Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 53 Scary Stories For Sleep, Relaxing, or When You're Stuck at Home | DEEP WOODS, CRYPTIDS, AND MORE!

Episode Date: April 29, 2024

These are 53 Scary Stories For Sleep, Relaxing, or When You're Stuck at Home | DEEP WOODS, CRYPTIDS, AND MORE! Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #TrueScaryStories #deepwoods #nationalpark #parkranger #skinwalker #cryptids 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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year at lifelock.com slash special offer. Terms apply. I watched from a distance while my grandma and grandpa fished on their lake in the backyard, but one thing confused me. While Grandpa cast his line and watched his rod, waiting for the anticipating tug of a fish, grandma's gaze remained fixed across the lake. Her head tilted intently towards the dark fringe of woods. I never saw her look at the bobbing lures. She didn't even seem interested in fishing at all. I thought that maybe she just simply enjoyed looking at the trees. But a nagging feeling persisted. There was more to her gaze than a simple love for nature. It was summer break, and I decided to spend it at my grandparents' house in Knoxville, Tennessee. They lived in a two-story house, recently built in 2018. It

connected directly to a lake, with a dock jutting out on the far right side where my grandpa kept his baseboat. My grandparents were a sweet and quiet couple. They kept to themselves most of the time, living a peaceful life in their little corner of the world. Every summer, though, my visits became a tradition. Grandma's invitation was always an automatic. Yes, her warm smile and gentle voice, a beacon calling me back. There were countless things to love about my grandma. Her kindness and generosity at the top of the list. If I wanted something, it was usually an automatic, yes, from her too. But one of the things I truly cherished most was her stories. Unlike grandpa, who mostly stuck to tales of his time in the military, exciting stories filled with bravery

and adventure, of course, grandma was a bottomless well of stories. Whether it was a funny story from her childhood, a heartwarming story about a kind neighbor or a fantastical bedtime story that transported me to magical lands, grandma always had one on hand. She was one of those special grandmas who could weave a story from thin air, her words painting vivid pictures in my mind. Grandpa, on the other hand, was a man of few words. A quiet strength emanated from him, and the stories he did tell were always about his service. He'd talk about the places he'd been, the challenges he'd faced, and the lessons he'd learned. While not as fantastical as grandma's stories, they held a different kind of magic, a testament to his resilience and the

experiences that shaped him. One of the things I always admired about Grandpa was his outdoor skills. He'd tell me most of his knowledge came from his military training, jokingly saying they prepared him for anything. He was a true outdoorsman, the kind of person I'd trust implicitly if we were we were ever lost in the wilderness. He knew everything about fishing, the best spots on the lake, the best techniques to catch different types of fish. Some of my favorite memories were spent on his boat, cutting through the cool morning water, the sun rising over the horizon, and the gentle hum of the motor, a comforting lullaby. Every night, Grandma dipped into her seemingly endless well of stories. I never quite understood how she did it. Her mind was like a sprawling,

library, shelves overflowing with stories to tell. One night, she'd tell me a story of brave knights seeking vengeance, their swords gleaming in the sun. Another night, she'd tell me a story of a land shimmering with magic spells and cursed lands. Then there were the scary stories. Now grandma usually avoided them. She knew how they affected me. But the thing about those stories was the detail. Oh man, the detail. They were so vivid, so real, it felt like I was peeking through a crack into another world. A world where the monsters and creatures she described lurked. A world so terrifying that I felt like falling through that crack would kill me. Every night was the same routine. Nestled under

a patchwork quilt in the guest room, I'd wait with bated breath. The soft click of the doorknob was my cue. Grandma, her face etched with a lifetime of stories, would end up. her, a gentle smile gracing her lips. She'd pull up a rocking chair, its rhythmic creak adding to the lullaby effect. Then, in a warm voice, she'd begin telling me a story. One night, though, tucked under the patchwork quilt, I waited for grandma's nightly visit. The soft click of the doorknob announced her arrival. Ready for another story? She asked, her voice a warm rumble. I nodded eagerly. nights at Grandma's were journeys to magical lands, each story more thrilling than the last.

But tonight, I craved a different kind of story, a different kind of excitement. Can you tell me a scary story tonight, Grandma? I blurted out. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a thoughtful pause. Unlike her usual repertoire of action-packed adventures, her stories have always steered clear of scary ones. She sat beside me on the patchwork quilt. her usual mischievous eyes replaced by a thoughtful gaze. Her eyes flickered towards the window for a moment before returning to me. Then with a gentle smile, she began.

Those woods outside your window, she started, her voice a warm rumble. I instinctively glanced towards the window, the familiar silhouette of the trees outlined across the lake. There's something in those woods, she continued, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. A shiver danced down my spine, though there. the room remained pleasantly warm. Those simple words made me so uncomfortable that I was tempted to just tell Grandma to stop, but the truth was, I was hooked. Grandma did tell me scary stories on rare occasions, but they were always fictional, completely disconnected from the real

world. She continued, every seven years it comes out of those woods. It emerges, a creature that's been on this earth for thousands of years. It crawls on all fours. It hunts, a silent predator searching for its prey. I began to tense up a little. The room remained quiet, but the air felt heavy. Its body is like a man, but twisted and contorted, she murmured, and its limbs elongated, reaching out at odd angles. Its skin as black as coal, making it difficult to spot during the night.

I swallowed hard, my eyes instinctively drawn back to the window. The trees, once comforting, now seemed to rise. with unseen shadows. But the worst part, she continued, her voice barely a tremor, is its eyes, multiple eyes, scattered across its head like a spider. They pierced the darkness, searching for an unsuspecting victim. She continued, her voice a hushed whisper, sending shivers down my spine. Sometimes, if it has trouble finding prey, adventures closer, closer to houses, searching for unlocked windows. My breathes. My breath, caught in my throat. The image of eyes peering through the glass sent a jolt of terror

through me. If it finds an opening, she murmured, it will crawl inside and snatch the closest person to it, dragging them back to the woods. I squeezed my eyes shut, the warmth of the quilt a poor barrier against the sudden chill. It keeps its victims alive for seven long years, she whispered, feeding off them slowly, until the hunger returns, and it's time to hunt once more. My grip tightened on the blanket and my knuckles were white. A cold sweat was dripping down my skin. But don't you worry, she said, her voice gentling. As long as we keep the windows locked, we'll be safe, and don't forget to do the same at your mom's house. She rose from the quilt, her smile strained at the edges, a smile meant to reassure but one that

couldn't hide the sliver of unease in her eyes. Her movement seemed slow and deliberate as she walked towards the window. My eyes followed her, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. She stared out of the window for a moment, as if checking to make sure the thing wasn't around, and then she checked to make sure the window was locked. Just as she was about to turn away, I blurted out, unable to contain the question that had lodged itself in my throat. Grandma, have you... Have you ever seen it? She paused for a few moments, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before a reassuring smile crept onto her lips. She didn't answer me. She simply leaned down and kissed my forehead, a gesture filled with a strange intensity.

Good night, darling, she whispered. Then with a gentle click, she shut my door behind her. I was awake for most of that night, staring at the darkened window pane. The familiar silhouette of the woods outside now held a new kind of terror. I kept wondering if I was, would see that face my grandma described, a face with multiple eyes staring back at me. Eventually, exhausted from fear and lack of sleep, my eyelids drifted shut, and I finally drifted off. While I slept, I dreamt of its form shifting and writhing in the darkness. I ran, my legs pumping, but it was like I was running on ice. Panic seized me as the figure lunged, its long arms wrapping around my legs. It dragged me, a rag doll, through the grass, the stench of damp grass

filling my nostrils. The woods grew bigger as the thing dragged me there, its jagged edges threatening to devour me whole. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Just as the branches of the trees were about to engulf me, I jolted awake, gasping for breath. Light streamed through the window, painting familiar shapes on the ceiling. The room held a peaceful, stillness. It took several deep breaths to slow the pounding of my heart. Relief washed over me, chasing away the lingering dread. Since that night, despite Grandma's steady stream of new stories, the creature in the woods has remained a constant shadow in the corner of my mind. Thankfully the nightmares, those terrifying chases through endless woods, didn't last. Slowly,

the story faded from memory. A few years later, a different kind of darkness. descended upon our family. Cancer, a cruel, selfish thief, stole my grandmother's health bit by bit. She fought for months, but in the end, the disease won. It left a hole in our lives, especially for Grandpa. Now he lives alone, the silence of the house heavy with her absence. Talking about her seems to bring a fresh wave of pain, etched deep into the lines on his face. Sometimes he murmurs about just waiting for his turn to join her. It's a heartbreaking sight, a man transformed into a solitary figure, simply waiting to die. That year was a blur of grief, a dark tunnel we all had to navigate, but with the love and support of family and friends,

we eventually managed to pull through. With each passing year, the grief lessened, but grandma's memory remained. Then, after another few years, during my senior year in high school, something happened. I walked into the house after a long day. The familiar scent of an empty house greeted me. Mom had already left for work. Pulling my backpack onto my bed, I pulled out my books and settled in for an evening of homework, studying, and the occasional break to watch TV. I shut off the TV, changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed. Sleep, however, remained elusive. My mind was a tangled mess,

tossing and turning over the events of the day. Finally, I peaked at the clock on my desk, its green glow reading almost 3 a.m. Just then, a sound shattered the silence, a sharp tap that echoed through the room. My eyes flew open, snapping towards the window. A wave of ice washed over me, freezing my blood solid.

Memories of Grandma's story flooded back, the creature, the woods. There, pressed against the glass was a form that blocked most of the moonlight from filtering in. If not for the sliver of moonlight peeking in around what was blocking it, I wouldn't have been able to see it at all. Its human-shaped body pressed against the window and across its head, I could have sworn I saw movement, a flicker, like multiple tiny insects scurrying across its flesh. Then a horrifying realization dawned on me. They weren't insects.

They were eyelids. Eyelids flickering open and shut, scanning my room with frantic urgency. My breath hitched. Was this a dream? Just then, a shadowy limb, long and impossibly thin, snaked out towards the base of my window. Had I locked the window?

The sickening sound of the window, as the glass began to slide up, hit my ears. Terror choked and screamed in my throat. woods behind my mom's house too, and a sickening realization dawned on me. This wasn't just a story, it was real, and it was here. Adrenaline surged through me, and my flight or fight responses kicked in. I threw myself out of bed in a desperate scramble. My feet pounded the floor as I bolted towards the door, flinging it open, but my escape was cut short. The door slammed shut in my face, the force of it throwing me backward. A strangled cry escaped.

my lips as a wave of terror washed over me. My body locked up and every muscle seized in a silent scream. Somehow it was now in my room, that fast. It was no longer at the window. It was now above me, above my door. One of its grotesquely long limbs, tipped with a hand like a spider's claw, pressed firmly against the door, pinning me inside. Another seemed contorted at an unnatural angle, its fingers spayed against the wall in a grotesque parody of a grip. The head, if you could call it that, twisted on its neck in a way that defied human anatomy, almost spinning completely around. A chorus of eyes locked onto me.

Trapped and alone, I stumbled back, my mind scrambling for any flicker of hope. The second floor was an escape route, but a leap out the window would likely result in injury, leaving me in a vulnerable position. Besides, that's where it probably wanted me. Right next to the door stood my wooden baseball bat. In a desperate lunge I grabbed it, the wood rough against my grip. With a yell I swung the bat with all my strength, connecting with a sickening thud. Splinters of wood rained down as the impact sent a tremor through the room.

The creature recoiled slightly, its multiple eyes flickering in what might have been surprise, but the silence that followed was the most unsettling part. No roar of pain, no growl. This thing moved with an unnatural quiet. Even as it moved it made no noise. It descended to the floor, its grotesque form dwarfen the space in my room. As it loomed closer, lowering its body in a predatory crouch, I swung the mangled bat wildly.

The bat connected, with a bone-crunching impact, sending more shards of wood flying through the air. The creature recoiled, its grotesque form momentarily faltering. Seizing my chance, I bolted past the thing, flung open the bedroom door, and slammed it shut behind me with a resounding bang. Adrenaline pumping, I raced down the stairs, each step echoing in the sudden silence. Reaching the living room, I fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the space with a warm glow.

panting, I gripped the broken bat like a lifeline. Its splintered end pointed towards the top of the stairs, towards the thing in my room. Suddenly, a new sound pierced the tense silence, the creak of the front door opening. A silhouette emerged from the doorway, the dim porch light casting long shadows across her face. There you are! My mom's voice laced with exhaustion. What the hell are you— The sentence died on her lips.

completely cut short. Her eyes widened, but neither she nor I had time to react. In a sharp and quick moment, a shadowy distorted limb, tipped with a spidery claw, shot out, wrapping around my mother's waist. It snagged her, sinking its talons deep into her flesh, a sickening tear echoing in the sudden silence. A strangled noise bubbled in her throat cut short before it could form a scream. But then, I heard her scream fully formed as the thing dragged her away, away to the woods. I ran with all my effort, but the thing was fast, too fast. All I could do was keep running, watching, as my mom screamed with her arms folded around the creature's arm in a desperate attempt to escape. It had her, though, exactly where it wanted her, out in the open. I fell face first into the grass, a sob wrenching

its way out of my chest. Warm tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I watched in horror. Mom's screams turned into blood-curdling shrieks, fading into a horrifying silence, as they disappeared into the indistinguishable maw of the woods. The police came, but what could they do? What could I tell them? I told them exactly what I saw. They looked at me like I was crazy, but what else could I say? For hours, I sat in a sterile interrogation room, the harsh overhead light blurring my vision. They questioned me over and over, dissecting my story, searching for inconsistencies. But all I could do was repeat the horrifying scene, my voice cracking with each retelling. There was no evidence to tie me to my mom's disappearance.

Nothing but my frantic pleas and the raw terror etched onto my face. Finally, they see. seemed to reach a reluctant roadblock. With a sigh and a dismissive glance, they released me. Now a search party combs the backyard, venturing into the dense woods behind our house. Bloodhounds sniff the damp earth, their mournful howls echoing through the trees.

In my room, the silence pressing down on me like a physical weight. As the harsh light of dawn breaks, I stare at the window. A large handprint, a grotesque, splayed imprint of multiple fingers clings to the outside of the glass. A cold realization settles over me. Now I know that at least one of my grandma's stories is real. The road to Marshall Lake wound its way through the ponderosa pines like a lazy river. The truck's tires crunching softly on the gravel beneath us. The windows were down, the crisp flagstaff air mixing with the scent of pine and earth, a sure sign that we'd left the concrete confines of the

city far behind. Emily, sitting beside me with her feet on the dashboard, had the map unfolded in her lap, her finger tracing the route we had just taken. Looks like we're the only ones out here, she said, her voice tinged with excitement, and maybe just a whisper of apprehension. I could tell she felt it too, the thrill of the remote, the untamed wild that stretched around us like an unopened gift. We set up camp on a clearing near the lake. far enough to be alone, but close enough to see the sparkle of water through the trees. It was our first time at Marshall Lake, and the place had a rugged beauty that made me wish I had brought my old camera. The tent went up easily between two sturdy pines, our temporary home

standing proud in the late afternoon light. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the lake, we gathered wood for the fire. The air grew colder, a reminder of the approaching night. Emily busied herself with the fire, her cheeks flushed from the effort and the chill, while I took care of our modest dinner, canned beans warmed up on the portable stove and some bread. We ate mostly in silence, the kind of easy silence you find with someone you know all the way down to their bones. The fire crackled and popped, throwing sparks into the twilight like our own private constellation. The conversation turned to plans, to the hikes we would take, and the early mornings we'd surely curse when the cold seeped into our bones. It was Emily who suggested putting out

the fire early, a practical decision against the creeping cold. We retreated to our tent, the nylon fortress that seemed so flimsy now against the vastness of the Arizona night. Inside, nestled in our sleeping bags, we listened to the last of the daybirds calling to each other across the water, their songs fading as darkness took hold. The change was sudden. at first, the deep silence that fell like a blanket over the woods. It was a silence you could feel, heavy and expectant, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the tent ceiling, listening to the whisper of Emily's breathing beside me. There was a piece in it, a stark, wild piece that you couldn't find back home,

where the night was never truly dark, nor silent. I felt a primal tug, a connection to this land that was older than any city, any road, but beneath that awe, a threat of unease began to weave its way through my thoughts. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on, not at first. Just a feeling, like the distant memory of a bad dream. I told myself it was nothing, just the jitters of being out here, far from any help, far from the lights and the noise and the safety of numbers. but as I lay there, the edges of my unease sharpened into focus with the sudden clarity of a sound that should not be there, a sound that would turn our night under the stars into a night on the run.

The moon was full, a bright sentinel in the sky, casting long silver shadows across the forest floor that seeped through the fabric of our tent. Inside, Emily and I lay wrapped in our sleeping bags. The cold of the night, a distant concern against the heat we generated together, We whispered stories to each other, stories of our past trips, our close calls and narrow escapes, but always with a laugh at the end, because here we were, still venturing into the wild, side by side.

But the night was different here. It had a thickness to it, a density that felt like it could smother the fire we had banked hours ago. The trees stood sentinel around us, their branches brushing the breath of wind into whispers that skittered along my nerves. Emily had drifted to sleep, her breaths even and slow, but sleep eluded me. I lay there, eyes tracing the patterns the moonlight painted on the tent ceiling, my mind too alert, too attuned to the unfamiliarity of our surroundings. That's when I heard it, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, crisp and clear against the soft earth just behind our tent. My heart thumped loud in my ears, a staccato beat that seemed too loud in the hush of the forest. I nudged Emily

gently, my voice a whisper. Did you hear that? She was awake instantly, the same sharp edge of alertness I felt mirrored in her eyes. Footsteps, I mouthed, and her nod was tight, controlled. We lay there, holding our breaths, listening. But the sound had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the thumping of our hearts and the distant call of a nightbird. Courage, or maybe it was foolishness, nudged me out of the tent. I gripped the bear spray, its weight cold and solid in my hand. The night greeted me with its moonlit silence, the trees like specters around our camp. I scanned the shadows, my every sense strained to its limit. Nothing moved. No signs on the damp earth to suggest anyone or anything had been

our tent. An unexplained cold shiver ran down my spine as I ducked back inside. We should try to sleep, Emily whispered, her voice tight with a fear she tried to mask. We settled back into our sleeping bags, the false calm, a brittle shell around us, but peace was a stranger to us now, chased away by the sound of footsteps that came again, nearer this time, undeniable. The decision was silent, but mutual. we wouldn't stay. Not with this unease, not with the unknown so boldly stepping into our night. Packing was a hurried, frantic affair, essentials only, everything else left behind, as if we could shed the fear with the weight of our abandoned gear. The forest seemed to

close in around us as we made our way back to the trailhead, the moon a watchful eye above. The distant sound of gunfire shattered the silence, urgent and startling. I thought of the campers we had seen earlier, wondered if their night had turned as sour as ours. They too, it seemed, had decided that the mystery and the menace of the night were too much. Their sight was deserted, a rapid departure written in the disarray left behind. Driving away from Marshall Lake, the motel's promise of a locked door in a lighted room never felt more like a sanctuary. Our adventure had turned into a flight, a retreat from an unseen threat that lingered in the shadows.

leaving us with more questions than we had answers, and a new respect for the wild that was both beautiful, and, at times, deeply terrifying. I've always been the kind of guy who needs to see something to believe it. Ghost stories? Not for me. Superstitions? No thanks. I grew up in Appalachia, where tales of eerie happenings and strange creatures in the woods are as common as dirt roads.

But even living there nearly my whole life, Nothing weird ever happened to me until this story I'm about to tell. Last year, when I was almost 22, life threw me a curveball. I found myself questioning everything, from my job to where I was living. It wasn't just me either. My best friends, Mark and Jesse, were in the same boat. We were all fed up with the monotony of our daily routines, feeling like old cogs in an endlessly grinding machine.

One chilly evening in late October, while we were hanging out at our usual spot, the old diner on Main Street, Mark slammed his fist on the table and said, Let's just leave. All of this. Let's go see what's out there. Jesse's eyes lit up, and I couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement at the thought. By the end of the night, fueled by cheap coffee and wild dreams, we made a pact. We would quit our jobs, sell almost everything we owned. and hit the road. The plan was simple. We would live out of our cars and travel across the country. We'd take odd jobs, maybe do some door-dashing, just to keep gas in our tanks and food in our bellies. It was crazy, but it was also exactly what we needed, a complete break from everything we knew. Two weeks later, with our cars packed and our old lives packed away in boxes and memories, we set out. Our first destination was Tennessee, in the heart of the smoky mountains to stay with a friend of Jesse's. Her name was Sarah, and she lived off an old back road, surrounded by dense woods that climbed up the mountainside. As we drove up her narrow driveway, Sarah came out to greet us with a wide smile and an infectious enthusiasm.

Welcome to my little piece of the mountains, she said, gesturing around at the sprawling wilderness that enveloped her small, cozy house. That night, as we sat around a crackling fire in her backyard, Sarah began to share stories about living in the mountains. This place has a mind of its own, she told us, her voice dropping to a whisper. The house is haunted, and there's something in the woods, too. It hangs around the shed back there. She nodded toward a rickety old shed that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it too hard. I raised an eyebrow, the skeptic in me immediately on alert. Haunted? Really? Sarah laughed, a clear ringing sound in the quiet of the evening.

I know it sounds crazy, but I've heard it echo my own words back at me when I yelled into the woods one night, and I've seen something peeking at me from behind that shed, not an animal, not human either. I glanced at Mark and Jesse, expecting them to share my disbelief, but they were hanging on Sarah's every word. I shook my head, dismissing the tales as just that. tales. We were here for adventure, sure, but ghosts and monsters weren't part of my plan. Little did I know, my skepticism was about to be challenged in ways I couldn't have imagined. The first night in the Smoky Mountains was an adventure of its own. We had parked our SUVs in a semicircle around Sarah's old spooky shed. Despite her warnings, I felt no fear,

just the thrill of a new beginning. I settled into my makeshift bed in the back of my car, the cool night air mixing with the scent of pine and earth. It was peaceful, and I drifted off to sleep with a smile, the distant hoots of an owl acting like a lullaby. But the calm didn't last long. The second night brought a shift that none of us were prepared for. It was like the atmosphere had changed.

The air felt heavier, charged with an unspoken anticipation. I woke up suddenly, feeling a chill that went deeper than the night air could account for. It was like I was being watched. I sat up, trying to shake off the unease, telling myself it was just the weirdness of sleeping in a new place. My eyes scanned the dark outlines of trees and the glints of moonlight off the other cars. Nothing moved, nothing sounded, but the feeling wouldn't go away. I reached for the door, my hand hesitating on the handle. Every instinct screamed at me to stay inside, a sense of dread washing over me in waves.

Finally, I retreated, my back pressing against the cold glass of the window, as I tried to see into the inky blackness outside. Jesse had a similar experience. The next morning, over coffee, she confessed that she too had woken up feeling an intense presence. It was like someone was right outside my window, watching me, she said. her voice a whisper. Her eyes were wide, her usual skepticism replaced by fear. Mark, ever the brave one, tried to lighten the mood. Probably just a raccoon, curious about our camp, he joked, but his laughter sounded forced, and he kept glancing towards the woods. The unease grew as we prepared for another night. This time, armed with flashlights and a bit more

caution. We hadn't even settled in when our electronics started acting up. First, Jesse's walkie-talkie crackled and died, right in the middle of her sentence. Then Mark's flashlight flickered out, and my heart sank as I watched my own walkie sputter and go silent. Something's not right, Mark muttered looking around nervously. The failures were too synchronized, too convenient to be coincidences. And then, as if to confirm our fears, we heard it. the unmistakable sound of something large moving through the underbrush near the woods. We didn't need any more convincing. Gathering our essentials, we hustled towards Sarah's house,

abandoning our outdoor camp for the safety of solid walls. Inside, the sounds of the forest seemed muffled, distant, but the feeling of being watched lingered. That night, none of us slept well. The house felt safe, but not secure enough to ease the chill that had settled in our bones. We talked in hushed tones about what to do next, our plans for care-free travel overshadowed by the unexplainable dread that had claimed our spirits. As dawn broke, we were tired but resolute. Whatever was out there, we couldn't let it dictate our journey.

But first, we needed to feel safe again. We needed a plan. And maybe, just maybe, we needed to believe a bit more in the things we couldn't see. After the unnerving incidents of the previous nights, we all agreed it was best to stay inside the house. Despite the safety of walls and locked doors, the shadow of fear still loomed over us. Breakfast was a quiet affair, each of us lost in our own thoughts, mulling over the strange events. As we cleared the dishes, Mark broke the silence. We can't let this scare us off. We came here to explore, right? But maybe, we should do something about whatever's out there. His suggestion was met with hesitant nods. We were all feeling the edge of our comfort zones being stretched. Sarah, overhearing our conversation, came over with a small box.

I think this might help, she said, handing us a bundle of dried sage. It's supposed to cleanse the place. Maybe it'll clear whatever's causing this weirdness. I was skeptical, but at that point I would have tried anything to shake off the eerie dread clinging to us. That evening, under a sky brushed with the colors of sunset, we walked around the property with the burning sage, letting the smoke drift over the shed, into the woods and around our cars. The air filled with its sharp cleansing scent. I couldn't say if it was the sage or just the act of doing something,

but it felt like we were taking control back from the shadows. The night that followed was surprisingly peaceful. Whether it was the sage or just our own determination, the heavy atmosphere seemed to lift. We slept in our cars again, a testament to our regained bravery. No strange noises disturbed the night, and no feelings of being watched crept into our dreams. In the mornings that followed, we began to relax more. Our conversations returned to plans and dreams. The laughter came easier, and the tension that we had to.

had tightened around us started to unravel. It seemed like whatever had been out there either moved on or was pushed away by our actions. Reflecting on those nights as we prepared to leave Tennessee, I found myself conflicted. Part of me, the skeptic, wanted to dismiss it all as overactive imaginations fueled by unfamiliar surroundings and scary stories, but another part couldn't ignore the raw fear I'd felt, the tangible effect of our cleansing ritual, and the shared experiences that were too coincidental to brush off. As we said our goodbyes to Sarah in the mountains, I looked back at the shed one last time. It was just an old wooden structure, weathered by time and elements, yet it had been the center of our brief encounter with the unknown. I realized then

that this trip was changing me in ways I hadn't expected. I was opening up to new possibilities, to the idea that there might be things beyond my understanding. We continued our travels, visiting other places, each with its own stories and mysteries, but nothing ever came close to what we experienced in the smoky mountains. Those nights stayed with us, a constant whisper in our conversations. Eventually, life called us back to reality. The trip ended, and we reintegrated into our regular lives, but the bond forged through that shared adventure held.

We were different now, touched by the world. the unknown, forever connected by the memory of that strange, haunting time in Tennessee. As for me, I'm still a skeptic, but now I'm a skeptic with an open mind, aware that some things might be beyond the reach of reason. As Eric and I pulled onto the gravel path that led to the old camper, the tires crunched softly under the weight of our city-worn SUV, each turn of the wheels echoing like a soft whisper through the dense Wisconsin woods. I leaned back in my seat, and trying to soak in the tranquility of the towering pines and the sweet earthy aroma that seeped through our open windows. It's beautiful out here, isn't it? I murmured, more to myself than to Eric.

Yeah, and quiet, Eric replied, his eyes scanning the road ahead, perfect spot to unwind. We were here at the invitation of a college friend who owned the land. She'd always spoken of its beauty and isolation as something magical, and now, seeing it firsthand, I could understand why. The camper was parked in a small clearing, the edges of which were blurred by the encroaching shadows of the evening. It looked older than I remembered from the pictures, its exterior battered by time but still sturdy, a testament to decades of withstanding harsh winters and blazing summers.

We unpacked our gear with the light fading around us, the sunset spilling its last gold over the horizon, The sense of isolation grew more profound as darkness settled, wrapping around us like a thick blanket. Despite the chill in the air, Eric decided to start a campfire. The flames flickered and danced, casting lively shadows that battled the encroaching darkness. I should have felt relaxed, but a nod of unease had begun to tighten in my stomach. Maybe it was the overwhelming silence, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire, or the distant call of a nightbird.

Or perhaps it was the way the woods seemed to watch us, ancient and knowing. I tried to shrug off the discomfort, blaming it on the long drive and maybe the sandwich I had at the last gas stop. As the night drew on, my discomfort turned into a mild nausea. I excused myself, thinking a good night's sleep would set me right. Inside the camper the air was stale but warm. I popped a couple of antacids, crawled into it. the narrow bed and pulled the scratchy blanket up to my chin. The mattress was firm, the pillows

flat, but exhaustion pulled me down into a deep sleep. I don't know how long I slept before the nausea returned, fierce and demanding. It dragged me from sleep with a jolt, my body clamoring for air. I stumbled out of the camper, my hands shaky, my breath catching in sharp cold drafts. The night had grown darker, if possible, and the air had grown, outside felt like ice on my skin. Leaning against the camper, I gave in to the violent waves of sickness, the sounds of my distress loud in the silence. The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting just enough light for shadows to play tricks on my eyes. I rinsed my mouth with water from a nearby bottle, spitting repeatedly to rid myself of the lingering bitterness. It was then,

as I looked up to navigate my return to the camper, that I saw it. A face, so close yet obscured by darkness, watching me. My heart stopped, or maybe it raced. I couldn't tell which. All I knew was the face was there, and then it wasn't, disappearing as I blinked, swallowed by the night. Was it real? Was I seeing things?

The silence seemed to lean in, waiting for my reaction. I stood frozen, unsure, my mind grappling with shadows and doubts. The unease I had felt earlier was now. a roaring terror, and as I backed into the camper, my only thought was a desperate hope that morning would come quickly, the cold bit at my cheeks as I stumbled back out of the camper. My breath puffed out in frantic clouds as I hunched over, gripping my knees, trying to settle the riot inside my stomach. For a moment there was relief, a silent, grateful gasp under the immensity of the star-freckled sky. As I straightened up wiping my mouth with the back of my hand,

that's when I saw it. Not more than three feet away, in the very edge of the dim light, a face was watching me. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, a shadow maybe, or a trick of the mind brought on by sickness and the oppressive dark. But no, it stayed, unblinking, fixed on me as much as I on it. The face was oddly symmetrical, hauntingly humanoid, but wrong, terribly wrong in ways that sent a shiver rippling through my spine. Its eyes, two dark pools, seemed to absorb the weak light around us, and its mouth was a thin, straight slash across what could be called a face. I couldn't move, couldn't scream, my voice trapped in my throat as if the cold had frozen its solid. Then tentatively, I tilted my head to the side, trying to discern more

details, and to my horror, it mimicked my movement exactly, a slow, deliberate tilt of its head, mirroring mine. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat screaming at me to run, but my feet might as well have been buried in the ground. We continued this eerie dance, leaning slightly forward, then back, each of us moving in a cautious choreography. I wanted to look away, to run back to the safety of the camper and lock the door behind me. But something to the Something primal feared what might happen if I broke this mutual gaze. "'Babe,' I finally managed to whisper, my voice hoarse and trembling. There was a moment's delay, then Eric's concerned face appeared at the camper door.

"'Yeah?' his voice was sleepy, confused. "'There's something out here,' I said, barely louder than a breath. "'Afraid any louder might provoke this. This whatever it was.' "'What?' Eric rubbed his eyes squinting into the darkness. I don't know. Some kind of animal? I'm not sure, but I'm afraid to move. My voice broke on the last word, the fear I felt slicing through the cold. It's just watching me, I murmured, more to myself than to him, a desperate attempt to make sense of the situation.

Eric, sensing the urgency now, fetched the flashlight from inside the camper. He flicked it on, casting a bright swath of light into the darkness. The beam sliced through the, through the night, landing on the spot where the creature had been. But there was nothing there. Just the empty night and the trees whispering secrets to the wind. He moved the light around, searching, but still nothing. There's nothing here, Anna. Are you sure you—I saw it, Eric! My voice was sharp with panic. I was looking right at it. It didn't move. It didn't leave. How could it not be there? He looked at me, the flashlight in his hand, casting eerie shadows across his face, his eyes full of concern. Let's get you inside. It's freezing out here.

I let him lead me back into the camper, my mind a whirl of confusion and fear. I knew what I had seen. I wasn't imagining things. I wasn't. As the door shut behind us, the sound seemed to echo, a firm full stop to a sentence I didn't understand, leaving us wrapped in a heavy blanket of silence and unanswered questions. As I crossed the threshold of our old town, the flat, expansive landscape of Huron region, greeted me like an old friend. The three-hour drive from Toronto had left my back aching, and my mind adrift in memories of high school escapades and late-night confessions. The stark contrast between my bustling city life and the still cold air of Ontario's countryside

was as sharp as ever. But the familiarity was comforting, like slipping into a well-worn jacket that had been tucked away, waiting for winter. I parked outside the coffee shop where we'd all agreed to meet. It was the same old spot where we'd spent countless hours plotting our small-town adventures. Pushing the door open, the bell chimed, and a wave of warmth, scented with coffee and baked goods, welcomed me. I scanned the room, and there they were, my high school friends clustered around our old table, looking a bit older, but just as I remembered them.

Hey, look who decided to show up, Mark called out, his voice carrying over the chatter. The group's laughter and cheers filled the tiny space as I made my way over. Handshakes and hearty pats on the back were exchanged, and I felt the years of absence melt away. We were teenagers again, if only for the moment. After catching up and reliving old stories, the conversation took a turn towards the more mysterious lore of our town. You remember Mr. Lobb's stories about the bush, right? Jenny asked, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. Mr. Lobb, our high school geography teacher, was a hardened skeptic who, despite his disbelief, could never quite explain the eerie experiences he'd had in Lobb's bush.

Named after some distant relative of his, the bush was infamous around these parts. Even the most rational minds couldn't dismiss the odd happenings there without a shudder. On a whim, fueled by nostalgia and a shared curiosity, we decided to visit Lobbs Bush ourselves. The idea was met with enthusiasm, tinged with a hint of the fear we felt as kids daring each other into the unknown. We piled into Mark's old beater, the same one we'd driven back in high school. The car groaned and rattled as we made our way out of town, the stereo playing tracks we used to think were cool. Our laughter filled the car, mixing with the sound of crunching snow under tires. The entrance to Lobbs' bush was just as I remembered, foreboding, with twisted trees that

arched over the narrow path, forming a dark tunnel. As we stepped into the bush, a palpable shift in the atmosphere washed over us. It was as if the air grew denser, heavier, pressing against my chest. I didn't mention it, not wanting to ruin the mood. but I noticed Jenny clutching her coat a bit tighter, her smile fading slightly. We hadn't walked far when the sky, clear just moments before, began to fill with the heavy gray of an impending storm. We should head back, I suggested, my voice almost lost to the wind that started to howl through the trees. The calm of the night was gone, replaced by the wild swinging of branches,

and the biting sting of snowflakes whipped up by the wind. We turned back, hurrying towards the car. as the first heavy flakes began to fall. The drive back was tense, the weather worsening with each passing minute. Then, just as we rounded what we called the halfway turn, Mark cursed loudly, the car had hit a patch of ice and slid, slow and unstoppable, into a ditch. Stranded, we huddled in the car, waiting. It was during those long hours, with the wind howling like a Banshee outside, that we really began to talk about what had drawn us there. the feeling of being watched, the oppressive atmosphere, it wasn't just our imagination,

and as we each confessed our fears, the legend of Lobbs' bush grew all the more real in the dim light of the car's interior. The winter had loosened its grip by the time we ventured back to Lobb's bush. The snow that had once blanketed the earth in thick, quiet layers, was now just a memory, replaced by the budding signs of an early spring. The moon hung like a silver coin in the clear sky, casting a soft glow that made our flashlights almost unnecessary. It was a perfect night for a walk, so perfect in fact, that it almost seemed like the bush was welcoming us back, a stark contrast to our last visit. We parked the car at the same spot as before, the ground firmer underfoot, no longer slick with ice and snow. The woods felt different

this time, less foreboding, more like the woods I'd played in as a kid. We joked and laughed as we walked, the familiar path now more inviting under the soft moonlight. But our carefree spirits were still tinged with an undercurrent of excitement and, admittedly, a bit of dread. After all, this was still Lobb's bush, and the stories we'd grown up with didn't just fade away in the night air. Halfway through our trek, Annie broke the lull in conversation. "'Yo, I forgot I've got a Roman candle,' she exclaimed. her voice a mix of mischief and thrill. Before any of us could protest, she had already flicked her lighter to life and touched it to the fuse. The first burst of color shot

through the air, a bright star against the dark canvas of the night. She aimed it toward the open field, the sparks arching beautifully into the air. We all watched, mesmerized by the display, our previous concerns momentarily forgotten. Then, as if guided by an unseen hand, Annie turned the Roman candle toward the woods. The flare spiraled off into the trees, a streak of light darting into the darkness. We held our breath, half expecting a fire to start. But instead of the crackle of flames, a chilling scream shattered the silence. It was a sound so raw, so terrifying that it seemed to freeze the blood in my veins. A scream that didn't belong to any creature I'd ever known. Panic set in almost instantly. The festive air was gone.

replaced by a palpable fear that clawed at my chest. Run, Mark yelled, the first to recover from the shock. We didn't need any more urging. We bolted down the path, the scream echoing behind us, relentless and unnerving. As we ran, the scream morphed into a growl, a sound so deep and so fierce it felt like the earth itself was angry. The underbrush rustled violently as if something enormous was moving through it, coming fast on our heels.

My heart hammered in my chest as I pushed my chest, as I pushed my legs to move faster, the cold air burning my lungs. Finally, the screaming stopped, but the silence that followed was even more terrifying. We didn't stop running until we emerged from the cover of the trees, spilling out into the open field, gasping for breath. We stood there for a moment, looking back at the dark outline of the forest. The moonlight seemed dimmer now, or perhaps it was just the shadow of what we'd heard that made everything seem darker.

We didn't speak. Each of us lost in our own thoughts, our own fears. What had been an adventure was now a shared nightmare, a reminder that some places are better left alone. After that night, the weight of what we'd heard, and what might have been lurking just beyond where we could see, settled over us like a thick fog. None of us said much as we made our way back to the car.

The usual banter that filled our drives was absent, replaced by a heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional gravel crunching under the tires. Back at Jenny's place, where we'd decided to crash, we huddled in the living room, nursing cups of coffee that were more for comfort than wakefulness. It was there, in the quiet companionship of old friends, that we finally began to speak. Could it have been an animal? Mark asked, though his tone suggested he knew better. No animal makes a sound like that. Annie murmured, her eyes wide and distant.

It was otherworldly. It was then I suggested what had been gnawing at my thoughts. Do you think, could it have been a skinwalker? The room fell silent. The term hung in the air, heavy and ominous. I had read about them, creatures from Native American lore known to take on the forms and sounds of various animals. But this seemed different, more sinister,

The next day, driven by a mix of fear and a need for answers, we visited a local elder, known for her knowledge of indigenous folklore. Her small, cluttered living room was warm, the air filled with the scent of sage. She listened intently as we recounted our experience, her expression unreadable. When we finished, she nodded slowly. Yes, it sounds much like a skinwalker. They are not just stories. They are warnings, she said some.

solemnly. Warnings? Jenny repeated, her voice a whisper, For those who disrespect the land, who take lightly the spirits that dwell within it, the elder explained. She told us of other encounters, similar to ours,

where the presence of something unexplainable left its mark on those who experienced it. We left her home with more questions than answers, but with a newfound respect for the stories we had grown up dismissing as just tales to scare children, The weeks that followed were a time of reflection for me. The encounter in Lobbs' Bush had shaken my skepticism, had made me reconsider the boundaries of what I believed possible.

I started reading more about the paranormal, about skin walkers, about the spiritual beliefs of the indigenous peoples of the area. Each story, each piece of lore I uncovered, felt like a small piece of a much larger puzzle. Months passed, and life slowly returned to its usual pace. but the memory of that night lingered. We talked less about it as time went on, yet it was always there, an unspoken bond that tied us together. Now, as I walk other paths, other woods, I do so with a deeper awareness. I respect the silence, the rustle of the leaves, the distant call of a nightbird, and I remember the elder's words, a reminder not only of what might be out there, but of our place within it.

The story of that night in Lobbs Bush has become a part of who I am, a reminder of the thin veil between our world and the unknown. And I've learned that sometimes, the most profound truths are those we can neither explain nor escape. My girlfriend, Emily, and I, had just settled into my shed for a movie night. I'd kidded it out with a comfy sofa, a decent sound system, and an old but reliable TV. It was our little escape pod, right in the backyard of my Tennessee home.

Outside the night was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes a small town feel even smaller. Emily was flipping through the new releases, excited about a horror flick that just came out. This one's supposed to be super creepy, she said with a grin that told me sleep might not come easy tonight. I didn't mind. Horror was our thing. As usual, I had left the back door open. It's not something you do in a big city, but around here, everyone knows everyone, and nothing ever happened. happens. Plus, it made it easier to hear if my old dog Bella needed to go out. Bella was a tiny Yorky Shih Tzu mix, old, nearly blind, and mostly deaf. She spent her nights wandering the house, bumping into things more often than not. We figured it was some mix of confusion

in old age. The movie was intense, and by the time the credits rolled, we were both a little on edge, joking about every little sound being a ghost or a monster. Laughing we headed back to the house. That's when I noticed it. Silence. No little claws tapping over the kitchen tiles. No wimpers from getting stuck behind a door. Just silence. Bella, I called out as I flipped on the lights. No response. Not unusual given her hearing, but she always showed up eventually, sniffing my leg or bumping into it. Emily and I split up, checking under the sofas, behind doors, even in the small spaces you wouldn't think a napkin could fit, let alone a dog. Nothing. She was nowhere inside. We met back in the kitchen, confusion wrinkling our foreheads. Could she have gone outside,

Emily asked, peeking toward the still open back door? Maybe. But she's never done that before, I replied. But a part of me doubted my own words. It was, possible, wasn't it? The door was open after all. We grabbed flashlights and started outside. The cool night air felt sharp after the warmth of the shed. We checked the porch first. It was raised a good four feet off the ground, too high for a dog that could barely see her paw in front of her face, let alone make a jump like that. Let's just make sure, I said, more to calm my own nerves than out of hope. We circled the house, calling her name, shining our lights and into every corner and under every bush. Still, nothing. No Bella, no signs of a struggle,

no yelps or wines. It was like the earth had just swallowed her up. Maybe she went into the woods? Emily's voice was hesitant. The woods at night are different, darker, deeper, almost alive. But Bella was part of the family, and if there was any chance she was out there, we had to look. With only our flashlights and each other, we headed toward the small patch of trees behind my house. The beams from our lights cut through the darkness, making the shadows jump. Every rustle of leaves had us jumpy. Every snap of a twig had us tightening our grips on each other's hands. We didn't know it yet, but our ordinary night was about to turn into something we'd never forget.

The woods at night are a different beast. branches that look friendly in daylight transform into gnarled claws under the moon's gaze. I kept my flashlight steady as Emily and I ventured deeper, calling out for Bella with a mix of hope and dread. Do you think she could have gotten far? Emily's voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. I don't know, I admitted. But we have to check. Every crunch of dry leaves underfoot seemed amplified.

I swept my flashlight from left to right, half expected. to see Bella's small form shivering in the underbrush. Instead, each beam revealed nothing but more darkness and the endless dance of tree shadows. Then suddenly, there it was, a rustle distinct from our movements. My heart leaped. Bella?

My voice cracked in the quiet of the night. But when I pointed my flashlight toward the sound, it wasn't Bella that caught the light. About 20 feet away stood a figure, hooded and still, as if carved from the shadows themselves. I froze, my hand tightening around the flashlight. Who's there?

Emily's voice was a mix of fear and defiance. The figure didn't move or respond. It just stood there, watching, or at least it felt like it was watching. I swallowed hard trying to muster courage. We should go back, I murmured to Emily, but as I took a step backward, the leaves crunched again louder this time. curiosity overcame fear. I shone the light again toward the figure.

In the split second before the light landed, the figure shifted. It was no longer a man in a hood but something else. A tall, skinny, gray figure that seemed almost fluid in its movement. It darted to the left so fast it was barely more than a blur. What the? I couldn't even finish my sentence. A wave of cold chills slammed into me, racing from my head down to my top. toes. It was as if the temperature had plummeted 20 degrees in a heartbeat.

We need to get out of here, I said, voice trembling. We turned and ran, stumbling over roots and rocks, not daring to look back. The sound of our own panicked breaths filled our ears, along with the distant, haunting echo of whatever that thing was moving through the woods. When we finally burst through the tree line and into the backyard, the safety of the house seemed like a fortress. We slammed the door behind us, panting, and leaned against it as if that thin barrier could protect us from what lay outside. What was that? Emily gasped, her eyes wide with fear.

I don't know, I replied my mind racing. Could that thing have taken Bella? Was it watching the house? Questions spiraled in my head, each more unsettling than the last. We didn't sleep that night. Instead, we talked. speculating wildly about what we'd seen. The next day, we ventured out again, this time in daylight.

We searched the woods, looking for any sign of Bella or the mysterious figure, but found nothing. Days turned into weeks, and life slowly returned to normal, or at least as normal as it could. But every time I looked out toward the woods, a chill would run down my spine, and I'd wonder about that night. What had we seen? And was it still out there? As for Bella, she never did come home, and the whole her absence left in our hearts was as palpable as the mystery that surrounded that chilling encounter. There's something thrilling about setting off on a solo trip, especially to places where not many would dare to tread. My love for solo travel has taken me to some pretty wild places, but none is mysterious as the Cypress swamp in Arkansas.

It was just across the mighty Mississippi River, a place where the air felt ancient, and secrets seemed to whisper with the wind. I've had my share of adventures, like the time I stared down a bear in Colorado, but this was different. This was the swamp, a place out of a storybook, and I was determined to camp there under its starless sky. The drive was long and filled with anticipation. The closer I got, the more than that I was the more.

the modern world seemed to fall away, replaced by dense forests and the heavy, humid air of the swamp. By the time I reached the end of the dirt road, the sun was just a memory, and the swamp's silhouette loomed ominously. I hurried to set up my campsite. The tent went up first, followed by a small, crackling fire to boil water for dinner. Beef Stroganoff, again. My buddies Brandon and Raleigh thought it would be funny to gif me a mountain of it before I left. Despite the repetition, it tasted good, a warm, comforting presence in the growing dark. As night fully embraced the swamp, the usual sounds of wildlife filled the air. Frogs croaked, crickets sang, and somewhere, an otter splashed. It was a live orchestra,

one that I had learned to appreciate over my travels. Yet, amidst this natural symphony, a peculiar sound caught my attention. A knock. Or was it a ping? It was hard to tell, but it definitely didn't belong. Curiosity peaked. I listened intently, trying to pinpoint the source. Then another knock, from a completely different direction.

My heart raced a little. This was no ordinary night in the swamp. The knocks continued. A mysterious call and response between unseen beings. It felt like the swamp was communicating, and I was an uninvited guest trying to decipher a foreign language. With my flashlight in hand, I ventured closer to the water's edge, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of this ecosystem. The light caught the reflective eyes of various swamp creatures, an eerie yet fascinating sight.

I felt a blend of fear and exhilaration. Here I was, alone in the heart of a swamp, surrounded by sounds that shouldn't exist. exist. It was thrilling, yet a small voice in the back of my mind whispered caution. I couldn't shake off the tales of the swamp I'd heard as a kid, stories of ghostly apparitions, mythical creatures, and unsolved mysteries. Was I standing in the middle of one such story? The thoughts sent a shiver down my spine, yet the adventurer in me relished this moment. It was why I traveled solo after all, to face the unknown, to listen to. to the wild stories nature had to tell. The night deepened, and the knocks grew more frequent.

My curiosity battled with a growing sense of unease. What was out there in the dark waters? Were the stories true? Or was this just the swamp playing tricks on my mind? I knew the risks of solo camping, the importance of being prepared for anything. Yet, nothing could have prepared me for this. A night when the swamp itself seemed alive, whispering secrets in a language I couldn't understand. As I crawled into my tent, the sounds continued, a mysterious serenade that promised no sleep. I lay there listening, wondering, daring to imagine what lay beyond the veil of darkness. This was the adventure I craved, the unknown I sought. Here, in the heart of the swamp, I found it. Lying in my tent, the fabric walls felt like the

only thin barrier between me and the vast unknown world of the swamp. The knocks and mumblings continued, each sound sending a ripple of unease through me. My mind raced with every horror story I'd ever heard about swamps, ghostly figures, creatures lurking beneath the water, and even tales of people getting lost, never to be found again. But there I was, in the middle of it all, my heart pounding not just with fear, but with a strange kind of excitement too. I tried to convince myself that there was a logical explanation for everything. Maybe the sounds were just animals communicating in their natural habitat, or perhaps the wind playing tricks as it passed through the trees.

But the knocks seemed too deliberate, too intentional, and the mumbling. It was like whispers, voices trying to tell me something, or maybe warning me. As the night wore on, the sounds seemed to circle around me, coming from every direction. It felt like I was being watched, observed by unseen eyes. The thought made my skin crawl. I remembered stories of swamp creatures from my childhood,

of mysterious beings that roamed these waters. My imagination ran wild, painting vivid pictures of what lurked just beyond the reach of my flashlight. I couldn't stay there, the feeling of being surrounded, the eerie sounds, the unnerving whispers. They all became too much. It was one thing to seek adventure, but another to ignore the primal instinct of fear that screamed

at me to leave. Making up my mind, I decided to break camp. My hands shook as I hastily packed up, every rustle in the dark making me jump. The swamp felt alive, aware of my intentions to flee. Leaving the campsite behind, I made my way to my truck, the sounds following me until I was well away from the water's edge. Driving away, I glanced back at the merriment. Driving away, I glanced back at the murky shadows, half expecting to see something emerge. But there was nothing, just the dense, impenetrable darkness of the swamp. Finding a new place to camp further up the road, I settled in for what I hoped would be a more peaceful night. Yet, sleep eluded me. The events of the evening replayed in my mind, each sound and whisper magnifying in the silence of the night.

I questioned what I had heard, what I had felt. Was it all just a product of my mind? Was it all just a product of my imagination, or had there really been something out there in the depths of the swamp? Despite the fear there was a part of me that felt alive, exhilarated by the unknown. It was a reminder of why I chose to travel alone, to face the wilderness head on. There's something about the unpredictability, the mystery of the natural world that calls to me. It's not just about the landscapes or the solitude. It's about confronting the unknown, about it's about. finding strength in oneself when faced with fear. As dawn broke, the night's events seemed like a

distant dream. Yet the feeling of unease lingered. The swamp had challenged me, tested my resolve. I knew I would carry this experience with me, a reminder of the thin line between adventure and recklessness. But for all its mystery and menace, the swamp had also offered me something invaluable, a moment of true confrontation with the wild, a test of my courage against the primal forces of nature. And so, as I packed up once again, ready to continue my journey, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude. The swamp, with all its shadows and sounds, had given me a story of my own to tell, a testament to the power of the wild and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of the unknown. The day I decided to venture into Lee Woods was born out of a simple desire

for something more. The streets of Bristol, once teeming with endless possibilities, had shrunk to a mundane loop of concrete and predictable turns. I was 17, filled with that restless energy that demanded new challenges, new sights. So when the idea of exploring Lee Woods sprang to mind, it wasn't just an idea, it felt like a calling. I remember sitting. at my desk, the glow of the computer screen casting long shadows across the room. My fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up information about Lee Woods. It was close, just a couple of miles from home, yet it was a place I had never given much thought. The articles and forms painted it as a peaceful retreat, a slice of nature's untouched beauty amidst our urban sprawl. I imagine the

dense foliage, the whisper of the trees, and the trails that snaked through the heart of the woods, like arteries of adventure. It was decided then, I would ride my mountain bike into Lee Woods, seeking the thrill of the unknown. The morning of my expedition arrived with a soft golden light that filtered through my bedroom window. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting. I dressed quickly, filled a backpack with essentials, and wheeled my bike out of the garage. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of early spring and the promise of warmth.

The ride to Lee Woods was a meditative experience. Pedaling through the quiet streets, I watched as the urban landscape gradually gave way to the green embrace of the countryside. My heart beat in sync with the rhythmic turn of the wheels, a cadence of anticipation building with every mile. Standing at the entrance to Lee Woods, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of tranquility.

The forest canopy stretched skyward, a tapestry of green that seemed to pull me in. I took a deep breath, the scent of earth and ancient wood filling my lungs, and felt a profound connection to the world around me. It was almost dreamlike, the way the beauty of the place settled over me, a stark contrast to the concrete and noise I had left behind. I approached the trailhead, noting the colored markers that designated different paths. Blue, red, green, each a silent invitation. to discover what lay beyond. My gaze lingered on the blue trail, the symbol of an easy path,

but the very essence of adventure is the pursuit of challenge. With a determined nod, I steered my bike toward the trail marked with the more daunting red sign. The trail welcomed me with a canopy of leaves that danced in the gentle breeze, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. As I peddled deeper into the woods, the noise of the city faded into a distant memory, replaced by the symphony of nature. Birds called to one another, a background melody to the soft crunch of my tires on the path. Yet, as I ventured further, a subtle shift occurred. The comforting embrace of the woods seemed to tighten, the shadows lengthening and deepening into something more ominous. It was as if the forest itself was watching, its ancient inhabitants

whispering secrets I could not understand. The thrill of adventure mingled with a creeping unease, a prelude to the strange and terrifying events that were to unfold. I was unaware then, peddling eagerly into the heart of Lee Woods, that this ride would not just be a test of my courage, but a confrontation with the inexplicable. As the trail wound deeper, into the forest. I was about to discover that some places hold mysteries that are better left unexplored. The deeper I rode into Lee Woods, the more I felt like an intruder in a realm where ancient laws governed unseen forces. The playful curiosity that had fueled my journey began to wane, replaced by a primal alertness. I had always prided myself on my keen sense of direction, my ability to read the

subtle language of the wilderness. But here, amidst the dense underbrose, and towering oaks, my confidence began to falter. The trail had become a narrow ribbon, winding through the thick forest, challenging both my skill and my bike's endurance. The canopy above was so dense that it seemed to swallow the sky, casting everything in a perpetual dusk. It was in this dim light that the first prickles of unease crawled up my spine. The woods were too silent, as if holding its breath, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. I tried to dismiss the sensation, attributing it to the adrenaline and the isolation. Yet the further I ventured, the stronger the feeling grew, a tangible pressure against my skin.

It was then that I stumbled upon a clearing, a crossroads in the heart of the woods, that offered two paths, one that promised the safety of the familiar, leading back towards the trailhead, and another that delved deeper into the unknown. Driven by a compulsion I didn't fully understand. I chose the path that led deeper into the forest. It was as if the woods themselves were guiding my decision, whispering promises of secrets yet to be unveiled. The trail here was rough, untravelled, and it wasn't long before the terrain became too treacherous for my bike.

With a resigned sigh, I dismounted, deciding to continue on foot. As I walked, the forest seemed to close in around me, the trees towering like silent sentinels. Every rustle in the underbrush felt like a warning, every snap of a twig a threat. I was about to turn back when I found myself in another clearing, smaller this time, with a path that seemed to beckon me forward with an almost magnetic pull.

Despite the voice in my head urging caution, my feet moved of their own accord, drawn by the lure of the unknown. It was here, in this secluded part of the woods, that time seemed to slip away from me. One moment I was stepping into the clearing, and the next, I was standing still, staring down a path that had suddenly become unfamiliar, the light shifting in a way that seemed impossible. A wave of vertigo washed over me, and for a terrifying moment the forest seemed to grow and expand,

the trees stretching away into the distance. Shaking off the disorientation, I realized I was lost. The path I had been following had vanished, replaced by thick underbrush, and dense foliage. Panic set in as I tried to retrace my steps, but every direction looked the same, the once familiar landmarks swallowed by the forest's insatiable appetite. It was in this moment of desperation that I heard it, a soft, sobbing cry that seemed to emanate from just ahead. My heart raced as I moved towards the sound, driven by a mix of concern and an unshakable fear. As I approached, the crying grew louder, more distinct, until I was sure I was upon its

source. But when I parted the branches, expecting to find someone in distress, there was nothing. No sign of life, no indication that anyone had ever been there. The silence that followed was suffocating. The woods felt alive, watching me with unseen eyes, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was not alone. The forest had always been a place of solace for me, a refuge from the cacophony of everyday life. But as I stood in the unnerving silence that followed the unexplained sobbing, Lee Woods transformed before my eyes. It became a labyrinth of fear and shadows,

a place where the line between the natural and the supernatural blurred into obscurity. The decision to flee was instinctual, a primal urge to escape the unseen menace that lurked within the heart of the woods. With each step, the underbrush seemed to grasp at my feet, as if the forest itself was reluctant to release its hold on me. The trees, once majestic in their beauty, now loomed ominously, their branches clawing at the sky.

As I ran, the sound of my own ragged breathing was a harsh accompaniment to the pounding of my heart. The fear that had taken root in the pit of my stomach spread through my veins like ice, propelling me forward. The sobbing had ceased, replaced by a silence so profound it was as if the forest was holding its breath, waiting for my next move. I reached for my bike, my thoughts a chaotic whirl of desperation and fear. The moment my hand touched the handlebars, a sudden hiss of air stopped me cold. My back tire, previously solid and dependable, was now completely flat, sabotaging my hope for a swift escape.

A surge of panic flooded through me, but surrender was not an option. I hoisted the bike onto my shoulder and began to run, the weight of it a constant reminder of my vulnerability. The path, once familiar, now seemed to twist and turn in ways that defied memory. Each step forward was a battle against the disorienting terror that the forest now embodied. The rustling of the bushes grew more frantic, as if something, or someone, was keeping pace with me, just out of sight. The thought propelled me faster, pushing my body to its limits as the edge of the forest seemed to recede with every desperate stride. It was then that the sobbing returned, a mournful wail that echoed through the trees, chilling me to my core. It was no longer just a sound. It felt

like a presence, a specter of grief and despair that clung to my skin, urging me to glance back into the shadows I was so desperately trying to escape. But I didn't look back. I couldn't. The fear of what might be lurking just beyond my field of vision spurred me onward, driving me towards the faint promise of light that signaled the end of the forest. With every step, the sobbing grew distant, a dissonant chorus that faded into the depths of the woods, leaving behind a heavy silence. Emerging from the tree line, the sudden brightness of the open space was blinding. The car park, a symbol of the mundane world I had left behind, had never seemed so welcoming. As I stumbled into the clearing, gasping for breath,

the pressure in my chest began to ease. The air felt lighter here, untouched by the darkness that infested the heart of Lee Woods. Glancing down at my bike, a wave of disbelief washed over me. The tire, once deflated and useless, now appeared fully intact, as if the The forest had relinquished its grip on me and my possessions. The realization hit me like a physical blow, a stark reminder of the inexplicable forces at play within those woods. I mounted my bike, the need to put as much distance between myself and Lee Woods driving me forward.

As I peddled away, the weight of what I had experienced hung heavy on my shoulders. The forest had shown me a sight of nature I had never known, a realm where the boundary between reality and myth, was as thin as the mist that clung to the trees. Lee Woods had left its mark on me, a scar etched into my memory. As the distance grew, the events of the day began to feel like a nightmare, a terrifying journey through a landscape that was both hauntingly beautiful and unspeakably sinister. Yet the fear remained, a constant reminder of the day I raced against shadows and the unseen watchers of the woods.

