Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 6 NEW Real Skinwalker Sightings 2024

Episode Date: May 6, 2024

These are 6 NEW Real Skinwalker Sightings 2024 Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:08:07 Story 2 00:19:46 Story 3 00:30:41 Story 4 00:42:19 Story 5 00:53:46 Story 6 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #skinwalker #deepwoods #forest 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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quickly. I'm used to being by myself, and I carry weapons everywhere I go. Being a 52 and 110 pounds female, I go out of my way to ensure I can protect myself. Many people in the outdoor community told me about being careful on the trails in the forest. I usually do these things alone, save for my trustworthy, though somewhat cowardly dog. But I had never felt as uncomfortable, confused, and downright afraid, as I did in my apartment one night when I finally relocated away from Tahoe to Reno, Nevada. I had moved to Reno to escape the isolation of living in Lake Tahoe, and though it is only about 60 miles away, it felt like a whole different world.

Now the city itself isn't necessarily huge, and I was living in the north end of town, surrounded, by high desert foothills and somewhat sparsely populated compared to more of the urban city center. Still, I never felt like I was out in the boonies or anything. I lived alone with my dog, and we liked our little apartment. So to set the scene here, it was early fall, and the sun was beginning to set at a much earlier time of day, which was exemplified by the fact that the city sits in a valley, so sunset seems to approach much faster than in other places in northern.

northern Nevada. My apartment sat just above street level, with a window in the kitchen next to my stacked washer and dryer that looked out into an alley, maybe about 10 feet above the small street beside the small fourplex building. It was dark outside, and I was alone with my dog, doing laundry. My apartment layout was an open concept, and the living room kitchen area was separated by a wall that had a vast space cut out into it so you could walk through and see each other, with the washer and dryer tucked around, and the aforementioned window to the left of that. With the openness of the space, the darkness outside, and the number of overall windows the apartment had, it almost felt like you were in a spotlight if it was dark out, and I had the lights on.

It looked like I was living in a fishbowl or a terrarium. Anyone or anything could see right in. I made it a point to permanently close my blinds, save for the small window looking out to the alley. I didn't mind keeping those blinds open because I liked the fresh air, and someone would need a ladder to reach me if they were determined enough. As I was removing the clothing from the dryer and turning to plop it on my couch to begin folding, I realized my dog was acting incredibly strange. He didn't want to cross the line, so to speak. from my living room to the kitchen, marked by a change from the carpet to tile. Though it was only a few steps, he seemed incredibly hesitant, and began whining and burping out

small, concerned wines. At first I just thought he was anxious for whatever reason. He is known to be a bit of a weenie. But then, out of nowhere, I sensed this immense and insurmountable feeling of dread and displacement. I turned my back to the washer, drier, and small alley-facing window. My dog sat facing me, almost looking past me, and his apparent anxiety and frustration began to build. As I was asking him what was wrong, he started barking, a whole alarm bark at this point, and as soon as he did, the sense that someone or something was observing me took over me, and caused my blood to run cold. My logical response was that someone was just watching me through the window, the only window that had opened blinds, and the only window that anyone could

see me through. So, in one fell swoop, I reached for the overhead drawstring for the light and turned it off, facing the window, confronting whoever, or whatever, was intruding on my life. As soon as the light clicked off and the room was dark, I saw what I could only describe as a perfectly round light about the size of a small cantaloupe directly across from me, on the other side of the window. It didn't glow like a lamp or a light, though its edges were perfect, and it didn't hover or vibrate or even move. At this point, I was too stunned to move. My fight or flight response had engaged so quickly that I had no time to recognize or rationalize what I was seeing. I was looking at this thing, and it was looking back. I felt cold and confused. My hair was

standing on end, my heart was racing, and my dog had gone into complete freak-out mode, jumping and barking and generally causing a stir in the living room, as he could see all of this as well. The light seemed to now realize that I could see it, and it looked as if it backed away or at least grew more diminutive in size. It had moved to the right of the window now. It flickered twice and then disappeared. It didn't buzz away or fly away, and it didn't zoom out of vision. It was was visible, not visible, and then just gone. As soon as I realized the light was not there anymore, I opened the window and poked my head out to see what was going on. Maybe someone was at my window with a flashlight.

Perhaps someone in the neighboring buildings had seen something, and would be checking for themselves to try and solve this odd mystery. Nothing, not a soul. And what felt like deafening quiet was all I heard. I closed the window. As soon as I shut the window, I heard a sudden. solid three knocks on the larger window out front by the living room. As I mentioned before, those blinds were closed, and though from the outside looking in, it was entirely clear someone was home because the lights were on in that room. No one could know it was me alone in my

apartment, right? I wasn't expecting anyone over, and it was too late for solicitors. No one had any reason to be at my house then, and I was not going to open that door. My dog had rushed to the kitchen as soon as the light outside the window had disappeared, and then he was in what I can only describe as full-on defense mode. Now, my dog is an absolute wuss. I've seen him run from cats and get spooked by bags blowing in the street, and he generally stays by my side on hikes while we're camping, because normally he expects me to protect him. This pup seemed ready for war, though, hackles up, eyes alert, growling at the front window. Now I stepped into the living room, grabbed my gun with one hand and keys with the other, and slinked back into the kitchen and out

