Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 65 Scary Stories to Help You Sleep, Relax, or Kill Boredom | 11+ Hour Mega Compilation

Episode Date: June 28, 2024

Looking for some spine-chilling tales to help you unwind, fall asleep, or pass the time? Look no further! Dive into this collection of 65 creepy stories that will send shivers down your spine and keep you on the edge of your seat. Perfect for late-night listening, relaxation, or when you're looking for a thrilling way to kill boredom at home or work. Get ready for a mix of ghostly encounters, mysterious happenings, and eerie twists that will captivate your imagination. Let these scary stories transport you to a world of suspense and mystery as you wind down for the night. So grab your favorite blanket, dim the lights, and get ready for a hair-raising experience! Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #JustCreepy #Skinwalker #Forest #NationalForest 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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I've been hiking and camping for as long as I can remember. I was an Eagle Scout, and after that, I managed to convince a few high school and then college friends to come along on a few trips with me. My passion for the outdoors stayed strong long after graduation. But as all of my old hiking buddies started dropping out of the hobby, it got harder and harder to put a trip together. In the end, it seemed like if I wanted to go hiking as regularly as I wanted to, I was going to have to start going solo. solo. Solo hiking seemed kind of lame at first. I mean, what good are all these experiences if you can't share them with someone? Hardship and struggle forge very strong bonds between people, and that was half the joy of it. Each trip would bring another set of adventures and memories. I'm talking

about real experiences too, not just getting drunk and sharing funny videos with each other. But as it turns out, solo hiking is actually pretty fun. Suddenly, I wasn't constrained by what anybody else wanted to do, where they wanted to go, or when a trip could take place. I could just think it up and do it, clock out of work on a Friday afternoon, and then spend the whole weekend in the woods before being back in bed on Sunday night. Don't mind if I do. Take off for a whole week to hike a section of the Great Appalachian? Why not? The only real issue with going solo is safety. I grew to envy my European counterparts, especially those in the United Kingdom. They can head out alone with nothing but a fully charged phone, a spot of tea, and a few crumpets, you know.

Whereas here in the United States you need bear mace, a GPS system, sometimes a gun if you want to feel really safe and secure. I'm not saying I was terrified every time I went anywhere, but you hear enough stories to know it's better to be caught packing than caught lacking. I only brought a gun with me once when I was up in the Sierra's, and that was for the bears and big cats. But much like anywhere else, a person might go. It's not really the wildlife that you need to be afraid of. It's the people. Like I mentioned, you hear some really crazy stories, and I heard a lot of them right up until I stumbled into my very own cautionary tale, one that started with me meeting a girl.

So this one weekend, I decided to take a trip over to Hammersley Wild Air, which is like a designated wilderness spot sandwiched between elk and Susquehannock State Parks. As the name suggests, it's one of the wilder, more secluded areas of natural beauty in the state of Pennsylvania. You've got to drive out to this little place called Cross Forks, and then turn down a little side road until the blacktop ends and the trail begins. There's one or two small houses out there, but they don't mind you parking there so long as you don't leave a mess. and the place is so off the beaten path that there's hardly anyone else there to worry about messing with your ride.

But then I rolled up late Friday afternoon, and there's another car there with a girl leaning up against it. She's cute, dressed in hiking gear, but she looks angry, not exactly furious or anything, but super annoyed at something. I parked a distance from her, not wanting to crowd her or draw any anger or anything like that, and then got out and started pulling my gear out of my trunk. I didn't want to be a creep and start any unwanted conversation or anything, so I just resigned myself to walking past her and minding my own business. But as I started on my walk, we made a little awkward eye contact, and we kind of fell into conversation.

We swapped hellos, and I asked her if she was okay, and she replied no, and well, that was that. It turns out that she had a friend stand her up for a hike that she'd been really looking forward to, and wasn't looking forward to driving all the way back home with nothing to show for it. She was debating going up the trail alone, but also wanted to see if she could convince her friend to come out anyway, as she was well aware that hiking alone as a female was not the brightest of ideas. I told myself it was the polite thing to do, but I also knew that inviting her to hike with me was a great way of getting to know a very pretty girl that clearly

shared a passion for the outdoors. So I did just that and asked her if she wanted to come to join me. There was this definite moment of hesitation from her. She didn't look like the kind of girl to just go walking down some remote forest trail with a complete stranger, and for a second there, I figured that she was going to politely decline me. But then, there was this sort of flash of spontaneity in her eye before she looked at me with a big smile and said, sure. She told me her name was Ali, and as we walked I explained that I was planning on making camp somewhere to stay for the weekend, but then I'd be happy to walk her back to her car once she was ready to leave. She thanked me, said that I was sweet for offering, and then carried on

breaking the ice and swapping small talk. Then, once we got more comfortable with one another, I can safely say that it made for one of the best first dates that I'd ever been on. It definitely had this kind of vibe to it. I'm no Disney Prince or anything like that, but I'm not terrible to look at, and I know when a girl is flirting with me and not just being polite or nice or whatever. So, as we walked and talked, I started getting pretty excited about where this might lead. It had been a while since I tried any dating, and my brief kind of jump into Tinder had been a total disaster.

I always found it much more appealing to meet a person naturally rather than to use the internet to sort of force it, but as I'm sure many of you will agree, that's much easier said than done. Given how it was a mutual interest, we talked a lot about hiking at first, places we'd been, close calls that we'd had and stuff like that. But as time went on, we started talking about other things too, like our jobs, our families, and relationships. She told me that she'd been single for a while but wasn't looking for anything at that moment, but she was also quick to add, that if the right thing came along, she'd been open to changing her mind about the whole not-looking thing. It seemed like a loaded statement, but it was a very welcome one. And as we continued to walk,

I wondered if that chance meeting with her was the start of some lifelong romance. Now, looking back on it, I actually cringe at how naive that sounds, but I guess loneliness is a hell of a thing. Maybe about an hour into our hike, we were walking along the edge of the stream, when Ali stopped to take a picture. She then asked me to give her a second while she texted her friend, saying that she didn't have enough signal for a call but could probably force a text through. To me, it was a very familiar little dance. Hamersley is pretty close to a town, but thanks to all the hills surrounding it, cell signal was kind of hard to come by. While she was texting, I wandered back downstream a little bit, just waiting for Allie to finish up doing her thing,

when something caught my eye, maybe 50 or 60 yards downstream, a flash of movement in the trees, only very slightly, but I 100% saw something for sure. I walked back to Allie to ask if she had any bear spray or anything on her, but when she said yes, I wasn't completely reassured. It was nice that we'd both be able to defend ourselves in the event of an animal attack, but at the same time, I didn't want anything to ruin our hike, especially if that thing happened to be bare-shaped. I told her I thought that I might have spotted something downstream.

She said that she'd keep her eyes peeled, and then we went off on our way as usual. Maybe an hour later, half hour later, we came out of the trees and onto a wide-open meadow that sloped slightly upwards. When we got to the top, or rather, where the gentle slope turned into a steep hill, we stopped and turned around to take in the view. Nothing had followed us out into the meadow,

so I figured that we were okay on the wild animal front. But just to be safe, I decided to pull out this little monocular, or spyglass for you pirate fans, that I was carrying with me to check out the tree line below us. I scanned, and I don't see anything, but then I scanned it a second time, and I see a dark figure moving parallel to the tree line. I can't really make out any details because of the difference in the field,

but there was definitely something there, and right when I thought that they might just be some, fellow innocent hiker that I was making the object of my own paranoia, the figure stopped, turned their profile, and just stayed still. At first, I thought they might have been taking a leak or something, but then it hit me. They were watching us. I immediately directed Allie's attention to the figure, pointing out where I'd been looking before handing her the spyglass. She put it to her eye, listened again as I gave her directions where to look, but then gave me some skeptical reply when I asked her if she could see anything. She asked me if I was 100% sure

that the person had been watching us, and to be fair, I didn't know for certain. I just had a bad feeling based off the previous little flash of movement in the trees back near the stream. I tried again to get her to look in the right spot, then politely took the spyglass back from her to look for myself. And when I did, I saw that there was no one there, or at least, there was no one in the spot that I'd been originally looking. I scanned the tree line for a third time in almost as many minutes, and that time, there was nothing there. But I still felt very uneasy, and suggested that we just move on.

Our original plan had been to hike around the base of the hill that we'd come to, then head back down the same trail to where Allie's car was parked. But because of how uneasy I felt, I suggested that we walk a longer route so we wouldn't have to double back on ourselves. I could see that Allie was starting to get a little suspicious of my intentions there. She was having to agree to go on a short hike with some stranger, probably out of sheer politeness. And there I was, trying to talk her into further going into the wilderness

with talk of some shadowy pursuers. She seemed skeptical, but she agreed, most likely knowing that she could turn the bear mace on me if I started to get a little fresh, which I wasn't. After walking another mile or so, the tension had started to clear up though. No one was following us anymore. At least they didn't appear to be,

and I was starting to think that I was just being overly paranoid, like it was the nerves of trying to shoot my shot bleeding over into something else, you know? And speaking of which, that's pretty much all I was focused on from there on out. Ali kept reassuring me, making lighthearted comments about me being desperate for an excuse to save her, so I found myself getting more and more chill and forgetting what I assumed was just a coincidence. Not long after walking back into the forest, we hit what I like to call the babbling brook. I first heard that term in a Bob Ross video that I saw on YouTube,

and this place is one of the larger streams, looking like something the man himself would have painted. People sometimes give Pennsylvania a hard time, given how industrialized parts of it are, but there's plenty of natural beauty to be had here. and in sharing it with my potential date, I was hoping to up my chances a little. Allie seemed delighted with it and started snapping pictures while I paced around with a smug smile on my face. She liked the place so much she wanted to hang out there for a while to take a breather and eat some snacks, and while we did, she was planning on texting her friend the pictures, signal permitting, to show her what she was missing out on.

While Ali was keeping busy trying to text, I excused myself to just to just. go take a leak somewhere private, and then head it off into the trees to find somewhere secluded. I find a spot and do my thing. Then, just as I'm turning around to head back, I hear something in the trees behind me. I'm instantly reminded of that sensation of being followed, only this time I actually make an effort to find out if there's anything or anyone that was trailing us. I started walking directly towards where I'd heard the noise, calling out and asking if there was anyone there. And that's when I see him. this big guy wearing hiking gear and walking away from me at a pace I found reassuring in a way,

like I could give him the benefit of the doubt, but at the same time, I was now confronted with evidence that we were being followed. Hammersley is a big place, and sure, it gets kind of busy on a weekend, but not on a Friday afternoon, which is half the reason I like to get a head start by arriving at that very time. The chances of just running into someone, especially off the trails, are slim to none. So as much as I was in a state of being, convinced that we were being followed, I still wanted to confront that guy to at least make sure. I called out to him, not in some overly aggressive way,

just to get his attention, you know? I planned on asking him something fairly innocent like, Are you okay? Or something like that, just to gauge his mood. But when he turned, I was stunned into silence. He was dressed like a hiker all right, but he had these thick, heavy-looking gloves on, almost like those riot gloves that you see with the hard knuckles, and the lower half of his face was covered with a hunting gator, the kind where only the person's eyes are showing.

While a face covering like that was totally normal during 2020 and 2021 and still kind of accepted today, you see back in 2015, it was definitely not a regular thing to see, especially since the guy didn't have any kind of orange indicators on his clothing for hunting, or more importantly, no weapon that I could see. I was sort of relieved to see no weapon in his hands, but the fact that he was covering his face meant that he was obviously up to no good. And then there was the fact that he just refused to respond to me

when I finally did ask him if everything was okay. He just gave me this sort of death stare for a second, and then turned again and walked off into the woods. Now my mind is rushing like a mile a minute by this point. Following us down a single trail was one thing, but this dude had potentially tracked us across an open meadow, and then it just so happened to stay on our trail, even though we traversed the hill and picked up a seemingly random route. I'd like to think of myself as kind of an outdoorsman, but to me, those were some freaky accurate tracking skills. And if this guy was using his powers for evil, then that was going to be a big problem for us.

I rushed back to Ali, told her exactly what I'd seen, and told her that we needed to move fast. I told her that I knew it sounded crazy, and that I totally understood why she'd think that I was a creep, or whatever. But I'd rather she think that I was a creep and live than not act on anything and risk both of our lives. So much horrifying stuff seems to happen because people don't stop and just tell themselves, this isn't normal or safe, and I need to leave. and I was having one of those moments right there. I gave my little speech at Tommy Gunspeed, you know, and I honestly thought that I had convinced her for a second.

But when I was done, and I started walking off while beckoning her to follow me, she just stayed put. I remember saying, we need to leave Allie now. But instead of following me, she gave me a mouthful. She told me I was acting like a total jerk, and that if we were being followed, she'd have known something about it. She wasn't some defenseless little girl either, so she resented me acting like it. According to her, just because someone happened to be on our trail didn't mean they were acting maliciously.

They were all good points, and on any other occasion, I might have echoed them back to her. But I knew this was not any other occasion. Something was quite obviously shady with this weirdo, and we needed to exercise the proper caution, stat. and it was about then that I started to notice this sort of gradual change in the way Allie was talking to me. It went from something like, come on dude, you're being ridiculous, and urging me to stay, to accusing me of being a mixture of dumb, cowardly, and mentally ill. I wanted to walk her back to her car. She wanted to stay put and not even move on to someplace else downstream.

And if I wanted to move or leave her, then I wasn't half the man I thought I was. among other personal attacks from her. I just remember being confused beyond belief. It honestly felt like a weird dream. It seemed like any girl in her right mind would at least be kind of alarmed at the prospect of being followed by a man wearing a mask. But here was Allie,

not even in the least bit bothered by the sight of me being visibly shaken up as I warned her of the potential danger. The only mitigating factor, I guess, was this idea that she thought it was me who was trying to trick her into, I don't know, going someplace more remote so I could go all Ted Bundy on her without being discovered. That I totally understood, and I suspected that her reluctance was coming from there and not being dumb or naive or untrusting enough to not respond to

my warnings. We were both being pretty loud by that point, arguing back and forth, and it hit me that our volume would make it very easy for someone to both zero in on us and catch us unaware. I remember looking around just to make sure that we were still alone and felt that creeping, skin-crawling feeling that comes with knowing that you're actually being watched. I honestly thought that if I just started to walk off, that Allie would come to her senses somehow and follow. So that's what I did. I started walking off, looking back just once to see if she was going to follow or not.

She looked furious, though, I mean really angry. and it was obviously because she wasn't going to get her way, but there was something else to it too. She wasn't going to get her way, but what she intended wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing that she could carry on doing without me. It was something that she had put a lot of time and effort and excitement into, something that was so close to coming together but was falling apart at the last minute.

I guess with the gift of hindsight, some of you have figured out by now, but in that moment, what was actually going on was, almost completely inconceivable to me. Almost, but not quite. I realized that two of the big questions in front of me had answers that were intrinsically linked. The reason why the guy in the hunting gear could find it so easy was interwoven with the reason why Allie wanted to stay in that exact spot near the babbling brook. The masked stranger and my new hiking companion were working together. Now I know I couldn't have known that for certain in that moment, and I'm not sure I could even describe how quick and how panicked my thought process was in that moment. But again, it was a

case of, get the hell out of there, be wrong but live, or I could not trust my gut and potentially run into something I wouldn't walk away from. And being the kind of person I am, I chose the path of least resistance. I started walking off, still in disbelief of how surreal it all was. It was a real, this could not be happening right now kind of moment, like I couldn't believe how things had started off so well but gone so horribly wrong in just an hour or two. But I could at least still see the funny side, or kind of funny side. Maybe I was being a total jerk,

and I was going to look back at that hike as being the time that I blew my shot over some weird attack of paranoia. Unfortunately, the funny side was only visible for a matter of seconds, as after that any benefit of the doubt was blown away by an ear-splitting screech that came following me through the trees. You've got to understand too that hearing these three little words probably made for the single most terrifying moment in my entire life. All I heard after a few seconds of silence was Allie screaming out, He's getting away. The second that I heard that, I just instinctively ran.

I don't know if it was finding out all that so-called paranoia had been justified, but I mean it when I say that when it all came together like that, I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I had no idea where the guy was if he was close, or what he had in his back. So I popped the clasp on my pack and wiggled it off my back, then moved my legs faster than I'd ever moved them before. And I didn't stop until I felt like puking.

I always wore a kind of fishing jacket, the kind with a lot of pockets, and I kept all my absolute essentials in there. car keys included. If they'd have been in my pack, I'd have been forced to run with it, and if that was the case, I honestly don't know if I'd be around to write this. After I stopped for maybe a minute to catch my breath, I kept pushing through the trees back towards my truck,

trying not to trip and fall on my face as I kept checking over my shoulder. I knew the guy wasn't some master tracker anymore. He'd obviously been coordinating with that so-called alley, if that even was her real name. but I still had that fear that I was going to look over my shoulder and he'd just be there. Thankfully, he wasn't, and I made it back to my truck, jumped in, and drove off. I kept telling myself that I'd call the cops the moment that I walked through the door, but when it came time to do it, I found that it might have been a bad idea.

I don't think any kind of crime had actually been committed, in which case, what exactly was I going to report. I hadn't even tried to retrieve my bag or anything, and if it was gone, the least I could report was it stolen or something. So that's what I decided to do. I waited a day to try to ensure no one was using it for bait or whatever, and then went out to retrieve it, and I found it untouched. I'd actually found myself hoping that someone had, I don't know, maybe gone through it or tried to damage it in some way, as that might yield some DNA or maybe fingerprints, I guess.