Moving into Grandma's old house in Ottawa Lake, Michigan, wasn't exactly my dream scenario. But after she passed away in 2015, my parents thought it would be good for me, a fresh start or something. The house was a decent-sized ranch, sitting quietly on an acre of land, surrounded by woods that stretched over 40 acres or more. Those woods, they say, had secrets, dark ones, including a story about a local murder back in the 70s. Creepy, right? The area around had changed a lot, lots of new houses and stuff,

but those woods? Untouched. Now there was talk about clearing them for more houses, and somehow, that made me want to share what happened a few years back before those woods and their secrets are gone for good. The house had three bedrooms and three bathrooms. I ended up in Grandma's old room,

on the east side facing the woods. Weirdly, this part of the house was super close to those woods, never figured out why. So it was this one summer evening, around 6.45 p.m., sun just starting to set, and I had just pulled into the driveway. The moment I shut the garage door and stepped into the house, something felt off. It was too quiet. Usually you could hear the well pump or the boiler, but nothing. And the air, it felt thick, almost suffocating. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe it's just one of those quiet nights. But then, when I tried to watch TV, the volume was so low, I had to crank it up to 100 and could still barely hear it. Weird, considering it was just an old antenna TV, but still, it was like the silence was swallowing up the sound. Dinner was uneventful, just me trying to shake off

the eerie calm. But as I moved through the house, that feeling of unease grew. It was like the house was holding its breath. I decided to take a bath, hoping it would relax me. But even the faucet sounded muffled, like it was far away. That's when I really started to freak out. Something was definitely not right. The silence was too heavy, too deliberate. it. Pulling myself together, I walked into my bedroom to grab my clothes from the closet. One of the windows faced the woods, and for some reason I felt compelled to look out. Big mistake. There, just beyond the tree line, was something I couldn't explain. A creature, about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and fur that shimmered gold and silver in the fading light. Its eyes glowed

golden and its head. It was like a Doberman's but bigger. more menacing, and it was staring right at me. I froze, heart pounding. It didn't move, just kept looking at me with those eerie eyes. Then, as if someone pressed play on the world again, it turned and disappeared into the woods, and suddenly all the normal sounds rushed back. I could hear the tub, the distant sound of a car, the normal noises of life. That night I didn't sleep much. Every creak and whisper of the house made me jump. What was that thing? Why was it so quiet when it was there? And most importantly, would it come back? The next day, I was on edge, constantly looking over my shoulder, especially near the windows facing those woods. I knew I had to do something,

anything to feel safe again. But what could I do against something like that? Something so unknown. After seeing that thing in the woods, my sense of security was shattered. Every shadow seemed menacing. Every night sound felt like a warning. I couldn't shake off the image of its golden eyes, watching me. I knew I had to do something, anything, to feel safe in my own home again. So I went all out. I installed floodlight cameras around the house, making sure every corner was covered. I got an alarm system, the kind that would wake up the entire neighborhood if triggered. And yeah, I even bought a shotgun. Maybe it was overkill, but seeing something that seemed ripped from a horror movie will do that to you. For a while, things went back to normal, or as normal as they could get. I tried to convince

myself that what I saw was just a trick of the light, or maybe a particularly vivid nightmare. But deep down, I knew it was real. Then, almost a year. year to the day after my first encounter, it happened again. It was after a night hanging out with my buddies in the basement, playing pool, and trying to forget about the creature. Everyone had left, and I was just shutting off the lights when I decided to call it a night. I had just dozed off when I woke up suddenly. It was around 3 a.m., and something had pulled me from sleep, though I didn't know what. Then I heard it, a scratching sound coming from the window where the air conditioner was fitted. My first thought was, it's back. Panic surged through me. I grabbed the shotgun from under my

bed and hit the panic button on the alarm system. The alarm was deafening, slicing through the quiet night. The scratching stopped immediately. I stayed in my room, shotgun aimed at the door, heart racing until the sheriff arrived. It took him about 35 minutes to get to my place, given how far out we lived. he did, I explained what happened, my voice shaking. We checked the security footage together. The camera by the air conditioner had caught something, a big, tall silhouette moving away from the window. The sheriff suggested it might be a bear, but we both knew that didn't make sense. There are no bears here. He left after a thorough search, and I was alone again, with nothing

but my thoughts and fears for company. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. The next morning, I examined the outside of the house, looking for any signs of the creature. Nothing. It was as if it had vanished into thin air, leaving no trace but the gouges in the trees near the woods edge, like something massive had clawed at them. I spent the next few days jumpy, constantly checking the cameras, half expecting, half dreading to see that creature again. But there was nothing, just the occasional raccoon or stray cat. Despite the lack of evidence, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of not being alone. The woods that I once found peaceful now seem to harbor unknown dangers.

I found myself avoiding the windows at night. The memory of those golden eyes etched into my mind. I didn't know what it wanted, or if it would come back. All I knew was that I couldn't let my guard down, not again. The creature had made two things abundantly clear. It was real, and it was close. close for comfort. Ever since the night the creature came back, my house felt more like a fortress than a home.

The floodlight cameras, the alarm system, the shotgun by my bed, they were all constant reminders that safety was just an illusion. That thing in the woods had shattered my peace, and now, every creek of the house, every rustle of leaves outside made my heart race. I lived on the edge of a nightmare, never knowing if or if. when it would decide to step into reality again. I spent a lot of time thinking about the creature. What was it?

Why did it come so close to my house? And why did it leave without harming anything? The more I thought about it, the more questions I had. None of it made any sense. And the silence from the woods, the lack of any new sightings, only made the mystery deeper, more unsettling. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. had to go on, and so I tried my best to get back to normal. I went to school, hung out with my friends,

and did my homework. But the creature was always there, in the back of my mind, a dark shadow lurking in the unseen corners of my thoughts. Occasionally, I would hear sounds at night, strange, unidentifiable noises that seemed too deliberate to be the work of the usual nocturnal animals. Each time my heart would stop and I'd hold my breath, listening, waiting for something to happen. But nothing ever did. It was as if the creature was playing a game, reminding me of its presence without ever showing itself. I checked the cameras every day, scanning through the footage for any sign of it, but there was never anything conclusive. Just the occasional deer or fox, their eyes glowing in the night vision like ghosts passing through my yard.

Living with the unknown became my new normal. I learned to carry my fear with me, a constant weight that I got used to bearing, and though I never saw the creature again, its impact on my life was indelible. It had changed the way I saw the world, taught me that there are mysteries out there, hidden in the dark, that were not meant to understand. The woods that had once seemed so inviting now felt like a boundary, a line I wasn't brave enough to cross. I couldn't bring myself to explore them as I had before, too afraid of what I might find, or what might find me. The mystery of the creature, its origins, its intentions, all of it remained unsolved, a chapter of my life left open, unresolved. As time passed, I found myself wondering less and less

about the creature, maybe it had moved on, or maybe it had never been real in the first place, a figment of my imagination, fueled by fear and the eerie silence of the woods. But deep down, I knew it was real. I had seen it, and it had seen me. I learned to live with the fear, with the knowledge that some things are beyond our understanding. The creature in the woods became a part of my story, a reminder that the world is bigger, stranger, and more mysterious than we can ever imagine. And somehow accepting that felt like a victory.

way to reclaim my peace, one uncertain day at a time. The chill of the early evening air did nothing to dampen the seren the serenity of the Aboro Nature Reserve. It was a place I'd come to call my sanctuary, a vast expanse of wilderness that seemed untouched by the chaos of the world outside its boundaries. My routine, almost sacred by now, was simple. Drive up to the deer park at dusk, park my truck at the base of the hill overlooking the sanctuary, and let the natural world wash over me. It was a routine born out of necessity during the pandemic, a way to escape the confines of my home in a town too small to hide any secrets.

Or so I thought. I've lived here all my life, long enough to know every whispered legend and every odd tradition that knits this community together. But nothing. No tale whispered under the breath of elders or warning scrawled on the old town hall's bulletin board could explain the sign that appeared last week at the park's entrance. It wasn't the usual

Forest Service notice, printed on metal, and bolted to a post. No, this was something different, something hurried. A sheet of plywood, painted in hasty strokes, with words that caught the dying light in a way that made the pit of my stomach tighten. A polite notice to our valued visitors entering the Aboro Nature Reserve, it began, its tone almost apologetic. Our deer are exhibiting unusual behaviors. The list that followed was anything but ordinary park guidelines. Don't stop your car during grazing periods or on midsummer nights. Act calmly if the deer approach.

Ignore any deer standing on their hind legs. A black stag with dominion over the western herd was not to be approached, under any circumstances. The words blurred together as I read, each guideline more bizarre than the last. Dear remember faces. Don't pay attention to rumors of deer congregating at night. The absurdity would have been laughable, if not for the undercurrent of urgency in every hastily painted letter. I considered turning back, letting the sanctuary remain just that in my mind.

But curiosity, that old, relentless drive pushed me forward. I'd seen the stag they mentioned. Jojo, a magnificent beast that seemed to command the western fields with an almost regal authority. I'd watched him from afar, respected his space, and marveled at the way he kept his herd in line. The thought that something could unsettle him, unsettle them, was enough to quicken my pulse. So I drove on, the tires of my truck crunching over the gravel path that wound its way through the reserve. The setting sun cast long shadows that danced across the dashboard, and for a a moment, I let myself believe that this was just another evening, that the sign was a prank,

a story soon to be told with laughter over beers at the local bar. But as the sanctuary enveloped me, the familiar fields and forests bathed in the twilight's last embers, a sense of unease crept in. The deer, usually a common sight, were nowhere to be seen. The air felt still, too still, as if the very land was holding its breath, and somewhere beyond the next bend, The unknown awaited, its secrets veiled by the gathering darkness, and a sign that warned of things beyond understanding. It was in this moment, between the comfort of the known and the terror of the unknown, that I felt it most acutely, the thin veil between the natural world and something far more ancient, something that whispered of old, forgotten packs and rituals born from the very earth itself.

And as I parked my truck and stepped into the fading light, I knew that, that whatever lay ahead, whatever truth the park concealed, my life was about to change in ways I could never have imagined. The night had draped itself over the Aboro Nature Reserve like a shroud, the moon a mere sliver in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows across the landscape. The air was thick with mist, wrapping around the trees and the fields in a ghostly embrace. It was on nights like these that the world seemed to shift, revealing a face less familiar, more primal. I had driven back to the Deer Park, drawn by a need to understand, to see for myself what lay behind the bizarre warnings that had unsettled my once peaceful retreat.

The park was different under the cloak of darkness. The familiar paths and clearings were transformed, hiding secrets that felt ancient, almost sacred. As I parked my truck at the usual spot, the silence was oppressive, a heavy blanket that muffled the sound of my own breathing. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was intruding on something, that my presence was a violation of an unwritten pact between the land and its true inhabitants. It was then that I saw them, the deer. But these were not the creatures I had come to know. They moved with an unsettling grace,

standing on their hind legs in a grotesque parody of humanity. Their eyes, usually so darkly, gentle, now gleamed with an otherworldly light. The sight was surreal, a nightmare brought to life in the heart of the sanctuary I had once found solace in. At the center of this twisted gathering was Jojo, the majestic stag I had admired from afar, but the creature that now stood before me was a shadow of his former self, surrounded by the not deer, as if he were the focal point of some dark ritual. My heart raced, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I struggled to comprehend what I was witnessing. The not deer moved with purpose, dragging something with them, a structure, primitive,

yet unmistakably an altar of some sort. Jojo was led to it, his once-proud stance now defeated, resigned to his fate. The ritual that unfolded was one of savagery and primal worship, a celebration of darkness that belonged to an age long forgotten. As the not deer shrieked their unholy cries to the moon, a response came from the depths of the forest, a groan that spoke of ancient hunger and untold power. The very ground beneath me trembled, and I knew in that moment that I was witnessing something not meant for human eyes.

The ritual reached its climax with Jojo's sacrifice, a display of violence and reverence that left me numb with shrewan, shock and horror. I should have fled then, should have turned my back on the nightmare unfolding before me, but a morbid fascination held me captive, a need to understand the unfathomable, and as the not-deer turned their gaze upon me, their eyes void of emotion yet filled with an intelligence that spoke of deep, ancient knowledge, I knew I had crossed a line from which there was no return. The drive back to civilization was a blur of terror and confusion. The Ranger's words echoed in my mind, a cryptic warning that now held a sinister weight.

As long as they didn't look at you, you're fine, he had said. But they had looked at me, had seen me witness their most sacred and profane ritual, and in that moment of shared gaze, a connection was forged, a silent acknowledgement of the truth that lay hidden in the heart of the Aboro Nature Reserve, that we are not alone, and that the world is far stranger and more terrifying than we could ever imagine. Ever since that night at the Aboro Nature Reserve, the world around me has felt altered, like I've been living in the shadow of something vast and unknowable.

The once comforting solitude of my home in the outskirts of town has become oppressive, each creak and whisper of the wind a reminder of the eyes that might be watching, of the ancient rites performed under the cover of darkness. I tried to convince myself it was all a dream, a figment of my overactive imagination fueled by the isolation of the pandemic. But the deeper part of me knew better. The Forest Ranger's words kept replaying in my mind,

a cryptic clue to a puzzle I wasn't sure I wanted to solve. So long as they didn't look at you, you're fine. But they had looked at me, their gaze piercing through the veil of my skepticism, leaving me marked. The days following were a blur of sleepless nights and restless days. My routine, once a source of comfort, now felt like a perilous journey through a landscape that had turned hostile. The Deer Park, my sanctuary, had become a place of dread, its secrets too dark, too ancient for me to comprehend. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to go back, to confront whatever it was that lurked in the shadows of the reserve.

Perhaps it was the need for closure, or maybe a foolhardy attempt to reclaim my sense of safety. Whatever the reason, I found myself driving back to the park, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to reach out towards me. The park was eerily quiet, the usual chorus of wildlife silenced, as if in anticipation of something. The mist that had shrouded the reserve on that fateful night was gone, replaced by a clear sky that offered no solace from the prying eyes of the unseen. I parked my truck at the usual spot, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. As I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, the events of that night played back in my mind. The not dear, Jojo's sacrifice, the ancient being that had responded to their calls.

It was a scene out of a nightmare, yet here I was, searching for proof that it hadn't been a dream. The realization hit me then, a cold wave of understanding. that chilled me to the bone. Whatever had happened that night, it was part of something much larger, a cycle of nature that was as old as the land itself. I was an intruder in a world that operated on laws and rituals beyond human comprehension.

A movement in the periphery of my vision caught my attention. A reminder that I was not alone. I turned, half expecting to see the not deer staring back at me. Instead, I found myself looking into the eyes of the forest ranger. His expression was one of resigned understanding, as if he knew the burden I now carried. You saw them, didn't you? He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, unable to find the words to describe the terror and awe that had consumed me.

It's best to leave them be, he continued, his gaze drifting to the horizon. Some things are better left untouched, unseen. The world is full of mysteries, and not all of them are meant to be solved. His words were a cold comfort, a reminder of the fragile boundary between the known and the unknown. As I drove away from the park that evening, I knew that my life had been irrevocably changed. The deer park would forever be a symbol of that change, a place where the veil between worlds was thin, and where the ancient guardians of the land held sway. The drive home was a silent reflection on the nature of fear and curiosity,

on the human desire to understand the mysteries of the world. But some mysteries I realized are better left unsolved. Their secrets preserved in the shadows, watched over by those who know the true cost of looking too closely. I'd rather not say my name, but I'm a 37-year-old woman from Surrey England. You see, I've devised. developed xylophobia, a fear of forests and woodlands. It's not just a simple aversion, it's an irrational dread that grips me,

suffocates me even at the thought of venturing into those dense, shadowed realms. Let me clarify what xylophobia truly entails. It's not, as a friend amusingly suggested once, a fear of xylophones, which I actually quite like. No, it's a fear deeply rooted in the woods, in the trees, in the trees, in the unknown that lurks within. It all started with a traumatic event, a story I feel compelled to share, not only for my own catharsis, but also in the hope that it might resonate with someone out there, someone who needs to know they're not alone, someone who needs to understand that there's life

beyond the darkness. I've been undergoing therapy, the kind that delves deep into the psyche, peeling back layers of fear and trauma. Cognitive behavioral therapy, they call. it, a fancy term for confronting your demons head on. And so I embarked on a journey of writing, of pouring out the horrors that haunt me onto the page, hoping that by facing them I might regain some semblance of control. But let me take you back to where it all began, back to Avenger Common, a quaint village where I once called home. It was a place where the woods beckoned,

promising solace amidst the chaos of daily life. And so, I took to running, carving out a path through the trees, finding solace in the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the earth. Those runs became my lifeline, my escape from the pressures of work and the suffocating grip of anxiety. I ran the same trails, at the same times, like a ritual, a ritual that kept the darkness at bay. But one fateful day, the ritual was shattered, torn apart by a chance encounter with a stranger on the trail. He appeared innocuous at first, just another hiker wandering through the woods, but as he drew closer, his intentions became chillingly clear. With a sudden violent lunge, he sent me crashing to the ground, the breath knocked from my lungs. I felt the sting of his fist against my skin, the searing pain as my head connected with the unforgiving bark of a tree.

I fought desperately, fiercely, but he was relentless, his grip tightening around my throat, dragging me further. into the depths of the forest. I screamed, I pleaded, but my words were lost in the silent embrace of the trees. In those moments of terror, I made a choice, a choice to survive at any cost. I played dead, feigning weakness in the hopes of catching him off guard, and to my disbelief, it worked. He hesitated, his resolve shaken by the possibility of his actions having fatal consequences. And so, with every ounce of strength left in me, I fled, racing through the forest, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the distance. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs threatened to give out beneath me, but even as I escaped, the fear remained, festering within me like a poison,

for he was never caught, never brought to justice for the horrors he inflicted upon me. And so, the woods became a prison, a place of nightmares and endless dread. I've since moved away from Avenger Common, but the fear still lingers, a shadow that follows me wherever I go, and yet I refuse to let it consume me entirely. I cling to the hope that one day I'll reclaim the woods as my own, that I'll find peace amidst the trees once more. And so I share my story, not as a tale of despair, but as a testament to resilience, to the unyielding strength of the human spirit.

For even in the darkest of times, there is always hope, always a flicker of light amidst the shadows, and it's that glimmer of hope that keeps me going, that reminds me that I am not alone, that I am capable of overcoming even the greatest of fears. My name's Maddie, and I guess you could say I'm your average Seattle mom, if there's even such a thing as average around here. Between keeping up with my two kiddos and working full-time, life is a whirlwind of soccer practices, meal preps, and the occasional coffee run that turns into my mini escape from reality. I don't get much me time, but when I do, I dive into YouTube, losing myself in stories that

are anything but ordinary. There's this one channel, all about mysterious disappearances, that I've been hooked on lately. It's not exactly light viewing, but hey, we all have our things, right? I've lived in Seattle all my life, but it's funny how you can forget things like how green the trees are in spring, or the way the city lights shimmer off Puget Sound at night. But there's one thing I thought I'd forgotten for good, a memory buried so deep that I never thought I'd see it again, until last night. I was halfway through a video about missing 411 cases, those strange stories of people vanishing without a trace. Normally, I'm not easily spooked. Seattle folks are made of tough stuff, but one story hit me like a freight train. It wasn't

the creepiest or most bizarre tale, but it unlocked something in my mind, a door I thought I'd locked tight many years ago. Back in high school, I was what you might call an accidental athlete. I stumbled into cross-country running, or X-C as we called it, and discovered I had a knack for it. I wasn't the fastest at sprints, and don't even get me started on team sports. A disaster waiting to happen, but give me a long stretch of trail, and I could run for days. It was my thing, my escape, and before I knew it, I was dreaming of snagging an athletic scholarship. High school. Maddie was a bit of an oddball, not quite fitting in with the jocks or the nerds, but floating somewhere in between. Running gave me a sense of belonging, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

My parents, ever practical, saw it as a potential ticket to college. So, with their cautious encouragement, I dedicated myself to the sport, training relentlessly in hopes of catching the eye of university scouts. It wasn't easy. Balancing schoolwork with training sessions left me perpetually exhausted and cranky. Imagine trying to solve algebra equations after running ten miles in the rain. Not a pretty picture. But I had my sight set on a scholarship, and nothing was going to stand in my way.

Kaya, one of my teammates, was in a similar boat. we were both chasing that elusive scholarship dream, though I think she was more about the academics than the running. We weren't exactly best friends, but we understood each other in a way that only teammates can. We shared the same goals, the same fears, and as it turned out, the same race that would change everything. As I listened to that missing 4-1-1 video, memories of Kaya and that fateful day flooded back. It was like watching a movie of my own life. life, scenes playing out with a clarity that took my breath away. I remembered the anticipation, the adrenaline, and then the confusion and terror of what happened next. It was a day that would

tie us together forever, a reminder of how quickly things can change, how suddenly the familiar can become unfamiliar. And just like that, a piece of my past I thought was lost came rushing back, as vivid and startling as if it had happened yesterday. It was early May, and everything was in full bloom. You could smell the fresh, earthy scent of spring in the air, mixed with a hint of excitement and nervous energy. That day was important for Kaya and me. It wasn't just any race. It was our chance to shine, to prove that all our hard work and sacrifices were worth it. A scholarship was on the line, and we both knew it. We strategized like it was a military operation, skipped the first water station to get ahead, power through to the second, and then push ourselves to the limit before

the final stretch. It sounded simple in theory, but executing it was going to take everything we had. The Hawaii Lakes Trail was beautiful, a runner's dream, with its winding paths around the lake and the towering presence of Mount Rainier in the distance. But that day, the beauty of the trail was the last thing on my mind. My focus was on the race, on keeping my pace steady and my breathing even. Kaya and I started strong, bypassing the first water station with a determined glance at each other. We were in sync, each step propelling us forward, closer to our goal. But as we approached the third station, something shifted. I could feel it in the air, a sudden change that sent a shiver down my spine. Kaya stopped abruptly. Her movements were

erratic and unlike her. I watched, bewildered as she began to undress, her focus entirely removed from the race and me. It was as if she was in a world of her own, unreachable and distant. I called out to her, confusion turning to concern, but she didn't respond. She just kept stripping down, oblivious to my pleas in the race around us. Panic set in. This wasn't the kaya I knew. This was someone else, someone driven by an unseen force. I tried to reach her, to break through the barrier that had formed between us, but it was like talking to a ghost. Then she started walking towards the trees, naked and vulnerable.

I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to run for help, to leave her and fetch someone who could make sense of the situation. But another part, the part that had trained with her, laughed with her, and shared dreams of the future with her, refused to. to leave her side. I shouted for help, my voice echoing through the woods, desperate for someone, anyone to come. And when the race marshal appeared, I thought we were saved. But his reaction, a mix of shock and disbelief, only added to the surreal nightmare unfolding before me. He turned and left, promising to bring help. But in that moment, I felt utterly alone. It was just me and

in a race that had suddenly lost all meaning. I grabbed her wrist, trying to anchor her to reality, to me. But she was lost, slipping further away with every step she took into the woods. I had to make a choice then. Let her go or fight to bring her back. I chose to fight, to hold on to her even as she tried to break free. I yelled, pleaded, and finally, in a moment of sheer desperation, I used water in an attempt to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. It didn't work. She continued on her path, leaving me to grapple with the fear of what might happen if I couldn't bring her back. The race, the scholarship, our future, none of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was Kaya, and the terrifying possibility that I might lose her to the woods, to a mystery that neither of us

understood. After the race, life sort of went back to normal, or at least, as normal as it could get after something like that happens. Kaya was okay, physically. Everyone said it was just heat stroke, a fluke thing that could happen to anyone if they pushed too hard or forgot to stay hydrated. But something about that explanation didn't sit right with me. Sure, people get heat stroke,

but do they all react like Kaya did? Stripping down and walking into the woods like they're being called by something only they can hear. It felt too simple, too neat of an explanation. for something that felt anything but. I couldn't stop thinking about it, not just about what happened, but about what could have happened.

What if I hadn't been there? What if I hadn't caught up to her? Those questions haunted me, swirling around in my head until they formed a current too strong to ignore. So I did what any teenager with internet access and too much on their mind does. I fell down a rabbit hole of research.

I started with heatstroke, reading up on symptoms and treatments, trying to convince myself that what happened to Kaya was just a medical issue. But then, one click led to another, and suddenly I was reading about missing 411 cases, about people who vanished into thin air in national parks and wilderness areas. The more I read, the more I saw patterns. Not everyone who disappeared had stripped down, but enough of them had for it to be a thing, a weird, unexplainable thing that nobody had answers for. And then there was the video that started it all, the one about Marin Kelly. Her story was eerily similar to Kayas, right down to the stripping and walking into the woods,

except Marin never came back. She disappeared without a trace, leaving behind a mystery that seemed to have more questions than answers. That's when it hit me. What happened to Kaya wasn't just a one-off. It was part of something bigger, something darker, something that nobody really understood. I spent nights glued to my computer screen, reading forum posts and articles, watching videos of interviews with search and rescue workers who'd seen things they couldn't explain. The deeper I went, the more I realized that we were lucky. Kaya came back.

So many others didn't. The theories varied from the plausible to the outlandish. Some said it was natural phenomena, like sudden weather changes or unknown environmental toxins. Others talked about psychological states, about how stress or fear could push a person into doing things they wouldn't normally do. And then there were the more out-there theories, cryptids, aliens, dimensional rifts. It was a lot to take in, and most of it sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie. But after what I'd seen, I wasn't ready to discount anything.

The one thing that kept coming up in my research was the idea of a fugue state, a temporary amnesia that makes people forget who they are and what they're doing. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that explained how Kaya could have done what she did without remembering any of it. But what caused it? And why did it seem like the wilderness itself was a trigger? I didn't have the answers. Nobody did.

But I knew one thing. What happened to Kaya wasn't just a fluke. It was a warning, a glimpse into something that none of us really understand. And as much as I wanted to forget, to move on and pretend like it was all just a bad dream, I couldn't, because somewhere out there, in the woods and the wild places of the world, something was happening, something that could take you away, leaving nothing behind but questions and shadows. And the scariest part? I wasn't sure we were ever meant to find the answers. As weeks turned into months, the memory of the race and Kaya's inexplicable behavior lingered like a

never quite leaving my side. Life moved forward, as it always does, with the rhythm of school, running, and the everyday routine smoothing over the jagged edges of that day. But beneath the surface, questions bubbled up, stubborn and persistent. I found myself looking at the world differently. The trails I once ran with abandon now seem to whisper secrets, hidden just beyond my understanding. The woods, with their deep shadows and rustling leaves, felt like they were watching, waiting. It was as though I had glimpsed behind a curtain I wasn't supposed to know existed, and now I couldn't unsee it. Kaya and I didn't talk much about what happened. It was like an unspoken agreement, a mutual understanding that some things are too strange, too unsettling to put into words.

She recovered, physically at least, and we both. Both threw ourselves into our running, but the camaraderie we once shared was tinged with an undercurrent of unease. The missing 411 stories, once a morbid curiosity, now felt too close to home. I couldn't shake the feeling that Kaya and I had skirted the edge of something profound and terrifying. The theories I'd read about from environmental toxins to psychological states offered no real comfort. They were just guesses in the dark, attempts to explain the unexplained.

the unexplainable. As graduation approached, the future loomed large, full of possibilities and uncertainties. I was leaving behind the trails and woods of high school, moving on to college and whatever came next. But the mystery of what happened to Kaya, and to all those who had vanished without a trace, remained unsolved. It was a reminder that, for all our progress and knowledge, there are still things in this world beyond our control, beyond our understanding. I thought about Kaya's brief journey into the unknown, how close we had come to a different ending. What if I hadn't been there? What if she had disappeared like Marin Kelly, leaving behind a void filled with questions and grief? It was a thought too painful to dwell on, yet impossible to ignore. As I packed up my room,

preparing for the move to college, I came across my running shoes, worn and dusty from miles of training. They were a tangible link to that day, to the person I was before I understood how quickly everything could change. I realized then that I was taking more with me than just memories and hopes for the future. I was carrying a sense of caution, a respect for the unknown that I hadn't had before. The world is full of mysteries, of stories that defy explanation. Some might find that terrifying, but I've come to see it as a reminder of the vastness of the vastness of our existence, of the infinite possibilities that lie just beyond our understanding. We may not find all the answers, but perhaps it's enough to keep asking the questions,

to keep seeking, even when the path leads into the shadows. As I stepped into the next chapter of my life, I carried with me the lessons of that race, the knowledge that we are all just visitors here, navigating a world that holds more wonders and mysteries than we could ever hope to understand, and Maybe, in the end, that's what makes life so endlessly fascinating. The search, the journey, and the unanswered questions that keep us looking, always looking for what lies beyond the next bend in the trail. When I was growing up, one of my best friends was a guy we called Ricky.

His real name was David. Ricky won our respect pretty quickly, too, and not just because he could handle a little playful abuse. He was obsessed with the counterculture of the 1960s. He loved the music, the rebellious attitudes, and he was fascinated by the whole concept of psychedelia. So it should be no surprise to anyone that Ricky was the first of us to seek out something a little stronger than the cans of Molson that we used to steal from our dads. We were big into partying, so we wanted to try stuff like weed or LSD, but only Ricky had enough balls, or street smarts really, to go off looking for it, and things stayed like that for years. We'd be happy to just sit in someone's bedroom, passing around a one-hitter and watching Conan O'Brien,

but Ricky wanted to keep raising the stakes and pushing the envelope. He wanted to learn how to brew up his own super-powerful LSD, and then go out into the woods and trip for days. And like most things with Ricky, if he said he was going to do something, you could bet your butt that he was going to go ahead and do it. He was wild. He loved a party, but he never let his lifestyle get the better of him. He did okay in high school, graduated from college, and then landed himself a well-paying job at some financial company near the waterfront, all while making home-brewed batches of high-potency LSD in his apartment's spare bedroom. He was like Jim Patterson on Monday, and then Jim Morrison on a Friday, which is an awesome joke if you're Canadian, I swear.

Anyway, so Ricky carries on like that for years and years, slowly ramping up his psychedelic adventures until he was doing things like going to Mexico to do peyote with indigenous tribal people, or to Peru to take part in some ayahuasca ceremony hosted by his very own personal shaman. And we never worried about him. Ricky always seemed to be in control, and I guess that remained true right up until the day he seemed to just lose it. It started when his sister started calling around his social circles, which obviously included me and a bunch of mutual friends who all went to the same high

school. Ricky's sisters said neither she nor their family had heard from him all week, and we tried calling Ricky on his cell phone, and he wouldn't pick up any of our calls either. By the end of the next day, his family had called the cops to file a missing person's report, and as you can imagine, we were all pretty worried about him. But then, a few weeks later, Ricky reappeared, only to not check in with his folks or let us know that he was okay. All he did was clear out his apartment and leave a letter in his parents' mailbox, one that basically said, sell or burn anything I left behind, I'm not coming back. Everyone was as freaked out as you can imagine.

We went from mildly concerned to extremely worried about him, and the not-knowing was the worst part. Like, I personally had this irrational fear that he'd been kidnapped or murdered or something, and that someone else had written the letter to confuse people or throw the cops off their trail. But when the cops spoke to Ricky's landlady, she confirmed. that he'd been in town that day, and that, although he seemed rushed, she didn't think that he was in fear for his life or anything like that. He hadn't given her any kind of forwarding

address. He just packed up what he could, and then left. On paper, that was contact right there, and knowing Ricky was alive might have been enough for some other folks to call off the search. But then, because his folks still didn't know what was happening, they told the cops that they still wanted him found, so they could come. confirm that he was safe. And by that time, we'd given up trying to call his cell phone, and it was a weight off our shoulders knowing that he was still alive, and that he hadn't fallen victim to a murder or kidnapper, or really anything. But we knew that there must have been something that made him run off like that, and I worried over that almost as much as I wondered

where he'd gotten to. About two or three months went by with me and Ricky's other friends keeping in constant touch with his family, and then one day we heard that the cops had gotten a tip from someone up way over near Ottawa, and that's how they traced him to some cabin out in Algonquin provincial park. A few cops went out to talk to him, and he only told them who he was after they promised to leave him alone. The cops left but immediately told Ricky's family where he was. Ricky's brother then went up to try and talk to him, but he was gone, moved on again to who knows where. Ricky's family tried to get the cops to carry on looking for him, but that's not how those missing person things work.

If the person doesn't want to be found, the cops can't very well go stalking them from place to place, even at the behest of the person's family. If they wanted to track Ricky down, they'd have to do it themselves. And looking back on it, it seems like the obvious thing to do would be for everyone to keep looking and not give up. We've been handing out flyers, putting up posters, and this was in the early days of MySpace too,

so I remember Ricky's sister making a little page for him and adding a bunch of people to try to raise awareness. But that was before the cops went to talk to him out at that cabin, before word got around that he basically decided that he hated everyone, and that he didn't want to see or talk to us anymore. People didn't take that well. They took it personally. They didn't see it for what it was,

and I say all that from experience. We basically grew up together. We were best friends, and I was ready to drive out there myself to go see him, because just hearing that he didn't want to see us wasn't nearly enough to make us want to quit. It was the leaving the cabin that did it. Leaving the cabin said, This isn't some cry for help. Stop looking for me.

Leaving the cabin said, I don't owe you an explanation, which was honestly all we really needed. We didn't want to control him. We just wanted closure. wanted closure, and I feel like we were entitled to it at the very minimum. That was in early 2004, and there was a time when I thought that we'd still be looking by the time it was 2005, but in reality, we'd all stopped looking by then, even his family.

We figured that if he wanted to reach out, he'd do so, and it was all just a matter of time until that day came. Now cut to 2011, a full seven years later, when I got a call from a mutual friend of ours named Obdi. He got a missed call while he was at work, and when he listened to his voicemail, he heard a familiar voice on the other end telling him to call a number they left in the message at the exact time. The caller never said who it was, but when my buddy Obdi called me, he said that he was 99% certain that it was Ricky, and then asked if I wanted to come over so I could be there when he called the number he'd given me. I drove over to his place almost immediately,

and we talked about the call, and how sudden it seemed. right up until the time to call the number, at which point we sat down at his table with a pen and paper in hand and then gave it a call. We didn't actually talk for all that long, but the long and short of it was this. It was Ricky that had left the message on Ab's voicemail, and although he didn't say where he was, he told us that he needed our help. He thought it was a big ask, considering that we hadn't talked in seven years, but that he didn't know who else to call, even though he'd spent the last few days trying to track down a working cell phone number for one of us. He'd understand if we told him to go F himself needless to say, we didn't tell him to do that. And although he had a ton of questions,

Ricky said that he'd answer them all if we agreed to meet him at this place called Whitney, which turned out to be a small town about halfway between Toronto and Ottawa. We were nervous on the drive up there and mistimed our arrival by around 15 minutes, so we had to sit there biting our nails and wondering if Ricky was actually going to show up or not. But lo and behold, right on the stroke of six, we spotted someone walking into the parking lot of the little burger place that served as our meeting spot, someone who looked a lot like Ricky if he'd spent seven years living on the streets,

or more accurately living out in the middle of nowhere in the woods. It was an emotional reunion, no tears were shed, but it felt very positive, though intense, mainly because Ricky started out by telling us how sorry he was. He said cutting off contact was a mistake, and one he'd never forgive himself for, and that it hurt to think about all the time that we had lost. Hearing all that pretty much knocked us off our feet.

I mean, he covered a lot of stuff that we wanted to talk about in his opening little speech, and after that, there really wasn't much else to ask him. We wanted to know where and how he'd been living, but he wanted to know all that same stuff from us too. And since we had him right where we wanted him, we figured that we could get him up to speed while we went inside and got a burger. We got to talking about all kinds of things,

but eventually me and Obdi were able to ask Ricky two things. Number one, where had he been living? And number two, what did he need our help with? Both questions could be answered by finishing our burgers, getting back into our car, and letting him direct us towards the place that he was living. which was way out near this place called Little Hay Lake. As it turns out, Ricky had been living almost completely off the grid for almost six years

in a trailer that he'd managed to haul down a dirt road, and then far enough into the trees so that you couldn't see it anymore from the track. He walked into Whitney every so often to pick up whatever he couldn't shoot or forage for, and then hitched a ride further afield whenever he needed to make a few bucks. And the way he was earning those few buckaroos was by making LSD, ultra-potent medical strength LSD, and then because he was making it, he was having to test it out too very frequently. But as far as we could tell, that suited him just fine. I guess Ricky just sort of found his calling, and the way he talked about it, he was happy, at least for a while.

He had everything he needed out in that trailer. The place was relatively clean. He had a little generator that he'd used to power a laptop, and he had no internet. But Ricky didn't mind. He had his DVDs, and that was all he needed. But then came the problem that he needed our help with, and at first, I was actually kind of scared that he'd killed somebody or something, and that he wanted our help disposing of a body. As it turned out, that wasn't the case, and there was nothing Ricky needed help disposing of, but by the end of the next morning, there would be a body, and it wouldn't be one we needed any help disposing of at all. We did a little more catching up back at the trailer, but then after a little looking around, I asked Ricky, half-jokingly, if he was about to enlist

our help in digging a shallow grave. Ricky actually seemed kind of offended at first, but then Obdi started to laugh. It was a release of tension, I guess, pure relief that whatever Ricky needed didn't involve covering up some horrible crime. I remember Obdi joking around saying, well, whatever the hell it is, it can't be worse than that. As in, helping Ricky hide the body, that is. Ricky had been kind of laughing along with this, at least after shaking off the offense that he took at the suggestion that he was a murderer. But when Obdi joked about how things could have been worse, Ricky didn't laugh. He didn't even smile because to him, things were about as bad as it was possible to get.

I think maybe an hour past between us arriving at the trailer, and Ricky actually sitting down and telling us what he needed help with, and when he did, that nervous tension returned again. I mean, if it was more serious than hiding a dead body, then it must have been really serious, right? Serious enough to be scared of the consequences, serious enough to consider just getting the hell out of there if he dropped a bomb on us. but when he actually told us it was this weird mix of depressing and relief.

Basically, Ricky wanted us to call up just about everyone we knew, or everyone who we wanted to save, as he put it, and invite them out to the woods to set up an encampment. If we didn't, they were all going to suffer a fate worse than death. In so many words, Ricky said that there was going to be a major change in Canadian society, that folks were going to be rounded up by mass soldiers, and taken away to camps to be fitted with microchips and all sorts of crazy stuff. It was basically this giant conspiracy involving international governments

looking to wield absolute power over the people. And the only way to really enforce that was to eliminate huge sections of the population, basically anyone who might put up some sort of resistance. Ricky was convinced the whole thing was going to start within a month. and although he wouldn't go into too much detail about how he knew all that stuff, he seemed to think giving away sources would put them on some kind of government hit list. He seemed completely and utterly convinced that his predictions were correct. What followed was around six hours of convincing Ricky that he was wrong.

It wasn't easy, which is why I mentioned the six hours thing, but by the time night had fallen and Ricky was riding a low dose of LSD, we'd gone from making a little headway to actually getting through to him that his theories might just be wildly wrong. We didn't fully convince him, not all the way, but we did talk him down to the point where he agreed to come home, mainly by convincing him that he'd be in the best possible position to rescue people if the government did decide to start putting people into camps. He could be like an early warning system, he could recognize the signs, and that way He could be the hero we needed when we needed him most, and it was a win-win either way.

We proved things weren't as bad as he thought, and he could save our butts, and we'd follow him to hell and back. And that seemed like the idea that really got its hooks in him. Ricky agreed to come home with us, but not before he sobered up a little. We could sleep in our car, he'd sleep in the trailer, and then come sunrise, we'd get ourselves some breakfast, and then drive back down to Toronto and drop him off at his parents' place. After we agreed on that course of action, we finished off our beers, walked back to our car, and agreed to head back over to the trailer come sunup. It felt like a huge victory, and the second we got back to the car, we were texting people, mainly Ricky's family, and telling them how he was finally ready to come home. We were so excited we could barely sleep.

I kept thinking about how happy everyone was going to be, how driving back into Toronto was going to feel like a victory parade. I think I only nodded off for maybe an hour or so before I could see the sky changing color, and after that, Obdi and I just talked, and tried not to get too nervous as we waited for Dawn to arrive. Finally, around 6.30, Obdi and I got out of his car, and then started walking back through the trees in the direction of Ricky's trailer. I remember feeling pretty exhausted but very excited to get back on the road. I wasn't even thinking about food by that point. I'd have happily rolled all the way back into Toronto and gotten a bite there when the nerves had died down. The only thing that mattered was getting Ricky back home, home where he belonged.

But then, after getting within maybe 20 feet of the trailer, we started to smell something on the breeze, something strong, something artificial, something that smelled very, very much like gasoline. I remember Obdi saying something like, can you smell that? And I told him that I did, and then after a few more steps towards the trailer, the door opened up, and Ricky appeared in the doorway with this gas can in his hand. He told us not to come any closer, and by then, the stink of gas was so thick in the air that it kind of stung my nostrils. He didn't say it in an I don't want you to get hurt kind of way.

He seemed mad at us, and as we kept asking him what he was doing, he kept telling us to leave while we still had the chance. And that's about the time we noticed that it wasn't just Ricky's trailer that was soaked in gas. It was his clothes too, and it was complete chaos. Me and Abdi were shouting different things, but all along the lines of don't do it, you don't have to do this. Think of your family, and all sorts of stuff like that. Whereas the previous night, when Ricky treated us like friends and we could actually get through to him, that morning was like a complete shift, like it was the first time seeing him, and that last night didn't count for anything.

It was like he hated us, like he might have actually shot at us if he had a gun, which is why that leave while you still can line has just had such a chilling effect on me, and almost worked in making us back off before he closed the door to his trailer. Ricky told us one last time to stay back. I didn't have any trouble staying away from a trailer that I was pretty sure was about to explode into flames, but Obdi clearly wasn't in his right mind at the time, because I had actually to drag him down to the ground, to keep him from trying to rush up to the trailer and stop Ricky in his tracks.

What happened next seems kind of like a blur. I remember hearing the sound of the fire starting, and Ricky wasn't kidding when he said to stay back, because there was an actual bang, and I felt the heat on my face. I didn't see much of the flames after that, though. I was facing back towards where Obe's car was parked, basically trying to tackle him away from the burning trailer. When he finally gave up trying, I was focused,

focused on getting him back to his car, getting his keys for him, he was definitely in no condition to drive, and then telling him to call 911 while I drove us to the nearest highway, figuring that was the best place for the fire department to see us, so we could guide them into the spot by the lake where Ricky's trailer was. Obdi could barely speak while he was on the phone, and it got to the point where I thought that I'd need to take over and talk to the dispatcher myself while struggling to keep the car on the track.

Like I said, the whole thing was total chaos, but in the moment I didn't really have time to process any of it, not until the whole fire department was hosing down the trailer, and we had a moment to ourselves before the cops showed up, and that's when all the emotion hit for me, seeing them put the trailer out and thinking there's no way in hell Ricky survived that, and then it was OB's turn to try and console me, when it was my turn to break down, right up until the cops showed up, and we had to talk to them about what had happened.

We thought we'd be going back to Toronto as heroes. And I'm not trying to say that we would have been saving him as much because obviously, Ricky had agency and all of that, and it would have been him making the decision for himself. But getting to be the ones who actually brought him home, that would have been a hell of a thing, you know? And I was so excited for that, so to go from there to having to drive back and tell Ricky's parents

that he was dead all in the space of about an hour, it was my own personal hell, and I truly mean that. I lived hell on earth for a day, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. There was a reunion in the end. It was just never one that I thought it would be. All the old crew showed up to pay their respects at Rickies, some that I hadn't seen in years. I felt it devastating that it took his death to finally bring us together, but it was also very uplifting that people dropped what they were doing to come comfort Ricky's family as well as each other, and I just wish that it could have happened when Ricky was alive. I wish that there were enough of us up at that trailer to drag him into the car and drag him back to reality before he had a chance to do

something so insane, and it was insane. Ricky didn't seem like he was in control of himself when he did that, and I refused to believe that he was. I just hope that he can forgive us all for not acting sooner, for not trying to rationalize something that now that I look back on it just isn't healthy, no matter how happy someone claims it makes them. I get that some people call themselves introverts, and prefer to be alone or away from large groups, but we're still social animals. We need that connection, even if it is one that we can keep at arm's length. So please, people, check in with your friends, check in with your family,

and especially around the holidays, you can leave people. people be, just don't ever leave them alone. To start off, I'd like to state that I'm a 20-year-old male who lives in the UK in a house with my family. My family consists of my dad, mom, sister, two step-sisters, one quite young and the other almost as old as me, and a young stepbrother, so there are a lot of people living in this house. We also have a German Shepherd who is quite large and protective of the property. As well as that, this story is a need some background to make sense. I currently live in a town in the UK that could be considered safe, but it has its fair share of dangerous people lurking around. I previously worked at a gas

station where I've had numerous encounters with people trying to shoplift, many of them carrying knives and such. I hope this gives you a brief idea of what my neighborhood is like. Now that's been said, this story happened only a few days ago. My cat had been missing for a few weeks, which wasn't normal for him, so I was evidently quite worried. I have been keeping my window open every night, in case he came into our garden and started meowing like he usually does when he wants to come back into the house. I had spent the past few nights going out and looking for him but finding and hearing nothing. This night was like any other. I was spending the night playing games and listening closely for anything coming from my window. At around three in the morning,

I thought that I had heard something, so I bolted downstairs because I'd believed that what I was hearing was my cat. I thought of taking my dog with me in case I needed protection, but I realized that would be a terrible idea since the cat is scared of the dog. So if the cat really was out there, he would just run away the second he saw the dog. I went outside with a flashlight in hand and started to hear weird noises. I couldn't put my finger on the noises at first, but when I listened closer, I realized that they were the sounds of scuffling around the back of the garden, where we have a garage, a greenhouse, and a chicken coop. My first thought was there was some sort of animal trying to get at the chickens. This didn't worry me, because we have a very aggressive

rooster that can and will attack anyone that gets too close to the chickens. He has done so multiple times in the past. I started walking closer to the back of the garden, and the noises started to sound more human-like. It sounded like multiple people were running around. I was confused and stopped for a moment, standing there and listening. A gut feeling started brewing in my stomach, telling me to just go back inside, but I couldn't move. I didn't know if it was because of fear, or me trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the sounds. The more I listened, the more frequent the sounds got, as if something or someone was trying to lure me to them. I went back inside to grab the biggest knife I could and started scanning the garage with my dog.

finding nothing. When I got back outside, I heard the chickens going crazy, which made me think that there was an animal attacking them. I walked to the chicken coop to check on them, and make sure that they were okay, and they calmed down. As I exited the chicken coop, I soon realized the sounds had all stopped. I stood still, searching for the sounds, trying to strain my ears. After what felt like hours standing there in the pitch dark with my flashlight not daring to point it in the direction of where I heard the sounds previously, I snapped out of my days and bolted back into the house. I made sure to lock the front door, and when I got to my room, I left my window open. To my surprise, I heard whispering coming from the garden, and then a sudden, metallic bang.

I thought I was imagining things, and this is all some sort of dream or hallucination. The next night I went out again, calling my cat's name multiple times, but I got no response. Then I heard the snapping of branches coming from the direction where the greenhouse was located. I stood there, and I heard a person scraping or hitting something with a stick, followed by footsteps coming towards me. I hurried back into the house, and I heard my gate opening, so I locked the door just in case. Right after I closed the door, the handle slammed down, which skimed. the life out of me. I immediately thought that it was someone from my garden coming for me.

I opened the door, ready to fight the person on the other side, and it turned out to be my sister coming back from walking the dog. I'd like to say thank you to her for scaring the soul out of me and putting me in full fight mode. She asked me why I was going around locking all the doors, and I explained to her everything that had happened over the past few nights, specifically what had happened the night before and that night. After I told her the story, she obviously didn't believe me and told me that it was all in my head. I told her that the sounds were there right now

and asked her to come with me if she didn't believe me. We stood in the garden, listening, and on cue, the sounds started back up again. My sister stopped dead in her tracks. I looked at her and said, I told you so. She shushed me. The sound of someone jogging.

or sprinting towards us came from the darkness. We both ran back into the house, and my sister reasonably demanded that we lock all the doors in the home. On the third night of looking for my cat, I was sitting in my room and decided not to go outside, because of all that had previously happened. At 2 a.m., I decided to go outside and look for my cat once again. I put on my coat, because that night I was determined to finally find my cat, and put this all behind me, not caring how long it would take. I stood there in the open pitch black outside again, calling my cat's name, but I didn't get a response. I went to the front of the garden with my flashlight, looking and calling for him as well. After not getting any response, I sat myself down

on the front steps of my house, flashing my light and still calling for my cat. An hour went by, and I got thoroughly bored just sitting there doing nothing. I started walking around the garden again, headed towards the greenhouse. I stopped myself, remembering what had happened the previous night. Thinking about it, I went and got the dog, both for protection and because, as stated before, the dog would bark if the cat was there. This would tell me if the cat was there or not. I know, genius thinking on my part.

The dog and I went towards the greenhouse area knowing that either my cat was there or there was some random person. I let the dog go, and she did nothing, no barking, just silence. This gave me a feeling of relief that allowed me to walk after her, still scanning the area.

And then I saw it, the discovery that chilled me to my bones. Someone had sunk a stick into the ground through a plastic bag. Now you might be thinking to yourself, why did a stick in the ground scare you? The reason being that it was sunk so deep into the ground, not even I, being pretty fit,

could take it out of the ground. Someone had stabbed that stick into the ground with a scary amount of force. Making the situation worse, there was a pumpkin sitting right next to the stick, knife as I called it. But here's the thing. We don't grow pumpkins, we never have.

But there was a pumpkin sitting in our garden. It clicked in my head. There had either been, one person or multiple people in the garden that night. The sounds that my sister and I had heard were people sharpening the sticks and messing about with them. They had been making noises around the property to lure someone out to investigate and do God knows what to them. In that moment, I was thankful to have had the common sense to run away when I did, because thinking about what these people could have done to me in the dark gives me chills even as I write this. After this revelation,

I checked behind the trees and such, making sure no one was there, content with not finding anyone and making a note to myself to come back in the morning to get a clearer picture. I returned to my steps. I sat there waiting for around an hour longer, starting to get tired, bored, and hungry. I went back into the house, the acceptance of my cat being dead lurking in the back of my mind, while I continued to mess about on my PC with my window open. And then, once again, I heard meowing. I rushed outside so quickly that I forgot to put on shoes, but I also had the presence of mine to grab a knife on my way out, deciding that if anyone was out there, I'd confront them on the spot. I reached my gate and saw my cat

standing on the fence. I dropped my knife, and my heart was filled with joy. I can't explain to you how happy I was to see him. There had been no noises since that night, but I'm still wary when I go out at night. I thought about this experience, and realized how lucky I was to not have gone further into the greenhouse that night. I could have been killed right there, or one of my younger siblings could have heard the noises and gone out themselves, and they'd have been killed. I try not to dwell on it too much because the thoughts truly disturb me. This story comes from my experience in the military, specifically from a certain training area in Arizona. I won't be too specific about where exactly I was for obvious reasons, but the location isn't really important. It's what happened

while we were there and what I saw that I still think about to this day. For context, I was raised in a rural part of North Idaho, so the outdoors are very familiar to me. At first, training in the deserts of Arizona didn't sound too bad. I'd been in for a few years at that point, knew my way around, and was a good soldier, in my opinion, always doing my best. Always doing my best to keep a level head. Our training started sometime around mid-October when the air starts to get colder, and wind plus rain affects you more than it usually does. If you know anything about the desert and temperatures, it can get very, very cold and fast at night. Even if it's 90 degrees Fahrenheit out at lunchtime, it could hit well below 20 at night, and the wind and rain that usually

accompanied it didn't help. The reason I specify the nighttime conditions is that's the only time we were allowed to run our training in operations. We were testing equipment for the army but could not go out during the day because it had the potential to screw up communication between airplanes and such. So, at night, when little to no aircraft were out, we would head out and begin our training. We started at 9 p.m. and ended missions at 6 a.m. That way we could sleep during the day and train again at night, sometimes multiple times in a row. Now personally, I believe that there are creatures and entities on this planet that we can't really explain. Little did I know I was about to have two encounters in a single night, one of them face to face. The first happened at about 11 p.m.

Three other men and I were scanning a road and field to watch for opposing forces. They were played by other soldiers in different uniforms for training purposes, so we were on our guard. It was my job to watch the field and the road while the other two made radio calls, waiting for the signal to move in further. I moved maybe 30 feet away from them to get a better spot for pulling security. I backed myself into a bush with some leaves still hanging to somewhat cover my position. On my left was a wide open field with a single tree in the middle, about 300 feet away from me. It only had two branches, both in very awkward positions for a tree. One was angled upwards, while the other one seemed to point straight out at the road.

On my right, on the other side of the road I was watching, was a tree line which turned into a hill that we would be walking up later after we got the green light. As I scanned the field and the road for opposing forces or vehicles, I spotted some headlights cresting over a hill not too far away from us. They were easy to see with our night vision. You could see someone using any kind of light for miles. As if it wasn't already easy enough to see light at night, I raised my voice to tell the other two men, that there was a vehicle coming and to tell everyone else to stay hidden. I pushed myself even further into the bush so that I would be completely concealed. The truck drove right past us. We had remained undetected.

My heart was racing, excited to have stayed hidden and been so close. But what happened next made my heart sink. I looked back out at the road and field to see if there was anything else coming, and when my eyes crossed over to the field, the tree had moved. I rubbed my eyes and refocused my night vision to see if that would help, but the tree had in fact moved closer to me, and the branches had also moved. Both of its dead limbs now seemed to point at me. It was about 200 feet away from me.

I convinced myself I was just seeing things. About five minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, causing me to jump a bit. It was just my teammate. He said it's time to move up. You good? I turned to face him when I said I was ready to go, but when I turned back to take one more look at the field, that tree was gone. I sat there on one knee in disbelief.

To have hallucinated the tree's distance and shape was believable to me, but to have made up the tree entirely to myself. No way. A chill ran down my spine as I searched for the tree before cautiously emerging from my bush and walking back to my team. As I did, I constantly looked at my tree. over my shoulder at that wide open field that was all of a sudden empty. This put me on edge for the rest of the night, and we still had not completed our objective. After another hour of walking through the woods and a couple of open fields, we finally arrived at the objective. The mission was a little tricky.

We had to infiltrate a small mock village and secure an HVT, high-value target. Only after all that could we call the mission complete. For context, all the opposing forces we were fighting, were just other soldiers in uniform, all using blank rounds with lasers. This let us train for a real-world fight without getting hurt. When you get hit by a laser, a beeping sound will come from equipment on our body armor, which means we were considered injured and had to play dead. Anyway, our front element was spotted by the opposing forces,

so we had to fight to take the village. It was both fun and intense. After walking for hours, not doing much, we finally got to train and work on other skills. My team was in charge of securing the HVT, so after we had eliminated the OPFOR, my team and I moved to the building he was supposed to be in. The HVT was simply a soldier in a white robe that we had to capture in order to call the mission complete. When we finally got to the building, which was simply a one-room building with two large doors, I had one of my soldiers open the door so that I could peek inside. When he did, I saw a

silhouette in the back of the room. I was about to yell and tell him to put his hands up, but something was wrong. This person was far too short. They had long black hair and what looked to be a black robe under our night vision. I hesitated, and this shadow person in the room broke into a sprint right at me. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I panicked, firing off three blank shots. When the smoke cleared, a yell came from inside the room. My adrenaline was pumping now more than ever, and I moved in, yelling as if I was trying to scare someone. I expected to see it again when I swung into the room, but when I looked, it was just the HVT covering his ears because my shots had echoed, becoming very loud in that small space.

I had trouble relaxing as my soldier came in after me, and without question, began to search the man, pretending to detain him. The HVT had not seen the black figure that charged me. He had no idea what I was shooting at. We wrapped up the mission, leaving the field around 5.30 in the morning. As we drove away with the rising sun chasing away the desert's mirages and the mountain shadows, I still could not shake the thought that what I had seen felt so real. Thankfully, that was the last mission we did out there, and I had trouble sleeping for days afterward.

Needless to say, this confirmed my belief in the fact that there are things on this earth that are beyond our understanding right now, and I'm just thankful it didn't go down any worse. Although this might not be your conventional scary story, it sure as hell was the most unsettling otherworldly thing that's ever happened to me, and I think some of your viewers and listeners will get a kick out of it. So, I used to do a lot of trail running near the Asabo River in northern Michigan. Some of my favorite routes were right in the middle of the Huron National Forest, and passed near some pretty good fishing and swimming spots too. I used to load up my pickup truck, drive a few miles up river, and then run in a big old loop until I got back to my truck, feeling like I'd lost a few pounds in sweat alone.

Both sides of the trail are shrouded by tall, white, and red pines, occasionally birches and the like. It's very scenic, very lovely, but it gets hot as hell in the early July afternoon. And some days I'd much rather have been tubing down the river than sweating my butt off on the trails. Some sections of the trail are pretty close to nearby highways, so typically you could either hear a distant radio

or music playing from a passing car or truck. But then, on one day in early July, like I said, I heard something which sounded like classic rock music coming through the trees. I used to run without head. if I was trail running because it's not the kind of place where you want to lose your situational awareness. As I was running, I could hear the sound getting closer and closer, like I was about to see some ATV or bike off-roaders coming along the trail at any moment. Within the span of 30 seconds, it felt like the sound had gone from being very distant to sounding like it was almost on top of me.

But bizarrely, even though the sound was so loud, I couldn't see its source. It must have been easily within thirty feet of me, just off to the left in the forest, and it should have been obvious, but it wasn't. The sound got a little louder one second, and it went from sounding like a cross between heavy metal music or a high-pitched engine to sounding like a great buzzing of tiny wings. Then I saw it. It was perhaps five feet from me, and the second I laid eyes on it, it appeared as a big, shapeless shadow floating through the trees.

There were little flies, thousands of them, all buzzing in unison in this big cloud that moved like it was one ethereal body. Their buzzing sounded like it was in differing octaves of the same note, definitely not classic rock music, but still eerily mesmerizing. But then, the cloud of tiny buzzing insects suddenly and unexpectedly veered towards me. I tried to back up, but the cloud moved surprisingly fast, and before I could turn and really sprint to get away, I felt and heard the cloud of flies. envelop me. I was expecting to feel them biting or stinging me, and I started to scream and

wave my arms in a pointless, flailing attempt to keep them off of me. I could hear them, and feel them buzzing in my ears, and even though their wings were probably no bigger than an eyelash, their combined buzzing sounded almost deafening. As the cloud took me over, I could feel my skin crawling, not from sheer fright or disgust, but because there were literally things buzzing and crawling all over me for a moment. and it made that moment feel like an eternity. But just a second later, the buzzing subsided, and the cloud moved on. When I opened my eyes, I caught one last glimpse of it before it disappeared among the trees again.

Then, as it left the area for good, the audible buzzing diminished, and its noise warped back into what sounded like ACDC being played from a small, tiny speaker. It was easily the most frightening, unsettling, and downright skin-crawling things, thing I'd ever experienced. The kind of thing that if I didn't know any better, I might think was a demonic manifestation. I mean go back a few hundred years, and a more religious ancestor of mine might have died of fright when this dark, shadowy presence veered towards them out of nowhere. I mean, it's the closest thing to a ghost or spirit I think I'll ever see. Just this inexplicable, mystifying presence that heralded itself before it became visible.