the back door to where my car was parked. I threw my dog in, started it up, and raced off to a restaurant across town where I ordered to go food and ate in the front of my Subaru. We car camped in a Walmart parking lot that night. I returned to the apartment the following, day, my laundry still on the couch with no apparent signs of anyone trying to enter the place. Everything seemed normal. I never experienced any disruption in that place ever again for the year and a half that I lived there afterward. I have no idea to this day what I experienced. It wasn't until I shared the story with some friends that I heard that knocking and the sense of being watched was somewhat common of a phenomenon to people who encounter skinwalkers. The Wyoming

has a way of making everything feel more alive, or perhaps more haunted. My little homestead just outside of saddle string isn't much, but it's mine, and the views of the bighorns make up for the isolation. Or they used to before November 20th, 22, when the nights grew longer, and something out there started to stir the silence into whispers. My cat, Missy, a tiny thing with too much intelligence in her eyes, has always been a bit of an oddity. Local joke is that she's a Skinwalker, what with her habit of standing upright and mimicking human speech. At just four pounds, she can throw a shadow that fills a room, metaphorically speaking. I've had her since she was a kitten, found abandoned near a trailhead, took her in, fed her, and maybe I spoiled her too much,

but she's mine, just as much as this slice of land. It was just before dawn, a time when even the heartiest critters keep close to their dens. I lay in bed, the remnants of a dream fading fast, replaced by the reality of a sound disturbing the pre-dawn stillness. It was a screaming from the fields, high-pitched and unsettling, like a fox caught in a trap. At first I chalked it up to the wildlife we share the land with, foxes, maybe a coyote. But as the minutes ticked by, the sound twisted, ending with a gurgling warble, not unlike the calls of the elk, the ones I'd heard echoing through Skyrim on my nephew's game console. The town started whispering about it at Bud's Diner the next morning. Speculation over coffee ranged from poachers to the supernatural. I mostly kept my

peace, listening more than talking. Judy Henshaw, who ran a small farm down by Clear Creek, got the worst of it, with folks suspecting her of harboring illegal wildlife. The game warden paid her a visit, came back saying she was clean, no foxes, just the usual assortment of livestock. That night the noises were closer, sharper, Missy was out, likely prowling the barns, or teasing the coyotes who ventured too near. I tried to sleep, but the cries from outside clawed at the edges of my sanity. When Missy began clawing at my door, I nearly jumped out of my skin, her meows were desperate, slicing through the wood of the door with panic. Damn it, Missy, I muttered, the cold seeping through my blanket as I sat up. She kept at it,

her voice a bizarre amalgam of cries, and what sounded disturbingly like a child's wail. Despite my irritation, concern flickered through me. This wasn't like her. Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled to the door, expecting her to barrel in the the moment it cracked open, but there was silence. Puzzled, I turned on the light. There she was, sitting calmly on the rug, watching me with those wide, knowing eyes. I froze, the chill in the room suddenly coming from more than just the night air. How'd you get in here, Missy? I whispered, my voice barely a thread. She blinked slowly, the only answer I'd get. I turned back to the door, a shiver running down my spine as I thought of the door still.

being closed when I turned the light on. That's when the cries came again, from outside my door, louder, meaner, and all too human. Something wasn't right. This wasn't just another night on the Wyoming plains. As I stared at the door, Missy beside me, the rural silence felt like the calm before a storm, and I knew, deep down, that the whispering wind was carrying something far more sinister than a November chill. Nothing stirs a man from sleep quite like fear, raw, unfiltered, and primal.

It was that very fear that gripped me as the noises outside escalated into a crescendo of terror. Missy's screams had waned, and in their place a silence fell, thick and suffocating. But it was the kind of silence that screams,

loud and harrowing. I lay in bed, the sheets tangled around me, a sweat-breaking despite the chill seeping through the walls of my old house. My mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening outside those walls, under the same moon that lit the vast Wyoming skies. The digital glow from the alarm clock painted a faint, ghostly light across the room, marking the early hours of another restless morning.

The sudden sound of Missy's claws against the wooden door jolted me upright. The urgency in her scratching was unmistakable. something was wrong, terribly wrong. Her meows pierced the air, not just cries, but the articulation of human-like distress, turning more guttural, as if something or someone was mimicking a child's wales to a disturbingly accurate degree.

All right, all right, I grumbled as I threw the blankets off, my resolve hardening with each desperate scratch. I could almost feel her fear, as tangible as the cold that wrapped around my bed, bare feet when they hit the floor. As I reached for the door, expecting to see her frightened little form on the other side, I stopped dead. The room was silent again, but there was a weight to it, a presence that hadn't been there before. I scanned the shadows, half expecting to see eyes peering back at me, but there was nothing, nothing but the faint outline of Missy, already inside,

staring at the door with wide, terrified eyes. How in the hell? I whispered to myself. My heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out. I hadn't opened the door yet. She couldn't have been in here, not without me knowing. Her squeak broke the silence, a soft, trembling sound that was more a whimper than anything. She was as scared as I was, maybe more. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the cries started it up again from the hallway, louder, longer, and filled with a menacing tone that chilled me to the bone. Without thinking, I scooped Missy up and dove back into bed, pulling the covers over us like a child hiding from the boogeyman. But I knew no blanket could shield us from whatever

was on the other side of that door. Then the noises changed. They morphed from the meows of a cat to the whimpering of a dog, my old dog, Luke, who'd been dead over five years. The sound of his claws tapping against the wood floor was unmistakable, and it was coming from right outside my bedroom. Panic surged through me, raw and fierce. I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the floor with a thud, and faced the door. My voice, barely more than a raspy whisper, carried more determination than I felt. You are not welcome here.

leave now. The response was immediate, a growl, low and threatening, followed by silence. Then the front door slammed shut with such force the house seemed to shudder. Draped only in my housecoat, I flung open the bedroom door, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The hallway was empty, the silence now complete. But as I turned towards the kitchen, my father stood there, bleary-eyed and bewildered. Did you slam that door? He asked. I couldn't have, and he knew it. Something had been here, something neither of us wanted to admit. The kitchen light was harsh, too bright for the early hours we found ourselves gathered under it.