But no, my pack was just there. exactly where I dropped it, totally untouched. I had nothing to show from my experience, only my word and my memories, but as any attorney will tell you, those are about as useful to the cops as a chocolate coffee pot. There was nothing I could do. I had no recourse, nothing that wouldn't put my own safety at risk anyway. But then I realized that there was something I could do, even if it was just some insignificant internet post or email that gets ignored, downvoted.

or buried or whatever. Because if just one person reads this, who was thinking of hiking through Hammersley and actually listens and takes note, then I might just save a life. Because if I'm right and I wasn't just being completely and utterly paranoid, there's a couple out there who are setting traps for unwary male hikers, and I only avoided falling into it by the skin of my teeth.

I'm a 31-year-old female originally from Oregon, and I was 28 when the story took place, back during the whole Me Too thing. I remember talking to a friend of mine about the whole not-all-men thing. We both agreed that it's ridiculous to label all men as predators, but we disagreed on something a little more nuanced. My friend believed that since just about anyone, no matter how nice they looked or how pleasant they acted,

could be a predator. It made sense to exercise a degree of caution around every man outside of immediate family. I thought it was quite a pessimistic way of looking at things, and that it made sense to employ caution on a case-by-case basis. I'm not going to plug the first two digits of 911 into my phone if an Uber driver asks me how my day's been, but follow me down a dark side street and I'm reaching for my pepper spray.

We went back and forth like that for a while over a few glasses of alcohol, and as much as they were always friendly exchanges, we never got to any solid conclusions. However, my friend said something that really stuck with me. It's not all men. but one is enough. I had no idea how right she truly was. You see, a few months later, I drove out to government camp in my native Oregon, parked my car in the old Golden Poe's parking lot, and then headed up from my favorite trail into the foothills of Mount Hood. I went for two reasons.

Number one, I was itching to get outdoors again after six months of being locked inside. And number two, I was working on a photography project as part of my lockdown side hustle, and getting the right pictures of the mountain and its surroundings was a huge part of it. Anyway, I walked up to just about where the ski runs start, took my pictures, then started making my way back down towards town, snapping shots along the way. About halfway down, I reached a fork in the trail on my left, and when I looked, I saw someone standing there on the trail. They immediately stood out because they weren't wearing hiking gear,

and I'd never seen anyone so far up the trail who wasn't wearing ski or hiking attire. He had long hair, sneakers, baggy shorts, and a t-shirt. Just your average white skater guy, maybe 20 to 24 years old. I guess that's not entirely out of the ordinary on its own, but this guy had no backpack, no water bottle. He just looked lost. We made eye contact for a second, and I gave him a polite smile before heading off on my way. But as I did, I heard him call after me with something like, Does this trail head up the mountain? I told him no, but it would lead him to a trail that would take him up the mountain. And then, I wished him luck and carried on walking.

I don't think I even got four or five steps away before I heard him call out again. Only that time he said something so strange it actually made me do one of those silent little laughs. The guy says, and in a way that made it sound like there had been some minor confusion, Hey, uh, I think that's my bag. I stopped, smiled at how crazy of a statement it was, and then turned back and told him, with just a hint of laughter, that he must be confused. He started walking towards me slowly and casually, saying,

Nuh, that's totally my bag, I've been looking for it all afternoon. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I just slipped my backpack off my shoulder and then showed him. Like, I can promise you it's mine. It even has my name on it, see? And I showed him the tag, saying Maddie. He leaned in and squinted like the writing was tiny and not in big block capital letters, then asked me in a voice that sounded genuinely hurt,

why would you do that? I remember literally hearing that F this I'm out, jingle in my head. And this guy was either playing a stupid prank on me with his buddy recording from behind a tree, or he was actually crazy. and I wasn't about to stick around to find out which one. I turned my politeness up to 100, smiled and told him, I'm so sorry, I've got to go, I hope you find your bag okay. He stayed quiet as I turned and began to walk away,

and I found myself hoping that that would be the end of the exchange. But, as I found out, that was more wishful thinking than an accurate assessment. As the sound of his footsteps followed me down the trail, I started to get nervous. This wasn't some unusual encounter with a weirdo stranger anymore. The weirdo stranger was now following me down a quiet hillside trail with not another soul in sight. Remember what I said about pepper spray and side streets? Well, that rule applies to mountain trails too,

and I always keep one of those cute little miniature pepper sprays on my car keys. In one smooth motion, I slipped my backpack off my shoulder again, shoved a hand into the little pocket where I kept my car keys, and then shoved them into my pocket for easier access. And once that was in place, I felt a little more comfortable getting vocal again. I asked the guy if he was following me. He told me yes because I had his backpack. I told him that's not a funny joke, and it wasn't funny the first time.

And he told me it wasn't a joke. He wanted his backpack returned. And if I didn't give it to him, he was going to have to take it. As we were still walking, me with my back to him, and him about 15 feet behind me, I told the guy that it was starting to sound like he was threatening me. When he heard that, he took on this sort of indignant tone, asking me how dare I try and play the victim when it was me that had stolen his backpack. I was so convinced that it was a prank by that period that I actually stopped, turned around, and started looking for the similarly dumb-looking

skater guy with a smartphone. And looking back on it, I think that was just wishful thinking. If there was someone else there, I wasn't dealing with another crazy person. But when I realized that we were truly alone on the trail, that was not a nice feeling. I can tell you that. So once it hit me that this guy is either crazy or trying to rob me in the weirdest way imaginable, I reached for my pepper spray. I took it out, I showed him, and he pulled that frustrated card again. I told him if he doesn't stop following me, I'm going to pepper spray him,

and then I'm calling the cops. He responded by saying stuff like, Do it, call the cops. That's my bag you're carrying with my stuff in it. Once again, I told him if he came within five feet of me, I was going to pepper spray him. And then I turned back and immediately realized the problem that I was facing. If I wanted to really be safe,

I'd have to walk freaking backwards the whole rest of the way down to government camp. The best I could do was keep a minimum safe distance and just keep my hand on my pepper spray. This guy trailed me for a great, distance, for a while yelling after me as we walked down, and the more he talked, the more obnoxious he got. Like I might have mentioned at the start that he was acting polite and well-mannered, then he switched to the victim tone that he'd adopted, but as time went on, he got more and more obnoxious.

I remember at one point he said something like, I just don't understand why you're being such a bee about it. Just admit that you're wrong already, and hand over my stuff. and then as it got more aggressive, it became things like, you need therapy, you could do hours of sessions and not work out all the crap you got going on in your head. He actually said that. My blood was boiling, but I knew better than to react. If anything, he just wanted to stop me so he could close the distance again,

or failing that, he just wanted this weird attention that I chose not to give him. Aside from the occasional look over my shoulder to make sure that he wasn't trying to, trying to close in on me, I tried not to give the guy so much as a word. The distance from where I ran into the guy, and where the trail ended was maybe only a mile. So after a few minutes of walking, I could literally see people walking around near the houses at the end of East Blossom Trail, and just seeing them was a huge relief. I felt like I was almost back on friendly territory, you know, that even if the guy was being a jerk, he wouldn't dare put his hands on me if there were other people around. But even better, I suddenly see these two hikers walking up the trail

towards us. I figured, rather than risk this guy following me back to my car, I'd ask these hikers to accompany me. But as we got closer, the guy following me tried one last trick. The second I called out to the two hikers, he started screaming over me. He was saying stuff like, help me. My sister is off her meds and she wants to take her own life. You got to help me grab her. I remember looking back at him, completely boiling over at that point, wondering if I'd actually run into the biggest psychopath on the face of the planet, and then, as I turned back to call out something to oppose what he said, I heard these fast, heavy footsteps coming up at me. I remember turning, seeing the guy sprinting at me, and letting off a burst of pepper spray

at the last second before he collided with me. Thank Christ, most if not all of the spray was effective despite his efforts to shield his face as he ran at me. So as I found my feet, I was shaken but still furious, and it was deeply satisfying to see him rubbing his eyes, screaming in pain. The hikers had run up onto the scene by the time I was up again, and I explained everything very clearly, that the creep was not my brother, and that he'd been harassing me all the way down the trail. They very kindly told me that they'd keep him there for as long as it took to lose sight of me, and as I walked off, I pulled out my phone and I called the cops. I was almost at the end of the trail when I heard the scream,

You can't tell me crap, just from a distance away, and then right as I looked back, the two hikers were wrestling this guy to the ground. I just kept walking as I relayed all of this information to 911, feeling incredibly thankful that those two hikers showed up when they did. Even when I thought it was safe, I know now, looking back on it, that it wasn't. People have been snatched in broad daylight before, and there's no telling what would have happened if he continued to follow me. What I find incredibly creepy to this day is just how devious he tried to be, and how he seemed to enjoy trying to mentally overpower me, as opposed to physically overpowering me. Although I do get the feeling that the mental thing was just an appetizer for something that he never got a chance to do.

I couldn't tell if he was truly psychotic, or just mentally ill. So, I'm going to tell you the story of my brief encounter with a man called Happy. So, in 2013, I'm working at a cannabis dispensary in Venice Beach, a block from the boardwalk. A good 35% of our patrons were unhoused people. Occasionally someone experiencing severe psychosis would try to come in, but if they were screaming or unintelligible, security would not let them in. If they had and presented the Holy Trinity of medical papers, Idaho and cash, they were good to go. We had a compassion program where we'd bag up grams of shake left over from the bottoms of jars

and give them completely free, one per person per day, to anyone who asked. Word about this spread quickly on the boardwalk. Generally, these people would be the nicest, most polite, and considerate customers, even if they did smell a bit stinky, and their money got pulled out of a sweaty sock. No one working there would bat an eye if someone came in smelling like they slept on the beach for a week next to a bottle of vodka, as long as they just calmly bought their weed and went on their way like any other customer. It's a foggy, chilly day around the holidays, sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Someone called out, so I was the only person in the backbud tending. There was another

employee at reception and a security guard at the front door. I'm alone in the back room. There are cameras, but no one is actively watching them. This guy walks in after being checked in at the front. He's the only customer at the moment, and I swear the whole room gets colder as he walks in. He's wearing a very worn in, deeply faded, wrinkled, conformed to his body floor-length leather duster jacket, and a similarly beaten-up wide-brim leather cowboy hat. It looked like he'd lived and slept in these same clothes for years. We didn't allow hats, hoods, or sunglasses in the store, so I'm surprised that security didn't make him take off his hat. The man had to be at least six foot five and built like a boulder. Not obese, kind of large, pick you

up and toss you like a ragdoll large. The stench that comes off of him is unlike anything I've ever smelled before. Since it was beyond body order, beyond soiling yourself, it smelled like actual death, as if though he had raw, rotting carcasses tucked under his thick, long leather coat. I thought I had been hardened by plenty of nasty body stank before, but this was absolutely revolting, far beyond anyone who hadn't showered lately or peed their pants. I'm trying not to inhale very deeply, and I say, Hi, sir, excuse me, I'm sorry, but would you mind taking off your hat? Store policy, big customer service smile. What are you looking for today? He grunts deeply and he's walking very slowly, shuffling and dragging his feet. His voice sounds like he gargles with

gravel, rough and wet, raw and angry. I don't take a little. I don't take a little. I don't take take off my hat. At this point, I'm not trying to argue with this man about his hat either. Let's get him in and get him out. I glance down and I see he's not wearing shoes. The bit that I can see from under his coat, one of his ankles is massively purple and black and swollen, melanized. The bottoms of both of his feet are bloody and torn up, and I realize that he is leaving a slight trail of blood as he drags his ragged feet across the concrete floor of the shop. My first First thought is, how and why did security let this guy come in? So second is, this guy is obviously seriously injured, and that is concerning as a human being.

I'm making sure to keep the display shelf between me and the sky, and that's only about a foot of space, like a bar. He gets to me, and the stench gets stronger. I meekly but sincerely ask, are you all right, sir? His eyes flare at me. What do you care? I'm like, well, I tried not my chair, not my problem, not my monkeys, not my circus, you know? Well, great.

What can I get for you? He pulls up one of his sleeves to expose his forearm, and it's covered in large, round burns like from a cigar, some old old healed and some fresh and infected. It's not track marks, it's actual burns. He also has a jagged, homemade-looking stick-and-poke tattoo of a smiley face, a crooked circle, two-lines. for the eyes and a scabbed-up curve of a smile. He points at this tattoo, Happy, my name is happy. The rotting stink was so strong that I needed to breathe little gasps of air, the least possible. I walked here, I walked all the way here from Pasadena, I'm like, well sir, that's a really long walk. Anyway, what are you looking for today?

Just for you. His eyes are dark and menacing. He is smeared with a layer of grime like like he lives in the woods. It doesn't look like the average crust punk or disabled veteran you generally see living on the beach. It's hard to guess his age, but he wasn't that old or young, somewhere between 30 to 50, I guess. He looked like he dragged himself here from his log cabin, like what would happen if you entangled some quantum mechanics poorly and mixed Ed Gahn with an 1800s homesteader, then transported him to 2013 Venice Beach. I, of course, have never seen this man before.

was more than enough to make him unforgettable. He keeps staring at me, and I move as far back as I can to the wall, hopefully out of his grasp. If he lunged, I would need to walk out from behind the case and around him to get to the security guard. I'm weighing my options. I decide to grab a bunch of compassion grams, and then weigh out an eighth, and mark it down that I'd pay for it later. And he's still just leering at me, wheezing heavy, stinky breaths. Weak actually. We're actually have a special today, only for people who walked more than ten miles to get here. This is all for you, on the house. Thanks for stopping by. He accepts the bee, but continues to just stand there and stare at me. Thank you, happy. It worked. He grunts a guttural noise that is not a word, and slowly

turns to shuffle back towards the door. At the door, he turns back to me and says, I'll see you later. He finally walks out after leaving plenty of his residual stench of death behind. Thank any and all of the gods that I did not see Happy later or ever again. When I asked security, why did they let him in? He said that when he had noticed his bloody feet and said, Hey, bro, you all good? It looks like it hurts. Happy had stepped up to his face and threatened to choke him out and called him a slur. Since it was just him and two 22-year-old 130-pound girls, he wasn't trying to die tonight and figured hopefully, Happy could just get his stuff and leave. He was watching the cameras in the back, ready to call the police and owners if

anything got weird. Apparently, we had different definitions of weird, but I understood his reaction, and ultimately, we were all fine, just spooked and creeped out, and now needing to clean blood off the floor with bleaching gloves and texting our boss that he owed us free weed. He agreed. We all lived happily ever after. I want to talk about one of the scariest experiences I've had, which happened quite recently, and I apologize for the length of the story. I, a 24-year-old female, was living in a women's shelter and made some really good friends there. We used to sit at a park across from a temple at night, drinking and smoking whatever we had. We would spend hours there listening to music, having fun, and discussing our lives.

We were all quite young, in our early 20s. I should mention that we all had experienced a fair amount of trauma in our lives, and we connected through that shared experience. One night my friends and I went to a party in the city and had been drinking for hours. When the party was over, we weren't tired, so my closest friend there, a 22-year-old female, and I decided to go to the park and watch the sunrise and have a little more to drink. We were there for a while, when suddenly we heard R and B and rap music coming from the temple across the street. I should mention that we were both mixed black girls, and being tipsy,

we thought it would be a strange adventure to go over there and see who was playing my favorite song so loudly in the morning at a temple. It could have been a potential friend, or a chance to learn more about the place, and the temple looked beautiful. We walked over, but the gates were locked. We felt disappointed, but then a man came out to greet us and said that we could come in to see the temple. He met him. mentioned that it was his music, and that he loved that we liked the same songs. We went inside, and he showed us around the temple. The bottom part was beautiful, but we noticed several rooms with beds.

He told us that if we ever wanted to rent rooms, it would be unbelievably cheap. As homeless girls with not much work, we thought it was an amazing opportunity, almost too good to be true. At first, I felt nothing but positive vibes. He showed us his computer playing the music and asked us which songs we wanted to hear. I became comfortable with this guy because he was funny and we all got along really well. Anyway, we started discussing recreational activities that rhyme with marijuana, and we had some. We offered it to him because he was so cool and laid back.

He said he would pack our stuff with our things, which becomes important later. I should add that he constantly complimented me specifically on my hair and skin color, and he made very forward compliments that made me uncomfortable. He started asking if I liked Asian men and if I'd ever slept with one. He was of Eastern descent, though I'm not sure where exactly. Then he proceeded to ask more questions about my preferences and told us about giving drugs that I can't mention to girls to smoke and get with them. These were drugs that no one should ever do.