After I got home, I did as much online research as I could to try and figure out just what the hell I'd experienced. This was back in the fall of the year 2000, a time when the Internet wasn't nearly as patted out with information as it is now, but I still managed to find a few relevant websites which gave me a clue as to what had happened. Apparently, during the summer of just a few months prior, Grand Traverse County discovered it had a major tent caterpillar infestation. They're called that because they make little webs that look almost like tents, and they completely strip the leaves of trees that they make their homes in. Obviously this wasn't all that good for the environment, so officials in Traverse City consulted with some nature expert

who told them that flooding the area with black flies who like to lay their eggs on the tent caterpillars cocoons would thin out the infestation and return the balance of nature. Believe it or not, there are actually companies out there who specialize in breeding things like black flies or any other insect species that might prove valuable in managing ecological problems such as a tent caterpillar infestation. They probably made tens of thousands of dollars selling the city of Traverse a whole bunch of these little black flies, and because they'd been living in swarms and close spaces for their short lives,

some stayed in formation longer than others, I guess, and resulted in the thoroughly spine-tingling sight that I had witnessed in the woods that day. it was nice to have some kind of explanation for what happened. I didn't think anything supernatural was at work or anything, but I was still creeped out by the experience. Having something to explain what happened that actually made sense to me on an environmental level gave me an awful lot of peace of mind. I guess there's a lot of things in the world that are like that,

things that are really creepy, even when there's a perfectly rational explanation for them. But I'm certainly in no hurry to experience them, because feeling that huge cloud of swarming buzzing black flies swallow me up and the raw terror it produced in me it's not something i ever want to feel again so this is going to be a really wild ride and there are some pretty personal family details in here too i'm not naming any names or places to try and keep my anonymity so basically a few years back i found some old photographs of an uncle on my dad's side There were photos that I was not supposed to find, and the reason behind that was pretty obvious. The only photos I'd ever seen of this uncle, who had moved away when I was much younger,

were from when he and my dad were kids, or in their early teens. I'd never seen him as an older kid or a grown-up, because by that stage, he was very distant from the family, and then moved across the country before I was out of kindergarten. Apparently, he came to see me one time when I was a baby, but aside from that, that, I had no real memories of him, just the old photos my dad let me see. But by that day, I saw the photos that he didn't want me to see, and everything kind of just fell into place. I remember opening up the little envelope, taking out the pictures, and feeling this intense feeling of confusion for a few minutes as I flicked through those pictures. The photos seemed to

be taken at a music show of some kind, as I remember thinking, did my dad used to be a punk? because there was a lot of that kind of style among the people attending the show. But then, the more I looked, the more I noticed that two or three people appeared over and over again. They had closely shaven heads, wore big black boots and denim, and each had a swastika either on their jacket somewhere or tattooed somewhere prominent, like their neck, shoulder, or arm. That grabbed my attention all on its own. But the thing that really had me pulling back was the fact that one of these skisks,

skinheads with that tattoo looked a hell of a lot like my uncle Alan, the one I hadn't seen since I was a baby. There was actually a moment where I thought one of the other guys might have been my dad, so when I was half freaking out by the time I climbed down from the attic and took the pictures to show mom, who just kept saying, I think you need to talk to your father about this, in a way that told me that she knew the whole story, but didn't want to be the one to have to tell me. Now anyway, About half an hour later, my father and I are having a massive yelling match, mostly surrounding the fact that he and mom had chosen to hide something huge from me. But the thing that really made me explode was how he started telling me,

Alan's not a bad guy, you don't understand. Now imagine being me in that moment and having your dad tell you that your Nazi uncle isn't a bad guy. I mean, that's the dictionary definition of a bad guy, right? I couldn't understand why Dad would say something so insane when the evidence that his brother was some evil bastard was right there, right in front of him. And the argument got really intense, things got very emotional, but as much as I tried to get my dad to talk to me about it,

to explain why he'd kept things hidden, he just didn't want to talk to me about it at all. And then, after, I don't know how long, he burst into tears, and it's the only time I'd ever seen my dad cry. My mom then basically chased me out of the room, telling me to give your father and me a minute to talk, and much like my dad crying, I rarely saw my mom get that mad. Seeing dad cry had already shut me up, but then seeing my mom so furious had me running upstairs. When she started to snap at me, like I know it was already a tense situation,

but seeing dad cry and seeing mom get so mad, that's what made me realize that there might have been more to the story than just my uncle being a jerk. I was still angry, but I also felt kind of dumb for not realizing that there was a whole backstory behind my uncle and his especially bad life decisions. And it was one that was very painful for my father to have to remember. I knew it would be a crazy story. There's no way that it couldn't have been. But when I sat down with dad and he told me the whole thing from start to finish, I had to pick my jaw up off the floor afterwards. Uncle Allen was just two years younger than my dad,

and they were best friends growing up, but around the age of 13, my uncle's behavior started to change, and he became my dad's polar opposite in just about every way. He fell in with a bad crowd, a really bad crowd, and the deeper he went down that skinhead rabbit hole, the more he became completely incompatible with any kind of civilized society. Those were basically my dad's words too. He didn't want my uncle around me when I was a kid. He still loved him. He still loved him, but he wasn't about to let some meth head around his daughter. And the same applied to almost everyone else, too. He became a pariah, and soon living in the city got too much for him. You can't exactly walk around with those kinds of tattoos and not get yourself into trouble, I guess. So Uncle

Allen started looking for some other place to live, and that's when he heard about some white supremacist militia turned doomsday cult living out in the middle of nowhere. He and Dad were talking around the time he moved away, so Dad doesn't know exactly how it all came about, but Uncle Alan ended up living with these people, and basically preparing for the end of the world. Not the end in any biblical sense, but like a helter-skelter-style race war that it'd end society as we know it. There were all kinds of people out there too, from all walks of life, whole families too, but they were all there because of that one ugly thing that united them, hate. Yet having families meant that there were kids there, a bunch of them,

but apparently not everyone had their best interests in mind. Somehow, Uncle Allen discovered that a few of the guys that he'd stayed with were in the process of trying to groom one of the girls that was part of one of the families. I don't know how exactly, but there was some kind of confrontation, and Uncle Allen's worst fears were confirmed. He went straight to the group's leader, but instead of acting on the tip and investigating what was going on, the leader tried to downplay the whole thing

and told my uncle that he was just being paranoid. Personally, I think the guy was in on it, but excuse me if I'm kind of biased towards literal Nazis. Anyway, Uncle Alan figured that he was faced with two choices at that point. Number one, do nothing. and just allow these racist scumbags to groom a little girl. Or number two, find a way to get those kids as far away as possible, and do so by any means necessary.

I guess he knew he couldn't prove that the guys were trying to groom the girl, so there was a chance that the cops wouldn't be able to do anything about it. But what they'd be very interested in was all the illegal weapons and bomb-making equipment that they had stashed up there. And so, my uncle Alan became a little. snitch. Apparently, he helped the feds sneak up to the place the group was staying too. If he hadn't, there probably would have been another Waco out there in the woods, and all those kids might have been killed in the crossfire. Heck, they might even have done like a Jim Jones

and killed everyone so the feds couldn't get to them. So I understand why he'd cooperate to the point of actually guiding them in or telling them the secret password or whatever it was. But then after that, when everyone was up on charges, Uncle Allen had to go on the run. He could have turned state's witness, got a whole new identity, but he didn't want to work with the feds any more than he had to, and he didn't want to go running to Uncle Sam to protect him from anyone or anything. And so instead, he pays my dad one last visit and then just disappears. I asked Dad what was said during that last meeting, and apparently, it was mostly Uncle Alan explaining what had happened out there in the woods, and then apologizing for being away for so long

without reaching out in any way. He then apologized again because he had to move far away and never come back, because there were people who wanted Dad, you see. I guess it was already a risk meeting my dad, and they met somewhere quiet after dark too, so I guess Uncle Alan was really serious about being in danger. After that, Dad never saw or heard from him again, not even so much as a phone call. I don't even know if Uncle Allen came to regret his beliefs or his actions. I hope he did, and in my head, I like to imagine that he found some dignity in helping those kids, or at least trying to help them, and that he was able to build himself up from that. But then again, maybe he's still the same guy, and I'd call him a piece of crap to his face

if I ever met him, and he still has those disgusting tattoos. But it's just kind of weird to think that a person like that could at least do some small amount of good in the world. Not enough to balance out the hate that he has, but still better than nothing, I guess. I've been walking and running on forest trails for most of my adult life, and here are some of the weirdest, creepiest, and most frightening things I've experienced on those trails. One day, I went trail running on a rainy, foggy day. There were no other cars, and I didn't see any other people up there, but I was around five miles up the trail, which is about eight kilometers for you find people across the pond. There's a part where the trail is really steep, and you kind of slow down and stoop low to avoid this really

low-hanging branch, so you can't really see what's on the other side. But then I pass under the branch, stand up, and suddenly I'm face-to-face with a raccoon head sitting on top of a big rock, deliberately placed facing the trail. It looked fresh too. The blood hadn't finished drying, and its eyes had been gouged out. It still looked like a fresh wound. It was very unnerving to randomly come face to face with that on a foggy day alone in the woods. I stayed very well away from that head, kept on going, and didn't see anything else weird that day, unless you count two crows following me, circling above me the whole time I was there. The second thing happened when I was running a new trail that I'd never been to before. I was having a lovely time until I came to a long,

straight section of the trail, and I could see up ahead two trees that looked like they'd been propped together to create an incomplete archway over the trail. On the tip of each tree was a deer skull, placed so that if you walked in the center of the trail, they were both looking down at you as you passed them. Seeing this obviously set off some alarm bells, but I just kept running. You can bet that I stayed ready to pull out my can of bear mace from my little fanny pack. Moments after I passed that archway with the skulls, I started getting chills all over, and I felt like I was being watched. I also remember it suddenly got very quiet in the woods, where moments before I could hear birds and the chatter of small animals in the brush. Anyone who is an experienced outdoorsman can tell you

that sudden silence in the woods is not a good sign. Generally, it means there's a predator of some kind nearby. It almost feels like the whole forest is holding its breath, waiting for it to pass. I only made it like 20 feet past the archway before that bad feeling in my gut convinced me to turn around and leave. I felt like I was being stalked or watched the whole time I was going down the trail until I got closer to the parking lot. I didn't see a thing though. To this day, I have no idea what that was all about, but I'm glad I listened to my gut and turned around. Any supernatural explanations aside, it easily could have been a cougar or a grizzly bear that was living out there, or maybe even a moose. I didn't see or experience anything other than the feeling of being followed or watched.

And when you're out in the mountains alone, though, you trust that gut feeling. This one took place in the same place as the first story with that raccoon head. This time, I was not alone, and I had three friends with me. Something to note is that there was only one way to get into this canyon and to reach the trailhead. You have to park on a residential street up in the hills and walk on the trail past like three people's houses. When we arrived, there were no other cars around, so most likely no people up the trail either. Early on in the trail we encountered our first oddity. There were some clothes on the trail, laid out on the ground as if though someone had recently been wearing them.

a shirt, jacket, pants, boots, socks, all arranged as if someone had been laying there and then just melted away, leaving only the clothes behind. I thought it was weird as heck, but I made a joke that we might find some crazy naked person running around here on the way up, and we laughed it off and kept going. Not much further up the trail, we saw the second oddity, just a whole bunch of camping equipment in a big old pile. I'm talking big hiking backpacks. bags, sleeping bags. All of this gear looked brand new, never used. There was enough gear for like

ten people, and there was no one around. I thought that was weird, but we kept going. Well, we saw a couple more similarly big piles of gear stashed in clear view along the trail, but again, no one at all around. Further up the trail we had probably gone three-ish miles or four point-eight kilometers at this point, and we encountered yet another large pile of gear, but this time it was right in the center of the trail for some reason. I remember there were a few backpacks sitting next to each other, and they were just full, bursting with something. I wanted to look, I really did, but none of us wanted to touch the bags or open them up. It gave us all kind of a weird feeling. I remember there were a handful of leather coats strewn about that area too, for some reason.

At this point, my friends and I were getting a little uneasy about all of this because none of this made any sense, and it'd be quite an undertaking to bring all of this camping gear up to this trail. It's not an easy trail, and it was enough gear that it would take probably 20 to 30 plus people to bring it all in one go. We decided not to touch anything, and just kept going. I remember a very distinct moment when something changed. I led the group and climbed up a boulder to continue on the trail. and what do I see up ahead? Yet another big pile of equipment laid out in the middle of the trail.

Suddenly, at that moment, it got quiet, and as you know, that's never a good sign out in nature. Nothing changed other than that, but this feeling of dread came over me suddenly, and my intuition was telling me to get the hell out of there. So I turned around and said, executive decision, we're leaving. No one argued.

My friends had picked up the, same vibe as I had. It was kind of a tense hike, but we didn't see anything other than the stuff that was still there, or anyone the whole way down. When we arrived at the car, I called the nearest ranger station and told them what we saw, and I never heard back from them. I have no explanation for any of this, but ultimately what was weird to me is that they brought all this stuff up there, and just left it in plain view of the trail, and then they were just gone. The last couple of piles we saw in the middle of the trail gave off a distinct it's a trap vibe for some reason, and we didn't see or hear another person up there. Where did they

go? Why did they bring all that stuff up there and vanish? Why did they leave all their stuff behind? And what the hell did they have in those backpacks? There is a ghost town high up in the Montana Mountains, not far from Yellowstone. Few people know about it. The only road in and out fell into disrepair long ago. To get there requires an intermediate climbing skill set. It can only be attempted when conditions are warm and dry, which around here amounts to a window of a couple of months each year. My grandfather spoke of it once. The story lacked detail, the particulars lost in the fog of memory, and Pop was never one to embellish once his recollection failed. It was a story he heard as a boy, of a silver mine up in the mountains.

of a creature that called the forest home. It was no bear. It was no wolf. Whatever it was refused to share the land with the miners and the fledgling town built to support them. What followed was a massacre. The survivors abandoned the town and never returned. Last summer, Taylor and I hiked and camped for a week within Yellowstone National Park. We lucked out with the weather.

We went off grid and loved every minute. The last night, beside a whispering fire, we promised we would do it again. As the firmament above turned about the North Star, I told her about the ghost town. She breathed the story in. That's where we would go. A harsh winter is rendered tolerable by the promise of spring. It was the summer, though, that held my attention. A long break from school and a week in the mountains.

It is a rare treat to do precisely what you most desire. The warmth of the sun brought with it an unbridled giddiness. The weight was almost over. We drove as far as we could, winding our way up between mountains stripped of the white caps of winter and smeared with green and blue and brown. Taylor rolled the car to a stop on the shoulder of a lonely dirt track. The crisp mountain air tempered the warmth of the sun.

We shouldered our packs and climbed. What is left of the ghost town, as far as we knew, did not amount to much. The Rangers fingered it on a map, though none had been up there. The location was an inherited knowledge. My grandfather could only guess as to the whereabouts. It's up there somewhere, he had said. When I told him our plans and that it was his story that inspired our destination, a smile gave way to pensiveness. He told me to be careful. I told him not to worry. The spruce trees thinned the higher we climbed. We scrambled up a rocky shoulder and Taylor checked the map. We were making good ground. If luck fell on

our side, we would get there by sunset. An impassable chunk of vertical rock face led to a detour that cost us a couple of hours. It would have to be tomorrow. We camped in a clearing with a view of our destination across the plain. In the distance, the trees huddled together as if against the cool night air and obscured thicks on the map. I wondered what we would find. There was a good chance little remained, perhaps a few stumps where a rudimentary wooden house once stood. We turned our attention to the sky and watched for shooting stars and agreed it didn't matter. Taylor woke me in the dead of the night. The half-moon hung low over the mountains. Her whispered words came out in bursts. My groggy brain took its time assembling them into something

coherent. She had heard something. The crack of a tree branch, sharp and loud as if it had been snapped like a twig, and now there was a light. In the pale silver glow of the moon, I followed her outstretched hand. Hanging just above the horizon, a yellow light flickered, it gave the impression of a candle burning in a window. Except out here there were no windows, and no one to burn a candle. I could only offer vague solutions, an optical trick played by some atmospheric anomaly, a hunting group around a campfire, though this was not a usual place for such things. Whatever it was, it lay far enough away to pose no danger. What neither of us said is that it lay in the direction of our travel.

We lay back down. For a time, I opened my right eye at intervals to check if the light remained. It did, and then I slept. We barely spoke in the morning and set off in the direction of the ghost town. I was anxious to uncover a mundane explanation for the light we saw the night before, the remains of a campfire or some hermit living alone up in the mountains. The way Taylor kept her eyes on the trees ahead told me she was thinking the same. We entered into the thick patch of forest.

The trees grew close and blocked the sun. Stray branches scratched at our bare legs. The ground undulated, and I found myself instinctively following it down, and soon I was disoriented. Taylor took out the map and the GPS. Inexplicably, the GPS gave no signal, and she turned her attention to the map. I ventured forward until my boot stubbed against something solid.

After a glance down, I jumped back. A wooden stake driven into the hard earth. It had cracked about a foot above the ground, and whatever once had been above, I could only guess at. But then, more emerged from between the trees. To my left, a clearing full of them. Wooden crosses arranged haphazardly, dozens of them. I called out to Taylor, my voice thin and small.

I stepped through the cemetery, careful not to step on the ground directly in front of any cross, an old superstition difficult to kick. The crucifixes were rudimentary, simple planks of wood. Some were overtaken by rot, others preserved well enough to read an inscription across the horizontal member, names and dates. The congregation in the back corner contained no less than six, all with the same date. December 7, 1891.

The massacre of my grandfather's story, I thought. Probably cholera, Taylor said, voicing her own explanation. If there is anything left of that town, we must be close. Beyond the cemetery, the spruce thinned and the ground rose. We crested the slope and there it was. The remains of the town stood on a plateau of hard earth. A few of the wooden houses remained as complete structures.

The timber warped and cracked and bleached the color of the ground. A few more were relieved of roofs and parts of walls leaving a fragile relic of what had been. My eyes swept up the sloping mountain beyond where a rusted red limb of mining equipment poked above the rocks. Taylor approached the closest house and pushed the door. The gentle force tore the door from its door. hinge and it slapped against the dirt interior of the house. Needles from the surrounding spruce littered the floor. She ventured inside. I lingered on the outside and examined a pair of grooves in the timber siding. Weather had worn the edges. I ran my fingers down them and wondered what could have made

such marks. This is cool, Taylor said. She was right. Some of the houses contained old tables and chairs and bed frames left behind before the move back down the mountain. We found little else, save a lone glass bottle half buried in the ground. We dumped our gear beside the house closest to the cemetery and set about scaling the rock in the direction of the mining equipment beyond. We found a crude staircase cut into the rock and powered to the top. What remained of the mining equipment amounted to an a-frame with a bucket on rails to extract the dirt and a few abandoned picks. A shaft cut into the earth and was soon swallowed by darkness. We could only guess at the depth. I scrambled up a slope beyond and sat on a small rock platform with a lookout over the valley below, my legs dangling

over the side. In the distance the mountains looked blue. We lingered there for a time, until the sun kissed the peaks to the west. Tonight we would camp at the ghost town, and we would stay a few days. The first sign of trouble was my red windbreaker lying on the ground beside a half-collapsed house at the back of the ghost town. When we left, the windbreaker was packed tightly into my backpack. Something had messed with my bag. It wouldn't be the first time. Squirrels or birds had done it before, but I was sure the windbreaker was deep down in my bag. It would take a persistent squirrel to get to it. A second option had my heart thumping. A bear. Our gear was a mess. Our clothes and sleeping bags were strewn across the ground.

The small gas burner was upturned. My backpack had two parallel tears running top to bottom. I ran my hand over them like I had the two grooves in the siding on the house. This was no squirrel. Taylor picked up her black pan and turned it in her hand. She showed me. One side buckled inwards. Taylor gripped it and pulled at the metal to bring it back into shape.

It did not budge. A bear. I said. It had to be. I fumbled in my bag for the canister of bear mace. My muscles tensed and my hands worked frantically until I found it, stored where I had left it. At least we still had that. We searched the ground and looked for bear tracks, the tell-tale wide paws and grouping of front and back legs together. I found a depression in the ground. I hovered my foot above the footprint, my shoe dwarfed in comparison, and no second print. Whatever came into our camp did so on two legs, and at the base of those two legs were extraordinary feet.

It can't be true. Someone is messing with us. Taylor inspected the print. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it. I looked west and the sun was already gone, the sky turning a shade of orange at the horizon. Light would fade fast. We had few options. Whatever it was that had been here was not here now. We had planned to camp outside under the stars, but with something stalking the forest we rolled our sleeping bags and mats inside one of the houses. At least it provided some semblance of security. We did not risk a fire. Darkness overwhelmed the light quickly and completely. Clouds rolled in from the west at nightfall. A light breeze carried a faint hint of moisture. The forecast had warned of possible storms. I stuck my head out one of the windows.

and aside from a blurred smudge of the moon through the clouds, the sky gave no light. We were on edge. Inside the house it was a deep, pitch black. I set the canister of bear mace beside my pillow, periodically palming it to make sure it was still there. Every crack and rustle from the forest had us twitching and turning our ears to the sound. I buried my head between my knees and wondered how I could tolerate the hours left until morning. I apologize I apologize to Taylor for suggesting we come out here. She laughed it off. We'd get through it and have an amazing story to tell.

Her voice trembled. I don't know what time I fell asleep. When I woke, it was still dark, and my pillow was wet. Light rain made a gentle wrapping on the roof. A hole in the roof let through a small drip. I dragged my sleeping bag over to a dry section of floor. In the distance, thunder rumbled, low and ominous. Then something else, closer, a crack from the forest, not a twig, but something more substantial,

and then a growl, low and deep. I shook Taylor awake. In the darkness, we listened, nothing. Had I dreamed it? No, I couldn't have. There was something out there. Should we risk turning on the torch? No, we had to be quiet.

I closed my hands around the bear mace. The drumming on the roof intensified. The drip, drip of the leak in the roof turned to a constant dribble. A flash lit up the sky, and on its heels a clap of thunder that shook the flimsy structure we had chosen as our protector. The door flew open. I let out an involuntary scream. In the strengthening wind, the door flapped back and forth, wrapping on the wall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

partially destroyed by the rain. We gathered our things and began the walk home. The crosses standing in the cemetery, hammered home that we had been lucky. Before commencing our descent down the shoulder of rock, I turned and looked back up the slope. In the gloom, a lone light shone on the hill where the ghost town and the cemetery stood. Not a welcome light, but a warning. Around three years ago, I was pretty down in the dumps. My long-term girlfriend had just left me. I was back to living in my parents' basement and to top it all off.

Apparently the world was supposed to end in a few months, according to some old calendar. Who knows what sort of stuff could happen? I'd rather be safe than sorry. Anyway, I had been doing some pretty heavy research into Bigfoot sightings. Gigantopithecus, dude in an ape suit, some other undiscovered primate, nobody knows. But I know it's out there, somewhere.

I looked through page after page trying to gather as much information as I possibly could. I was determined. It didn't take me long to decide I was going to head out into the wilderness on my own and search for this elusive thing. I figured we all only had a few months to live anyway. What did I have to lose? I saved up some cash and went to a sporting goods store to pick up some gear, a good tent and sleeping bag, as well as some other assorted camping supplies. I even nabbed some night vision goggles from eBay. I was prepared. I got a plane ticket to Washington State, I'd read that's where a lot of the sightings were, and flew out there within the week. The plane ride was uneventful, except for one very strange occurrence. After polishing off quite a few

rum and coax, hell the world's ending soon, right? As I stumbled my way down the aisle, I suddenly felt every single passenger's eyes on me, even the ones who had been sleeping. I mean, single one, children included. I think I saw a friggin' baby giving me the evil eye. It was dead silent, even though moments before the plane sounded like Mardi Gras. I kept looking back at the passengers when my hands found the bathroom door. They all had their heads turned around, still pointing their dark gazes at me. I slowly turned my head around to find an old woman inches from my face. Her eyes were all white. Blood trickled from her nose. She grabbed me by face and pulled me closer still.

Her rancid breath whispered something to me. Find us. We're waiting, the hag whispered. I practically threw myself into the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind me. What the hell was going on? Did I fall asleep on the plane and am now dreaming? Did somebody spike my drink and I'm now tripping out? Were the conspiracy nuts right and the world is ending? It took me about five minutes to calm myself.

down. I wasn't a huge fan of flying to begin with, let alone flying straight into a Twilight Zone episode. I decided to peek my head out of the bathroom to see if old demon eyes was still there. She wasn't. It actually looked normal again. I stepped out of the bathroom and walked back to my seat. Nobody was staring at me anymore. Had I imagined all that? I wish I could say that I had in fact imagined it all. But unfortunately, as I sat down, I noticed there was a small piece of paper in my seat. It was a business card. It was all white, plain, with nothing but an address on it.

237 Highway 12 East, Packwood, Washington. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. At this time, we'd like to ask y'all to please return to your seats and buckle up, as we'll be preparing to make our touchdown in the beautiful Emerald City of Seattle. The plane taxied to a halt. and I got off, eager to get the hell out of there. I opened the map app on my phone, and typed in the address from the business card. The app couldn't find the address, typical of that buggy piece of crap.

But it did show me where Packwood was. I knew I'd heard of it before. It was a little town deep in the wilderness between Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens, prime territory for Bigfoot sightings. I'd planned on going through there any way on my way south so I could stop off for supplies before heading into the forest. I turned the card over in my hands, and I shrugged. I figured the hell with it.

I'm out here for adventure, aren't I? Might as well check the place out. I got my bag, haggled with the rent-a-car clerk for a bit, and started the two-hour drive south. I listened to the radio, the station selection slowly dying out the further I got from Seattle. For the last 20 minutes, the only thing coming in was a single station

playing old-timey music on an endless loop. The same strange tune, over and over, fuzzed with little bursts of static now and again. By the time I reached Packwood, it was starting to get to me. I thought I could hear someone whispering in the static. It was the middle of the night when I reached the town. I drove down Highway 12, noting the address signs as I went, looking for the address on the card. All the numbers were in the 13,000s.

Whoever wrote down 237 must have made a mistake. I pulled into the Packwood Inn and went into the office. No one was there, just a few keys laid out on the counter and a handwritten note that said, Pay up in the morning. I grabbed one and opened up a room. I was exhausted from the long trip, and I plopped down on the bed. I messed around on my phone for a bit. Thought about texting my ex-girlfriend.

You said I should have more ambition? Well, how about Bigfoot hunting? I typed before deleting it, and I fell asleep. I woke up a couple of hours later. It was still dark out. I have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places, so I decided to just get an early start on the day. I went into the bathroom and pulled my shirt off to take a shower.

I froze. I stared into the bathroom mirror, unable to process what I was seeing. The number 237 had been written on my chest, in crimson red paint. I freaked instantly, jumping in the shower and soaking my bottoms in the process. The red numbers melted slowly into formless pink and red shapes. I fought down the panic as the shower warmed from its biting cold, and I scrubbed the last remnants of the numbers off of my chest. Someone had been in my room, and somehow painted numbers on my chest, all without waking me up. I had no idea what this meant, but I knew it wasn't safe to hang around my room any

longer. I hadn't unpacked much at all, and I grabbed everything that I had brought with me, and hurried down the empty hallways. I passed the desk again, still empty, but the sign had been pulled down, off of it, the only sign of another human I had seen. As I saw the lobby doors, my hurried walk turned into a jog, and I stepped into the surprisingly crisp night air. I turned the rental car onto the same old-timey music. Screw that, I growled to no one but myself, turning the radio off with comforting decisiveness. Despite the lack of people, or maybe because of it, I felt watched. There was a full moon out and the clock in my car told me that I should be getting the benefits

of dawn soon, so I kept the headlights off until I eased out of the parking lot and was back on the main town road, back on Highway 12. I drove north. Although the technical area of Packwood was large, most of the buildings were large, most of the buildings were clustered in the center near the inn and tourism centers. As I drove with a slowly growing sense of tension, I passed a church. Then, the only sign that I was still in Packwood were paths that cut into the trees and disappeared, and side roads that led to nestled houses in the forest. I should have just kept going and left the entire town behind. I didn't. Something

red flashed in the dim edges of my headlights, and I stopped, mind whirling towards the numbers that had been painted on my chest. I suppose one thing all Bigfoot hunters have in common is undying curiosity and placing personal comfort and safety below the thrill of the chase. I gathered all of my survival gear that I had thrown in the back seat

and put it on, just in case. I shone the flashlight around looking for what I had seen. The trees were marked, marked with crimson paint. Unlike what had been on my chest, this paint was faded, worn away on the bark save for the well-preserved.

You could still make out the shapes of the markings through the paint that was preserved in the cracks with a little effort. I knew from both my research on Bigfoot sightings and the brief search on packwood I had done after receiving the address that the town had, for most of its history, been a lumber town. The industry had collapsed in the late 1990s, and the town's big lumber mill had closed down suddenly. These trees had been marked for harvesting,

but had never made it. Most were marked with simple X's, but my flashlight fell on red lettering. 134, not the number I had been given. But there were other trees. Not very many were marked with numbers. There were several 134s, but I saw 222 and swallowed. My heart was racing now, and I jumped as the handheld radio in my pack suddenly crackled to life. The music nothing but broken words fighting to cut through static now. Find us. The words echoed and I felt compelled. I broke into the trees, abandoning the highway as I panned my flashlight tree to tree, searching and working deeper into the swatch of trees that had been marked. In my head, I went over everything I knew about Packwood. Unfortunately, my knowledge of its actual history mostly ended at the lumber mill,

and most of what I knew revolved around Bigfoot sightings. Packwood wasn't exactly a mainstream destination for Bigfoot sightings. It had only really started getting any amount of significant sightings around 10 years ago, and even then, nothing conclusive. Really, you would only know to look for Bigfoot at Packwood if you were the kind of obsessive hunter that had already exhausted the mainstream spots, the kind that went into further and further remote regions, trusting success to slimmer and slimmer chances, the more underground the better. I personally had even considered Packwood nothing serious, not until the hag on the plane. The kind of hunters who no one was surprised went missing, the thought crossing my mind the same moment my light crossed a hulking pitch-black

pine, 237 scrawled across its trunk in fresh crimson letters. The radio was hissing static like whispers, and the phrase, We're waiting, we're waiting, we're waiting, droned through my mind. Once my light had found the one tree I saw another There was a whole scattering of black pines Trunks twice as thick as the ones around them A dense sleek black only marred by the bright red numbers on each of their trunks Find us, we're waiting And then silence

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

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

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

And it was wrong. I was not alone on the airplane. Every seat was full of crumbling skin and slack-jawed bones, buckled in as if it were just now making the descent. The strange thing was, they were all in different levels of decay. The remains of a dressed-up woman cradled a swaddle of death in her arms, while a fairly intact man with glasses studied an in-flight magazine. And near the back, an old woman with a toothy blood-stained grin stared at me. They all stared at me, every single one.

They all watched me with dark gazes from eyes they didn't have, judged me with sneers of faceless expressions. Every face, every aisle, every seat, every seat save one. It was empty, on the aisle, and strangely familiar. I walked to it slowly, the empty eyes of every passenger watching me pass. It was labeled 37, but beside it, someone had painted a crimson two. 237. And then, I knew.

I knew why it all felt so familiar. Why the plane was like a distant memory and the seat deja vu. This was my seat. On the plane, this was my seat. And this was my seat now. I sat down, and it was right, just. right. I buckled myself in because safety first. My tray table was secure, but I was sure that any minute now the pilot would announce refreshments, and I would get a rum and coke and maybe take a nap.

And their eyes weren't on me anymore because we were ready, up, up, and away. They were waiting, and I had found them. And then, 17 hours later, she found me. Her name was Deanna. She was a hunter, just like me. She pulled me from the plane. and from the brink of insanity. She'd been out camping and found the numbers, followed them just as I had. When she heard the droning of the plane engine, curiosity got the better of her.

That's when she found me, still in the seat, still mindlessly staring into blissful nothingness. She brought me to her camp and then back into town. She left me at the bus station and I never saw her again. In the dim light of early dawn, the third call came in, rousing me from the shallow sleep of a restless night.

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

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

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

nagged at me, an unwelcome companion as I pushed further into the unknown. Parking the truck at the end of the navigable road, I stepped out into the morning air, crisp and laced with the scent of pine and damp earth. The worst of the ridge lay ahead. Its steep inclines a physical echo of my growing apprehension. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a sensation that crawled under my skin as I made my way through the dense underbrush. And then I saw him, a silhouette against the gray light of dawn, standing among the birches. His black jacket was unmistakable, the hood drawn tight around his face, a void where his features should be. Even from a distance, the air around him felt charged, heavy with an unspoken threat. I paused, considering my approach. The rational part of my brain

reasoned that he was just a man, lost, or perhaps up to no good, but nothing beyond the scope of our usual dealings. Yet, as he turned, half-facing me, something in his posture suggested he was anything but ordinary. Closing the distance, I raised my hand in greeting, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Hello? My voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the forest, the single word hanging between us. He didn't respond, just turned and began to walk away, disappearing into the trees with a grace that belied his ominous appearance. The chase was brief. Curiosity propelled me forward, each step drawing me deeper into his world. As I reached out to grab him, a shock ran through me, a jolt that set my nerves alight. In that moment everything changed. The forest around me seemed to shift,

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

The old stone well sat like a relic in the center, its presence both comforting and incongruous. The man in the black jacket, a silent sentinel on the far side, motioned me closer. Each step towards the well felt like wading through a current, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline sharp in my veins. I paused a few feet away from the edge, the air between us charged with an unspoken warning. The sun was warm on my back, but it did nothing to ease the chill that had settled deep in my bones. The man pointed to the well again, a silent command that brooked no argument. The old stones were cool and rough under my fingertips, moss and lichen clinging to them like memories.

Carved into the inner wall, nearly obscured by time and growth, were words that sent a shiver down my seat. spine. Truth lies at the bottom of a well. An ominous promise, or a threat, I couldn't decide. Drawn by a force I couldn't name, I peered into the darkness. The well was deeper than I had anticipated, its secrets cloaked in shadow. But then, a glimmer of light at the bottom caught my eye, a reflection that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Squinting, I leaned closer, the image at the bottom coming into focus. It was the forest, but not as I knew it. The trees were shrouded and mist,

bathed in the ethereal light of a full moon. The scene shifted, and I was looking at a road I recognized, one that led back towards civilization, back towards responsibility and reality. And there he was, the man in the black jacket, not a ghost or a specter, but flesh and blood, thumb outstretched in the universal sign of a traveler in need.

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

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

now felt oppressive, each tree, a silent witness to the secrets it concealed. I drove back in a daze, the weight of the truth I carried a heavy shackle. What had started as a routine investigation had become a descent into a nightmare, one from which I feared there would be no waking. The morning was crisp, the kind that hinted at the end of summer. with a bite in the air that told you fall wasn't far behind. I sat in the truck, engine idling, waiting for Jim. The plan was simple, but my mind was anything but. The image of the hitchhiker, the truth at the bottom of the well, haunted me.

It was a specter that clung closer than my own shadow. Jim slid into the passenger seat, his greeting terse. The air between us was thick, heavy with unspoken words and secrets. I put the truck in gear, the road ahead familiar yet foreboding. We were retracing the steps of a ghost, and the closer we got to that curve, the tighter the knot in my stomach grew. We're taking a shortcut, I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. Jim's confusion was palpable, a mirror to my own inner turmoil.

But as we neared the spot, his nervousness became unmistakable. His hands trembled and he couldn't sit still. guilt I realized wears many masks. I stopped the truck, the silence between us stretching out. We're here, I said, stepping out into the cold morning air. Jim followed reluctantly, his eyes darting around as if looking for an escape. The walk to the gully was a descent into the past. Each step a reminder of the vision that had been seared into my mind.

The forest seemed to close in around us, whispering secrets I wished I could unhear. And then we were there, standing at the edge of the world. Below us, hidden beneath branches and leaves, lay the hitchhiker. The scene was exactly as the well had shown me. I felt Jim's eyes on me, his fear a tangible thing. I found something, I called out, my voice steady despite the chaos within. Jim's plea for me to stop, to turn back, went unheeded. I had to see, had to know.

The call to the authorities was a blur, the words tumbling, out. Jim stood beside me, a statue of denial and despair. When the officers arrived, the forest held its breath. The hitchhiker's body was retrieved, a silent testament to a night gone horribly wrong. The interrogation that followed was a dance of shadows. I spoke of Jim's truck, of coincidences too pointed to ignore, but the truth, the whole truth, remained locked away. The well, the vision, those were mine alone to bear. Jim's truck vanished, sold or hidden. It didn't matter. The investigation concluded with more questions than answers. The death ruled an accident. But Jim and I, we knew the truth. It hung between

us, an unbreakable bond forged in the darkest of nights. I returned to my desk to a life forever altered. The note I left in Jim's letterbox, a whisper in the night went unacknowledged, but it didn't matter. We both knew. The dreams came, relentless. The Hitchhiker, his final moments illuminated by headlights, a life extinguished too soon. And in the quiet moments, I would find myself drawn back to the forest, searching for a well that remained elusive, a truth just out of reach. Sometimes I think the well was never meant to be found again, its secrets too heavy for the light of day.

And as I sit at my desk, the forest stretching out beyond the window, I can't help but wonder if some truths are better left buried, deep in the heart of the woods. I've always thought of Alaska as a land of contrasts. Where else can you find such breathtaking beauty that, in the next moment, could turn into a scene straight out of a survival handbook? Anchorage, my hometown, is the perfect example. One look out the window, and you're faced with landscape so stunning, they seem painted by the grandest artist of all.

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

lonely roads of Alaska. My mom, working night shifts as a respiratory therapist, often found herself driving through the eerie quiet of Anchorage's streets, long after most had settled in against the cold night. Despite their demanding jobs, my parents made a point to reconnect with me through our shared love of the outdoors. Alaska might not be teeming with people, but it's rich with state and national parks, each offering its own unique slice of wilderness. Whenever both managed to get some time off together, we'd pack up our camping gear and

set off to explore these natural wonders. One of our most memorable trips was to Denali National Park. It's a place of raw beauty, a sprawling expanse of wilderness that captures the heart of what it means to be Alaskan. The park itself is massive, stretching over thousands of square miles of untouched land. Half of it is cloaked in dense pine forests, home to a network of streams and lakes, while the other half boasts the imposing presence of Mount Donali. With its snow-capped peak and glacier-covered slopes, the mountain stands as a silent guardian

over the land. Denali is a paradise for wildlife too. Bears, wolves, elk, moose, and even the more elusive creatures like foxes and raccoons, roam freely. It's like stepping into a world where nature still reigns supreme, a reminder of how vast and wild our world can be. The dangers of such a place are real, of course. Everyone knows to be cautious of bears and to keep food stored securely. The cold, too, is a constant companion, one that demands respect and preparation. But for all its challenges, Alaska fosters a spirit of community and resilience. Here, offering a helping hand isn't just a courtesy, it's a necessity. You never know when you might be the one in need. As we set out for Denali, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. The park,

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

mom's plans to spot as much wildlife as possible, filling the car with a sense of anticipation. Setting up camp was a familiar routine. Our movements practiced and efficient. Yet, the backdrop of Denali's towering forests and distant mountains made it feel like a new experience. Our tent, a cozy haven of fabric and poles, stood proudly among the whispering pines, our temporary home in the wild. The first day in Denali was like living in one of those nature documentaries I used to watch with wide-eyed wonder. My stepdad and I headed to a nearby stream, rumored to be a prime spot for fishing. The water was crystal clear, flowing with a gentle hum that spoke of the untamed wilderness surrounding us. Each cast of the line was a moment of hope, the anticipation of what might

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

It was moments like these, she said, that made all the stresses of her job fade away. As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, we gathered around our campfire. The crackling flames offered warmth against the evening chill, a cozy center for our little family. We cooked the fish we had caught, the smell of it roasting over the fire, filling the air with a rustic aroma. Dinner was a feast not just of food, but of stories. My parents shared tales from their childhoods, stories of Alaska that seemed to blend the lines between reality and legend. Under the vast star-filled sky, their voice.

Voices wove a tapestry of life in this beautiful, rugged place. Feeling full and content, I announced that I was heading to bed, the day's adventures having taken their toll. The night air was cool and crisp as I made my way to the tent, the sounds of the night forest a soothing lullaby. I snuggled into my sleeping bag, the excitement of the day giving way to the peaceful embrace of sleep. But the peace was short-lived. I was jolted awake in the deep, silent hours of the night by a sound of the night. that was out of place in the calm wilderness, a soft, rhythmic scratching just outside my tent. My heart raced as I lay frozen, trying to make sense of the noise in the pitch-black night.

The tranquil wilderness of Denali had suddenly taken on a more menacing character, and I was about to discover that its beauty was matched only by its mysteries. In the absolute silence of the Alaskan night, every sound feels amplified, like the world is holding its breath. That scratching noise just outside my tent was so unexpected, it cut through the quiet like a knife. I lay there frozen, my heart thumping loud enough to betray my presence to whatever lurked beyond the thin fabric of my shelter. At first, I tried to convince myself it was nothing, maybe just the wind playing tricks, or a small animal curiously sniffing around. But the logical part of my brain struggled to find a rational explanation.

We hadn't set up camp near any trees, specifically to avoid the risk of pine cones tearing the tent, so what could be making that sound? The minutes stretched out, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness as the scratching continued. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The silence that followed was even more terrifying. My imagination ran wild with images of what might be lurking just a few inches from where I lay. The stories of bears and wolves that roamed these parks echoed through my mind, turning my blood to ice. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I heard it, a soft footstep right outside the entrance.

The fear that had been a cold stone in my stomach now surged through my veins with icy certainty. This was no small animal. My mind scrambled for any reasonable explanation. Maybe it was my stepdad coming to check on me. clinging to that shred of hope, I mustered the courage to move, my hands shaking as I reached for the tent zipper. That's when I heard the breathing, a deep, guttural sound that seemed too close. My hand froze on the zipper, every muscle in my body locking up again. I was a statue, barely daring to breathe, as the creature outside sniffed the air. I could almost feel its presence,

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

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

The wilderness of Alaska. With all its beauty and majesty, had shown us its hidden face, a reminder that some things in this world are beyond understanding. The night air hung heavy with a silence that felt charged, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath after the gunshot. My stepdad stood guard, his eyes scanning the darkness where the creature had vanished. I was still trembling, the adrenaline making my heart race. I had so many questions, but the words wouldn't come out. Everything that just happened seemed surreal, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. As dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of pink and orange, we packed up our camp in silence.

The beauty of Denali that had so captivated us now seemed overshadowed by the terror of the night. The drive home was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts, trying to make sense of the encounter. My parents tried to rationalize it as a bear, but I knew what I saw. Bears don't stand on two legs and laugh. Bears don't have eyes that glow with an amber light. What I saw was something different, something that didn't belong in the world as I knew it. But trying to explain it felt impossible.

How do you describe a nightmare to someone who hasn't seen it? Back in Anchorage, life resumed its normal pace, but I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The wilderness had always been a place of adventure and wonder for me, a vast playground to explore. Now it felt like a reminder of how small and vulnerable we really are in the face of the unknown. I spent hours researching, trying to find anything that matched what I saw, legends of creatures that roam the Alaskan wilderness, stories passed down through generations, but nothing fit exactly. It seemed like the creature from that night didn't want to be found,

existing in the shadows just beyond the reach of explanation. As time passed, the sharp edges of fear dulled, but the curiosity remained. That encounter in Denali changed how I saw the world. It was a reminder that there are mysteries out there, secrets hidden in the deep forests and mountain shadows. Alaska, with all its beauty and danger, was more complex and mysterious than I had ever imagined. Reflecting on that night, I realize it wasn't just about the terror or the unanswered questions. It was a lesson in humility, a reminder that despite all our advancements and knowledge, there are still things beyond our understanding. It taught me respect for the wilderness, not just for its beauty, but for the unknowns it harbors.

The wilderness of Alaska is like a book with pages that can never be fully read. Each visit reveals a new story, a new mystery. And while part of me is still frightened by what I saw that night, another part is drawn to the mystery, eager to explore the unknown. Maybe one day, I'll return to Donali, to the vast wilderness that holds so many secrets. But until then, I'll carry the memory of that encounter as a reminder of the wild heart of Alaska, a place where beauty and mystery walk hand in hand, and where the wild things roam free in the shadows. There is nothing to do in my town. If the internet had never been invented,

I would have gotten stuck hanging out at the local coffee shop desperate to fill my time. I have access to unlimited entertainment and information at my fingertips, and yet I still can't find answers about what happened last summer. I'm more of an indoor person. Somehow my friend Kenny dragged me along on a camping trip with his brother and my childhood friend. We all grew up together. Kenny's brother was two years older, so it felt like we never really connected. I didn't dislike him.

We just didn't have anything in common. My best friend was the prettiest girl in the country, and I think she knew it. I had been in love with her since we were 13, but I'd never admitted it to her. I know the movement I did. Our relationship would change. I was scared she might reject my feelings or accept them. Just being friends suits me just fine. The only way to get me outside was if Mila was going to be there.

I think Kenny and Darren knew that. I refused to go on the camping trip. They asked Mila to come along, and they told me she would be with us. I hated how easily they played me. It was a hot day. All of us were sweating by the time we arrived at the campsite. Can we set up the tents after, Kenny said as he let all the bags drop from his shoulders. No, let's get it done now or else we won't get to it on time.

I told him no matter how much I wanted to put it off. I knew him. The last trip he and his brother took, they were too lazy to set up the tents and just slept outside in their sleeping bags. They came home covered in bug bites. I didn't want a repeat of that. They both groaned and listened to me. Mila and I worked on one tent while the brothers set up the other.

There are only two tents, I pointed out. We've shared tents before. She replied not looking up. If she had, she would have seen how red my face got. At least I could blame the sunny weather for my flush cheeks. Kenny decided to toss a full water bottle at Darren but missed. It hit me upside the back of my head, and I needed to go over to them to roughhouse for a little bit. Mile crossed her arms amused by us.

I got my ass handed to me, like always. As I got back up off the ground from the play fight, I noticed something white flash between the trees. I was about to mention it, but the color was gone as fast as I noticed it. We had picked a campsite that wasn't that popular with the locals, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone else in the woods. We finally got the campsite set up, tents ready, food put away in case of any animals and firewood gathered. Once that was all set, we started to head down the path that led to the lake.

We all earned a long swim. Kenny and Darren walked ahead of us, and I helped Mila down the rough pathway. Should we really be camping right now? Mila asked loud enough for Kenny to hear. Wasn't there a big search recently? I heard a little about that. Kenny chimed in to explain what happened.

Four campers high on shrooms walked into the woods and no one found any traces of them. It was three weeks ago, so I don't think we'll come across a feral lost camper, he said with a shrug. It was a bit heartless to imply those four, four were dead. He was right, though. Those four didn't have a good chance of still being around after dealing with this summer heat for three weeks. Just in case, let's not go out in the woods

alone tonight, I told them suddenly, feeling a chill even though I was sweating. Is that your fetish? You like watching us pee? Kenny teased. I think he likes watching number two. No free shows, Darren added. Kind of weird how fast you guys thought of that. Almost like it was on your mind, I replied. I've dealt with these guys for years. I expected the dumbest things to come out of their mouth. Mila giggled at us.

I wondered why she put up with three morons. The lake wasn't as cool as I hoped. The water was nice and it did help with the heat, but I almost wished I was at home with the AC on full blast. Whenever I saw Mila in her black one-piece swimsuit and swim trunks, The thought of AC went out of my mind. I kept forcing my eyes away from her, so she didn't know how much of a creep I was.

I really needed to get a grip on myself. Hey, do you see that? I asked Kenny when he swam over to me. He wrapped an arm around my neck to playfully drag me under, but stopped when I spoke. He followed my line of sight into the woods trying to spot what I was staring at. Is that a person? he asked, squinting.

Soon, Darren and Mila, were looking in the same direction. A white shape was between two trees on the other side of the lake. It did look like a person, but it was impossible to tell at that distance. It was too still to be a person. And yet, it didn't sway in the breeze as if it was a discarded shirt or some trash. Let's go and see, Kenny said as he let go of my neck. He started to swim away, and Mila came up next to me. What do you think it is? she asked. When I'd taken my eyes off the trees and to her, the white object moved. Kenny stopped swimming when he realized what we had been looking at was gone.

Probably some old pervert watching a tasty little thing swim around shirtless, Kenny said with a splash. He's implying the old pervert is watching you. Darren finished with a smile. I slapped the water in his face. Soon the white shape had been forgotten about as we got into a water fight. I kept glancing back into the tree. the white shape didn't return, and I assumed it had been nothing after all.

We started heading back to the campsite when the sky turned a slight orange. Kenny and Darren chanted the entire way back about the beans they were going to cook and eat. I was glad I was not sharing a tent with them tonight. When we did get back, they discovered that somehow they left the bag that held the coveted beans back in the truck. Mila also forgot her socks and a few other things. so she wanted to go back with them. I didn't feel like walking, so I volunteered to stay behind to get the fire started.

They had been gone for at least five minutes, when I heard Kenny's voice again off in the distance. Oddly enough, it wasn't in the direction they left in. Did you forget something? I called out to him. His voice came again, but I couldn't make out the words. It was coming from the direction of the lake, but he would have needed to walk through the campsite to be on that path. I stood up, straining to listen. I called out his name and took a few steps

closer to the pathway heading to the lake. Kenny, stop fooling around, I shouted, my voice echoing through the trees. Did he take the long way around just to scare me? No, he hadn't been gone that long for him to be that far out. I took another step closer but stopped. This felt wrong. after those four people got lost in these woods I decided I didn't want to go down a path alone I went back to setting up the fire and getting dinner ready if Kenny was playing a prank he would get bored and come back oddly enough my three friends came back together

did you see any other cars around I asked them wondering if there had just been another camper out here that sounded like Kenny no it's just us why mila asked catching on Something was bothering me. I heard something while you guys were gone. It sounded human, but it's hard to say. Now I was doubting myself. Did that really sound like a voice?

Or was it too far away to tell? Probably a bird. Some of those loons or whatever they are sounds spooky. Darren said with a shrug, he went out camping here pretty often. I accepted he knew what he was talking about and dismissed my concerns. We settled down to eat. The brothers gladly ate cans of beans as meat.

Mila and I stuck to hot dogs. The brothers also lit up an after-dinner treat. I didn't smoke, but Mila did on occasion. She passed that night. I think she didn't want to bring the smell into the shared tent. Kenny stood up to say he needed to use the washroom. It had gotten dark, so I found him a flashlight. I also needed to go.

Then Darren stood up, deciding he should go with us. And Mila didn't want to be left alone, so we all gathered for a bath. It was a bit hard to focus on the task at hand, knowing Mila was so close by, I knew she had her back turned to us three as we took care of business, and yet it still took me the longest to finish. We scouted a good spot for her, and gave Mila some privacy, but also kept scanning the trees in case a wild animal decided to suddenly appear. With all that taken care of, we were going to head back when an unnatural sound came from nearby, something I never expected

to hear while in a forest at night. A few feet away from us came the sound of a baby crying. I saw Kenny's pale face in the light of my flashlight. Darren silently shook his head as Mila stood frozen in place. I took a step closer to the source of the sound, and Darren's hand fell on my shoulder. Screw that, he whispered. I agreed and took a step back.

We should all just leave. Mila, bless her, didn't want to risk someone actually being in trouble. She bravely marched off into the woods with three guys going after her whispering for us to get out of there. We followed her to the source of the sound. She stopped just outside a small clearing with someone sitting on a log. They were dressed in rags, with their backs facing us. The figure hunched over, rocking back and forth as they made shushing sounds. We didn't hear the baby crying anymore. This was freaky, downright nightmare fuel. Are you all right? Mila asked in a shaking voice.

My baby, my poor baby. The woman spoke, and she sounded so normal compared to how she looked. We can call someone to get you some help, Mila offered. My poor baby is starving. Slowly the figure turned its head. The light caught a set of gray eyes that reflected in our flashlights. Stringy gray hair fell over a pale face. At first the expression was bull.

Then the face transformed into something distorted and monstrous. Kenny and Darren were screaming before that creature stood up. They bolted, leaving Mila and me behind. I grabbed her wrist forcing her to run as the pale creature screeched. It got on all fours to easily cross the cleaning to reach us. It jumped into the air, mouth open, and bony-clod hands outwards. I pulled Mila out of the way in time. The monster crashed into a tree, then flipped around on the tree, then flipped around on the

the ground like a cat trying to right itself. We started running again. Mila's leg shook so much I ended up grabbing her around the waist to start dragging her. To my horror, the monster kept coming for us. I needed to fight back. I let go of her long enough to find a hefty stick to use as a weapon. That was a mistake, although I'm not sure if we had any chance of getting away unscathed. The pale creature came down on Mila, biting down hard on her hand. She screamed and kicked to get the thing away from her. I slammed the branch as hard as I could into the monster's face. It screeched and released my best friend.

I kept hitting it, but I think I was just pissing it off. Just as it was about to go into a counterattack, a whistle came from somewhere. For some reason, the creature suddenly got on all fours, a look of distress on its face. It turned heel and darted back into the woods. To my horror, I saw another pale figure between the trees also take off running on all fours. I didn't care about the reason why they were leaving, only that we were safe for now. How bad is it? I asked Mila, turning all my attention to her. She shook her head, tears in her eyes.

The bite wasn't as deep as I feared. We had a first aid kit back at camp. I took hold of her again to get us moving. I didn't hear Kenny or Darren, even though they left us behind. I hoped they were safe. It'll be all right. We'll get out of here. Do you have your phone?

I asked as we kept moving. Mila shook her head. I hadn't grabbed mine either. Sure, we were smart enough to go into a group, but we hadn't done anything intelligent after that. An odd whistling sound came through the trees. The strange melody chilled me to my core. Mila started to tug at my arm so we would walk.

away from the whistling. I glanced over her shoulder and saw flashes of white darting around the branches above us. As much as I hated the whistling, going in that direction seemed like the better option. Mila protested a little when I pulled on her arm to get us moving. I didn't want to scare her by telling her about the creatures stalking us in the trees. When I heard Kenny scream, I forgot about the threats we faced and ran in his direction. Hearing his voice was a good sign I just hoped we reached him in time. We stumbled into another clearing. I raised the flashlight I somehow still held onto.

The beam of light landed on a stranger's face. His left eye reflected the light, but his right eye didn't. His head was slightly titled, as if amused by our sudden appearance. My skin crawled, seeing such a pleased smile after the terrifying encounter beforehand. Kenny was on the ground, breathing heavily with the man's foot on his chest. My friend also had a bite taken out of his arm that was freely bleeding. For a moment it appeared he had a bolt from a crossbow sticking out of his chest. I soon realized the bolt was stuck inside a pale monster beside him I didn't see at first.

The stranger had a hunter's bow attached to his arm loaded and ready to shoot. What did you do to Kenny? And where is Darren? I demanded with a trembling voice. The man licked his lips and lifted his foot off Kenny's chest. He brushed strands of dirty brown hair from his face only to have it fall back. I just saved this one from being a midnight snack, and I sent the other one down the trail. He might not reach the end of it alone, though. The stranger said, ending his sentence with a raspy laugh. He sounded as if he smoked a pack a day for most of his life.

I didn't trust this guy. Mila tightened her grip on my arm, showing she felt the same way. Two of you got bitten tonight. Bites can turn people into those things. The infected ones won't be able to stand the whistling. After the man spoke, he started whistling in a way that didn't sound human. It was as if a songbird was trying to imitate a man-made instrument. I hadn't been bitten that night, and yet the noise put me on edge.

Kenny recovered enough to scramble away from the stranger. Mila didn't react aside from appearing as nervous as she did when we first stumbled onto this scene. Finally, the man finished whistling and then studied. us all very carefully. He raised the crossbow and rested it on his shoulder. The trail is just past those trees. You kids better get going home. A weight had been lifted off my chest. Aside from some minor injuries and a few scares, we were free to leave. Kenny was the first to get up. His legs shook as he tried to walk towards where we had been directed. Mila and I walked past the man feeling his eyes on us. All the stress from the night came back as he gave us an unseen

judging stare. I thought we were in the clear when a sharp whistle came again. It was so sudden I jumped. Mila did as well. I turned around to comfort her, and what I saw caused my entire world to come crumbling down. Her face changed. The person I'd cared for so deeply, and for so long looked nothing like herself. In her shock, she dropped her mask to let a contorted version of herself show through. When she realized her cover had been blown, her mouth grew wide and was suddenly filled with countless sharp teeth. She wanted to take my head off, but a quick shot from the crossbow stopped her. A bolt went through her cheeks, shattering teeth. She screamed, thrashing around. Before the man shot her again, she ripped the bolt from her face and jumped backward.

Mila landed on all fours, snarling with a bloody mouth towards us. To my horror, a ripping sound came as she sprouted massive bat-like wings. Her hands became claws, and her face transformed into something so far from human that I almost doubted she had once been the friend I cared about. In a flash, she launched into the treetops joining the other white creatures that watched the scene at a distance. It took me a long time to realize the stranger started to drag me away. My brain was so numb from shock I don't remember how long we walked on the trail, or what anyone said to me most of the way back. I knew that man was whistling again. I snapped, wanting the noise to end. He stopped for a few minutes, then I realized the noise was the only thing

keeping those creatures away. He playfully started back up again as Kenny and I kept our heads forward trying to ignore the horrors in the trees. Darren was waiting for us at the end of the trail and outside of the forest. A lone police officer stood next to him, face as cold as steel. We stopped in front of them, unsure of what to say or how to explain ourselves. Did you take care of the problem? The officer asked, almost sounding annoyed. Problems. And nope?

Too many of them to deal with, and get these three out at the same time. I'm going back in to see what I can do. Sure do wish I had a friend coming with me. The stranger said with a loud over-exaggerated sigh. I found my mouth opening to offer to go back to try and save Mila, but the cop stopped me. He saw three scared kids who would die if they tried to fight some monsters in a dark forest. None of that. This is your job, not theirs. Now go and do it while I take care of my duties. The man shrugged again and pulled something out of his pocket. I expected it to be a

pack of cigarettes, but he opened a small jar of dried cinnamon sticks. He tried offering one to Kenny, who refused. I reached out to take one, not to start chewing on like he did. But I needed something real from that night, or else my brain wouldn't believe what happened. This one is bitten. Do you have anything for him? The officer asked, and the stranger shook his head. Without warning, the cop pulled out a packaged syringe with some sort of clear mystery liquid inside. Kenny didn't protest the shot. The officer then reached into his back pocket to pull out three folded pieces of paper. Sign these statements. The story is your friend got up in the middle of the night and got lost. We'll search for her tomorrow.

The cop said and handed us a sheet of paper. Darren looked disgusted, but he signed his name. Kenny needed some prodding to do the same. I refused, and the officer glared daggers in my direction. What if I tell a different story? I threatened, ready to face whatever retaliation that might happen. You can. I say it would be best for you mentally to get the real story out,

but no one will believe you. As it is, people are going to be. assume you three did something to that girl. Don't make it harder on yourself. The stranger said as he rolled the cinnamon around between his teeth, I hated him. I hated myself and I hated what happened. I signed the paper and the officer told us to get inside his car so he could take us to the station. He made us repeat the same fake story a few dozen times. As we drove off, I looked out the back window to see the stranger giving us a sarcastic wave. and I saw the lights of the car being reflected by so many eyes watching in the trees.

There was a search for Mila, but nothing turned up. People have whispered about what happened. None of it is even close to the truth. Kenny and Darren started to stay inside and away from accusing stairs. I've heard they're not as close as they were before. I've started saving up as much as I can to move away. There is nothing left for me in this place aside from bad memories. I don't know if that man hunted down all the monsters lurking in the woods, and deep down,

I hope he didn't kill the thing Mila turned into. Twist it or not, I wanted a part of her to live on, no matter how selfish it was. I need to leave this place. I found myself wanting to go back to those woods to try to find her, and that desire scared me. The real Mila would want me to live, and that is what I'm going to try to do. As the first rays of the sun cut through the thin curtains of my bedroom, I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Today was the day I'd been planning for weeks.

The day I'd step out of my routine and into the wilderness of the Oaxada National Forest. I'd camped before, as a kid, but those were carefree times, under the watchful eyes of my parents. This was different. I was going alone, as an adult, and I couldn't shake off a strange feeling, a premonition almost, that this trip would be unlike any other. I double-checked my gear laid out on the living-room floor, tent, sleeping bag, extra phone battery, enough food and water to last a week, and the 9mm my dad had given me when I turned 18. I'd never felt the need to use it, but out there, it seemed like a reasonable precaution.

You can never be too careful, my dad's words echoed in my mind as I packed everything into the back of my SUV. The drive to Oaxeta was a blend of familiar landscapes and the excitement of venturing into the unknown. With each mile, civilization seemed to recede, replaced by the raw beauty of nature. By the time I arrived, the sun was high, casting dappled light through the dense canopy of trees. I parked in a small clearing, a spot I knew I'd remember, and took a moment to breathe in the crisp air. This is it, I whispered to myself, shouldering my backpack and stepping into the embrace of the forest. Setting up camp was both exhilarating and exhausting.