My father's face was drawn, shadows playing under his eyes, a stark testament to the night's disturbances. My mother stood beside him, her robe pulled tight against the chill that seemed to have found its way inside our walls. Did you slam that door? Dad repeated. His voice edged with a tension that mirrored the tightness in his shoulders. No, I said, shaking my head, feeling the last remnants of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I thought it was you. We stood there. A family paused on the brink of unraveling a mystery

neither of us wanted to touch. It was then my mother spoke, her voice softer, but every bit as fraught with worry. What happened, honey? she asked, turning to me with that maternal concern that seemed to see right through the bravado. I glanced down at Missy, now safely tucked in my arms. Her small body pressed against mine, as if she could burrow away from the world. I, I don't know, Mom. Something was outside my room, making noises, like Missy, and then like Luke. My voice broke a bit at the mention of our late dog. I told it to leave. Dad rubbed his chin, his skepticism of familiar armor against the unknown.

Sounds like you were dreaming, son. But his eyes betrayed his certainty. They flicked to the door, to the windows, searching for an excuse to dismiss what we all felt. It wasn't a dream, I insisted. My gaze shifted between them, pleading for belief over reason. Something was here. As we stood in the uncomfortable silence, my brother, shuffled into the kitchen, his hair tousled from sleep, his eyes squinting against the light.

What's all the racket? He mumbled, clearly oblivious to the night's events. Dad turned on him sharply. Were you out last night? The accusation was clear in his tone. No. Been here since Jimmy dropped me off. He left a note, my brother replied, confusion wrinkling his brow as he noticed the tension in the room. I moved to his room and picked up the crumpled piece of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out to read Jimmy's scribbled words. My eyes caught on the last lines, and I felt my blood run cold. I left your brother in his room and left right away. I couldn't find his keys to lock up behind me. I also let your cat into the house. The room went silent, each of us digesting the implications. The front door had been

unlocked all night. Anything could have walked in. After that, no one spoke much. Actions took over words. I spent the next few days smudging sage around every possible entry into the house, murmuring prayers I wasn't sure I believed in, hoping to cleanse whatever darkness had crept into our home. But the truth of it stayed with me, haunting the corners of my mind. Every creek of the house, every rustle outside became a signal, a warning.

I found myself watching Missy, always checking, double-checking. that it was really her in the room with me, and not some echo of something else, something that had once dared to enter our home and mimic the sounds of the past. As the days stretched into weeks, the disturbances faded into uneasy memories, leaving us with a fragile peace, but the land around us, vast and wild, held secrets in its silence, and I knew better than to think they would stay quiet forever. Pay off your home, travel for life, drive a Ferrari. In celebration of the world premiere of the Monopoly

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very architecture, and the whispers of the old-timers who still remember the good old days. South Omaha in particular has always held a certain allure for me. This part of town, once bustling with activity from its numerous meatpacking plants, has transformed over the years, leaving behind remnants of its once-thriving industry. Growing up, I heard countless stories about the old South Omaha from my grandparents. They spoke of the vibrant community of Eastern Europeans, Poles, Czechs, Germans, and others, who settled here and built their lives around the demanding work that the meatpacking industry offered. The tales were filled with a mix of nostalgia and a hint of sadness for a time that is long gone.

Today, many of those old factories and slaughterhouses have been shut down, and the area has a quiet, almost forgotten feel to it. There are plans to demolish several of these old buildings, replacing them with modern facilities. This news stirred something within me, a desire to see and experience these historical monuments before they disappeared forever. One building in particular caught my attention. It was an old slaughterhouse. nearly as long as three football fields and made of brick and steel. It stood majestically close to the train tracks that sliced through South Omaha, a silent witness to decades of change.

I learned that it was scheduled to be torn down soon, and knowing this, I felt a sense of urgency, a compelling need to explore it before it was reduced to rubble. With this in mind, I decided to gear up for a little adventure. I knew about urban exploration, Urbex, for short, from online forums and videos. I always wanted to try it, but the fear of trespassing held me back. Now, with the slaughterhouse's days numbered, it seemed like a now or never kind of situation. On a crisp fall evening, I prepared for my visit. I dressed in light hiking gear,

making sure not to look too conspicuous, and grabbed my heavy LED flashlight, the kind that can light up a cave. I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness as I drove my truck, towards the site. The sun was setting, casting long shadows and bathing the city in a golden hue that made everything look a bit like an old photograph. Parking a little distance away, I approached the massive structure on foot. The neighborhood was quiet, with few people around, and the silence seemed to amplify my every step. As I walked closer, the sheer size of the slaughterhouse became more apparent. It loomed like a giant, its windows dark and inscrutable, keeping its secrets hidden behind years of grime. Climbing over the chain-link fence