He also mentioned that he would see us sitting at the park sometime through his window, and all this started to raise a lot of red flags. He then said that if we had another friend, they could also take his room because he was moving soon. That's when I got a weird feeling, so I decided to ask him why he was leaving if the rent was so cheap. He wouldn't answer and kept dodging the question. My intuition was telling me that something was wrong, and it's ridiculous that it took me so long to realize it. I asked if I could get some water, and he told me to get one out of the fridge. When I went out, there was another guy there who was nice and offered me water, but I asked,

I decided to get a glass and use the tap. He runs out of the room my friend was in and says, No, the one from the fridge. I said, I'm fine with this. He walks me back to the room, and I sit back down next to my friend, and then he went on to say, I'm moving because I hear people screaming and touching each other every night, noises banging on my door, sounds of people being tortured and hurt, and it disturbs my sleep. It was almost like he accidentally slipped out of what he had just said. I almost thought it was a joke, and I asked him, is it nightmares, ghosts, or real people that are making these noises at night? He continued to dodge my questions. I asked why on earth he didn't tell us this earlier. We were honestly in disbelief,

and he continued to ignore what we were saying and acting strange. I then noticed that he had closed the door when I came back in earlier, and I started to think that we needed to get the hell out of there. He then said, you have to listen to the song. you'll love it, it gets worse. He puts on this terrifying chant-like song and plays it loud, too loud. He's chanting the song so loud that we're yelling at him to turn it off, and he doesn't seem to be listening. The video is like Viking-like people, hurting other people as we're begging him to turn it off

because it's terrifying. And why would he or anyone like that music? He turns his face to us fast and screams maniacally, with his teeth showing, his tongue out, and his eyes wide. It was like the most distorted, face I'd seen in real life. He didn't look human. No sane person would act this way. My fight or flight response isn't really good. I just sat there trying to laugh it off, but I was really frozen in fear. My friend, on the other hand, was in fight mode. She threatened to beat him up if he

didn't let us out right now, and I ran to the door, and he ran at me, so I froze in front of him again, and he wouldn't open the door because it was locked. We start running out of the house while he's laughing maniacly, speedwalking behind us, and we bolt out. And mind you, I'm still trying to just laugh this off, but it was the beginning of the worst panic attack I'd ever experienced. If my friend wasn't there in her fight mode, I genuinely don't know what would have happened to us. I know it probably doesn't sound that scary, but this terrified me to my core, the way he changed so quickly, his movements and mannerisms, the way his space just didn't look human anymore, and how naive we were to go in there in the first place because it seemed like an innocent temple.

We didn't get many answers from this situation because we were too scared to go back or cause problems, which is stupid. We didn't know if he was truly troubled, or if there were actually people there getting hurt, tortured, or whatever else he was saying. It scared me as well to think about the fact that he knew that we were homeless, vulnerable girls at the time, that he may have lured us with the music that he hears us play. We were also completely tripping balls because I believe that he laced our stuff. I don't think I can say on here

what my friend believed it was, but it was the worst experience ever, and I highly doubt that those girls he spoke about in the beginning were there consensually. Ever since I was a young boy, I would wake up in the morning with my furniture arranged differently than when I went to sleep.

Sometimes it was small, like my lamp in the wrong place or my shoe rack was tipped over. Other days I'd wake up and the bed would be in the wrong spot, the dresser on the wrong wall, my deck in front of the door. In the beginning, it wasn't in a messy fashion. It seemed like a perfectly normal way to arrange my bedroom, just in a different way than I preferred. I have a very early memory from around five years old of my mom yelling at me for moving around all my furniture at night.

I swore up and down that it wasn't me. She seemed conflicted when she was yelling at me. I wasn't a troublemaker. She knew it wasn't something I would do, but looking back now, I think she was just scared of the thought of it not being me. After a couple of hours, I convinced my mom it wasn't me.

After all, I was a small kid. I don't think I could have physically moved it on my own. Next to blame was my older brother. He was 11 at the time, so it still would have been hard for him to move my stuff, but not impossible. My brother liked to mess with me. No more than any normal brother, but never any over-the-top pranks.

Mostly just because he was lazy, though. No way he'd lose sleep over something so weird like moving my furniture every night. After my brother denied it and adding on that he stayed at his friend's house for sleepovers often gave him an alibi. My mom attempted to blame my dad next. But of course that comment was not taken lightly, and ended with my parents just pointing fingers at each other. My mom spent that night with me in bed.

She tried her best to explain why she was sleeping in my bed without making it sound scary, but I could tell she was scared. I wasn't scared at all because it felt normal. I see now as an adult why she was freaked out. The night felt normal. If anything, it was a fun night, like a big sleepover, my first sleepover even. We woke up the next morning, and my mom gasped and gripped the sheets. Wait, how did this happen?

happen. I was right here. My mom looked around the room. It was pretty easy to do so, given that the bed was right in the center of the room. This hadn't happened before. It was always in a normal spot against the wall. It was like the room was showing off that it could put the bed in the middle of the room without us waking up. My mother always claimed to be a notoriously light sleeper. She said how she can't fully turn her brain off in case we need her in the night, but she always seemed to sleep deeply to me. The rest of the day, she kept insisting that someone was sleep waking or something. She didn't think anyone was playing a prank, but she knew someone in the house was doing it. She had to believe it. My parents ordered a Serenity camera online to put in my room so they could

watch the footage the next morning. They got next day delivery, so I'd have to go one more night without them being able to watch me sleep. That night, they decided to let me sleep in their bed. I was even more excited than the night before. Now this was really a sleepover. That night my mom tucked me in tightly in between her and my dad. I remember she held me all night long. I woke up the next morning to my mom sounding terrified. My parents' bed wasn't even in the bedroom anymore. It was sitting in the living room right outside my parents' bedroom. My dad sat up and started to get as concerned as my mom. How? How did our bed get out here? He whispered with a stutter. It can't even fit through the doorframe. Was it taken apart and put back together out here? He hopped out of bed and

picked me up into his arms in the process. We all stared at it confused. Even as a young boy, I knew something was really wrong. My dad started to take the bed apart to bring it back into their bedroom and noticed that the screws were loose. Some were even mean. Some were even mean. missing, like it was put back together in a rush. I remember my parents being on the phone with, I think, the police, but they never showed up. I remember my mom being upset on the phone when they wouldn't help us at all. That night my dad installed a camera into the corner of my bedroom. My mom once again slept next to me. The camera they got was basically like a baby monitor that recorded the night. My dad had the monitor beside his bed to be an extra set of eyes.

The night came and went. My mom and I woke up with my room yet again rearranged. She looked up at the camera to see that it was destroyed. All video from the night was destroyed as well. This was right around the time when baby monitors could record to an iPhone, and you could watch the video the next morning, but everything about the video was corrupted. My family went to the police station that night,

insisting that someone was in our house. The cops wrote down a statement, but that's all that came of it. My parents, for the next couple of years, kept trying to figure out what was going on, trying different solutions to find out how this was happening, only to find dead ends over and over again. My mom started to believe the house was haunted,

and after a couple of years, my dad believed her. This was the main reason for our move when I was eight. I was so excited to be done with whatever was going on. At this point, the sleepovers weren't. cute. I wanted my own space. My parents didn't let me go to summer camp or stay at friends' houses like my brother did. I was sick of it. It was night one in the new place. It was only about 30 minutes from our old house. Not too big of a change, but just enough that I was excited. My parents felt so good about the new place that they let me sleep in my own bed. I remember they told me at dinner while we

ate McDonald's over a makeshift table made of cardboard boxes. I jumped up in down and hugged them both. That night I got tucked in and my mom was hesitant to leave me in my own bed. She seemed worried, but knew I needed this. My room didn't have much in it. Just my bed, dresser, and a few boxes with my clothes in them. I remember falling asleep that night and thinking how creaky the new house was, but I didn't mind. I was hopeful. I woke up the next morning before my mom and dad. I didn't have curtains yet, so the sunrise woke me. I sat up and stretched. I rubbed my eyes to wake myself up,

and I immediately felt a knot in my throat. The furniture was moved. At that moment, I made a decision. I knew if my mom saw this, I'd be stuck sleeping next to her for my whole life. My little imagination took over, and I thought about coming home from my job one day as a grown man, wearing a suit,

and my mom still tucking me into bed. I sprung up and quickly moved everything back to where it came from. Luckily, nothing was too heavy for me to move. Just as I got everything back into place, I heard my mom's foot footsteps. I jumped into bed and pretended to be sleeping. She cracked the door and let out a sigh of relief and shut the door. How I wish I could go back in time and tell my mom the truth. I spent the next month doing this same routine.

My mom always woke up at 7.30 to check on me, so I'd always get up at 7 and fix everything. It was exhausting, but worth it. My mom was warming up to the idea of me going to summer camp, so I was motivated. My mom got comfortable enough to send me to camp. It was only a one-night camp that year, which was fine. She needed to take baby steps. I didn't think anything would happen honestly, but when we woke up in the morning, every single bunk bed was outside, all 20 of them, 30 kids and 10 adults,

all waking up feeling confused and disoriented. Some bunk beds even on their sides tipped over. Of course, the camp counselors were confused. I knew what I had to do. I gaslit all the adults into believing it was the plan of the troubled kid, Eddie. I made up a whole story about how he convinced a few other kids to do it in the night. I didn't think it was believable, but I was so convincing that everyone believed me. The camp counselors wanted to inform all the parents when they came to pick up what happened.

Of course, it was a violation and needed to be explained to all the parents what happened. Luckily, I got out of it. I went to the camp with a school friend, and his mom picked us up. His mom believed me when I said I'd tell my mom myself. As the years passed by, I realized no matter where I slept, this would happen to me. I turned it into a sleepover trick. I'll tell my friends to come over and sure enough it would happen. I'd even sleep at their houses, and it would happen.

Whenever I was trying to show off the trick, the room would be an even worse condition than a normal night. I felt like I had a superpower. The years went by and it just became my life. It was like brushing my teeth in the morning. Now and then, I'd forget to fix everything in the morning and my mom would check on me. It only happened a few times, but each time I saw fear in her eyes. I always just said I moved stuff around the night before because I was bored of the layout. I could only use that lie so many times, though.

One time in high school I was very sick. I was having a hard time getting up in the morning to move my furniture, and I didn't move my furniture for a couple of mornings. My mom was getting nervous, and I knew I had to get up before her to move it the next day. My mom came into my bedroom to say goodnight, and let me know she'd be gone in the early morning, but would say hi as soon as she got home at around noon.

This was music to my ears. I could sleep in and not worry about moving everything before she could barge in. The morning came, and I got to sleep until about 11 o'clock. I couldn't believe how much better I was feeling. I knew I should have probably started to move my furniture and be proactive, but of course that's not what I did. I could hear my brother in his room next door playing video games, so I went to go see what he was playing.

Him being a brother, he wasn't letting me play with him, so I instead stood by his bed for way too long and annoying him. I lost track of time and heard the garage door open. My heart sank. I ran back into my room and tried to move everything back into its place. Luckily, throughout the years, I convinced my parents to get me lighter furniture. They never caught on, and it made life so much easier. Everything got replaced except for my dresser, which was a family heirloom.

It wasn't all that big, but this day, it felt heavy. I knew I was weak from being sick all week, but I couldn't believe how heavy it was. It was the last thing to move, but it just wouldn't budge. I frantically ran to my brother and told him I needed help moving my dresser. He leaped out of bed to run to my room. With most things, he doesn't care to help me, but I was always honest with my brother that the furniture thing never stopped. He knew that if our mom knew, our whole house would be a living hell,

and she might even make us move again. He always had my back when it came to my supernatural furniture. Instead of going back into my room, I went downstairs to distract my mom. I knew she'd be mad to see me out of bed, but the consequences of my furniture being out of place would be so much worse. My socks slid across the hardwood floor, and I reached the kitchen just as she was opening the door. Her happy humming was immediately interrupted when she made eye contact with me. She set a grocery bag on the counter and got out some soup she just bought at the store. I thought she was going to yell at me, but I wasn't going to question it.

I figured she was being patient with me since I was sick. Just as she got out a box of popsicles, I heard an awful sound. One that I will never forget. A sound that is completely my fault. I heard my brother scream. It was a loud scream, but short, like something interrupted it. It sounded like he stubbed his toe and then covered his mouth halfway through. My mom and I made eye contact and started to head upstairs to check on him.

It was too loud to be something small. We turned the corner into my room, and I didn't know what to feel. I saw my dresser still not in its normal spot, but just slightly moved from where I left it. The dresser had a big drawer on the front that opened up like a door or a cabinet, and it was wide open and empty. But most importantly, my brother was gone. An hour went by and my brother was nowhere to be found. The doors to the house seemed to all be locked.

Same with the windows. We ended up filing a missing person's report. A whole week went by and there was no sign of him. My mom thought my brother was in the middle of moving my furniture to prank me or something and got spooked and ran off. I didn't have the heart to tell her or anyone that I felt like this was my fault. I thought that maybe whatever was moving my stuff, wanted just me to move it or something.

After that awful week, we found something to make it so much worse. My dad was in my room with me and trying to ask more questions about our last interaction. A lot of people asked me this since I was the last person to see my brother. As I explained it to him for the one hundredth time, he was randomly looking at the dresser and opened up the big door we originally found wide open. It had a note taped to the inside. Before my dad took it, he looked nervously at me, asking if it was mine, but he very well already knew the answer. We called my mom into the room before we read it.

The following is an exact quote from the note. I see our little game of hide and seek did not end like I imagined. Your brother is not who I intended to find me, but he will have to do for now. We had no clue what the note meant, but that didn't stop it from sending shivers down my spine. At the very least, now we knew someone had taken my brother. We thought the cops would do more to help now that we had a note. While they did do a little more to help us find him, they never found anything else. I never saw my brother again.

Last year I moved out of my parents' house. This decision was completely based on my not wanting to move my furniture around every morning. I couldn't imagine a world where I could leave my furniture as is and just sleep in without the worry of my mom seeing it. That being said, I moved out as soon as I could afford it. I moved in with my best friend, and we shared an apartment. He knew about my little party trick, and was never too freaked out by it. Although part of me was scared that once he saw it was legit, he would be scared. The first morning I woke up and the room was a mess.

Everything was in the wrong place just as usual. Although I didn't think there would even be a usual for how my room looked anymore. I was sick of fixing it. It was going to look however it wanted to look. After a couple of days of just letting my furniture do whatever, I noticed how it was being arranged was more and more chaotic, messier, like the furniture was mad that I wasn't putting it all back. I started straightening things, but nothing too wild.

I just leave the big stuff. I mean, my roommate was weirded out, but he didn't care at first. One morning about two weeks into living at the new place, I woke up with my bed on our deck outside. I knew it was going to start getting out of hand. The whole reason for me moving out was to not have to move my furniture around like crazy. I was so mad I couldn't just leave the furniture as it was. For some reason it had to be put back to its normal spot.

I let it go one more morning. I wanted to see what would happen if I left it just once more. I woke up the next day in the middle of the woods with no clue where I was. It felt like when I was a kid, and this happened with bunk beds, but this was so much worse. It was relatively easy to find my way back, but just a long walk. In all, it took me about two hours to get home, not to mention having to figure out how to get my bed back home. When I got back, my roommate had a chat with me. He said how he never really thought the weird furniture thing was real and thought it was a very elaborate joke.

And now that he lived with me, it was affecting his mental health. He felt paranoid and really tired and wanted me to move out. I was, of course, bummed but knew it was for the best. I tried to tell him I'd start moving the furniture back every morning, and it would all be okay, but that didn't seem to help him feel better. I called my parents to tell them I was coming back home. They seemed excited to have me come home. They seemed very cheerful, actually.

When I asked them what was making them so happy, they said they felt better than they had in years, and felt so well rested. It felt nice to hear them happy for what felt like the first time since my brother went missing. I had most of my stuff packed up and was ready to move in just a couple of days.

We both knew this whole moving thing might cause problems with our friendship, so we wanted to do something fun before I moved out. We did a spontaneous week-long road trip. The morning I left, I didn't move any of the furniture back. It didn't seem necessary. I noticed something strange about the first. road trip. At no point in the trip did my furniture move. It was the first time since I can remember

I woke up with everything looking the same. I thought maybe I found some kind of weird hack. We got back from an amazing trip feeling closer than ever, feeling thankful that we did it. I walked into my room and saw everything just as I remembered leaving it the day we left for our trip. Everything except for my dresser, with the front facing down right in the middle of the room. I went over to the front of it to try and lift it into place, but it felt heavy. I immediately felt the memories of the day my brother went missing flashback into my head. This thing being heavy is bad news. I wasn't sure why, but I knew I didn't like it.

I called my roommate in to help me move it. At first he was hesitant. He didn't want anything to do with my furniture. Finally, I convinced him to just help me lift it quickly. As we pushed it back up to the wall, The body of a man came falling out. He was dead and limp. Claw marks filled the inside of my dresser.

It looked like it fell over while he was hiding in it. He most likely fell over at the beginning of our trip and couldn't get out. He was in the same spot where I found that ominous note a little while back. He also had a gas tank that had a sleeping aid in it that was connected to one of those things that go over your mouth and nose before surgery or something. He looked malnourished and sickly. This man was my ghost for the last 15 years. Moving my furniture around, thinking it was some kind of fun game or something.

This was the man who took my brother. This was the man who gave a sleeping aid to me, and everyone else I lived with so he could move my furniture around for me. This was the man who took away countless sleepovers from my childhood. This was the man who stole my mother's peace of mind my whole childhood, so I could have some sick game every morning. They never found out who he was. They couldn't find anyone that matched his fingerprints or dental records or anything at all. It's like it never even existed, most of all. They never found my brother.

They never found out how the man got in and out of my house, if he even left. Or how he was always around no matter where I slept. They never figured out how he managed to sneak around my living space for so long and not be seen. That was last year, and after that day, my furniture never moved again. Almost 10 years ago, my wife and I decided to go on a little hiking trip in southern Massachusetts, specifically the Miles Standish State Forest. We checked out a few options for cabin rentals and found one within our budget, then booked it for a weekend. It was a beautiful little place, not far from a heart-shaped pond with ready access to all the different hiking trails dotted around the park.