I found a spot that seemed like it had been waiting for me, sheltered by trees yet with a view of the sky above. As I pitched my tent and gathered wood for a fire, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. This was me, doing this on my own. I cooked lunch over the campfire, the simple food tasting like the finest meal in the solitude of the forest. I even managed to snap a few pictures of deer through the trees, their presence a silent affirmation of the life thriving in this secluded place.

But as the afternoon wore on, an unsettling stillness began to take hold. The forest, so alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant animal calls, gradually fell silent. At first, I convinced myself it was natural, perhaps the ebb and flow of the forest's rhythms. But by late afternoon, the silence felt oppressive, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. I tried to shake off the feeling, even calling a friend to break the silence with human conversation. His laughter and the familiar sound of his voice were a temporary balm, but as we hung up and dusk approached, the unease returned, heavier than before. night fell like a curtain and with it an inescapable feeling of isolation i sat by the fire staring into the flames lost in thought the excitement of the day had faded replaced by a nagging sense that i was not alone

Not in the sense of a comforting presence, but an intrusive one, watching from the shadows. As I crawled into my tent, the nine millimeter by my side, I couldn't escape the feeling that this trip, this adventure I had so eagerly anticipated, was about to take a turn into the unknown. The last thought I had before sleep finally claimed me was a hope that the morning would bring back the forest's song, that the silence was just a fleeting shadow passing through the Wachida. The cold ground beneath me was unforgiving, but sleep had finally taken hold, albeit fitfully. My dreams were a maelstrom of shadows and sounds, blending with the reality of the forest that cradled me. It was a noise, distinct and out of place that wrestled me from the grasp of uneasy slumber.

My eyes snapped open to a world where moonlight was a scant visitor, filtered through the dense canopy above. The forest's silence, which had unnerved me earlier, was now shattered by an unnerving rhythm. Footsteps, if they could be called that, paced with a precision that felt almost methodical. Badadadam! My heart raced, its beats trying to match the cadence of the unseen visitor. The nine-millimeter, cold and solid in my grip, offered a whisper of comfort. I was no stranger to the woods, but this was a fear I hadn't known. The footsteps drew nearer, a deliberate taunt against the backdrop of silence.

Then, as if aware of my heightened terror, they ceased. The silence returned, heavier than before, suffocating. My breaths were loud in my ears, a frantic symphony to the stillness. Then, without warning, the creature unleashed a screech that curdled my blood, a sound so alien it seemed to pull the very air from my lungs. Panic surged as the fabric of my tent tore open, revealing the night. and the nightmare it hid. Its silhouette was a jagged line against the lesser darkness, its movements unnaturally fluid as it shredded the barrier between us.

I fired blindly, the report of the gun shockingly loud, but it only served to anger the creature further. In a moment fueled by fear and instinct, I made my decision to flee. The opening of my tent felt miles away as I scrambled. The creature's aggression focused on the fabric I had just escaped. The forest, once a haven, now felt like a labyrinth designed for my torment. I ran, branches clawing at me, the ground uneven beneath my feet.

But the creature was relentless. Its pursuit was a rhythmic nightmare that echoed through the trees. Bada-da-dam, Bada-da-dum. In a moment of desperation, or perhaps inspiration, I threw myself in.

to a thicket, hoping beyond hope that stillness might save me. My body ached. My breaths were shallow heaves, but I dared not move. Then it appeared, lit by a moonbeam as if on a stage. Its form was a perversion of nature, emaciated and stretched, moving with an unsettling grace. When it stood, it was a mockery of a human silhouette, an abomination of the human form it mimicked. Our eyes met, and in that instant I knew true fear, not of death, but of being seen by such an entity, understood by it in some unfathomable way. Yet as quickly as our encounter began, it ended. The creature turned, leaving with the same unnerving rhythm it arrived with, leaving me to the dawn and the questions that would haunt me. As the sun rose, so did I, albeit as a man changed. The forest was

alive again, indifferent to my ordeal. I packed what remained, my movements mechanical, driven by the desire to leave this place, to return to a world where such encounters were impossible. But as I drove away, the creature's gaze lingered, a reminder of the fragile veil between our world and those unknown. The Awashita had shown me something profound and terrifying, a secret I was not meant to see. And as I rejoined civilization, the forest's silence remained with me, a haunting melody to the inexplicable encounter that would forever color my nights beneath the open sky. It was 3.30 a.m., pitch dark and way too early for anyone to be awake, but there I was, lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my barracks room at Fort Bragg,

North Carolina. My alarm had just blared, a harsh sound that seemed way louder in the quiet of the early morning. Today wasn't just any day, it was the start of a two-week field training exercise. something we in the military called the field. Honestly, I was one of the few who didn't dread it. Sure, we'd be cut off from cell phones, bars, and worst of all showers, but it was a chance to get away from the monotony of daily duties and spend some time outdoors, even if it was in a heavily wooded training area.

Dragging myself out of bed, I managed to get ready in record time. Last warm shower for two weeks, check. A decent breakfast that didn't come from a moment. mess hall, double check. Living in the barracks had its perks sometimes, and being a short walk from where we had to muster was definitely one of them. When I arrived at the company area, a bunch of my fellow soldiers were already there, looking about as thrilled as kids on the way to the dentist. Some were practically asleep on their feet. Others were downing energy drinks like water. I felt like an old man among them, even though I was only in my mid-20s. Most of these guys weren't

even old enough to legally drink, but that never stopped them. We lined up to get our gear and weapons for the training. I felt a pang of sympathy for the guys stuck carrying the M249s. Those things were beasts. But soon enough, we were all kidded out and ready to go. Our platoon leader gave us a brief rundown of what was to come. Follow the vehicle ahead, watch for potential IEDs, and make sure to cover our sectors of fire. It was nothing I hadn't heard before. With a bit of luck, I ended up driving the lead Humvee with our platoon leader riding shotgun, issuing orders like he was born to do it. The drive to the training site took about an hour.

We arrived at a secluded, wooded area far from the base, our home for the next fortnight. Setting up camp took several hours, but by the time we finished, it felt like we'd accomplished something tangible. Tents were pitched, a firewatch roster was set up, and I drew the short straw for the 3 a.m. guard shift. Just my luck. Standing guard in the dead of night, I tried out the night vision goggles,

NVGs handed to me by the previous watch. The woods came alive under the green glow of the NVGs, and for a moment I felt a sense of peace. That is until I caught two private sneaking off for a not-so-secret rendezvous. I chose to give them some privacy. After all, we were all adults. adults here. But that sense of peace didn't last. As my shift dragged on, and I fought to stay awake,

something caught my eye. A figure stood at the tree line just watching. It was too far to make out any details, but the way it seemed to stare right back gave me the creeps. My wristwatch alarm went off suddenly, nearly giving me a heart attack. And just like that, the figure was gone. I tried to brush it off as my imagination running wild, but there was a little. There was a part of me that couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Reluctantly, I finished my shift and woke the next guard, then curled up in the back of my Humvee. Whatever it was, I didn't want to see it again.

But as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't help but wonder what lurked in the shadows of those woods. The next day, after what felt like only minutes of sleep, the sun was already peeking through the trees, announcing the start of a new day. With the previous night's creepy encounter still playing on my mind, I pushed it aside, convincing myself it was just the result of too little sleep and an overactive imagination. Today was about land navigation, something I was actually looking forward to. No lieutenants messing with maps meant we might actually stand a chance of finding our

waypoints without getting hopelessly lost. Breakfast was quick, and then we were grouped into threes, handed our coordinates, and sent off into the woods. The dense canopy above us turned the morning light into a sort of perpetual twilight, and the untouched nature of the terrain made every step feel like stepping into the unknown. We were on the lookout for venomous snakes, as much as we were for our next waypoint. The first few coordinates led us deeper into the forest, and each time we found our mark, it felt like a small victory.

But when we reached a coordinate that led us to a lone cone in the middle of nowhere, the photo of a young soldier taped to it, things started to feel off. Who was this soldier? And why was his picture out here? It was a question none of us could answer, but I took a picture of it with my phone anyway, thinking it might make sense later. As the day wore on and the shadows grew longer, we realized we needed to head back before darkness made the woods an even more confusing labyrinth. I remember joking about not wanting to spend the night out there, but the humor was lost on me the moment carry on, one of my group members, mentioned he thought we were being followed. Stopping in our tracks, we listened. There was a distinct sound of someone,

or something, moving through the underbrush behind us. But when we stopped, it stopped too. That's when the real fear set in. Was it just some drill sergeant playing mind games, or was it something else? We decided against running. It could provoke whatever was out there if it turned out to be more than just a human prankster. Pushing forward, every rustle of leaves had us on edge. I kept thinking about those horror movies where you scream at the characters to do the smart thing. Now I was in one of those movies,

and there didn't seem to be any smart option available. When we were about a mile from camp, that's when it decided to make its move. Something darted across our path so fast I barely caught a glimpse. But it was enough, enough to see its eyes reflecting in the first, flashlight, enough to see it wasn't human. The forest around us erupted into chaos as we saw more of them, eyes glowing, watching us from the darkness. Diaz, another member of our trio,

pointed his flashlight at a tree, revealing one of those things clinging to it, smiling that grotesque smile. That's when panic took over. The sound of a gunshot ripped through the air as we turned and ran, not caring about the noise or the direction, only wanting to get away. way. I don't remember much about the runback. My lungs burned. My gear felt like it weighed a ton, and the forest seemed to close in around us. We were no longer soldiers on training. We were prey, running for our lives. I fired my weapon into the darkness, knowing it was useless, hearing screams that I couldn't place as human or otherwise. Somehow I made it back to camp, alone and out of breath, with no sign of Diaz or carry on.

happened out there, I couldn't fully explain. But the looks on the faces of my fellow soldiers as they saw me, covered in blood and rambling about creatures in the woods, told me everything I needed to know. They thought I had lost my mind, and maybe I had, but not in the way they believed. Waking up in camp, the morning light did little to ease the horror of the previous night. I was covered in blood, my heart was racing, and Diaz and Carillon were nowhere to be found. The camp was in chaos, with soldiers looking at me like I was a ghost, or worse, a monster. I tried to explain, to tell them about the creatures in the woods, but the words wouldn't come outright. It was like trying to describe a nightmare while still dreaming it. Before I could even

attempt to make sense, I was grabbed, questioned, and then quickly restrained. My platoon leader looked at me with eyes full of anger and fear. His questions were sharp, demanding to know what had happened to Diaz and carry on. I tried to tell him, tried to warn him about the creatures, but it only made things worse. The disbelief in his eyes turned to rage and then to violence. I was left alone, tied up, wondering if I was the only one who knew the truth, and if that truth would even matter. Time passed slowly in that making. shift prison. My thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of dread. They sent another search party out, despite my warnings. I knew it was a mistake, but there

was nothing I could do. When the platoon leader finally came back, the look on his face said it all, the static from the radio, the absence of any response, the distant gunfire, it was happening again, and this time they couldn't deny it. They cut me loose. but it wasn't out of trust or understanding. It was out of necessity. The camp was under attack, and every able body was needed. I grabbed a pair of night vision goggles and looked out into the night. There they were, the creatures, attacking my friends, my comrades.

It was a scene straight out of a horror movie, only this was real, and the fear was paralyzing. I crawled to a humvee, desperate to escape, to survive. The engine roared to life, and for a moment I thought, I thought I might make it. But then, tapping on the window, one of those things was smiling at me, its mouth stained with blood. In that moment, I knew I couldn't hesitate. I floored it, driving over anything in my path, driven by a mix of fear and determination. The drive back to base was a blur. When I finally stopped, I was greeted not with relief, but with suspicion. arrested and thrown into the brig, I was left to ponder the nightmare that had unfolded.

It was only after what seemed like an eternity that they released me, the investigation into the events somehow corroborating my story, or at least enough of it to prove I wasn't at fault. I was medically discharged, a pension and a ticket away from Fort Bragg, away from the woods that held horrors no one should ever face. I moved as far as I could, trying to put distance, between myself and the memories. But some nights I can still see those eyes, hear the tapping on the window, and feel the fear that nearly consumed me. It was over, or so I hoped. But deep down,

I knew those woods still held secrets, and the creatures within were far from imaginary. My only solace was the hope that no one else would have to face them, but in the quiet of the night, I couldn't help but wonder if the nightmare was truly over. I've always felt a kinship with the untamed landscapes that stretch far beyond the confines of our everyday lives. There's something about the raw, unfiltered beauty of nature that speaks to me, calls to me, in a way that nothing else does. It's a bond I share with my girlfriend, an invisible thread that ties us together, drawing us out into the wilderness time and time again. On a foggy Friday, with the weekend yawning open before us, devoid of plans or obligations,

She suggested we go camping. The idea struck a chord in me, resonating with my deep-seated need to escape the trappings of our mundane existence. We decided on a forest an hour's drive from our place, a spot we hadn't explored yet, but had heard was a hiker's paradise. Lacking a car, we embarked on foot, our journey taking us through landscapes that transitioned from the familiar to the increasingly remote. The trek, lasting between two and a half to three hours, tested our resolve, but also reinforced our connection, not just to each other, but to the world around us. As we stepped into the forest, the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and gold. The beauty of the scene was breathtaking, a perfect welcome to what promised to be a sanctuary from the chaos of our daily routines.

We hiked, lost in the tranquility of our surroundings. our conversation flowing as easily as the wind through the trees. But then, a ripple of unease. My girlfriend, always more attuned to the nuances of our surroundings than I, mentioned seeing something. A presence, she said, watching from the shadows between the trees. I tried to see what she saw, peering into the dense underbrush, but found nothing. I chalked it up to her imagination, her anxiety painting phantoms where there were none.

Her steps grew closer to mine, seeking reassurance in my proximity. I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, and for a moment the unease dissipated, swallowed by the forest's serene embrace. We stumbled upon a clearing as if by design, a secluded haven deep within the heart of the woods. It was as if the forest itself had carved out a space just for us, with fallen trees lying in a rough square that beckoned us to set up camp. This was our spot, our temporary home away from home, surrounded by the unspoiled beauty of nature. We pitched our tent with practiced ease, transforming the clearing into a cozy retreat.

As twilight deepened into night, we lit a fire, its warm glow a beacon against the encroaching darkness. We cooked, ate and talked, our conversation meandering through topics dark and light. We spoke of mysteries unsolved and tales macabre. our voices mingling with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind through the trees. It was late when we decided to turn in, the night wrapping the forest in a blanket of stars. Our sleeping bags were a promise of comfort in the chill of the night,

our tent a shield against the wild. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt a profound sense of peace, a belief that in this moment all was right in the world. Little did I know, the darkness held secrets, and our sanctuary. was not as safe as we believed. The true nature of the wild, unforgiving and unpredictable,

was about to reveal itself, changing our lives forever. The night was a living thing, breathing and whispering around our tent, a cocoon nestled in the heart of the wilderness. It was in these quiet hours, with the fire reduced to embers and the forest a shadowy realm beyond our canvas walls. That reality began to shift imperceptibly at first, then with alarming clarity. It started with a simple act,

so mundane that in any other context, it would have been forgettable. My girlfriend, her voice tinged with an emotion I couldn't quite place, whispered that she needed a bathroom break. There was a fragility in her tone, a vulnerability that was rare for her. My concern spiked, manifesting as a nod in my gut. Are you all right?

I asked, my voice low, attempting to mask my sudden anxiety. Yeah, I'm fine, she replied, though her voice betrayed her. She left the tent, a silhouette against the faint glow of our dying fire, and as the zipper closed behind her, a chill ran down my spine, an instinctual warning that something was amiss. Minutes stretched into eternity. The forest's nocturnal chorus played on, indifferent to my growing unease.

15 minutes passed, then 20. It was too long, far too long for her to be gone. I called out, my voice swallowed by the vastness of the night, receiving no response but the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a night bird. Panic, sharp and unyielding, propelled me out of the tent. Flashlight in hand, I scanned the darkness, the beam of light a feeble attempt to pierce the overwhelming black,

A whimper, so faint I thought I imagined it, guided me deeper into the woods, away from the safety of our camp. And then I saw her. The flashlight fell from my hand, its light landing on a scene so horrific that for a moment my mind refused to comprehend it. Suspended from a tree, her body was a testament to an unspeakable violence. Half of her face was gone, torn away by... What? My mind reeled, trying to make sense of the impossible. Her last words to me were a whisper, a plea laced with love, and a warning I couldn't understand. Stay away from the cave in the distance. And then she was gone, her body going limp,

leaving me alone in the night with my grief and a growing terror. The cave, the mention of it ignited a curiosity, a need to understand, to find the source of this nightmare. My heart pounded as I approached, driven by a mix of dread and an inexplicable pull towards the dark maw and the earth. What I found was a creature from a nightmare, a being so grotesque and otherworldly that my mind struggled to accept its reality. It spoke, its voice a mockery of human speech, taunting me with my ignorance, my failure to protect her, to believe her fears. I couldn't stay, couldn't bear the weight of its gaze, or the truth in its words. I fled. Stumbling through the dark, the forest now a labyrinth of shadows and fear.

Behind me, the creature laughed, a sound that would haunt me for the rest of my days. The escape was a blur of terror and adrenaline, the forest a hostile entity intent on my demise, but I emerged, broken and alone, back into a world that seemed alien to me now. I had survived, but at what cost? The night had unraveled, taking with it the illusion of safety, of sanity. What remained was a shattered reality, a life irrevocably changed by the horrors that lurked in the unseen depths of the wild. Dawn broke with a cruelty that morning, its light a stark contrast to the darkness that had consumed my world. The forest, once a place of refuge and beauty, now felt like a prison, its trees standing like silent witnesses to the horror of the night before.

My escape from that nightmare, driven by primal fear and the instinct to survive, was a blur, a frenzy dash through the underbrush, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a possible harbinger of death. The creature's taunts echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of my failure, of the price of disbelief. I'll find you someday, it had shouted, its voice a chilling promise of fear without end. you can join that stupid woman of yours in the futile void we call death. The words were a poison, seeping into my soul, leaving me with a terror that I knew would never

fully dissipate. Somehow, I made it to the road, my body moving on autopilot, driven by a deep-seated need to return to a semblance of normalcy, to a world where such monsters couldn't possibly exist. I hitchhiked back to civilization, my story pouring out in a disjointed flood. to the stranger who had offered me a ride. To my surprise, there was no skepticism in his eyes, only a deep, unsettling understanding. Back in the realm of the living, the reality of what had happened hit me with the force of a physical blow. I was alone, truly alone, in a way I had never been before. My girlfriend, my love, my partner in every adventure, was gone, taken by a horror that defied explanation.

I told my story again and again to anyone who would listen, to the police, to friends, to anyone. The reactions were mixed, ranging from disbelief to horror, but a surprising number of people believed me. It turned out there were legends about the forest, tales of a creature that lurked in the shadows, praying on the unwary. These stories, once just that, stories, now felt like grim warnings ignored. at our peril. The days turned into weeks, then months, but the terror of that night remained, a constant shadow that followed me. Sleep was elusive, each night a battle against the memories that surged forth the moment I closed my eyes. And sometimes, in the darkest hours before dawn, I would see it, the outline of a figure, hunched and grotesque, lurking in the corners of my room,

drawing closer with each passing night. The guilt was a relentless companion, gnawing at me with the relentless persistence of a carrion-eater. I could have prevented it all, could have saved her, if only I had believed, if only I had listened. That realization was a weight that I knew I would carry for the rest of my days. The forest, once a place of escape and joy, now represented something else entirely, a reminder of the fragility of life, of the things. thin veneer of safety that separates us from the darkness that lies in wait. I had sought solace in the wild, only to find a nightmare that would forever haunt my dreams. As I moved through the motions of life,

a shell of my former self, I couldn't shake the feeling that the creature's eyes were still on me, watching, waiting. The wilderness had called, and we had answered, not knowing that some calls are better left unanswered. The wild had revealed its true nature. unforgiving, unpredictable, a reminder that for all our advancements, we are still at the mercy of forces beyond our understanding, beyond our control. I ain't scared of nothing. That's what I told my brother, loud enough for the whole street to hear, as I slammed my car door shut. I remember his smirk, holding out my jacket like a white flag, listing all the things I should fear. Skinwalkers, witches, werewolves, straight out of a horror movie. He thought he could scare me, make me back down.

I rolled my eyes, snatched my jacket, and yelled back, I'm not scared, before driving off. The mountains ahead, with their jagged outlines against the setting sun, looked like giant teeth ready to swallow me whole. I wish I'd listened to him. It all started a couple of days ago. Depression had become my shadow. It followed me everywhere, whispering thoughts of jumping off bridges or stepping in front of cars. I was tired of fighting it. One of my friends, probably tired of my gloom, suggested I try solo camping. It's peaceful, he said, the wilderness, the silence, it helps. He gave me a list of places, but my eyes were drawn to the most isolated spot,

three hours hike from the last campsite in the Rocky Mountain National Forest. you sure he asked disbelief clear in his voice i nodded too exhausted to argue just don't go out at night he warned you might not like what you find the drive was surprisingly calming the road snaked through the forest the trees a blur of green and brown i decided then to leave my phone locked in my glove box this trip was about disconnecting finding peace away from the noise I planned to be out for five days. Surely that was enough time to clear my head, to figure things out. Estes Park was my last glimpse of civilization. I drove through, resisting the urge to stop and book a room at the Stanley Hotel. The park entrance loomed ahead, and I drove in, feeling like I was crossing into another world.

As night began to fall, I regretted leaving so late. The last thing I wanted was to hike in the dark. I found a parking lot with a few tents set up. Just for tonight, I promised myself, setting up my own tent among strangers who soon became temporary friends. We shared food and stories, their laughter, the kids playing,

it all felt so normal, so comforting. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, I fell asleep to the sound of their voices, the crackling fire, and the faint rustle of the trees. That night was the last bit of peace I'd have. If I had known what awaited me in the depths of those woods, I would have turned my car around and driven straight home,

but I was determined, stubbornly clinging to the belief that I wasn't scared of anything. How wrong I was. Waking up in that parking lot felt like waking up from the last good dream I'd have for a while. I packed up my tent, said goodbye to the temporary friends I'd made, and set off towards my real destination. The deeper into the forest I walked, the heavier my heart felt. It was like each step was a step further away from the world I knew, and deeper into a silence that was too quiet. I remember thinking, it's just trees, right? Just nature. But man, was I wrong? The trees felt like they were watching me, moving with me. Every noise made me jump.

The isolation I thought I wanded now felt like a heavy blanket, suffocating and too warm. I got lost. A lot. What was supposed to be a three-hour hike turned into nearly six hours of me cursing, sweating, and regretting every choice that led me to this moment. When I finally found the campsite, the sun was already saying goodbye. I hastily set up my tent, my hands shaking, not from the cold, but from a fear I couldn't quite name. As darkness swallowed the forest, every sound seemed louder. A branch snapping made me think of a horror movie jump scare. I told myself it was just animals, just the wind.

But the comfort of those thoughts was thin and fragile. I crawled into my tent, hoping sleep would take me away from the creeping dread. It was a foolish hope. The night was restless, filled with sounds that seemed too deliberate, too close. Footsteps circled my tent, and I lay there frozen, too scared to even breathe loudly. My imagination turned shadows into monsters, and the rustling leaves into the restling leaves into whispers. I tried to convince myself it was all in my head, that I was just not used to the wilderness. But then, there was the unmistakable sound of something, or someone, brushing against my

tent. My heart raced, and all the bravado I had claimed as my own melted away into the darkness. I was scared. No, I was terrified. The reality of my isolation hit me then. There was no one to call for help. No one to hear me scream. I was utterly alone with whatever lurked just beyond the thin fabric of my tent. The night dragged on, an endless loop of fear and brief moments of exhausted dozing. When dawn finally broke, it felt like a reprieve, a stay of execution. But the relief was short-lived. The day brought its own challenges, its own fears, and as the sun set again, I knew the night would only bring more terror. That second night in the wilderness broke something in me. Every sound was a threat, every shadow a demon. I realized then that the solitude I thought would heal

me was actually a mirror, reflecting back my deepest fears. I was lost in a forest of my own making, and the way out seemed just as inscrutable as the way in. The darkness wasn't just around me. It was inside me, and I didn't know how to escape it. That third night, I didn't just cross the line into fear. I dove headfirst into a nightmare. Sitting in my tent, the darkness outside felt like a living, breathing thing, waiting to swallow me whole. My mind raced with every horror story I'd ever heard, each sound outside a confirmation that the worst was about to happen. The fire I'd managed to keep alive flickered like the last heartbeat of hope in my chest. I told myself to be rational, that it was just animals or the wind.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't. The footsteps returned, but this time they were joined by others, a chorus of whispers and laughter that seemed to mock my terror. Then it happened. The side of my tent was pushed in, as if something wanted to break through. My scream was lost in the vowsy. vastness of the forest. In a moment of panic and madness, I unzipped the tent and looked outside. What I saw will haunt me forever, a figure, resembling me but twisted into something grotesque,

with eyes like empty voids. I ran, the forest around me turned into a blur of shadows and fear. I could hear it behind me, its footsteps mirroring mine, a grotesque echo of my own terror. The trees seemed to reach out, their branches like, like hands trying to drag me back into the darkness. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to keep moving. When I crashed into something solid and warm, I thought it was the end, but it wasn't a monster. It was a man claiming to be a park ranger, yet nothing about him fit the bill. His suit was too clean, his shoes too polished for someone who'd been in the forest. But in that moment, I didn't care. He was my escape from the nightmare. We drove in silence.

UV cutting through the night like a beacon of hope. When we finally stopped, the light of dawn was just touching the horizon. He handed me a card with just a number on it, no name, no title, just a lifeline I wasn't sure I'd ever use. After he drove off, leaving me alone with the rising sun, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread. What had I seen? Was it real, or just a product of my fear-soaked mind, and the man who claimed to be a ranger, who was he really? I drove away from the mountains as fast as I could, vowing never to return. The wilderness, once a place of beauty and wonder, now held only terror and unanswered questions. My friends noticed the change in me, but how could I explain? How do you tell someone you were chased by your own twisted reflection,

or that you might have encountered something supernatural? Sometimes, I pull. pull out the card the man gave me, wondering if I should call, if I should seek answers. But then I remember the laughter in the darkness, the eyes that mirrored my own but held only malice. And I realize some things are better left unexplored. I've changed. The forest changed me. It showed me fear in its purest form, and now every shadow, every whisper of wind, brings

me back to that night. I don't know if I'll ever truly escape it. we carry our forests with us, the darkness that whispers our name with a voice too much like our own. I'm posting this in hopes that someone out there may be able to help me. I've started writing and deleting this so many times over the last six months or so that it would make your head spin. At first, I thought that no one would believe me, so why bother? Then it became a matter of not wanting to relive those events again. Now, it's all I can think about, and I just want it to stop. Let me explain. This past June, my wife Michelle and I took our two teenage

girls camping. I'd made our reservations online at a campsite we'd never stayed at before, a quaint little place called Lost Creek Campgrounds. It was a little farther away than we usually went, but the reviews were amazing, and the pictures were absolutely breathtaking. I just couldn't pass it up. We used their online map and found an isolated spot that looked perfect for us. When we got there, we set the canopy up over the included picnic table, and were putting up the tent when I heard what I thought was a family out hiking. They seemed to enjoy themselves, so I paid little attention until it seemed like they might be lost, calling out to one another for help.

I alerted Michelle and was heading to the nearest trailhead to lend a hand when the voices stopped. I chalked it up to a misunderstanding and helped her finish setting up the tent. I was exhausted from the drive and getting camp set up. The kids were complaining about all the bugs and lack of cell phone service. Michelle's energy kept us all going as she hummed some early 90s tune stuck in her head while getting the campfire going. I started thinking about that family in the woods again, but since I hadn't heard anything in a little while, I could only assume everything turned out okay.

It was getting dark, so we roasted some hot dogs, made some s'mores, and took turns trying to tell the scariest story before turning in. The girls regaled us with some things they'd read on the No Sleep subreddit about a search and rescue officer. I went with some classic campfire stories like the babysitter and the clown statue and the man with the hook. Michelle was the clear winner with some story I'd never heard her tell before about the time she and her siblings encountered what they thought was a Wendigo while camping in San Antonio. In the morning, we spent some time relaxing at the beach and just enjoying our surroundings. It was a beautiful day, and I couldn't help but think it odd that we were the only ones in the water. There wasn't even a single boat out past the buoys to disturb the still and tranquil lake.

It was nice to have the place to ourselves, though. I went swimming with the girls, and teased them about all the things they couldn't see in the murky lake water while Michelle laughed from the shore and worked on her tan. We had a few sandwiches for lunch and didn't head back to camp until the early evening. As night fell, I talked them all into doing some night hiking. It was a family tradition that I insisted we keep up on every trip. We wandered around the circuitous trails near our campsite. The woods were an entirely different place at night.

There could be something new and exciting around every twist and turn of the trail. Having only the beam of your flashlight to illuminate things, added that little taste of adrenaline that kept us going for a few hours. heading around the last circuit back to camp, I began hearing familiar voices asking for help. This time, Michelle and the girls heard them as well. We headed toward the voices to offer some assistance, but the closer we got to where we thought they were, the further into the maples, hemlocks, and white ash trees the voices could be heard.

After ten minutes I led us back to camp. I didn't make a big deal about it, but I sensed something was wrong. I could feel it in my bone somehow. I put on a fake smile and teased the girls about our experience to calm them down. We all decided that it was probably just some bobcats. You couldn't go camping anywhere in Ohio without hearing them at some point or another. Sometimes they could sound like a screaming woman or even a crying child. They went to bed content with that information and fell fast asleep in their sleeping bags.

Michelle and I curled up by the campfire to enjoy the rare silence together. The older the girls got, the harder it was to come by. An hour later, we heard our youngest daughter calling for us from the woods. That wasn't possible. She was still curled up asleep in her sleeping bag. We could see her. Before we could react, we heard our other daughter's voice coming from the other side of the woods. She was also fast asleep in the sleeping bag next to her sister. We rushed into the tent and locked it down. It was an all-season tent. It was thick and durable with locking zippers. We battened down the hatches and held onto each other while I kept an

eye out through the little window. I must have dozed off because the sound of a zipper woke me up. I had locked them from the inside, so I assumed one of the girls had gone to the bathroom. Still, I moved to the entry, fearing the worst. When I saw everyone in their sleeping bags, my blood went cold. The zipper inched upwards. I grabbed it and held it tight. I saw an possibly long finger through the screen. I told who or whatever it was to go the hell away. I took a deep breath as I heard quiet footsteps moving away from the tent. The lock was broken at my feet. Before I could process anything, I heard movement. This time it came from multiple directions. I considered waking everyone. On one hand, I needed help. On the other, a screaming wife and

kids seemed like a bad idea. I let them sleep, for better or worse. I felt surrounded, and I smelled something odd, copper and nag shampa. I could make out enormous shapes through the tent fabric. The voices rang out as more of them moved in close enough to brush against the tent. I bit my lip till it bled, closing my eyes to steady my nerves. I heard the voices of the family from the first day, the voices of my still sleeping daughters and wife. I nearly lost my hard-earned composure when I heard my voice whispering near where I crouched. I realized what I had missed in the voices all along. While they sounded like copies of human voices, there was something distinctly off about them.

Like mimicking instead of speaking, they were piecing words together to form conversations without matching tones or tempos. I focused so much on how they sounded that I wasn't listening to what they were saying until it became one cacophonic burst of repetition. Hungry, as the first few jagged claws tore long streaks all around the tent, a bright light filled the camp from an unknown source. Through a rip in the entrance door, I could see one of them. It must have been seven feet tall and was impossibly thin. Its mottled gray skin stretched so tight over its bones

that I could see its organs pulse beneath. It glared at me with empty eye so deep that no one. light could escape them. It lunged at me, ripping the rest of the fabric to shreds as I finally screamed to wake up Michelle and the girls. I knew at that moment that I was dead. There was nowhere to run, and soon we would all be devoured. I shut my eyes as it tore into my chest. An explosion of sound followed by warm liquid raining down on me assaulted my senses, but somehow I was alive. By the time I opened my eyes, I'd heard a dozen more small explosions in quick succession, mixed with the confused screams of my family as they were harshly awakened.

Men approached the wreckage of our tent, shotguns in hand. They ushered us to their trucks and drove us into the nearby town. I had so many questions, but the men stayed quiet till they got us to safety. They called them forest mimics. Something had been stirring them up over the last few weeks, and more people had gone missing than usual. They'd shut down the campgrounds until they could sort it out. Our online reservation had somehow gone unnoticed,

and by the time they stumbled upon our camp, it had nearly been too late. We never went back for our gear. As a family, we stick to resorts and indoor lodgings these days. Michelle and the girls were lucky. They didn't see what I saw. To them, the story has become That time a pack of wild animals attacked our tent.

For me, it's something different entirely. I've developed PTSD and severe insomnia since it all happened. Not even the medication I've been prescribed is helping. Some nights I swear I can still hear those voices chanting that word, hungry, in the dark recesses of our home. A month ago, the dreams began, and that's why I'm finally posting this now. In those dreams, I can hear more than just that single word. They call out to me in their staggered amalgam of voices,

their legion-like staccato, shrieking and begging me to come home. On those nights, I wake up crying. I don't cry out of fear or some sense of personal preservation, no. I cry because the longing in their voices is palpable. I cry because of the pain that flares up in the scar that they left on my chest. I cry because I'm hungry. I just want to start by saying that dating is hard.

Once you get past all the bots, ads, and scammers and meet a real person, the guessing game begins. Why is this person actually available right now? Are they really just down on their luck? Or is it something else that you're happier not knowing? Then, once you figure out their deep dark secrets, the question becomes, are they willing to put up with your deep, dark secrets. This process can take weeks to sort out, usually resulting in a dead end somewhere, forcing you to start over. The whole thing is frustrating,

demeaning, and humiliating enough that you're physically and emotionally exhausted, making you just want to give up and be a loner. Now I know what you're wondering. What's this got to do with anything? Well, it's kind of simple. A little bit ago, I wrote about how my girlfriend, Wendy never eats and that I heard some unsettling things at her house the last time I visited. Well, I decided to keep seeing Wendy. Sure, she might have some unusual habits, but she makes me feel good about myself, and I'm happy with her. So what if she never eats or chases off bears while nude in the middle of the night? Compared to returning to the dating scene, that's really not so bad. We even have nicknames for each other now, country girl and city boy.

I'll let you guess which is which. Anyway, that's a rather long and roundabout way of saying that, yeah, I went on that camping trip with her, and things didn't go quite how I expected. First off, I want to say that she was right. The forest really is beautiful. The sun's heat, combined with the coolness of the shade, while listening to the insects drone lazily in the background,

seems to slow time to a crawl, making each breath a relaxing experience in and of itself. It's entirely unlike anything you'll experience during your morning commute. Combine all that with the right company, and soon you'll wonder why you'd ever return, and let me tell you, Wendy is 100% the right company. Wendy was quick with tips to make the hike easier, from how to properly distribute your packload to how to lace your shoes for maximum comfort. During the trek to where we were going to set up camp, she alternated between offering interesting bits of information

about the local flora and fauna and walking in silence, allowing me to get lost in the experience. The whole affair made me want to give up the city life and move to the country. There was just one thing during the walk that wasn't as pleasant as everything else. At one point, we must have walked too close to a skunk or a rotting carcass or something because the whole area around us started to reek. At first it wasn't so bad, but eventually it got so strong it made me want to gag. I jokingly mentioned it to Wendy, but she just looked ahead like she was determined and told me,

pick up the pace, we'll be past it soon enough. Sure enough, we eventually got past the smell, and things quickly became pleasant again. The rest of the hike passed without incident, and Wendy even helped me set up the tent. Her evident experience in the matter showed through because it took no time. Soon enough, everything was ready, and we even had a nice, cheerful fire roaring. This time, when she pulled out the supplies for dinner, I didn't even bat an eye when it was clearly only enough for one. Whatever was going on with her, this was just the way it was going to be. It was up to me to accept that or move on, and I'd made my call. But I have to say, for someone

who never seems to eat, she sure knows how to sear a steak to perfection. After a pleasant and an even more pleasant night, we passed out in the tent together, while listening to the crickets and the more distant owls. But of course, if that's all that happened, I wouldn't be writing about it here. Sometime during the night, I awoke to find I was alone in the tent. This wasn't too unexpected, because Wendy was both an outdoor enthusiast and a bit of a night owl. I debated calling out to her, but something in the air felt like I shouldn't disturb it with such an out-of-place sound. However, Mother Nature did have her demands, and it was time to answer her call. As I unzipped the tent and stepped out, I couldn't help but look up into the night sky.

The stars were breathtaking. You never see this many this vibrant in the city. However, their beauty couldn't distract me for long in the face of more urgent demands. Do you know that feeling when you've been holding it in a little too long and finally experience relief? Maybe it distracted me from the fact that all the usual night sounds had suddenly gone quiet, but it couldn't distract me from the sudden smell of rotting flesh. It was even stronger than it had been on the trail, and was accompanied by the kind of fear that you usually feel when you're very young,

and just starting to wonder if there might be reasons sounds go bump in the night. I gagged as I struggled to cut off the stream, zip up my pants, and retreat into the tent again. Once in the tent, I reached for the flashlight, then hesitated. I desperately wanted to see better, but something in the back of my mind told me it was better to remain hidden. Of course, I don't know how well hidden a blue tent in the middle of the forest can be, but turning on a flashlight would be like activating a beacon for everything within a few miles to see. I sat in the dark for I don't know how long, feeling my heart pounded through my chest,

loud enough that I was sure whatever was out there could hear it clearly. Thankfully, the smell eventually faded, but I was still so high on adrenaline that I knew I wouldn't sleep another wink for the rest of the night. Or so I thought. The following day, I awoke with Wendy cuddled in my arm, with one of her legs and arms draped over me, and once again, she was totally nude. Now I was pretty sure she'd put on some pajamas before going to bed,

but as she stirred and I got a good look, at what was on display, I suddenly didn't care all that much. Eventually, she smiled lazily up at me and spoke. You sleep all right, city boy? You seem to have some pretty rough dreams in the middle of the night. At the time, those words made perfect sense. In the light of day, it seemed pretty clear that whatever happened last night was probably just a vivid dream brought on by the experiences of the day before and an unfamiliar environment. After a bit more time together, we decided to get up and tackle another day in the forest. However, when I finally crawled out of the tent, I could see our entire camp was in disarray. It was like something had gone through and tossed everything

around. A few of the more delicate items were totally demolished. After a moment I called out, Um, hey, you might want to take a look at this. As Wendy crawled out of the tent, she made a face. Must have been a bear. They usually don't come out this way, so I wasn't too worried about them. I guess that's on me, sorry. A bear. That kind of made sense. At least, I told myself so. As we were cleaning up, I even saw tracks. Though in my inexperience as a city boy, I would have said they belonged to a dog, not a bear. A huge dog. Maybe a wolf? What was even otter was when I found what looked like hoof prints, Looking at the prince, I realized that deer must be much bigger than they look on TV, since they were more than twice as long as my hand.

There isn't much more to say about the day. We fixed the place up, had breakfast, went on a hike, made dinner, and called it a night, with a few other minor activities sprinkled throughout. I was back to enjoying the trip, so much so that I had mostly forgotten about the night before. But that night, things took a bit of an unexpected turn. Once again, I awoke in the middle of the night. Thankfully, I wasn't alone this time, as Wendy was still asleep, half on top of me again. However, that stench was back and stronger than ever.

It was amazing how bright it seemed in the tent. It must have been a full moon, or at least nearly full, because I could clearly see the shadow of a large deer pass between us and the night sky. But there was something wrong with this deer. It was clearly too tall, as if it was standing on hind legs. And when it opened its mouth, I could even make out a mouthful of very sharp teeth. I couldn't help it. I felt myself breathing more heavily by the second as my heart rate skyrocketed.

My mind went blank when I suddenly felt Wendy's stir. Remembering the presence of my considerably smaller girlfriend, I suddenly felt protective, as if I couldn't let anything happen to her. I was just about to tell her to be quiet when I noticed her looking up at me with a finger on her lips, as if telling me to do the same. Then she whispered to me, stay in the tent, and started to get up. I don't know what I was thinking, or if I was thinking. All I knew was I couldn't let Wendy go out to face whatever that was, so I reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could exit the tent. However, when she looked back at me, I released her immediately, almost as scared of her as whatever was outside.

the tent. Her eyes reflected light back at me like a cat's, and I could see the nails on her hand growing as I watched. In half a moment she turned back around, opened the tent, and climbed outside. I will never forget the sound I heard at that moment. After I got home, I looked up the calls of a bunch of wild animals, and in hindsight, I'd say it was like a compilation of an elk call, a rabbit scream, and a mountain lion scream, but impossibly loud. Wendy shouted in answer, her tiny human voice sounding so frail in comparison. At least it did until it started to change, morphing and twisting into the howl of an impossibly large wolf. I couldn't help it.

I peeked out the tent flap, and standing in front of the tent was what I could only describe as a werewolf. The little five-foot-and-change Wendy was now standing at least seven feet tall, covered in fur with claws and fangs that looked like they could tear through. through steel, and she looked ready for murder. Then, some movement on the opposite end of our camp drew my attention, and I witnessed a living nightmare that suddenly made a werewolf seem like less of a problem. It looked kind of like a deer if a deer had more articulated limbs far too long for its body. The feet ended in hooves, but the hands ended in long, bony claws. The whole thing looked desiccated, its skin drawn so tight over its ribs and arms, you could make out the skeleton

beneath. The fur was spotty and looked partially rotted, with open holes leaking bodily fluids that should never see light. Its teeth were long and serrated, clearly meant for tearing, rather than chewing. I sometimes hear hunters talking about deer being eight or ten points, but if I had to estimate, this thing had a 30-point antler, with many of the tines covered in what I suspected to be dried viscera from previous victims. The two monsters charged each other. The nightmare, which I now know was a Wendigo, lowered its head, intending to impale its opponent.

But at the last second, Wendy threw herself nearly flat on the ground, only to rock it up into the Wendigo, latching onto its long neck with her powerful jaws while her hind feet kicked gouges into its vulnerable stomach. However, the Wendigo didn't seem willing to give up that easily and tossed Wendy aside. She hit the ground hard and was soon set upon by the other monster. She raised an arm to defend herself, only for the Wendigo to latch on with its own teeth, easily tearing through her skin and muscles. With a powerful kick, Wendy pushed the nightmare back, then started swiping at him over and over,

making it loose ground. However, lowering its head, the Wendigo charged forward again, and this time, Wendy wasn't fast enough as the Wendigo caught her on his antlers and flipped her over his back, with new blood darkening the tips of the tines. But that was its downfall, as Wendy sprung up and again latched onto its neck with her teeth, this time from behind. The nightmare struggled in vain, occasionally raking Wendy with his claws, but she refused to let go, and began ripping and tearing her way through its neck until she grabbed hold of its antlers, and with one final jerk, the head came free. I don't have the heart to describe what came next, but let's just say the

sound of flesh being torn and eaten is much more distinct through the thin membrane of a tent than a closed cabin window. Time passed. At least an hour, maybe two or three. It's hard to say for sure. I don't know what I expected to happen next. Maybe I was going to be next. Or perhaps, Perhaps I'd wake up from this nightmare, but eventually the adrenaline passed. My eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep again. When I awoke in the morning, I was alone this time. There was no sign Wendy had come back. I'd half hoped she'd still be here telling me I'd had another nightmare, but I don't think I would have believed it again. It was kind of sad and lonely packing up our things by myself. I debated bringing Wendy's stuff with me, but I'm not.

that good of a hiker and wasn't confident I could pull it off, so I just left her things in her pack inside the tent. When I exited the tent, I was more than a little surprised to see Wendy sitting calmly by the fire pit with no wounds in sight. She smiled sadly. So, I guess I owe you an explanation. I remember hesitating, my mind blank, before I settled on the thought I had earlier. What? You're not going to try and convince me it was a nightmare again? She looked around at all the destruction in the campsite. Earth was kicked up, trees had claw marks gouged out, and there were signs of blood splatter everywhere.

I didn't think I could convince you this time. I nodded as I looked around. Yeah, I guess not. Then, I looked back at her. You know, for a bit there, I was starting to think you were the monster-eating people out here. Wendy pointed at herself, then laughed. Wait, me? Wendy, the Wendigo? Don't you think that's a little too on the nose? I couldn't help it. As weird and messed up as everything was, as disturbing as everything I learned was, this was the Wendy I knew and cared for. So I laughed with her. Yeah, maybe so.

Long story short, we're still together. Sure, my girlfriend might be a seven-foot-tall monster that eats other monsters for fun, but everyone has to be. But everyone has to be. has their quirks. Besides, dating is hard, and I'm happy where I am. The first time I realized that the world wasn't as it seemed, I was just a kid, a sprout really, with more courage than sense. That's how it is growing up in Greenville, a town so small it felt like a secret, tucked away in the cradle of the mountains, and bordered by an expanse of national forests so vast it seemed like another world. Douglas and I, we were inseparable back then. two halves of the same coin, always itching for the next adventure, the next mystery to unravel in the wilds that lay just beyond our backyards. We thought we knew every inch of those woods,

every secret trail, and hidden glade, but the forest kept its deepest secrets hidden, revealing them only to those with the audacity to look. It was the summer of 1999, the kind of summer that sticks in your memory, bright and searing, filled with the endless possibilities that only childhood can believe in. Our dads had taken us camping, a tradition, but for Douglas and me, it was just another chance to explore. Once the camp was set and our fathers settled into their routine of fishing and fireside stories, we seized our moment, slipping away into the thickening woods as the shadows grew long.

We played at being explorers, charting unmarked territories, daring each other to venture further, to discover what lay beyond the next ridge or underneath the rotting log. It was a game, until it wasn't. Dusk crept upon us like a thief, stealing the light and our sense of direction. The familiar turned foreign, and the sounds of the forest, once comforting, now carried a hint of menace. Dad, where are you? Our calls went unanswered, the forest swallowing the sound.

The realization that we were lost, truly lost, settled in with the darkness. I'm scared, Douglas admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. I wanted to tell him I was too, but the words felt like a betrayal of the unspoken pact of bravery between us. Then we heard it,

the crunch of heavy footsteps, deliberate and fast, coming towards us. My heart hammered against my ribcage, a wild drumbeat signaling danger. Through the dim light, a shadow darted between the trees, too fast to be.

natural. It zigzagged, an impossible movement, drawing closer with every heartbeat. What the hell is that? Douglas's voice cracked with fear. I didn't have an answer. Panic took hold and we ran, the thud of our footsteps and the crashing of our pursuer blending into a terrifying symphony. Glancing back, I saw it, a blur of movement and a flash of amber eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of the night. Miraculously, we broke free from the grip of the grip of the the trees, stumbling onto a trail lit by the beams of flashlights. The search party, our dads at the forefront, had found us. Relief washed over me, only to be replaced by frustration as our tale of the shadow creature

was met with skepticism. Lying in my tent that night, the sounds of the forest all around, I understood for the first time that there were things out there beyond our understanding, ancient and hidden. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Greenville and its surrounding woods held secrets darker and deeper than I could have ever imagined. It was a revelation that would shape the years to come, drawing me back to those shadows time and again, searching for answers I was only beginning to understand I needed.

Turning twenty-one in the wilderness of the mountains surrounding Greenville was meant to be a rite of passage, a step into manhood with the wilderness as my witness. My father, with his rough hands and weathered face carved from years of working under the open sky, had planned it all out, a father and son camping trip with a bottle of Jack Daniels as the centerpiece. To celebrate your stepping into being a man, he had said with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The day was spent setting up camp and recounting tales of past adventures, of days when Greenville was even smaller, and the forest even more mysterious. As night fell, the forest around us came alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, a symphony of the wild that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, not out of fear, but reverence.

After my third shot of whiskey, the world felt slightly askew, a pleasant buzz softening the edges. That's when the night tore open with a screech that curdled my blood. My dad, off in the trees relieving himself, laughed off my startled jump. What's the matter, kiddo? Jack on the rocks too strong for you. His amusement faded when the screech cut through the night air again, closer this time. A sound so alien it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones. What in the hell? he muttered, a rare note of uncertainty in his voice as he stumbled back to the campfire. His face etched with concern.

He fetched our rifles, his old lever action and my 22-long rifle, handling them to me with a seriousness I'd rarely. seen. What was that? I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. Boy, I don't know, he replied, his gaze darting through the darkness that enveloped our camp. Been hunting out here for years, and I ain't never heard nothing like that. The screech tore through the air again, this time right above us, so close I could almost feel the vibration of it. It was a sound that defied natural explanation, a blend of agony and anger that seemed to come from something neither human nor animal. Without thinking, my dad raised his rifle and fired into the darkness, the muzzle flash illuminating the forest for a fleeting moment. The echo of the gunshot was followed by a heavy thud,

as if something massive had dropped from the trees. The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with unspoken fears. We sat back to back for the rest of the night, rifles in our laps, jumping at every crack and rustle in the underbrush. Sleep was an impossible dream, the whiskey in our veins no match for the adrenaline coursing through us. As dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, the forest seemed to return to its usual self, the terror of the night fading like mist in the sunlight. But the memory of that screech, and the undeniable feeling of being hunted, lingered long after we packed up camp. and headed back to civilization.

That trip, meant to mark my passage into adulthood, did more than that. It peeled back the veneer of the natural world, revealing a glimpse of something older, wilder, and utterly unfathomable. It was a birthday to remember, a stark reminder that there are things in this world, hidden in the dark and wild places that defy understanding.

The disappearance of Jessica cut through Greenville like a cold wind, leaving a chill of worry and fear, in its wake. She was one of our own, a familiar face in the small constellation of our community, and her sudden absence cast a shadow over the town. It was Douglas who came to me, his eyes burning with a mix of concern and something else, something deeper. Jessica wasn't just another missing person to him. She was the one who got away, the object of a quietly held affection that he'd never had the courage to act on. We have to do something. He's he said, his voice tight with determination.

The resolve in his eyes was something I couldn't argue with, not that I wanted to. Despite the fear that twisted in my gut, the thought of not stepping up to help was worse. The search party gathered at dawn, a motley crew of locals armed with nothing but flashlights and a shared sense of purpose. We were assigned to the northeastern section of the forest,

an area so thick with underbrush, it felt like moving through another world. Douglas led the way, his usual easygoing nature replaced by a focused intensity I'd rarely seen in him. Jessica, are you out here? Our voices echoed through the trees, hopeful calls met with silence. The search felt endless, a futile gesture against the vastness of the wilderness. As the day wore on, the optimism that had buoyed us began to wane, replaced by the head. heavy realization of just how easy it was to disappear in these woods. It was Douglas who

spotted the cave, an ominous gash in the side of the mountain that seemed to swallow the fading light. She could be in there, he said, his voice a mix of hope and fear. Everything in me screamed to stay away, memories of shadowy figures and unexplained screeches flooding back with a vengeance. But Douglas was already moving toward the cave's mouth, his flashlight cutting through the twilight like a beacon of desperation. I'll wait here, I called after him, my voice sounding small and hollow in the gathering darkness. There was a part of me that knew I should follow,

that leaving him to face whatever might be lurking in that cave alone was a betrayal of our friendship. But fear rooted me to the spot, a cold, heavy weight that refused to budge. Time stretched, each minute feeling like an eternity as I waited for Douglas to re-emerge. The forest around me grew darker, the sounds of the night creeping closer, than a voice, my voice echoed from the depths of the cave, a perfect mimicry that sent a jolt of terror through

me. Before I could process it, Douglas's scream shattered the silence, a sound of pure terror that had him stumbling out of the cave, his face ashen, eyes wide with horror. He couldn't speak, couldn't form the words to tell me what he'd seen in the darkness. all I could do was stand by him, a silent guardian against the night, as the sounds of something unspeakable echoed from the cave behind us. That night changed us, deepened the bond between us with a shared secret too terrifying to speak aloud. Whatever Douglas had seen in the cave, whatever had chased us from the woods that day, it was a reminder of the thin veil between

our world and something much older, much darker. We had peered into the abyss, and the abyss had stared back, leaving its mark on us forever. The wildfire that swept through the national forests surrounding Greenville in the summer of 2021 was unlike anything our community had ever witnessed. It consumed everything in its path, with a ferocity that left us breathless, heartbroken, and, in a way, I couldn't fully understand at the time, relieved. The fire seemed like a cleansing force, purging the forest of its dark sea, secrets, and, perhaps, the creatures that lurked within its shadows. In the aftermath, as our town

struggled to rebuild from the ashes, I couldn't shake the feeling that the fire had been more than a mere act of nature. The memories of that night in the cave, of Douglas's terror and the inhuman sounds echoing from the darkness, haunted me. The forest had held a malevolence, a presence that felt ancient and hungry, and now it was gone, reduced to char. and ash. But it was the arrival of the government officials in the days leading up to the wildfire that truly set my mind racing. They came without warning, a convoy of black SUVs rolling into Greenville with an air of authority that was impossible to ignore. I watched them from the porch of the ranger station, a knot of unease growing in my stomach. They spoke in hush tones with the

Park Superintendent, their questions pointed and their glances toward the forest filled with a weight I couldn't decipher. When they ventured into the woods, they were gone for hours, emerging with expressions that were hard to read. And then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone. Six days later, the fire started. The pieces of the puzzle were there, but fitting them together painted a picture that was hard to accept. The government had known something, had been searching for something in the woods around Greenville, and whatever they found, or didn't find, had led to a decision that changed everything. As I pieced together the evidence, the theory that formed was one of desperation and last resorts. The fire had been no accident but a containment measure,

an attempt to eradicate whatever had been haunting the forest. The Wendigo, or whatever is a it had been, posed a threat that couldn't be controlled or understood. Fire, a primal force as old as the creatures themselves, had been the answer. Living with this knowledge, this suspicion, was like carrying a weight that never eased. I found myself looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows, wondering if the fire had truly been enough. The disappearances had stopped, yes, but at what cost? And was it a permanent solution or merely a temporary reprieve. In the quiet moments, when the wind whispers through the trees that have begun to reclaim the burned land, I can't help but wonder about the balance of nature

and the unseen forces that move within it. The government's intervention, if that's what it had been, felt like a breach of some ancient pact, a violation that could have consequences beyond our understanding. Greenville has begun to heal, but the scars remain, both on the land, and in the hearts of those who remember what was lost. The fire took so much from us, but it also gave us a chance to start anew, to rebuild not just our town, but our understanding of the world and the mysteries it holds.

As for me, I keep searching, keep looking for answers in the ash and the new growth, because to forget, to let the memories and the warnings fade would be the real tragedy. The forest will always be a part of me, a place of wonder and terror, of beauty and darkness. And I know deep down that the story isn't over.

The shadows may have receded, but they're still there, waiting, watching, reminding us that we're not alone in this world. And maybe just maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. For the sake of keeping things on the down low, let's just say my name is Howard. Looking back, I could never have guessed how that weekend at Lake Huron would turn my world upside down. It was late 2018, and I was just a 13-year-old kid trying to navigate the world one day at a time. That weekend, my family and I were heading to my mom's friend Carissa's place, nestled about a mile off the coast in the northern woods of Michigan. The thought alone sent shivers down my spine.

I've always had a thing for forests, just not the creatures that might be lurking in them. The journey from our home in the south of Michigan was a quiet one, at least for me. My mind raced with images of wolves and bears, hiding just beyond the tree line, watching, waiting. I don't want to go. I remember muttering more than once during the drive. My mom, in her usual comforting tone, would reply, It'll be fine, Howard. If anything happens, we'll protect you. But words were just words, and they did little to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach. We rolled into Bay City just as the sky began to dim, the setting sun.

casting long shadows that seemed to reach out from the forest. The lakehouse sat in a large clearing, with the dense woods encircling it like a dark, unending maze. That sense of dread I tried so hard to shake off, it hit me full force the moment we arrived. But there was no turning back now. Trying to push my fears aside, I made an effort to mingle with Carissa and the others.

They were nice enough, and for a short while, I managed to forget about the encroaching darkness just beyond the windows. We had pizza, laughed, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Well, everyone except me. The forest loomed large in my mind, a silent watcher just waiting for the right moment. Later that evening, while the adults hung out in the basement, I found myself alone in the kitchen,

my only company being a YouTube video playing on my phone. That's when I heard it. A scraping sound coming from outside, right on the other side of the wall. My heart jumped into my throat. I was frozen, too scared to move, too scared to even breathe. The noise continued, relentless, as if something, or some one, was trying to claw their way in. But then, as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped. Curiosity overcame fear, and I mustered the courage to peek outside.

To my relief, it was just a deer, its antlers likely the culprits of the sound. My mom checked on me shortly after, chuckling when I told her about my scare. Deer are a symbol of peace and freedom, Howard, nothing to be afraid of, she reassured me. I wanted to believe her. I really did. That night I crashed on the couch with my Jurassic World blanket, the events of the evening still playing in my mind. Despite everything, I slept surprisingly well, comforted by the thought that maybe, just maybe, my fears were unfounded. But as I would soon discover, some fears are rooted in a very dark reality. The next morning came way too fast for my liking.

Carissa, with her morning person energy, chirped, Hey, Howard, wake up, buddy, it's bright outside. I grogily opened my eyes, shocked to see it was already 2 p.m. How did I sleep in so late? Not that I was complaining. It just meant fewer hours of daylight to worry about the woods. After a quick breakfast, or lunch, I guess, Carissa decided we should all head to the lake.

The idea didn't excite me. The lake meant the beach, and the beach meant people, lots of them. And I've never been one to thrive in crowds. To make matters worse, when we got there, I found out that people included a bunch of little kids. Great, just my luck. I've had enough experiences with my younger cousin from Tennessee

to know that kids, especially the loud and energetic ones, were not my cup of tea. So I did what any antisocial teenager would do. I grabbed my phone and planted myself just beyond the tree line, far enough to avoid unwanted interaction, but close enough to not seem like I was planning a solo expedition into the forest. I figured I'd just watch some YouTube videos and until it was time to go back. The Hodget Wins always knew how to get a laugh out of me, even when I was feeling completely out of my element. But then, something strange happened.

I was halfway through a video, laughing quietly to myself, when I heard it, a voice, unmistakably like my grandmothers, calling out to me from the woods. Howard, come here, boy. It was exactly how she'd call me whenever she needed help with something. My initial reaction was confusion, then fear. I knew for a fact my grandmother was back on the beach with my mom. I could see them from where I was sitting.

The voice sounded so real, so convincing, yet slightly off. Like when my grandma is out of breath after climbing the stairs to her apartment. Every instinct in me screamed that this was wrong, that I shouldn't head towards the voice. So I didn't. I ran back to my grandmother and my mom, my heart pounding out of my heart pounding out of the wrong. of my chest. When I told them what happened, they looked at me like I had grown a second head. It sounded like Grandma, I insisted, but they brushed it off, thinking I was making it up, or trying to find an excuse to go home. But I wasn't. I knew what I heard, and it chilled me to the

bone. We stayed at the beach for another hour or so, but I couldn't relax. Every sound from the forest made me tense up. Every shadow seemed to move. It was like the woods' were alive, watching me, waiting for me to let my guard down. The ride back to the house was quiet, at least for me. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, trying to make sense of what had happened. But one thing was clear. I was not alone in feeling uneasy. The forest had eyes, and it had chosen me for some reason. What that reason was, I couldn't tell. But as the sun began to set and we approached the house, surrounded by the dark outline of the tree, and we were, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

After the beach incident, the day dragged on like a bad dream. I tried to stay close to my mom and Carissa, hoping their presence would somehow protect me from whatever was out there. But as evening fell, my sense of unease grew stronger. The woods seemed to close in around us, a dark, impenetrable wall of shadows and secrets. Dinner passed in a blur. I wasn't hungry, my stomach tied in knots. Everyone else seemed to move on from the day's events, laughing and joking as if we weren't surrounded by miles of wilderness that harbored who knows what.