surrounding the property wasn't as difficult as I had anticipated, thanks to there being no barbed wire on top. Once I landed on the other side, I felt a rush of adrenaline. This was it. I was actually doing this. Every story I had heard about this place ran through my mind, and a part of me wondered if the spirits of the past were watching me, curious about my intrusion into the their long abandoned domain. With a deep breath, I stepped forward, flashlight in hand, ready to uncover what lay within the walls of the old South Omaha Slaughterhouse. The heavy metal door creaked ominously as I pushed it open, stepping into the shadowy interior of the slaughterhouse. My flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing a vast room strewn with old machinery. The air was

stale, filled with the dust of decades, and every surface was covered in a fine layer that swirled into little dust devils as I moved. The place felt like a tomb, silent, except for the echoing of my own footsteps. As I ventured further, my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and the eerie details of the place began to unfold. Conveyor belts, which once carried countless cuts of meat now lay idle, draped with cobwebs like grotesque decorations. Desks and control stations were scattered around, their surfaces littered with debris and forgotten paperwork. It was as though the workers had simply vanished, leaving behind a snapshot of a busy day turned into years of neglect. The deeper I walked into the slaughterhouse, the more the

atmosphere began to change. A sudden drop in temperature made me shiver. It was a coldness that didn't belong. Despite the mild evening outside, it felt like I had stepped into winter. With every breath, I could see my breath fogging up in the air. The shift was unnerving, and an inexplicable sense of dread began to grow inside me. I tried to shake off the fear, telling myself it was just the natural chill of an unheeded building made of brick and steel. But then, the smells hit me. It was nothing like the usual odors of old.

buildings, which were musty, but harmless. This was different. It was a pungent smell of decay and death, a scent so overpowering that it made me gag. My mind raced with horrific possibilities of what could be causing such a stench. Pushing through my rising panic I continued to explore. My flashlight illuminated a pair of double doors ahead. With a hesitant push, I opened them slightly, only to be greeted by an even colder blast of air. The room beyond seemed to swallow the light, and the temperature drop was so severe that frost seemed to form on the inside of the door. Gathering every ounce of courage, I stepped into what I soon realized was the heart of the slaughterhouse, the killing floor. This room was different. It was set up with a pathway down the center, likely where the cattle were led and conveyor belts along the sides for processing.

Knowing what this place was used for sent a shiver down my spine. The smell of death was stronger here. It clung to the walls in the floor, an odor so vile that it seemed almost tangible. As I moved cautiously through the room, a loud sound suddenly shattered the silence, a bellow so loud and so close it felt like it was right next to me. The cry was not just startling, it was terrifying, filled with a pain and fury that no animal, or machine, should ever make. Heart racing, I spun around, my flashlight darted.

across the room, trying to find the source of the sound. There was nothing there, just shadows, and the echo of that haunting noise bouncing off the walls. Despite everything inside me screaming to leave, curiosity pushed me forward, deeper into the labyrinth of the slaughterhouse, towards whatever secrets it still held, or whatever horrors awaited. My heart pounded in my chest as I stumbled upon a room that shouldn't exist in a supposedly abandoned slaughterhouse. The air was filled with the hiss of steam and the metallic clink of butchery tools against bone. The dim, eerie glow of a single red light bulb cast long shadows on the walls, revealing a scene straight out of a nightmare.

There, in front of me, were three men dressed like traditional butchers in white smocks, helmets, goggles, and rubber boots. They were working methodically, one, One spraying down a cow carcass, another cutting into it, and the third moving bones to a nearby bin. The cow, suspended from a hook, swayed slightly as they worked, oblivious to my presence. For a moment, I was frozen, watching them in horrified fascination. They spoke in low tones to each other, their words unfamiliar and harsh sounding. It could have been Polish, or some other Eastern European language. It was hard to tell. The scene felt surreal, a slice of the past still

living and breathing in the forgotten depths of this place. Realizing I was trespassing in what appeared to be an active, albeit clandestine operation, panic set in. I knew I had to get out, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself. Slowly I began to back away, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But just then, my foot knocked against a loose tile on the floor. The clattering sound echoed loudly in the silent room. The men stopped their work and turned toward me. Their eyes, visible behind the goggles, narrowed as they spotted me. One of them shouted something in that strange language, and they all began moving towards me. Their approach was menacing, and in that instant, I knew I couldn't hesitate any longer. I turned and ran as fast as I could. My heart was

racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I heard their footsteps pounding on the floor behind me. Their shouts grew louder, but the clatter of their heavy boots and equipment seemed to slow them down, giving me a slight edge. I dashed through corridors lined with the same shiny white tiles, turning corners blindly, desperate to find a way out. Every second felt like an eternity. my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The echoing of my pursuers filled the air, a constant reminder that they were just behind me. Finally, I spotted a door with rubber flaps, like those seen in butcher shops, and pushed through it, not knowing what lay on the other side. To my relief, it led outside, but I wasn't safe yet. The cold air hit me like a wall, but I kept running, my legs aching,

my lungs burning. Once I reached the road, I glanced back towards the slaughterhouse. The three men were there, staring out from an open truck dock. Their eyes seemed to glow red in the dim light, a haunting image that would forever be etched in my memory. I didn't stop running until I reached my truck. With shaky hands, I started the engine and drove away as fast as I could, not daring to look back. The bellowing sound echoed one last time through the streets, a chilling reminder of the nightmare I had escaped. As I drove home, my mind raced with countless questions. What were those men doing there? Was the slaughterhouse still secretly operational? And what would have happened if they had caught me? I knew one thing for sure. I would never return to that place. And I would never forget the nightmarish butchers of

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The air felt cooler tonight as I parked my car along the dimly lit street next to Stalsoft Park. The hum of the city was distant here, swallowed by the sprawling shadowy arms of the park's dense woods. I liked it that way. It gave me a chance to think, to breathe without the clutter of constant noise. The park, about a square mile of mostly forest, had always been a place of solitude for me, a sanctuary from the non-stop pulse of urban life. I stepped out of my car, the gravel crunching under my bed.