Our first day was wonderful. We had a picnic over near college pond, followed by a basic campfire. style dinner back at our cabin. The daytime was beautiful, but the nighttime was intimidating, to say the least. There were plenty of little campgrounds and cabins all over the forest, so it wasn't like we were in a particularly secluded place. But nighttime in the city is very different from nighttime in the woods, especially if you grew up and spent most of your life in the former. There's something very eerie about it, so much so that both my wife and I commented on it independently of one another. We weren't scared at all. We felt very safe out there,

so the feeling was something of a novelty, I guess, and not something that robbed us of any sleep. The second day was similar to the first. We did some hiking, had another Al fresco lunch, and then returned to the cabin in time for dinner. But instead of eating at the cabin, we went over to Mibo, just south of Plymouth, for a fancy three-course dinner and a bottle of wine. We discussed taking a taxi to and from the Mibo complex, but I decided that I wanted to be fresh for the next morning, so I drove, and my wife drank the wine, which went down a little too well. By the time we got back to the cabin, she was so wasted that she dozed off the moment her head hit the pillow. I didn't begrudge her the chance to tie one on like that. I thought it was

funny, but it turned out to be very fortunate that only one of us drank that night, and I'll tell you why. After my wife passed out and was snoring, very loudly, I might add, I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and then climbed into bed. It was just before midnight at that time, and I set an alarm for 7 a.m. God knows how long later, I woke up to what I assumed was my phone vibrating on the rustic wooden bedside table next to my head. I reached up to grab it, only to realize that it wasn't my phone making the noise. It was something else entirely. Something was softly scratching the wood at the other side of the cabin wall, almost right next to where I'd been laying my head. Now, while this was very creepy for a second or two, I'm a rational enough person to realize that a sound like that is most probably some kind of animal.

And having done my research, I knew all we had to worry about were snakes and possibly foxes or coyotes. There tend not to be any bears or mountain lions in this area of Massachusetts, or rather, the chances of encountering the former at least. the former at least, are extremely remote. It was the reason we chose the state forest in the first place, knowing it was one of the safer options for hiking. So, like I said, hearing the sound was startling, but not scary. At first, I tried to go back to sleep, hoping that whatever was making that scratching sound

would just get bored and go away. I know a lot of animals scratch their claws or teeth against wood as a way of filing them down or sharpening them, so I thought that it was maybe something small and non-threatening doing exactly that. But then the scratching started to move, and it sounded like it was coming from another section of wall, much higher up than before. I say much higher up. It was only maybe a foot or two higher, but in my head, whatever was making the sound went from, say, squirrel-sized to fox-sized. Again, this was fairly alarming, and I picked my head up off the pillow again, while I wondered if I should do anything. In the end, I climbed out of bed, went over to where I could hear

the scratching, and then banged on the wall a few times to try and scare it off. And sure enough, that seemed to do the trick, and the sound of my fist against the wall didn't wake up my wife, so I climbed back into bed without saying a word. I swear I was right on the verge of drifting back off when the scratching sound started up again. I realized that if I wanted to get anything resembling a good night's sleep, I'd have to head outside with my flashlight and really scare this thing off. So I climbed out of bed, put on some clothes, and then headed out into the dark with my light. I could hear whatever it was still scratching against the wood, but I wasn't in the least bit scared, as I figured it would just run away the first moment it saw the beam of my flashlight or

heard my feet. It did exactly that, and I heard it running off into the darkness just before I turned the corner, but in place of the familiar four-legged cadence of a fox or a coyote, I heard the very distinct sound of something running with two feet, not four. It wasn't an animal, it was a person, and right hand of God, that realization made for the creepiest moment of my entire life. That whole time, I thought everything was just fine, but there had been some freaking creep scratching something into the wood that whole time, and I'd actually tried to go back to sleep. I darted back into the cabin, grabbed the biggest, heaviest thing I could find, this skillet, and then ran back outside. I wanted to shout something brave and hardcore, but the God's

honest truth is I was scared out of my mind. I could barely even keep a straight thought in my head, let alone figure out anything intimidating to yell, so I just ran around, spinning around like a top, shining the flashlight in every little shadow to make sure no one was about to creep up on me. Once I was pretty certain that the coast was actually clear, I ran back into the cabin, locked the front door, and then woke up my wife. She was still half drunk, but sobered up pretty quickly when I told her to keep her cell phone handy, just in case I needed her to call 911. I still don't know if it was just a dumb prank, something kids vandalizing the cabins or

deliberately trying to scare us, or something. It all depended on what they'd been scratching into the wall. That much was clear, but I was in no mood to just wander back out into the dark to go check right away. We just stayed put for a few minutes, my hand tied around the skillet's handle, and listened out for any voices, footsteps, or scratching. After a few minutes of silence, I finally crept out into the dark for two reasons. Number one. To make sure that we were truly alone again.

and number two, to check out what the hell this creep had been doing to the cabin's outside wall. I was scared, but I was also ready to cave in the skull of any foolish person enough to rush me. Thankfully, I didn't have to defend myself like that, but there was nothing reassuring about what I found scratched into the cabin. When I first saw it, it looked like either a zero or the letter O underneath a roughly scratched letter U or V. The result was that it almost looked like someone had tried to write VO, but vertically, instead of horizontally. No words immediately came to mind. I mean, if it was a K, and then an I, then maybe they were trying to write the word kill, in which case we should be concerned.

But V.O? I had no idea what that might mean. Convinced it was nothing more than kids being stupid little vandals, I told my wife that it was safe outside, and she could come take a look at what the kids had been scratching. She seemed relieved to know that it was nothing too sinister, and that we'd most probably remain undisturbed for the remainder of our stay. In fact, all we occupied our thought with for a minute or two was wondering if the owners would help themselves to our security deposit if they discovered the damage.

After my wife had gotten some clothes on, we both headed outside to check the damage. I shined my flashlight at it, showing her the weird V and O shapes, and watched a very visible look of fright come over her face. I asked her what she thought it was, and she asked how I couldn't see it. To me, it was just weird shapes or letters, and to her, it was quite literally the devil. I'll be honest, I didn't really see it at first, and I thought it was just her nerves talking, but her fright proved infectious, and when she decided that she didn't want to stay another night at the cabin, I was in no position to make her stay. I remember her saying, this has red flags all over, it. We'd be morons not to leave now. And honestly, she was right. It didn't really matter who it was

or why they'd been scratching something into the wall of our cabin. Our car was out front, and they could quite literally see the cabin was occupied. And who the hell goes snooping around the woods in the middle of the night like that anyway? No one with any good in mind, that's for sure. We packed our stuff, threw it all into our car, and then left as soon as we could. First, my wife called the cops to report what had happened, and then she left a message with the owner of the cabin explaining the situation. They were kind enough to refund our final night's day, and returned our security deposit in full, thus ruling out our bizarre conspiracy theory that the owners were trying to claim our security deposit. We still have no idea who or what

was really going on that night. And honestly, I'm open to the suggestion that we just overreacted to some dumb prank or something. But having said that, that, I have no regrets about cutting our little vacation short because my wife is right. We've seen enough horror movies to know that you don't stick around once things get weird. In the world of my family, the air was thick with stories of ghosts and spirits, woven into the fabric of everyday life, like the smoke from my grandmother's kitchen. Superstitions weren't just old wives' tales. They were lessons. Cautions passed down like heirlooms. I never bought into it, not like the rest of them. Maybe it was the science major in me,

or perhaps the stubborn streak I'd inherited from a father who'd never met a problem he couldn't fix with a little elbow grease and a lot of denial. Our new apartment was a far cry from the sprawling, chaotic home where I grew up. That house was always filled with cousins and echoes of my grandmother's voice telling stories of the province she'd left behind. Now, it was just the five of us, in a cramped two-bedroom space in what you could call my father's childhood stomping grounds. Not exactly the big city, but not the countryside either. Somewhere in between, with enough reminders of both to keep my parents feeling like they hadn't strayed too far from their roots. My dad had managed to secure this place through a connection.

A childhood friend turned landlord. It wasn't much to look at, the kind of place where you could touch both walls if you spread your arms out in the kitchen. but it was ours, and with it came a sense of starting fresh, even if we were surrounded by the familiar. We'd all agreed that a smaller place would be less lonely without the constant buzz of extended family. There was a comfort in the closeness, the overlap of lives and conversations that made even this tiny apartment feel full. But as everyone settled into new routines, I found myself struggling to find my own space, both physically and mentally. Tonight, my family was out, likely reminiscing about old times, leaving me alone with my thesis. It was a beast of a paper, sprawling and stubborn, much like the family discussions that could

start over dinner and stretch late into the night. I was examining the ecological impacts of agricultural practices, a topic as dense and complex as my grandmother's superstitions, but grounded in data, not spirits. As I sat at our makeshift dining table, that also served as my desk, I couldn't shake the feeling of the apartment being too quiet. Outside, the neighborhood lived and breathed with the distant sound of traffic and the occasional shout from a neighbor. Yet inside, it felt like I was cut off from the world, surrounded by walls that were too thin to hold out the chill of the evening. I glanced at the clock. It was getting late. The screen glare from my laptop was starting to strain my eyes, but the thought of taking a break

felt like surrender. I could hear my dad's voice in my head, telling me to push through, that the work was worth the effort. It was that voice that had gotten him through decades of hard jobs and long nights. It was supposed to get me through college. Then there was a knock at the door, simple, straightforward, but something in the rhythm of it made me pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It was probably just a neighbor or a delivery, I reasoned, even as a threat of unease wove its way through my thoughts. Our new apartment didn't get many visitors, and those who did come usually called first. Hesitantly, I pushed back from the table and approached the door, the floor cold under my feet. The peep-hole offered a narrow view of the dimly lit hallway,

empty. Yet the sense of something waiting on the other side was palpable. Who's there? I called, not expecting an answer. Silence greeted me, heavy and expectant. I waited, heart-pounding for something to break the stillness again. The evening had already draped its dark velvet over the city by the time my family headed out, leaving me encased in the quiet of our apartment. I was alone, a state I was unaccustomed to in the usually bustling cramming. space. The solitude felt thick, almost suffocating, but I welcomed it as necessary for the deep dive into my thesis revisions. The silence of the apartment seemed to amplify every click of my keyboard as I tackled the feedback from my thesis advisor, a litany of critiques that required

my undivided attention. I'd always been good under pressure, thrived under it, really, much like the hardy native grasses I was writing about, which flourished in adverse conditions. Yet tonight my focus was repeatedly drawn away by the unfamiliar stillness of the apartment. Two hours into my work, my concentration shattered completely when a knock sounded at the door. A simple question followed, soft yet clear, in the comforting tones of my native language. Puede-po-Ba-Kong-Pumasok. May I come inside? I froze, the cursor blinking on the screen as if in warning.

No one ever stopped by unannounced, not here in the heart of my father's old neighborhood, where even the familiar faces from his past respected the boundaries of privacy. Compelled by a mix of curiosity and rising alarm, I wheeled my chair over to the surveillance monitor we'd installed at the landlord's request. The screen showed the locked gate still firmly chained, no figure standing at the threshold where I had heard the voice. Hello Po? Pue de Poba Kong Puma Sok?

The voice came again, polite, almost pleading now. My skin prickled with a chill that had nothing to do with the night air seeping in through the thin walls. Old superstitions flickered through my mind like the shadows dancing across the living room walls from the streetlights outside. My grandmother's tales, warnings really, about spirits that masqueraded as the lost or needy, seeking permission to enter, to cross thresholds uninvited. Always knock, she'd said, and announce yourself. Taupo, I am human. Yet here was this voice, devoid of that crucial declaration.

Its owner invisible to the electronic eye that should have seen everything. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs as I backed away from the monitor, my eyes darting to the door where the knocks grew louder, more insistent. Something primal within me recoiled, instincts honed not by superstition, but by the evolutionary drive to survive. The knocking grew into a crescendo of urgency, no longer a request, but a demand. Pue de poba akong pumasok?

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. The apartment felt smaller, the walls closing in as if to shield me from whatever lay beyond that door. I edge towards the window, peering out into the night, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of the person who belonged to that voice. but the street was empty, bathed in the orange glow of the street lights, devoid of life. My thoughts raced, logical explanations battling the ingrained fears of my childhood.

It's just a prank, I told myself, a neighborhood kid messing with the newcomer. But the fear, irrational and deep-seated, held me rooted to the spot. I didn't respond. I couldn't. Instead, I retreated to the relative safety of the sofa. my gaze fixed on the door, listening as the knocks slowly faded, leaving only the pounding of my own heart in my ears. The silence that followed was as terrifying as the knocking had been.

The banging intensified, each thud against the door reverberating like a drumbeat of impending doom in the otherwise silent apartment. My breath hitched in my throat as I crouched behind the couch. The familiar fabric of the sofa rough against my palms, offering a meager sense of security against the relentless assault on the door. As the pounding grew louder, my thoughts scrambled, frantic, disjointed. My father's words about safety, always spoken with a stern protective edge, clashed with the ghostly warnings my grandmother whispered in my memories. In those stories, the spirits never just went away. They lingered, waiting for a slip, a sign of weakness.

And here I was, showing plenty. Pue de Poe-de-po-Ba-A-Kong-Pumasok, the voice escalated, no longer polite, now tinged with an impatience that sent a chill down my spine. It was a demand, an ultimatum given with the expectation of being obeyed. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to vanish into the shadows of the room, as if by merely wishing, I could erase my presence from this entity's perception. But the darkness offered no refuge. The sounds grew only more desperate, more enrable. A brief silence fell, so sudden, so absolute, that it buzzed in my ears. The hope that it had given up flickered within me, but it was quickly extinguished by a new noise,

a subtle, sinister tapping, not at the door this time, but chillingly close, at the window behind the curtain where I had stood moments ago. Tap, tap, tap. The soft sound mocked the terror that had driven me from the door, a psychological torture in its understatement. I curled tighter behind the couch, my eyes wide open now, staring at the fluttering curtain as if it were a flag signaling my demise. Why had I not listened?

My grandmother's stories had taught us that some boundaries were not meant to be crossed, that some doors should never be opened. Yet here I was, having left the front door unlocked, an invitation I hadn't meant to extend. I shuddered, realizing my mistake, the oversight that might cost me more than I could comprehend. The tapping continued, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat, sinking with my own accelerating pulse.

Then, as abruptly as it had escalated, the tapping stopped. The silence returned, oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken threats. I didn't move, didn't dare to breathe, as minutes, or was it hours, ticked by, each second stretching into an eternity of fear. The front door rattled suddenly, a loud bang that might have been the wind, or something far worse. But it wasn't until I heard my parents' voices, strained with concern and confusion, that I allowed myself to believe it might be over. They found me there, a huddled mass of nerves behind the couch,

unable to explain the terror that had seized me. The relief on their faces when they saw me alive was mingled with fear. fear of the unknown, fear of what they couldn't understand. We never spoke in detail about that night. The apartment felt different afterward, smaller, more confining, as if it remembered the siege. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had been there, and the knowledge that I had inadvertently invited it in haunted me. Sleep became elusive, chased away by the slightest noise, by the memory of that tapping,

and despite the locks we changed and the threat of it, thresholds we secured, I knew some doors, once opened, could never truly be closed again. Rachel Parker, a plumber, was born on March 22, 1819, in Crawford County, Illinois. She was the second cousin of Cynthia Ann Parker and joined the rest of the Parker clan in their migration south to Texas before being captured in a raid that forever changed her family. She was described as a red-haired beauty of rare courage and intelligence, and later married a man Luther M. Plummer, who somehow survived the raid that saw his wife taken into captivity. In the chaotic aftermath of the attack on Fort Parker, 17-year-old Rachel was seized by mounted

warriors who also abducted her young son. She was no doubt violated during that night's camp, but later wrote that she never wished to revisit the subject in any of her literature. To narrate their barbarous treatment would only add to my present distress, she wrote, for it is with feelings of the deepest mortification that I have. I think of it, much less speak or right of it. The only other occasion on which she spoke of her violation was to criticize those who claimed that, a good woman died before being soiled in such a way. Rachel said that anyone who said that had clearly not been forced to run naked, tied by a rope to a horse, for a day or two in the sun. Given that she had more advanced education

than her younger cousins, Rachel was able to write a detailed account of her time in captivity. which serves as a valuable insight into the culture and creed of the Comanche people. Yet, it also serves as a detailed account of their abject and unfeeling cruelty, especially when it came to things that might hinder their survival. During her captivity, Rachel gave birth to a healthy baby boy. For the first six weeks, the Comanchee allowed Rachel to nurse her newborn son, but then one day, a group of warriors surrounded her and stole her child from her arms. One of the warriors threw the baby to the ground and beat it until it stopped moving.

The warriors then gestured for Rachel to bury her now deceased child and then walked away. Believing her son was dead, Rachel began scraping a shallow trench in the dry earth beneath her, but as she did so, she noticed her little boy was still breathing. She attempted to nurse him back to health, but when the warriors heard the baby's cries and saw that Rachel had disobeyed them, they chose to make an example of her. Rachel's infant child was tied to a horse via a long rope and then dragged through a cactus patch until its tiny body had been quite literally torn to shreds. Rachel was then taken hundreds of miles north to the furthest reaches of the Comanchee homeland,

where she saw vast, wide-open spaces so desolate and barren that they were almost maddening to behold. But after reaching the southern reaches of what is now southern Colorado, the land became lush and abundant with life. The war band that she was a prisoner of took her along to a giant Comanche summit, one which included their close allies. She wrote that she had never seen so many people in one place before, nor imagined that there would be so many Indians scattered across the Great Plains. She was treated poorly at the gathering and was often jeered at by young Comanche boys. She also spotted many other Anglo and Hispanic American captives among the war bands, and such a large gathering provided a clear opportunity to show them off. Having picked up some of the Comanchee language, Rachel was able to eavesdrop on certain conversations and was amazed to hear that their war chiefs intended to conquer the entirety of Central America.

