woods in the fields. It wasn't evil, not exactly, but it didn't take kindly to being disturbed. They called it the keeper, he said, his voice low, said it watched over the land, made sure everything stayed in balance.

But if you messed with it, dug up something you weren't supposed to, it had come for you. That's when I remembered. The artifact. I told Walter about the carved piece of metal I'd found in the garden last week, how I'd tossed it near the edge of the field without thinking twice. His face darkened. You need to put it back, right where you found it, and you need to do it soon.

I wanted to ask him why, wanted to push for more details, but something in his expression stopped me. Walter looked scared, the kind of fear that doesn't leave room for questions. On the drive home, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the road. I thought about the artifact, the weight of it in my hand, the strange carvings that seemed to twist and shift in the light.

I'd found it buried deep, almost like it wasn't supposed to see daylight. By the time I pulled into the driveway, it was nearly dark. The cabin loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly against the growing night. Bo bolted out of the truck and ran straight to the porch. His tail down, ears flat. The air felt wrong, too still, too quiet. I grabbed the flashlight and made my way to the spot near the field where I'd left the artifact. The wheat was swaying, though there wasn't any wind.

My footsteps crunched against the dirt path, louder than they should have been. The artifact was still there, half buried where I'd tossed it. I crouched down, picking it up gingerly. It felt colder than I remembered, heavier. The carvings on its surface seemed deeper now, more intricate, like they'd grown in my absence. As I stood a sound carried through the air, a low, rhythmic hum, almost like chanting. It wasn't coming from the house or the woods. It was coming from the field.

I turned slowly, shining my flashlight into the wheat. The light barely penetrated the stalks, but the sound grew louder, closer. Bo barked from the porch, a sharp, desperate sound that made me want to run, but I couldn't move. The wheat shifted parting slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of something moving within. Tall, too tall, with limbs that bent in ways they shouldn't. The hum turned into a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the ground. I bolted. The artifact clutched in my hand.

I ran back to the cabin with Bo barking wildly at my heels. I slammed the door shut and locked. it, leaning against the wood as the sound outside faded. Inside, Bow wouldn't settle. He paced the room, whining and growling at the windows. I set the artifact on the kitchen table, staring at it like it might move on its own. Walter's words echoed in my head, you need to put it back, and you need to do it soon. The chanting outside stopped, replaced by a single deliberate knock on the door. I didn't sleep, not even for a second. The knock on the door had been deliberate, too deliberate. Whoever, or whatever, was out there, wasn't done with me. Bo lay by the door, growling low, his ears

flicking at every creek of the cabin. The artifact sat on the kitchen table, cold and silent, as if it was waiting for me to decide what came next. Walter's warning played over and over in my head. I had to put it back, not toss it, not leave it near the edge of the field like I did before, but back where it came from. The problem was, I couldn't even be sure I'd survive the trip. By the time the sun began creeping over the trees, I was already packed, a flashlight, my hunting knife, and a bundle of matches I wasn't sure I'd ever use. Bo whined when I leashed him, but I had no intention of bringing him into the field. He stayed on the porch, pacing and barking as I headed toward the wheat alone. The early lights stretched long shadows over the

rows of wheat, making the field look taller, denser. Every step I took along the dirt path felt like walking into a trap. The silence wasn't natural, not the kind you hear when the woods are still waking up. This was something else. The kind of quiet that presses down on you. suffocates you. I stopped where I thought I'd dug up the artifact the first time. The wheat swayed around me, though the air was completely still. Clutching the artifact in one hand, I crouched, my knife in the other, and started digging. The ground was cold and stubborn, resisting me at every scrape of the blade. That's when it started again. The sound, a low, rhythmic hum, so deep it felt like it was coming from beneath the ground.

I froze, my hands caked with dirt, my heart hammering. The hum built slowly, shifting into something sharp and grating, like metal scraping against bone. The wheat rustled to my left, then to my right. Something was moving, circling, but I couldn't see it. I kept digging, throwing dirt behind me as fast as I could, desperate to finish before whatever was out there decided to come closer. And then it stopped. The sound, the movement, the wheat stood per sepired.