I had gravel crunching under my boots, and made my way to the playground at the northern end. The street lamps cast long shadows, and the playground equipment loomed like skeletal remains of some forgotten giants. I could see the swing set, my usual spot, just ten feet away from the forest's edge, separated only by a flimsy fence. As I walked, the sounds of the city faded completely, replaced by the subtle rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a nightbird, The playground faced the street, but it was bordered on two sides by the forest, creating a natural alcove that felt worlds away from the asphalt and concrete. It was a Thursday night just past eleven, and as I had hoped, I was the only soul around. Sitting on the cold metal swing, I pushed off the ground with my feet,

feeling the familiar thrill as I swung back and forth. The chains creaked softly with each motion, a comforting rhythmic sound that I had come to associate, with my late-night reflections. My eyes drifted to the fence, to the darkness beyond where the woods grew thick and untamed. I wasn't afraid of the forest. I'd been coming here since I was a child, and it felt as much a part of me as my own backyard.

The first rustle from behind the fence didn't startle me. It was normal, after all, to hear wildlife at this hour, raccoons, perhaps, or the occasional deer. But when the noise came again, louder this time, more deliberate, it caught my attention. I slowed my swing, straining my ears against the still night. Something was moving back there, something sizable. The logical part of my brain thought of the mountain lion warnings posted at the park entrances.

I'd never seen one here, but that didn't mean they weren't around. I scanned the fence line, half expecting to see a pair of reflective eyes staring back at me. But there was nothing. just the deep impenetrable dark. I should have left then, gone back to my car and forgotten all about the strange sounds, but curiosity has a way of pinning you in place, of pulling the strings of your better judgment

until they fray and snap. I continued to swing, pushing a little higher now, my eyes locked on the spot where the forest met the playground. The noise came again, a shuffling sound, followed by what I could only describe as a moan, It was low, guttural, and it seemed to vibrate through the cool air.

My heart thumped loudly in my chest, a stark contrast to the otherwise serene night. Whatever was out there was close, maybe only ten feet away from where I swung. I gripped the chains tighter, my swing carrying me forward, then back, forward, then back. The moon wasn't much help, obscured as it was by a veil of thin clouds. It cast a feeble light that barely reached the forest's edge. As I reached the apex of the swing, I made up my mind. I'd take one last pass and then go. It was just an animal, I told myself.

Just a curious creature of the woods, nothing more. But even as I rationalized it, the unease settled heavy in my stomach, a visceral reminder that sometimes, the night holds more mysteries than we care to confront. The swings arc began to shorten as I allowed my thoughts to wander, still fixed on the strange noises emanating from beyond the fence. The night had grown eerily quiet now, as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence. I should have left, should have listened to that small voice in the back of my mind, urging me to retreat to the safety of my car. But instead, I stayed, my curiosity anchoring me firmly to the spot. I had nearly convinced myself that I was alone again, that the noises were just the ordinary sounds of wildlife I'd misinterpreted when it happened, a sound that was unmistakably not an animal, more of a moan than a growl.

It was human, or at least it seemed to be, and it chilled me to the bone. The sound was low and sorrowful, carrying a weight of despair that echoed through the cool air and settled deep in my chest. My grip tightened on the chains of the swing as I scanned the darkness. The moon, shy tonight, peaked through wispy clouds, offering scant illumination but just enough to make out shapes and movements at the edge of visibility. It was then I saw it, the faint glow of a flashlight bobbing in the distance. Someone was out there, and they were moving with purpose through the brush. The figure's trajectory was hard to discern at first. The light dipped and weaved through the distance.

the trees, creating elongated shadows that danced across the playground. My heart pounded in my ears as I watched, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Was it a park ranger, perhaps, or a police officer? But no, the way they moved was all wrong. It was too erratic, too furtive. And then, as the figure drew nearer, the details of their attire began to take shape in the dim light. It wasn't the uniform of any officer or ranger I'd known. This person was clad more like a hunter, or how I imagined one from the stories I'd read, baggy pants, a vest, and some kind of hat. There seemed to be objects strapped to his limbs, though I couldn't make out what they were.

In one hand, he carried the flashlight, in the other, something long and slender like a stick, a weapon, a tool. I couldn't tell. my mind raced with possibilities. What if this person was hunting something? Or worse, what if they were here for something else entirely? The isolation of the park, once comforting, now felt menacing. As if I had wandered into a scene I was never meant to witness.

I made a split-second decision then. I slipped off the swing, my feet hitting the soft earth as I crouched low and moved quickly toward the metal overhang nearby. It was a flimsy hiding spot, but under the cloak of night it would have to do. I ducked behind the picnic table with its fishnet pattern, my breath shallow as I peered over the edge. The figure continued to approach, the light from his flashlight sweeping the ground in front of him, never quite reaching where I hid. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs as I watched, praying that the shadows would keep me concealed.

