Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 6 Spine-Chilling Encounters: Scary Stories from the Forest | Deep Woods, Skinwalker, Wendigo

Episode Date: February 5, 2024

These are 6 Spine-Chilling Encounters: Scary Stories from the Forest | Deep Woods, Skinwalker, Wendigo Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:08:41 Story 2 00:13:39 Story 3 00:30:50 Story 4 00:41:40 Story 5 00:51:23 Story 6 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #parkranger #skinwalker #dogman #deepwoods 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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in the southeastern part of South Dakota. It was a far cry from my childhood in the greater St. Louis area of Missouri. a place that felt like a distant memory, eight long hours away from where I now called home. During my time in South Dakota, I had the privilege of meeting people from various backgrounds and cultures. One group that left a lasting impression on me were the Native Americans from the Sioux tribe. Many late-night conversations in the library with my Sioux classmates exposed me to the rich mythologies of their culture, tales of creatures like the Thunderbird and Sasquatch. As a child, I had been obsessed with researching cryptids and watching shows like Monster Quest and Mountain Monsters,

but as I grew older, I became more skeptical of the stories I once believed in. Conversations with my Sioux friends were now driven more by intellectual curiosity, although some of their stories began to creep into my nightmares. Stories of beings capable of shape-shifting and mimicking your loved ones, enough to send shivers down anyone's spine. Amidst my final semester, my girlfriend and I broke up, and it took a toll on my mental health and schoolwork. She had been my first real relationship, and facing the prospect of being alone, was a new and unsettling experience. My two friends, Rich and Eric, my roommates, noticed my struggles.

At first, they gave me space, but as days turned into weeks, their concern grew. One fateful night, around 10 p.m., I was at first. was watching TV and sipping on a bang energy drink when Rich knocked on my door so loudly that my Star Blast-flavored liquid splattered onto the carpet. With a mischievous grin, he exclaimed, Come on, bro, we're going hunting. Rich was a self-proclaimed ladiesman from the West Coast, towering at 6'5, and built like a former offensive lineman, much like the three of us who had bonded through football. I had hung up my cleats due to an injury the previous year, and both Rich and Eric had their own reasons for quitting.

Over time, Rich and I had gone from reluctant teammates to close friends, while Eric, hailing from Nebraska, was about my height six by two, and a solid 285 pounds of pure muscle. He was the quintessential country boy, rarely without chewing tobacco or a cheap beer in hand. Eric had gone hunting with Rich before, but I had never been the hunting type. My recent breakup had left me sulking in my room,

making it hard for me to muster the courage to ask if I could tag along. When Rich urged me to join them, I hesitated for a moment, contemplating a night of solitude and self-pity. Eventually, I gave in and said, Screw it, let's go. Eric was already in the driver's seat of his truck, as Rich and I locked the front door of our apartment. I reached for a nearly full 30-pack of cheap beer, and Eric asked me to grab one for him. not the smartest decision drinking and driving, but we were young and reckless. For the next two hours, we drove through the back roads of South Dakota, navigating dirt trails that seemed to stretch into infinity.

Surrounded by the vast plains cloaked in darkness, the only source of light was the truck's headlights. At one point, Rich and Eric abruptly stopped the truck, and I followed suit. There was a bang, and moments later, Eric retrieved a dead raccoon shot by the grinning like a mischievous kid. This odd ritual repeated a few times, but then something strange occurred. Eric asked if we needed a bathroom break, and both Rich and I raised our hands like obedient students. Rolling his eyes, Eric slowed the truck to a stop in the middle of a dirt road. To our right, there were about 20 yards of grass, followed by a dense thicket of trees

that seemed to stretch endlessly. To the left, the Great Plains stretched out as far as the eye could see. We got out of the truck to relieve ourselves since there was no one around for miles. We stayed on the dirt road close to the running truck. As I finished and zipped up my pants, I looked over at the tree line and was startled. Two glowing yellow orbs glowed in the darkness, only about 20 yards away. Thinking that the alcohol had caught up with me, I rubbed my eyes vigorously and opened them again. But the eerie yellow orbs remained. I squinted, trying to discern more details, but all I saw was an impenetrable darkness, except for those hauntingly luminous eyes. Frozen in fear, I dared not look back at Rich and Eric, terrified that turning away

would invite the creature to approach. Suddenly a hand rested on my shoulder, causing me to jump out of my skin. It was Eric, his voice calm but firm, saying, we need to make a dash for the truck. If not, we're going to die. I nodded, unable to muster any words. On the count of three, Eric continued. One, two, he never got to three. As soon as he uttered two, a spine-chilling sound pierced the air. It was a terrifying, other-worldly roar, a symphony of hatred, evil, and imminent danger. The sound was both high-pitched and deep, as though the creature possessed impossibly large lungs. Panic surged through my veins, and I broke free from my petrified state.

Eric and I turned and bolted for the truck, our footsteps and heavy breathing echoing in the night. I could hear something in pursuit, closing in on us rapidly. We channeled every ounce of energy into running faster than we'd ever run before. I practically dove into the back of the truck, while Eric jumped into the driver's seat, slamming the gas pedal as we lurched forward. Glancing back I saw nothing but the dust kicked up by the truck's tires.

and in that vast, impenetrable darkness, the two glowing eyes stared at us. They remained fixed in place as we sped back to our apartment. Eric pulled into our driveway, and we stumbled out of the truck, shaken to our cores. I fumbled for the keys and opened the front door, and once inside we tried to process the harrowing encounter. Sean had only heard the roar, not much else. As I recounted what I'd seen, Sean gave me a perplexed look. But Eric corroborated my story. They had witnessed the same inexplicable phenomenon.

Dazed, confused, and utterly exhausted, we all passed out shortly after. When morning came, I woke up with a slight headache and went to the kitchen, where Eric was already eating breakfast. I grabbed a protein bar and chewed it in silence. Eventually I looked at Eric and asked the question that had been gnawing at me since the previous night. Eric, what the heck was that? He stopped eating and locked eyes with me, a look of someone who had seen such things before. Well, I don't know, he replied slowly, but I can tell you this. It wasn't human, and it wasn't like anything I've ever hunted.