I didn't dare look up. The soil beneath my knife began to soften, almost too easily, as though something below wanted me to hurry. My blade hit something hard, and I realized I'd found the spot. The hole was deeper now, more than enough to bury the artifact, but I hesitated. A part of me felt like putting it back was a trap, like whatever I was dealing with wanted me to finish this for reasons I didn't understand. The wheat shifted behind me, slow, deliberate. I clenched the artifact so tightly the edges dug into my skin. My flashlight flickered, casting long beams that made the shadows stretch and twist. I stood, turning slowly, and finally saw it. It wasn't just one. Tall figures stood just inside the wheat, their forms barely visible

between the stalks. They didn't move like they had before, jerky and unnatural. Now their motions were fluid, almost human, but there was nothing human about them. Their limbs were too long, bending in ways that defied reason, and their faces, if they could even be called faces, were pale voids, featureless except for faint impressions where eyes might have been. They didn't advance. They just watched, their heads tilting in unison as though waiting for me to act. I dropped the artifact into the hole and shoved the dirt over it, my hands trembling.

The hum started again, but it wasn't coming. from the ground anymore. It was coming from them. A deep, layered sound that vibrated in my chest and made my ears ache. I'm sorry, I said, though my voice felt small and useless. I didn't mean to disturb anything. The figures didn't react. The hum grew louder, sharper, like it was burrowing into my skull. I backed away slowly, careful not to trip, careful not to run. The wheat began swaying violently. as if caught in a storm, but the figures stayed still, their heads following my every step. I reached the edge of the field and turned, bolting toward the cabin. The hum stopped the moment I crossed into the yard, but the silence that followed was even worse.

Bo barked and howled, his claws scrabbling at the porch as I climbed the steps and collapsed against the door. My lungs burned, my hands throbbed, but I didn't look back. I couldn't. Inside I locked the door and pushed the kitchen table in front of it. Bo sat at my feet, whining softly as I tried to steady my breathing. For a moment, everything was still. No hum, no movement. Just the faint sound of wind through the trees.

But then came the tapping. Not at the windows this time, not at the door. It came from the roof, slow, deliberate, moving steadily toward the center of the cabin. They weren't gone. They were never gone. To this place was steps from the water. We just haven't found the steps yet. How much did we save?

Enough. Enough to get lost. Or you could book a stay with Hilton. Welcome to your ocean front room. Just steps from the water. The Hilton sale is on now. Book on Hilton.com or the Hilton app and save up to 20% to get the stay you expected.

When you want savings, not surprises. It matters where you stay. Hilton, for the stay. I should have trusted my gut the moment I stepped into that house. It wasn't just the damp smell that hit me like a slap, mold, old wood, and something faintly metallic, like pennies left out in the rain. It wasn't even the dim lighting that turned every corner into a shadowy void. No, it was the feeling.

That heavy suffocating weight pressing down on me as soon as I crossed the threshold, like the house was watching me. I knew something wasn't wrong. right, but I told myself to man up. We were here because we had no other choice. Mission rules didn't matter when you didn't have a roof over your head. The woman who owned the place, Sister Wilcox, waddled ahead of us, her wide frame brushing against the walls as she led us to our room. She didn't say much, just muttered something about us, making do. Her voice was thin and raspy, like the air in the house. When she opened the door to our room, I had to bite back a grimace,

room was generous. It was more like a shoebox someone had lined with cheap paneling and called livable. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light. Two twin beds, crammed together with barely enough space to walk between them and a closet that looked like it hadn't been opened in years. This'll do, she said, more to herself than to us. Her small, watery eyes flitted over me, lingered for a beat too long, then turned to. to my companion, Elder Russo. Dinner's at six, she added before lumbering off, her footsteps heavy on the creaky floorboards. Cozy, Russo muttered, tossing his bag onto one of the beds.

His Italian accent made everything sound less sarcastic than it probably was. I tried to shake off the unease as I unpacked, telling myself this was temporary, just a few days until the mission office found us another place. But the feeling lingered, a nagging itch I couldn't scratch. The first night, I couldn't sleep. Rousseau snored softly on the bed next to mine, his steady breathing the only sound in the room. But something kept me awake. Maybe it was the faint creek of the house settling, or the way the shadows in the corner seemed

to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. I stared at the closet door, its faded wood grain catching the light in strange patterns. I don't know how long I lay there, but at some point I must have dozed off. I woke up to the sound of my name. David. It was a whisper, soft but distinct. My eyes snapped open and my heart hammered in my chest. I glanced at Rousseau, who was still snoring, then at the closet.