As he neared the swing set, the figure paused, tilting his head. head as if listening. I held my breath, afraid even the slightest sound might give me away. Then, just as suddenly as he had stopped, he continued on, moving at an angle toward the south entrance of the park, descending into the valley that led into the deeper parts of the forest. I stayed crouched behind the picnic table, my mind a whirl of fear and confusion, until the light from his flashlight was swallowed up by the night, leaving me alone once more in the oppressive silence of Stalsoft Park. The silence that settled over the park after the figure with the flashlight disappeared into the forest was oppressive, almost tangible. I remained

crouched behind the picnic table, my heart still racing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins making it impossible to move. The cool metal of the overhang felt grounding against my back as I tried to make sense of what I had just witnessed. The minutes ticked by slowly, each second stretching out as I listened intently for any sign of the figure's return. But there was nothing, only the soft rustling of the leaves and the occasional distant bark of a dog. Eventually, my breathing steadied, and the initial spike of fear began to ebb, replaced by a swirling mix of confusion and curiosity. What was that person doing in the park so late at night? Were they aware of my presence? The questions multiplied in my mind, each more unsettling

than the last. The logical part of me argued that there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, a wildlife officer monitoring animal activity, perhaps, or maybe just another night owl like myself, albeit one with peculiar habits and attire. But then, there was the moan, that human-like sound that had first drawn my attention. It didn't fit with any logical explanation. Was it possible that I had stumbled upon something far stranger, something that? that my rational mind was struggling to accept. The lore of the park, tales of shadows and whispers that I had laughed off as mere ghost stories, suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched. After what felt like an eternity, I finally mustered the courage to leave my makeshift shelter. I moved

cautiously, my eyes scanning the darkness, half expecting to see the flashlight beam cut through the night or hear that unsettling moan again. But there was only silence, and the faint light of the moon guiding my way. As I reached the edge of the forest, where the trees met the playground, I paused. This place that had brought me peace now seemed charged with a mysterious energy. Could the forest really harbor secrets so deep and dark? The thought was both terrifying and thrilling. Resolved to not let fear dictate my actions, I made my way back to the car.

The forest felt different as I passed through. every shadow seemed to move, every noise made me jolt. Despite my fear, a part of me was intrigued, drawn to the mysteries that might hide in the depths of Stalsoft Park. Once safe in my car, the interior light felt harsh against my eyes, too bright after the dimness of the night. I sat there for a moment, engine idling, as I tried to piece together the events. The possibility of encountering a skinwalker, as some of the local legends suggested, seemed both absurd and oddly fitting. Could the park serve as a temporary refuge for such a creature? Or was it simply the playground of a nocturnal hunter of another kind? As I drove home,

the park fading into the rearview mirror, I knew that this encounter would linger in my mind, a puzzle that demanded to be solved. I also knew that it wouldn't be my last visit to Stalsoft Park. There were answers out there, hidden among the whispering trees, and I felt a pull, a need, to uncover the truth, however unsettling it might be. The night had indeed revealed mysteries, but it had also awakened a determination in me, a determination to face whatever lay hidden under the cover of darkness. Predator Badlands, now streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney Plus. Here, you're not the predator.

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Life on the edge of Mount Ida is as close as you can get to truly being off the grid without disappearing entirely. It suits me fine. The air is crisp, the sky's vast, and my nearest neighbor more than a shout away. my trailer perched at the highest accessible point of my property near an old barn, faces a road that hardly merits the name, and beyond that, the endless dark embrace of the forest. This mountain, steeped in local lore, has always been a character in its own right

in the stories told by the First Nations elders. They speak of it with a respectful fear, cautioning that the spirits dwelling here do not take kindly to human intrusion. to night the mountain feels alive almost watchful the wind carries whispers through the pines and the last light of day fades with a reluctance that edges on warning i've learned to listen to these subtleties the land has a language all its own The evening's quiet is split suddenly by the distant wail of sirens, three distinct sets in rapid succession tearing past on the main road. In my fifteen years here, sirens are a rarity. This is the second time this week, which prickles the back of my neck.

My eyes narrow as I peer through the window, scanning the shadowed road below, but the vehicles are already gone, their urgent cries fading into the night like ghosts. Shrugging off a chill, I stoke the wood stove and settle into my evening routine, the oddity of the sirens gnawing at me. I'm turning over the possibilities when the lights flicker and die, plunging my trailer into darkness. The power outage snatches my comfort away, leaving a hollow silence in its place. I'm not new to the dark, but tonight, it feels like a heavy blanket thrown over my world. No Wi-Fi, no lights, no connection to any. beyond these thin walls. I fumble for my flashlight, its beam slicing through the blackness,

settling on the aged faces of my two loyal dogs, Huck and Finn. They sense my unease, their bodies tense and alert. As I wrestle with the generator's notion, already dreading the cold trek to the barn, a child's cry shatters the stillness. It's sharp, desperate, the sound of raw fear. Huck and Finn explode into a frenzy, barking and clawing at the door, their reaction amplifying my alarm. In these parts, it's known that cougars can mimic a human's whale, a chilling thought, yet somehow the best-case scenario tonight. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, straining to see through the inky blackness outside. Just a cougar, I mutter to myself, not convinced. My heart thuds painfully against my wrist,

ribs, the primal part of my brain firing off warnings. The dogs do not settle. There growls a constant rumble under the sudden, eerie quiet that follows the cry. I weigh my options, every instinct screaming to stay put to not open that door. As I wrestle with my fear, the mountain seems to lean in, listening, the ancient spirits stirring in the shadows. Then out of nowhere comes a second sound, a guttural, shrieking, cacophobic, that chills my blood. It is nothing I can name, nothing I've ever heard before, a sound that seems to scrape at the very edges of reality. The floor vibrates beneath my feet, a visceral reminder that here, on Mount Ida, humans are not the apex predators. My hands shake as I grip the flashlight,

my breath shallow and quick. Just a cougar, I whisper again, but the lie is thin and feeble against the darkness that presses in, alive with unnamed terrors. The silence after the cry is almost worse than the noise itself. My trailer feels smaller somehow, claustrophobic, as if the walls are inching inward with each passing second. Huck and Finn have stopped barking, but their low, menacing growls ripple through the still thick air, a constant reminder that the night is far from over.