Rachel's maltreatment at the hands of her captives seemed to have peaked around the time of the great Comanche summit. She was guarded by the female members of the tribe, and as you can imagine, they came up with particularly cruel and degrading methods of humiliation. They routinely beat and tormented her, and by the time they departed from the summit, Rachel was bruised, battered, and itching for retribution. One day during a period of particularly intense abuse, Rachel snapped and launched herself at the younger of her two slave masters. The attack was half revenge, half attempting to take her own life, but instead of killing

her, the warriors seemed impressed with Rachel's display of defiance. At any second she expected a spear in the back. she wrote, but instead the warrior seemed amused and gathered to watch us fight. At one point Rachel managed to gain the upper hand and proceeded to beat the young Comanche woman until the blood ran from her mouth and nose. Her older slave master soon intervened and attempted to set Rachel a light by pushing her into an open fire. She too was beaten half to death by the furious young captive, who bested both her mistresses in brutal fashion, yet refrained from delivering fatal blows. When the violence was over, Rachel and her Comanche owners were taken before a tribunal of elders.

Rachel thoroughly expected to be executed for her insolence, but instead, all the elders asked was that she repair the damage she had inflicted on her owner's tepee. Confused but continuously defiant, Rachel said that she would only repair the damage if her owners helped her, and the elders agreed. She later claimed that one of the elder told her, You began with her, and you had a right to kill her, but your noble spirit prevented you. Indians do not have pity on a fallen enemy, but we show mercy to our family. By brutally attacking the two young women assigned to guard her, Rachel had not, in fact, angered

the Comanchee. She had earned their respect, and from then on, their treatment of her dramatically improved. Just over a year after she was captured, on June 19, 1837, the Comanchee war band Rachel traveled with was approached by a group of Mexican merchants known as Comancheros. These roving traders knew the Great Plains better than any Anglo-American, and were one of the few groups to ever gain a free pass through the land they called Comancheria. The traders approached the war band, and the Comanchees sent out a small welcome party to begin negotiations. Rachel watched the exchange wondering what goods or services might be traded. Little did she know, she was who the Comancheros were looking for. Rachel's father, who had survived the massacre

at Fort Parker, had enlisted the help of the Comancheros in tracking down his daughter, and finally, they had found her. That morning, Rachel did not know if she would live to see another sunrise. A few hours later, she was free. 17 days later, Rachel and the Comancheros arrived back in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She was gaunt to the point of near starvation, covered with her. scars and sore, and her fiery red hair had turned a silvery gray, but she was alive. Sadly, Rachel Parker Plummer passed away just over a year later in Houston, Texas, on March 19, 1839. She was just 20 years old.

Her death certificate stated that complications after childbirth were to blame for her demise, but her husband insisted it was the trauma of Comanche captivity, which slowly ate away at her. In reality, the already weakened Rachel had been suffering awfully during the unseasonable cold weather, and this was most likely what finished her off. But the fact remains, a once vibrant, outgoing young woman had been completely broken by her time in captivity, and although she'd seen and done more in her brief time on earth than most folks do in a lifetime, there's no doubt that she deserved so much more. We have an old legend in our family.

I don't know how true it is, but I guess that's why they call it. call it a legend. It's been passed down from generation to generation. I know that much because my great-a-remembered my great-grandpa telling the story, too. So, I don't think it's something my grandpa just pulled out of thin air after a night of gin and Clint Eastwood movies. The story goes that some distance back, we had a Native American ancestor who was part of the Tonkawa tribe. They're located around Texas, Oklahoma, and maybe New Mexico, too. When my forefather was just a child, something terrible happened that caused him to leave his home and move up to Chicago. There he met a distant foremother, and the rest is literally history.

But the thing that caused him to up and move is one of the most awful things I've ever heard. Just a little backstory, the Tonkawa were a tribe mostly friendly with the United States and all its westward settlers. The other more dominant tribes in the area, the Comanche and the Apache, used to bully the hell out of the Tonkawa whenever they got the chance. So, they turned to the U.S. Army for protection, and occasionally helped them track down Comanche as a kind of screw you to their old enemies. Then some other guys who liked to hunt Comanchee were called scalp hunters.

These were mercenaries who would go and kill a bunch of Comanches, and then bring back their scalps to big towns to swap them for cash. These guys would sometimes seek out Tonkawa camps as places to rest and trade. Unlike some other more famous tribes, the Tonkawa were generally pretty stoked to see foreigners on the horizon, even if they did look like they were armed for bear. So, one day, a whole load of these hairy, stinky-looking dudes show up at our forefathers' camp and start making themselves a little too comfortable. They're eating the Tonkawa food, helping themselves to tobacco, and it's not long before they've overstayed their welcome. Eventually, one of the warriors approaches them and tells them to leave.

The scalp hunters just opened up on them before anyone had a chance to defend themselves. Everything becomes chaos, and our forefather runs for his life, hiding out on the prairie for a while until things blow over. Sometimes, he could actually hear the scalp hunters searching for him, but he stayed hidden until it was safe to come out. Hours later, our forefather trekked back to his village under the cover. of darkness. It was easy to find. He could see it burning in the distance. He rushed over to search for any survivors, but what he saw was a vision of hell itself. Among the burning tepees

lay the bodies of almost everyone he'd ever known, butchered in ways that gave him nightmares for the rest of his life. He never spoke about it in detail, but I can imagine the kinds of things he saw. The story goes that these particular scalp hunters were running a murderous kind of scam. They were being paid for Comanche scalps, but no one could tell the difference between a Comanche scalp and that of any other Indian. No white man could tell the difference between an Indian scalp and a Mexican for that matter. So these guys were just on a murderous rampage all over the borderlands, killing whenever and whoever they pleased. Our ancestor had his entire life burned in a few hours, leaving him with nothing and no one. The story goes that he walked all the way to...

to El Paso and almost died on the journey. He was so dehydrated and hungry that at one point he saw a buffalo keel over in the distance. He then rushed over, tore the animal's stomach open with his teeth, and started eating the half-digested mush in the buffalo's stomach. I honestly think I'd rather die than do something like that, but I guess I've never been that hungry or thirsty before. He made it to El Paso, survived, and worked there until he had enough money to move north, and move he did. It seems crazy that he managed to pull something like that off, some orphaned Indian kid all on his own like that, in a place where they weren't very popular. It makes sense that he moved north as soon as he could.

I'm not one of those people who flaunts my native heritage when it's so distant and obscure to me, but I'm very proud of my forefather, especially if he managed to pull off such an incredible feat of survival. Maybe I got a little of that in me too. Well, here's hoping anyway. One of my earliest memories is being in the playground at a new school, trying to make friends. This was in year three, elementary school age for the Americans reading, and I came across a group of lads playing football. I asked one of them if I could join in, and he told me, Yeah, but only if you just passed to me.

It seemed like a fair deal, so I accepted. The next day, I asked the same lad if I could sit with him at lunchtime, and he said, Yeah, but only if I can have your pudding. lofty or fair that time, but I agreed nevertheless. We then ate lunch in near silence. I didn't touch my pudding, assuming this lad was going to take it when he was good and ready. But when he'd finished his pudding, I offered him mine, and he suddenly had a change of heart. He shook his head, pushed the little bowl back in my direction, and we've been friends ever since.

Walker, as I came to call him on account of it being his second name, was my best made all throughout primary school, and we ended up in the same secondary school too. I had my first pint with him. Our first girlfriends were best friends, and he was part of almost every significant event in my teenage years in some form or another. We were finally separated by going to different universities, but we kept in touch, and he ended up moving back here for work once he'd graduated. He was there for me through all my breakups. He helped me move into my first real flat, and I was the best man at his wedding. The list goes on and on. I was there for all the ups and downs of him and Kathy buying a house,

having a baby, all that other grown-up stuff. And I was the first person Walker called about the accident. So it was early April when he rang me up at about 2 o'clock in the morning. I knew something was going on because of how late the call came, but I never could have guessed how terrible the news was. Kathy had been walking their daughter back from Playgroup when two Joyriders plowed into them at a zebra crossing. and their little girl was pronounced dead at the scene.

Kathy passed away in a hospital bed, fighting for her life, just a few hours later. Walker's whole world had been snatched away from him by two monsters in a BMW, and he was every bit as devastated as you can imagine. He was signed off sick from work, prescribed antidepressants, and then went to live with his parents, because he just couldn't look after himself. We all pitched in, looking after him, making sure that he stayed away from the drink, and all that, but that was just about all we could do. Losing your wife and kid like that, just totally out of the blue. A person's got to get through that on their own, you know. And for ages,

Walker just seemed paralyzed, and honestly, I couldn't blame him. But then one day, I got a very surprising text from him that just said, Are you up for some rambling? Just to explain, rambling was what we called the hiking and camping trips that we used to go on when we were younger. we always fancied ourselves as soldiers, but since we'd never be able to pass the piss test, wink-wink, we settled for these epic rambles across the countryside, sometimes for a week at a time. We'd camp out in different locations every night and then return home unshowered and stinking of campfire smoke, in between getting very unsober and telling ghost stories around the fire at night. It was bloody good fun. We managed about five or six big and small trips before

jobs and girlfriends started eating up all our time. But as much as I looked forward to the day that we got to go again, I thought it might have been a bit too soon. After talking it over, we settled on the second week of April, almost one year after the accident. I tried telling myself the timing of it was nothing but a coincidence, but at the same time, I completely understood if he wanted to get away from it all for a few days, especially around the one-year anniversary. There was always something quite soothing about our rambles. If you're running out of food and water while exposed to the elements, there's no time to worry about problems you've got back in the real world. I didn't know how far that would extend into devastating grief, but in the short term, it definitely seemed to work.

With him having something to focus his mind on, Walker seemed much more chipper. He was ordering camping gear online, testing it out in his mom's back garden, and with all the planning that we had to do, He was much chattier, too. It was just like the old times in many ways, but with one distinct difference, aside from the obvious stuff. Walker had suggested a place for us to visit. Anyone reading this might be like, yeah, so what? But he never made any of the decisions when it came to any of our rambling trips. After I took the lead in planning the first couple and they all went as planned,

he decided to leave that side of things to me so he could focus on gear and getting us there. So when he told me he wanted to visit him, the Scottish Highlands, and in particular a place called Lanur, it made for a refreshing change. If I'm being honest, we'd never been to the Highlands before, so I was very keen to go as it was. But Walker's zigzagging route included a lot of freshwater lakes, some hill walking, and a big dirty fry-up at the end of it, which to me sounded absolutely banging. The longest we'd ever been rambling for was a week, and since we were only just starting back up again, it didn't really surprise me when he said that he only wanted to go for two days.

I was just made up that he seemed to be getting back to himself again. But if I had known what he really had planned, I don't think I'd have ever gone with him. Everything seemed fine on the drive up to Locke Lomond. In fact, it was just like old times. We took turns driving, putting on old playlists, and generally reveling in a bit of nostalgia to kill time on the drive. Parking was easy and cheap, and then add some unexpectedly good weather for April into the mix,

and you had a great start to a properly epic hike. Considering it was his first time, Walker had done a standout job of planning our route, and it took us over some incredible-looking country. We must have hiked around for five or six miles, up and down a gently sloping hill, and then along a narrow river until we came to a small lock. The way down was very steep,

and the river dropped off into a waterfall, which fed into the larger lake. It made for some banging scenery, and I knew immediately that it was going to be our first camping spot. I'd have patted Walker on the back if I didn't think it had sent him toppling down the slope. We found a nice, flat, grassy spot about 50 meters away from the water's edge, and then set up our little A-frame shelters facing one another. Once we were set up, we brewed up some tea on our hexamine burners,

and then set about gathering up firewood for the night. We were quiet while we worked, and I put this down to us both concentrating on the job of finding decent kindling. But afterward, Walker didn't seem to perk up again. I realized about halfway into cooking my dinner that he wasn't going to join me, but he said that he wasn't feeling hungry and would eat later on when the feeling came to him. But later came and went, and he still didn't seem to have anything to eat. We stayed up quite late too, and all we did was sit by the same. the fire, swapping stories. But I didn't see so much as a morsel pass his lips. When I turned into

bed, Walker said that he'd only be staying up a little while longer to watch the stars. That didn't raise any alarm bells. But what did was when I woke up about six or seven hours later and found him still sitting by the fire. I'm not talking about sitting by the fire making a brew with bedhead, having obviously gotten at least a few hours kip. I'm talking about the same position, tent seemingly undisturbed, like he hadn't moved a muscle for hours on end. The first words out of my mouth when I scooched out of my shelter were, Did you not get any sleep? He didn't need to answer me.

The big black bags under his eyes said everything. And it was around then that I started to realize that agreeing to the camping trip might not have been a good idea. I asked him if he was okay, and actually laughed a little when he told me, a bit tired. I responded by asking him if he was really okay. before telling him that there was no shame in tapping out and going home if he really didn't feel up to it. In any other circumstances, if someone had given me some cryptic answer like,

I just had a lot on my mind, I'd have told them to bugger off and talk plain English. But in Walker's case, I knew what he was talking about. Or rather, I assumed I knew. His response shut me up for a minute, and when I finally thought of something else to say, I offered him some coffee to help perk him up a bit. He turned the offer down, saying his stomach was feeling a bit rough, and would stick to water for the time being. I left him to chill by the fire while I went to gather some more firewood, and while I was gone, I did some thinking. He turned down coffee, he turned down dinner the night before, and I didn't see any empty packaging or used mess tins when I woke up.

This meant that Walker had either cleaned and stowed away all of his cooking gear and utensils immaculately, at that, or he had to be able to be. eaten a single freaking thing in more than 24 hours. I stopped collecting firewood the second it occurred to me, and while I didn't go dropping what I'd already collected, I immediately walked back to camp. In the nicest way possible, without trying to sound like his mom or anything like that, I told him he needed to eat if he was going to have the strength to hike it anywhere else. I felt for him. I really did, but he had to look after himself, because being out in the highlands, miles from a road, was not the time to start intermittent fasting. I kept on rabbiting for a bit, generally just pleading with him to talk to me. Then, in frustration, I walked over to his rucksack,

opened it up, and started rummaging around for his food supply. I rummaged and rummaged and rummaged some walker hadn't brought any food. It wasn't just some oopsie-dazy either. He'd done it deliberately, but why? The obvious thing that came to mind, and what just about scared the life out of me to think about, was the idea that he'd driven us out there so he could take his own life. To my infinite relief, he denied that was the case. But when he got all cryptic again, I told him that he could tell me what was going on, or I was leaving. It was a total bluff, but it worked. And that's when he told me, or partially told me what he had planned. There was no hike, no tour around the locks for a few days before a big dirty fry-up in Lochner.

He, and I use his words, needed to do something for Kathy and the baby, and that's something involved not eating and not sleeping. He was okay to drink water, but only when he was really dying of thirst. And when he'd refrained from eating and sleeping for three days, he was going to go into the waterfall. Remember the waterfall I mentioned? The one that we had to view from our campsite? Well, Walker said that there was a shallow alcove in the rock behind it. It was nothing big, just enough room for a single person to sit without getting too wet. And when I asked him how he knew, he told me that he'd verified during the night. Everything was exactly how he said it would be.

And when I asked what it was, Walker said that he was too tired to explain. The only reason he partially explained what he was doing was that he needed me there, and he believed that if he didn't tell me, then I might have actually left. He knew what it looked like, a guy starving himself because he's tired of living or something. But he assured me that it wasn't like that. He needed me there to help him get back to the car when he was done, because chances were he'd be too weak to do it on his own. I remember sitting there by the fire for a minute or two, stunned into silence,

just trying to wrap my head about what Walker was telling me. When I finally got my thoughts together, I asked him why he needed to sit in that little alcove after three days of no food or sleep. I'd help him all right. I just needed to know why. Again, he just said something along the lines of, It's for Kathy and the baby. And if I'm honest, that was as good an explanation as I needed. I had next to no idea what he was trying to do, but I knew that it would be hard, and probably dangerous too.

But what else can you do when a friend at a friend. asks you to do something like that, telling you that they can't trust anyone else to do it? There was no dragging him out of there. Leaving him was just out of the question, and as much as it seemed like the best option, calling the emergency services felt like betrayal. Imagine someone putting all that trust into you, and you just turn around and have them locked up. I know that that's the emotional and not rational response, but in the moment, it just didn't feel right. There like no other option but to do as he asked and make sure that whatever he was going to put himself through, he made it out the other side okay. As it turned out, the first day of his fast was actually

the day before we drove up, the second being the hike out to the waterfall. Walker did seem a bit tired out on the hike, but I just put that down to age, and a bad night's sleep or something. So that second day we were in the highlands, that was going to be the third and final day of no eating or sleeping, meaning his whole plan was going to be over and done by the early hours of the morning. It sounded like good news when I heard it, but it was still proper worrying to see him in such a rough state. It was a lack of sleep that really wore him down. You could watch his brain just frazzling from being awake for so long with sod-all to fuel it. And when he went to the toilet, his pee looked brown, not that unhealthy-looking dark yellow that you see after a summer's night in a

beer garden. It was this sickly brown, like old whiskey or something. I know it might seem a bit odd, fixating on his pee like that, but stuff like that, it's quite shocking when you've never seen it before. It wasn't just his body either. It was his mind. He started saying things twice, stumbling over words, and then skipping back to an early part of a conversation like he just lost his train of thought, and ten or twenty minutes hadn't gone by. And by the time the sun started to go down. I was ready for it to be over, but we had quite a way to go before that. I didn't get a wink of sleep that night either. I wasn't entirely convinced that Walker wasn't going to try and hurt himself in some way. I just had to trust that he wouldn't. I quizzed him more and

more as the night went on, but he became less and less in the mood for chat. However, he did tell me that he had been thinking about that night for months, and had gone over it in his head so many times that it bored him to think about, let alone talk about. He told me he understood how annoying that must be, but he would tell me all about it when it was over. But until then, I had to wait. When the time finally came, I walked him over to the waterfall, and he began to take off his clothes. I suppose that was always a given. He didn't want to get his only jacket and pair of boots soaking wet in the process, but it was still bloody freezing out, and he was shaking like a dog as he passed me that last of his clothes.