I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that something was waiting for the right moment to strike. The breaking point came later that evening. We were all hanging out outside, trying to enjoy our last night at the lakehouse. Blitz, Carissa's husky, had been my one source of comfort throughout this trip. He was always so happy and energetic, a welcome distraction from my fears. But even Blitz seemed on edge tonight. His ears perked up, his eyes scanning the dark tree line. Then it happened. One of the kids, probably frustrated by Blitz's lack of interest in playing, kicked him hard. Blitz reacted instantly, lunging at the boy with a growl that sent shivers down my spine. I managed to

grab his collar just in time, holding him back from doing any real harm. The parents rushed over, scolding and soothing, but the damage was done. The atmosphere had shifted, tension crackling in the air like electricity. Carissa was furious, not just with the kid, but with Blitz too. I couldn't believe it. How could she blame the dog for defending himself? I stayed outside with Blitz, trying to calm him down, but my mind was elsewhere. The forest seemed to press closer. The night sounds louder and more sinister than before. And then, I heard it, a stick snapping in the darkness, heavy and deliberate. Blitz tensed, his growl low and menacing. He stared into the woods, his body rigid with aggression, and before I could react, he bolted into the trees, disappearing into the night. Panic took over.

Carrissa's husband, Steve, and my stepdad grabbed their guns and charged after blitz, vanishing into the darkness. The rest of us huddled inside, the windows now menacing eyes peering into the soul of the forest. We turned off the lights, hoping to see or hear something, anything, that would tell us they were okay. But there was only silence. An oppressive, terrifying silence that seemed to swallow up all hope. After what felt like hours, faint gunshots shattered the night, far off and desperate. Carissa wanted to go after them, but Reason held us back.

We had to stay inside, safe, and wait for them to return. But they didn't come back. The night dragged on, an endless cycle of fear and waiting. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and we fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of shadows and screams. When morning finally came, it brought no relief, only horror. The sight that greeted us on the back porch will haunt me forever. Steve and my stepdad, or what was left of them, lay torn apart, a gruesome testament to the savagery of the night's events.

It was clear then that we were dealing with something beyond our understanding, something ancient and malevolent that called the Dark Woods of Michigan its home. As the police arrived and questions were asked, I couldn't have to be. help but feel a deep sense of dread. Whatever had attacked them was still out there, watching, waiting, and I knew deep down that our nightmare was far from over. I didn't sleep that night. How could I? The images of Steve and my stepdad, mangled and lifeless, played over and over in my mind like a horror movie I couldn't pause. The house felt different now, tainted by death and fear. Every creek and whisper of wind sounded like a prelude to another nightmare. I lay on the couch, clutching my Jurassic World blanket, listening to the

silence and wishing for mourning. But morning seemed a lifetime away. My thoughts raced, trying to piece together what could have done such a thing. Bears, wolves, no, the savagery of it. It was something else, something worse. I remembered the stories I'd heard, legends of creatures that roamed these woods, tales I'd dismissed as just that. stories, but now, faced with the unimaginable, I wasn't so sure. Then, in the deepest shadows of the night, I heard it again. The scraping, but this time it was different, closer, personal. My heart froze. The sound wasn't coming from outside. It was right there, on the other side of the wall. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Whatever was out there,

wasn't just passing by. It was here for me. I didn't dare move. I barely breathed. The scraping continued, each sound a step closer to my doom. And then, silence, deafening silence. I strained my ears, hoping, praying it was gone. But the nightmare was far from over. The next sound I heard was the back door, slowly creaking open. A cold draught swept through the room, carrying with it the stench of decay and death. My eyes watered, not just from the smell, but from fear. I was too scared to move, too scared to even scream. I just lay there, hidden under my blanket, hoping it would somehow protect me from whatever horror was creeping into the house. And then I saw it, a shadow, tall and thin, moving with an eerie grace. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before,

a creature of nightmares brought to life. It paused. as if sensing my presence and turned its skull-like head in my direction. I could see its eyes, dark pits of malice, staring right at me. I remembered the stories then, the legends of the Wendigo, a creature of hunger and horror. It all made sense, the disappearances, the savagery, the voice mimicking my grandmother. This was no bear. This was something much, much worse. The Wendigo moved closer, its clawed hand reaching out towards me. I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but just lie there.

But I was paralyzed, trapped by my own fear. It spoke then, in a voice so like my grandmothers, yet filled with a hunger that chilled my blood. Come with me, boy, it said, but I remained silent, refusing to give in to its call. Just when I thought it was over, that I was about to meet the same fate as Steve and my stepdad, I heard footsteps. Someone else was awake, moving around the house. The Wendigo hesitated, then turned and vanished into the night as silently as it had come. The next morning couldn't come soon enough. As we drove away from the lakehouse, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The forest seemed alive with unseen eyes, and I knew, deep down, that we were

leaving something evil behind. We never talked about what happened, not really. The official story was a bear attack, but I knew the truth. The Wendigo was out there, waiting, hungering, and I had survived its call. But the nightmare wasn't over. A month later, Carissa and her family disappeared, vanished without a trace. The only thing left behind was a kid's shoe and a blanket. The police searched, but they never found a thing. It was as if the forest had swallowed them whole. I still think about that weekend, about the horror we faced. I don't know if I'll ever truly understand what happened,

but I know one thing for sure. I'll never forget the Wendigo, and I'll never, ever go back to those woods again. It was one of those blazing summer days in Indiana when you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, and honestly, I was over it. over the heat, over the endless days of doing absolutely nothing, and definitely over the boredom that clung to me like a second skin. That's why when my cousins called me up, inviting me for a camping trip to some hidden gem in northern Ohio, I didn't think twice. Ohio has to be better than Indiana, right? I'm used to myself, packing a bag with a mix of excitement and a dash of adventure.

The drive to my cousin's house was the first leg of my escape from monotony. I arrived to find them already buzzing with energy. Their gear spread out like they were planning an expedition to uncharted territories. We packed everything into the back of an old but sturdy truck that had seen better days, squeezing in between coolers and camping gear, the anticipation building with every mile we put behind us. The journey to our destination was a mix of old tunes blasting through crackling speakers and tales of what awaited us. My cousins were vague about the details.

teasing me with hints of breathtaking views and nights under a sea of stars. As we ventured further from civilization, the paved roads gave way to gravel, and then to nothing but dirt and dust. I remember waking up from a nap to the truck bouncing on uneven ground, surrounded by wilderness as far as the eye could see. We're off the grid now, my cousin declared with a grin, and I couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought. We parked the truck at the foot of a hill and hiked up to a

our campsite, our gear weighing us down but spirits high. The spot they had chosen was on top of a hill, overlooking a valley framed by dense woods. It was beautiful, serene, and so incredibly peaceful. Setting up camp didn't take long, and soon we were sitting around a campfire, the flames casting shadows that danced in the twilight. As darkness enveloped us, the conversation turned to the land we were on. In between fits of last, my cousins revealed that we weren't actually in a state park but on Native American land. They said it was some sacred hill, but the way they were chuckling made me think they were pulling my leg. Yeah, right, I thought, not fully buying it, but intrigued by the idea.

They mentioned the name of a tribe, which sounded legit, but I was too caught up in the adventure to question it further. It wasn't until the first scream shattered the night that the laughter died in our throats. It was a sound that seemed to come from another world, a howl that carried across the hills and settled in the pit of my stomach. We tried to laugh it off, but the unease was palpable. The more we heard it, the closer it seemed to get, and the more we realized this was no ordinary camping trip. The night had wrapped us in its cool embrace, a stark contrast to the day's heat. Our campfire crackled, the only light in a sea of darkness that surrounded us atop the hill. After the revelation about the land being sacred, a part of me felt a strange thrill at the thought,

while another part couldn't shake off a creeping unease. That unease turned into cold dread when the first scream pierced the night. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard, a howl, a scream, something that seemed to tear through the fabric of the peaceful night and embed itself into our bones. We all froze, the laughter dying on our lips. As we tried to convince each other it was just an animal. But deep down, we knew this was no animal sound we were familiar with. The screams continued, each one sounding closer than the last,

turning our initial fear into panic. I remember exchanging looks with my cousins, the same question reflected in our eyes. What should we do? Before we could answer, another scream, this one so close it felt like it was right next to us, made up our minds. Then, from the darkness of the tree line across the valley, it appeared.

At first, all I saw was a shape, a shadow that seemed too tall, too thin to be human. But as it stepped into the faint glow of the moonlight, there was no denying what we were seeing. A creature, humanoid but grotesquely elongated, sprinted towards us with unnerving speed. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare, and for a moment we were too shocked to move. quickly turned to terror, and without a word, we all turned and ran. The woods, dark and foreboding, seemed to close in on us as we stumbled through, driven by the primal fear of being chased by something we couldn't even begin to understand. The creature's screams followed us, a haunting soundtrack to our desperate escape. Those woods felt endless, and the terror seemed to

stretch every second into eternity. I don't know how we did it, but eventually we burst out of the tree line, the sight of the truck, a beacon of hope in the darkness. We didn't pause, didn't look back, just drove as fast as we could away from that hill, away from the screams. We ended up at a McDonald's, the only place open at that ungodly hour, trying to calm our racing hearts and shaking hands. None of us spoke much, what was there to say? We had come face to face with something inexplicable, something terrifying.

When dawn broke, we knew we had to go back. Our gear, our belongings. They were all still up there. Returning to the campsite felt like walking back into a nightmare. But in the light of day, everything seemed peaceful, untouched. It was almost as if the previous night had been a collective hallucination. But the fear we felt was real. The screams we heard were real.

And the creature, it had to be real too. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I looked up creatures of folklore online, stumbling upon the legend of the Wendigo. The descriptions matched too closely to what we saw, sending a shiver down my spine. It was a chilling confirmation that what we encountered was not just a figment of our imagination. It was real, and it was out there, in the dark, waiting. For those involved in dealing with cryptids, if any of you are reading this, why do you do it? than the money, of course, I feel a lot of you do it for the rush, the adrenaline, but where's the line

drawn? Where does exhilaration evolve into panic? Don't get me wrong, a little risk-taking is food for the soul, but so many factors can go wrong in any situation. In particular, what do you do when you find the corpse of a cryptid you were hunting, eviscerated and dismembered, when the abrupt realization hits you that there's a bigger fish? My grandpa wasn't quite on the level of monster hunting, but boy was he a crazy idiot. Once, he hunted a grizzly using nothing but a crossbow, wet mud, and leaves, and his wit. He's had its head mounted above his forest house fireplace ever since. I can't say how far back his love for the wilderness is rooted, but I know he grew tired of the city long before retiring from his job as a metropolitan

engineer. Since then, he's lived out in an old house, in the northwestern reaches, of the Olympic National Forest, about 40 miles from the park itself, Washington State. I can only imagine how lonely it must have been, living out there by himself, but he never seemed any the worse for it. In recent years, I've come to be good friends with a guy I met in college, Martin. I could see the same fire in his eyes as my grandpas when it came to the outdoors, always pestering me to come with him on camping trips, going fishing, hunting, you name it. It was a no-brainer bringing him along for a visit to my grandpa's. Honestly, I feared they might get along too well, and Martin would never return with me.

In the end, it didn't matter, because both of us have been ingrained with a morbid aversion to the woods since that day. Martin was particularly eager this time, practically vibrating in the passenger of my Jeep. Last trip, Grandpa promised he'd show him the ropes of skinning and pelts. Martin often went on about how he'd feel sitting afront a roaring fireplace, with a great deer-skin rug laid out beneath it. My motivation was simply to check up on my grandpa. He hadn't been responding to my attempts to contact him for the past week, so naturally I was a bit worried.

We ran into a problem early, driving up the long dirt road to my grandpa's. Rounding a corner, I slammed on the brakes, seeing a slew of fallen trees lying across the road. Damn, what happened here? Martin exclaimed. There haven't been any storms recently, right? I sat with my hands ten and two on the steering wheel, lost for words. Uh, no, it's been pretty clear weather around these parts since March. Weird.

Shutting the engine off, I hopped out of the Jeep. The only sounds were the leaves, flittering in the mid-spring breeze, nature's white noise. We were a little over two miles away from the house, an easily walkable distance. Grandpa had enough equipment that we didn't need to bring much of our own, so our bags were light. I had my phone, a flashlight, water, spare clothes, and my utility watch strapped around my wrist.

My plan was to get up to Grandpa's and come back down in his truck to chop up the fallen logs with a chainsaw. We thought it would be more fun to go through the woods alongside the track. A long dirt road means only boredom after all. We scrambled down the left side slope and began our trek, keeping an eye on the road to follow its route. Only a few minutes later, the smell hit us, putrid carrion. It was nothing unexpected.

Animals in the forest die all the time. Even so, that hardwired part of my brain was repulsed at the smell. Damn, something's festering out here, I said. Can't imagine how it had smell in summer. Martin let out a small wretch, but agreed. The stench only grew stronger as we went on. It was at its peak when I almost tripped over a sharp object. on the ground. I thought it to be a cluster of branches at first, but the notion quickly

dissolved upon seeing their pale ceramic reflections. A decapitated stag's head lay right in front of us. It was wrong, though. The teeth were too long, and the bone of its face was exposed. Even with the odor, I could tell it was fresh from the viscous black liquid that seeped from its neck and mouth. Martin spoke up. Damn, that's freaky. You think a bear did this? I mean, I mean, there's only black bears here, right? I doubt they could pull off something like this. A cougar, maybe? I don't know.

Never seen one straight up decapitate a stag like this, though. My eyes were drawn to a trail of red, forming a jagged streak ahead of us on the ground. My gaze followed it, until it terminated at the stag's grisly mess of a body. Well, it looked quadrupedal from a distance, but as we moved closer, I found myself sorely incorrect.

The body was that of us. of a monster, large in stature, but bony and gaunt, long razor-sharp claws lying splayed across the ground like kitchen knives, and all covered in patches of dark-wizzened fur. Is it bad? Martin called out, approaching from behind me to get a look. When he saw it, he went still and quiet, as had I. There was no statement that could do the sight justice.

I'd heard the old tales of the horrors lurking deep inside the forests, but never experienced them face to face. It was still, lying dead as the fallen leaves beneath it. It looked crushed and broken, littered with what seemed to be wide and deep puncture wounds. Martin managed to speak up. Is that? But before he could say any more, a sudden snap broke the tension, the snap of a twig, no, a branch. My spine shot straight upright. Against my better judgment, I found my head gradually swiveling in the direction the noise had come from. When I caught a vast, hulking shape in my peripheral vision, I whipped around to face whatever was there.

I saw something, just for a moment, enormous long limbs draped in shaggy hair, the color of pine bark. But as quickly as I'd turned, the image vanished. Rising dread threatened to pry my lips apart in a scream. I looked far and wide, but nothing was there. Kelle, what is it? Wait, the cougar isn't still here, is it? Martin whispered. No, it's nothing. Let's keep going. We can talk about this later with my grandpa,

but the cat could still be loitering about somewhere. It's best we don't stay in the same place for too long. Before departing, I snapped a few pictures of the corpse on my phone, zooming in on the head without backtracking to get a better angle. Something told me that turning back, however briefly, would be a terrible mistake. We went on with an urgent pace, pretending to ignore the heavy movements between the trees nearby. Large animals will inevitably give away their movements, but they snap twigs, not entire branches. Even so, the movements sounded anything but clumsy. No, they sounded calculated, those of a stalking predator.

As hard as I tried to filter them out, I caught myself glancing to the sides and behind very often. I don't know whether I was hoping to see something, or nothing. Still, the woods around us were empty, other than ourselves. Hey, Kel, if there's a mountain lion around here, we should go up onto the road for a bit. It'll be easier to bolt if we need to. I agreed, and we veered off to the right, climbing up the roadside slope. Deep down I knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't a big cat. We only told ourselves that skirting the subject of monsters now made it very real to us.

The forest fell silent as we walked along the road. That was far from comforting, though. If the woods are quiet, predators are about. This is a well-known idea among wilderness enthusiasts. What did ease my mind to a degree was the sight of a herd of deer standing on the track. They cocked their heads to look at us, but didn't seem all too disturbed by our presence. At the same time, the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable grew as a hard lump in my gut. They started to move on as we got closer, wandering off the road and into the woods.

One of the deer stayed in place. It wasn't frozen, no, but... Constricted. It twitched and whimpered as it started to rise off of the ground, as if weightless. It happened so quickly. Its screams were cut off as its limbs were snapped and crushed, and deep wounds erupted over its body. And then, like it had been there the whole time, it stood.

It was a nightmare. Huge, unimaginably so, rivaling two elephants stacked up. It was hunched over, resting on impossibly long and thick forelimbs, ending in spindly, sloth-like claws. Its body was long, too, ending in a pair of shorter legs, knees inverted with feet supported by spur-like appendages. The lulling head that sat atop an arched neck looked like some bizarre cross between a horse and a crocodile.

pits in place of eyes, the torn skin around its mouth revealing horribly uneven and misshapen teeth that jutted out at irregular angles. The fading sunlight glinted off of the long gashes covering its sides and head. The dead creature from earlier had definitely put up a fight, but it could never have been enough. As we stood, stunned, it reciprocated our stare, the only real movements being the sets of rib-like appendages undulating on its underside, rendering the deer into a torn sack of flesh and bone fragments. The poor animal seemed to wither before our eyes, as the sharp ribs forced deeper into its body,

like a juice box having the last drops sucked out of it. At that moment, we were part of the herd, paralyzed. Some had already run off, but others were as statues in the presence of this beast. Another smell hit us then, different from the stench of decay like earlier, but equally as sickening. like moist earth, sulfur, methane, and dead fish.

Its source was clear as wisps of gas from the beast's mouth became thick, billowing fumes, rising into the evening sky. The tension was broken with the deer's mutilated husk thudding to the ground. The remaining deer took flight, scampering off into the trees, and in response, the beast snapped its head in their direction. Something was wrong with its head, flopping around clumsily as it turned. I took a step back as it let out a deep, guttural rattle, before bounding off after the herd, its matted hair swinging violently.

It splintered a tree as it went, but was totally unfazed by the impact. We waited until its thundering gallops faded into the quickly darkening night before saying anything. What the hell? What the hell? What was that thing? Martin sputtered, tears welling up in his eyes. I don't know, man, but we have to get to the house before sundown. I have a feeling our chances at escaping it are little to none in the dark. Are you crazy? We have to go back.

I want to get as far from this place as Po. What about my grandpa? We can't just leave him here with that thing. Martin didn't look over to me, but wasted no time disagreeing, starting his jog up the road. We were already over halfway to my grandpa's house, and even if we wanted to escape, it would be a menial task for the creature to smash the jeep off road. The solitary light in the distance looked like the gates of heaven. It radiated safety, but I knew we couldn't continue out in the open, completely exposed.

I looked down at my utility watch, making a mental note of the direction of the house, north-northeast, before grabbing Martin by the arm and leading him off the left side of the road. Nature's cruel irony manifested in the steepening terrain and the thickening brush. The house's light quickly faded, leaving us with only our bearings to navigate. I thought we might have gone off track for a terrifying moment, but I saw the column of smoke above the distant tree canopy that could only be from my grandpa's chimney. Come on, this way. As we neared, no light became apparent.

Maybe he'd already gone to bed. I could only guess with his lack of communication. We came up onto the lip of a hill, sloping down towards a flat clear, but there was no house. There, the pillar of smoke, but there was no source. It began in mid-air from nothing. As we stopped to look, the point where the smoke came from jerked around in the air. When I picked up on the organic stench, it clicked in my mind. Just like before, there it was, looking directly at us, the thick fumes spewing from its mouth. But I noticed something else this time. Now that the moon hung in the sky, its light glinted off of something beneath the

creature's head. Six black orbs, shiny like obsidian, three on either side of its neck. They darted about, independent of each other, and I knew immediately what they were. Eyes. What kind of abomination was this? If those were its eyes, and it ate the deer with that structure resembling a ribcage, then that must mean it had a false head, a distractive. a defense mechanism maybe. It made sense how this head flopped around limply with the beast's unnatural movements. I blinked in quick succession and looked down to my watch. Due east. We had been misled. It had circled around us to lie in wait. In one motion, I gripped onto Martin's shoulder and pulled him in the direction we were meant to be heading in a wild sprint for survival. The beast erupted into movement, ribs rippling as it led out another rumbling trill. Martin looked over at me, confused. Hey, dude, what are you doing? There's nothing the...

Shut up! Just run as fast as possible now, don't stop for anything. Our pounding feet were matched by heavy thumps and loud cracks of trees being smashed. I dared not steal a glance behind, fearing that even the slightest break in pace would mean death. There, I struggled to see what Martin was talking about, until the yellow light became visible between the tree trunks. We were only a few hundred yards away.

but I was surprised the creature hadn't already caught up to us. Even the trees in its way stood no chance of impeding it. It had almost caught up. I could feel the air pressure from its massive body charging through the trees behind. It was close enough that, at any moment, I might feel its claws cleave my body into pieces. A saving grace. Coming up on our left was a dense patch of old oak trees. I swerved towards them, leaping through the spaces between trunks,

just large enough for us to get through. I hit the ground, rolling sideways. There wasn't even time to be dazed as an immense slam sounded from where we'd just been. I scrambled backward, looking to see a great arm slinking through the gap. It was thick, but not as thick as the oaks. The claws tapped about, searching blindly for our frail bodies. Go, I shouted, and the both of us shot to our feet and bolted towards the light. As we ran, the sounds grew distant.

Was it stunned, or did it still think we were behind those trees? I didn't care. All that mattered was being inside and not out. Gravel clattered against the front of the house as we skidded to a stop. I rapped on the door, devolving into pounding when they went unheard. On what was probably the twentieth knock, my fist met only air, and I stumbled in through the now-open doorway. I looked up to meet my grandpa's gaze. His eyes were wild. He didn't look like himself. He glanced

behind me at Martin, then behind him. Whatever he saw out there, his pupils contracted in response. Hurry, boys, get inside, he whispered. We filed in, and he went to bolt the door, but hesitated. His hand fell limply. Hey, no use. He was right. If the beast wanted to pay a visit, it would do so regardless of our home security. We followed him quietly to an uncovered floor hatch. What's this, Mr. Barnett, Martin asked, regarding the hatch. Huh? Oh, this here's my old wine cellar. Martin went to ask further before being interrupted. Uh, get down the ladder first, son. You can shoot your questions once we're safe. He pulled on a handle, opening the hatch to reveal a sturdy wooden ladder leading into a dim space beneath. One by one,

We clambered down its dusty rungs, meeting the cold concrete floor at the bottom. Grandpa was last, tugging a heavy rug over the open hatch before closing and securing it. I take it you've seen the thing, right? Jesus, Grandad, we barely got away. I gasped, still out of breath from our escape. Unscathed? Yeah, mostly, other than some scratches. Good.

He walked over to an upturned crate and plopped down onto it. Martin and I looked at each other and then back at him. Uh, well, Martin said, You seem to know what we were dealing with, so what the hell is it? Grandpa gave Martin a scowl of disapproval, quickly relenting into understanding. I'd scrutinize you on your manners, boy, but now ain't the time. He released a tired gasp, letting his head drop down,

before inhaling sharply and looking back up at us. I saw it only once before, in my varsity years. I had some Danish friends on my course who said I should come visit them over there and do some backpacking in their home country. Denmark has beautiful landscapes, really. Peaks rise out of the trees, you know. Before he could lose himself in a daydream, I cleared my throat to bring him back to reality. Oh, right. So, we were pretty deep in the woods when it happened.

We'd all gotten paranoid because we thought something was following us, something big, elk maybe. But we never saw anything. Only heard it. And then God. One of the girls in front of me started to, um, levitate. I don't know. She was just rising up off the ground, gripped by something. Whatever it was made a mess from her, crunched her up like a meatball being squeezed.

I saw it then. Curved bones wrapped around her, stabbing in deep. Ain't never going to forget the sight of it. It's like a stain on my mind. We saw the same thing, Martin piped up, only it was a deer, looked like it sucked everything out of it when it was done. Yeah, I can't say I know how it works. You can only see it if you know something's there. If it's there. Anyway, we ran as fast as we could back down the trail, and we seemed to lose it. The whole time there was this rancid stink, though, eggy and earthy.

Ugh. We wound up back in the town. we'd started from, went straight to the police station, and reported it. Apparently, all they found was a little chunk of meat, a piece of thigh, or something like that. One of the other guys told me about the tale later on. He brought up the smoke we saw rising out of the forest, when we were back in the town. An old Danish legend went that people through history seen smoke columns in the woods, and most who went to check it out never returned. They said it would move around, not like how a fire would spread, but like it was wandering to and fro.

Damn, that's a horrible story, Grandpa, I said. It doesn't help us figure out what it is, though. We already know the stuff you've just told us. Well, he replied, I'm sure it's got many names, seeing how it can just pop up where it likes, but I only heard it called the Scorston Deer, means chimney beast, if I'm remembering right. That makes sense. We thought we were seeing the smoke from your chimpanzee.

but it led us right to it. Kel, Grandpa sighed, this house ain't even got a chimney. Martin looked over to me scoffing, then back over to Grandpa. So it lures people in like that. Sure, but I don't think it means to. I'm going to take a gander and say it started up with the fumes after it ate that deer. Yeah, I replied. Whatever that thing is, it ain't from here.

It ain't from anywhere on the planet, I think. It eats something, then starts giving it. then starts given off smoke, a waste product from digesting, I'd guess. So, crap gas? Martin chuckled. He always was able to find a way to lighten the mood in dire situations, even if just a little. I looked up at the monochrome ceiling above us, mulling over what grandpa had said. I remembered how this whole thing had started and pulled out my phone to bring up my photos.

We found this after starting our way up to yours on foot. I have an inkling. But do you know what it is? Grandpa squinted at the screen, then took it from my hand. Scroll to the right. That's only the head, I said. His silent focus was only punctured by the dull taps of his finger on the screen. Recognition lit up in his eyes, his head bobbing up and down.

Well, I'll be damned. Wendigo, right? I asked. Eye up. I gotta say, never seen one around these parts before. But then again I was never looking for one. I doubt you need it. but keep that as a reminder for what this beast is capable of. I put my phone back in my pocket, sighing and letting my chin drop into my hands.

In any other situation, I'd be shocked to find out such a creature was real, but not now. This is all great, Mr. Barnett, Martin said with quivering uncertainty, but it doesn't help us. What are we going to do? What can we do? I don't know.

Well, I have a stupid idea, but it's just grasping at straws. Anything over sitting here and waiting to die, Martin breathed, staring off into space. Anything. Grandpa looked up toward the basement window, the only source of natural light in the room. What little of it remained. Well, I was checking my traps out east from here, about six, 700 yards into the woods. Only when I got there was there this smudge.

I don't know what to call it, but that's the best I can describe what it looked like. It was like, looking into it, I couldn't register what I was looking at, hurt my eyes after a while, never seen nothing like it. Was after that I started seeing the Scorston Deer, so. He trailed off, like he was struggling to find the words to say. So what? I pressed, leaning forward in anticipation. Again, this is guesswork, but I think that's where it came out from.

I threw a rock into it when I was there, but ain't here it hit the ground. like it went someplace else. If we can just lead it back there, just get it to go back in. Wait, hold on, I interrupted. Shouldn't we call someone, police, the damn army? What do you think will happen to the cops when they come out here, huh? What's a chief and a rookie in one police car going to be able to put up against it?

And good luck convincing U.S. military to send out Marines. You'd be lucky if they thought it was a joke. I shut my mouth, swallowing my next words, allowing grand. grandpa to continue with his proposition. Either the beast leaves or we die. I'm not even going to talk about trying to drive away. You've seen what it does to the trees. Stealth might work, but it's better at that than we are, big as it is,

and I don't want to risk either of you losing your lives. His last remark sent a chill down my spine. He'd said nothing explicitly, but I already began to understand what he meant. Grandad, you... Don't worry about me, champ. got something, but you got to listen closely, both of you. Martin and I focused on him. I wanted to hear his plan, but I really hoped it would be different from my expectations. Now I want to make this clear before anything else. I'm going alone, and you boys need to sit tight and do as I say.

My heart dropped, plunging into the stone cold sea of despair. Are you crazy? No, I have to go with you. I... Grandpa cut me off, shushing me. As I say, he commanded. I knew he was right, but in the face of loss, my thoughts wrestled against the idea. Okay, now I'm going to call you when I'm a ways off, all right. You have to pick up and stay on the call with me. It's vital you keep your attention on my voice. I need both of you to be brave for the next part.

I need you to make as much noise as you can. Martin's eyes bulged in fear. Won't that just get us killed? I haven't finished. That's only up until I call you. When I do, you shut up and you hide in the darkest corner of this cellar, okay? I was heaving for breath now, cold beads of sweat budding on my forehead, but I closed my eyes and stilled myself. Yeah, okay. Good, once we're connected, I'll start. We were silenced by a single muffled thump from overhead, so forceful that the ceiling spewed cement dust down on us. Then another thump, and another thump. And another,

another, and another. I fell off my perch in shock when a booming crash sounded from above, chased by the clattering of rubble. The steady thuds drew nearer, louder, until the only sound was that of the floorboards, groaning under immense weight. I looked over to Grandpa, who looked over to me, and whipped a finger to his lips. I nodded, then slowly turned toward the basement hatch. The beast was trying its best to move silently. A stifled whimper escaped my lungs as I saw the hatch buckle. A loud bang shook the house's foundations, then nothing. In the silence, I could make out the beast's ticking growl. It was toying with us, trying to catch us out, make us think we'd been foiled so we'd burst out in a panic and try to flee. Its intelligence

terrified me so much more than its grotesque appearance. It tried this bait a few more times before huffing angrily. The heavy creeks grew distant until we could know longer hear it, aside from the single crash of a fallen tree somewhere outside. I stood up, eager to set this plan into motion, only to be dragged back down by a firm grip on my arms. My eyes fell to meet my grandpas, looking at me with a wide-eyed scowl. Sit down, he hissed. Not yet. It's clever. It's probably waiting at the tree line, watching for us to come out. The three of us sat in silence, ears attuned for even the slight noise to indicate its presence. After an excruciating weight, Grandpa rose to his feet and crept over

to the ladder. He scaled it, wincing at the creek of a rung, then pushed open the hatch ever so slowly. The rug that had been above was tattered, torn fragments slipping down into the now open space. He peeked out from side to side, checking rigorously that we were safe. As he pressed his hand upward, what sounded like a broken tile was disturbed, clattering to the floor. above us. Grandpa froze in place, visibly tensing. Kriak. The heavy step, followed by the guttural rattle I prayed to God I wouldn't hear, forced Grandpa into action. He pushed himself off of the ladder, tucking and rolling to the floor, right before the hatch was slammed by immense force, cracking it and warping the hinges. Grandpa shot to his feet, adrenaline far outpacing his old age.

He glanced around wildly at the floor before looking up at us with newfound determination. Ah, crap, damn it. Change of plans. Martin distract it. Make some noise. Kel, give me a leg up to the window. Martin's jaw fell open and his breathing quickened. Damn! He yelped, pressing fingers into his temples. But to his credit, he turned toward the hatch and started up a racket straight after. Come get it, you idiot, you ugly sack of crap. While Martin was busy cussing out the chimney beast, Grandpa and I hurried over to the window and braced myself in a kneel, fingers locked together forming a foothold, where he planted a foot.

One, two, three, I heaved him up, holding my posture while he unlatched and swung the window open. My body was already tired from running away, and Grandpa was heavier than he looked. Still, I hauled him up further until he was out past the waist, and he pulled himself out into the hazy night. I kept my focus on him as he turned around, refusing the urge to look as I heard claws cleaving away ravenously. All right, I'll be calling in a minute, he panted. When I do, tell Martin to zip. I love you, bud.

You too, granddad. My words latched onto him, fueling a forgotten instinct that slammed his heels into the forest floor, and sent him sprinting into the trees, fading until he was merged with the dark itself. I have grounded again when Martin let out a shriek. and I turned to see him backpedaling from those spindly claws extending through the jagged hole that once was the hatch. A thick trail of crimson smeared from him as he shuffled back, the same crimson that slicked one of the titanic claws. It got me, ah God, it hurts, he cried, flipping over and resorting to a belly crawl towards me. I rushed over and dragged him as far away

as I could, but he flopped to the floor in shock when I released my grip. His calf was a mess of exposed, glistening flesh and bone, sliced through like warm butter. His mouth hung half open, but without a sound, so I rushed to build a cacophony in his place. As booming as I tried to make myself sound, I devolved into whimpering shouts. The beast's arm had reached almost halfway across the room, yet still, it slithered further and further through the broken hatch, claws tick-tick-tick-ticking around in search of our flesh. Backed up into the furthest corner alongside Martin, the monstrous hand grew closer, slowly, agonizingly so. I only became aware of the incoming call from the vibration in my jacket pocket. It felt as if, somehow, safety lay in the act of answering my grandpa's call.

My hand shot into my pocket and yanked the phone out, fumbling with the touchscreen and picking it up. Grandad, I, it's so close, it's about to get us, do something, please, I wailed into my phone. Instead of a reply, a loud crack rang through the night, and then the phone. The beast's arm lurched backward, freezing for a moment, before it tore out from the basement peppering the floor with wood fragments. As simple a sound as it was, I recognized it. His Blackhawk. He'd taken it with him.

I don't know when he picked it up. He may have had it on him the entire time. Out the window, I saw the hulking silhouette barrel into the trees at speeds rivaling my jeep in fifth. I jumped when I heard Grandpa abruptly begin shouting over the call. The words were indiscernible, blending in with the scuffled sounds of movement. I took the moment to take off my jacket and then my t-shirt, which I pulled tightly around Martin's upper calf as a turnerning. it.

Hey, Kel, Grandpa said over the phone, sounding hollow and tinny. Make sure you keep up your aerobics. Gah, it sure as crap doesn't get easier with the years. I let out a half-hearted chuckle. I will. I want to go hiking through these woods with you, camping, surviving off of the hunt. I know you do. I...

God, I do too, he said, stifling a sob. You're going to have to stay strong for your ma, okay? There ain't no chance I'm getting out this time. But you. You two are. I broke down then, thick, watery streams lining my cheeks. I'm going to miss you. So, so much, Grandad. Aye, but we had some good times. Amazing times, no? I sure as hell did. And well, this is a pretty badass way to go out, right?

An unfamiliar comfort swelled up inside me, almost breaking through the tears. Yeah, all right. I'm here, the smudge. No idea what I'll find through there. I could hear the thundering beast across the call as it gained on him, its clicks and rattles too. I'm going in. Promise me one thing, though. Anything, granddad.

Ha, you be a good kid, and make my daughter proud, that's all. A bizarre noise came from the phone speaker, something akin to the sound of a stone sliding across a frozen lake, followed by a splash that seemed to kill all noise. That dead silence was broken when a shuddering voice spoke again through the phone. What the... Where are you? I yelled, pleading for any small morsel of information he could provide. I don't know. It's... I'm in a pipe, I think.

Some kind of glass tube. I can see everything outside. It's all there. All at once. There are more of these tubes so many more. They're branching and splitting, but... The connection got progressively weaker as he talked, jittering and buzzing in. my ears. I'm heading down this tube now and their central one, but it's huge, enormous, holy crap. No, I don't think it's the central in the distance, so many, the hell is this place. My exhausted brain couldn't fathom a single thing to say. I just listened, almost as confused as he was. Streams of, through some of them, and the... He was cut off by a tremendous splash, but the sound quality at this point made it sound more

like a roar. I could only hear his whimpers until that hissing trill crawled its way under my skin once more. It melded with the audio glitches. But then, I heard something I never could have expected, even after seeing what I'd seen. It sounded as if the creature was stuttering, clearing its throat, before it spoke. The unearthly nightmare beast had spoken. Its words were jarring like it was repeating after someone taught it how to talk, broken by animalistic clicks and hisses. Grandpa screamed, but the call lost connection completely and drew out in a high, sign-wave tone. My hand acted off its own accord and loosened its grip, sending the phone clattering to the floor. By the time I had crouched down to grab it, only my home screen greeted

me as I pressed the home button. The call failed. I looked down at Martin. He was out cold, but breathing. The bleeding had died down, but he needed urgent treatment. Even so, I fell to the floor, back slouched up against the cold concrete wall, and decided to wait it out until sunrise. I was certain Grandpa's plan worked, but just the slightest uncertainty held me in place. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off. My limbs ached and my head thumped. I fought against my eyelids, but they felt as if dragged down by anchors. All light vanished, and I faded into sleep. I woke to heat on my face and a red-orange blur.

I opened my eyes, grimacing at the rays of sunlight that poured through the destroyed basement hatch directly onto my face. Any notions of a simple nightmare were shattered. Martin. I rolled over on my side, seeing him lying a few feet away. Thank God he was still breathing. The red liquid coating the skin of his left leg was dry and crusted, but a small amount of it still seeped from his.

mangled limb. I chose to let him rest while I turned to the broken ladder, hauling myself up what remained of its rungs, and out into the house, what remained of it at least. Utter devastation, I do not exaggerate when I say almost the entire front portion of the house was gone. Wooden beams jutted out from piles of rubble and dust, but all was still. Unlike the day prior, birdsong weaved throughout the woods and into the ruins. I recall learning about how forest animals would go quiet when a predator is nearby, but I'd been too on edge to notice until their sounds had returned. Still, subtle chills warmed their way up my spine. I felt safe, but I'd also felt safe with Grandpa in the basement until the attack. No smoke plumed from anywhere

across the tree line, and no stench defiled my nose, but I couldn't shake it. I spent some time scrabbling around in the back half of the house that still stood. Quicker than expected, I found the keys to Grandpa's truck in the corner of the kitchen counter. I practically leaped down into the old wine cellar, then slowed my pace, gently shaking Martin, until he stirred. He was groggy and confused. Don't worry, man. I'm going to get you home. I wrapped his left arm over my shoulder, supporting him to the ladder. It was tough getting him out. but I did, and we hobbled through the ruins to the truck. Driving faster than truly necessary, I swerved, slamming on the brakes when the fallen tree trunks came into view almost out of nowhere.

The jolt shook Martin, and he came to attention from the pain in his leg. I apologized for it, but wasted no more time in getting out and helping Martin down from his seat. The stench of death was stronger in the air, the Wendigo corpse festering nearby. It brought me back to the night before. the raw terror spawning paranoia within me that grew intense over the short walk between the truck and my jeep i felt exposed we made it across the trees and into my jeep quickly even with martin's injury still without any warning signs of the beast my heart was drumming so hard i could see my chest pulse after a messy three-point turn the wheels slipped kicking up dust before we shot away down the track We drove until reaching the small police station, where I flew out of the jeep and burst through its double doors. Perhaps a rash action in retrospect, but my mind was elsewhere.

Before anything else, I had them call an ambulance for my friend, followed by reporting a severe animal attack. When I was asked what attacked us, I spat out, Cougar. The officer grunted and I laid out the facts. Grandpa was gone, dragged away by our assailant. An ambulance arrived soon thereafter to pick up Martin. The EMTs were visibly surprised by the laceration, but attended to him nonetheless. He'd lost a fair bit of blood, but they quickly got him in stable condition at the nearest hospital, where he stayed for the next week.

A search party banded together to look for Grandpa, but they found nothing, of course. I was questioned about the state of his house, but I think the trauma welling up in my eyes was the best defense I could have had. scorch marks on the rubble to indicate explosives, nothing. It's been a few years since this all happened, and I've made it through the stages of grief in one piece. I'd like to say Grandpa lives on in my memory, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate to say. I can still remember him, our conversations, days out, the smell of his fireplace, all that. But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what he looked like. That's to say, there's only an imperceptive

where he once was in any pictures I still have. I don't know where he ended up, some massive network of tubes, but I get the distinct impression that his grave lies elsewhere, in another place separate from this world. I'm eternally grateful for his sacrifice, yeah, but I can't help but think that it was only our lives that were saved from the Scorsdendere. Are there more of them, or is it somehow able to relocate itself?

Only my grandpa would have answers, but, yeah, just in case, if you find yourself out in the wilderness and you see a steady plume of smoke rising from the trees, perhaps even smell the organic stench of digestion, it'd be best to call off the occasion entirely. Once it's on to you, well, I only hope you're as lucky as we were on the day my grandpa died. The moment I think back on that trip, a shiver runs down my spine, the kind of the kind of that doesn't come from the cold but from something buried deep in memory. It's strange, sharing stories like this. A bit like group therapy for those of us who've stared into the eyes of something primal,

something that doesn't fit into the neat categories of our modern understanding. But here I am, ready to share ours. Not because I want to relive those moments, but because maybe, just maybe, it'll serve as a warning for someone else. Fresh out of high school, with the naivity of the veryivity of your own, youth still clinging to us like the scent of cheap cologne, we thought a camping trip was the perfect send-off before college. There were four of us, Preston, with his Native American heritage, and a knack for survival that went beyond what you'd find in any manual. Jamie, who knew his way

around guns better than anyone I'd ever met, Mark, a friend of Preston's, whose quiet demeanor masked a restless spirit. And then there was me, the glue trying to hold this motley crew together. Our plan was simple. Dive deep into the heart of the national forest, surround ourselves with the kind of wilderness that makes you forget the world outside, and just be. We packed my old BMW station wagon to the brim with everything we thought we'd need. Tents, food, camping supplies, and of course, our guns. The drive was a mix of anticipation and nostalgia, the road unwinding like the years we'd spent together, leading us into the unknown. Setting up camp that first day was a breeze, a testament to the countless times we'd done this

before. But as we settled down, the crackling fire casting shadows that danced just beyond our circle of light, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. For a moment, I thought I saw a pair of green eyes, framed by what looked like antlers, watching us from the darkness. I brushed it off, chalking it up to the tricks the mind plays, when the sun dips below the horizon. We spent that first night as if it were any other camping trip, reminiscing about the past and dreaming aloud about the future. The campfire curry we whipped up was a makeshift feast, and the smores that followed felt like a nod to our not-so-distant childhoods. It was perfect, or as perfect as any of us could have hoped for. But as I lay in my tent,

the sounds of the night a comforting lullaby, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence. Preston seemed undisturbed, his breathing steady in the quiet of the night, and I forced myself to believe that it was all in my head. Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling, to the eyes that watched us with a curiosity that was far from benign. I wish I had asked Preston about it, but wishes are like leaves in the wind, easily scattered and impossible to gather again.

That night, as we slept, the wilderness around us whispered secrets in a language we were not yet ready to understand, and by the time we would start to decipher them, it would already be too late. The forest greeted us with a dense mist that morning, as if the trees themselves were trying to dissuade us from delving any deeper into their domain. Preston led the way, his steps confident yet cautious, a silent testament to his connection with the land that went beyond mere survival skills. Jamie, ever the enthusiast, kept close, his eyes scanning the thick foliage with a mix of excitement and wariness. Mark was quieter than usual, his usual nonchalance replaced by a contemplative silence. And then there was me, caught between the thrill of adventure and a growing sense of unease that I couldn't

quite shake off. As we trek towards the river, the overcast sky and the lack of clear landmarks made navigation challenging. Preston's unease was palpable, a stark contrast to the man who had always seemed unshakable in the face of the wilderness. When he stopped suddenly, pulling me aside to whisper about a bad omen, I felt my stomach not. The distant whooping noise that followed his warning sent a chill down my spine, a sound so alien and yet terrified. familiar in a way I couldn't explain. Preston's reaction to the creature we glimpsed through the trees was the first real indication that this trip was veering into uncharted territory. His swear words, spoken in his native tongue, added weight to the gravity of our situation.

Despite our arsenal, the creature's swift escape after Preston's shots made it clear that we were dealing with something far beyond our understanding. The mention of a Wendigo, a creature from Preston's cultural lore marked a turning point in our journey, transforming our adventure into a fight for survival. The decision to cross the river and sever our only means of retreat by destroying the tramway felt like a desperate gamble. As Preston cut through the rope, sending the tram crashing into the waters below, I realized there was no going back. His actions, driven by a deep-seated fear of the Wendigo, left us stranded on the far side of the wilderness, cut off from the familiar, and thrust into a realm of ancient fears.

Mark's disappearance that night was the blow that shattered any remaining illusions of safety. The realization that we were being actively hunted by something that could snatch one of us away without a trace was paralyzing. The forest, once a place of freedom and escape, had become a prison, its bars made of towering trees and its guards unseen entities that watched from the shadows. As we prepared to confront whatever had taken Mark, Preston's knowledge of the Wendigo became our only guide. His makeshift torches, crafted with a sense of urgency, were symbolic of the thin line between light and darkness, between hope and despair. The revelation of the Wendigo's nature, a cannibalistic demon with a lust for human blood, cast a dark pall over our camp, transforming our fears into a tangible enemy.

That night, as we huddled around the fire, the weight of our situation settled heavily on my shoulders. The stories Preston shared about the Wendigo, tales passed down through generations, were no longer just stories. They were a grim reality we were living. Our decision to stand and fight, to face the ancient horror that lurked in the depths of the forest, was born out of necessity, a desperate bid for survival in a world that had seen. suddenly turned hostile. As I loaded my gun, the reality of our predicaments sank in. We were no longer just campers or friends on an adventure. We were survivors. Warriors pitted against an ancient evil in a battle that would test the limits of our courage, our friendship, and our will to live.

The forest, with its hidden dangers and ancient secrets, had become our battleground, and the Wendigo, a nightmare made flesh, our adversary. As dawn broke, the forest seemed to hold its breath, a stillness that belied the turmoil within us. We had fortified our camp as best we could, but as the light filtered through the dense canopy, it only served to highlight our vulnerability. Preston moved with a quiet urgency, his actions a blend of ritual and survival strategy. Jamie kept a vigilant watch, his usual bravado subdued by the weight of our predicament. the absence of Mark hung over us like a shadow, a constant reminder of the danger that stalked us unseen.

The plan was simple in its desperation. Hold our ground and survive. Preston's insistence on watch rotations underscored the severity of our situation. As night approached, the forest seemed to come alive with sinister whispers, the sounds of nature twisted into ominous portents. When it was my turn to stand watch, the darkness felt oppressive, a tangible entity that pressed in from all sides. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves sent adrenaline coursing through my veins, a primal response to an unseen predator. The fire became our beacon, a fragile barrier between us and the malevolent force that lurked in the darkness.

Preston's decision to use fire as a weapon against the Wendigo was born out of ancient wisdom. a testament to the enduring struggle between light and dark, life and death. The makeshift torches, their flames flickering in the night, were symbols of defiance, a declaration that we would not go quietly into the embrace of the forest. The attack when it came was both terrifying and surreal. The Wendigo's howls shattered the night, a sound that seemed to freeze the very blood in our veins. As it emerged from the darkness, the embodiment of night.

Our preparations were put to the test. The gunfire that tore through the night was a cacophony of fear and determination, each shot a plea for survival. The creature's resilience was unlike anything we had encountered, a being forged from the darkness of the forest itself. Preston's bravery, as he faced the creature with fire and steel, was a beacon of hope in the chaos. His knowledge of the Wendigo, passed down through generations, was our only edge. was our only edge. As the night wore on, the lines between hunter and hunted blurred, each encounter with the creature a dance with death. The realization that we were not just fighting for our lives, but engaging in a battle that spanned centuries, lent a grim significance to our

struggle. The siege wore on, a test of endurance and will. The moments of silence were almost worse than the attacks, pregnant with anticipation of the next onslaught. Our resolve was tested, not just by the physical demands of the battle, but by the psychological toll of facing an enemy that was both myth and reality. The fear of becoming like Mark, lost to the darkness, hung over us like a specter, driving us to fight with every ounce of strength we possessed. As dawn approached, the forest seemed to hold its breath, the night's horrors retreating into the shadows with the coming light.

The siege had ended, but the battle was far from over. We were survivors, but at what cost? The scars we bore were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a permanent reminder of the night we stood against the darkness and prevailed. In the aftermath, as we prepared to face another day, the forest no longer seemed like a sanctuary but a battleground, a place where ancient evils lurked, waiting for the cover of night to reveal their true nature. The morning sun did little to dispel the chill that had settled in my bones, a cold that came

from within, born of fear and the lingering presence of death, as we prepared to leave the relative safety of our camp. The absence of Mark was a gaping wound among us, a silent testament to the price already paid. The forest around us, once a place of beauty and solitude, now felt like a maze designed by some malevolent architect, each path potentially leading to our doom. preston led the way his face set in a grim mask every line and curve etched by the trials we had endured jamie followed his usual jokes and laughter replaced by a quiet determination a resolve forged in the fires of our night-long siege And then there was me, caught between a desire to flee this nightmare, and the understanding that there was no turning back, not until we faced our demon once more.

The illusion of Mark's return was a cruel twist of fate, a momentary spark of hope extinguished by the harsh reality of our situation. The creature that stood before us, wearing Mark's face but devoid of his soul, was an abomination, a mockery of the friend we had lost. The confrontation that followed was a blur of motion and emotion, a desperate battle against an enemy that was both familiar and utterly alien. As we faced the Wendigo, armed with little more than our wits and the weapons we carried, the distinction between man and monster blurred. The gunfire that erupted between us and the creature was not just an exchange of bullets, but a battle for our very humanity.

With each shot fired, we reaffirmed our refusal to succumb to the darkness. to become like the thing that had taken mark from us. Preston's voice, raised in challenge to the Wendigo, was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the strength that comes from standing together against the odds. As the creature responded, the air between us crackled with the tension of ancient enmities, a battle that transcended time and place.

The Wendigo's Howl, a sound that chilled the soul, was a declaration of war, a challenge that we met with determination and fear. The final battle was a testament to the power of fire and resolve. As I charged makeshift flamethrower in hand, I was driven by a singular purpose, to avenge Mark, to protect my friends, to end this nightmare. The creature's screams, as the flames engulfed it,

were a symphony of victory and sorrow, a cacophony that echoed through the forest, a final farewell to the friend we had lost. In the aftermath, as we stood among the ashes of our enemy, the silence was oppressive, a void filled with the ghosts of our actions. Preston's decision to destroy the Wendigo's remains was a solemn duty, an act of respect and a final gesture of defiance against the darkness. As we made our way to the highway, the forest around us seemed to watch, a silent witness to the events that had unfolded within its depths. The journey back to civilization was a procession

of the wounded, each step taking us further from the forest, but never truly leaving it behind. The scars we carried were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a reminder of the price paid for our survival. As Preston spoke of his plans to inform his elders, to ensure that our battle would not be forgotten, I realize that some wars are never truly won. They linger in the shadows, waiting for the next generation to stand against the darkness. In the end, our pact to never speak of what happened was a vow made in blood, a promise to carry the burden of our experiences alone. But as I share this story, breaking the silence that has enveloped us, I do so with the hope that it will serve as a warning, a beacon for those who might find themselves on the edge of the

darkness. For in the wilderness, among the beauty and the majesty, there lurks a shadow, a reminder that some myths are born of truth and some monsters are all too real. The clock was close to striking midnight and the whole house was asleep, except for me. In the dimly lit dining room, only the warm glow from the three bulbs above the table broke through the darkness. I could barely make out the hands of the clock as they moved closer to twelve. With a deep breath, I took out the shot glass I'd kept hidden in the back of the cupboard and placed it next to the bottle of Yeagermeister on the table.

I don't usually drink, not after what happened to pop. But the first day of September is different. It's the one exception I allow myself. Rubbing my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I felt my mouth go dry, a familiar sensation that always accompanied this moment. The house was silent, so quiet that the ticking of the clock seemed to echo off the walls. And then, right at midnight,

the soft chime rang out, sounding like distant church bells. I filled the shot glass, raised it for a second as if toasting someone only I could see, and swallowed. The familiar burn slid down my throat, warming me from the inside. After the ritual was complete, I took the shot glass to the kitchen to wash it by the light of the moon shining through the window. Loretta, my wife, wouldn't mind me drinking, but a used shot glass left out would raise questions, and talking about it, well, I've never been good at that. I still have nightmares all these years later. What I saw up on that mountain left a mark on me deeper than anything else ever has,

deeper than the joy of seeing my children born, or the sorrow of watching my father drink himself to an early grave. Loretta tells me I should talk about it, that it might help. She's probably right, she usually is. So here goes. It was right out of school when I joined the Park Rangers service. School was never my thing. The outdoors always called to me.

I spent my school days daydreaming about the weekends when I could escape into nature, hiking or fly fishing with pop. It was our thing, a bond we shared. In the summer of 89, I found myself stationed in the Appalachians. It was my dream job. Our area covered the trails that wound their way up the mountain, a place where the air felt different, where the spruce trees thinned out, and the clouds hung low, giving everything a touch of mystery.

That summer was mostly about cleaning up. The winter storms had left the trails covered in fallen branches and debris. It was considered grunt work, something for the new guy, which I was. But honestly, I didn't mind. It meant I was out there, in the thick of it all, feeling more alive than, than I ever did in a classroom. One day, as the summer heat began to wane and the number of visitors dwindled,

something happened that would change me forever. It started like any other day, but it ended with me facing something out of my darkest nightmares, something that would stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting my dreams and leading me to this yearly ritual. That's the day I can't forget, the day that compels me to raise a glass every first day of September, trying to find some peace, some closure.

But deep down, I know some experiences cling to you, shaping who you are, forever lurking in the shadows of your mind. It was a morning like any other in the ranger station, damp and misty, the kind of weather that clings to your skin and makes everything feel slower. I was sitting at my desk, thumbing through reports of fallen trees and planning my day when he burst through the door.

He looked wild, eyes wide and darting around as if he was seeing ghosts in every corner. He let out this moan, a sound so full of despair it froze me in my seat, and then collapsed right there on the floor. Stanley, my fellow ranger, was quicker to react. He leaned down, trying to prop him up into a sitting position. The guy was soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging to him, dripping water all over the wooden floor. I handed Stanley a cup of water, thinking maybe the guy was just dehydrated or something.

But when Stanley tried to get him to drink, he just flailed around, knocking the cup right out of his hand. The glass shattered on the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice. It's out there, he kept saying over and over like a broken record. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but you could hear the fear. It was palpable, filling the room and making the hair on the back of my next day. stand up. What's out there? Stanley asked, trying to keep his voice steady. But the guy just grabbed Stanley's shirt, his hands shaking. He was scared out of his mind. Stanley and I exchanged looks. We'd seen a lot of things in our time as Rangers, but nothing like this. Nothing that could scare

a man so badly he could barely speak. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he managed to calm down enough to sit up and look at us. He was a mess, eyes red and face gaunt like he'd been lost in the woods for weeks without food. Stanley gently asked him where he was from, and after a long pause, he said he'd come up from San Diego with a couple of friends for a hiking trip. That's when the story started to come together, but each piece was more troubling than the last. They'd been planning to hike the trail north, but something went horribly wrong. He pulled out a stack of Polaroids from his backpack, and there they were, his friends, smiling and alive. But the way he looked at those photos, you could tell they were more than just missing. Stanley took charge, marking

the map with the last place he'd seen them. My stomach churned as I realized we were heading deep into the mountains, far from the safety of the trails. This wasn't just another rescue mission. It felt like we were walking into a nightmare. We geared up, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling settling over us. The forests seemed different as we set out, more foreboding. Every shadow felt like it was watching us, every rustle in the underbrush a potential threat. As we moved deeper into the wilderness, away from any path or sign of civilization, I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone, that whatever had terrified that hiker was waiting for us too. The silence of the forest was a heavy, oppressive thing, broken only by our footsteps, and the occasional distant call

of a bird. It felt like the calm before the storm, and I had no idea if we were ready for what was coming. The old cabin in the woods looked like something straight out of a horror movie, its walls rotting and the roof half caved in. By the time we found it, darkness had already swallowed the woods whole, turning everything outside the beam of our flashlights into a sea of shadows. The air felt thick with something unsaid, an ominous silence that seemed to press down on us from all sides. Stanley was the first to move towards the cabin, his flashlight cutting through the dark. This will have to do for shelter, he muttered, more to himself than to us. I followed close behind, my heart racing. Something about the place felt wrong, like we were intruding on something

ancient and malevolent. We barely had time to catch our breath before we heard it. A low, guttural growl that seemed to come from all around us. Stanley froze, his flashlight. He said, light beam darting around the clearing. Did you guys hear that? he whispered. But before anyone could answer, chaos erupted. Out of the shadows it came at us, a nightmare made flesh, the Wendigo. Its eyes were like pits of fire in the darkness, and its body was a grotesque mix of human and animal, with long, clawed limbs that seemed to stretch unnaturally. We barely had time to react. Stanley fired his rifle, but the creature moved with terrifying speed, dodging the bullets as if they were nothing. Panic took over. I remember thinking

we were going to die out there, torn apart by this monster from the legends. But then, something clicked inside me. Fire. The creature seemed to recoil from the flames of our torches, hissing as if the light caused it pain. With a desperate burst of adrenaline, I grabbed a branch from the ground, lighting it on fire from one of our torches. Weielding it like a weapon, I lunged at the Wendigo,

swinging the makeshift torch with all my might. The creature shrieked, a sound so piercing it felt like it could freeze my blood. For a moment, it faltered, stepping back into the shadows as if afraid. That moment of hesitation was all we needed. Stanley and Harry joined in, brandishing their own sources of fire, driving the creature further into the darkness. But the relief was short-lived. In the chaos, the cabin caught fire. Flames quickly spread,

consuming the old wood with a hunger that mirrored the Wendigoes. We were forced to flee, leaving behind any hope of sanctuary. As we ran, the fire behind us lit up the night, casting long, sinister shadows among the trees. We didn't stop running until we reached the Ranger Station, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon. The forest was silent once again, as if nothing had happened. But the scars of that night would stay with us forever. Looking back now, it all seems like a blur,

a nightmare that I can't wake up from. I still don't fully understand what happened out there. All I know is that the Wendigo is really, real, and it's out there waiting in the darkness of the forest. And every year, on the first day of September, I remember. I remember the terror, the fire, and the faces of my friends who weren't as lucky as I was to make it out alive. Sometimes, late at night, when the world is silent and still, I can still hear the creatures'

screams echoing in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the night I came face to face with the Wendigo. Growing up in Arizona, myths and legends are a part of life. Native traditions, mystic places, vortexes, UFO abductions, and dozens of other stories of the unknown that I always found fascinating. I grew up spending a lot of time wandering around the desert and the mountains, hunting, camping, etc. So I felt very at home in the wilderness.

One late spring day on one of my many hiking adventures, I wandered off the trail, and after several hours came upon a small group of old mud adobe houses. A few people heard me coming and came out of the houses to investigate, and after apparently making the collective decision that I was not a threat, one of the elders dressed in old-style traditional native clothing, and a headdress came over to greet me. The man spoke slowly and told me that I had wandered onto a Navajo reservation and asked me if I was lost, or if I needed help. When I told him no, I was lost, but intentionally he chuckled and invited me in to eat with his family.