The door was slightly ajar. I hadn't noticed it before. David. It came again, this time louder, more insistent. My skin prickled and my mouth went dry. I told myself it had to be my imagination, a leftover thread from a half- remembered dream, but the voice didn't sound like something conjured by my subconscious. It sounded real, close, like someone standing just behind the closet door. I sat up, my movement slow and

deliberate, and stared at the crack of darkness inside the closet. My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out everything else. Rousseau, I whispered, no response. I reached over and shook his shoulder, but he just grunted and rolled over. The voice didn't come again that night, but I didn't sleep. I sat there, wide-eyed, watching the closet until the first light of dawn seeped through the window. The next day, I tried to convince myself it was nothing, stress, fatigue. But when Russo asked why I looked like I hadn't slept, I couldn't bring myself to tell him. What would I even say, that I thought the closet was whispering to me? We spent most of the day out on our bikes, visiting houses, knocking on doors. By the time we got back, I was bone tired,

the kind of exhaustion that made your legs feel like lead. But as soon as we stepped into that house, the unease came rushing back. Dinner was the same bland casserole as the night before, served with Sister Wilcox's unsettling stare. She didn't talk much, but when she did, it was always something strange. Cryptic comments about how houses have memories. memories, and some rooms are better left shut. That night, I made sure the closet door was shut tight before I climbed into bed. I even jammed a chair against it, just to be safe. Rousseau teased me for it, but I didn't care. You'll thank me when the boogeyman doesn't get us, I said, forcing a laugh. But the laugh died in my throat when I woke up in the middle of the

night to find the chair moved and the closet door wide open. The voice was back, clearer this time. David, come here. My blood ran cold. The voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight, a sense of command that made my stomach churn. I wanted to scream, to wake Russo, but I couldn't move. It was like something had pinned me to the bed. My breath came in shallow gasps as I stared at the open door. The darkness inside seemed deeper than it should have been. Like it wasn't just shadows, but something alive, watching me. I don't know how long I live. I don't know how long I lay there, paralyzed. When I finally managed to move, I didn't dare look inside the closet. I just reached over and shook Rousseau awake. We're switching beds, I blurted.

What? Why? He grumbled, groggy and annoyed. Just trust me. He didn't argue, and I didn't sleep a wink for the rest of the night. By the third night, I was ready to leave. Rules be damned. But Rousseau convinced me to stick it out. A few more days. he said. We can handle a few more days. That was the night I woke up to find the scratches. Three long parallel lines across my abdomen. They didn't bleed, but they burned like fire.

I stumbled to the bathroom, my hands shaking as I stared at them in the mirror. They were too precise, too clean, not something I could have done to myself. When I asked Sister Wilcox the next morning if she had any pets, her response sent a chill through me. No pets, she said, smiling. faintly. But you know this house is haunted, don't you? She didn't wait for my reply. She just

shuffled off, humming to herself, leaving me alone with the gnawing realization that whatever was in this house wasn't done with me yet. The reservation felt like another planet. The air was thinner, drier, and the emptiness stretched forever. Rusted out cars littered yards like forgotten relics, and the wind carried a faint metallic tang that didn't belong to the desert. My new companion, Elder Ramirez, was the quiet type. He was polite enough, but you could tell he'd seen some things in his five months here, the kind of things he didn't want to talk about. We stick to the rules here, he told me the first day.

No staying out past sundown, no shortcuts through the back roads. And if something feels wrong, we leave. No questions. It sounded dramatic, but I didn't argue. There was something about the way he said it, like he wasn't. quoting the mission handbook, but speaking from experience. Out here the rules felt less like guidelines and more like survival instincts. It was a Thursday evening, and we were driving back from Superior, the sun bleeding red into the horizon.

Ramirez was at the wheel, humming a hymn under his breath while I stared out the window, watching the shadows grow long and sharp across the desert. We were supposed to be back before dark, but the appointment had run late. Now the road ahead was cloaked in twilight, and the silence between us felt heavier with each passing mile. I was about to say something, maybe crack a joke to lighten the mood, when Ramirez slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded to a stop, and I lurched forward, my seatbelt digging into my chest.