After graduating, I returned to the St. Louis area. Over the years, I lost touch with Eric and Sean, hearing that Sean had gone back to the West Coast, while Eric had returned to Nebraska. I moved on with my life, got engaged, and secured a job in law enforcement. Most days were good, but every now and then, when I found myself driving alone at night, those haunting memories of that encounter in South Dakota would resurface, serving as a chilling reminder of the night I narrowly escaped something beyond comprehension. As I delved into research on cryptids once more, I could only narrow it down to two possibilities,

Bigfoot or a skin walker. Regardless of its identity, those luminous eyes would forever remain etched in my soul. A haunting reminder of that night in South Dakota when I came face to face with the unknown. To the creature in the darkness of South Dakota, I can only say this. Let's not meet again. When I was 13 years old, a young girl navigating the world, this story unfolded, a memory that still sends shivers down my spine despite the many years that have passed. It was a time when innocence mingled with ignorance, and I was blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking in the world. The day began like any other, as I embarked on my daily journey home from school. A four-kilometer trek along a bustling road, it was a route I had traversed countless times. However, on this

particular day, I was walking alone, and little did I know that it would be a journey etched into my memory forever. As I crossed intersections, the busy street became a stage for an unsettling encounter. A tall, unkempt man, who appeared to be in his early 30s, caught my eye. Back then, deciphering an adult's age was a puzzle I had yet to master. He began to follow me, his footsteps echoing ominously behind me. With an unsettling smile, he initiated a conversation, repeatedly emphasizing the beauty of the day and his desire for us to become friends. He probed me with questions, inquiring about my home and whether my parents would be there. I sensed that something was amiss, and his peculiar interest in a child like me only fueled my unease.

Politely, I avoided answering his inquiries and quickened my pace. As we neared the block where I lived, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. I knew I couldn't allow him to follow me home. He exuded an eerie aura that adults rarely directed at me. To escape, I concocted a desperate plan. I would give him a fake cell phone number, agreeing to answer his calls later, anything to sever the connection and get away from him. In my discomfort, I handed him a fabricated number and fled the scene.

Months passed, and I convinced myself that he was merely a random oddity, a disturbing episode best forgotten. Little did I know that the story was far from over. Four months later, the grim specter of that man resurfaced. As I walked home from school, my attention was elsewhere, until the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps jolted me to awareness. I turned, and there he was, that same sinister figure from the past. He slowed his pace, yet his voice pierced the air with anger.

He had discovered my ruse, and fury consumed him. He berated me relentlessly, accusing me of thinking myself superior to him. Panic gripped me. I feared for my safety, but my cries for help went unanswered by the passing motorists. Desperation led me to the nearest petrol station, not too far away, with the man trailing behind, his voice a cacophonous storm. Upon arriving at the station, I caught the attention of two burly men standing next to. to their pickup truck. They must have seen the terror etched across my face and the man following me. Without hesitation, they rushed to my side their protective instincts kicking in. Words failed

me as I shook my head frantically, seeking refuge behind their imposing figures. The two men demanded to know why the man was pursuing me. He concocted a false story, claiming to be my older brother. Silently, I affirmed their suspicions through my terrified demeanor. Realizing the gravity of the situation, the men berated him, accusing him of actions I couldn't bring myself to articulate. In that moment of chaos, as their attention was drawn to the man, I seized the opportunity to flee. He noticed my escape and made an attempt to pursue me. The burly men, incensed by his audacity, reacted swiftly. They tackled him to the ground and deposited him unceremoniously into the back of their pickup truck. His screams filled the air as they sped off at an esterty.

astonishing pace, passing me by and disappearing into the distance. Relief washed over me as I watched them drive away with the menacing stranger. I didn't know where they were taking him or what they intended to do, and frankly, I didn't want to know. I ran all the way home, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to make sense of the traumatic encounter. I confided in my parents, and we immediately altered my school route. Thankfully, I needed to be able to get me. never saw that man again, and for that I remain eternally grateful. Those two kind strangers, who intervened when I couldn't find my voice, saw my distress, and acted selflessly to protect me. Even now, after all these years, I vividly remember the terror that gripped me, and the overwhelming

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Visit Sephora to shop now. I remember the day I first arrived at the watchtower. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange and red, much like a wildfire itself. I lugged my last bag up the wooden steps of the tower, a structure that seemed both ancient and timeless, perched solemnly amidst the vastness of the forest. I'm Alex Matthews, not your typical fire watcher, I guess.

I landed this job partly out of necessity, partly out of a desire to escape the clutches of city life. There's something about the forest's solitude that appealed to my less social nature. But as I stood there, on the deck of the tower, the forest stretching endlessly in every direction, I felt a pang of something akin to fear. It was a respect, maybe, for the sheer enormity of nature. The tower was rustic, to put it nicely.

Inside, everything smelt of pine and old wood. The walls were lined with shelves holding an array of outdated equipment, maps, and a dusty old radio that would be my only line to the outside world. In the back of a cupboard, I found a leather journal. Left by some previous watcher, I presumed. Flipping through its yellowed pages, I felt a strange connection to those who had come before me. My first night was a symphony of unfamiliar sounds,

the creaking of the tower, the whispering of the wind through the trees, and distant calls of nocturnal animals. I lay in my bunk, listening, learning. The next day, I started my routines. I scanned the horizon for smoke, reported weather conditions, and kept the radio close. It was a life of repetition and vigilance, but the forest had other plans. It was on the third day that I found the deer skull.

I was returning from a routine check when I saw it, lying just outside my door. A chill ran down my spine as I examined it. It was old, weathered, with bits of fur and flesh still clinging to it. It felt like a warning, a sign of something more sense. sinister lurking in the depths of the forest. I recalled the teenagers I had chased off a few nights before and figured it was their idea of a prank. Still, I couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling it left in my gut. That night, as darkness engulfed the tower, I sat at my desk, the journal open in front of me. I began to write, pouring my thoughts onto paper. It felt cathartic,

a way to process the day's eerie discovery. As the days' days passed, the initial thrill of solitude gave way to a gnawing sense of isolation. The tower, once a symbol of escape, now felt like a cage. The endless expanse of trees seemed to watch me, whispering secrets I couldn't understand. I found myself staring out into the forest, searching for something I couldn't quite define. But the forest kept its secrets, and I, in my isolated watchtower, waited, watched and wondered. Little did I know, the true test of my resolve was yet to come. The days in the watchtower began to blend into one another, each indistinguishable from the last.