The next several hours were one of the great experiences of my life. The whole thing was like being thrown back in time. While we ate and talked, others from the surrounding houses began coming over to join us, and I got the feeling they didn't get many outside visitors. We shared stories for hours about life, family, their history in the area, and time spent in the wild, and the longer we talked, the more they opened up and the more interesting the elder's stories got. Throughout the time, there was one man who never spoke. He just sat out of the circle listening and watching me. At one point, I told them I did what I called my walkabouts every year around September,

where I would go out by myself into the wilderness for three to four weeks at a time, and this got the attention of the one silent old man. When I finished, he came over to the circle around the fire, sat directly on the ground in front of me, and asked me to join him on the ground. He told me that years ago he used to do the same thing, and went on to tell me about the canyon he went to. He described it as a dangerous but magic place, and that I would see the world differently if I came back. If? It must be for dramatic effect. When he finished, he invited me over to his home. The house was small, and through an open door in the back room, I could see it was filled with various animal pelts, coyotes, and wolves. He walked over and closed that door, then picked up and handed

me an old map and some written directions that seemed like he had been holding onto them for a long time, and just walked away into that back room and closed the door behind him. It was late, and one of the families had invited me to stay the night, which I gladly did. The next morning, as I prepared to leave, one of the old women came over to me with something in her hands, handed me a talisman, and simply said, dip your bullets in the white ash at the hottest part of the fire. Then just walked away. September came, and as I packed for my walkabout,

I saw the talisman in a drawer, and something felt right about taking it with me. After a beautiful drive, I was very happy to find the Forest Service Road marked on the old map. The entrance to the area was remote and overgrown and tough to get to, even in my Jeep. It took me much longer to get to than expected, so I decided to make camp and start the hike in the morning. After a few hours on a trail that looked like it had been forgotten, I came to a stream and the entrance to the secret valley. It was a narrow crack in the tall cliffs

with about four feet of water running gently through, but too narrow for a kayak or canoe. I hoisted my gear over my head and began to wade sideways through the chest-deep water. The crack and the cliff seemed to go on forever, but after almost two hours I came to the place where it opened up into a small lake in an incredible valley surrounded by tall rock faces. This may have been the most remote place I have ever been, in the sense that there was no sign that people had ever been there. No trash, no bullet casings, not even the evidence of campfires,

My first night there was the quietest night I have ever spent in the wild. No birds, no frogs, not even crickets, but I didn't feel like I was alone there. In the morning after breakfast, I headed out on my first exploratory hike to explore my new home for the next couple of weeks. After being stalked by a mountain lion on a hike about ten years ago, I make a point of now bringing a pistol with me when I'm out wilderness hiking. After some looking around, I found a narrow path that appeared to be a game trail that led up the side of one of the cliffs and towards what looked like caves from the canyon floor. I made my way up to them and came upon an entrance that was much larger than it appeared from below. I made some noise to alert any possible animals I was there and made my way inside. The cave was an expansive single chamber that went back a couple of hundred feet.

As I walked, I inspected as much as I could see with my light, but there were no tracks of any kind in the dirt besides mine, so I decided I was alone in there, and pushed on toward the rear of the cave. As I came around the last bend in the cave and approached the end, my headlamp panned across a large pile of bones, some animal, some human, and a very old-looking small candle sitting on a natural stone shelf. This is the first thing that has scared me for as long as I can remember, but focusing on my wits, I remembered that there were no other tracks in the cave, and figured it was all from a long time ago. I was still a little uneasy as I exited the cave, and was ready to get back to camp. As I came out into the light, about 75 feet away,

there was the largest wolf I have ever seen that looked like it was coming down from standing on its hind legs. It dropped down to all fours on a rock and just began staring at me, not growling or bearing its teeth, just staring. I pulled my 45 and fired two shots to the side of it to scare it away, but it didn't even flinch. Not only have I never seen a wolf in this part of northern Arizona, but I have never seen a wild animal that did not at least flinch at the sound of a gunshot. We both stood there staring at each other for a moment.

I turned and set my backpack down to grab my binoculars and get a little closer look, but when I turned back, the wolf was gone. I made my way cautiously down the path back towards camp. I have encountered wolves before, and usually it's not the one wolf you can see that should worry you. It's the ones you can't see, so I was extra cautious for the return trip. Back at camp I made sure my gun was fully loaded

and got my recurve bow strung just in case the wolves came back. I have seen plenty of predatory animals on my adventures. It's a part of being in the wilderness, so I wasn't too worried, just prepared myself the best I could and went over to the lake to go fishing. Within about 20 minutes, I caught two of the biggest brown trout I've ever caught, so I decided to stop fishing for the day and take a swim. Back at camp, I made a fire, cleaned my trout, and made dinner while the sun went down.

As soon as the sun went down, all of the life in the canyon seemed to go silent again. As I put out my fire and prepared for bed, I noticed there was a small flicker of light coming from the air, where the cave I had explored earlier up the cliffside, which didn't make sense. It was a moonless night, and stars don't reflect that way. It couldn't have been the candle I had seen. It was too old and would not have burned so bright. I decided to keep my gun close and try to get some sleep.

I would investigate the cave again the next day. When I woke at sunrise, there was a haze along the ground throughout the whole canyon floor, but as the sun rose it disappeared quickly and the area came back to life i made my breakfast gathered my gun and bow and headed back up towards the cave when i reached the entrance i saw there were still no tracks besides mine around the entrance and decided to push up the hill further just a little further up i came upon the entrance to another cave much smaller than the first one there was a small flat landing with a large heavily twisted juniper tree that to my absolute surprise, had many small objects hanging from thin, old-looking ropes tied to the branches. There were bones, but there were also old things definitely made by humans, and looked like they were old Native American artifacts. Thinking I might have found the spot where the old man I met on the reservation had stayed, when he was there decades ago, I went into the cave. This cave was much different from the first one. Just a few feet in,

I noticed the walls were covered in what looked like ceremonial cave paintings. As I pushed further back, the cave got dramatically colder, much colder than it should have been, and the walls were completely covered with the paintings the entire way. When I reached the back of the cave, I was not prepared for what I saw. There was what looked like an old altar made of wood and bones. As I looked around, I saw that a little before the back of the cave, there was another shaft in the ceiling that went up. and on a ledge about 25 feet up, sat the small figure of what appeared to be a woman.

She was small and pale with her face painted white, and wearing something like a crown made of woven branches with two small antlers at the front. I stopped and stared for a few minutes, and the figure did not move, so I assumed that it was mummified remains from a long time ago. Not wanting to disturb a burial site, I turned to walk back out of the cave, but I began to walk. I heard what sounded like a faint voice in an unknown, ancient language. I instinctively looked back up towards the figure, but it was gone.

I was immediately terrified and ran from the cave as fast as I could get out, but my headlamp flickered and died. I made my way out, feeling along the wall to find my way, and the whole way I felt like there was something right behind me. When I saw the first light from the cave entrance, I began to sprint toward it. Just before I made it out, I looked back, and there was nothing, so I slowed down, but I could still hear the faint voice, and the volume never changed. When I got outside, all the bones and artifacts hanging from the tree were gone. I ran down the path as fast as I could, headed back to my campsite by the lake.

Just as I reached the floor of the canyon, I noticed the large wolf at the tree line to my left, but this time it stayed standing upright on. its hind legs. I stopped running, hoping not to initiate its predatory response to chase me, and again, it just stood there staring at me. I reached my campsite safely, and immediately began packing up. It was too late in the day to make it out before dark, and I did not want to make the hike out at night with all that was going on. I moved my tent so it would back up to the canyon wall by the crack in the cliffside, so I didn't have to worry about anything sneaking up behind me. my fire much larger and knew I wasn't going to get any sleep that night. Just as the sun was going down, I began to hear noises coming from the trees, and I felt like I was being hunted. Finally, in the last

light of day, I saw the wolf slowly walking around by, where the path led out of the trees, and it began to slowly walk towards me. This time I drew my gun and fired towards the creature intending to hit it, and while I saw a couple hit the dirt around it, several bullets hit it. Several rounds from a 45 will at least slow down anything I've ever encountered, but this giant wolf kept walking towards me like nothing had happened. I continued to fire at it until the inevitable click of an empty magazine. I reached down and fumbled around in my backpack looking for my other magazines to reload, and as I lifted it, the talisman the old woman gave me fell out onto the ground. I picked it up and put it around my neck and immediately remembered what she had told me.

Dip your bullets in the white ash. I looked around but didn't see my backup magazines, so I grabbed my bow, pulled an arrow that was tipped with a hunting broadhead, and dipped it into the white ashes, drew and fired. I hit the creature just in front of its right hip, and it let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a person screaming that made my blood curdle. I can hear that noise in my head to this day. It immediately turned and ran back to the trees, and in the flicker of the firelight,

I saw the small woman with the antler crown standing there waiting for it. They both retreated into the trees, and for the rest of the night I could hear the same faint voice I had heard in the cave. I spent the night outside of my tent, as awake as I had ever been, but no longer afraid, and at dawn I finished packing up so I could get out of that canyon. The next spring, I went back to the small small small, group of houses on the Navajo reservation I had found the year before. I was wearing the talisman as a necklace, and the first person to greet me was the woman who had given it to me, and she ran up to give me a big hug. You heard me, was all she said. I asked the group about the man who had

given me the map, as I was almost desperate to talk to him about the experience I had, so I could compare it to his own. They told me that he had disappeared shortly after I had visited them the first time and had not been back. Strangely, when I tried to tell them what had happened to me, no one would let me tell the story. And the oldest man there who sat in the corner kept mumbling the words, Yinnaud Lushie. We all once again sat and shared other stories of life and a meal. Before I left the next morning, I found the old woman who had given me the talisman and offered it back to her. She smiled and told me I had a good heart, then just closed my hands around it telling me to keep it to watch over my next walkabout. I went back to that small village on the

reservation several times over the next 10 years or so till I moved to Oregon, but they never let me tell them what happened. I never went back to the canyon, and while curiosity sometimes gets the best of me, I don't think I ever will. I've been lurking around on the forums for a while now, and I was about to give up until I found this thread. I've read some similar experiences to my own, so I figured you all would be able to bring more clarity to all of this. This all happened back during this past summer in the state of Kentucky. To protect his identity and out of respect for his family, I will refer to my friend as James.

I was spending time together with James, celebrating his completion of finals and my recent promotion, drinking to our heart's content, and we had the thirst of a Norse warrior at a midsummer festival. Starting with a nice bottle of Japanese whiskey, that lasted all but 30 minutes. We moved on to something a little classier, Jim Beam. We sipped until day became night,

and everything got fuzzy around the edges. James took a long pull off the bottle before he turned to me and asked if I wanted to go for a night walk to our favorite stargazing spot. I obliged by taking the final swig. This was just one of the things James and I would do every weekend, and surprisingly, our parents were okay with it. Ever since we had science class together as kids, we loved stars in outer space, and the clearing was like our own private research facility.

We had a large amount of forested area near where we lived, and the clearing was just a mile and a half into the woods. I would pack my budget telescope, and we would get nice views of the moon in its differing phases, as well as nearby planets and visible galaxies. After high school, James had saved up a couple of thousand dollars to spend on one of those fancy scopes that could be remote controlled and could take HD videos. We would often talk about black holes, the inevitable heat death of the universe, or if there were other Earth-like planets out there with life like ours. We could even recite all the differing spectral types of stars from memory. It was the foundation of our friendship,

though James was much more serious and even talked about going to copy. for a degree in astronomy once he had finished his general education courses at the local community college. He was the only kid from class who said he wanted to be an astronaut and was serious about it. I was content looking at the stars through my telescope from my backyard, beer in hand, and not being in debt. It was a bad idea, but we did not care. And off into the night we went. Along the way, there was this drainage ditch we would pass by, alluring today as it was back, then, for no good reason other than it was creepy.

Being as inebriated as we were, we took the bait and headed down. Being extra careful to scale down the steep incline of the ditch walls we made it inside. It was your standard drainage ditch, a large concrete canal stretching out about ten miles in both directions, dividing the forested land in two. There was an overpass that ran across a small portion of the ditch like a bridge, connecting the two pieces of land so that people could walk across. Along the graffiti-riddled walls of the canals were drainage holes to help disperse the water should the levels rise high enough. One of these was a drainage tube about two meters wide and 50 meters long, what we dubbed the butt.

The other end of the butt led into the forest on the other side. As kids, we would crawl through it and act like it was a portal to another dimension, or it would take us back in time. James could not resist. Dude, look the butt, I'm going in, man, he exclaimed. I can't believe you actually said that out loud. Be careful you're going to scrape your knees or bonk your head, I warned. Once he got further in, he stopped moving. Any xenomorphs in there? I asked.

Nah, you hear this frog man? Indeed, I could hear the thing from where I was standing. As I approached, I noticed the croaks sounded guttural, throaty, and wet. If you've ever seen the grudge, it sounded like the noise the girl makes. but not as drawn out. At that moment, I just chalked it up to my imagination, alcohol intoxication, or a big frog, though my anxiety was already setting in. But what was strange was that there was a little water still running through the ditch from last week's rain, and typically where there was water, there were frogs. Though the croaks were coming from one source. Come to think of it,

I do not recall any other noises, no bugs, no animals, no typical forest sounds. dead silence except for the frog. What's wrong with Kermit, he said. I don't know, man, just come out. I'm starting to lose my buzz. With that, he scooted out backward, still a bit tipsy. He fell on his way out, then stood up to face me. We climbed out of the drainage ditch and continued along the dirt path.

I could still hear the croaking, but it was faint. The sounds of insects and small critters rustling in the foliage eventually returned and filled the unnerving silence, the croaking becoming a distant memory, and I settled down a bit. It was a clear night, the moon was clearly visible, and stars dotted the sky, like tinsel strewn about a black canvas. The trees reached tall, towering above us, and a nice, cool breeze blew the refreshing smell of pine to our nostrils. It was a few minutes before we arrived at the clearing that James broke the silence. Hey man, what's up? Look, I am not sure how to even say this, but there's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now.

It's been weighing heavy on my heart, and I just need to get it off my chest. Of course, you know it's just you and I out here. I'm here for you, man. You can tell me anything. Thanks, he sighed. It's just, lately I've been thinking I might— Whoa, dude, do you see that? Wide-eyed, he pointed his finger ahead.

I followed and saw what he was seeing. A young buck, a ten-pointer still with velvet around the antlers. Wow, he's beautiful, I said. We had a staring contest for about five minutes. Everything seemed normal about the deer, but most of its body was cloaked by the shadows casted by the trees overhead. What I could see was its head and a portion of its neck. It could have been the glare from the moon overhead, but the eyes looked glossed over,

like thick cataracts, or like it had been dead for a while. It was also trembling, which could have been because of us. The tips of the antlers I can remember clearly, too, the way the moonlight gleamed off them, like the surface was glossy. I tried to take a step closer, and then suddenly the buck sprinted off into the woods. It looked like right before the buck ran off, the antlers twitched, like fingers clenching to form a fist. But I brushed that off too, trying to stave my anxiety once more, and we started walking again. I really should have turned back at this point.

After an additional three minutes, we arrived at the clearing. James and I began walking to the middle, where we lay down on our backs, staring up at the sky. We were far enough from the city where light pollution wasn't visible. We could see a portion of the Milky Way galaxy, and the moon was in its waning gibbous phase. This almost would have been a perfect night for the telescope. In hindsight, I am glad we didn't bring it because it was heavy. and might have weighed me down. Okay, I said, you didn't finish what you were going to say back there.

What's going on with you? Oh, yeah, right. Well, I'm thinking about moving to... Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a scream. It sounded like a young girl, if I had to guess, around the age of ten. Help! Help me! Who's there? I could not move my body. I couldn't even speak.

I felt bad that I wasn't jumping into action. But for reasons I couldn't understand at the time, I was paralyzed. A primal fear had awoken in me, and I could only manage to turn my head slowly towards James. Our gaze locked. It felt like hours had passed. I broke out in a cold sweat and had trouble swallowing. My words kept catching in my throat, but eventually I managed to form words and spoke to James in a low whisper. What should we do? Call the police?

They'd never get here in time. And how do we explain where we are? Yes, officer, we are in some woods. There's dirt and rocks. She sounds hurt. We might need to help her ourselves, he reasoned. James was the first to get up, once he did. He extended his hand out to me and hoisted me up.

The direction of the scream had come from our right, a little way past the tree line. We waited a while longer to see if the girl would call out again. I think we should head over there, call out to her, She might be lost or hurt, man, James said. I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. Don't you feel weird about this? I asked. It's probably the booze, man.

Regardless of how this feels we need to go over there. We took a few careful steps towards the tree line, and before we got within three feet of the first tree, we heard a noise that has scarred me indefinitely for the rest of my life. For context, when I was younger, me and my friends would love to jump off the swing set at its peak because it gave us the sensation of flying. One time I managed to get some good height before I let go,

but I botched the landing and all my weight landed on my right shoulder. It had become dislocated, and I had to go to the hospital to have in popped back into its place. I am not sure if you all ever had something like that happened to you, but the noise from the shoulder bone being reinserted back into the socket is disgusting. You'd never forget it. This noise was similar but incredibly loud and wet. I could hear the bones shifting and adjusting even from this distance,

muscles, tissues, and sinew being torn with the sound of wet fabric ripping. Then a rustling of leaves and brush, followed by silence. Once again frozen by fear, we could only wait for what would happen next. A voice called out to us, voices to be precise. The girl's voice, but two other voices spoke with it at the same time and with the same cadence. One was a significantly lower pitch, and the other sounded like my own. Stop. That hurts.

Wow. He's beautiful. Hearing my own words and voice was enough. I nearly wet myself in that moment. I don't know much about trauma and how the human brain reacts, but what happened next comes back to me only in fragments. Thinking about it too hard always results in a panic attack. I remember multiple gaunt limbs, a misshapen head with horns, matted and patchy blonde hair,

and a tall and lanky body with saggy leathery skin and pustules all over. I remember it running towards us on all fours, body turned sideways. Then came the gunshots, running through the woods. I remember hearing a deer bleat mixed with the sound of a death rattle of a dying old man. And the rest is a blur, but I remember waking up in my own door. bed. I haven't seen James since that night. Anytime I would reach out to him, there's no reply, and his phone goes straight to voicemail. I want to know if that was real, or if we were just drunk and imagining things. I'm thankful he was carrying his firearm that night, because I'm not sure

if we would have made it back, but I don't understand why he won't talk to me. I just feel crazy. What was that thing? Has anyone else encountered something similar in the area? I've heard of things called Skinwalkers from the forums on here, could that be what that was? It was capable of mimicry, albeit not particularly good. I received a text message from James today, and it was one of the reasons I decided to share. It simply read, you left me. So I took the last few days of last week off, per the suggestion of some individuals in the comments, to make appointments with a shaman and a hypnotist. My boss also gave me this week off because I was visibly tired, and my performance was suffering, so I am appreciative of that. I haven't slept well

since that night, and now, since receiving the text message from James, I keep having this reoccurring nightmare. The dream takes place back in the clearing. My limbs are locked in place, and no matter how hard I think or try to move them, they won't budge. On the other side of the clearing is what looks to be a deer or some four-legged animal. However, the head region is obscured and blurry, so I am not entirely sure what it is. There is an overwhelming sense of doom and darkness that seems to linger, even after the dream has long ended. On Friday, I was able to meet with the hypnotist. During the whole drive there, I was incredibly uneasy and in disbelief. This whole situation felt like a horror movie. However, reality set in once I pulled up to her shack. I cannot believe

I am doing this. I whispered to myself. I parked my vehicle and then began to walk towards the building hut, cautiously scaling up the wooden steps and wrapping on the door a few times. The shaman opened almost immediately, and the sweet smell of incense assaulted my nostrils. Hello, you must be Mr. A? Yes, ma'am, thank you so much for meeting me. Absolutely, it's my pleasure. Come in! I followed her inside where she closed the large, round door behind me. The interior was not what I was exclaimed.

expecting from the alternative practitioner, I had imagined dirt walls, fur rugs, potion bottles, animal bones, and a wicked green fire roaring in a cauldron or something of the like. Rather, this looked like your contemporary doctor's office, albeit with a few ornate light fixtures, feathers, and framed insect carcasses on the wall, and a shelf with some herb-filled glass bottles and CBD oils. We walked into her office, where she'd pulled a chair in front of her desk and then took a seat behind it. Sat across for me was an older woman. I'd guess late 60s of a parent Native American Dexent. She wore a couple of ornate bracelets and necklaces. But for clothing choice, she wore a striped light blue button up and black

dress pants. I know we spoke briefly on the phone. You had mentioned being troubled by the disappearance of your friend. I first want to tell you how sorry I am, truly. She spoke. I really appreciate that, I replied. She smiled warmly. Now, typically, my customer bases are looking for diet and nutritional advice, ancestral relationship building, or emotional trauma. I'd love to start my program with you if you are trying to recover from this experience

and move on in a healthy and natural way. Grieving the lost is tough, and I must let you know that this process will take some time. I swallowed hard, confessing. to another soul as to what I saw. I knew I was going to sound crazy. I didn't want to come off as a lunatic and be told to take some herbs and forget about it. Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. My palms began to perspire. I managed to choke out the first few words. I am actually not here for any of those options. I want to ask you about something, I muttered. A look of genuine concern fell upon her face. Of course. What would you like to ask me about? She,

She spoke, Well, I was there the night when James went missing, but I don't think he just got lost or hurt by some animal. Something that night tried to bait he and I into walking into a thicket of woods. It sounded like a little girl, but when it finally revealed itself, it looked like something out of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, an ungodly hodgepodge of animal and human body parts. She only stared, her positive and happy demeanor shifted to one of discipline. pointed and irritated. She folded her hands and cast her eyes down. The Yin-Nald Lushi. Do you understand the danger you bring here by acknowledging the being? The Navajo do not share

this information with outsiders for good reason. It is my professional opinion that you consider moving on from this ordeal. Or leave. You only put your family and yourself in danger by prodding further. She growled. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend, but I can't just leave him out there. Is there something I can do? A spell to cast to make it die and he come back? Can't it die like everything else? I asked. The shaman practically leaped up from her chair and leaned across the table,

bringing her face closer to mine. Whips of wisdom mixed with her onyx black hair and the wrinkles of time wriggling on her forehead. No shaman is alive today that can reverse the magic those cretons have cast upon themselves. Our best remedy is to for, forget. Seconds of silence had passed between us before I blurted out.

If he's alive, I am going after him. Can you help me or not? With that, she stormed off. For an older lady, she sure had some speed. I sat twiddling my thumbs as I heard her rummage through things in a separate room. She returned with the fury of the gods and flung a brown satchel at my chest. Ow, seriously, what the? White ash. Now leave. Do not come back. Do not say I did not warn you. Your people are stubborn. This is the only way you will learn. Leave, she yelled. The woman pointed, trembling with rage, at the rounded wooden door. I grabbed the satchel and took my leave, not wanting to irritate her any further. I turned back once more as I stood on the balcony. She stood there, scowling at me before she barked.

Do not look it in the eyes, and promptly slammed the door with the strength of an ox. I sped walk to my car and got in, key in ignition, and then placed the brown satchel in the passenger seat. After that ordeal, I was tired and incredibly thirsty. On my way home, I stopped by the liquor store for some alcohol, paying with cash and dropping the change into the make-a-wish bucket. At least a portion of my bad habit can go to a noble cause, right. Once I got back to my apartment, I kicked my shoes off and put the alcohol in the fridge except for one. I shuffled over to the couch and sat down, beer on my left, satchel on my right. I sat the bag down in front of me on the coffee table, and then opened the beer.

I stared for a few minutes before taking a big gulp, and then pulled out my phone to get on Google. The shaman said white ash before she threw the bag at me, so I researched white ash and its uses for the next hour or so. From what I could turn up, it could be used to hurt and even kill a skinwalker. Some have made white ash bullets. Others have made a paste and coated a blade with the substance. I exhaled loudly, overwhelmed by everything. Was I really going to try to fight this thing? Should I just give up? I was already five beers in and decided to go to bed. The weekend was another opportunity to sulk, and think so I wanted to get a jump start by calling it an early night. The dream came again, only this time the animal had covered a great distance between us.

It was close enough that now I could make out finer details. For a lack of words, it was disgusting and fetid. It was in the shape of a deer but had pink human skin, modelled and diseased. The antlers were shaped like large bony fingers, nails torn, leaking blood and pus, folded over the face of the beast. Hovering above the ground in front of me, it was shaking and convulsing violently, limbs thrashing about. The fingers opened. revealing a mass of glossy white eyes. It opened an insect-like maw, the lower jaw extending farther than any normal animal could manage. The jaw bones dislocated with a sickening pop,

and the skin surrounding them tore like paper. It led out a halacious bleat. The terror was indescribable. I fought inside the prison of my mind for control of my limbs, but they moved to no avail. The acrid stench of sulfur and rot insulted my nostrils. The beast took a long flemy inhale and began to move towards me, twitching and writhing with excitement. I screamed. I woke to the sound of my own screams, drenched in sweat. The cat shot straight up from his bed to turn and look at me. With a slow blink, he hoisted up his leg, licked it, and promptly went back to sleep. Sorry to disturb you, buddy, I apologized. I rolled over to check my phone to see it was only 3 a.m. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep, so I made some

coffee and started my Saturday morning. I did a little more research on white ash, and decided to opt for the ash-coated knife route. I have no experience making munitions, so this was my only option for defense. I made the mixture of water and ash and put in a plastic bag. I had an old hunting knife around, so I decided it would be the one I used. The rest of the day and Sunday was spent drinking and playing video games. Not much else to note other than no nightmares each night. I got some decent sleep those days. I woke up to the sound of my alarm at 6 a.m., though my appointment with the hypnotist was at 10 a.m. I spent the first two hours drinking an entire pot of coffee. I then hopped in the shower, got ready, and got in the car to go to the appointment.

I haven't tried recalling that night for a long time, so I was a bit anxious to be reliving it all again. I pulled into the lot and began walking towards the office. I sat in the waiting room for about 30 minutes, nervously bouncing my leg up and down. I was the only one in there other than the receptionist. I began nervously chewing my jaw, tasting iron in my mouth, as the door to the waiting room opened, and a balding, slightly overweight man stepped in.

Mr. A? He looked around the empty room jokingly until our eyes met. Ah, it must be you then, he laughed. Looks like it? I chuckled. I'll admit that the joke made me a little less tense. He wasn't as scary as the shaman lady. Well, if you wouldn't mind following me to my office, we just need to get a little more paperwork done, and then we can begin.

I followed his lead. He led me into his office, and thankfully there were no scorpions, rattlesnakes, or shrunken heads. The room was quite cozy. There was a nice gray leather sofa on one side, an oak desk and two blue leather chairs. A large ornate rug lay in the middle of the room, and I am not sure if he had sprayed air freshener, but it smelled like lavender. I took a seat on the sofa, and he sat at the desk at the far side of the office.

Our records show that you haven't visited with us before. Is this your first time with hypnotic therapy? He asked. Yes, it is, I replied. Great, it's super simple. I'll dangle some swirly object in front of your eyes, say some magic words, say some magic words, and you'll think you're a duck. He laughed. Quack? I sneered. Exactly, it's already working. But really, it's a little different than that. Before we begin, I'd like to know the reason you think hypnotic therapy is right for you. I took a long pause, searching for the words. I'm dealing with trauma from a particular event. And to move on with my life, I feel that it would be healthy for me to embrace the entirety of that moment, instead of drowning

it out with alcohol or tasks to face my emotions. But any time I try on my own terms, I end up having a panic attack. He stroked his chin, tapped his pen a few times, and then jotted something down in his notebook. I see. The road to recovering from trauma is not one I would recommend traveling alone. The good news is that I believe I can be of use to you today. Now if you wouldn't mind lying down on that sofa and just take some time getting comfortable, I obliged. as I rest my head against the arm of the sofa, the doctor got up from his desk and walked over to one of the chairs. He began scooting it closer to me, and then sat patiently.

Now, keep your eyes closed and begin focusing on your breathing. As you do this, I want you to let go of anything and everything in your mind. Troubles, stresses, to-dos, that you left at the door when you walked in. Focus on having an empty mind. and take as much time as you need. It took me a while, but eventually I was able to clear my head. I felt relaxed, calm, and even a bit sleepy. When I began drifting off into sleep, he spoke softly into the silence.

Now in your mind, I want you to envision where you were before the events of the ordeal, before the memories become inaccessible. Imagine that you are there now, both fully in mind and body. Immediately the terror crept in. I began breathing faster, sweat building on my brow. In the theater of my mind, the horror show began to play out just as it did that night. I spoke aloud the events that took place, and in the order in which they did. I got right to the point before the creature came out of the clearing and stopped. Okay now, take a deep breath, focus, dig deep, recall to me the events as they come to you.

I took a deep breath, holding for a few seconds. The memories began to materialize amidst the mental fog. The creature galloped out of the woods towards us. We both took a step back. It began to swipe a claw at me when I saw James raise his hands, taking aim with a small handgun. James fired five times, the bullets hitting the beast in the neck and cheek area. Thick, oily crimson spurting,

the creature spun around to face him. Guilt and regret crashing down upon my soul in a wave of sorrow, I recalled running as soon as the creature lost interest in me. Right before I made it past the trail leading into the clearing, I looked back one last time to see James lying on the ground, the beast towering above him. It stood on its hind legs, and in a moment its ribcage spayed open in hungry gullet,

it began to come down on James as he fired three more shots, and trying to kick the monstrosity away. I turned away and kept running and running, my legs numb and lungs burning. I heard James scream then. Hey, hey, help, no, ah. I recalled the bleeding and gurgling on the run home, fumbling my keys in the lock,

pushing the door open and slamming it shut behind me. I locked the door, ran into the bathroom, locking that door as well, and then climbing in the bathtub where I shook and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I remember waking up in the bed. I could feel the warmth of tears streaking down my face. My body convulsing as I fought unavoidable sobs.

I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding out a tissue. You don't think I am crazy, do you? I spoke. Not at all, son. You won't tell anyone about this? Doctor-patient confidentiality. You don't have to worry. I wiped the tears from my face and then began to sit up.

I felt as though an enormous weight had lifted from my soul. In its place, enmity began to kindle, for myself, but two for the beast. I turned to face the doctor, who was scribbling furiously on his notepad to ask him, What should I do? I left my friend out there to die. That thing needs to be stopped. I owe it to him. It's all my fault, I shouted in between sobs. I can understand your frustration.

It's natural to feel a sort of obligation or reflection. responsibility to the departed. What happened out there was a freak thing. You acted on instinct. You are not required to be a hero in those circumstances. He spoke. Animals act on instinct as well. I know that some male deer can be aggressive and territorial, and Kentucky is home to a few species of black bear. I know that the females can be very protective of their young. It's very unfortunate that some people can end up in the wrong place in time with these animals, and I would advise not to travel back to the area to search for him. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My situation was being downplayed, and I began to grow

irritated with the doctor. I took a sharp inhale and then spoke. It wasn't a bear or a deer. It was something that could make itself look like an animal. So what? You suggest I just forget about him, do nothing? No, not at all. I can begin a program with you. starting. I don't want to do a program. I want my friend back or that thing dead, I interrupted. I jumped up off the sofa and began to walk towards the door. On the way out, I turned to look back at the doctor, a look of empathy on his face. Look, I appreciate what you've done for me, and I'll pay for today's session. But my mind is made up, either this ends with me or it, and I'm okay with that. With that, I left the office and began to plan my next visit to our

favorite spot once more. I've heard that hatred weakens the heart, ironic how it feels like it's the only thing keeping mind pumping. I hate that creature, hate it for taking his life, but I hate myself even more. I should have told James no that night. We shouldn't have been walking around at night intoxicated in the first place. I hate myself for running away, for doing nothing for so long. I sat in my car, arms folded over the steering wheel, head resting on top. A light rain began to tap on the roof of my car. I didn't leave the parking lot until about an hour had passed. Like the rain, I let all the memories wash over me. Then I made my way back to the apartment. I opened the door, dripping water all over the carpet, but it was the least of my

concerns. It didn't keep the cat away, though. He jumped from his cat tower and made his way towards me, rubbing up against my soaked pant legs. He always knew when I was upset. I bent down to to pet him on the neck, his eyes closing in a moment of bliss. I had it set in my mind and soul that I would go back there and end that thing, or it end me. I needed to prepare, though. I didn't have any experience killing ancient shape-shifting beings, but I knew just going out there with a knife was a brainless idea. Odds are I was going to die either way, but I didn't want to go down without giving a good fight. I recalled the gift my parents had given me for my 16th birthday, It was an older model, a browning 12-gauge shotgun from the 1960s.

Originally owned by my grandfather, it was given to my mother and then passed on to me. In the past, I had shot it multiple times. Only at non-living and non-moving targets, though. It was a semi-automatic shotgun, so no pumping was needed. You would load the shells in from the bottom, pull back the slide, and it was ready to fire, and as fast as you could pull the trigger. I had kept it under my bed for years with the intent of using it as a self-defense weapon, but completely forgot about it.

I knelt beside the bed, and bending down, I reached under and grabbed the case handle. A nice layer of dust had accumulated on the top. Unlatching the locks, I lifted the lid up, and behold, there it lay. I don't really care for vintage things, but I had to admit there was an undeniable attraction to this weapon. The stock was made of fine-grained mahogany, and the steel was black with a blue sheen. Despite the years, it hadn't sustained much damage, save for a few scrapes on the metal and scratches in the wood. I reached in and picked it up, mindful to grab it by the wooden parts, a habit deeply rooted inside my brain, thanks to my old man. I brought the stock up to my shoulder, widening my stance.

I raised the barrel up and took aim. This would do fine. I kept it unloaded because a loaded gun in the house just made me nervous, but I pulled the slide back to check, and with a metallic kachink sound, it was empty. As for ammunition, I only had a box of 12-gauge slugs, but there was no way I could open the shells and pour the ash in. I ended up buying an entire shell manufacturing kit, which would come in early Friday.

I spent Saturday watching countless tutorials on how to build shotgun shells, how to mix the powder correctly, and practicing making the ammunition. Sunday, I even visited a friend who had a large plot of land and allowed me to assess my ammo. I didn't add any ash. I just wanted to make sure I could make a round that wouldn't blow up on me. Once I verified that I could indeed fashion 12-gauge buckshot, I returned home to make the ash-laced slugs. The gun can hold eight slugs max, so I made the first eight and loaded them in,

then an additional sixteen with the supplies I had left. I had bought a utility belt and a couple of satchels as well to hold my ammunition and a bag of the ash mixture for the knife. I had a sheath for the knife on the back of the belt, a satchel of ammunition on my left and ash on my right. I hoped I didn't have to get close enough to use the knife. I decided Monday that I would head out during the night, even though I would have much preferred going during the day.

The issue was being seen armed to the teeth, and people don't take kindly to that sort of behavior nowadays. I had left a note for my mom in the apartment. Surely after not returning her calls for a few days, she'd be over to see if I were okay. It was a farewell note. I told her everything regarding how I felt, and that I planned to take my life.

I didn't mention the creature. She wouldn't believe that part anyway. I left the entire bag of cat food open for the cat so he could gorge himself over the next few days. which would be more than enough time until Mom started to panic. Around 11 p.m., I started my journey to the clearing. I bypassed the drainage ditch, having no interest in going down there anymore, and proceeded towards the trail.

The trees loomed above me disconcertingly, and the moon shone above but in an unwelcoming way. Now that the fall season had come, most of the trees had shed their leaves, but there were still a few tinged with red and yellow. An icy chill blew against me, but what made me shiver was that I heard nothing, no signs of life, just the swaying of trees and rusting of bushes from the wind. I had an overwhelming sense of being watched. I held the gun tighter to me, finger right above the trigger.

I had to convince myself several times on the walk not to turn back, but finally, the clearing came into view. What once brought me so much joy and peace now brought contrari. and despair. I walked upon the desecrated grounds until I reached the center of the clearing. As I reached the center, something caught my eye, the light cast by the moonlight glinting off a small, reflective surface. I bent down to investigate and discovered it was a phone, James's phone to be exact. It was face down, riddle with cracks. I picked it up and turned it to its front side. The front had sustained even more damage, but it was undoubtedly his. a blue Samsung S-21.

As I examined the phone even further, attempting to turn it on, I had completely missed the thunderous pounding of hooves against the earth and looked up to see the beast was charging me on all fours, gaining ground fast. I stood there, petrified, as it continued to close the gap between us. Right as it was a few feet in front of me, fear gave way to rage, and I lifted the shotgun up and took aim. Five shots rang out, ears ringing, and the overwhelming smell of gunpowder in my nostrils. I tried to regain my composure from the recoil, as the creature slammed into me.

The force of the beast had launched me several feet away where I landed on my back. The wind knocked out of me. I inhaled deeply, pushing myself up into a sitting position. And then as I began to shift onto my knees, I looked up to see the creature again. It was moving towards me once more. Now it appeared as if it were bleeding, thick viscous blood leaking out of unseen wounds. It stood on its hind legs and turned to face me, opening its maw, and letting out a voracious growl. Then it started to run at me. In a panic I grasped for my gun, but it was about a foot away.

I only had a few seconds before it would reach me, my body already starting to ache and stiffen from the trauma. I leaped out for the gun, grabbed it, and swung it up to aim at the creature, but I was too late. Before I could even pull the trigger, the beast had slapped it out of my hand, my hand nearly flying off my wrist as I watched the shotgun soar off into the distance and crash into the trees. It was over. I had no right thinking this would work.

At least I went down fighting. It grabbed me by the shoulders, digging its claws deep, through skin, muscle tissue, all the way down to bone. The pain made me nauseous. I began screaming and writhing in pain as a pain. it pinned me down to the ground. I began losing consciousness when it brought its misshapen head towards my face. I caught a glimpse of something familiar. Illuminated in the moonlight I saw the eyes first, then the nose, it was James' face. But the skin was stretched far too thin over its

large skull, tearing in various places and revealing red tissue underneath. The eyes bloodshot. the jaw hung on by a single sinew and a long black tongue hung haphazardly flopping as it moved then it stood up and to keep me in place it brought a hoof down hard onto my shin splintering the bone into hundreds of pieces i wasn't going anywhere now i let out another scream still looming it stared at me through his eyes before it began to gurgle out words i just need to get It off my chest. With that, its ribcage spayed open in a macabre explosion of bone and viscera. It began to lower its torso over me. A void stared back. It was though a black hole had nestled into this creature's bosom, and it was going to suck me in and pull me apart from every direction imaginable.

I thought of how I was going to be consumed, how it would go on to masquerade itself as me, how it would lure my mom or friends out in the woods and then mutilate them and continue the cycle. I thought of how it spoke with James' voice. How much that angered me. Was I going to just let this thing eat me like it did James? I was going to die no matter what, so it didn't matter what I did at this point. As it brought its body on top of mine, the ribcage began to close in on my sides, puncturing the skin.

An unseen force began to pull me deep inside, like a large, vacuum. I arced my back and reached under to pull the knife from the sheath. I brought it up and then quickly stabbed into my satchel, making sure to move it around and coat the blade enough, accidentally stabbing myself in the process. With my other hand, I grabbed the beast's neck to leverage myself up and plunge the blade into its neck. James' eyes stared at me and widened. The creature yelped like a wounded dog and immediately jumped up and off me. I watched a as it brought a claw up to its neck and pulled at the blade. It came out with a thunk, more oily liquid shooting out in a geyser-like fashion.

It writhed and thrashed about, swinging its claws aimlessly before collapsing on the ground next to me. I watched it as it went through its death throes, taking long, labored, and flemy breaths. The breathing eventually stopped, and it was dead. I watched it for a while longer, not sure if I was out of danger just yet, and then I noticed the skin began to shift and bubble. The beast was shrinking in size, reshaping itself. The horns, claws, and fur began to shrivel away, and it began to take the form of something else. It happened so fast, but right before it disintegrated into a plume of ash, it looked like a middle-aged man

with long black hair. The knife lay in the pile of ash. I crawled over to pick it up and put it back into the sheath. I lay on my back for a few beats to catch my breath. before pulling out my phone and dialing emergency services. They managed to dispatch a helicopter since they wouldn't have been able to get an ambulance on the trail and due to the severity of my injuries. I was losing a lot of blood, so I barely remember being strapped into the gurney

and lifted onto the helicopter. I spent the rest of the week in bandages and a leg cast, enduring hospital food, and my overly concerned mother. I was discharged Thursday and would have to walk on crutches for a little while, but I was glad to be home. My furry friend was thrilled to see me and hasn't left my side since. The first thing I did when I got home was sit down on the couch, and then I cried.

I didn't cry that much other than the first night, not even at the funeral we had for James. I don't do well with my emotions. I tend to drown them out with hard liquor or fixate on something else. I avoid them. But all the tears that had been stored up came out like a dam opening its gates. It was over. I felt like James was at peace, and I sat with my emotions for the first time, embracing them even. I don't know what I will do from now on. I suppose continue with my life now that I have closure. I am sure I need some sort of psychological help from all of this, and will plan to get that soon.

The last few days of this week, I spent a lot of time sleeping, and I had the dream about the clearing again. but this time, when I revisit the dream, I am always in a different place. I feel nothing, though, just emptiness, and I've been feeling that way all week now, come to think of it. Anyway, thank you for reading this and for all the suggestions. This will be my last post. Stay out of the woods at night, especially when drinking, and ignore any 10-year-old girls you may hear calling out to you amidst the trees.

The screams echoed through the trees. I couldn't tell if they were human or animal. All I knew was they were loud, which meant they were close. As I listened to the high-pitched shrieks, it almost sounded like a couple of people having a shouting match. If I had been at my apartment in town, that's exactly what I would have thought the sound was. But then, the pitch changed, and it took on a feral quality.

I knew whoever or whatever was making the sound, I wanted nothing to do with them. Thinking you're alone in the wilderness is one thing. It gives a certain freeing feeling like you're so close to nature, but knowing you're alone, and hearing the terrifying, nearly indescribable sound, sent chills down my spine. I quickly questioned how much longer I would be alone, or alive. Did those things know I was here? Were they planning their attack?

Or was it just a gathering of something, like a harmless chill session, in the woods, in the dead of night? My survival instinct was screaming for me to get out of there as quickly as possible. To hell with the tent in my supplies, just leave. For a brief moment I nearly listened. Later I would wish I had. Fortunately, I hadn't made a fire yet and decided against one now. If by some miracle those things didn't know I was here, a fire would draw them in like flies to,

well, something I didn't want to be in. Even though the screaming was still going at a fever pitch, I quietly snuck into my tent and zipped it shut, as if some flimsy material would magically keep at bay whatever beasts were raging out there. Searching through my pack, I found my Swiss army knife and kept it firm in my grasp as I lay down on my sleeping bag. I didn't dare settle in for the night, sleeping through being attacked by wild, whatever, and torn to shreds can be bad for my health. As I lay there, eyes wide, listening to the horrible shrieks that seemed to come from everywhere, they suddenly stopped. At first, this was a relief. But when the sound stopped, so did all the

other noises in the forest. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on all of nature. I heard a loud thumping sound that sounded like drums beating faster and faster, until I realized it was my heart. Trying to calm myself so I didn't have a heart attack on the spot was a challenge. I tried to think of calm blue oceans and sunrises, of beautiful things that had nothing to do with the situation I was in. Apparently, I did my job too well. I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up in a panic. Jumping up, I looked all around for the beasts that were coming to get me. When all that stared back at me were the contents of my backpack and the four walls of the tent, I allowed myself to take a few deep breaths.

It was morning. The sun was up, and the birds were singing. I took both of those as good signs. Being alive was a bonus as well. It was decision time. Should I pack up and cut my trip short by two days, or should I write off last night's incident as a rare occurrence, and not worry about it today in the daylight as the sun bathed me in warmth? It's funny how fear manifests itself so much stronger at night. Last night the forest seemed like the most horrifying place I'd ever been. Today, it looks like all the beauty of nature is spread out before me. I couldn't imagine anything bad happening in such a picturesque place. As I looked out over the clearing in the woods, I saw a large, dark spot that was moving towards me. I dove into my tent and emerged with a pair

of binoculars. Peering through them, I saw the spot was a bear, and it was headed my way. so much for nothing bad happening in nature. My plan of action was to hide and hope it went away, or turned down another path before it got here. That plan didn't work out so well. Within 15 minutes I could hear it snuffling around the campsite, looking for something to eat. I hoped it wouldn't be eating fresh camper.

The can of bear spray was firmly in my hand with my white knuckles clenching it. Having it was one thing, using it was another. That was my last result. Spray and run. The sniffing got louder, and I could see a large nose pushing into the bottom edges of the tent. My knuckles grew a little whiter as I followed its progress along the edge and around the tent. And then there was a pause, a dreadful pause, the kind of pause that horrible decisions are born from. I was contemplating my own horrible decision when the sniffing started again, this time leading away from the tent. Breathing a cautiously optimistic side.

of relief, I opened the tent flap just enough to see the bear lumbering off into the woods. Again, I held a silent vote, just like the song said, should I stay or should I go? I'd only been camping up here once before, but I didn't remember it being this dangerous. Maybe I just got lucky last time. Not wanting my luck to run out, I packed up my tent and got ready to leave. The sun was already high in the sky, leaving me just a few hours to hike out of what had taken me a full day to hike in. I looked for bear tracks to see which way it had left, but the ground was dry so there was nothing to see. Crossing my fingers, I headed out on the trail, hoping it had gone some other way. It was easy going, making the terror of last night fade even more.

I still kept a wary eye for the bear, though. No use in getting so caught up in nature that I ignore her dangers. After around an hour of walking, I found a large rock on the side of the trail and decided to take a break. Pulling out a granola bar and a bottle of water, I looked around as I snacked. There was a clearing in the woods and a rough path leading to it. It wasn't any official path, just one that happens when a lot of feet go the same way and tramp down the foliage. There was a faint whiff of smoke coming from the clearing, but I couldn't see exactly what was causing it. My curiosity wanted to see what was there, but my common sense said no way.

In the end, curiosity fought dirty and said the smoke meant there had been a fire, and the ashes could blow into the trees if the wind picked up and caused a wildfire. It was a good point, even though the wind was uncannily still at the moment. I took a quick look around to make sure the bear wasn't sneaking up on me, then started down the narrow path. The trees blocked out some of the light as I headed down the path toward the clearing, making me literally descend into darkness. It wasn't a good feeling.

My eyes darted around looking for anything out of the ordinary, and I slowed my pace. Then suddenly, the trees opened up, and daylight shone brightly on the clearing, and the remnants of a fire with a wisp of smoke still rising. Whoever had made it had been dangerously uncaring about the safety of the woods. The fire sat right in the middle of a patch of grass, with no ring of stone surrounding it. My ire rose at the carelessness of this person. I found myself wishing very bad things on them when I noticed something else. There were splotches of red all around the fire.

It was like someone had spilled red paint all around. It was strange. Why would someone bring paint out here to the middle of the woods? I stalked around the other side of the fire, looking for the answer to this mystery. Unfortunately, I found it. There was something pale. sitting just outside the burnt grass of the fire. It was next to a splotch of red. I bent down and moved the grass to see more clearly. Picking it up, I saw it was a severed human toe. I dropped

it and stood up like a shot. The red splotches made sense to me now. They weren't painted. They were blood. A chill ran down my spine. I suddenly felt very alone and surrounded. My eyes darted all around the clearing and into the trees as I did a slow circle, searching for whatever was about to attack. As I searched, I saw the red splotches led off into the woods in the opposite direction of the trail. Curiosity tried to get me to follow, but I told it to shut the hell up and high-tailed it out of there, my head on a swivel searching for threats. Just as I was about to reach the main trail, I literally ran into the bear. I'd been so busy watching behind me for whatever might be chasing me, didn't see what was in front of me. It turned to face me, showing its red teeth. Then it stood on

its hind legs, dwarfing me, and roared. I wished I'd worn the brown pants because I soiled myself in fear. I was so terrified I didn't move. I couldn't. I was paralyzed. It dropped back down onto its front legs and approached me, teeth bared. I knew right then it was responsible for the screams and the dismembered toe. The only thing I couldn't figure out was the fire. I'd never heard of bears being able to start a fire. This was, unfortunately, the last thought going through my head before being eaten. It sniffed and took a step back. If I'd known dropping a load in my pants would save me, I would have done it last night. As I looked into the eyes of my death, it wasn't looking back at me. It was looking past me. I wasn't sure what kind of trick this bear

was pulling. It wasn't like it had to fool me or anything. It had me dead to rights. Curiosity made me turn and follow the bear's gaze. I instantly regretted it. Standing near the clearing was a monster. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. It stood on hind legs, at least eight feet tall. It had the horns of a deer, but the face looked like a deer's skull with no skin on it. Its shoulders were covered in what looked like a cloak made of another animal's skin. The bear let out a deep growl full of menace. I took the opportunity to back away and allow the bear a clear path to its adversary. It glanced at me for a moment, then started toward the monster. As soon as it was past me, I dropped my pack and ran down the trail with every ounce of speed I could

muster. It didn't matter that my car was miles away. It didn't matter there was no way I could sprint all the way there without collapsing and having a heart attack. Just then, I heard the fight. The growling, roaring, slashing, knocking trees down. Fight that would have been awesome to watch. From inside a bunker with two-foot-thick concrete walls. Just me, alone, without a rocket launcher to defend myself, there was no way I was sticking around. I ran for a solid ten minutes before the stitch in my side told me I had to at least slow to a walk.

I didn't dare stop. I knew I had to keep moving. It was my only chance of surviving by some miracle. The sounds of the fight echoed throughout the trees, making it seem surreal to hear it, then hear it echo back again. It sounded like the fight was slowing down. I hoped it would last for a while longer. Maybe whichever one would forget about me or be too tired to track me down. My walk had become a limp.

I was nearly out of energy and had a mile to go to the relative safety of my car. Surely by now I could take it easy. As the thought rolled through my brain, the sounds of the fight ceased. The fading echo was all that remained. I wondered which one had been victorious and comforted myself that the victor was surely enjoying the spoils by feasting on the fallen adversary. But in the back of my mind, unease grew. What if it didn't forget me? What if it was following me right now?

I found myself walking a little faster, much to the pain and chagrin of my legs. The silence that fell in the aftermath of the fight was disconcerting. The animals around me that had been chattering away, suddenly falling silent, was alarming. I started jogging, each step a new exercise in pain. There was no doubt I was being followed. The footsteps behind me were getting louder by the moment. My car was in sight. I was almost free.

The footsteps behind me were very loud now. I knew it was right behind me, but I didn't dare look back. Run, don't think, just run, my thought screamed at me. Even my curiosity had no desire to look back. Ten steps from the car, I dug in my pocket looking for my keys. For a brief, terrifying moment, I couldn't find them. Then I dug a little deeper and came away with my prize. I hit the remote to unlock the car and dove into the driver's seat.

The engine had just roared to life when the monster appeared. I threw the car in reverse and stomped on the gas. whipping around and making the monster miss crashing through the windshield. I jammed it into drive and floored it as the monster recovered and started after me. For a long, horrid moment, it seemed to be catching up to me. The road was gravel and had several potholes in it. I found myself swerving to miss the biggest one so my car wouldn't bottom out. But by doing so, the monster gained ground.

It was almost within reach of my rear bumper when I slid sideways onto the main road. Once on the pavement, I floored it and watched with satisfaction as the monster fell behind. I breathed a sigh of relief as I relaxed and settled in for the ride home. It wasn't long until I was pulling into my driveway and parking. My head fell back against the headrest, and I was tempted to take a nap right there when my nose reminded me of the state of my pants. Walking and empty-handed was a mixed blessing. I'd left hundreds of dollars in equipment behind.

but at least I was alive. My shower called to me. I stripped, threw my pants and underwear in the trash, then settled into the longest, most rewarding shower of my life. After drying, I threw on a Metallica t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I came back out to the living room and settled in to watch a movie. Horror was out. I knew I'd have nightmares for weeks about my ordeal. I decided to watch an episode of wipeout. Three episodes later, I found my eyelids fighting gravity and exhaustion. Heading to bed, I turned out the lights and stepped up to the living room window. Looking out over the lights of town, I sighed, seeing the trees of the park far in the distance and knowing I'd never visit there again. Before I turned toward my bedroom, something caught my

eye. It was impossible. I rubbed my eyes to be sure. The monster was creeping out of the woods and coming straight toward my house. As I watched, it looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. Mine full of fear. It's full of menace. I ran through the house making sure every door and window was locked. After that, I went to my bedstand and pulled out my snub-nose 38,

checking to make sure it was loaded and grabbing a handful of extra bullets, shoving them in my pocket. Running back out to the living room, I looked out the window, but it was gone. pressing my face against the glass I searched the front yard but it wasn't there for an instant I wondered if my imagination had been playing tricks on me I went to the kitchen window and looked into the backyard it was dark and I couldn't see much reaching for the light switch I hesitated not wanting to see it suddenly appear in front of me but I had to know if this thing was real or not I would rather that I was going crazy than ever see that thing again Flicking on the light, I took a half step back. Nothing was there. I scanned the entire backyard all the way to the woods that bordered my property. Nothing.

I shrugged and was about to go to bed when I heard it. My foot stopped on the first step, and I turned back toward the door. Someone or something was scraping against the front door. Feeling like I was in a trance, I was drawn to the door. Leaning up to the peephole, I closed my eyes and breathed a silent prayer that nothing would be there. My prayers were answered. There was nothing out there. As tempted as I was to just accept this audible hallucination,

my shaking hand reached for the doorknob. The distance between my hand and the door seemed to fade, like one of those scenes in a horror movie where the camera zooms in while going backward. I turned the knob and held my breath while opening the door. Nothing was there. I released a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Looking around, the yard was empty.

just the evening mist clinging to the lawn. My imagination had gotten the best of me. I turned to go back inside and saw the door, and doorframe had long scratches on it. My blood froze. It was real. It was here. It had tracked me down. As terror gripped me,

I saw a flash of brown fur an instant before it charged me. In sheer desperation, I fell back into the door just as it hit the doorframe. Its antlers slammed into the doorframe, sending splinters flying as it struggled to get loose from the destroyed wood. I lay on the door, watching in grim fascination, stunned by the fact that it had missed gouging my eyes by a mere fraction of an inch. The doorway had saved me, the same doorway that was rapidly disappearing under the monster's onslaught.

I regained myself and ran. As I darted through the living room, somehow, I had the presence of mine to grab the house phone and dial 911 as I headed down the basement steps slamming the door behind me. 911, what's your emergency? Came the lady operator's voice. I'm being chased by a monster who's trying to kill me, I said, vaulting down the stairs. I'm sorry, could you repeat that?

I'm being chased by a monster who's trying to kill me. Are you talking about a person? No, what do you not understand about the word monster? I shouted. All right, it's my. My duty to inform you that prank calls will be reported to the police, and you could face charges. Fine. Send the cops. Maybe they can fight off the monster long enough to put me in cuffs. The line disconnected. Son of a, I said as I heard the monster stalking around inside the house.

I squeezed myself into the far corner between the wall and the oil tank, and tried to be as quiet as possible. Barley breathing, I listened to its measured steps as it crept from room to room. The floorboards complained with loud creaks, telling me this thing weighed considerably more than me. I heard it turned toward the stairs and thought about making a run for the cellar door that led outside when my phone rang. Hello, I whispered, trying to be as quiet as possible. Is this the person who just called 911 about a monster? Yes, who is this? There was a pause as I heard the footsteps change direction.

I'm from another agency, he said. could you describe the monster for me? So you're from one of those three letter agencies that always say they don't spy on our phone calls? Could you describe the monster for me? It's huge, I whispered, at least eight feet tall, covered in fur, and wearing the fur of another animal over its shoulders.

Oh, and it has antlers like a deer. I heard a sharp intake of air. Where is it? I gave him my address. I meant where is it in the house? It's on the first floor, and I'm in the basement, I whispered. But I think it's coming down here. Just then I heard the basement door open.

Got to go, I whispered, then hung up the phone. The basement stairs groaned under the weight. I hoped that the wood would collapse under the weight and it would fall, snapping its neck. No such luck. The stairs creaked as it continued to the bottom. I had to duck in this basement, so I was sure it was on all fours to keep from getting tangled in the rafter. My heart pounded. I struggled to keep my breathing quiet, so I wouldn't give away my position.

The chuffing of the monster's breathing was getting closer. I wanted to close my eyes but had to know when it came close enough. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the gun. Aiming it at the corner, I waited. The skeletal snout appeared, but I didn't shoot. The shot would just bounce off of bone. I wanted to hit something more vital and hope that I might somehow survive. The rest of the bony skull made its appearance and went by without noticing me.

Next came the neck and the rest of the body. I wasn't sure where this thing's vital organs were, so I held off, hoping that it might not notice me at all. Those hopes were dashed when it sniffed, then whipped around and stared right at me. I took that as a sign to shoot it in the chest. The gunshot was deafening, especially in such a closed space. My ears were ringing so loud I could barely hear the monster screaming and tearing my oil tank limb from limb, trying to get to me. I fired again, trying to hit any part

of its body as oil flew from it thrashing around. We were both covered in heating oil, and yet it still kept coming. Three more shots didn't even slow it down. It was so close the muzzle of the gun was nearly touching it. I shoved the barrel in one of its eye sockets and pulled the trigger. The flame from the exploding gunpowder set the oil on fire. I don't know if it was that, or the bullet bouncing around in its skull that made it shriek even louder. Flame engulfed its screaming form, making it look like a demon straight from hell. It ran out of the basement through the outside doors, bursting out into the open air and disappearing into the night. I was so relieved I didn't notice right away that I was on fire.

The oil that had splashed on me had ignited when the monster caught fire. I tried to push my way out quickly, but the monster had shoved the tank closer. to the wall, pinning me. The fire devoured the oil on my clothes and my bare skin, making me scream in agony, as I tried in vain to get away from the fire. This was it. I would die this horrible agonizing death, trapped in an inferno. The monster would get its revenge and not even know it. Maybe once it extinguished its own fire, it would come back and devour what was left of me, like a well-done stake. I must have been hallucinating. I could have been hallucinating. I could could have sworn a cloud enveloped me just before I died. I woke in a white room with an

annoying beeping sound that wouldn't stop. There was a smiling face sitting in the corner, staring back at me attached to a man I'd never met. How are you feeling? he said, stepping over to the hospital bed. Am I dead? I rasped. Not yet, he chuckled. It was close though. If we hadn't gotten to you when we did, you would have been a shish kebab. I tried to lean up, but the pain put me back in bed. Yeah, you're not going to be taking any hiking trips for a while, he said. You've got burns all over your legs that'll need some time to heal.

I'm never going hiking again, I said. Are you the guy I talked to on the phone? Yeah, do you mind telling me the rest of what happened? He said, pulling out a pen and notepad. Sure, I said shrugging. Since you saved my life, it's the least I could do. He pulled his chair over and got comfortable. What happened to the monster anyway, I said.

He hesitated. It got away, didn't it? Yeah, he said lowering his head a little. We lost the trail after it extinguished itself, but don't worry, we'll find it. I didn't comment on my opinion of the competency of government agencies out of respect for the man who saved my life, but suffice it to say I wouldn't be sleeping very deeply once I got back home. Where would you like me to start, I said. The beginning is always a good place.

hiding in plain sight. I never paid much attention to that phrase before I started my new job. Wanted, nighttime security guard, that's all the ad said, along with a phone number. The town I live in isn't very big, barely a dot on the map on the way to somewhere else. But for whatever reason, we have a museum. I have no idea how it's still in business. I can't recall ever seeing a single person walk through their doors. But when I called the number, the man who answered told me to come to this address this evening for my interview.

He seemed a little over-excited that I had answered the ad. When I asked him about the job, he said, Oh, you know, the usual thing for a security guard. I've read some pretty unusual things about security guards in subreddits, but I'm sure those stories are made up. Walking up the wide stone steps built to accommodate crowds of people was a little intimidating and creepy, with no one for company besides the glowing lamps mounted on the sides of the railings.