I force myself to sit down, to try and think rationally, But my heart is a wild drum in my chest. I tell myself it's just a cougar, that's all. A cougar in distress, perhaps. But the words are hollow, echoing unconvincingly in the dense shadow that my home has become. I've heard cougars before. Heard their screams slice through the night. It's chilling, yes, but this was different.

This wasn't just an animal. This was primal fear made audible. The clock on the wall ticks loudly. Overly loud in the hush, and I try to focus on it, to anchor myself to something mundane, something normal, but it's no use. The eerie cry replays in my mind, a loop of terror that tightens around my gut. I consider reaching for the gun I keep locked away, but what good are bullets against shadows and cries that could just be wind, or something far worse? My fingers tap against the wooden table, restless, uncertain. Then, just as I start to feel like I might be able to breathe normally again. It happens. A second noise shatters the fragile calm, a terrifying, guttural howl that seems to roll down the mountain

and up through the floorboards. It's an amalgamation of every nightmare sound from every horror movie I've ever dared to watch. It's a bone-chilling chorus of anger and pain so intense that the trailer shudders with its force, and for a moment it feels as though the earth itself might open up and swallow us whole. My bed shakes, the vibration carrying through the soles of my boots, resonating deep within my bones. Huck and Finn are up again,

bodies rigid, fur bristled, their growls turning into something frantic, something desperate. They hurl themselves at the door, scrabbling at the metal as if they can sense the very essence of whatever is out there. I'm frozen, flashlight gripped so tightly in my hand that my knuckles turn white. I want to yell at the dogs to quiet down, to not provoke whatever lurks beyond the thin safety of the trailer walls. But my voice is gone, swallowed by the thick dread that fills the room. The sound doesn't come again, but its echo hangs in the air like a specter. Minutes stretch into hours, or so it seems. Every shadow seems to move just in the corner of my vision. Every creek of the trailer, a prelude to something terrible stepping out for

from the forest. Finally, I move, more out of a need to do something, anything, than out of any real plan. I pull on my boots, thinking I might make it to the barn, to the generator, but I only get as far as the door. My hand hovers over the doorknob trembling. The cold seeps through the cracks, whispering of the dark and the unknown. Not tonight, I murmur to myself, heart sinking. not tonight. I can't bring myself to open the door, can't bring myself to face the blackness beyond. Instead, I retreat, back to the false safety of my bed, where I sit, flashlight never leaving my grip, listening to the night as it whispers and waits. Dawn breaks with a reluctant, muted glow that filters weakly through the fogged windows of my trailer. It's quiet, too quiet, as if the

mountain itself is holding its breath. I let the night's terror ebb away slowly with the darkness, feeling the adrenaline dissolve into a weary, shaky relief as daylight asserts itself. Huck and Finn are the first to relax. Their tense bodies unwinding as they sense the change in me. Their instincts tuned to my own. I rise, bones stiff from a night spent too alert, and flick on the kitchen light. It responds with a reassuring hum. The power is back. The normalcy of it feels alien after the horrors of the night. I check my phone, no messages, no missed calls, a stark reminder of how cut off I really was. Outside, the world looks untouched. The pines stand sentry as always, the ground beneath them undisturbed. It's hard to believe that

such terror pulsed through this calm landscape just hours ago. I make coffee, the aroma filling the space, grounding me back. to reality. Huck and Finn eat their breakfast with gusto, the routine abound to my frayed nerves. I'm at the table with my coffee when curiosity and a need for validation drive me to my laptop. I log into the local Facebook group, a small community bulletin where lost pets and pie recipes are the usual fare. Today, I add my own post, a brief account of the night's events, a query about the power outage, others' experiences. Responses trickle in. A few others lost power, but no one else heard the strange cries or the monstrous howl that shook my trailer.

With the sun higher now, I venture outside. The air is sharp, the remnants of night's chill lingering like a memory. I circle the trailer, looking for anything out of place. The ground is hard, unforgiving. It offers up no tracks, no signs of nocturnal visitors. The forest looms quiet and impassive, keeping its secrets. Back inside, I find more responses on Facebook. Speculations run from the mundane to the wild, cougars indeed, but also talk of bigfoot and ghosts.

One particularly eerie comment suggests the spirits of the mountain were reminding me of my place here, on the edge of their world. It's a thought that chills even in daylight. I update the thread with the new information about the sirens, a motor vehicle accident down the road. It's a rational explanation for one mystery. but does nothing to explain the sounds that haunted me. The community's theories swirl in my mind, none providing true comfort. Later, as the day wanes, I check Reddit against my better judgment. The anonymity of the platform gives rise to more sinister theories.