The forest, with its sprawling expanse of pines and hidden secrets, watched me silently. My daily routines, scanning for smoke, reporting weather conditions, walking the trails, became my lifeline, the only thing anchoring me to reality. It was during one of my routine trail checks that I stumbled upon the trail. the old man. He was a small, wiry figure, leaning heavily on a cane, his eyes squinting against the daylight. Lost, he said, couldn't find his way back to the car park. I remember thinking how out of place he looked in the wilderness, like a piece of a different puzzle forced into the wrong box. I pointed him towards the trail leading back to the car park, watched him shuffle away,

his steps unsteady but determined. There was something about his resolve that, struck a chord in me. Maybe it was the way he clung to his independence or the stubborn set of his jaw. I didn't know then that I'd see him again, under far different circumstances. The next day, I was woken by a crackle over the radio. A search party was being formed. The old man hadn't made it back to his car. My stomach sank. I joined the search, a sense of responsibility weighing heavily on me. We found him at the bottom of a steep incline, his leg broken, his face etched with pain and relief. The sight of him, lying there helpless, made me feel both guilty and grateful, guilty for not walking him back to the car park, grateful that we found him alive. After that

incident, the forest seemed to close in on me, its shadows deeper, its silence is longer. I started noticing things I hadn't before, the way the trees seemed to close in on me. It's shadows deeper, it's I started noticing things I hadn't before, the way the trees seemed to move in the corner of my eye, the strange arrangements of stones on the trails. One day, I found a series of stones stacked in a precise, unnatural way. It was unsettling, like a message left in a language I couldn't read. Then came the day I found blood under my station. It was a small, dark stain on the ground, almost easy to miss.

But I saw it, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Jonathan, my contact and only lifeline to the outside world, said it was probably an animal. But his words did little to ease my mind. The forest felt alive, watching, waiting. The most disturbing discovery came a few days later. I was walking the mountain trail, my thoughts lost in the monotonous rhythm of my steps, when I stumbled upon it, a deer, its body mutilated hanging from a tree, its entrails were strewn about like some grotesque decoration.

The sight of it stopped me cold. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath caught in my throat. For a moment I couldn't move, couldn't think. All I could do was stare at the macabre spectacle before me. That night, back in the safety of my tower, I couldn't shake the image of the deer from my mind. It haunted me. A vivid reminder that the forest was not just trees and trails.

It was something ancient, something wild. wild, something that didn't adhere to the rules of the civilized world, and I was a guest in its domain, a fact I was becoming painfully aware of. The days turned colder, and the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to happen. I felt it too, a sense of impending change, a prelude to something dark. My days at the watchtower, once filled with a sense of purpose, now felt tinged with an undefinable dread. The missing hiker, David Green became my obsession. His name echoed in my mind as I walked the trails, his unseen presence a constant companion. The forest, once a source of solitude, now felt like a labyrinth, hiding secrets in

its dense foliage. The search for David was exhaustive, each day ending with the same result, nothing. Then the fire broke out. It started as a distant glow on the horizon, a small flicker amidst the darkness, but it grew quickly, hungrily, consuming everything in its path. I radioed it in, my voice steady but my hands shaking. The response was swift, a team of firefighters, their faces set in grim determination, their movements practiced and precise. For six days and nights the battle raged. The fire was relentless, a living thing with a will of its own. We dug trenches, cleared brush and set backfires. The air was thick with smoke,

the heat intense enough to sing the hairs on my arms. My body ached from the constant exertion, but I pushed on, driven by a sense of duty that was as much about self-preservation as it was about the job. When the fire was finally contained, the forest was a different place. Chard trees stood like sentinels over a scorched earth,

a blackened testament to nature's fury. The air smelled of ash and defeat. But there was no time to rest, no time to process what had happened. The missing persons cases piled up, six in total, all hikers who had been in the forest when the fire started. Their cars were found in the parking lot, their belongings untouched. It was as if they had simply vanished into the smoke. Jonathan and I combed our sectors, our search now including the burnt area. The destruction was complete, the landscape unrecognized,

It felt like walking through the aftermath of a war, the silence oppressive, the devastation complete. One morning, as I walked a familiar trail, my mind numb from the endless searching. I stumbled upon a cave, a low, mournful sound emanated from within, like a cry for help. My heart raced as I approached, my flashlight cutting through the darkness. Inside, I found a mountain lion, its eyes reflecting a primal intelligence, its body. body tense and ready. The sight of it, so wild and untamed, sent a shiver down my spine. I backed away slowly, my every instinct screaming to flee. That night, back in the watchtower, I couldn't sleep. The image of the mountain lion haunted me, its eyes a mirror to the forest itself,

wild, unfathomable, and deeply alive. I realized then that the forest was not just a backdrop to my job. It was a living entity, with its own rules and mysteries, and I was an intruder in its domain, a fact that both terrified and fascinated me. The forest had changed since the fire. The blackened trees stood like grim sentinels, guarding secrets that the flames couldn't consume. I walked the trails with a sense of purpose, each step taking me deeper into the unknown. The mystery of the missing hikers weighed heavily on me, their absence a constant reminder of the forest's deceptive tranquility. It was during one of these patrols that I found the cave. Tucked away in a part of the forest spared by the fire, it seemed like a dark mouth, ready to swallow anything that dared

enter. The air around it was cold, and as I approached, a sense of unease crept over me. I heard it before I saw it, a low guttural growl that reverberated through the still air, the mountain lion from before, its eyes gleaming in the dim light, watching me with a predator's interest. I backed away slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. There was something about that cave, something ancient and malevolent. I knew I had to explore it further, but not alone, not without being prepared. The next day I returned with Jonathan. He was armed. his revolver a small comfort against the unknown. We entered the cave cautiously,