Over the sound of the waterfall, I heard him tell me that if he called out or wasn't back out within an hour, I was to go in and pull him out. He would be naked and soaking wet in the freezing Scottish night, and he would be in danger of getting hypothermia if he stayed exposed for too long,

and that only added to all the anxiety. As he thanked me one last time, turned and disappeared into the water, exactly 27 minutes had gone by when I first thought that I heard something over the sound of the waterfall. I remember straining my ears, thinking that they might have been playing tricks on me, but then I heard it again. It was barely audible over the sound of the waterfall,

but it sounded an awful lot like a person. And then, suddenly, there was Walker. He was as white as a sheet, skinny as a rake, and shivering violently. Then there were the noises that he was making, and my God, they were inhuman, not quite weeping, not quite screaming, all blunted by three days of no food or sleep. As soon as he reached the banks of the stream, he just collapsed, and I threw his jacket around him. He couldn't speak, he could barely move, and I did everything I could to drag him back to the fire and plonk him down next to it so he could properly warm up.

I asked him if he could eat, and he nodded very weakly, so I threw a few cereal bars and a bottle of water in front of him. I had to actually feed him and bring the bottle to his lips to get him to properly. Walker ate slowly, with silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and I'd be a liar if I said that I didn't shed a few too. Once he had gotten a bit of food and water in him, Walker asked me to help him into his tent so he could finally sleep. I made sure that he was dry, helped him into a few underlayers and then eased him into a sleeping bag. I think he was asleep before I had even finished tucking him in, and I wanted nothing more than to climb into my own sleeping bag for some well-deserved rest, but when it came to it, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was trapped

between being too tired to stay awake and too scared to fall asleep, but then the harder I tried to fight it, the easier it came. I don't know exactly what time it was at that point, but I remember there being a little creeping blue in the distant horizon. I closed my eyes for a second, and then the next thing I knew, it was full daylight. My eyes burned, and I felt sick from how exhausted I was, but when I saw that Walker was still there, asleep and breathing, I knew everything was going to be fine. I tried to catch a few more hours, but an overactive brain, fueled by a disco nap, made that a no-go. I wanted to wake him up, make him eat a little bit more, and get some coffee down him. but it was for selfish reasons.

What I really wanted to know was what had happened in the waterfall, what he'd put himself through hell for, but God knows he needed the rest, and there would be plenty of time for questions on the way back. I suppose this piece is long enough as it stands, so I'll try to summarize that conversation as best I can. After getting Walker back into Locke Lomond safely, we had a little bit more food,

bought Walker one of those big bottles of Lukasade, so he could carry on replenishing on the drive, and then started on our journey back home. He didn't tell me much about what he'd done, or why he'd done it. He said that he was still taking it all in himself, but the long and short of it was this. He read something online about that waterfall, something about how old monks used to go there to have religious experiences. The story went that if you concentrated on praying for someone hard enough, someone who had already passed on, you could either hear that.

see them, talk to them, or something to that effect. The only rule was that you had to sit there for three days with nothing but the water in front of you to drink. Obviously Walker had tried to streamline the process for safety and convenience, thinking that as long as he drank a little of the water, he could do all the fasting and staying awake away from the waterfall itself. He'd been quite worried that it had ruined the process and therefore ruined the desired effect, but it didn't. According to Walker, the process had worked exactly as intended. I feel like I have to explain at this point. I'm not a religious person, and I don't believe in ghosts, spirits, or any of that uglie-boogly nonsense. I think Walker pushed himself to his

physical and psychological limits and induced a kind of visual or auditory hallucination, and I think, deep down he knows that too. The thing is he does, he does. He does. He does doesn't care, and I don't really blame him either, and as much as I'm not going to pretend to know how it worked, I understand why he wanted to do it, to have that opportunity to see or talk to a missed relative, even if it isn't real. I admit to seeing the appeal. Whatever happened, Walker started doing much better after the trip. Everyone put it down to finally getting back to the great outdoors and reliving a bit of his youth. We never told anyone what it actually happened. Walker didn't swear me to secrecy or anything like that, but he didn't have

to, because whatever happened in that little alcove behind the waterfall, that's between him and his dearly departed. As the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the rugged peaks of Mount Cushusco, the Australian alpine region transformed before my eyes. What was once a breathtaking panorama of lush greens and earthy browns, now turned into a shadowy expanse, enveloped in the creeping chill of nightfall. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening. Beside me, Kate fiddled with the radio, seemingly oblivious to the eerie transformation of the landscape outside. Isn't this place just beautiful, even at dusk? She remarked. Her voice filled with genuine awe. I forced a smile, my eyes scanning the darkness that stretched beyond the narrow

beam of our headlights. Beautiful, yes, but fraught with a silent, unsettling atmosphere that clung to the back of my neck like a cold hand. We should have driven through earlier, I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. I had heard stories about the Australian Alps, tales that locals whispered, warning against lingering in these parts after dark. Of course, I had dismissed them as nothing more than legends. Until now, the road wound tightly between towering trees, their branches clawing at the fading light. As the darkness deepened, I flipped on the high beams, the road ahead becoming starkly visible in the harsh light. An uncomfortable silence fell between us, broken only by the soft hum of the car's engine and the occasional crackle of the radio trying to catch a signal.

To break the mounting tension, Kate connected her phone to the car's speakers and tapped play on a Spotify playlist, filled with 90s classics. The familiar strains of a radiohead song filled the car, and for a moment the normalcy of it all calmed my nerves. We sang along, our voices loud and slightly off-key, laughing at our attempts to hit the high notes. Just as I started to relax, a scream sliced through the night, cutting the music off mid-verse. It was sharp, desperate, and unmistakably human. My heart stopped. Kate turned down the music, her eyes wide with shock. Did you hear that? she whispered.

I nodded my stomach nodding with fear. We listened, holding our breaths. And there it was again. A long, agonizing wail that echoed through the trees. We have to see if someone needs help, Kate said decisively, reaching for the door handle before I could argue. Reluctantly, I killed the engine and grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment. The air was cold and still as we stepped out, the silence oppressive, weighing heavily against my chest. The cries continued, distant yet distinct, pulling us forward. With each step into the forest, the underbrush grew denser, the trees taller, and the path less discernible.

My flashlight beam danced over the ground, casting long, sinister shadows that twisted and turned with our movements. Kate marched ahead, determined, her own light bobbing ahead of me. Hello, where are you? She called into the darkness. There was a pause, then another scream, closer this time, infused with pain and fear. My instincts screamed at me to turn back, to flee the unknown dangers hidden by the night. But I couldn't leave, not when someone might be out there, hurt and alone. We pushed deeper into the woods, the darkness swallowing us whole.

Every sound seemed amplified in the silence, every snapped twig, a gunshot in the quiet. My heart pounded in my ears, a relentless drum urging me to flee. But beside me, Kate's resolve was unshakable, her steps steady and sure. It was then, in the suffocating blackness of the Australian Alps, that I began to understand the true meaning of fear. The darkness seemed to close in around us, pressing against my chest with an almost physical wait. Each step forward seemed to lead us deeper into a realm where the night ruled without mercy. Kate's flashlight sliced through the blackness ahead, her determined strides never wavering

despite the chilling cries that continued to echo around us. Come on, we're close now, Kate called back to me, her voice tinged with urgency. I hurried after her, my own fear gnawing at me relentlessly. The deeper we ventured, the colder the air became, filling with a faint, musty odor that made me want to gag. It was the smell of decay, of things long dead, and forgotten. Suddenly, the source of the screams became visible, a figure on the ground, shrouded in darkness. My pulse quickened as we approached, the beam of my flashlight trembling in my hand. Hello, can you hear us? Kate's voice broke the haunting silence, her light focusing on the figure that now seemed so terrifyingly still. As we drew closer,

a gut-wrenching realization stopped me dead in my tracks. The figure on the ground wasn't human. It was something else, something grotesque that my brain struggled to comprehend. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched taut over sharp angular bones. It turned slowly to face us, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. A scrim light. A scrimed. The scream of pure terror was ripped from my throat as the creature unfurled itself, rising to an unnatural height. Its mouth opened in a silent snarl, revealing rows of jagged, stained teeth. Kate stumbled backwards, her face pale with shock, but before she could turn to run, the creature

lunged. Everything happened in a blur. I heard Kate's scream, shrill and cut horrifyingly short. I saw the flash of movement as the creature pounced, its form a blur of limb. limbs and twisted features. Panic seized me, primal and overpowering. I turned and ran blindly back toward the path, branches whipping against my face as I broke through the underbrush. I didn't stop, not even to look back. My breaths coming in ragged gasps as fear propelled me forward. Somewhere behind me, the sounds of a struggle continued, snarls and screams that

seemed to chase me through the trees. My mind reeled, unable to accept what my eyes had witnessed. After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the car. Fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking uncontrollably, I managed to unlock it and throw myself inside. I started the engine on the first try, a small mercy in the night of terror, and sped away from the nightmare behind me. I didn't stop driving until the lights of a small motel appeared, a beacon of safety in the darkness. I checked in with a fake name, too scared to even consider the pot. possibility of being found. My room was a small musty space, but it was secure. I locked the door, closed the curtains, and collapsed onto the bed, my body still shaking. Lying there in the flickering light

of a single bedside lamp, I tried to make sense of the horror I had witnessed. Was it a skinwalker, a bunyip, or some other crypted? The question swirled in my mind, but no answers came. only one thing was certain. I would never forget Kate's screams, and I would never forgive myself for leaving her behind in that dark, cursed forest. I took the job because it was supposed to be easy. Who wouldn't want to get paid for wandering around a peaceful national forest at night? Sure, there were the usual duties like checking in on the few campers who dared to stay overnight,

ensuring they followed the rules, and occasionally dealing with a bear or a curious raccoon. But overall, it seemed like a gig that would give me plenty of time to clear my head and think. I never expected that my first fundamental shift would actually be my last. Stillwood Forest wasn't large by any means and wasn't very well known. Nestled in a remote part of the state, it was the kind of place where locals came to escape the bustle of everyday life. The forest was dotted with a few campsites, hiking trails, and a small lake that looked like it was pulled straight from a postcard. I had heard rumors about the place, of course.

Every small town has its ghost stories and urban legends. I laughed them off at the time, but now I honestly wish I hadn't been so quick to dismiss them. It was an absolutely beautiful crisp night in mid-September when my ordeal began. The forest was quieter than usual, with only two occupied campsites. I started my patrol around 1 p.m., armed with only a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, and a thermos of coffee. I always thought it was overkill to carry the radio, but protocol was protocol. The first site I visited was occupied by a family of four, a mom, a dad, and two younger kids. They were roasting marshmallows over a campfire, laughter echoing through the trees.

I checked in with them briefly, exchanging pleasantries before moving on. The second site was a bit further away, closer to the lake. A lone camper, an older gentleman named Henry, I believe, had set up his tent. He was a regular, known for his love of fishing and solitude. When I arrived, he was already asleep, the embers of the campfire dying down. Satisfied that everything was in order, I returned to the main trail. It must have been around midnight when I heard it, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from the forest depths. At first I thought it was just an animal, maybe a deer or a bear, but the noise. was unlike anything I had honestly ever heard. It sent a chill down my spine, raising the hairs on

the back of my neck. I stopped, scanning the darkness with my flashlight, but saw nothing unusual. Shaking off the unease, I continued my patrol. The sound came again, louder this time, and closer. It was a mixture of a growl and a groan, primal and menacing. My heart pounded in my chest as I turned toward the direction of the noise, my flashlight beam cutting through the night. Just beyond the edge of light, I saw movement, a shadow slipping between the trees. It was tall and humanoid, but distorted. For a moment I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe it was a trick of the light or my imagination running wild, but then I saw the eyes. They were glowing, piercing, and seemed to bore into my soul. They were a sickly yellow,

filled with an evil intelligence. The creature stepped into the light, and my breath caught in my throat. It stood over seven feet tall, its skin pale and stretched tightly over a skeletal frame. Its limbs were long and spindly, ending in sharp, claw-like fingers. Its mouth was twisted into a grin, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Panic set in, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ran. I bolted down the trail. my heart hammering in my chest and my lungs burning. Behind me I could hear the creature's heavy footsteps gaining on me. I fumbled for my walkie-talkie, desperate to call for help. My hand shook as I pressed the button and my voice came out in a strangled whisper. This is Sam. I need help. There's something

in the forest, something wrong. Static crackled through the radio, followed by my supervisor's voice. Calm down, Sam. Where are you? Near the lake, I gasped. It's following me. I didn't wait for his response. I kept running, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly with each step. The path seemed to stretch forever, the trees closing in around me. The creature's growls grew louder and more frantic. I glanced over my shoulder at some point and saw the creature was closer than I ever thought it could be, its eyes glowing with a predatory hunger. Up ahead, I saw a faint light, the Ranger Station. A surge of hope propelled me forward. I burst through the door, slamming it shut behind me and locking it. My breath came in a

ragged gasp as I leaned against the door, trying to calm my racing heart. I grabbed my radio again, my voice shaking. I'm at the station, it's outside. There was a pause, and Mike's voice came on, sounding laced with concern. Stay inside, and I'll be on my way. I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the door. Outside I could hear the creature moving around, its claws scraping against the wooden walls. It released a low, menacing growl that sent shivers down my spine.

I glanced around the room, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. My eyes fell on a rusty old axe hanging on the wall. It wasn't much. but it was going to have to do. Hell, it was better than absolutely nothing in my bare hands. Gripping the axe tightly, I positioned myself by the door, ready to defend myself. Minutes felt like hours as I waited, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.

The creature continued to prowl outside, its growls growing more agitated. Finally, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. Mike's voice crackled over the radio. I'm here. stay where you are. The creature was illuminated by the headlights of Mike's truck, and for a brief moment, I saw it. It was even more horrifying than I had realized, its skin glistening in the light, its eyes burning with rage. Mike stepped out of the truck, shotgun in hand. Get away from the door, he shouted. I scrambled back as Mike fired a shot.

The creature let out a roar and lunged at him. Another shot rang out, and the beast staggered but didn't go down. I watched in horror as it swiped at Mike, knocking him to the ground. I knew I had to act. Gripping the axe, I flung the door open and charged at the creature, screaming at the top of my lungs. It turned towards me, eyes blazing with hatred. I swung the axe with all my might, sinking the blade into its side. The beast let out a blood-curdling scream and ran away into the sprawling forest. Pain shot through my body as I fell to the ground. It did end up getting me a good swipe on my knee. For just a moment, everything fell silent. The creature released one final shuddering scream as it ran off into the forest. We did report the incident to the authorities and higher

ups, but the creature's body, if it had died, was never found, and I never heard anything else about it. All that remained were deep gouges in the ground and a lingering sense of dread. They chalked it up to a bear attack, but we knew the truth. To this day, I don't know what that creature was or where it came from. I quit my job the next day, and I couldn't bring myself to set foot in that forest ever again. The memory of those glowing eyes and twisted grin haunts my dreams. Rhode Island might be the smallest state in the U.S., but don't let its size fool you. It's a treasure trove of history and mystery. As a kid growing up here, I've always felt like the past whispers to you, especially on the windswept nights of autumn when shadows stretch long and deep,

my best friend Jamie and I share an insatiable curiosity for the paranormal. The tales of hauntings and ghost sightings were our favorite subjects, especially the ones surrounding the notorious Tower Hill Road in Cumberland. It was late October, and the chill in the air was a constant reminder that Halloween was just around the corner. Jamie and I had been planning this for weeks. We were going to drive down Tower Hill Road at dusk. The road had a creepy reputation. Locals whispered about supernatural sightings and unsettling events, talking of a ghost child walking a dog, and even older stories of Native American spirits unsettled by the violence of the French and Indian War. These stories fueled our anticipation as we prepared for the journey, wondering if we'd

encounter these spirits ourselves. Are you sure about this? Jamie asked. Her voice, a mix of excitement and nerves as she tossed an extra flashlight into the back seat of my old car. Absolutely, I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The truth was, a part of me doubted we would see anything truly supernatural. But another part, a bigger part, hoped we would. As we set out, the sun was just dipping below the horizon, casting an orange glow that quickly surrendered to the creeping dusk. The closer we got to Tower Department, the more palpable, our anticipation grew. I could feel the atmosphere change as we turned onto the road. The air grew thick, as if trying to make each breath a labor and a profound silence enveloped us,

replacing the usual evening chorus of crickets and rustling leaves. This feels weird, Jamie murmured, rolling down the window slightly. She was right. Even the usual sounds of nature seem to avoid this place. An anxious feeling gnawed at my insides, making me hyper-aware of every rustle and creek around us. We drove slowly, our headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the winding road ahead. The dense woods on either side of the road seemed to close in around us. The trees were twisted and gnarled, like the gnashing teeth of some giant beast. Their shadows danced in the dim light, creating ominous shapes that move just beyond clear sight. Did you see that? I whispered, more to myself than to Jamie, as I thought I saw a

movement at the edge of the light, but when I tried to focus, whatever it was had vanished. Jamie didn't respond, her eyes wide as she scanned the dark woods. I knew she was feeling it too, the eerie sense that we were not alone, that the stories might be more than just stories. Every shadow seemed to flicker with potential movement, every sound a whisper from the unseen. The deeper we drove into Tower Hill Road, the more the reality of our adventure began to sink in. We were following in the footsteps of countless others drawn here by tales of the supernatural, searching for a glimpse into the unknown. But as the shadows grew deeper and the night colder, I had to wonder, were we the watchers or the watched? As the road curved, the woods

seemed to press closer, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. What were we hoping to find on Tower Hill Road? And more importantly, what might find us? As we continued our journey down the notorious Tower Hill Road, the atmosphere thickened around us, pressing in with an almost tangible weight. The deeper we drove into the shadows, the more intense the eerie sensation became. Jamie and I had barely spoken since we passed the halfway marker. Our attention fixed on the dense, dark woods that enveloped the road like a cloak. Suddenly, Jamie's hand gripped the dashboard tightly. There it is, she whispered urgently, pointing towards a massive, ancient tree that loomed ahead. Its branches stretched outward like skeletal arms, gnarled and twisting

against the backdrop of the night sky. It was the kind of tree that looked like it had stories to tell, stories of the long, dark nights, and the things that whispered in the shadows. As our headlights bathed the tree in pale light, Jamie screamed, a sharp piercing sound that shattered the heavy silence. I saw someone, or something, she gasped. Her eyes wide with fear. She described a figure, dark and indistinct, standing near the base of the tree, watching us with what she swore were glowing eyes. My heart pounded in my chest as a chill ran down my spine.