Skinwalkers, government experiments, portals to other dimensions. My skin prickles with unease. I shut the laptop with a snap. Tonight, I'll leave a podcast playing, as I try to sleep, a human voice to fill the silence, to guard against the emptiness. The mountain watches, indifferent, Huck and Finn settle by the door, their presence a reassurance. But as the shadows lengthen, I can't shake the feeling that whatever stirred in the darkness remains, waiting perhaps for the quiet to return. As I lay down, the last light fading,

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Hello, my name is Herron, and I am a BBC Earth Nat Geo photographer and cinematographer for various documentaries, including Ice on Fire for HBO and Leonardo DiCaprio. A few years ago, something extraordinary happened to my shooting partner, Gavin Heffernan, and me at Vermillion Cliffs in Arizona. We have privately told the story to friends, but didn't figure making it public would make much sense, until a friend of mine sent one of your videos about Skinwalker Ranch, which echoed almost similar things that happened to us. Gavin and I have specialized in night sky photography

and have covered all 50 American states and Canadian provinces, spending full nights in most remote places. However, out of over 1,000 of those nights we spent shooting, we have never had anything like this happen. We made our way to white pocket inside vermilion cliffs, a fantastic collection of swirling white lithified sandstone. We decided to spend a night there shooting time lapses for a BBC Earth short film, and were the only ones there that night.

We set up our six cameras and let them roll, then decided to get some sleep. We set a timer for 1 a.m. to wake up and move our cameras to different places so that we could shoot another set of shots. When I turned, I saw lights that initially looked like headlights, but made no sense as they were in the direction of the park, where there were neither roads nor trails. I pointed it out to Gavin, and we looked at it for quite some time. The more it appeared that it wasn't headlights, but possibly a headlamp of a hiker.

However, there were no trails in that area, and we figured perhaps a hiker got lost and was wandering around towards us, as they may have spotted us with their headlamps. We decided to stick around and wait, as we were worried it might be someone who might take our cameras. We looked, and the light was getting closer, and when it got cut down, close enough that it was bright enough to reflect off the white rocks at some point, but then it suddenly stopped. We sat there and waited, and nothing. A couple of minutes later the lights were back, but much further away, and there was no way a hiker could have backtracked a few miles in a matter of five minutes.

That disturbed us enough that we didn't return to our tents, but stayed there to sleep next to the camera. This was a bizarre event, but we would have shrugged it off if something hadn't happened the following night. We drove to another park and hiked into a famous rock structure area called the wave. Only about 20 people are allowed in a day via a permit, so we figured if we stayed overnight three miles away from the parking lot, we wouldn't get any lights flashing around from cars or hikers. We could shoot the night sky videos there. It's a highly dark area at night. You can barely see your hand in front of your face. We did the same as the previous night, set up cameras and slept with the alarm set to 1 a.m. Unlike White Pocket, the wave is situated amongst

cany and you can very clearly hear even the smallest of rocks roll half a mile away. Footsteps or any other sounds are easily heard. When we woke up, we returned to where we had left our cameras and set up new shots. However, when I went back to the spot I had left one of the cameras, it was missing. We left it there in the dark with nobody around. I frantically looked for it all around, and nothing. I suspected I may have forgotten where I exactly put it, but I was fairly certain that it was there. I went to Gavin and asked him if he recalled where I put it,

and he said he was sure it was where I was. We searched for it more, covering the whole area. Then we stood there quiet, trying to see if we could hear the sound of a camera shutter clicking somewhere in the dark, but there was nothing. We agreed to go back to sleep and look for it in the morning, when suddenly a loud thud reverberated through the canyon. We pointed our lights and walked in the direction of the sound. It was my camera falling over. There was no wind, no sounds of animals we would have easily heard, and no people.

The camera was still clicking, taking shots, something we also would have heard when we were sitting there earlier, listening for sound. We were beside ourselves as to how this could have happened because we set up our tripod legs wide to anticipate a possible bump of the camera, just about anything, but in this case, the camera would have had to have been pushed over or dropped by something. I remember Gavin turning to me and saying, I'm an atheist, but this one's making me wonder. The following morning, I dropped Gavin back at his car. He went toward Los Angeles, and I was a man. He went toward Los Angeles, and I went to the city of Page, Arizona, where I planned to do a night of shooting in the waterhole's canyon that's just underneath State Highway 89 and about five miles south of the town.

I tried to put last night's event in the back of my head as I had to shoot alone this night. I was still in the Vermilion Cliffs area, but this was just outside the park, and I was close to the town, so unlike the last two nights in a completely remote location, this was underneath a highly utilized bridge of a busy state road. I parked and went into the canyon to scout things out in daylight. I wanted to grab a shot of the bridge from inside the canyon looking up at the night sky above it. As I made my way down into the canyon hiking down a trail, I started to smell something strange. The closer I got to the canyon area underneath the bridge, the more I smelled it.

When I got there, I spotted next to the bridge support structures what appeared to be a dead dog. I got closer, and it was clear the smell was coming from there. I then realized it wasn't a dog but a coyote, and it was lying not as if it fell from above, but as if someone had set it down. However, the disturbing part was that the coyote was missing its bottom jaw and its tongue, and it was sliced off like it was missing, not ripped off, but sliced off with precision. I left and never went back again. I didn't think about this much until I watched your episode about Skinwalker Ranch, and now it's really making me think I experienced what I can only imagine is an otherworldly occurrence.

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