the beam of our flashlights cutting through the darkness. The cave twisted and turned, leading us deeper into the earth. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else, something metallic. We found the room deep inside the cave. It was like stepping into another world,

a place untouched by time. The walls were lined with strange symbols, their meaning lost to the ages. In the center of the room lay a collection of objects. Clothes, tools, things that had no place in a cave deep in the forest. It was a cache of sorts,

a hoarder's treasure trove. Jonathan was tense, his revolver at the ready. We didn't speak, our silence, a mutual agreement that there were things here beyond our understanding. We left the cave with more questions than answers,

the mystery deepening with each step we took. But it was the basement that truly shook me. I found it by accident, a small opening in the ground, hidden by the charred remains of what once was a forest. I descended into the darkness, the air growing colder with each step. The basement was a tomb, a final resting place for things long forgotten. The walls were lined with shelves, each holding jars filled with unidentifiable substances.

In the center of the room lay the bodies. Six of them, arranged in a circle, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. The seventh body lay apart from the others, a dagger clutched in its lifeless hand. I stood there, frozen in shock, the horror of the scene etching itself into my memory. The silence of the basement was oppressive, a tangible reminder of the finality of death. I backed out of the basement, my mind reeling from the discovery. I knew then that the forest held secrets darker than I had. could have imagined, secrets that were now mine to uncover. That night, back in the safety of my

watchtower, I couldn't sleep. The images of the cave and the basement haunted me, their mysteries a siren call that I couldn't ignore. I knew I had to go back, to delve deeper into the forest's secrets. But I also knew that I was playing a dangerous game, one that could cost me more than I was willing to pay. The forest had become a realm of shadows and whispers. It seemed to see. It seemed, secrets gnawing at the edges of my sanity. Each night, the darkness seemed thicker, pressing against the glass of the watchtower like a tangible force. I felt it watching me, an unseen presence lurking just beyond sight. The deer creature haunted both my waking hours and my dreams. Its grotesque form, a twisted mockery of nature, seemed to symbolize the forest's hidden malevolence. I couldn't

shake the feeling that it was more than just a random occurrence, that it was connected to the cave, the basement, and the unexplained disappearances. I spent my days pouring over the cryptic message carved into the deer's body, mutmeromit ihim ednetso. The words were like a puzzle, their meaning just out of reach. I scoured the old books and maps in the watchtower, searching for any clue that might shed light on the mystery. But the answer alluded me, hidden in the shadows of forgotten lore. Then came the night that changed everything. It started as a low rumble,

a sound that seemed to come from the very heart of the earth. The watchtower shook, its timbers groaning under the strain. I looked out the window and saw it. A fire, but not like any fire I had ever seen. It was alive, writhing and twisting like a living thing. And in its heart, I saw the silhouette of the deer creature, its antlers outlined against the flames. I grabbed my rifle and radio knowing that this was the moment of truth.

The forest was no longer a place of refuge. It was a battlefield, and I was the only one left to fight. I made my way down the tower, the fire growing larger with each step. The heat was intense, the air thick with smoke and ash. I could hear the deer creature moving through the forest, its footsteps heavy and deliberate. I followed the sound. my rifle at the ready. The fire illuminated the forest in a hellish glow, casting long, dancing shadows among the trees. I felt like I was walking through a nightmare, each step

taking me deeper into the heart of darkness. Then I saw it, the deer creature standing at the edge of the fire. Its eyes glowed with an unholy light, its body twisted and malformed. It stared at me, a silent challenge in its gaze. I raised my rifle, my hands steadied. despite the fear that gripped my heart. But before I could fire, the creature moved. It was fast, impossibly fast, a blur of fur and antlers. I fired blindly, the sound of the rifle loud in the silence of the forest. But it was too late. The creature was upon me, its antlers piercing me, its breath toxic and fetid on my face. As I lay there, the life ebbing from my body, I realized the truth. The forest was not just a place of trees and

and trails. It was a living, breathing entity, ancient and powerful, and I had been nothing but a pawn in its game, a player in a story that was as old as the hills. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the fire, burning bright against the night sky, a beacon of destruction and renewal. And I knew that the forest would continue long after I was gone, its secrets hidden in the shadows, waiting for the next unwary soul to stumble upon them. hotel and rental car right, so I can tune out travel advice that's just plain wrong. Bro, Skycoin, way better than points. Never fly during a Scorpio full moon.

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Just snap a few photos and we'll take care of the rest. Who knew your questionable music taste would be a money-making machine? Your style can make you cash. Start selling on D-pop, where taste recognizes taste. I've always had this strange occurrence in the middle of the night, where I awaken at the eerie hour of 3 or 4 a.m., engulfed by an unexpected surge of energy. This peculiar habit began in my childhood, prompting my parents to consult doctors and specialists. They were perplexed, as they would often find me aimlessly darting around

the house, attempting to exhaust myself. Fearing for my safety, my parents took a drastic step to prevent me from wandering outside during my teenage years. They relocated my entire bedroom to the basement and installed a treadmill there. Extensive neurological tests yielded no conclusive results and sleeping pills proved ineffective. Thus, this midnight restlessness became a peculiar facet of my life. Now, as an adult living alone, I have discovered that the best remedy for my nocturnal restlessness is late-night walks. I embark on these solitary journeys, covering a mile or two, until I sense myself gradually winding down. Once I feel the fatigue creeping in, I retrace my steps and return home. Surprisingly, these nighttime strolls have proven to be quite therapeutic,

and I've grown to embrace them as an essential part of my nightly routine. I share this background to emphasize that walking in the middle of the night has become second nature to me. I don't experience hallucinations, fatigue, or any impediments to my senses during these walks. However, what I encountered last night defies all explanation. At precisely 3.33 in the the morning, I awoke from slumber, the time etched into my memory due to its specificity. Given my history of random awakenings between 3 and 4 a.m., I thought nothing of it, and quickly donned my sweatshirt and sweatpants. My body was already pulsating with energy, a sensation I'd grown accustomed to. I knew better than to resist the urge to walk.