Laughing it off was my first instinct, a nervous chuckle escaping me that sounded hollow even to my own ears. It's probably just a trick of the light, Jamie, I said, though my voice lacked conviction. We drove past the tree slowly, the feeling of being watched intensively. Every instinct in me screamed to turn the car around and leave this haunted road, but curiosity, and perhaps a bit of stubbornness, urged us forward. The shadows seemed to dance around us, playing tricks on our eyes as we peered into the woods. At times it felt as if the night itself

was alive, moving and watching. Jamie was silent, her knuckles white as she gripped her seat. She kept glancing back at the tree, convinced that whatever she had seen was following us. Can you hear that? Jamie's voice broke the silence, her tone tinged with fear. It was then that I heard it too, a low, mournful howl that seemed to resonate through the still air. It was quickly followed by the faint ghostly laughter of a child. The sounds were fleeting, disappearing as quickly as they had come, leaving us in an even deeper silence that seemed to echo with their echoes. The temperature in the car dropped, and I could see my breath fogging up the windshield.

Jamie and I exchanged a look, a mix of fear and fascination. What were these sounds? Were they the spirits the locals had spoken of? Or was our imagination getting the better of us? As we neared the end of Tower Hill Road, the oppressive atmosphere suddenly lifted, as if we were passing through an invisible barrier. We emerged from the shadowy road, both of us trembling slightly, overwhelmed by relief, yet still haunted by what we had experienced. We pulled over to the shadowy road, to the side of the road, needing a moment to collect ourselves and process the journey. Had we really

encountered the paranormal, or had the night and the stories played tricks on our minds? Looking back, Tower Hill Road was more than just a stretch of pavement through the Rhode Island countryside. It was a journey into the unknown, where the past and the supernatural intertwined in the most unsettling of ways. This is Euphoria Calvin Klein, the new elixir collection, featuring three perfume intense scents, inspired by a unique orchid accord, paired with vanilla, each with its own distinct attitude, each with its own universe, bold elixir, sensual, woody, addictive, magnetic elixir, sweet and romantic like a lingering touch, solar elixir, a radiant expression of joy, ultra-concentrated for amplified impact and lasting power. Find your euphoria. Discover the euphoria

elixir collection by Calvin Klein. Perhaps one of the most significant events in U.S. history took place way back in March of 1840. It ignited 30 years of brutal, unrelenting guerrilla warfare in America's southeast, and the subsequent effect on the national psyche lies somewhere between immeasurable and astronomical. It is a tale of desperation, hope, greed, and revenge, all steeped in the incomprehensible man-made horrors of the Old West. This is the story of the Great Comanche Raid. In early 1840, times were tough for the tribe of Native Americans known. as the Comanchee. Several years of war with their rival, the Apache, as well as a catastrophic outbreak of smallpox, had severely weakened the numerous Comanchee war bands. Another year of fighting might see their people

wiped from the earth, so instead they sued for peace. Three Comanchee emissaries rode out to the newly Texan city of San Antonio to meet with city officials, and were told that if the Comanchee returned a dozen Anglo-American captives unharmed, then peace would be forthcoming. The emissaries agreed to return with captives in just over three weeks, but it was a promise they couldn't keep. Throughout their history, the Comanche were never a single unified people, despite being united by language. There were at least 12 different subdivisions of the tribe,

operating almost entirely independent of one another, as well as up to 35 independent war bands, with shifting loyalties to the larger groups. On top of that, the Comanche differed from from their fellow Native Americans, in that there was no official power structure within their war bans. If a young Comanche warrior was skilled and charismatic enough, he could defy the wishes of his tribal elders and lead a raid against just about whoever he wanted. The Comanchee were prolific raiders. The word Comanche is taken from a Ute word meaning, he who attacks me all the time.

And it was through this culture of war and raiding that they acquired so many prisoners in the first place. Yet their division presented the peace emissaries with a huge problem because the Anglo-American captives were spread out among the different groups and war bands. Convincing each to give them up proved impossible. Relinquishing a captive meant losing a valuable source of slave labor, meaning their captives wanted ample compensation in exchange for their release. In the end, the emissaries were only able to negotiate the release of a single American prisoner within the allotted time frame.

On March 19th, the day of the Texans' deadline, a Comanche delegation of 12 chiefs and 53 warriors returned to San Antonio. They had come dressed for the occasion. Some wore long braids woven with coyote fur and decorated with brightly colored feathers. Others wore huge buffalo horn headdresses with their faces painted a garish, sanguine red. It made for a magnificent sight, but it was one the residents of San Antonio found,

terrifyingly intimidating. When the Comanche met with Texan officials, one of the warriors dismounted and then dragged a filthy, frail young girl from the back of his horse. 16-year-old Matilda Lockhart had been captured two years earlier while working at her cousin's farm, and her return was supposed to be a cause for celebration. But when the emaciated, mutilated girl was revealed to a waiting crowd, her appearance had the opposite effect. Mary Maverick, the woman who helped Nurse Matilda back to health, said that she was utterly degraded and could not hold up her head again. Her head, arms, and face were full of bruises and sores, and we were horrified to discover that her nose had been burned off. All the fleshy end was gone,

and a great scab had formed with both nostrils wide open and denuded of flesh. She told a pious tale of how dreadfully the Indians had beaten her, and how they would wake her from her sleep by sticking a chunk of fire to her flesh, especially to her nose. Texan authorities were quick to question Matilda on the health of her fellow captives. She confirmed that at least a dozen of them were still alive, including four of her relatives, and claimed that various war bans would only release them if larger compensation was offered. This slightly contradicts the explanation of the Comanchee peace delegates, who rightfully blamed the lack of unity among their people.

Only one war band had agreed to release a prisoner, and while the others were open to negotiations, no agreement had been reached thus far. It was only then that the Comanchee revealed the price for each captive's release, and it constituted a huge amount of food, medicine, ammunition, and blankets. While some argued that this was a simple miscommunication, Texan authorities viewed it as a slap in the face. In their eyes, the Comanchee had brazen. defied the terms of their agreement, and they sought to detain the peace delegates until the remaining American captives were released. The Comanchee were led to a one-story building next to the town's jail, known as the council house.

Here, the warriors and their chieftains sat on the floor, as was their custom, while the Texans sat on chairs. A translator was then told to inform the Comanche that they were under arrest, but to the Texans' surprise, he refused. The visibly anxious translator claimed that if he did so, the Comanche would attempt to fight their way out. The Texans responded by placing several armed militia members in the room before reissuing their order to the translator. He did as they asked, then promptly fled. Upon learning that they were detained, the Comanchee began to reach for their weapons. The Texan militiamen replied by leveling their shotguns and muskets while warning the warriors against belligerents, but their caution fell on deaf ears.

At once, the Comanche rushed their would-be captors with knives and tomahawks drawn. The militiamen opened fire, wounding and killing several in their opening salvo, but they were quickly overwhelmed in the blood-drenched chaos of close quarters fighting. The Texans didn't stand a chance. Some accidentally shot each other in the confusion, while the battle-hardened Comanche warriors simply cut them to ribbons. They moved like lightning, slashing, and stabbing and screeching their war cries, and within seconds the Texans were dead.

Outside the council house, the remaining Comanchee heard the blood-curdling cries coming from inside and descended into a panic. Many believed that the Texans had set a trap for them and began firing arrows at just about anyone who came into view. At least one unarmed civilian was killed when an arrow cleaved its way into their skull. They died where they lay, with the smell of gun smoke in their nostrils and Comanche war cries in their ears. Once they had cleared a path of escape, the Comanchee began to flee, but were pursued by a number of militia reinforcements. The militiamen's fire was wild, and a number of Texan civilians were killed in the crossfire.

On the other hand, the Comanche's arrows were as precise as they were deadly. By the time a Comanchee warrior was around 12 or 13 years old, they were such skilled archers that they could shoot horseflies out of the air at short ranges. What's more, a highly efficient method of shooting meant a young Comanche could fire off three arrows in little over one and a half seconds, compared to the 30-second reload time of 19th century muskets, or the limited capacity of relatively cumbersome revolvers, which were considered to be the cutting edge of military technology. Take the example of a Texan officer by the name of Lieutenant Dunnington. At the outbreak of hostilities, Dunnington pulled his pistol and aimed it at the head of a Comanche female.

She was able to shoot an arrow with such force that it passed through Dunnington's chest and buried itself into the wall behind him, all before Dunnington could even pull the trigger. The stunned officer was able to reply in turn and blew the woman's brains out before collapsing to the ground. His final words, having mistook the woman for a young male warrior, were, I killed him. but I believe he's killed me too. By the late afternoon, when the Comanchee found themselves completely outnumbered and hopelessly surrounded, the decision was made to surrender to the Texans. 35 of their number had been killed in the fighting, while the remaining 29 were taken to the town jail as prisoners.

Yet their capture had come at a heavy cost. Seven Texans had been killed outright, including a judge, and the town sheriff, with dozens of others being treated for serious injuries. These injuries were treated in part by a German surgeon by the name of Dr. Weidman, whose story is so fascinatingly horrifying that it's worthy of note. Dr. Weidman happened to be in San Antonio on the orders of Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, who had assigned him the task of studying the relatively new Republic of Texas. As thanks for his services, the San Antonio authorities offered Weidman,

ample financial compensation, but he proposed a considerably more gruesome form of acquittal. Instead of money, Weidman requested the bodies of two slain Comanchee warriors, with the intention of returning them to Europe for study. His wish was granted, and two days later, he boiled the bodies in a highly toxic chemical bath to strip away the flesh and organs and secure the preserved skeletons. Then, to dispose of the foul-smelling liquid remains of the two Comanche, Dr. Weidman decided to pour the mess into San Antonio's only supply of drinking water, causing untold suffering to the unsuspecting townsfolk. Dr. Weidman went from hero to villain in a little over 48 hours,

and once his heinous act of pollution was discovered, he was promptly chased out of town. Meanwhile, back at the town's jail, a single Comanchee prisoner was released on the condition that he relay a message to the rest of his people. If all 15 American prisoners were released unharmed within 12 days, the surviving Comanche peace delegates would be allowed to live. If not, they would be executed. Exactly one week later, a Texan woman by the name of Mrs. Webster stumbled into San Antonio with her three-year-old child in tow. Some reports state that Mrs. Webster had escaped from 19 months of Comanche captivity, but if she made it to San Antonio alive, it's only because her captors allowed her to.

She was questioned on the fate of her fellow captives, but was unaware of their condition. Days went by with no sign of the Comanchee or their prisoners, and then, finally, on the day of the deadline, another band of Comanchee rode into San Antonio with three Texan captives in tow. One of them was a young boy named Booker, son of the previously freed Mrs. Webster. He too was asked what the condition of the remaining captives were. The story that he told was beyond horrifying, When word of the councilhouse shootout reached the Comanche, they were enraged. The wives of the slain warriors demanded vengeance, and when it was granted to them, the methods of torture they conjured up were the stuff of nightmares.

One Texan captive was slowly roasted to death over an open fire. Another was slowly dismembered, with the Comanchee cauterizing the amputations to prevent blood loss and prolong their victims' suffering. Booker Webster had also heard of another captive Texan who was beaten, bound, then laid next to an ant-hill. The Comanchee then sliced off the prisoner's eyelids and watched as the ants devoured the soft tissue of their unprotected eyeballs. Other methods of torture employed by the Comanchee involved the use of hot coals. Victims sometimes had white-hot pieces of firewood stuffed into their mouths, or were tied down before it was heaped on top of their stomachs and genitals. As you can imagine, the news horrified the Texans, who flat out refused to release their own Comanche prisoners.

They were later moved from the city jail to a U.S. Army encampment at the head of the San Antonio River, but escaped in dribs and drabs over the years that followed. In the aftermath of the councilhouse shootout and their chief's permanent detention by Texan officials, the Comanchee hungered for revenge. The war chief of the Penateca band, a man named Buffalo Hump, began riding between neighboring Comanche groups to converse with their warriors. At each stop, he made the case for a unified act of vengeance, a single brutal repost that would avenge their fallen and captured brethren.

Over the course of that summer, the young war chief gathered up a raiding party of between four and 500 Comanche warriors, and they began raiding the smaller settlements between Austin and San Antonio. With each raid, the war party grew stronger and stronger, until finally they were ready for much larger game. On August 6th of 1840, citizens of the fledgling settlement of Victoria awoke to a harrowing sight. Almost 600 heavily armed Comanche warriors resplendent in their martial finery whooped their war cries as they galloped towards Victoria. They had been caught completely unprepared, and they paid for their lack of diligence in blood.

The Comanchee swept through the town, slaughtering as they went, and when the opportunity presented itself, they scalped their fallen victims with glee. The quick and the fortunate were able to barricade themselves inside homes and businesses, while those with rifles took pot shots at the Comanchee from windows and balconies. The warriors killed around two dozen civilians, looted numerous stores and warehouses, then vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared. Two days later, the Comanchee arrived at the small, port of Linville, northeast of modern-day Port Lavaca. Thanks to the advanced warning from

Victoria, the vast majority of Linville citizens were able to escape unharmed. They simply boarded the boats docked in the town's harbor and sailed out to a distance the Comanchee were unwilling to pursue them. Yet this meant that they were forced to watch as their homes were smashed, soiled, and looted by vengeful warriors, who carted off the modern-day equivalent of $9 million worth of goods over the course of the few hours. The jubilant warriors relished their moment of victory. They dressed themselves in a colorful cavalcade of Texan clothes, drank themselves legless on looted hooch, and took a horrifying amount of pleasure in torturing their captives to death. Only six of Victoria's citizens had been unable to escape in time, one of whom was a man named Hugh Orrin Watts, who had delayed his

escape to retrieve a family heirloom. Hugh probably heard stories of the Comanche's brutality, yet it's likely he didn't know exactly what that entailed. But thanks to a serious error of judgment, he received a full and comprehensive education on what it meant to be a Comanche prisoner. It was standard practice for warriors, as well as other Great Plains tribes, to inflict unspeakable horrors on those they defeated in battle.

But this is not a moral judgment, and those who employed such barbarity cannot truly be described as evil. In a society where courage was priored, above all, being tortured to death offered a warrior the opportunity to prove himself worthy of the title. To die with fortitude was a thing of great honor, and since he would be shown no mercy, he would show none in return. It's not clear how Hugh Watts died on the day of the Linville raid, but it's safe to say that it would have been agonizingly slow and unimaginably painful.

At the time, Linville was the second largest port in Texas, and capturing such a large town, was a momentous occasion for many of the Comanchee warriors. Yet, opting to savor the moment proved to be their downfall. One of the great military strengths of all Native American tribes was their incredible mobility, and the success of a raid rested not just on the speed and surprise of the attack, but also the urgency of the withdrawal. In sacking and burning Linville, the Comanchee had given the pursuing Texas Rangers enough time to coordinate their forces and plan an attack.

Volunteer companies from all over east and central Texas converged on Linville, and they eventually tracked the fleeing Comanchee to a place called Plum Creek, not far from modern-day Lockhart. Around 60 Comanchee warriors were killed in the first few minutes of the Rangers' ambush, and the remainder were forced to flee with only what they could carry. There's no doubt that thanks to the element of surprise, the pursuing Rangers could have run the bloody warband down and slaughtered them, but as they rode through the Comanchee campground, they made a startling discovery.