The whole thing gave off a very dystopian, ghost town, zombie apocalypse vibe. I guess the stone gargoyles staring down at me didn't help much. I gazed into their eyes, half expecting them to jump down and carry me off to be sacrificed to Gozer. If I hadn't already discussed my hourly wage, I would have turned and high-tailed at home. But the wage was more than acceptable for, a security guard, it was downright generous. I was wondering why he would pay so much, but walking up those desolate stairs gave me a clue. Nobody wanted to go near this place. The word haunted had been mentioned more than once. Looking up at the front of the building, the sporadic

lights made shadows fall all around and gave it an intimidating presence. I paused at the top of the stairs, thinking about every horror movie I've ever seen. There's always that one, moment where the characters could turn back and live another day, but they never do. The wind whipped up, blowing against me, threatening to push me back down the stairs, almost as if warning me not to go inside. For a moment, I considered heeding the warning and climbing back down the stairs. Knowing that my rent and car payment were due made me re-evaluate that decision. I stepped up and opened the door, wondering if I would ever come out, fully expecting the door to creak on its hinges,

I was pleasantly surprised when it opened silently and with little effort, despite feeling quite heavy. The ornate decorations and beautiful decor took my breath away. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I found myself regretting that this was the first time I had ever visited this museum. I hadn't made it two steps until an elegantly dressed man appeared and smiled at me. He didn't so much as walk up to me,

rather he glided, showing an air of dignity bordering on royalty. Mr. Welton, I presume, he said, wearing a warm smile. Yes, sir, I said offering my hand. He glanced at it with an amused look. Right then, follow me, and I'll show you your duties, he said, turning on his heels and gliding away. I pretended to smooth my hair as I followed, feeling like an idiot for offering my hand. He glided past several works of art, toward a small dead. desk. Right then, he said. You'll be in charge of checking the doors so nothing gets in, he paused,

or out. You mean stolen? I said, yes, he said slowly, stolen. So I got the job? He stared at me blankly. Did you show up? I nodded. You got the job. Do I need a uniform or anything? Let's see how your first night goes, he said. There's a set of rules on the paper on your desk. Please adhere to them. You must do at least one round per night through every room and check every door. One round? That's it? This place is rather large and challenging. I looked around with a hint of hesitation. Maybe there was a reason why it paid so much. He smiled. If you have any problems, just call the number on the paper. That's it? I believe so. I'll lock the door on my way out and

unlock it again at nine o'clock on my way back in. I stepped over to the desk and began reading the paper. What does this mean? I said turning around, but he was gone. Hello? I called, but only my voice echoed back to me. I looked at the puzzling paper again and read the rules. Rule number one, there are no rules. Rule number two, there are no rules. What is this fight club? I said to myself. Every time you break a rule, return to rule number one. Wait a minute. How can I break a rule when there are no rules? Rule number three, how you follow the rules is as important as why you follow the rules.

That made no sense at all. Rule number four, if you are caught breaking the rules, the penalties may be severe. Okay, there's something wrong here. This is just talking in circles. I read back over the rules and they looked straight. more than just the strangeness of the rules non-rules themselves. It was the way they were written. I went back and looked at each letter.

Then I paid attention to the letters that were capitalized. It looked like some hidden message. They're watching. I hesitated. Who's watching? I decided to keep reading in hopes that this would begin to make some sense. Rule number five, do not under any circumstances make noise every time you do around. message received, Don't move.

I stood there, immobile, wondering how long I was meant to play this game and if someone would come by and tag me to unfreeze me and allow me to start my round. As I waited, chuckling to myself at the ludicrousness of this insane game of freeze tag, I felt the air grow cold.

Clouds chugged out of my mouth like an old steam train as I fought the urge to rub my arms. A chill that had little to do with the sudden temperature drop ran down my spine as I felt a presence in the room. It crept up behind me, silent as the grave. I could feel its hot breath wash over me as it sniffed.

Instead of enjoying the sudden warmth, my temperature plummeted. My heart hammered in my chest. It was all I could do to keep from running away in sheer terror. As it passed by, I was overwhelmed by the stench of death. This thing was every nightmare I've ever had, personified. I refused to open my eyes and see its hideous form. for fear of passing out. Instead, I focused on imitating a statue, which was nearly impossible with my freezing body aching to shiver in frozen dread. The nameless terror passed to the far side

of the room, taking some of the cold with it, and then as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The room returned to normal temperature, but I waited a few moments before moving, just to be sure. Once I felt it was safe, I nearly collapsed to the floor in relief. After giving myself a moment to recover, I glanced at the paper with a newfound fear. Was this a harbinger of doom or a warning label meant to keep me safe? Unsure if I wanted to read the rest, I took a moment to reevaluate my current career choice. Could I just walk out and say I quit? After a brief internal debate, I decided it wasn't worth the money if I was about to be dragged through a portal to hell.

Just a short time ago, I would have considered that thought laughably ludicrous. Chris, but it was seeming more plausible by the moment. I started toward the exit door with every intention of calling and telling my boss I wouldn't be finishing the shift. Unfortunately, the door had other plans. When I pushed on the crash bar, nothing happened. I tried turning the deadbolt, but it refused to move. After a few minutes of futility, I gave up, frustrated, and determined to just sit in this room until morning came around. Sitting at the desk, I spun around in the chair, waiting for the next nine hours and 13 minutes to pass quickly. Five minutes later, out of sheer boredom, I glanced at the paper. Rule number six, you can't just sit at the

desk and wait for the door to open at the end of your shift. Suck it up. Are you serious? I said in frustration. Someone thinks they're funny, huh? Glancing back at the paper, below Rule 6, was three letters. Y-E-S. I backed away and got up to do my round, if nothing else to get away from this all-seeing sheet of paper that I had grown afraid to look at. Hesitating, I reached for the door to the room where the nightmare had disappeared. Glancing up, I saw a slip of paper taped to the door. It said, The only way out is through. Sying heavily, my trembling hand turned the knob and slowly opened the door. As I closed it, on the other side was another slip of paper. This one said,

avoid eye contact and you'll be fine. Confused by the cryptic statement, I turned and realized what it meant. The room was full of stuffed creatures of many shapes and sizes. Most of them seemed to be mythical in nature of the crypted variety. There was a Bigfoot, Skinwalker, Dogman, Jersey Devil, Wendigo, and many others. As my eyes scanned the room, I noticed movement. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The Skinwalker turned its head just slightly to look right at me. I quickly darted my eyes away in fear and disbelief when the dogman turned its head to stare at me. As panic coursed through my veins, I turned to go back through the door, remembering what the piece of paper on both sides of the door said. The only way out is through, and avoid eye contact and you'll be fine. I felt the last

statement was akin to saying, if you hold on tight enough on a roller coaster, you won't need the safety harness. Aiming my eyes at the floor, I turned and started toward the far side of the room. I hoped that all they would do was watch. That hope was dashed. I heard growls and footsteps from all around the room. Hesitating, I wondered if I would need a clean pair of pants

by the time I reached the far side. That is, if I survived. The sounds of footsteps grew louder behind me, when suddenly there was a pair of hairy legs blocking my path. I stopped as a low growl made the air vibrate. Oh, dear God, I whispered, knowing that my life was about to end horribly and painfully. Fighting the urge to look up, I sidestepped and went around the legs, hoping to pass unnoticed. I counted my footsteps, hoping each one wouldn't be my last.

Silently praying, I continued toward the door with my eyes aimed down, watching nothing more than my feet. It seemed like the longest walk of my life, listening to the mythical creatures behind me come to life, and sounding every bit like they were following me, just waiting for the right moment to grab me and turn me into a late-night snack. It came as a surprise, when I bumped my head into the far wall. Shocked not only that I had made it, but that I had missed the door, I glanced over and found my glorious escape route. As I opened the door, I accidentally glanced back into the room and made eye contact with the Wendigo. Its roar of rage is something I'll never forget.

It charged at me with blinding speed and claws unsheathed, fangs ready to tear me to shreds as I dove through the door in the nick of time, slamming it behind me. The impact on the other side of the wall made dust settle to the floor, causing me to sneeze. I stood and saw another piece of paper taped to the door. Whatever you do, don't make a sound, it said. As I was about to make a comment about it being too late, a giant set of fangs flew at me from the semi-darkness. attached to them was the biggest snake I'd ever seen or heard of. It shook off the impact with the door as my legs took over and sprinted for the far side of the room. The dim lighting made it impossible to see the far door as well as rocks

and other obstacles littering the floor as I made my desperate dash to safety. I swear the rock that tripped me moved into my path on its own. Instead of a death sentence, it saved my life as the snake flew over my prone body, having tracked me down. Had I not tripped, its massive fangs would have gone straight through me. Not waiting around to celebrate my accidental good fortune, I jumped up and raced toward the door again. It was now within sight, but so was the snake. It had recovered and was coiling for another strike. Running around a large boulder to make myself a harder target, I aimed for a spot five feet from the door. When I was almost to the door, I dove just as the snake passed over me, slamming into the wall,

as I jumped up and opened the door. Closing the door behind me, I took a moment to catch my breath and think about asking a lot more questions when I interview for my next job. I tried to open my eyes but realized they were already open. The room was engulfed in total darkness. Pulling out my flashlight, I shone it around, but couldn't see anything aside from the door and the floor in front of me.

There was no sign of anything in the room, not even a ceiling. It was as if the darkness sucked the light into itself, never to escape. Being robbed of sight, I relied on hearing. Taking a long listen, I waited to hear any growls or slithers, anything to give me a hint of what I might have to deal with. But there was nothing, only soul-crushing silence. Having scanned the room the best I could, I set out to find the far door. Nothing seemed strange.

Even the echo sounded like a normal large room. It was just devoid of light. The normalness of it terrified me. All I could find out of place was a slight scent of disinfectant. I wasn't sure if that was because whatever horrible creature that called this room its home had killed people here, and they wanted to cover the smell, or if the creature itself had passed away, leaving some poor janitor to clean up the mess. In either case, I was on full alert.

They say that when one of your senses falters, the others become more acute to make. make up for it. The same thing was happening with my paranoia. I imagined shadows moving around in the total pitch of darkness. My steps were small and slow as my arms waved in front of me acting as my eyes, searching for any obstacles. It took what seemed like an eternity to get to the far side walking so slow. I guess that's the price of being careful. As I approached the wall, the flashlight and vision became useful once again. I must have gotten off track as I walked because the door was far off to the side. I had to walk a good 50 feet along the wall to find it.

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a horrible sight. The snake was coiled up in front of it. I quickly shut the door as it prepared to strike. Why would they have two snake rooms? But then why wasn't much of a relevant question in this place? My mind came up with a terrible answer. It wasn't a second snake, it was the same one. I must have gotten turned around in the darkness and done a circle.

As my brain had a go-around with denial, I tried to figure out a way to get across this room without unintentionally doubling back. Keeping in mind that even though I had yet to see or hear anything in this room, didn't mean it wasn't there. Searching for any ideas, I looked down at my flashlight,

then squared my shoulders against the wall to regain my bearings and tossed the flashlight straight in front of me. It landed with a loud clatter, then rolled around in a playful circle before coming to rest. If there was anything in the room, most likely I'd just woken it up and showed it exactly where I was. I stood still and listened. After a few minutes, I didn't hear any movement.

It seemed safe to walk to my flashlight, pick it up, and toss it another 15 feet, hopefully in a straight line. I did this the whole way across the room, still listening for sounds, but becoming more confident with each step that I wouldn't hear any. The door was just a few feet to the side of where I'd aimed. Somehow, I'd gone in a straight line. Grabbing the doorknob, I slowly turned it so as not to alert the snake if, by some trick, I ended up back in that room. But there was no trick, and no snake. The door opened to a blinding light. I covered my eyes to give them time to adjust.

Once they had acclimated, I looked around at a beautiful room full of clouds. There were even clouds on the floor. It was disconcerting at first, and almost made me lose my balance, because they were so well painted that it literally looked like I was walking on clouds. I took a tentative step into the room, making sure that it was an illusion, and I wasn't about to fall thousands of feet to my death. Holding my breath, I stepped on to the first cloud and let go of the doorframe. It was firm like a floor should be.

My second and third steps were more confident, as I realized how effective the illusion was. Once I acclimated, walking on clouds was fun. This was turning out to be the easiest room I'd been in so far. That's when I heard the scream. It was deafening and seemed to come from everywhere at once. I dove to the floor only to realize there was nowhere to hide from whatever it was. I stood out like a sore thumb against the blue sky, and fluffy white clouds painted on every

surface of the room. The scream sounded again, and I began to run, having no idea which way I was going or where the screaming was coming from. For all I knew, I was running toward whatever it was. I just knew it didn't sound human, and I had no desire to find out what it was. Soon the choice was taken out of my hands. I saw a dark spot appear against the clouds that quickly became larger. It was almost on me when I dove to the floor, feeling something sharp rake my back. Pain shot through me as I reached around and found the back of my shirt in shreds. Not only that, but my hand was covered in blood.

Whatever it was had sliced my back open and I was bleeding. Adrenaline kicked in and I ran faster than I ever have. The problem was I didn't know where I was running to or what I was running from. I was just running. I heard wings flapping and I looked back just in time to see the largest bird of prey I've ever seen. It looked like a golden eagle, only the thing was massive.

The wingspan was easily 20 feet. As I was running, I turned to get a closer look at this thing at the same time I was trying to get away from it. My feet got tangled up and I fell backward just as the razor-sharp talons passed over mere inches away from my face. I jumped up and started running again. As I glanced back to find my attacker, I was met with the strangest sight. There was a smear of blood on the floor where I had just been lying.

It looked like someone had wiped blood on a cloud. The wings flapped again. I knew it was close. I had run out of luck. It would be ready for anything this time. Its razor-sharp talons would rip me to pieces. there was no doubt about it. There was only one option.

I jumped and whipped around in mid-air, throwing my flashlight as hard as I could. It connected with its head that was mere feet away. It screamed and dove off to the side, impacting with the floor so hard I felt the vibration and landing in a heap. I didn't stop to check on it. The door loomed ahead of me,

and I pushed myself for every ounce of speed my body could muster. Turning the knob and opening the door in one smooth motion, I dove through and slammed it shut. Laying on the floor, breathing hard, trying to catch my breath, I knew I was a sitting duck for whatever monster lurked in this room. I rolled over to get in some defensive position for whatever was about to attack when I saw I was back in the main hall. I had somehow survived my first, and as far as I was concerned, last round. I stumbled my way to the restroom, in the back of my mind wondering what kind of insanity I would find in there. Would I have to crawl through the mirror into another dimension to get a roll of

toilet paper? Fortunately, the restroom held no surprises. I took off my destroyed shirt and ran water over it to clean up my back as best I could. When I was done, I put some paper towels on the wound and put my jacket on top of it. The desk and chair were where I spent the rest of the night. Surprisingly, it had taken me almost an hour to complete the round. As I sat there, pondering Pondering if I could survive another night at this job, I saw a dark spot form on the wall and detach itself only to float over toward me. I closed my eyes and sat perfectly still, ignoring the sudden drop in temperature. The stench of death surrounded me, but I refused to move. For a moment I thought I heard a sound like sniffing, and then it seemed to diminish. Once the temperature rose again, I opened my eyes, and the apparition was gone.

As bored as I was for the next few hours, I wasn't tempted to do another round, not even in the slightest. When nine o'clock rolled around, the boss curator appeared and glided over to me, wearing a little grin. I see you managed to make it through, he said. Congratulations, you're the first one in some time. The first one to make it through a single round? He nodded. How many others have there been? I said with a haunted look in my eyes.

He shook his head. Let's not worry about that, shall we? He said. Here is the amount we agreed upon. He handed me a stack of bills, and I gladly took them. Would you be interested in staying on in being my permanent nighttime guard? I looked at the money inside. As much as I'd like to, I don't see how this job could be called permanent when the mortal danger is so real.

It is a challenge I'll admit. However, you rose to it last night, he said. I'm prepared to offer you. for you twice the amount I gave you if you agreed to stay on. I stared at the fistful of money and imagined not having to struggle with bills or any other expenses. Then I turned a little, and my back painfully reminded me of the dangers. I'd have to think about it, I said. While you're thinking, consider this. You have yet to see the basement. Basement? He nodded. It's considerably more challenging. I'll let you know. Very well. You can see yourself

out, I recommend getting that back tended to. With that, he vanished into thin air right in front of my eyes. I looked at the money, wondering if it would vanish as well. Fortunately, it remained firmly in my grasp as I walked toward the front door. For some reason, I felt hesitant to open it and leave. It was as if some force was exerting itself against me like the museum didn't want me to go. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, more like a dog losing its favorite toy. I pushed the doors open and left. This whole ordeal made me ponder my concepts of reality, as well as being terrified of the day,

when the things in the building would escape somehow. The big question was, did I need the money that badly? Was I willing to put myself in mortal peril just for a few measly dollars? I turned and looked back at the museum. In the daylight, it looked innocent. None of the terrors that lay within showed on the outside. As I turned to head home, I swore I saw a fleeting glimpse of the apparition. It seemed to be following me.

I looked again, and it was gone. Must have been my imagination. I don't know when you're going to read this, but I can tell you when it started. I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me. It was beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it hid, there were no trees. where it crept closer there was no grass.

Through the ark, it leaped at me. There was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all. As it struck, I felt the distinct sensation of claws puncturing me somewhere unseen. Somewhere I'd never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso seemed fine, and I wasn't bleeding, but I knew I'd been injured somehow. As I fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less. I was vaguely tired, and it was hard to focus at times.

The solution at that early stage was easy. A big cup of coffee helped me feel normal again. For a while, that subtle drain on my spirit became lost in the ebb and flow of caffeine in my system. You could say my life began that week, actually, because that was when I met Mar. She and I got along great, though. To be honest, I'm pretty sure I fell in love with her over the phone before we even met. It was almost as if the strong emotions of that first week made the entity fight back. It was still with me, latched on to some invisible part of my being.

The first few incidents were minor, and I hardly worried about them. The color of a neighbor's car changed from dark blue to black one morning, and I stared at it before shaking my head and shrugging off the difference. Two days later, at work, a co-worker's name changed from Fred to Dan. I carefully asked around, but everyone said his name had always been Dan. I figured I'd just been mistaken. Then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I was peeing in my bathroom at home when I suddenly found myself on a random street.

I was still in my pajamas, pants down, but now in full view of a dozen people at a bus stop. Horrified, I pulled up my clothes and ran before someone called the cops. I did manage to get home, but the outside of the other. experience forced me to admit that I was still in danger. The entity was doing something to me, and I didn't understand how to fight back. Marr showed up that evening, but she had her own key. Hey, I asked her with confusion. How'd you get a key? She just laughed. You're cute. Are you sure you're okay with this? She opened a door and entered a room full of boxes. I know living together is a big step, especially when we've only been dating three months.

Living together, I'd literally just met her the week before. The thing was, my mother had always called me a smart cookie for a reason. I knew when to shut my yap. Instead of causing a scene, I told her everything was fine, and then I went straight to my room and began investigating. My things were just as I had left them with no sign of a three-month gap in habitation, but I did find something out of the ordinary, the date. I shivered angrily as I processed.

the truth. The entity had eaten three months of my life. What the hell was I facing? What kind of creature could consume pieces of one's soul like that? I'd miss the most exciting part of a new relationship, and I would never understand any shared stories or in jokes from that period. Something absurdly precious had been taken from me, and I was furious. That fury helped suppress the entity. I never imbibed alcohol. I drank coffee religiously. I checked. the date every time I woke up. For three years I managed to live each day while observing nothing more than minor alterations. A social fact here and there, someone's job, how many kids they had, that sort of thing, the layout of nearby streets, the time my favorite television show aired,

that kind of thing. Always, those changes reminded me the creature still had its claws sunk into my spirit. Not once in three years did I ever let myself zone out. One day, I grew careless. I let myself get really into the season finale of my favorite show. It was gripping, a fantastic story. Right at the height of the action, a young boy came up to my lounger and shook my arm. Surprised, I asked, who are you? How did you get in here? He laughed and smiled brightly. Silly daddy. My heart sank in my chest. I knew immediately. what had happened. After a few masked questions, I discovered that he was two years old, and that he was my son. The agony and heartache filling my chest was nearly unbearable.

Not only had I missed the birth of my son, I would never see or know the first years of his life. Mar and I had obviously gotten married and started a family in the time I'd lost, and I had no idea what joys or pains those years contained. It was snowing outside, holding my sudden sun. in my lap, I sat and watched the flakes fall outside. What kind of life was this going to be if slips in concentration could cost me years? I had to get help. The church had no idea what to do. The priest didn't believe me, and told me I had a health issue rather than some sort of possession. The doctors didn't have any clue. Nothing showed up on all their scans and tests, but they happily took my money in return for nothing. By the time I ran out of options, I'd decide to

to tell Marr. There was no way to know what this all looked like from her side. What was I like when I wasn't there? Did I still take our son to school? Did I still do my job? Clearly I did, because she seemed to be none the wiser, but I still had a horrible feeling that something must have been missing in her life when I wasn't actually home inside my own head. But the night I I set up a nice dinner in preparation, she arrived not by unlocking the front door, but by knocking on it. I answered and found that she was in a nice dress. She was happily surprised by the settings on the table. A fancy dinner for a second date?

I knew you were sweet on me. Thank the Lord I knew when to keep my mouth shut. If I'd gone on about being married and having a son, she might have run for the hills. Instead, I took her coat and sat down for our second date. Through carefully crafted questions, I managed to deduce the truth. This really was our second date. She saw relief and happiness in me, but interpreted that as dating jitters.

I was just excited to realize that the entity wasn't necessarily eating whole portions of my life. The symptoms, as I was beginning to understand them, were more like the consequences of a shattered soul. The creature had wounded me, broken me into pieces. Perhaps I was to live my life out of order, but at least I would actually get to live it. And so it went for a few years, my perspective. While minor changes in politics or geography would happen daily, major shifts in my mental location only happened every couple of months. When I found myself in a new place and time in my life, I just shut up and listened, making sure to get the lay of the land before doing

anything to avoid making mistakes. On the farthest flung leap yet, I met my six-year-old grandson, and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said, writer. I told him, I told him, told him that was a fine idea. Then, I was back in month two of my relationship with Mar, and I had the best night with her on the riverfront. When I say the best, I mean the best. Knowing how special she would become to me, I asked her to move in. I got to live through what I'd missed the first go-around, and I came to understand that I was never mentally absent. I would always be there, eventually. When we were moving her boxes in, she stopped for a moment and said she marveled at my great love, as if I'd known her for a lifetime and never once doubted

she was the one. That was the first time I'd truly laughed freely and wholeheartedly since the entity had wounded me. She was right about my love for her, but for exactly the reason she'd considered a silly romantic analogy. I had known her my whole life, and I'd come to terms with my situation and found peace with it. It wasn't so bad to have sneak peeks at all the best parts ahead, but if Of course I wouldn't be writing this if it hadn't gotten worse. The entity was still with me. It had not wounded me and departed like I'd wanted to believe. The closest I can describe my growing understanding was that the creature was burrowing deeper into

my psyche, fracturing it into smaller pieces. Instead of months between major shifts, I began having only weeks. Once I noticed that trend, I feared my ultimate fate would be to jump between times in my life, heartbeat by heartbeat, forever confused, forever lost. Only an instant in each time meant I would never be able to speak with anyone else, never be able to hold a conversation, never express or receive love. As the true depth of that fear came upon me, I sat in an older version of myself and watched the snow falling outside.

That was the one constant in my life. The weather didn't care who I was or what pains I had to face. was always there. The falling snow was always like a little hook that kept me in a place. The pure emotional peace it brought was like a panacea on my mental wounds, and I'd never yet shifted while watching the pattern of falling white, and thinking of the times I'd gone sledding, or built a snow fort as a child. A teenager touched my arm. Grandpa? A? He'd startled me out of my thoughts, so I was less careful than usual. Who are you? He half grinned. as if not sure whether I was joking.

Handing me a stack of papers, he said. It's my first attempt at a novel. Would you read it and tell me what you think? Ah, of course. Pursuing that dream of being a writer, I see. He burned bright red. Trying to, anyway. All right, run off.

I'll read this right now. The words were blurry and, annoyed. I looked for glasses I probably had for reading. Being old was terrible, and I wanted to leap back into a younger year, but not before I read his book. I found my glasses in a sweater pocket, and began leafing through. Mar puttered in and out of the living room, still beautiful, but I had to focus. I didn't know how much time I would have there. It seemed that we had relatives over.

Was it Christmas? A pair of adults and a couple of kids I didn't recognize tromped through the hallway, and I saw my son, now an adult, walk by with his wife on the way out the door. As a group, the extended family began sledding outside. Finally, I finished reading the story, and I called out for my grandson. He rushed down the stairs and into the living room. How was it? Well, it's terrible, I told him truthfully, but it's terrible for all the right reasons. You're still a young man, so your characters behave like young people.

but the structure of the story itself is very solid. I paused. I didn't expect it to turn out to be a horror story. He nodded. It's a reflection of the times. Expectations for the future are dismal, not hopeful like they used to be. You're far too young to be aware like that, I told him.

An idea occurred to me. If you're into horror, do you know anything about strange creatures? Sure, I read everything I can. I love it. Warily, I scanned the entrances to the living room. Everyone was busy outside. For the first time, I opened up to someone in my life about what I was experiencing. In hushed tones, I told him about my fragmented consciousness. For a teenager, he took it well. You're serious? Yes. He dawned the determined look of a grown man accepting a quest. I'll look into it. I'll look into it. see what I can find out. You should start writing down everything you experience. Build some data. Maybe we can map your psychic wound. Wow.

Sounds like a plan. I was surprised. That made sense, and I hadn't expected him to have a serious response. But how will I get all the notes in one place? Let's come up with somewhere for you to leave them, he said, frowning with thought. Then I'll get them, and we can trace the path you're taking through. your own life, see if there's a pattern. For the first time since the situation had gotten worse, I felt hope again. How about under the stairs? Nobody ever goes under there. Sure. He turned

and left the living room. I peered after him. I heard him banging around near the stairs. Finally he returned with a box, laid it on the carpet, and opened it to reveal a bursting stack of papers. He exclaimed, Holy crap! But of course, being a teenager, he didn't really say crap. Taken aback, I blinked rapidly, for giving his cussing because of the shock. Did I write those? He looked up at me with wonder. Yeah, or you will.

You still have to write them and put them under the stairs after this. He gazed back down at the papers, then covered the box. So you probably shouldn't see what they say. That could get weird. That much I understood. Right. He gulped. There are like 50 boxes under there, all filled up like this.

Deciphering these will take a very long time. His tone dropped to deadly seriousness. But I will save you, Grandpa, because I don't think anyone else can. Tears flowed down my cheeks then, and I couldn't help but sob once or twice. I hadn't realized how lonely I'd become in my shifting prison of awareness, until I finally had someone who understood. Thank you. Thank you so much.

And then I was young again and at work on a random Tuesday. Once the sadness and relief faded, anger and determination replaced them. After I finished my work, I grabbed some paper and began writing. While the weeks shifted around me, while those weeks became days, and then hours, I wrote every single spare moment about when and where I thought I was. I put them under the stairs out of order. My first box was actually the 30th, and my last box was the first. Once I had over 50 boxes written from my perspective,

and once my shifting became a matter of minutes, I knew it was up to my grandson to take it from there. I put my head down and stopped looking. I couldn't stand the river of changing awareness any longer. Names and places and dates and jobs and colors and people were all wrong and different. I'd never been older. I sat watching the snowfall, a man of at least 30, whom I vaguely recognized. recognized entered the room. Come on, I think I finally figured it out. I was so frail that moving was painful. Are you him? Are you my grandson? Yes. He took me to a room filled with strange equipment and sat me in a rubber chair facing a large mirror twice the height of a man. The pattern finally revealed itself. How long have you worked on this? I asked him aghast. Tell me you didn't

miss your life like I'm missing mine. His expression was both stone cold and furious. resolute. It'll be worth it. He brought two thin metal rods close to my arm and then nodded at the mirror. Look, this shock is carefully calibrated. The electric zap from his device was startling, but not painful. In the mirror, I saw a rapid, arcing, light silhouette appear above my head and shoulder. The electricity moved through the creature like a wave, briefly revealing the terrible nature of what was happening to me. A bulging, leech-like mouth was wrapped around the back of my head, coming down to my eyebrows and touching each ear, and its slug-like body ran over my shoulder and into my very soul. It was a parasite, and it was feeding on my mind. My now-adult

grandson held my hand as I took in the horror. After a moment he asked, removing it is going to hurt very badly. Are you up for this? Fearful, I asked. Is Mar here? His face softened. No, not for a few years now. I could tell from his reaction. what had happened, but I didn't want it to be true. How? We have this conversation a lot, he responded. Are you sure you want to know? It never makes you feel better. Tears brimmed in my eyes. Then I don't care if it hurts, or if I die. I don't want to stay in a time where she's not alive. He made a sympathetic noise of understanding, and then returned to his machines to hook several wires, diodes, and other bits of technology to my limbs and forehead. While he did, he did he,

did so, he talked. I've worked for two decades to figure this out, and I've had a ton of help from other researchers of the occult. This parasite doesn't technically exist in our plane. It's one of the lesser spons of Zen, and it feeds on the plexus of mind, soul, and quantum consciousness, reality. When details like names and colors of objects changed, you weren't going crazy. The web of your existence was merely losing strands as the creature ate its way through you. I didn't fully understand. I looked up in confusion as he placed a circle of electronics like a crown on my head, an exact line with where the parasite's mouth had ringed me. What's Zen? He paused his work and grew pale. I forgot that you wouldn't know. You're lucky, believe me. After a deep breath, he began moving again

and placed his fingers near a few switches. Ready? This is carefully tuned to make your nervous system extremely unappetizing to the parasite, but it's basically electroshock therapy. I could still see Mars smile. Even though she was dead, I'd just been with her moments ago. Do it. The click of a switch echoed in my ears, and I almost laughed at how mild the electricity was.

It didn't feel like anything, at least at first. Then I saw the mirror shaking, and my body within that image convulsing. Oh, no, it did hurt. Nothing had ever been more painful. It was just so excruciating that my mind hadn't been able to immediately process it. As my vision shook and the fire burned in every nerve in my body, I could see the reflected trembling light silhouette of the parasite on my head, as it writhed in agony equal to mine. It had claws, six clawed lizard-like limbs under its leech-like body, and it cut into me in an attempt to stay latched on. The electricity made my memories flare.

Mars' smile was foremost, lit brightly in front of a warm fire as the snow fell past the window behind her. The edges of that memory began lighting up, and I realized that my life was one continuous stretch of experience. It was only the awareness of it that had been fragmented by that feasting evil on my back. I'd never managed to be there for the birth of my son. I jumped around it a dozen times, but never actually lived it. For the first time, I got to hold Mar's hand and be there for her. No, no. That moment had shifted seamlessly into holding her hand as she lay in a hospital bed for a very different reason.

Not this. God, why? It was so merciless to make me remember this. I broke down in tears as nurses rushed into the room. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to experience it. I'd seen all the good parts, but I hadn't wanted the worst part, the inevitable end that all would one day face. It wasn't worth it. It was tainted. All that joy was given back ten thousandfold as pain. The fire in my body and in my brain surged to sheer white torture, and I screamed.

My scream faded into a surprised shout as the machines in electricity and chair faded away. Snow was no longer falling around my life. I was out in the woods on a bright summer day. Oh God. I turned to see the creature approaching me. It was the same absence of meaning, the same blank on reality. It crept forward, just like before.

But this time, it hissed and turned away. I stood astounded at being young again and freed from the parasite. My grandson had actually done it. He'd made me an unappetizing meal, so the predator of mind and soul had moved on in search. of a different snack. I returned home in a daze, and while I was sitting there processing all that had happened, the phone rang. I looked at it in awe and sadness. I knew who it was. It was Marjorie, calling for the first time for some trivial reason she'd admit 30 years later

was made up just to talk to me. But all I could see was her lying in that hospital bed dying. It was going to end an unspeakable pain and loneliness. I would become an old man, Left to sit by myself in an empty house, his soulmate gone long before him. At the end of it all, the only thing I would have left, sitting and watching the falling snow. But now, thanks to my grandson, I would also have my memories. It would be a wild ride, no matter how it ended. On a sudden impulse I picked up the phone. With a smile, I asked,

Hey, who's this? Even though I already knew. I was born around the Appalachian mountain air. After I left school, I moved around a lot. A great deal happened in my life in the past five years. Recently, I'd gotten a call that my uncle passed away. A simple cabin hidden deep within the woods, and a truck was all that had been left of his life. After everything, I decided spending some time at the cabin would be a good idea. The cabin looked a bit on the rougher side when I arrived. My uncle heard his back and wasn't able to do most of the upkeep for a while. I hadn't been there

for years, and it took some time to figure out what I was doing. After two weeks, I got the small cabin back in shape. Since I wasn't in a rush to leave, I bought more supplies to stay a bit longer. It felt odd not having a schedule. For so long, my life didn't change from day to day. I was stuck doing the same things at the same time to keep the bills paid, and in an instant, that all changed. Gray threatening clouds started to roll in while I was fishing. I checked my phone trying to see what the weather would be like for the rest of the night. It didn't work half the time because I was so deep in the woods. It took five minutes for it to load up the information about a nasty storm. Packing up quickly, I booked it back to the cabin. That old building better hold against what was

coming. It grew so dark I needed to turn on a lantern in the middle of the day. I made a note of how many unread books I had left, and that I needed to pick up new ones when I was in town next. As I cooked in early dinner, the rain started to come down hard. The wind blew rattling the windows. Thunder rumbled so hard I felt it in the floorboards. This was a night to stay inside and under some blankets. More lightning flashed and I glanced outside at the right time. If I had been a second too late, I might have missed something that would change my life. A person was limping along outside fighting the storm. I rushed to grab my jacket and get my shoes on. The instant I opened the door, I became soaked. It was nearly impossible to see with the rain pouring into my eyes.

By some miracle I spotted the figure again. He looked so damn small out here beside the massive trees that made up the forest. Pushing on, I reached him through the rain. I shouted only to have my voice get carried away by the wind. He struggled a little as I guided him back to the cabin, but we finally got inside drenched and shaking from the cold. For some reason, he was dressed in a simple robe that appeared to be made of a natural material. He looked young, maybe 16. I fetched a blanket off the couch to wrap it around him. The poor kid shook so hard, his teeth chattered. Where did you come from? I asked him. His lips pressed together in a tight line. He refused to say anything. I carefully guided him another step inside, and his legs gave out from under him.

A puddle of water formed from the rain dripped off us. The water looked at. The water looked at too dark in the dim light. I soon discovered a fresh, nasty gash on his leg. Since he was so thin, I lifted him to carry him over to the couch. I did try calling for help, but my phone didn't connect. Then I did my best to treat the wound with the supplies I had. Where did he come from? Was there a weird cult in the middle of the woods? It wasn't as if that sort of thing hadn't happened before. From how rattled he looked, I decided not to press him for answers. Stay here for the night. if I make you uncomfortable, I can sleep in the truck. I said after I wrapped his leg.

I stood up and his hand flew out to take mine. He shook his head but hadn't spoken yet. Gray eyes begged me not to go outside again. I promised I wouldn't leave him. He needed some dry clothing. Some oversized sweaters and sweatpants would need to be good for now. I didn't sleep well that night. The cabin had three rooms, a main room, a bedroom,

and a bathroom. I let him sleep in the bedroom as I took the couch. Ideas of where that kid came from and what happened rolled around in my brain all night. I wouldn't get any answers until he decided to tell me. The storm finally died down before dawn. I passed out for a few hours feeling more tired after I woke up. The first thing I did was knock on the bedroom door to see how he was doing. When no answer came, I opened it a crack. The bed of the bed of appeared slept in, but empty. He wasn't in the bathroom, so did he run off? Fear raced through my stomach until I opened the cabin door to see the boy from the night before outside stretching. At least his leg looked to be all right. How are you feeling? I asked, not expecting to get an

answer. Better. He responded in a deeper voice that didn't match his face. Do you want to head into town for a real doctor to look over your leg? I said, and he shook his head. No, it'll heal on its own. The cut looked worse than it is. He pulled up the pant leg to show off the long cut along his leg. I must have been seeing things last night. I could have sworn it was twice as long a few hours before. What's your name? I'm Dean. Again, I wasn't expecting him to answer, and yet he did. I'm Hemlock. Yeah, with a name like that, he was totally a part of a weird cult that lived in the woods. Would I need to kid a random kid to get him away from an abusive family? Do you live out here? I said a bit suspicious.

Yes, I'm a part of a small family that has lived in the mountains for years. There are a few different families around here. A fight broke out and, well, that's how my leg was hurt. I'm sure the issue has been resolved. I crossed my arms not liking what I was hearing. My uncle never said anything about other people living near his cabin. How far out were they? How many people? I knew it wasn't my place to look down on how people lived just because it was different.

But I worried about any issues that kind of lifestyle may bring. You don't have, like, a main leader claiming the end of the world is going to happen, and then takes like ten wives, right? I suggested, hoping being so upfront, wouldn't scare him away. The kid laughed, which put me a bit more at ease. Who would ever need ten wives? Isn't one when you're ready enough? At least that reaction made me think there was a chance Hemlock was doing all right living in the woods. Then again, his name was Hemlock. Unless I saw how he was living, I wouldn't be certain he was safe or not. I nudged at the dirt, wondering if it was my

place to stick my nose into his business. Where do you live? When your leg is a bit better, I can drive you there. I nodded towards the rusted truck my uncle left. Hemlock chewed on his cheek, unsure of my offer. He shook his head trying to think of a polite way to refuse. We would need to walk. It's far into the forest, and there are no roads. I'll be fine to return on my own. I would like to do something to repay you for your help. I shook my head, but it didn't look as if he would accept the lack of repayment. I thought for a minute, wondering if there was anything I could ask him to do. Let's go fishing today.

It was an easy chore that would keep him off his injured leg. I had two rods, so we didn't need to share. After collecting the gear, we walked down to the lake as a chilly wind blew. It cooled down a lot from the rain. The path had become so muddy I was having issues with getting my boots stuck. Hemlock walked barefoot. Even with an injured leg, he didn't have any issues not sinking into the muck. We found a good spot by the lake to get set up.

I needed to show him how to bait the hook and explain what the bobber and weight did. Apparently, his family just caught fish with their bare hands. He was going to do the same, but I told him it wasn't a good idea to get lake water in his open wound. I wanted to talk a little, but found it hard to get a conversation going. How old are you? Like, high school age? When he gave me a blank stare, I elaborated. Sixteen? Younger? I'm an adult.

He said sounding offended, not to me. We got distracted by a bite from a fish. It turned out to be too small, so it got tossed back. I caught Hemlock watching me, as if he wanted to ask a question. When he noticed he had been caught, he opened up about what was on his mind. Only parents think I'm younger than I am, and you've seemed very protective of me. Do you have any children? He cautiously asked.

A son a few years younger than you? Hemlock's face lit up. He half expected to see another kid his age appear at any moment. I bet he easily made friends. Will he be spending any time at your cabin? No, he's with his mother. I replied hating how cold my tone sounded. Hemlock knew to drop the subject and felt awkward bringing the whole thing up. He made things better between us by snatching a fish, who had foolishly gotten too close to the edge of the lake. By lunchtime we had enough fish for dinner. I'd caught two while Hemlock. caught six by baiting the water and grabbing victims before they knew what was coming. I insisted he

stayed for dinner. It seemed like he was ready to run off at any moment. I offered to cook while he cleaned up. The smell of the lake clung to his clothing which he hadn't noticed. The cabin had its own water system. I wouldn't have been able to stay out here for as long as I had without hot water. I showed Hemlock how the shower worked, but said he could also have a bath if he preferred. I cleaned and deep-fried the fish, along with a few side dishes from whatever canned goods I had around. My guest came out of the bathroom dressed in more borrowed clothing, his cheeks still red from the hot water. The soap smelled too strong for me to use. Hot water is such a nice treat. It's such a hassle building a fire to warm up water that we don't bother doing it very often. My eyes narrowed at him

after I set down a plate of hot food. Was it healthy to take cold baths all the time? Maybe I did need to see what kind of place he was living in. Hemlock dug into his food unaware of what he had just admitted. For a small guy, he ate a lot. Having a full stomach and a bath knocked him out. I cleaned the dishes as he slowly drifted off on the couch, promising to get up soon to help me clean up. I had planned on letting him sleep through the night

and then making sure he got home safely the next day. Sometimes things just don't work out the way you want them to. It had gotten dark when Hemlock started to stir in his sleep. A noise came from outside. It was as if someone was walking just in front of the cabin. There shouldn't be anyone around in the dark. I grabbed the rifle next to the door and stopped to listen. The gun had belonged to my uncle, and I hadn't fired it before.

I knew it was still loaded from when he had been alive, but I hadn't found any spare ammo in the cabin. A soft knock came. I tensed as I started to reach for the doorknob. the gun in my other hand. If the person wanted to cause trouble, I was positive I could deal with it. Don't!

Hemlock shouted from the couch. I'd just turned the doorknob when he spoke up. The wooden door exploded inwards, knocking my body a few feet back. My entire body hurt as stars danced through the darkness. My head slammed against the wooden floor, stunning me for a full minute. I climbed out from under the door,

rifle still in hand, but my body refused to stand. Two strangers stood inside the cabin. They were dressed and sewn together dirty rags. Their bodies were tall and bone thin. One had a hand with long fingers wrapped around Hemlock's arm to start dragging him towards the open doorway. Let go of him, I said through gritted teeth and raised the rifle.

The one man turned his head to show a long grin. His mouth appeared unnaturally thin. His dark eyes were set into a sky. skull-like face. Oh, how cute, let's take this one too, he said in a raspy voice. No, you know the deal. We do not involve outsiders, Hemlock nearly begged. The man fully turned around to face me, his movement stiff as if a corpse had started to walk. He sheltered you. He is no longer an outsider. The stranger pointed out, I didn't care about what they were talking about. I just needed to get these two the hell out of my cabin. He has a family. If he goes missing. Again, Hemlock was on my side.

Both the men laughed. The sound chilled my spine and caused fear to run through my body. The taller of the two of them looked over me. The dark eyes see something no human should be able to. No, he doesn't. The shorter one spoke in such a wispy tone I could barely understand the words. Then he spoke clearly, but not in his voice. No, the voice of my wife came from him. I'm going to my sisters for the weekend. I'm taking pumpkin with me. Call me when you're done work.

That was what she said in her last voicemail to me. How did they know that? Did they somehow get to my phone while I was at the cabin to hear it? When the taller one spoke, it said something no one should ever know. Mom is going to take me for some driving practice after school. We might be. I pulled the trigger before he finished speaking. I couldn't bear to hear my son's voice coming from that creature's mouth.

My hands trembled too much for the shot to hit. I couldn't even focus enough to see if I could use the gun again. My stomach turned from guilt and rage. How did they know what to say? And how did they sound exactly like people they shouldn't have ever met before? Both cackled, enjoying my pain as Hemlock's face fell. A clawed hand reached around to take his face under his chin to painfully lift it upwards. Look at what you did.

You let a human get involved with us. Now we must eat him. Not only that, but you got your silly father killed by attacking us first. His eyes widened unaware of if the creature was lying about his father's death. I looked around trying to see if there was a weapon I could use. The rifle was useless aside from being a blunt object. I needed to get us the hell out of here. I no longer cared about who these two were.

The important thing was how to get away. You're lying. You attacked us. We only defended ourselves. Our tribe has abided by the agreement since it was made. Why would we ever go against it? He protested, sounding like the scared kitty looked like. After you're dead, then it'll be our word as proof. The winter was very hard on us.

I fear the next one shall kill more of our kind. So, be a good little boy. boy, and don't fight in the same way your father did. We don't want to damage such a nice coat a second time. That was enough to get hemlock to fight back. A set of fangs appeared in his mouth as a deep growl rumbled through the cabin. He bit down hard on the hand that had held his chin. While those three were distracted, I rushed over to the other side of the room to grab the longest knife I could find. The taller man closed the distance between us in three steps. I turned on my heel to plunge the knife right through his body. To my sheer horror, it didn't

even slow him down. His long fingers easily tore through my shirt to dig into my stomach. Pain ripped through my body as I struggled to keep a scream down. I found another knife to try and get it into his eyes. I missed and hit his neck instead. The blade poked out clear through to the other side with black liquid pooling from the wound. The creature's eyes grew darker, and mouth widened to his ears. With ease, he tore open my flesh, his hand reaching inside to grab whatever it could. I screamed then,

unable to deal with the pain and horror of the situation. For a moment, I thought I was going to die from this thing. Another scream came from the cabin, but it wasn't from me. The other creature started running towards the door with black liquid spilling from where its arm should be. He was tackled to the ground as sharp teeth found his neck. Within seconds, the other beast that appeared inside the cabin had ripped the creature's head off,

getting the attention of the one who still had a dirty hand in my stomach. The taller monster appeared scared for the first time. We were both staring at a massive gray wolf devouring a thin body. It lifted a large head, then angry gray eyes landed on their next target. The tall man darted away trying to run around the couch and behind the wolf. Within a second, the wolf changed to more of a human. appearance. It stood on two legs with a human upper body covered in fur. It caught the skinny monster with a powerful hand and easily ripped off the arm it took hold of. The creature screamed

as it also changed trying to fight back. The head was nothing more than a mouth ready to bite down on anything in its way. But the thin monster was outmatched. It was taken apart in seconds by the larger wolf that covered the inside of the cabin with its dark blood. I was faded. at that point. I fell to the ground, the pain eased into a comfortable numbness. If Hemlock was all right, I knew it would be fine to accept my fate. All the fear I had felt slowly started to drain away. Someone had lifted me off the ground and I faintly heard a voice calling out my name. I forced my eyes open to see a blurry vision of the boy I found in a storm. His eyes were wet with tears. my brain didn't understand his words, but I knew he was asking something.

I closed my eyes again considering what I should do. A second ago I was ready to go back to my wife and son. After seeing him, I knew I needed to stay around for a little bit longer. Using the last of my strength, I agreed to what he asked. Then a set of teeth came down on my shoulder, causing a new wave of pain to flash through my body. I fell into a deep sleep as something came flooding into my bloodstream. It was uncomfortable, and I feared who I would become when I woke up again. When I did wake up, I was in the bedroom of the cabin.

My stomach and any other injuries were healed over, as if they never happened, aside from a set of scars showing a bite on my shoulder. I got up feeling oddly light. The sunlight appeared to be too bright, and the birds outside were far louder than I remember. Someone had tried to clean the cabin. Dark blood still stained the wood, but the bodies had been removed. Hemlock waited for me outside, wearing more borrowed clothing and appearing almost remorseful. This wasn't your fault.

I told him to make sure to get that out of the way first. It was. I should never have entered the cabin with you. I believed in my father's strength and was positive he would win against our attackers. There were ten of them. He stayed behind to let me get away. He sounded so guilty it hurt. I know it hurts being left behind, but he was a good father.

It's the parents' job to protect their kids. I didn't do that. I couldn't do anything for my son. Clearly, he disagreed, and voiced that opinion by punching my arm. I rubbed the spot where he hit offended. I bet he would have done the same thing if he heard you saying that, Hemlock argued. He was a good kid. I'm glad his father protected him, but I wish they could have stayed together.

How am I even alive right now? I asked, getting back to the important stuff. He looked guilty again and kicked at the dirt with bare feet. Well, I turned you into one of us. I'm sorry, but it was the only way. He admitted, I kind of figured it was something like that. Now what? Am I going to turn into a wolf every full moon and devour backpackers? He wrinkled his nose at the suggestion and shook his head. No.

It'll take a few days before you'll be able to fully transform. With enough strength, you'll be able to do it any time it's needed. I normally spend most of my time as a wolf, but there is a way to prevent that. If you drink a certain tea before your first change, the wolf inside you will be locked away forever. I crossed my arms uncertain of how I felt about that. I could still leave these woods as a human to go about a normal life,

or I could become a wolf and discover a new life involving monsters made up of nightmares. What's stopping people from abusing this? Like cheating death by getting bitten any time they're about to die and drinking the tea to avoid the whole wolf thing? I wondered out loud. No one had survived being bitten twice. And, a bitten wolf has a shorter lifespan than a born wolf.

You'll most likely only live till you're 40. So maybe five more years? Is that how old you think I am? I said, while uncrossing my arms. very peeved by his misjudgment. He looked very nervous about upsetting me. When I smiled, it made him calm down. I thought over my choices again, really wondering if I could throw away being human. What's up with those thin creatures? Are there a lot more of them? Hemlock nodded, his face grim, thinking about what attacked us. We're unsure of their numbers, but it feels as if more appear every

summer. Attacks from them have become more common, even though we can't ever prove it. I fear another war will break out between us that will hurt humans that get caught in the middle. Hearing something like that would make someone want to never take another step inside the forest again. If I stayed, I would risk my already shortened life to get caught up in an enviable war between monsters. I guess you need one more wolf on your side. Give me three days to get some things in order. Since I didn't have any family left, it was easy to take care of things. I sold the higher cost items and then donated what I could. I kept some clothing and some savings.

It felt oddly freeing to get rid of most of my worldly goods, knowing they would be far more useful to someone else. I met Hemlock back at the cabin, ready to start a different life. He said that his family didn't mind welcoming a newcomer into their ranks, but they thought that I should live at the cabin. for a bit longer and slowly get introduced to their way of life. No matter how afraid the idea of more of those thin monsters made me, I decided to protect Hemlock in the same way his father had. After all, it's a parent's job to take care of their children. My name's Sam, and I've spent

all my 19 years in a small, rural town in Michigan, where the trees outnumber people, and the sky stretches wide and clear from horizon to horizon. Living here, where we're in a small, With my twin sister Molly, our younger sisters Nia and Sierra, and our parents, I've grown a deep love for the outdoors. Whether it's hiking through the dense woods that surround our home, or climbing the rugged bluffs that overlook our town, there's nowhere I'd rather be. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight was about family, laughter, and a bit of mischief. It was one of those rare evenings when everyone was home, and the outside world with all its adventures seemed to fade away. our home, usually quiet, was alive with giggles and whispers as Nia and Sierra had their friend Jules over for a sleepover.

I lounged in my bed, a book forgotten on my lap, listening to the muffled sounds of my sister's joy from across the hall. Molly popped into my room, her eyes sparkling with the same excitement that seemed to charge the air. Come on, Sam, don't be a bore, she teased, tugging at my arm. I'm not being a bore, I protested. though the smile on my face betrayed my real feelings. I'm just really comfy here. Go on. I'll join you guys later. Molly rolled her eyes but left with a laugh, joining the others. I settled back, the comfort of my bed lulling me into a state of contented drowsiness.

That's when the night took a turn. It must have been around midnight when a chilling sound pierced the night's calm, a series of deep, guttural screams that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. At first, I thought it was just the girls playing around, but then my phone buzzed. Did you hear them? Nia's text read, sending a shiver down my spine. Yeah, I thought it was you guys. I texted back, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt. No, they came from the woods, came her reply. And that's when I knew this was no ordinary night. I jumped out of bed and rushed to their room. The scene that greeted me was one of pure chaos.

Nia's eyes were wide with fear. Sierra was rubbing sleep from her eyes, and Molly looked like she'd seen a ghost. We huddled together, the weight of the unknown pressing down on us. The screams came again, closer this time, more desperate. What are they?

Sierra's voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed my own fears. Could it be coyotes? Nia wondered aloud, but Molly was quick to dismiss it. The sounds were unlike anything we'd heard before. The room fell silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Guys, I'm scared, Sierra admitted, voicing what we were all feeling.

In that moment we were no longer just siblings. We were comrades, facing an unseen enemy together. Jules, who had been asleep through most of this, suddenly stirred. I don't want to play this game anymore. She mumbled before falling back into a restless sleep. Her words, though innocent, seemed to hang heavily in the room. Should we have Dad go check it out? Nia suggested, but the thought of venturing outside was quickly dismissed.

No, we decided. If we were going to face whatever was out there, we'd do it together. Gathering our courage, we equipped ourselves with flashlights and stepped into the night, not knowing that what awaited us would be something far beyond our wildest fears. As we left the safety of our home behind, I couldn't help but wonder, were we walking into a nightmare? The decision to step into the woods that night was made with a mix of bravery and recklessness that only comes when you're surrounded by the people who make you feel invincible. Our little band, armed with nothing but flashlights and the kind of optimism that seemed foolish in hindsight, ventured into the darkness that enveloped our backyard.

The woods at night are a different beast entirely. Shadows danced and twisted around every tree, and the usual comforting rustle of leaves sounded more like whispers. My heart raced, and I could hear the shallow nervous breaths of my sisters and jewels. We moved as a unit, our lights cutting through the darkness, creating a small island of safety in a sea of uncertainty. We should have stayed in the house, Sierra whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of our footsteps on the forest floor. I couldn't help but agree with her. The excitement that had propelled us out the door was quickly being replaced by a gnawing sense of dread.

It's just a bit further, Molly said, trying to sound confident. But her voice betrayed her fear. Every snap of a twig underfoot sounded like a gunshot in the silence, making us jump. Then, without warning, the screams tore through the night again. This time they were closer, more real. It wasn't just one scream but many, overlapping in echoing off the trees. We froze, our lights scanning the darkness, hearts pounding in our chests. What are they? Nia asked, her voice shaking. I didn't have an answer. The screams didn't belong to any

animal I knew. They were too raw, too filled with an emotion that sounded eerily human. We should have turned back then, but something kept us moving forward. Maybe it was the need to protect our home, or maybe we were just too scared to admit we were in over our heads. And then we saw it. The beam of my flashlight landed on a figure so bizarre, it took a moment for my brain to even register what I was seeing. It was tall, unnaturally so, with skin so pale it seemed to glow in the dim light. Its limbs were long and thin, ending in hands with fingers that were too long, too twisted to be human. But it was its face, or lack thereof, that haunted me. Instead of eyes, there were just small black holes, and its mouth was a wide,

grotesque smile filled with sharp, uneven teeth. It was like something out of a nightmare, and it was standing there, watching us. I don't want to play this game anymore, it said, and the voice was Jules'es, but it was all wrong. The words were the same, but the tone was mocking, chilling. We stood there, frozen in terror, as more of these creatures emerged from the shadows encircling us. Their eyes were voids and their smiles were nightmares made real. I don't want to play this game anymore, they chanted. Their voice is a twisted chorus that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Panic surged through me primal and overwhelming. Run! I yelled and we turned, fleeing back through the woods. The creature's laughter followed us,

a sound that would haunt my dreams for years to come. We ran without direction, without thought. driven by the sheer instinct to survive. The woods around us were alive with movement, with terror, and with the realization that we had ventured into a world far beyond our understanding. Our hearts pounded like drumbeats as we fled through the woods, the night around us alive with the chilling echoes of those we were desperate to escape. The cold air bit at my lungs as I pushed myself faster, the fear of being caught by those things fueling my adrenaline, The once familiar woods felt alien,

every shadow a potential threat, every rustle, a possible ambush. We didn't stop running until the outline of the shed emerged from the darkness, a beacon of hope in our night of terror. Molly reached it first, throwing open the door, and we all stumbled inside, gasping for breath. Nia slammed the door shut, locking us in with a shaky hand. The shed was cramped,

filled with garden tools and the musty smell of old wood. It was hardly a fortress, but it was all we had. We huddled together in the dark, our flashlights off to avoid drawing attention, listening to the haunting silence outside. Are they gone? Sierra's voice was a whisper, tinged with hope and fear. I didn't answer. I didn't know.

All I knew was that the night had transformed from an adventure into a nightmare we couldn't wake up from. Time stretched on. marked only by our quiet breathing and the occasional creak of the shed settling. It felt like we were trapped in a bubble, the world outside holding its breath along with us. Then the silence was shattered by a soft thud against the shed wall, followed by another, and then a barrage of sounds that made my blood run cold. They were outside, hitting the walls with what sounded like hands and bodies,

a constant reminder of the horror lurking just beyond our things, in shelter. We didn't scream. We didn't even move. We were statues, frozen by fear, barely daring to breathe as the assault on the shed continued. I could feel my sisters trembling beside me, their fear as palpable as my own. It was a long night, the longest of my life, filled with terror and the unspoken fear that we might not make it until morning. But eventually, the first light of dawn began to seep through the cracks in the shed, casting weak beams of light across our huddled group. The banging stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving behind a silence that was almost

as terrifying. We waited, none of us willing to be the first to break the silence or make a move toward the door. Finally, as the light grew stronger, I stood up, my legs stiff and my body aching. I moved to the door, hesitated for a moment, and then slowly, carefully, opened it. The early morning light was blinding, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw that the world outside was exactly as we had left it, with no sign of the night's horrors. The woods were calm, the air fresh with the scent of dew, and the

promise of a new day. We walked back to the house in silence, a mix of relief and disbelief in every step. Our mother was surprised to see us up so early, her frown deepening as she took in our disheveled appearance and the unspoken tension between us. We just stayed up late talking, Molly lied smoothly, and I was grateful for her quick thinking. Our mother accepted the explanation with a skeptical look but didn't press further. We retreated to Nia and Sierra's room, not to sleep, but to sit together in silence, processing the events of the night. We never spoke of what happened, not even to each other. It was as if putting it into words would make it too real, too terrifying to face. But the memories remained, haunting our dreams and coloring

every shadow with the fear of what lurks in the dark. That night changed us. We were no longer just siblings. We were survivors of a night we would never forget, bound by a secret we could never share. I'm not much of an outdoors kind of guy. I've always preferred the comfort of indoor space. So when my friend Greg invited me over to his house, I didn't expect our day to take such a chilling turn. It was a scorching Monday morning, typical of summer days, and Greg and I were holed up indoors, engrossed in the world of gaming. His mom bustled around in the kitchen, conjuring up the delightful aroma of breakfast. With his dad already off to work, the house echoed with the sounds of our laughter and the sizzle of bacon. We were your quintessential 15-year-old boy.

clothes, clad in hoodies, ripped jeans, and cool sneakers. Greg, always the competitive one, teased me about my gaming skills. You suck at this game, Isaac, he remarked, prompting a playful retort from me. Just as the banter settled, Greg's sister made her entrance, teasing us about our early morning gaming session. But soon, we were all summoned to the kitchen by the enticing smell of breakfast. After devouring our meal, Greg's mom mentioned. their plan to visit Uncle Dan's house, leaving us home alone for the day and night.

It was an opportunity we couldn't resist. Hours passed as we indulged in our gaming marathon. Eventually, boredom crept in, and we decided to explore the outdoors. Greg suggested a trail nearby, promising the allure of adventure. Reluctantly, I agreed, as long as he compensated me with $5. As we ventured onto the Pinewood Trail, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. The serene ambiance of chirping birds and rustling leaves soon turned ominous. A whisper, barely audible, tickled my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

Greg brushed off my concern, but I couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. Further along the trail, amidst the towering pines, I caught a glimpse of a figure cloaked. in black and white. My call for attention yielded no response, and the mysterious presence vanished into thin air. Greg dismissed it as a figment of my imagination, but the sense of dread lingered. As dusk descended, we hastened our pace to exit the woods, yet the encroaching darkness only heightened our anxiety. A growl, emanating from the depths of the forest, froze us in our tracks. Panic set in as we fumbled for our flashlights only to illuminate a horrifying sight. Before us stood a grotesque creature, pale and naked, with crimson eyes that pierced through the darkness.

Towering at a height of eight feet, it bared razor-sharp teeth in a menacing snarl. Terror seized us as we realized this was no ordinary woodland predator. With adrenaline coursing through our veins, we fled into the cover of bushes, praying for sanctuary. The creature's sinister presence loomed, its predatory instincts guiding it closer to our hiding spot. Desperation fueled our escape as we sprinted toward safety, guided by the eerie whispers of the forest. Finally emerging from the treacherous woods, we raced back home, haunted by the nightmarish encounter. The ordeal left us shaken, grappling with the inexplicable horrors lurking within the shadows. And as the moon cast its glow upon the silent streets,

I vowed never to venture into those woods again, haunted by the chilling memory of that unearthly creature. I've always found solace in the untamed corners of the world, where nature speaks in whispers and roars, revealing her beauty to those patient enough to listen. My camera, an extension of my being, has captured the serene and the savage, from the silent dance of the northern lights to the ferocious hunt of the mountain lion. It's a life that oscillates between solitude and the sudden adrenaline of capturing the untold stories of the wild. But that day, as I sat editing photos from a recent expedition, the phone rang, pulling me from my reverie into an unfolding mystery. The voice on the other end was crisp, authoritative. We need your eye out here,

it said. The Alps, a terrain so dramatic. radically different from the rolling plains and dense forests I was accustomed to, beckoned. The local police, out of their element in the vast wilderness where several hikers had vanished, were calling on me. The suspicion was a wolf pack, but without proof, it was just that. Suspicion. The offer included an extra sum, a tempting sweetener that would cover the down payment for the new truck I'd been eyeing.