As I stepped out into the deserted street, it was bathed only in the eerie glow of the moon and the dim, yellowish haze of streetlights. I've never been a fan of horror movies, but I could understand why they often took place at night. Even my tranquil suburban neighborhood assumed a sinister aspect in the hushed stillness of the night. The pounding of my own blood echoed in my ears as I ascended the steep incline toward the forest that crowned our block.

Although I walked outside at this hour every night, the disconcerting feeling of unease never waned. I followed my usual weekday route, tracing the path along the tree line and the moderately maintained sidewalk. This route led directly to an elementary school, which, on any ordinary night, would be locked and shrouded in darkness. However, as I approached, I noticed something unusual. All the lights were on. Not just a few lights, as if a teacher had forgotten to switch them off, but every single light inside the two-story concrete building was a illuminated. Moreover, I could discern silhouettes in each window. My initial thought was that some

school event was taking place, but then I remembered the time. A sudden realization struck me. I had left my phone at home. Over the course of countless nocturnal walks, I rarely took my phone with me, as it would only serve to keep me awake, contrary to the purpose of these walks. Now, I wished I had it with me. I felt compelled to investigate further, despite the uneasy sensation that crept up my spine. A chilling shiver ran through me, regardless of the warmth provided by my clothing. Standing in the school's entrance was an impossibly tall figure. Although I was still well over a hundred feet away, I couldn't discern whether it was a man or a woman.

They filled the doorway and then some, their hunched posture indicating a height. that exceeded nine or ten feet. Common sense urged me to turn back, but my curiosity prevailed. I veered off the path to the left, which led to the woods near the school. If I intended to share my discovery with anyone, I needed more than just a vague description of a tall, eerie figure near the school. So I stealthily ventured into the woods, all the while keeping an eye on the figure lingering at the entrance as I disappeared into the dense foliage. I had about 20 feet of cover ahead of me to formulate a plan. I couldn't take any photographs due to the absence of my phone, and if there was any potential danger, it was unlikely that anyone would hear my screams from the

isolated spot I was in. Nevertheless, I pressed forward. Emerging from the woods near the western entrance of the school, I lost sight of the figure at the front door. This lack of visibility unsettled me, but I continued. I cautiously approached the school, keen to catch a glist. A glimpse, glimpse through one of the many illuminated windows. The first floor, where my niece had attended school nearly a decade ago, contained homeroom classrooms. I crept closer, not spotting any other figures outside, and peered into my niece's former classroom. Although I stood about 10 feet away from the window, it was evident that something was amiss. The classroom bore no resemblance to a typical school setting. Instead, it resembled a laboratory, massive jars containing murky liquids,

tubes running through the hallway, and hefty power cables protruding from the walls filled the room. In the corner lurked, cloaked, corpulent figure, contorting as if straining against some invisible force. It was too large to be a human, with an almost comical width and roundness, yet it moved in a manner characteristic of a person. Just before it spun around, I hastily lowered myself to avoid being noticed. However, I managed to catch a glimpse of what it was clutching, an oversized rat-like creature with human eyes and human teeth. It was at that moment I wished I had my phone with me.

You see, I failed to mention a significant detail about my sleeping troubles. I also suffered from night terrors, although they weren't a nightly occurrence, when they did manifest, they were exceptionally vivid. This rat-human hybrid creature was a recurring entity in my night terrors, an entity I had witnessed sitting in the corner of my room since childhood, and now I was encountering it just up the street. At that moment I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream,

but no matter how many times I pinched myself, I couldn't awaken. I had no choice but to continue observing. The next classroom over was unfamiliar to me, containing several hooded figures, each with a different size and peculiar physique. They had strapped some grotesque creature to a large gurney, a creature that resembled a real-life boogeyman. They showed it a series of photographs of children, while another hooded figure made incisions into its dark, hardened flesh. I couldn't hear what was transpiring inside, but I witnessed the creature snapping and graven. growling at them. I dared not linger there for too long. As I passed by several more classrooms, each more bewildering and terrifying than the last, I eventually reached another unnervingly familiar

sight, the elementary school gymnasium. Inside, I saw hundreds, if not thousands, of shadows. These were not the typical shadow people one might read about online. These were tangible shadows of individuals I knew. It was a common theme in my night terrors. I would encounter the shadow of someone I recognized, only for it to engage in horrifying acts, such as self-harm or attempting to attack me. This particular scene was too much for me to bear, and I decided to head back home. The sights I had witnessed were too bizarre and inexplicable for anyone to believe. For all I knew, this was still a dream. However, as I turned to make my way back to the woods. I spotted him. The ten-foot-tall man from the school's

entrance was now traversing the woods. His grotesquely scarred and pallid face, marred by a gaping hole where his nose should have been, indicated that he was searching for something, or rather someone. Me. I didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through my veins, and I bolted in the direction of my house. I could hear pounding footsteps behind me, but I dared not glance back. I had stumbled upon something unspeakably horrific and beyond comprehension, and it was abundantly clear that it did not want to be seen. It didn't want me seeing it. I raced back into my house, rushing to my bedroom and slamming the door shut. Trembling, I huddled beneath the covers, feeling like a frightened child.

I glanced at the clock, fully expecting hours to have passed. But to my astonishment, the time still read three thirty-thirty-thirty-thirty-thouled. in the morning. Desperately, I tried to ward off sleep. I knew it wouldn't end well if I succumb to slumber. Despite my efforts, my body eventually betrayed me, and I reluctantly drifted into a fitful sleep. I couldn't recall the specifics of my dreams, between 4 a.m. and 7.45 a.m. when I awoke, but I knew they had been nightmarish. Scratches adorned my arms, and my nails were chewed down, an extreme physical reaction I hadn't experienced since my childhood when my night terrors were at their worst.

These nightly walks had typically kept them at bay, but it seemed this particular night had exacerbated them. After witnessing those bizarre scenes in the classrooms, I dreaded to think about what horrors my subconscious had conjured. And then, there was the note. Scrawled in my own handwriting on a slip of paper next to my bed was a chilling message. Don't come back.