What the hell? I barked clutching the dashboard. Ramirez didn't answer. He was staring at something in the road ahead. His hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. I followed his gaze and froze. A dog, at least I think it was a dog, stood in the middle of the highway. Its fur was patchy, hanging in clumps like it had been pulled off in strips.

Its ribs jutted out sharply, and its head hung low, almost too low, as if its neck couldn't support the weight. Its eyes, though, those weren't the eyes of an animal. They were dark and glassy, and they locked on to me like it knew I was watching. Speed up, Ramirez said, his eyes. voice low and urgent. What? Speed up, he snapped, slamming his foot on the gas. The engine roared and the truck lurched forward. I stared at him in disbelief. You're going to hit it. Shut up, he hissed. Don't look at it. Just don't look. But I did. I couldn't help it. As we barreled toward the thing, I turned to look and for a split second, it looked back. The face

staring at me wasn't a dog's. It wasn't even human. The skin was stretched too tight, the features twisted into something grotesque, like it was wearing a mask that didn't quite fit. And it smiled. Its lips pulled back to reveal jagged, yellowed teeth, and I swear I heard it laugh, a low guttural sound that cut through the roar of the engine. I snapped my head forward, my heart hammering. The truck jolted as we sped past, and when I looked in the side mirror, the thing was gone. What the hell was that? I demanded my voice shaking. Ramirez didn't answer. He was breathing hard, his eyes fixed on the road. Don't talk about it, he finally said. Don't even think about it. That night, back at the apartment,

I couldn't shake the image. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face staring at me, its dark eyes boring into mine. Ramirez barely said a word as we ate dinner, and when the sun dipped below the horizon. He locked every door and window in the place. It seemed excessive, but I didn't argue, not after what I'd seen. It was around 11 p.m. when the knocking started. It was soft at first, just a faint tap, tap, tap, tap on the front door. I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. Ramirez's head snapped up, his eyes wide. Don't answer it, he whispered. What if it's the district leader, I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. It's not.

The knocking grew louder, more insistent. My skin prickled. I moved toward the door, but Ramirez grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. Don't. I shrugged him off. You're being ridiculous. It's probably just... He cut me off with a desperate look.

If you opened that door were dead. Something in his tone stopped me cold. The knocking continued, rhythmic and deliberate, like whoever, or whatever was on the other side knew we were listening. And then I heard it. Elder, a voice called softly. It sounded like our district leader, but something about it was wrong. The tone was off, too flat like it was reading from a script. Elder Ramirez, Elder Johnson, it's me. Open the door. My blood ran cold. Ramirez pulled out his phone and dialed, his hands shaking. After a few tense seconds, someone picked up. Where are you? He asked. His voice barely above a whisper.

in bed, came the groggy reply. Why? Send me a picture, Ramirez demanded. Now. I heard the muffled sound of confusion on the other end, followed by the ding of a text. Ramirez showed me the screen, a photo of our district leader and his companion, timestamped just a minute earlier. They were in their apartment two hours away. The knocking stopped. I let out a shaky breath, but Ramirez's grip on my arm tightened. It's not over, he whispered.

The silence that followed was worse than the knocking. It pressed against my ears, thick and unnatural. And then, faintly, I heard it, breathing, heavy, labored breathing, just outside the window. I turned slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears. The blinds rattled softly, as if something was brushing against them. Ramirez motioned for me to stay put as he moved toward the window. He peeked through the edge of the blinds and went rigid. His face drained of color, and he stumbled back, his hand clutching the cross around his neck.

What did you see? I whispered. My voice barely audible. He didn't answer. He just turned to me with a look I'll never forget, pure, unfiltered terror. We didn't sleep that night. We just sat there, backs against the wall, clutching whatever we could find that felt even remotely like a weapon. The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasion. occasional shuffle of footsteps outside, and when the sun finally rose, we found the footprints. Large, clawed, and muddy, they led from the front door to the window, then stopped abruptly, as if whatever had been there had vanished into thin air. But I knew it hadn't, not really. We didn't talk about what happened that night, not at first. Ramirez wouldn't look me in the eye,

and I wasn't about to press him. I wasn't even sure I wanted answers. Every, instinct I had screamed to forget it, pretend none of it had happened. But how do you ignore muddy claw marks that disappear into nowhere? The next morning, our district meeting was already set. We drove in silence, the truck humming along the cracked highway. The desert felt different now. The vast emptiness I'd once found almost peaceful, had turned oppressive, as if every shadow and rock was hiding something. Ramirez gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles bone white, while I kept my eyes on the horizon, avoiding my own reflection in the passenger-side mirror. I couldn't shake the feeling something was watching us, just out of sight.