Adventure and necessity colliding, I couldn't refuse. Packing was a ritual, each item camera gear, laptop, survival essentials, a testament to the years spent wandering through nature's marvels and menaces. The flight to Switzerland was a blur of anticipation and the endless replaying of scenarios in my head. What awaited was unknown, a puzzle nestled in the majestic, daunting Alps. Marcus, the team leader, met me at the airport. His handshake was firm, the kind that spoke of resilience and unspoken. stories. His briefing was thorough. Disappearances weren't new, but the frequency and the lack of evidence were unsettling. Torn clothing and bloodstains hinted at a narrative of horror and mystery,

challenging us to piece it together. Our base camp was on the forest's edge, a stone's throw from where civilization ended, and the wild began. Marcus introduced me to the team, seasoned mountaineers, and rescuers whose eyes mirrored the resolve I felt. But beneath it, there was an undercurrent of unease, a palpable tension that the serene beauty of our surroundings couldn't dispel. The landscape was a photographer's dream, snow-capped peaks, standing sentinel over valleys, the play of light and shadow casting an ethereal glow on the untouched snow. It was a stark reminder of nature's duality, her capacity for breathtaking beauty, and, as our mission suggested, devastating brutality.

Marcus's final briefing before we ventured into the unknown was a sobering reminder of the stakes. The map laid out before us charted not just our path, but also our purpose, to find those lost, to bring answers where there were none. His words on dealing with wolves, though meant to reassure, felt like a grim prophecy of encounters we hoped to avoid. My experience with wildlife, usually observed through the lens of my camera, offered little comfort. That night, as I lay in my tent, the excitement of the chase wrestled with the gravity of our task. My thoughts wandered to the missing hikers, to the stories their silence told. Sleep was a

reluctant visitor, and when it came, it brought with it dreams darkened by the howls of unseen predators, their eyes glowing in the shadows of my mind. Dawn broke, casting a golden light on our resolve. As we readied ourselves, Marcus's gaze met mine, an unspoken acknowledgement of the journey ahead. We stepped into the forest, the unknown waiting with open jaws. The wild called, and we answered, not knowing what reply awaited us. The morning air bit at my skin as we set out, a thin veil of mist hanging low over the ground, turning the world ethereal. The Alps, majestic in their silent watch, held secrets in their snow-clad folds.

Marcus led with a pace that suggested urgency, yet every step was measured, every glance towards the dense tree line calculated. Laura, Alex, and I followed, each lost in our thoughts, bound together by a mission that felt increasingly Sisyphian. As the sun clawed its way above the peaks, casting long shadows that danced across the snow, I couldn't help but raise my camera. The beauty of this place was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the grim purpose that brought us here. The forest swallowed us whole, the crunch of our boots, the only sign of our passage. I'd been in wild places before, each with its own voice. But this forest was silent, as if holding its breath, watching. Marcus stopped us a few hours in, his hand raised in a silent command.

We huddled around a map, its lines and symbols a poor substitute for the complexity of the terrain around us. We split here, he said, his voice low. eyes scanning our faces. Radio check every hour. We can cover more ground that way. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, a silent question of whether I was ready for what lay ahead. I paired with Alex, a man of few words, his demeanor as rugged as the landscape we traversed. Our path was a narrow ribbon through the trees, the snow untouched but for the tracks of unseen animals. We called out, our voices seeming to hang in the cold air before being swallowed by the silence. Hello, anyone there?

But the forest kept its secrets, offering no reply. Time became a blur, marked only by the occasional radio check-in. Nothing on our end, Marcus's voice crackled through the static. Laura and he had also found no sign of the missing hikers. The tension was a tangible thing, a weight that settled on our shoulders, pressing down with each unanswered call. The decision to split further was made with a heavy-hiker. heart. Marcus's warning to stay on the trail and keep in radio contact was a grim reminder of the

thin line we walked between searcher and lost. Alex and I nodded, our route taking us deeper into the heart of the wilderness. His stride was purposeful, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows. I found myself struggling to match his pace, my camera hanging forgotten at my side. The forest seemed to close in around us, the trees towering sentinels that whispered secrets we couldn't understand. Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I wondered about the wolves, the supposed culprits of this mystery. Were they watching us? Unseen observers to our futile search. Our destination was a clearing marked on the map, a rendezvous point that promised a brief respite from the oppressive

atmosphere of the forest. But as the hours passed and the radio remained silent, a seed of dread took root in my mind. The clearing, when we finally arrived, was empty. No sign of Marcus and Laura, just the untouched snow and the looming silence of the forest. Alex's attempts to reach them on the radio met only static, his frustration a mirror to my growing fear. We need to go back, he said, the first hint of uncertainty in his voice. But as we retraced our steps, the forest seemed to mock us, its secrets sealed behind a veneer of natural beauty and silence. The wilderness I realized was indifferent to our plight, a reminder that out here we were not the predators, but prey to the unknown. The realization that Marcus and Lara were missing

cut through the cold morning air like a shard of ice. Alex's face, usually an unreadable mask, tightened, lines etching deeper into his weather-beaten skin. We had retraced, we had retraced faced our steps, the silence of the forest now a menacing force, pushing against us with palpable hostility. My camera, once a trusted companion, hung heavy around my neck, useless in the face of our growing desperation. We split from the main trail hours ago, a decision that now seemed reckless. The forest, a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, seemed to mock our efforts.

Our calls for Marcus and Laura, once hopeful, now carried a note of panic. The radio, our lifeline to the others, crackled with static, an ominous soundtrack to our search. I watched Alex as he attempted to contact them again, his voice betraying the first signs of fear. The static answered back, a cold, indifferent hiss that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The realization that we were truly alone, possibly hunted, settled in my stomach like a stone. The decision to head to the clearing was made in the same. silence, an unspoken agreement that it was our best chance of finding our missing friends. The terrain grew more treacherous, the beauty of the snow-covered Alps, now a cruel joke.

Every step was a struggle, the weight of our gear and the burden of fear a constant companion. As we broke through the tree line into the clearing, hope flared briefly, only to be extinguished. The clearing was empty, the untouched snow a blank canvas that offered no clues. his reaction was visceral, a curse lost to the wind as he threw the radio to the ground. The frustration, the fear, the sheer helplessness of the situation was palpable. We had to make a decision. The light was fading, the temperature dropping, and with it, our chances of finding Marcus and Lara alive. The wilderness, indifferent to our plight, offered no comfort, no guidance. We were intruders here, unwelcome and unprepared for the reality

of the wild. The return to the camp was a blur, each step in effort to push back against the rising tide of despair. The forest seemed to close in around us, the trees whispering secrets we were not meant to hear. When we finally emerged, the camp, usually a place of refuge, felt like a hollow shell. The absence of Marcus and Laura, a wound that bled despair. That night, as we gathered around a fire that offered little warmth, the reality of our situation settled in. We were lost, not just in the wilderness, but in a mystery that seemed to have no answers. The team, once a cohesive unit, now seemed fractured, each of us grappling with our fears, our failures.

Sleep was elusive, the night filled with the sounds of the forest, each rustle, each snap of a twig a reminder of our vulnerability. The dreams when they came were filled with shadows and screams, the forest alive with unseen threats. Dawn brought no relief, only the stark realization that we had to go back, to face the wilderness once more. The search for Marcus and Lara was more than a mission. It was a test, a measure of our resolve against the unforgiving heart of the wild. As we set out, the weight of the unknown pressing down on us, I understand. understood the true nature of fear. It was not the darkness, not the cold, but the silence, the absence of answers that haunted us. The aftermath of our grim discovery in the clearing

lingered like a bad taste, the kind that seeps into your pores and refuses to leave. Our return to the base camp was a silent procession, a tribute to the loss of Marcus and Lara, and perhaps to our own dwindling hopes. The wilderness, once a canvas of natural beauty and wonder, now felt like a vast, indifferent witness to our despair. The following days were a blur of activity and inactivity. The investigation into the deaths unfolding with a sluggishness that bordered on the surreal. The authorities descended, their presence a stark contrast to the solitude we had known.

Questions were asked, answers sifted through, and theories proposed. but the forest kept its secrets, offering no solace, no clues. I found myself adrift, the camera that had once been my connection to the world, now a reminder of what we'd lost. The images I had captured, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed like echoes from a different time, a different existence. The mystery of what had happened to Marcus and Lara, and the nature of the beast that had taken them from us, gnawed at me,

an unscratchable itch that permeated my waking thoughts and haunted my dreams. The call from Alex when it came was like a lifeline, a thread pulling me back from the edge of an abyss. The autopsy reports were in, he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and disbelief. The findings were as unsettling as the mystery itself. The bite marks didn't match any known animal, a chilling revelation that suggested we were dealing with something beyond our understanding, beyond our world. The news settled over me like a shroud, the implications terrifying in their ambiguity. What had we been hunting? What had been hunting us? The wilderness, a place I had once sought for its beauty and solitude, now felt like a vast uncharted territory where unknown dangers lurked,

mocking our attempts to understand, to categorize, to control. I spent long hours pouring over my photos, searching for any clue, any anomaly that might provide an answer. The beauty of the Alps, captured in those frames, now seemed like a facade, hiding a darker truth beneath its picturesque surface. The silence of the forest, once peaceful, now felt ominous, a heavy cloak that concealed the presence of something ancient, something malevolent. The rest of the team dispersed, the search officially called off, the mystery of the missing hikers and the deaths of Marcus and Lara left unsolved, a cold case in the literal and metaphorical sense. But for me, the journey was far from over. The wilderness had changed me, had shown me the limits of my understanding, my courage.

I returned to my work, to the wilds, but with a new perspective, a new respect for the mysteries that lay hidden in the depths of the forest. The call of the wild, once an invitation to explore, to discover, now felt like a warning. a reminder of our place in the natural order, of the thin veneer of civilization that separates us from the unknown. The wilderness, with its untold secrets and unseen dangers, had once been my sanctuary, my muse. Now, it was a puzzle, a challenge, a question that demanded an answer.

And I knew deep down that the search for that answer would define the rest of my life, a quest not just for the truth about what happened in those snow-covered mountains, but for the meaning of our existence in a world that is far stranger, far more complex, than we could ever have imagined. I'd never been one to shy away from adventure. In fact, I craved it. But when my family decided to move to what might as well have been the edge of the world, I felt more apprehension than excitement.

Our new house was surrounded by woods so dense and dark, they seemed to swallow up the light, making the daytime feel like dusk. The first day in our new home was a blur of unpacking boxes and avoiding my parents' attempts to make the move seem like a grand adventure. They didn't understand. How could they? To them, this was a fresh start, but to me, it felt like exile. As the afternoon waned, I felt a restless itch to explore. Maybe, I thought, if I could just get a feel for the land, I might find something to like about this place.

So I told my mom I was going for a walk, ignoring her warning to stay close. The forest beckoned with a silent eerie allure that I couldn't resist. At first, I stuck to the edge of the woods, tracing the faint game trails that zigzagged through the underbrush. The further I went, the more the trees seemed to press in on me, their branches blotting out the sun until it felt like I was walking at twilight. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. The forest felt alive, aware, and not entirely welcoming. I was about to turn back, the silence and the dim light too much even for my adventurous spirit,

when something caught my eye. Near the base of a particularly gnarled tree, something dark and out of place lay half buried under a pile of leaves. Curiosity overcame my hesitation, and I stepped off the path to take a closer look. It was a stone, but unlike any rome, rock I'd found in the woods back home. It was perfectly smooth and jet black, like a piece of the night sky had fallen to earth. As I picked it up, examining its surface, the forest erupted into chaos. Birds burst from the trees in a squawking, screeching frenzy, their wings beating against the air

as if in panic. My heart raced, and a primal fear gripped me. I shoved the stone into my pocket and ran, not caring about direction, just needing to escape the cacophony and the sense of impending doom. I don't know how long I ran, but by the time the noise abruptly ceased, I was gasping for breath, my sides aching. The sudden silence was as shocking as the noise had been. The normal sounds of the forest, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds, were gone, leaving nothing but a heavy, oppressive stillness. Panic surged anew. I realized then that I was hopelessly lost, with no idea which way led home. The fading light turned the trees into menacing silhouettes,

and every rustle in the underbrush felt like a threat. I tried to calm my racing heart, to think. I needed to find my way back before it was completely dark. But as I stood there, trying to decide what to do, I felt it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. My skin prickled with fear, and I knew, with the same. without seeing that something was out there in the shadows, observing me. I should have been scared, should have run screaming back the way I came, but instead I felt a strange

pull, a curiosity that urged me deeper into the woods, towards whatever secrets lay hidden in the dark. With a deep breath I stepped forward, determined to face whatever awaited me. Waking up in a hospital bed was the last thing I expected after my frantic escape through the woods. The steady beep of a heart monitor was the only sound in the otherwise silent room, a stark contrast to the chaos of the forest. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through my back, forcing me back down. That's when the memories flooded in, the birds, the stone, the eyes. My mom was asleep in a chair next to me, her face etched with worry even in sleep.

Seeing her like that, I felt a twinge of guilt for whatever I'd put her through. I must have made some noise because she woke up, her eyes widening when she saw me awake. You're okay, she whispered, more to herself than to me, as she reached from my hand. Her grip was tight, as if she was afraid I'd vanish if she let go. I wanted to ask her a million questions, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, I just nodded, still trying to piece together how I ended up here. It wasn't until a nurse came in, cheerfully announcing my return to the land of the living, that I learned I'd been missing for two weeks.

Two weeks? That couldn't be right. I'd only been in those woods for a couple of hours, at most. The confusion must have shown on my face because my mom squeezed my hand, giving me a look that said we'd talk about it later. The nurse, oblivious to my turmoil, prattled on about my miraculous condition, considering I'd been lost in the wilderness for so long. Once we were alone, my mom filled in the blanks.

They hadn't realized I was missing until nightfall. They searched the house, the property, and then, in desperation, called the police. Days turned into a week, and still, there was no sign of me. The entire community joined in the search, combing through the woods day after day. hearing about the search parties and the sleepless nights my disappearance had caused, I felt a strange mix of guilt and disconnection.

To me, it had been mere hours, but to them, it had been an agonizing two weeks of uncertainty. And then we found you, my mom said, her voice cracking with emotion, just lying there at the edge of the woods, like you'd just fallen asleep. But I hadn't just fallen asleep. I'd been chased, terrified, and some sort of you. wounded by something I couldn't even begin to understand. The realization hit me hard, and I lay back, trying to process everything. The mystery deepened when I checked my back in the bathroom mirror.

The wound was there all right, but it was neatly bandaged, and I had no memory of how it happened. And there was something else, a feeling of being watched that I couldn't shake off, even in the sterile safety of the hospital. My discharge from the hospital brought a mix of relief and anxiety. I was eager to leave, but the thought of returning to those woods, to whatever was out there, filled me with dread. The ride home was quiet, my parents and I lost in our own thoughts. As we approached the house, I couldn't help but feel like we were being watched.

I dismissed it as paranoia, a side effect of my ordeal. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. The woods had changed me, and whatever was out there, it wasn't done with me yet. Home. It's supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of safety. Yet, as we drove up the familiar yet now a strange driveway, a shiver of apprehension ran down my spine. I could feel the woods watching, the dark trees standing like silent sentinels, guarding secrets too terrifying to comprehend.

The first night back in my own bed should have been comforting, But it was anything but. Every shadow seemed to move, and every noise made me jump. More than once I found myself staring out the window, half expecting to see those glowing red eyes staring back at me. But there was nothing, only the deep, impenetrable darkness of the woods. The next morning, amidst the relief and the welcome-back hugs, I felt isolated, adrift on a sea of experiences that no one else could possibly understand.

The stone, the chase, the eyes, all of it seemed like a fever dream, but the bandages around my torso, tight against the wound that throbbed with every heartbeat, were a constant, painful reminder that it was all too real. I found the stone again while unpacking the evidence box the police had returned. It lay at the bottom, its black surface dull, yet somehow absorbing the light around it. Picking it up, I felt a cold shiver run through me, an echo of the fear I'd felt in the woods. I should have thrown it away, buried it, or left it behind. But I couldn't. It felt like the key to understanding what had happened to me, a piece of the puzzle that I couldn't ignore. The disturbances started small, a tap on the window when there was no one there, a whisper in the air that left the hairs on my neck standing on end.

I tried to convince myself it was just. my imagination, the trauma playing tricks on my mind. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. Something had followed me home from the woods. Then came the night when the thumping began. It was a sound I couldn't place, rhythmic and persistent, like a heartbeat echoing through the house. My parents heard it too, a fact that both relieved and terrified me. It wasn't just in my head. We were all in this together, whatever this was. The climax came abruptly, a crescendo of fear and realization. I was in my room, the thumping louder than ever, when I saw it, a shadow at the window,

a shape too large and too wrong to be anything human. For a moment our eyes met, and I saw in those glowing red depths, a malice and intelligence that froze my blood. I don't remember screaming, but my parents tell me I did. They found me huddled on the floor, babbling about eyes and shadows. but by the time they looked there was nothing there no evidence that anything had been watching waiting in the days that followed i struggled to come to terms with my experience the woods had marked me changed me in ways i couldn't understand i was no longer just a kid who'd had a scary encounter i was a survivor of something otherworldly something that defied explanation and the stone i kept to you it, hidden away where no one else could find it, a reminder of the ordeal, of the courage it took to face the unknown, and of the thin veil between our world and the darkness that

lies just beyond our understanding. Living in a rural corner of Utah, amidst densely populated counties, has its eerie moments, especially when you're in a career that's been more of a nightmare than a dream. Despite my best efforts to choose safe paths, my journey led me away from finance into the realm of security. Little did I know, my definition of security would soon be turned on its head. Leaving the world of numbers behind, I found myself as a predator control officer for the county. Now, before your mind wanders, it's not the kind of predators you'd expect, not the

humankind, but the ones with fur and claws. Coyotes, to be precise, were the primary target due to their overpopulation wreaking havoc on our rural community. But mountain lions and even bears occasionally crossed our paths. Applying for the job was easy enough, and the absence of probing questions about the sudden departure of the previous employee didn't raise many red flags, especially considering the meager pay. But hey, it was a change of pace, and I found solace in the great outdoors. Initially, the job was mundane, routine even. Dispatch calls for coyotes harassing livestock or sneaking into homes were the norm. That is, until one incident shook me to the core. It was my

tenth outing when things took a turn. A pack of coyotes terrorizing a local apple farm, preying on goats and sheep, caught my attention. This farm, nestled at the base of a mountain range, was a serene oasis in the rural landscape, but beneath its tranquil facade lurked something sinister. Driving through the snow-laden orchard, I found myself stuck. yet again in the relentless blizzard that had been tormenting us for months. But this day was different. The snowfall was gentle, almost serene, with no chilling gusts from the nearby canyon. Armed with my trusty AR-15, camouflaged to match the snowy terrain, I set out to confront

the coyote menace. As I trudged through the powdery snow, the landscape transformed into a winter wonderland. The orchard stretched before me. The distant trees obscured by the falling snowflakes. Positioning myself behind a snow-covered log, I waited, my senses on high alert. Minutes stretched into eternity before movement caught my eye. Flicking on my specialized optic, I expected to see coyotes prowling the fields. Instead, a herd of deer grazed peacefully, oblivious to the impending danger.

Then, a sudden shift in the air, a scent so putrid it clawed at my nostrils. The goat's distressed cries pierced the silence, signaling trouble. Peering through my optic, I witnessed a sight that chilled me to the bone. A figure emerged from the livestock pen, a grotesque silhouette against the moonlit snow. Naked, save for a coat of blood and fur, he carried a lifeless goat over his shoulder. Panic surged through me as I realized the gravity of the situation. With trembling hands I retreated to my truck, the icy grip of fear tightening around my heart. Starting the engine, I cursed my misfortune, remembering my earlier predicament in the snow.

But this time, there was no hesitation. I blasted the lights, illuminating the darkness as I waited for dawn's salvation. Hours later, with the sun casting its golden light upon the landscape, I finally freed myself from the snowdrifts. Visiting the farmer, I concocted a tale of unsuccessful pursuit, masking the terror that still gripped my soul. avoiding the farm in the days that followed i couldn't shake the memory of that night and as i watched my boss take on the shift i once dreaded i couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited him in the shadowed orchard perhaps the last guy before me knew something i didn't something far more sinister than a pack of coyotes the sun had dipped below the horizon when we finally arrived the last light painting the idaho mountains in a fiery blaze that made them look like a-and-and-a-lossed the sun had dipped below the horizon when we finally arrived the last light painting the idaho mountains in a fiery blaze that made them look like like they were burning. That's how I remember starting my journey into a world far removed from my own, a world where the past whispered in the winds and ancient traditions shaped the lives of those

who lived by them. My name's not important, but the story I'm about to tell you, it changed me in ways I'm still trying to understand. I was 18, full of that kind of naive confidence that makes you think you can take on the world and win. She was different from any one. She was different from anyone I'd ever met. Her laughter was like music, and her eyes held stories I could spend a lifetime unraveling. Her heritage was a badge of honor, worn with a quiet pride that intrigued me. When she invited me to visit her family's reservation in Pocatello, I didn't hesitate. I thought I was ready. I wasn't. The drive was long, the silence between us filled with anticipation and an unspoken anxiety about the reception of a white boy at the heart of her Native American community.

We arrived under the cloak of twilight, the reservation a shadowed landscape of secrets and unspoken histories. Dinner that first night was an affair of warmth and subtle examination. Her father, a man whose presence commanded attention, wore his authority like the eagle feathers in his hair, naturally, and with a grace that belied the strength underneath. I was trying to tread lightly, aware of my outsider status, but curiosity got the better of me. I asked about Wendigoes and Skinwalkers, words I had stumbled across in books, not fully understanding their weight in this world. The silence that followed was deafening. Forks paused mid-air, and eyes that were friendly moments before now appraised me with a new caution. Her father's voice,

when it finally broke the silence, was even. We don't speak of those things. We don't speak of those things at the table, he said. The topic was dropped, but the atmosphere had shifted. Later that night, he came to us. His steps were silent, but his presence filled the room. In the low light, he shared the lore of skinwalkers and wendigows, his voice a mix of reverence and warning. These were not just stories. They were lessons, histories, a part of his people's understanding of the world that was as real to him as the land we stood on. I listened, the weight of his words settling in my chest. There was a seriousness in his tone,

a severity that made me swear to myself to never broach the subject again. Whether he meant to instill fear or respect, I couldn't tell. Perhaps it was a bit of both, but as I lay in bed that night, listening to the sounds of the reservation through the thin walls, I felt a shift within me. The stories had taken root, and I knew that ignorance, once shed, couldn't be donned again like an unwanted coat. I was on the edge of a vast, unseen world, peering into the darkness with newfound

respect and a twinge of fear. As sleep finally claimed me, I realized that some doors, once opened, can never be closed. I had stepped through such a door, and my life would never be the same. life has a way of moving on, sweeping you up in its current, and before I knew it, years had slipped by. The girl from the reservation became a chapter of my past, a memory tinged with wonder and a hint of regret. But life, as it does, brought me someone new, someone who made me believe in second chances. We married in the kind of small ceremony that felt big in its intimacy, and not long after, we were expecting our first child. The future felt bright, like a path stretching out before us, lit by the promise of new beginnings.

We decided on a camping trip before our duo turned into a trio, a final adventure, just for us. The destination was Affleck Park Campground, nestled in the Wasatch Mountains near Salt Lake City. The drive-up was filled with laughter and the kind of easy conversation that comes when you're comfortable in each other's silence. We arrived to find the campground deserted, and, unexpected solitude that wrapped around us like a cloak. It was perfect. The day faded into evening, and we sat by the fire talking about everything and nothing, the kind of talk that fills the spaces between people. But as the fire died down, and we retreated into our tent, a sense of unease crept over me. It was nothing I could put my finger on, just a whisper of something off in the

rustle of the trees and the two still air. I fell into a restless sleep. plagued by dreams that felt too real. I dreamed of the reservation, of the stories her father had told me, but the dream twisted into something darker. A presence circled our tent, a shadow among shadows, its intent malevolent, and then it was inside, a creature of nightmare standing over us. It was the embodiment of every fear I'd tried to forget, a beast with eyes like molten gold,

watching us with an intelligence that said, it knew us, knew me. I lay there pretending to sleep, my heart a thunderous beat in the silence. Morning came with the relief that it was all just a dream, but the relief was shallow, undercut by a dread I couldn't shake. My wife mentioned a strange dream of her own, but her reluctance to speak of it hung between us like a cloud. We packed up in haste, the unspoken decision to leave as quickly as possible hanging heavy in the air. The drive-back was quiet, the landscape blurring past us, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of being known. It was as if the wilderness itself had peered into my soul and found something wanting.

The stories of the skinwalkers and wendigows I had once dismissed as mere tales clung to me, a reminder of the thin veil between our world and one that was much older, much darker. That camping trip, meant to be a final hurrah before we embrace the future, became a haunting. The memory of that dream, of the creature with the yellow eyes, stayed with me, a ghostly presence at the edge of my thoughts. I had ventured once again into a realm I didn't understand, and this time I wasn't sure I could ever leave it behind. The thing about the past is it doesn't always stay where it belongs. Sometimes it follows you, creeping into your present with the stealth of a predator. That's what happened to me.

I thought I'd left the stories and fears of skinwalkers and Wendigows back on the reservation, buried under layers of life and change. But like roots in dry ground, they found a way to surface, especially after that camping trip in the Wasatch Mountains. Back in the swing of daily life, the weight of impending fatherhood on my shoulders, I found myself more introspective. The world seemed different now, shaded by the knowledge of things unseen and powers untold. It was a feeling I couldn't shake, a persistent nudge at the back of my

mind that said the world was much more than it appeared. Then, during a break at a construction site, a co-worker brought up the topic of Skinwalkers and Wendigo's in a conversation about local legends. The mention of those words was like a cold hand gripping my heart. I felt every hair on my body stand on end, and the air seemed to thicken around me. memories of the camping trip flooded back with a visceral clarity, the dream of the black creature with yellow eyes haunting me once again. It was irrational, I told myself, just old stories meant to scare children.

But deep down, I knew it was more than that. I had felt it, lived it. I spent days, then weeks, trying to rationalize my fears to bury them under the logic of the visible, tangible world I worked in, every day, but the foundation of my skepticism had cracked, revealing a glimpse into a world where logic didn't apply, where ancient beings moved in the shadows, unseen but felt. I began to look for answers, delving into books, and seeking out those with knowledge of Native American folklore. What I found didn't comfort me. Instead, it deepened the sense of unease. These stories, these

entities were not just tales. They were a part of the fabric of the world, acknowledged and respected by those who knew of their existence. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I understood. It was during one of those long nights of research that I came to a realization. The encounter, whether it was a dream or something more, had changed me. It had forced me to confront the possibility that the world was broader, deeper, and more mysterious than I had ever imagined. It made me question the nature of reality and my place within it. I understood then that some encounters leave indelible marks on your soul. They challenge you to expand your understanding,

to accept that there are things beyond the realm of our knowledge. That night in the Wasatch Mountains, whether it was a visitation from a skin walker, a message from the spirit world, or simply a manifestation of my fears, had left such a mark on me. In the end, I found a certain piece in my search for understanding. I accepted that there would always be mysteries, forces beyond my control or comprehension,

but rather than fear them, I chose to respect them, to live my life with an awareness of the shadows and the light. And as I awaited the arrival of my child, I knew I would pass on this respect, this acknowledgement of the unseen world, as a part of their heritage. After all, we are all part of a larger story, woven together by threads seen and unseen. Ever since that eerie night two years ago in the Mark Twain Forest, my life took a turn I never expected. Most people spend their weekends hanging out with friends or catching up on TV shows. Me? I dive deep into the world of Bigfoot research. Yeah, you heard that right. Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the elusive forest giant, whatever you want to call it.

I'm on its trail. It all started under the dense canopies of southern Missouri. One moment I was just a regular guy, and the next, I was a Bigfoot enthusiast, combing through every piece of evidence I could find on the internet. I joined forums, read books, and watched documentaries. You name it. I've seen it. My obsession even spread to neighboring states,

Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana. If there was a sighting or theory, about Bigfoot, I was all over it. My friend Jay, on the other hand, was more of a skeptic. But even he couldn't ignore the pull of adventure when I shared my plan to camp in the Cascades of Western Washington. It was a spot known for Bigfoot sightings, and I had a gut feeling this was our chance to witness something extraordinary. We're really doing this, huh? Jay asked as we packed our gear into the back of my old Jeep. I grinned, loading the last of our supplies. You know it. This is our best shot at proving Bigfoot isn't just a legend.

The drive was long, but the excitement buzzing between us made it fly by. We talk strategies and shared theories, each mile bringing us closer to the unknown. When we finally arrived, the secluded beauty of the lake took our breath away. Nestled in the cascades, it was as if we had stepped into another world, a world where the possibility of Bigfoot seemed all the more real. Setting up camp was a breeze, or so we thought, until a mountain lion casually strolled by. We froze, watching in silent awe as it passed, oblivious to our presence. Welcome to the wild, Jay joked, but I could tell he was shaken. So was I. It was a stark reminder that we weren't alone out here. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across

the campsite, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and unease. What if we actually encountered Bigfoot? The thoughts sent shivers down my spine. That night, as we sat by the fire, the forest around us seemed to come alive. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made us turn, half expecting to see a giant figure emerge from the darkness. But it was the distant screams that truly unnerved us. They echoed through the trees, a haunting sound that neither of us could place. Probably just a large cat, I tried to reassure Jay, but my voice betrayed my fear. We retreated to our tents, the unease settling over us like a thick blanket.

Lying there, listening to the sounds of the night, I wondered if we were truly prepared for what lay ahead. The excitement of the chase was one thing, but facing the reality of Bigfoot was another. As sleep finally claimed me, I couldn't shake the feeling that our adventure was only just beginning. The next morning, Jay and I woke up with the sunrise, the previous night's eerie screams still echoing in our minds. We had come too far to let fear get the best of us, so we decided to start our day with a hike. Our goal was simple.

Find any sign that Bigfoot was more than just a myth. The forest was alive with the sounds of nature as we set out, our boots crunching on the underbrush. We talked less than usual, our senses heightened as we searched for anything. out of the ordinary. That's when we stumbled upon it, a strange structure made from broken trees arranged into an X. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen, perfectly constructed and unmistakably deliberate. Could this be? Jay trailed off, the skepticism in his voice replaced by wonder. I nodded,

my heart racing. It has to be. Some researchers think these structures could be a way Bigfoot marks its territory. We took our time examining the site, taking pictures with our phones and making notes. The discovery breathed new life into our quest, dispelling the lingering fear from the night's unsettling sounds. As the day wore on, we continued our exploration, fueled by the adrenaline of our find. But despite our efforts, we found no further evidence. The forest kept its secrets, and by the time we returned to camp, doubt had begun to creep back in. Had we let our imaginations get the best of us? The sun began to set, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The beauty of it all was almost enough to make us forget why we were

there. Almost. But as darkness enveloped the forest once more, a palpable tension settled over us. We decided to stay up late, hoping to hear more sounds, or maybe, just maybe, catch a glimpse of the elusive creature. We sat by the fire, speaking in hushed tones about what the structure could mean, about Bigfoot, and about what we hope to achieve. Then it happened again. The screams pierced the night, closer this time, chilling me to the bone. We both jumped up, scanning the dark tree line but saw nothing. The forest had gone eerily silent, as if holding its breath. It's got to be a big cat, I said again, more to convince myself than Jay. Yeah, maybe, he replied, but the uncertainty in his voice was clear. We retreated to our tents with heavy hearts,

the excitement of the day overshadowed by the fear of the unknown. As I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the night, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. The screams had sounded almost human, filled with an emotion that I couldn't quite place. Fear, anger, a warning. Sleep was elusive, my mind racing with possibilities. What if Bigfoot was real, and we were on the verge of discovering something amazing? Or what if we were simply out of our depth, chasing shadows in the dark? The night stretched on, a test of our resolve, and as I finally drifted off to sleep,

I couldn't help but wonder what the next day would bring. Our adventure was far from over, and something told me that the biggest challenges were yet to come. The night was darker than any I'd ever known, the kind of dark that feels almost solid, like you could reach out and touch it. Jay and I had tried to stay awake, alert for any signs of Bigfoot, but the exhaustion from our day's hike had eventually won us over. Sometime during the night, I drifted into a restless sleep, filled with dreams of shadows moving just beyond the light of our campfire.

I awoke with a start, my heart pounding. The silence of the forest was oppressive, as if it was holding its breath. Then, without warning, my world turned into chaos. My tent was collapsing around me, the fabric pressing down with a force that left me gasping for air. Panic surged through me as I realized something was dragging me across the ground, my body bouncing over rocks and twigs. I screamed for Jay, my voice lost amidst the sounds of my own terror. Suddenly, I was airborne, flying through the night before crashing into the icy cold of the lake. The shock of the water forced the air from my lungs, and I struggled to surface, my clothes and

sleeping bag dragging me down. I fought my way to the top, coughing and spluttering, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then I heard it, a scream, not mine this time, but Jays. His voice was filled with terror, a sound I'd never heard from him before. Moments later, his tent flew past me, landing with a splash not far away. I scrambled to the shore my mind racing. What had attacked us? Was it Bigfoot or something even more unimaginable? The night was still as I made my way back to camp. The fire reduced to glowing embers. I heard sobbing and found Jay huddled near the fire, his face a mask of fear.

It grabbed the tent. I saw it just for a second. It was huge. Covered in hair, he managed between sobs. We huddled together by the dying fire, too scared to move, too cold to sleep. The hours until dawn were the longest of my life, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a possible danger. As the first light of dawn broke through the trees, we ventured out to assess the damage. Our tents and gear were ruined, but we were alive.

The reality of our situations set in. We had come looking for Bigfoot and found more than we bargained for. The fear of the night gave way to a determination to leave this place, to escape the the terror that lurked in the shadows. We packed what little we could salvage and began the treacherous journey back to civilization. Every noise made us jump, every movement in the forest a reminder of our vulnerability. But we pushed on, driven by the need to put as much distance as possible between us and the nightmare we had experienced.

As we drove away from the cascades, the forest receding in the rearview mirror, I couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and disappointment. We had survived, but at what cost. Our quest for evidence of Bigfoot had ended in terror, leaving us with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear. The wilderness held secrets, secrets that were better left undiscovered, and as much as I wanted to believe in the existence of Bigfoot,

I now knew that some mysteries were too dangerous to pursue. Our encounter in the forest would haunt us for the rest of our lives, a chilling reminder of the night we came face to face to fear. we came face to face with the unknown. As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the dense canopy of the cascades, Jay and I sat in silence. Our clothes still damp and our spirits shattered. The terror of the previous night lingered like a bad dream,

refusing to fade away. We had come in search of Bigfoot, armed with curiosity and a thirst for adventure, but we left with a profound respect for the mysteries of the wild, some of which were better left alone. The journey back to our car was a somber one. Each step took us further away from the nightmare, but the memories of what we experience clung to us,

as persistent as the mud on our boots. We talked little, each lost in our thoughts, processing the events in our own way. When we finally reached the safety of our vehicle, the reality of our ordeal hit me. We had survived, but at what cost? Our gear was destroyed, our evidence lost to the waters of the lake,

and our sense of security in the wilderness was forever shattered. The physical scars would heal, but the psychological wounds would take much longer to fade. As we drove away, leaving the forest and its secrets behind, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of emotions. There was relief certainly at being back in the familiar comfort of civilization, but there was also a sense of loss, a mourning for the innocence we had left behind in those woods. The drive home was a time for reflection. Jay and I discussed what had happened, turning over every detail in our minds, trying to make sense of it all.

We debated the possibility of what we had encountered, knowing that without physical evidence, our story would be met with skepticism and disbelief. It was a hard pill to swallow. We had sought to uncover the truth about Bigfoot, to bring evidence to light that would silence the skeptics once and for all. Instead, we returned with nothing but our shaken faith and a story that sounded too wild to be true. In the days that followed, our adventure became a distant memory, talked about in hushed tones and met with raised eyebrows. Some people laughed, others offered sympathy, but most simply didn't believe us.

It was frustrating, but I couldn't blame them. If I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't have believed it either. yet, despite everything, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had touched the edge of a great mystery, a secret that the wilderness was not ready to reveal. The experience had changed us, opened our eyes to the possibilities that lay beyond the realm of the known. Bigfoot might have remained elusive, but the adventure had awakened a hunger for discovery that couldn't be satisfied by conventional answers. As time passed, the fear and uncertainty of that night in the moment of the night in the adventure of

the cascades faded, replaced by a sense of wonder and a desire to explore the unknown. I knew that one day I would return to the wilderness, perhaps not in search of Bigfoot, but with an open mind and a respect for the mysteries that dwell in the heart of the forest. For now, though, I was content to let the mystery of Bigfoot remain just that, a mystery. After all, some secrets are best left undiscovered, hidden away in the shadows of the wild, waiting for the next brave soul to seek them out. The old building I work in has a history steeped in stories of its past, once a courthouse and a temporary holding facility for inmates.

With its myriad of upgrades over the years, it still carries echoes of its former life. As I sit at my desk in the early morning, the building is eerily quiet, save for the occasional creaks and bangs that resonate through its halls. A recent addition to the building is a new water fountain, equipped with modern features like the ability to fill water mugs and a push bar for direct drinking. From my desk, I have a clear view of this fountain, and I often leave my office door ajar to maintain a sense of connection with the rest of the building. It's not uncommon for me to arrive before the rest of the offices open at 9 a.m. During this solitary hour, strange occurrences have become almost routine. I've grown accustomed to the subtle noises from upstairs, the mysterious

cold spots, and even the occasional murmur that seems to emanate from nowhere. Across the hall from my office sits the elevator, another source of unexplained noises. One day the emergency phone inside it began to ring, startling me from my work. I hurried over, expecting some technical glitch, only to hear the voice of a dispatcher on the other end, claiming that someone had just called 911 from within the elevator. Confused, I assured them that the building was empty, save for myself, and that there was no cause for alarm. But it was the water fountain that truly captured my attention with its inexplicable behavior. Despite its motion activation, one morning I heard the sound of water running. I glanced up to find the automatic dispenser

pouring water into an invisible vessel. Confused, I approached and waved my hand, expecting it to stop. Yet, the water continued to flow, defying all logic. Even pushing the bar yielded no results, it was as if some unseen presence controlled its actions. In a moment of frustration, I addressed the empty room, suggesting that the water would stop when it was ready. To my surprise, as soon as I turned away, the flow ceased abruptly. I returned to my desk, unnerved but not entirely frightened. Later that day, I replied. I replied. I replied. I reported, reported the anomaly to the maintenance team, hoping for a rational explanation. Yet, despite their thorough investigation, they found nothing amiss with the fountain.

The mysterious phenomenon persisted, occurring randomly but consistently at 8.17 a.m. I delved into research, trying to uncover any connection to the building's past or its former occupants, but my efforts proved fruitless. Left with no answers, I eventually resigned myself to the peculiar. your ritual. Now when the water fountain springs to life each morning, I greet it with a simple, Good morning, a gesture of camaraderie with whatever unseen force lingers within the old building's walls. When I was about 13 years old, I used to spend a lot of time at the barn, riding horses. It was something I loved to do, and I even started working there when I was only 11. My parents were fine with it because it seemed safe enough. There were always older girls or a daughter.

adult owners around, and the barn was located in a secure area of town. The property layout was familiar to me. At the front there was the house where the owners lived. The driveway passed right by the house, offering a glimpse into their lives. Beyond that, at the other end of the pastures, was a public park where we had permission to bring the horses. One particular night stands out vividly in my memory. It was winter, and darkness had already descended early. The cold seemed to seep into the barn, which wasn't heated, chilling me to the bone. My friend, who also wrote at the barn, had agreed to stay with me since the older girl I was scheduled to work with had gone home sick. As we finished up feeding the horses and sweeping the aisles, we heard the creak of the doors to the

indoor arena shutting. Initially, we dismissed it, assuming it was the owner's son or his friend who had been in the barn earlier. Perhaps they had returned. But then, we started hearing footsteps, and shuffling around the corner. While giving the last horse its hay, I heard the arena door creak open again. A sense of unease began to settle over me. My friend and I exchanged nervous glances. We decided to investigate, cautiously making our way around the corner towards the main aisle where the indoor arena doors were located. As we approached, my apprehension grew.

The owner's son and his friend were nowhere to be seen. We entertained the possibility that perhaps one of the doors leading outside from the arena had been left open accidentally, allowing the wind to cause them to creak. But when we checked, all the doors were securely shut. Using the flashlight on my phone, we peered into the pitch-black arena, straining to see if the boys were playing a prank on us. Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the barn aisle, accompanied by ominous clattering and banging against the walls. My heart pounded, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Checking my phone for any messages from my parents, who should have been arriving soon to pick us up,

I noticed the horses becoming agitated, pacing in their stalls and snorting angrily. Panic began to rise within me. Without exchanging words, my friend and I knew we had to get out of there. Turning off my flashlight, we tiptoed back into the barn, attempting to remain unseen. But when I caught sight of a shadow turning the corner at the back of the barn, I couldn't contain my fear any longer. Grabbing my friend's arm, I bolted towards the barn entrance. The cold air outside hit us like a slap in the face, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be away from that barn.

We huddled together against the wall, waiting anxiously for my parents to arrive. When their headlights finally appeared, relief washed over me. As we climbed into the warmth of the car, we tried to laugh off the experience, chalking it up to the owner's son playing a prank on us. But when we drove past the owner's house and saw them all inside, my heart skipped a beat. The realization dawned on us that we had been alone in that barn. The rest of the night was spent trying to make sense of what had happened. Was it a ghost haunting the barn, as the older girls had claimed? Or had someone else been there with us lurking in the shadows?

The uncertainty left a nod in my stomach, and looking back now, I realize how dangerous the situation had been. My parents would never have allowed their 13-year-old daughter to be alone in the barn late at night. It was a lesson learned the hard way. You never know what dangers may be lurking in the darkness. In the remote corners of northern Canada, where the vast wilderness meets the border with the United States, stories echo through the generations. Tales of skinwalkers, ghostly apparitions, and encrypted enigmas linger in the air, passed down from elders to the curious youth.

I've had my share of inexplicable encounters with the supernatural, leaving an indelible mark on my understanding of the world. Yet one night in particular stands out among the rest. It was a chilling evening in October of 2010. Our small Canadian community was shrouded and surrounded by woods, threaded by narrow trails navigable only by ATVs or the adventurous souls on foot. It was a place where the veil between the scene and unseen felt thinner than anywhere else. On that fateful night, my friend's Oaks, Day and I decided to tread the road notorious for its dark history,

snaking through the wilderness for three eerie miles. The road lacked the comfort of a single street lamp, and legends swirled around it. whisperings of hitchhiking ghosts, the haunting hoof lady, and the elusive Sasquatch. As darkness cloaked the landscape and the clock struck 8 p.m., we impulsively decided to traverse this haunting stretch of land. Our supplies were minimal, a solitary flashlight, coats to ward off the chilling air and our own company. Oaks and Day were fervent in their anticipation, recounting tales of spectral encounters from their family lore. But for me, a sense of dread loomed over this escapade.

Stories of disappearances and inexplicable phenomena had instilled a deep-seated fear of the unknown. As we approached the forest edge, the road lay ahead faintly illuminated by passing vehicles. The sight provided a sliver of reassurance amidst the encroaching darkness. Day held the flashlight, its beam withheld for reasons unknown, while my friend's boisterous chatter sought to mask the unsettling silence. Minutes dragged like hours, each step amplifying the quiet unease that had settled within me. About halfway along the road stood an abandoned farmstead, a decrepit relic of the past. Oaks, fueled by curiosity, proposed exploring its crumbling interiors.

Instinctively, I opposed the idea, urging a swift return home. Yet, as we drew closer to the derelict farmhouse, day's sudden gasps shattered the night's tranquility. She claimed to have seen a flickering light inside the lonely structure. Dismissing it as a prank, Oaks laughed playfully, chiding her. But a creeping sense of dread gripped us, as we witnessed a faint glow within the supposedly deserted homestead. It's impossible, Day whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. I too recoiled in horror, my mind racing through a spectrum of possibilities.

Was it an apparition, an evil force, or something? something beyond comprehension. I demanded Day to illuminate the area with the flashlight, yet she hesitated. Fed up with the eerie charade, I voiced my urgency to leave. Peering toward the farmhouse, Oaks confirmed this was impossible. There was a glimmer of light. Without a second thought, I turned on my heels, marching briskly back towards home. Day and Oaks stumbled to catch up as my pace quickened. My mind raced with frantic thoughts, regretting not bringing my four-wheeler or a cell phone for emergency contact, the flickering light in the farmhouse haunted my imagination, conjuring sinister possibilities. Was it a spectral entity,

an evil presence, or perhaps something more extraterrestrial? The pounding of our footsteps reverberated through the night until abruptly I realized the eerie absence of my friends hurried steps behind me. A gnawing sense of dread compelled me to glance back. To my horror, oaks had fallen, sprawled on the ground, while day's panicked cry pierced the night. Her terrified shriek drew me toward the farmhouse, now engulfed in an inexplicable phenomenon. A ball of fire, akin to a dancing flame, emerged within the decrepit structure, seemingly pulsating with an unearthly energy. It ascended and perched atop the farmhouse, casting an otherworldly glow upon the night.

It felt sentient, as if its fiery gait. fixated on our fleeing figures. Propeled by sheer terror, Oaks bolted up bright and sprinted, urging us to follow suit. We plunged into the woods, the haunting light of the fiery apparition still visible, a surreal and terrifying spectacle that defied rational explanation. The relentless pursuit continued as we fled the winding trails, the luminous enigma of the fireball remaining tethered to the abandoned house. Panic-stricken and breathless. we sought refuge at Oaks's grandparents' house. Desperation etched on our faces as we recounted the surreal encounter.

Their elderly voices carried wisdom steeped in folklore, soothing our frayed nerves with tales of fireballs, a harbinger, a spectral messenger rather than an evil omen. The reassurance and stories attempted to quell our fear. Before we departed for our respective homes, the lingering enigma of the fiery apparition still haunted our thoughts. Days passed, but the memory of the unearthly spectacle lingered. The cryptic words of Oak's grandparents reverberated, resonating with an inexplicable profundity.

It wasn't until the untimely passing of an elder in our community, just three days after our chilling encounter, that the pieces began to fall into place. The farmhouse, long abandoned by its owners, had once been the home of a grandfather who had departed from this realm. The fiery apparition we had encountered bore a message, a warning veiled in the dance of flames and otherworldly communication, preceding the elder's passing. Though inexplicable and haunting, the spectral encounter left me pondering the mysteries of our world. It reminded me that beyond the veil of the known lies a realm of enigmas, where the supernatural and the ordinary intersect in inexplicable ways. The weight of my dead-end job pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket, Each day dragging by in a haze of stress and frustration.

Desperate for some respite, I made a rash decision to take a walk in the woods one night, hoping to find solace beneath the canopy of trees. Looking back, I realize how foolish it was. I hadn't told anyone where I was going, nor had I brought any form of protection. As I parked my car at a desolate rest stop and ventured onto the trail, a sense of isolation enveloped me. The darkness seemed to swallow every sound, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Trying to shake off the unease, I began to sing softly, a familiar melody that usually brought me comfort.

But tonight, even my own voice felt hollow against the oppressive silence. With each step deeper into the woods, the atmosphere grew heavier. Every rustle of leaves sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Panic began to claw at the edges of my mind as I quickened my pace. Yet the sensation of being followed persisted. Suddenly a voice shattered the stillness, calling out to me in desperation. It started as a faint whisper, barely audible above the rustling of leaves, but it quickly escalated into a frantic plea for help.

I froze, torn between instinctual fear and a nagging sense of duty. Hello, are you okay? I called out my voice trekked. The voice grew louder, more urgent, pulling me towards it like a moth to a flame. Against my better judgment, I followed the sound, my heart hammering in my chest with each step. As I approached, I saw nothing but darkness, the source of the voice obscured by shadows. And then I saw them. Two glowing orbs of light fixated on me from the depths of the forest. Fear rooted me to the spot as I realized that something lurked in the darkness, something unseen yet undeniably present.

My mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. But before I could react, the voice fell silent, and a chill swept through the air. With a surge of adrenaline, I turned and ran, every fiber of my being screaming for escape. The pounding of my heart drowned out all other noise as I sprinted through the underbrush, branches clawing at my skin. Finally, I burst into a clearing, collapsing onto the ground in exhaustion. Relief washed over me as I realized the pursuit had ended, but it was quickly overshadowed by a gnawing sense of guilt.

What if the voice had belonged to someone in genuine need? What if my fear had cost them their life? As I sat in my car, gazing out at the dark expanse of the woods, I couldn't shake the feeling that something still lingered out there, waiting. And though I tried to convince myself otherwise, deep down, I knew that the terror I had experienced was all too real. The steering wheel felt foreign under my hands as I guided my car along the winding path that led to O'Hop Lake. Maybe it was the weight of expectation, the burden of finally taking a break after years chained to a desk, or perhaps the anticipation of what lay ahead.

My job as an insurance broker, demanding as it was, hadn't prepared me for the jarring shift from urban chaos to the tranquil embrace of nature. I'd heard about O'Hop Lake from a colleague, a place where the water mirrored the sky, and the forest held secrets in its silent depths. It sounded like a writer's paradise, a perfect retreat to chip away at the novel I had been nursing for what felt like a lifetime.

My life had been a cycle of claims, premiums, and client meetings, leaving little room for creativity. This trip, prompted by a life, minor health scare that served as a wake-up call was my reclaiming of time lost to the grind. The cabin I rented online promised isolation and simplicity, two things I craved. As I drove, the dense canopy of trees swallowed the road behind me, severing ties with the outside world. My phone, rendered useless without a signal, lay forgotten on the passenger seat. It was just me, my thoughts, and the open road.

The first glimpse of O'Hop Lake through the trees was like stumbling upon a secret. The water was so clear it felt like looking into another world, one untouched by deadlines and stress. I parked my car near the cabin, my home for the next week. It was smaller than I expected, but it fit the picture in my head. A secluded writer's nook nestled in the heart of nature. Gathering my belongings, which consisted of a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and most importantly my laptop, I approached the cabin. The keybox, stubborn as it was, refused to budge. My frustration grew with each failed attempt to open it. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, seeking a break from

complications, only to be thwarted by a simple lock. Excuse me, I think you need to hold the last button down while you pull on the latch. Their box keeps getting stuck, and I've seen guests leave before because they couldn't get in. The voice came from behind me, a lifeline thrown in my moment of need. I turned to find a woman with striking red hair and green eyes, her smile a mix of amusement and empathy. Hey, that worked. Thank you, I managed to say. Surprise by the sudden interaction.

No trouble at all, and my name is Claudia. She introduced herself, her voice carrying the warmth of the afternoon sun. I'm Kyle. Thanks again. I just got here and am a bit disoriented. I replied, cursing my awkwardness. Claudia's presence was a welcome interruption to my solitary plans. She mentioned she lived nearby and offered her help if I needed anything. As she walked away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief.

Maybe this trip wouldn't be so isolating after all. The cabin, with its musty scent and nautical theme, felt like stepping into another era. It was perfect. I placed my laptop on the patio table, the lake's view stretching before me, an endless source of inspiration. Time slipped by unnoticed as I wrote, the words flowing effortlessly for the first time in years. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the lake, I realized I had forgotten to bring food. Settling for canned soup and crackers, I watched the twilight enveloped the lake.

A sense of peace settled over me, a stark contrast to the usual buzz of the city. But as darkness fell, the tranquility of the lake was pierced by a strange phenomenon. A gout of water erupted from its center, followed by a brief flash of light. I rubbed my eyes, questioning if fatigue was playing tricks on me. I decided to dismiss it, attributing the sight to natural wonders I was too city-weary to understand. Little did I know, that decision, to overlook the oddity of that night, would come to haunt me in the days ahead. The secrets of O'Hope Lake, as I would soon discover, were not as benign as I believed. The following morning greeted me with a mist that hung over O'Hop Lake like a shroud,

softening the world into a hazy watercolor. Despite the eerie calm, there was an undercurrent of something else, a subtle dissonance that set my nerves on edge. I attributed it to the novelty of my surroundings, a stark departure from the predictability of urban life. The artifact's discovery was as accidental as it was bizarre. A persistent, almost musical chiming had infiltrated my dreams, leading me to believe the sounds were remnants of a city I'd left behind.

But the realization dawned with the morning light. The source was much closer, emanating from beneath the cabin itself. Curiosity, that relentless driver, propelled me to investigate. Armed with a flashlight, I found the access point to a crawl-spit, a forgotten nook beneath the structure that felt like the entrance to another world. The air was cold, laced with the musty scent of earth and decay. I could hear my own breathing, a loud intruder in the silent darkness. The sound guided me, a chiming that grew louder, more insistent as I navigated the cramped

underbelly of the cabin, and then my hands brushed against something unexpected. It was a box, carved with intricate designs that seemed. seemed to dance in the beam of my flashlight. The craftsmanship was unlike anything I'd ever seen, depicting creatures of the sea in a lifelike relief that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Opening the box revealed its contents, an object resembling a tuning fork,

but its materials and design were alien to me. It was as if the sea and the stars had conspired to craft it, blending natural and unnatural elements into a harmonious hole. The chime, I realized, emanated from this artifact, a call that was both alluring and unsettling. The decision to take the artifact closer to the lake felt instinctual, driven by a compulsion I couldn't explain. As I approached the water's edge, the chime intensified, vibrating through my bones. It was then that I noticed the glow, a lambent light emanating from the artifact, mirrored by

the lake itself. The connection between the two was undeniable. a magnetic pull that I was powerless to resist. In a moment that would forever alter the course of my life, I stumbled, sending the artifact skittering into the lake. The sound that followed was otherworldly, a chorus of chimes that crescendoed into a cacophony. The water churned as if agitated by a great force,

and then, as quickly as it had begun, the lake fell silent, the artifact swallowed by its depths. The aftermath left me reeling, my mind struggling to piece together the surreal events. The tranquility of O'Hop Lake had been a façade, concealing mysteries beyond my comprehension. The artifact, with its inexplicable connection to the lake, had unlocked something ancient, something that I feared was not meant to be disturbed. As I stood at the water's edge, the reality of what I had unleashed began to sink in. The artifact was gone.

but its absence left a void filled with ominous possibilities. The serene landscape that had once promised solace now hinted at hidden dangers, and the weight of my actions bore down on me with the heaviness of the mistrouted morning. The lake had changed, and with it my understanding of the world. I had tapped into something primal and uncontrollable, igniting a chain of events that I could neither predict nor comprehend.

end. The only certainty was the unsettling feeling that the story of O'Hop Lake and the artifact was far from over. The serenity of the previous days at O'Hop Lake felt like a distant memory, replaced now by an atmosphere charged with tension and unease. The night had brought with it a silence so profound it felt as though the natural world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something unimaginable to break free. The day had started innocently enough, with Claudia and I exchanging wary glances over coffee, both of us reluctant to voice our fears about the previous night's events. The artifact, now lost to the depths of the lake,

had become a harbinger of unknown terrors, its purpose and power as murky as the waters that concealed it. Our uneasy truce with the silence was shattered by the discovery of the deer. The scene was grotesque, a violent tableau that seemed out of place amidst the tranquil beauty of the surrounding forest, The animals had been torn apart with such ferocity. It was as if the very essence of savagery had descended upon them. Claudia, her face pale with shock, whispered what we were both thinking.

This wasn't the work of any predator known to these woods. As the day wore on, the sense of foreboding grew. The forest, once alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, now lay in oppressive stillness. The air felt charged, heavy with anticipation. It was as if the very landscape of O'Hop Lake had been transformed, twisted into a realm where only fear thrived. The assault on Claudia's home came with the night. It was as if darkness itself had taken form,

a malevolent force that sought to invade and destroy. The creature, invisible yet undeniably present, unleashed its fury upon the house, its attacks a terrifying cacophony of destruction. Inside, Claudia and I scrambled for any means of defense, our minds racing to comprehend the nature of our unseen assailant. The reflections in the shattered glass and mirrors around us offered glimpses of the horror that hunted us,

an entity of nightmares, a mass of shadows and malice that defied understanding. Our battle was one of desperation and instinct. I remember the feel of the bare mace in my hand, a feeble weapon against such an adversary, yet it was all we had. The decision to fight, to stand our ground against the onslaught, was made in the silence that fell between us. A mutual understanding that to flee was to accept death. The creature's fury was relentless, but in a moment of sheer terror-fueled courage, I managed to strike. The bear-mace, directed towards the vague

shape that terrorized us seemed to have an effect, a brief reprieve in the nightmare that allowed us to escape into the night. As we fled Claudia's home, the realization of what we had faced began to dawn on me. This was no mere animal, no simple predator. This was something else, something ancient and malevolent, awakened by my unwitting hand from the depths of the lake. Our escape from the house was a blur of fear and adrenaline. woods around us alive with the sounds of pursuit. The creature, though wounded, was relentless, its presence a palpable force that drove us to the brink of despair. In those moments of flight, the world reduced to the space between heartbeats, I understood the true nature of terror.

It was not simply the fear of death, but the realization of our own insignificance in the face of such primordial darkness. The artifact, the creature, the lake itself, These were elements of a story much older and darker than any I could have imagined. As we made our escape, the night around us seemed to close in, a tangible reminder of the horror we had unleashed. O'Hop Lake, with its hidden depths and ancient secrets, had become a place of nightmares, a landscape transformed by the terror that now roamed its shores. The drive away from O'Hop Lake was a flight through a corridor of darkness, with the shadow of the trees on either side seeming to reach out for us, as if trying to pull us back towards

the nightmare we had just escaped. The rearview mirror reflected a world I no longer recognized, one where the natural beauty of the landscape had been overshadowed by the horror of the events we had survived. Claudia sat beside me, her body trembling with shock and cold, wrapped in a blanket that did little to ward off the chill that had settled deep in our bones. Our conversation was sparse, limited to the necessities of our escape. The weight of our shared experience hung between us, a barrier as tangible as the darkness outside. The silence of the drive was a stark contrast to the cacophony of terror we had left behind. My mind replayed the events in a relentless loop, each detail etched with vivid clarity. The creature, its form revealed only in fleeting reflections,

had been a thing of nightmares, a monstrous embodiment of the ancient and malevolent forces that lay hidden beneath the serene surface of Ohop Lake. Our escape was not a victory, but a desperate bid for survival. The sounds of the creature's pursuit had faded into the distance, but the fear it had instilled in us was a constant companion. The realization that we had disturbed something ancient and powerful at the lake was a weight that pressed heavily on my conscience. The artifact, with its mysterious origins and unknown purpose, had been the key to unleashing a horror that should have remained hidden. As dawn broke, painting the sky with the first light of morning, the reality of our situation began to settle in. We were alive, but at what cost?

The destruction of Claudia's home, the loss of her aunt, and the death of Thomas, the neighbor who had tried to help us, were wounds that would not easily heal. The trauma of the night's events was a shadow that would follow us, a reminder of the fragility of our under, of the world. The aftermath of our ordeal at O'Hope Lake was a time of reflection and recovery. The questions that plagued us were many, but answers were scarce. What had been the purpose of the artifact? Had the creature been a guardian of some ancient secret, or simply a monster awakened from its slumber? The lake, with its hidden depths and untold mysteries, held the answers, but they were secrets that I no longer wished to uncover. The story of the story of the story. The

story of our escape from O'Hop Lake would be one that few would believe. The tale of an ancient artifact, a monstrous creature, and a night of terror seemed like the stuff of fiction, yet we had lived it. The warning we could offer was simple. Some mysteries are better left undisturbed, especially those that lie hidden in the depths of places like O'Hop Lake. As we drove into the embrace of the coming day, leaving the shadows of the lake behind us, I understood that our lives had been irrevocably changed. The innocence with which we had approached the world was lost, replaced by a wariness of the unseen and unknown forces that lay in wait. Oh, Hope Lake, with its beauty and terror, had taught us the cost of curiosity, a lesson we would carry with us

forever. In the end, the peace we sought in the tranquility of nature had been an illusion, shattered by the reality of the darkness that lurked beneath. Our escape from Mohawk Lake was not an end but a beginning, the first steps on a path that would lead us through the aftermath of our encounter with the unknown. The scars we bore were not just physical, but mental, a testament to the night when the natural world revealed its most unnatural secrets.