I find myself utterly bewildered by the events of last night, and consumed by fear about what may transpire tonight. It's nearing midnight, and I'm apprehensive about succumbing to sleep. I understand how insane this all sounds, but I'm convinced I wasn't dreaming. That school was a nightmarish factory where unspeakable horrors were being created, horrors that I had only ever encountered in my nightmares. I can't help but wonder if any of you have glimpsed these scenes.

same terrors that now haunt my waking hours. My name is Ken, and I'm an anthropology student who grew up in North America, listening to the mysterious stories my grandfather, an immigrant from the former Soviet Union used to tell. His house always had an enigmatic atmosphere, filled with memories and peculiar objects from that distinct nation. My family had immigrated from the USSR decades ago, but my grandfather carried with him a baggage of skepticism and a story that he held dearly. At 86 years old, he remained strong and skeptical, always ready to discredit or mock certain beliefs, be they folklore or political ideologies. He used to say that ideologies were the mythology of a man who thought himself intelligent.

However, there was one specific legend he dared not joke about or even mention. I recall a time when my older cousin Nicholas casually mentioned the name of that creature as a joke during a family gathering at my grandfather's house, only to receive a stern reprimand. After that incident, we never spoke of it again, neither at my grandfather's house nor at any other family gathering. I'm sharing this for a reason. He told me about it during our last visit. We have a close relationship, and I often visit him. not to brag, and I pray that neither Nicholas nor any of the others see this, but I am his favorite. He always tells me how much I resemble him when he was my age, and I receive many gifts from him. This time, however, I was visiting him with a purpose. In college we were studying Slavic culture, the differences in the development of eastern and western Europe,

and who better to talk about it than my old Soviet grandfather? I called him, asking if he was free, and we were. arranged to have coffee in the afternoon. He prefers climates that remind him of home, snow, mountains. Therefore, he lives near Aspen, Colorado. It's about a two-hour drive until you spot his castle, by which I mean a wooden cabin he built himself. It's a charming place to say the least. We talked for a long time, losing track of how late it had become. He shared stories of happy days, his childhood running through the streets of Moscow, his beloved Babushka, the monks distributed bread in the city. Due to my young age, he didn't provide many details about the war since he

remembers very little. His father was a radio operator and his mother a seamstress. He had a good education, learning to read early, with early exposure to his favorite authors, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche. His stories filled more than ten pages, and while I'd love to share them, they don't fit the purpose of this occasion. I'm here to report what has. I'm here to report what happen next. I glanced at the clock and almost jumped backward. It was almost 9 p.m. and it was really late. I grabbed my coat from the bench, saying I was leaving. He didn't even say goodbye. I thought he hadn't heard. But upon opening the door to go to my car and seeing the snow falling heavily, rapidly increasing in level, I returned and found his sarcastic smile.

Ken, he said, you'll have to spend the night here, lad. It's not safe to hit the the road in these conditions. The old man was right, and I believe he was also happy to have some company. Since my grandmother passed away, he feels quite lonely, so I was also glad to keep him company. He made a batch of black bread and borsed for us to eat. While he poured the hot soup, he looked outside, closed the curtains, and sat in his armchair, more solemn this time. Ken, he said, you came here wanting to know about my history, but there's something I left out. There are reasons why I didn't talk about it, but look, I'm getting old, don't have much time left, and I need to tell someone. Don't say that, Grandpa, I replied, referring to his earlier

remark about not having much time. You're so fit that you could outlive us all. We laughed. But now, seriously, he continued, I need to tell you what made me leave my country and start a life here. The following account is a transcription of my grandfather's words. I can't vouch for its accuracy, but if a man as skeptical as him asserts it with such certainty, God, what might exist out there without our knowledge. I was around 25 when it happened. You must remember that I was a metallurgical worker, strong and full of vigor at the time. As a result, I enjoyed nights socializing with factory comrades, getting drunk, and going out with girls. He looked at the icon on his table as if reflecting, regretting past indulgences.

That night, I hadn't been drinking. I was too busy trying to win over a German beauty at the bar. My friends left while I was still talking to her, attempting to convince her to come to my place. She left soon after, leaving my night to end sober and alone, a true loss. He chuckled. Without the comfort of vodka to warm my thoughts, I had no choice. but to walk home. Public transport, already scarce, had ceased its operation at that hour, and vagabonds roamed the streets. If a cop caught you, well, you better have a really good excuse. I must have walked about two blocks after leaving the bar when, turning into a narrow alley, I came across. It. His gaze was uneasy, as was his voice and the swallow in his throat.

It was a slender thing, pale, leaning over a guy I did. didn't know, but God rest his soul. The man's coat was stained with blood, a large hole in the fabric revealing a side wound. The thing seemed to be draining the crimson liquid oozing from the wound. I took a few steps back, but it was too late. The devil's spawn had seen me, looked at me while growling, and its eyes were so, so bright. His hand holding the coffee cup was trembling. I turned around to start running, but I could hear its agile footsteps behind me. glancing back i saw it running on all fours like an animal i could see my door just over fifty meters away when it pounced on me knocking me down i turned and saw its deformed face a few inches from mine it growled while its iron-like breath flooded my nostrils the creature seemed prepared to make me its victim just like the previous man but upon opening my coat it encountered my crucifix he clutched the crucifix around his neck a constant companion since i can remember

for a brief moment the creature hesitated fell backward and i not being a fool continued running i almost broke down my door with the speed i rushed at it i could see the beast regaining composure and coming this time more furious I had already entered, but there was no way to close the door before it arrived. It was a few meters away when it stopped, out of nowhere. It stared at me. My legs wobbled. It circled for a few moments and then left. I closed the door while breathing heavily, collapsing into the armchair, utterly incapable of standing.

My breath condensed into dense, wet clouds when a quick, subtle knock on my door made me jump, a knock that seemed to echo the sinister events of that night. He made the sign of the cross. Are you scared, lad? Relax. If it's one of those things, I have a bag of garlic in the kitchen. He laughed again to himself as he walked to the door. A muffled voice through layers of clothing sounded.