The meeting started like any other, elders talking shop, exchanging stories about rejections, and the occasional rare success. But when it came to my turn to share, I hesitated. The words were caught in my throat like barbed wire. Ramirez stayed silent, but I could feel his eyes on me, daring me to say something. Finally, I muttered, we had some disturbances, knocking, weird noises. The room went quiet, too quiet. Everyone else exchanged uneasy glances, and the air grew heavy, almost stifling. Elder Hutchins, one of the district leaders, cleared his throat and leaned forward. Disurbances? He asked. His voice calm but laced with something sharp. What kind of disturbance?

I swallowed hard and tried to keep my tone light. You know, just strange knocking, a voice outside the door, probably just some kids messing with us. Hutchins didn't laugh. His face darkened and he exchanged a look with his companion before nodding slowly. You saw something, didn't you? His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. I hesitated, but Ramirez stepped in. We don't need to get into it, he said, quickly. It's handled. No, it's not, Hutchins snapped, his composure slipping for a moment. You think this is a joke? You think this is something you can just ignore? The tension in the room was unbearable.

Finally, Hutchins leaned back and sighed. You've heard of Skinwalkers, right? What followed was a crash course in nightmares. Hutchins explained the legend in hushed tones, his voice steady but his hands trembling. Skinwalkers, he said. were dark spirits, shapeshifters born of unspeakable acts. Murder, betrayal. They wore the skins of animals, mimicked human voices, and thrived on fear. According to local lore, making eye contact or acknowledging them, gave them power over you, marked you in some way. They don't stop, Hutchins said, his eyes fixed on me. Once they notice you, they keep coming, unless you figure out how to break their hold. My stomach churned. The thing on the road, the knocking, the voice outside

our door. Had I looked too long, listened too closely, I wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. That night I was restless. Ramirez tried to reassure me, mumbling prayers under his breath, as he sprinkled the apartment with salt and holy water. It seemed desperate, almost futile, but I didn't stop him. Any comfort, no matter how small, was better than none. Around midnight, the air in the apartment changed. It felt heavier, colder, like the temperature had dropped 10 degrees in an instant. Ramirez and I exchanged a look, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Then the knocking started. It was soft at first, just a faint tap, tap, tap, tap, but it grew louder, sharper, until the entire doorframe rattled. This time, there was no mistaking the mallet.

behind it. The sound was angry, purposeful, like whatever was out there was trying to break through. Ramirez grabbed a Bible and stood near the door, muttering rapid prayers. I stayed back, clutching the pocket knife I'd brought from California. It felt laughably inadequate, but it was all I had. The knocking stopped suddenly, and for a moment the silence was worse. Then came the voice. Elder Ramirez, Elder Johnson, let me in. It sounded like Hutchins, perfectly unmistakably Hutchins, but it wasn't him. The voice was wrong, flat, hollow, like it was coming from a broken speaker. Ramirez shook his head, his lips moving silently in prayer. Then came the scratching, long, deliberate strokes like claws dragging across wood. The sound was unbearable, setting my teeth on edge.

My heart pounded as I stared at the door, waiting for it to give way. But it didn't. Somehow it held. The scratching stopped, and for a moment I thought it was over. Then I felt it. A cold hand brushed against the back of my neck. I whipped around, but there was nothing there. Just Ramirez, wide-eyed and pale, clutching his cross like a lifeline.

The next morning the claw marks were there, deep gouges in the wood, too precise and on purpose to be anything natural. We reported it to the mission office, but they dismissed it as a prank. We knew better. Whatever it was, it wasn't done with us. Driving to our next assignment, the unease followed me like a shadow. I caught glimpses of something in the mirrors, a figure, distorted and animalistic, always just out of focus. I didn't tell Ramirez. I couldn't, but I knew one thing for sure. Whatever had marked me back on that highway wasn't going to let go. Ablas Spanish? Spreeced to George.

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