Hey, is anyone home? My car is stuck in the snow, and I can't go back home. Can I come in and use your phone? My eyes met my grandfather's. What kind of twist of fate was this? I looked out the window, someone in a thick orange coat, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face, and a beanie on their head. My grandfather opened the door. Do you want to use my phone?

He said, stepping back. Yes, please. The voice seemed clearer now, without a door in the middle, and she pulled the scarf slightly away from her mouth. My grandfather stared at her. I swear I won't take long. I just... With a subtle movement, my old... old man had taken off his crucifix. The creature was now retreating. You're getting old,

Mikhail. You won't stand there forever. She hissed as she moved away from the door and disappeared into the forest. That was the same girl from that night. My grandfather seemed somewhat affected. He tried to conceal it with his characteristic manner, but I noticed. He didn't let me leave until he was sure the sun covered the entire plane. I came home. constantly checking my rear-view mirror and taking extra care when entering my house. It's been a few months since that happened, and I'm finally reporting it. Two weeks after that encounter, he disappeared. Shortly afterward, presumed dead, probably some animal got him or his old age and confused mind,

made him lose his way. We'll never know. But I know one thing. My grandfather told me that for a reason, and if that thing crossed the ocean to reach him, How much time do I have before someone knocks on my door? They say everything happens for a reason, but I suspect everything happens for a recesses. Like this commercial break. Did you need 15 seconds away from music?

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medications, including botulinum toxins, as these may increase the risk of serious side effects. Why wait? Ask your doctor, visit Botoxchronic migraine.com or call 1-800-44 Botox to learn more. Spring just slid into your DMs. Grab that boho look for that rooftop dinner, those sandals that can keep up with you, and hang some string lights to give your patio a glow-up. Springs Calling. Ross, work your magic. I've never been one for ghost stories or tales of things that go bump in the night. My name's Max, and I guess you could say I'm a practical guy.

My journey across Canada was meant to be a break from the constant buzz of city life, a chance to find some peace. But, as I was about to find out, sometimes life has other plans. The trip had been pretty uneventful until I reached a town on the edge of this vast, eerie forest in Canada. That's where I met Sarah. She was the kind of person you feel like you've known forever, even if you've just met. Sarah was an artist, always with a sketchbook in hand, and she seemed to find something magical in every little thing. She was full of stories and had this easygoing charm that made everything seem like an adventure. We hit it off right away,

and before I knew it, I was inviting her to join me on my drive through the forest to the next town. I figured it wouldn't hurt to have some company, and Sarah was more than happy to tag along. The drive was smooth at first. Sarah pointed out every scenic spot and told me all these quirky tales about the area. It was fun, and I found myself enjoying her company more than I expected. Then, as if on cue, my car decided it needed a break. Right in the middle of nowhere, it just sputtered and died. Great, right?

There I was. a guy who prides himself on being prepared, stranded in the middle of a forest with a girl I'd just met. But Sarah, she was incredible. She just laughed it off, joking about forest spirits having a bit of fun with us. As the sun began to set, the forest started to look different. The shadows grew longer, and everything seemed a bit more, I don't know, mysterious, I guess. I remember trying to sound cool and in control when I suggested we camp there for the night. Inside, though, I was kicking myself for not paying more attention to those stories about the woods.

Sarah seemed thrilled by the idea of an impromptu camping trip. As twilight wrapped around us, I felt this weird mix of excitement and nervousness. I've always been a city guy, so spending a night in the woods was way out of my comfort zone, but there was something about Sarah's enthusiasm that was contagious. We sat by my car, the only source of light around us, The forest was eerily quiet, and for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the world. Sarah then started talking about the legends of the forest, whispering about ancient spirits and Wendigows. I tried to laugh it off. You don't really believe in that stuff, do you? I asked,

but my voice betrayed a hint of doubt. She just looked at me, her eyes reflecting the dim light, and said something that stuck with me. Sometimes, Max, there are things in this world, that can't be explained by logic or reason. I didn't know what to make of it. The forest around us seemed to grow denser, the silence more profound. That's when we heard it, a howl that cut through the night.

It was unlike anything I'd ever heard, a sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sarah's grip on my hand tightened, and for the first time I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. That's just an animal, right? I whispered. More to reassure a little. myself than her. But Sarah didn't answer. She just stared into the darkness, as if she could see

something I couldn't. I'll never forget that night, the way the darkness seemed to press in on us, full of secrets and whispers. It was the beginning of an adventure I never expected, one that would challenge everything I thought I knew. That night in the Canadian forest was like something out of a storybook, except it was real, and I was living it. after the car broke down sarah and i decided to make the best of it we were stranded but she seemed to find the whole situation exciting i tried to match her enthusiasm but deep down i was uneasy as the darkness enveloped the woods the atmosphere changed the playful shadows of the afternoon turned into something more ominous sarah who had been full of lively stories during the day became more reflective She talked about the legends of the forest, about ancient spirits and mythical creatures like Wendigoes, which she said were creatures of the night that preyed on lost souls.

I tried to laugh it off, but her tales, mixed with the eerie setting, made my skin crawl. I've always been a skeptic, but that night, every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves had me jumping. Sarah seemed to sense my unease and squeezed my hand reassuringly. It's just the forest, she whispered. her voice barely audible over the sounds of the night. Then, out of nowhere, a dog appeared. It was a strange-looking creature with a collar made of tiny bones. Sarah was fascinated by it and mentioned seeing a similar dog on a wanted poster back in town.

The dog seemed friendly enough, and its presence was oddly comforting amidst the weirdness of our situation. We sat by the car, the dog at our feet, and watched the stars peek through the treetops. Despite the beauty of the night sky, I couldn't shake off the feeling that we weren't alone. The forest felt alive, watching and waiting. Sarah's stories about the woods continued. She spoke of people who had disappeared, of strange sightings and unexplained phenomena. I wanted to believe it was all just folklore, but part of me wondered if there was some truth to her tales. That's when it happened.

A howl pierced the night, unlike any animal sound I'd ever heard. heard. It was long, mournful, and seemed to come from everywhere at once. The dog perked up, its ears twitching, and then bolted into the darkness. Sarah and I exchanged a look of alarm. We should follow it, she said, and without waiting for my response, she was off into the woods. Chasing after her, my heart pounded in my chest. The forest was a maze of shadows and shapes that played tricks on my eyes. Every step felt like we were moving deeper into another world. I called out for the dog, but there was no sign of it, just the sound of our footsteps and the occasional distant howl. We wandered for what felt like

hours, the darkness around us growing thicker with each passing minute. I couldn't help but think about Sarah's stories. My rational mind told me there was a logical explanation for everything we were experiencing, but in the heart of that forest, logic seemed to have little place. Finally, exhausted and lost, we stopped, the dog was nowhere to be found, and the howling had ceased. The silence was oppressive, and for the first time since I started my journey across Canada, I felt truly scared. I looked at Sarah, trying to find some reassurance in her eyes, but she looked just as lost and afraid as I felt. That night in the woods, under the watchful gaze of the ancient trees and the starlit sky, I began to question everything I thought I knew. The forest held.

secrets, and Sarah and I had stumbled right into the middle of them. As we huddled together for warmth, waiting for the dawn, I realized that this adventure was only just beginning. The deeper we ventured into the forest, the more I realized how out of my element I was. The once comforting presence of Sarah and the mysterious dog was now replaced by an overwhelming sense of solitude. I had lost track of time and direction. The trees seemed to loom over us. There are branches like arms trying to snatch us away. I remember tripping over something. It happened so fast. One moment I was on my feet, the next I was tumbling to the ground. The world spun, and then there was darkness. When I finally came to, the first thing I noticed was the silence. It was suffocating.

I called out for Sarah, but there was no answer. The dog was gone too. Panic set in as I realized I was alone. I scrambled to my feet, my head pounding with a ferocious headache. The forest was a blur of greens and browns, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. I had to find Sarah and the dog. I had to get out of this forest. As I stumbled through the woods, a sense of dread grew within me. The stories Sarah had told me echoed in my mind, tales of spirits and creatures that lurked in the shadows. Every snapped twig or rustling leaf sent a shiver down my spine. I was lost, both physically and mentally, in a world I didn't understand. After what felt like hours, I came across a cave. It looked ominous, like the mouth of some giant beast. I hesitated, but the thought of Sarah alone and

scared pushed me forward. I entered the cave, my heart racing with every step. The cave was darker than the night outside, and the air felt thick and heavy. I moved cautiously, feeling my way along the walls. My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and that's when I saw it, a scene that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Bodies were strewn across the cave floor. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. Among the lifeless figures I saw her, Sarah. She was lying unconscious, her face pale in the dim light. Relief and horror washed over me in equal measure. She was alive, but we were in grave danger. That's when I heard it, a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. My blood ran cold. I remembered Sarah's stories

about the Wendigo, a creature of nightmares. I never believed in them, but now, faced with the unknown, doubt crept in. I knew I had to act fast. Gently, I lifted Sarah into my arms. She was surprisingly light, but every movement was a struggle against fear and uncertainty. I had to get us out of there. As I made my way back towards the cave entrance, every shadow seemed to move, every sound a potential threat. My mind was racing with thoughts of the Wendigo. Was it just a story, or was there truth to the legend?

When I finally emerged from the cave, the forest seemed different. It was as if the trees knew what lay hidden in the depths of that cave. The once welcoming woods now felt like a prison, holding secrets too dark for the light of day. I didn't stop to look back. With Sarah in my arms, I pushed through the underbrush, desperation giving me strength. The forest that had once seemed magical was now a labyrinth of fear and mystery. I had come to Canada seeking peace,

but what I found was a nightmare that would stay with me. me forever. The forest was a blur as I carried Sarah through it. My mind was a mess of fear and confusion. Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig underfoot made me flinch. The terrifying encounter in the cave and the shocking discovery of the bodies, along with Sarah unconscious in my arms, weighed heavily on me. But here's the twist. This isn't my story. I'm not Max. I'm a member of the search and rescue team that was sent out to find Max and Sarah after they went missing. What I'm about to tell you is piece together from a journal we found near the cave. It belonged to Max, and it was filled with entries that described their journey into the forest,

the breakdown of his car, the eerie tales Sarah told, and their terrifying encounter in the cave. As we read through the pages, a sense of dread filled us. The details were vivid, the emotions raw. It wasn't just a story. It felt real, too real. The journal ended abruptly, leaving us with more questions than answers. We knew we had to find the cave Max wrote about. We found it all right, and it was just as Max had described. The cave was unsettling, an air of danger lingering at its entrance.

We ventured inside, our flashlights cutting through the darkness. There were no bodies, no sign of Max or Sarah, just the remnants of that dog, Max. mentioned, and these weird, wooden stick figures with strands of hair that matched the DNA of Max and Sarah. It was creepy, to say the least. We searched the area for days, calling out their names, hoping for a response that never came. The forest seemed to swallow up any sound we made. It was like stepping into another world, one that was not meant for us. The experience left us shaken. The mystery of what happened to Max and Sarah hung over us like a dark, dark cloud. We had to face the fact that we might never find out the truth. The forest kept

its secrets well. After the search was called off, I couldn't shake off the feeling that we had missed something, that there was more to the story than what we found in Max's journal, the tales of the Wendigo, the mysterious dog, the strange figures in the cave. It all seemed like pieces of a puzzle we couldn't solve. I went back to the forest many times after that. drawn by a need to understand, to find some closure. But each visit left me with more questions. The forest was silent, as if mocking my efforts. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this.

Maybe it's a warning to stay away from places that are better left unexplored. Or maybe it's just a way to keep the memory of Max and Sarah alive. Their story is a reminder of the mysteries that exist in this world, mysteries that we may never understand. As for the forest, it remains there, untouched and unyielding, a reminder of the unknown that lurks just beyond the edge of our understanding. And as for Max and Sarah, there are just two more names added to the long list of those who ventured into the unknown and never returned.