Thousands of dollars in silver bullion were discovered in the packs of several mules. The Rangers were faced with a choice, do their job, or succumb to their greed. And they chose the latter. Whether or not this was a deliberate ploy by the ever-cunning Comanche, it's not for me to say, but the fact remains, the ranger's greed was the warband's salvation. And thus marked the end of the great Comanche raid of 1840, the cycle of violence would continue for decades afterward, with hideous injustices, betrayals, and atrocities committed by both sides. The morality of westward expansion and the philosophy of manifest destiny will be debated

and scrutinized until there's no one left to talk about them. But when talk stops and the sun sets over the land that's yours and mine, we can take comfort in the relative peace and security that most of us enjoy today. because coexistence is always preferable to killing. My name is Ryan. I'm from Southern Oklahoma, and I'm half Native American on my mom's side. My grandpa, who was born in the year 1912,

was full-blooded Comanchee. Much like many of the elders from his time, he had a lot of stories to tell. These weren't his own stories. They were passed down from his grandfather in turn, from a time before the Wild West was tamed, as they say. He used to tell us some pretty white, wild tales sometimes, of how our ancestors would talk to spirits using peyote cactus, or how

they could shoot nickels out of the air with their bows and arrows. Most of Grandpa's stories were either interesting or insightful like that, but every so often, he would tell us something a little darker. Now, I'm no expert in Native American history or culture, so I'm not going to pretend to be able to speak for other tribes, but I know that a lot of tribes were mostly peaceful hunters and gatherers who only went to war to defeat. themselves and their land. The Comanchee were not one of those tribes. Basically a bunch of other tribes forced the Comanchee out of Wyoming and south into the Great Plains of Texas and Oklahoma.

This is because we sucked at everything. We couldn't fight. We couldn't farm. And when we got to the plains, life sucked even harder because the whole place is basically one big, grassy desert. But then the Comanchee got horses from the Spanish, and because we didn't have much else going for us, we decided to get really good at riding horses. This gave us a huge advantage over just about everyone, and because we had a huge chip on our shoulder, we decided to get a little payback on all the other tribes. We beat the Apache, who had been bugging us ever since we arrived on the plains,

all the way down into Mexico and Nevada. I mean, we were kicking it hard and taking names all the way from Kansas to Corpus Christi. But that's about where I stopped being proud of it. I know it's an overdone bit to be like, Wars aren't glamorous y'all, but in the case of the tribes of the Great Plains, it's a gigantic understatement. Yes, we stuck it to the settler colonizers

for like 100 years, but we did it in some pretty disgusting ways. Nowadays, wars have rules, but back then, it was anything goes, and that whole scalping thing really is just the tip of a very gory iceberg. Kids were routinely killed, women were made into slave wives. Whole families were tortured until they just straight up died.

The settlers did some evil stuff to us too. But it's like the Comanche made war crimes into an art form. But that's just the way things were back then. Like I said, anything goes. All that nasty stuff said was, Hey, don't mess with us, or you'll get this too. But still, it makes me glad that I was a 70s kid and not an 1870s kid, you know? Now anyway, like I said earlier, every so often grandpa would break out a horror story for just us boys.

It makes me cringe a little to think about it now, but back then, those were my favorite kinds of stories to hear from him. Call it that morbid curiosity that all teenage boys have. But I was really into hearing about our people's badass past, and if I thought that it was an appropriate moment, I'd bug him until he told me one. He told me a few humdingers over the years, let me tell you. But the one he saved for Halloween when we were all hitting our mid-teens had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. So, picture the scene. It's like the 1850s or whatever, and the war between my ancestors and the white settlers is at its peak. We'd raid some homestead, steal a bunch of horses, and then ride off into the plains to make our escape.

Inevitably, we'd end up getting followed by a bunch of soldiers or Texas Rangers who planned on getting revenge and taking back the horses. Now, on paper, getting chased like that is an ideal. But the reality is, us Comanche enjoyed it when the Texans followed us out into the plains. See, we traveled much lighter and had our pick of the best horses, so we'd always end up escaping. Then, as the raiders wandered around the plains running out of food and water, we'd just hide out somewhere and watch them. After a few days, the rangers would be be really low on supplies, and you've got to remember, these dudes would ride for days at a time trying to catch up to us. They weren't just in and out real quick 20-minute adventures, as they say.

They rode for hundreds of miles at a time. But then, on their final night's camp before heading back to civilization, Comanchee warriors would sneak up to their horses in the middle of the night and stampede them off into the plains before the rangers knew what hit them. A really skilled group of warriors would stampede the horses through the rangers camp, wounding and killing a few of them while robbing them of their transport in the process. The result would be a few dozen stranded rangers facing a seven-day walk with no food or water if they ever wanted to see home again, and by the sounds of things, not many of them did. Grandpa said that a lot of the time, the Comanche wouldn't even waste bullets or arrows on the stranded rangers.

They just watched them on horseback from a distance, taunting and laughing at them. Some men collapsed from heatstroke and died where they fell. Their comrades were forced to keep going, probably looking back in time to see their friends being scalped and butchered. I can't even imagine how horrifying it must have been to see that, and to wonder how long it would be before it was your turn to die. Dehydration killed the next bunch,

and when the group of rangers was in a weak enough state, the Comanchees flew in, finished them off, and then went off looking for their horses to add to their collections. But every so often, some ranger or soldier proved much tougher than the others and could be seen wandering back home alone, long after their fellow rangers had died or deserted them. These were the guys who actually earned a little respect from the Comanchee, but unfortunately, not their mercy. In fact, it became a kind of game to mess with the final survivor.

The Comanchee would do things like pour water on the ground about 100 meters, ahead of them, and then watch as they rushed to suck up the mud it produced. They'd do other stuff like ride up real fast and then lean over to one side and slap the lone survivor around the head before laughing. I asked Grandpa why the Ranger didn't shoot him, but he explained that they'd be too weak to hold their rifles by that point. All they had left were swinging a knife or hatchet, all pathetically, while the Comanchee screwed with them. The point is, it became a game to do stuff like that. And more often than not, the Comanchee ended up killing this lone survivor, stripping their corpses, and then riding off to do it all over again once they were good and ready.

Anyway, in this one story, my Comanchee ancestors are trailing this lone surviving Texas Ranger, waiting for him to drop his rifle so they can swoop in to start messing with him. He'd been going on no food or water for a long time, kind of going along through the grass into the featureless horizon, longer than the warriors had ever seen any lone survivor go before him. And then, finally, he spins around, takes a wildly inaccurate shot at the Comanche's direction. The bullet whizzes harmlessly past them, and the Comanchee start laughing and taunting the Ranger, but then the Ranger starts laughing back at them. Confused, the warriors ride in closer, then draw down with their lances on him.

Most others in his place would have tried to run or fight. Heck, some even took their own lives to save them from what they knew was coming. But instead of doing any of that, the ranger tears open his shirt, points to his heart, and with a big smile on his face, starts goading them to kill him and get it over with. The Comanche didn't understand what he was saying, but with a gesture like that, it didn't need any translating. The Comanchee looked at each other, impressed by the man's bravery in the face of death, but as they did so, the man shoved aside their lances and carried on his march along the plains.

Obviously the Comanche chief followed the man on their horses, watching an amusement as he continued laughing and joking with himself, trying to find out if the man was brave or if he'd simply lost his mind. One of the Comanchee leaned in with their lance and stabbed the man in the arm, deep enough to draw a heavy amount of blood. The man didn't cry out in pain. Instead, his laughter intensified. He then tore off his shirt and began cupping his hand under the wound,

letting his own blood pool in his palm before he gulped it down in a mad, desperate thirst. Now, to us, this is a clear sign as any that the guy had completely lost his mind, but drinking blood wasn't nearly as extreme to the Comanche as it is to us. If they were in a bad spot and couldn't find any drink, drinking water, it wasn't uncommon for the Comanchee to drink a little tortoise or jackrabbit blood to prevent them from keeling over. So to them, having this guy drink his own blood wasn't a

deciding factor and if he was crazy or not. I can already hear most of you asking why this guy's mental health has anything to do with how the Comanchee were going to treat him. Well, if a person was really brave, then it was an honor to kill them and take their scalp. But if they were crazy, the Comanchee believed that they had bad magic about them. It was no honor to kill someone barely capable of defending themselves, and whatever badness was in their victim might jump to them. To put it simply, the Comanche didn't have any set religion or anything like that. They had their customs and traditions, which spirituality tended to be a person-to-person thing. Some warriors prayed to lucky trinkets for protection. Others worshipped pet crows, but

everyone agreed that there was a kind of magic in the world, sometimes working for good, sometimes for bad. Still unsure whether the lone survivor was mad or not, one of the Comanche rode forward, intent on taking a trophy. He scalped the survivor, standing up, slicing around the base of his skull before pulling away the bloody mess of hair and flesh. Again, the man just laughed louder and harder when another might have just howled in agony. Once the warrior was done, the lone survivor turned around, saw his own bloody scalp flapping in the wind, and began to clap. As you can imagine, it took a lot to freak out a hardened Comanche warrior, but the display the scalped and bloodied survivor was putting on was unlike anything they'd ever seen.

It took a minute or two before they figured out what they wanted to do with him, but in the end, they decided that they had to break him. This guy was human, and a weak European one at that, they thought. He might have been acting strong like a Comanche, but they were going to prove that he wasn't all that. They jumped off their horses, knocked the guy to the ground, then tied him up and staked him down. The Comanchee then got a small fire burning, stripped the dude naked, and laid him near the fire, legs spread, with the fire near his. You know what.

The plan was to drag him closer and closer to the fire, legs wide open until his junk, was burned to a crisp, and even the most incredibly courageous of warriors broke at the threat of that. But once again, the shirtless, blood-soaked, scalpless survivor just laughed, and this time he starts nodding his head as if to say, do it, do it. And this was the last straw for the Comanchee. If this guy didn't care about his junk getting roasted, if he actually wanted it, then there had to be something deeply wrong with him. And the Comanchee took that as some very bad magic. To kill a person with that kind of magic in them, and the effect could be deadly, not just for the warrior who did the deed, but for their entire extended family too. With that being the case, the warriors just left him there and then rode off before the guy's bad magic could follow them.

The last they saw of the guy, he was walking back home, naked as the day he was born, scalpless, and covered in blood, and for around a quarter mile they could still hear him laughing to him. Of all the stories my grandpa told me, that's the one that creeps me out the most, because it's not really about evil spirits or demons, or any of the messed up things the Comanche or the Texan Rangers did. It's about how war can make a man lose his mind to the point he's not even really a person anymore. It's like he went out thinking that he was fighting monsters and then became one along the way. On October 28, 1827, in Crawford County, Illinois, a woman was a woman who was fighting monsters

woman named Lucinda Parker gave birth to a baby girl she named Cynthia Ann. Had she remained in Illinois, Cynthia might have led an unremarkable life. However, around the age of nine or ten, her parents made a monumental decision to follow their extended family into the heart of Mexican-ruled Texas, to a place now known as Limestone County. There, the Parker family constructed a heavily fortified compound consisting of several blockhouses surrounding a central defensive citadel. It was christened Fort Parker, and within just a few short weeks, the entire Parker clan had been joined by a bevy of other Anglo-American settlers who dreamed of peace, piety, and prosperity. By the spring of 1836, the parkers had tilled half a dozen plots of land and were busying themselves in preparation for farming. The work was endless, the heat oppressive, and the land nearly barren, but for a time the parkers were happy, healthy, and free.

Until one day, a man collecting firewood began to feel as if he was being watched. Over the weeks that followed, more and more of the family began to complain of that same creeping feeling, as if the nearby woods were haunted by unseen apparitions. In response, Fort Parker's security contingent was doubled with at least two men watching the walls at any one time. Then, finally, at the break of dawn on May 19, 1836, one of the watchmen began to raise the alarm. The terror in the young man's voice was heard by each and every one of Fort Parker's inhabitants. As the armed settlers scrambled to man the fort's crude battlements, they immediately understood his fears. A huge war party of Comanche and Kiowa warriors was galloping across the plains towards the fort.

But just before passing into range of the settlers' muskets, the party halted and began waving a huge white flag. The settlers held their fire, hoping that the warriors had simply come to talk or trade. John Parker knew otherwise. The Comanche and their Kiowa allies had quickly worked out that a large piece of white cloth had some kind of magical effect on the Anglo-American settlers. Upon waving one in their direction, a heavily armed, well-defended group would sometimes completely let down their guard, making them ripe for the slaughter. It only took one or two instances of this feigned surrender.

tactic before outrage swept across the prairie, and John Parker knew all too well that it was a trap. Cynthia's father, Silas, proposed that the settlers strike first, claiming that five good men would be enough to defend the fort if properly supplied and positioned. His brother Benjamin disagreed. The 48-year-old knew how skilled the Comanchee were at scaling enemy fortifications, and argued that the defenders would last just minutes before being overrun. According to Benjamin, the best that they could hope for was to play dumb, attempt to negotiate, and buy the women and children enough time to mount an escape attempt when the assault finally came. At that, he volunteered himself to be the doomed emissary.

As the parkers watched an unarmed Benjamin walk out of the fort towards the mounted Comanche, they knew it was the last time they'd ever see him alive. Yet, they honored his last request, gathered up a few essentials, and prepared to flee into the nearby woods. Silas took charge of the defenders, instructing them to open fire as soon as Benjamin had been killed. They fought like lions, and a handful of Comanchee were killed by their musket fire, but they were drops in a torrent of violence that spilled over Fort Parker with terrifying speed.

Their final stand bought their families a few minutes, but for some it wasn't enough. Samuel Frost and his young son were cornered by the Comanche as they attempted to flee. Frost was forced to watch the scalping and execution of his young son before he too was mutilated and murdered. John Parker's wife was almost out of the fort when she turned around for one final goodbye. Instead, she witnessed a trio of Comanchee warriors castrating her husband while he wailed in agony.

The sight was too much for her to bear. She collapsed to her knees, broken and sobbing, and was captured by the Comanche. Cynthia's mother and her two youngest siblings slipped away with the help of an armed teenage boy. Cynthia herself was not so lucky. She was quickly surrounded by Comanche warriors, picked up, and then thrown on to one of the horses. Then after looting and burning the fort, the warriors departed. While it's indisputably unfortunate that Cynthia was captured, her age meant that she fared far better than most Comanchee prisoners.

In the aftermath of a Comanchee raid, grown men were in. invariably tortured, killed, and then scalped. Older women were violated by groups of warriors, then tortured and executed in similar ways to the menfolk, while younger women were sometimes taken as slaves. Babies and small children were also killed, but when it came to children between the ages of 9 to 13, the Comanches made an exception. Kids of that age were ripe to be integrated into the tribe, first as slave labor, but eventually as fully fledged members of the tribe if they prove themselves worthy. Cynthia, being around nine or ten years old at the time of her abduction, had been picked

out by the warriors for this exact purpose. Although her life among her family's killers was initially traumatic, Cynthia's resilience marked her out as having massive amounts of potential. As I've mentioned, Cynthia's first few months as a Comanche prisoner were extremely rough. If her experience was anything like other captives of that period, she was mostly likely treated with extreme contempt by the other females of the tribe, while being used as a source of menial slave labor. But after learning the Comanche language and standing up for herself on a few occasions, she gained the respect of her peers and began to slowly increase in standing.

She was given more and more freedom to do as she pleased, so long as she partook in some of the more arduous camp tasks. She was taught to tan the hides of slaughtered buffalo, a gruesome process that involved painting the raw skin of the buffalo with its own brains. She learned quickly, and her output soon rivaled those of even the most experienced Comanchee tanners. Depending on the source, she was given the name Naurua, meaning that which has been found. Within just a few short years, Cynthia Ann was not only given free reign of the camp, but a great deal of responsibility. Comanche bands would typically migrate approximately every two weeks, and the women were responsible for all aspects of the move, Cynthia included. The fact that she was given responsibility

over other people's belongings speaks volumes to the trust and respect the Comanche bestowed upon her, and she was soon partaking in all parts of Comanche womanhood, all except one. It's believed that around the age of 13 or 14, Cynthia was introduced to a warrior who went by the name of P. Nuna. The pair became fast friends, and after P. was promoted to war chief, he proposed to her. Although it was traditional for a chieftain to have several wives, Pee refrained from taking another wife, and the couple were said to be deeply in love and very happy together. They would go on to have three children together, a boy named Peso, a daughter named Prairie Flower, and a second son whom Cynthia named Kwanah. To Cynthia's knowledge, they were her only living family, and she was every part the loving Comanche.

mother to them. But Cynthia was also mistaken. Several members of the Parker family had miraculously survived the massacre at Fort Parker, and once they were back on their feet, they set about searching for their missing relatives. Decades passed, and time after time, they were told that Cynthia was most likely deceased, but the Parker's were also acutely aware of the Comanche's habit of integrating children into their war bands, and they never gave up on looking. Finally, in December of 1860, more than 26 years after the raid on Fort Parker, a group of Texas Rangers tracked a band of Comanche warriors back to their camp, a camp that was rumored to hold live Anglo-American captives.

As dawn broke on December 18th, Ranger Captain Sol Ross sent a detachment of 20 men to position themselves behind a chain of sandhills overlooking the camp, the goal being to cut off any potential escape route. The remaining 40 Rangers then crept up the crest of an adjacent hill and attacked the completely unprepared Comanchee in unison. It was an incredible achievement. It wasn't often that a people so tactically masterful as the Comanchee were caught unaware, and the result was nothing short of devastating. The entire war band were either killed by the attacking Rangers or picked off by the blocking force atop the sandy hills. At one point, a Texas Ranger found himself face to face with a terrified Comanche woman. He aimed his revolver at her and prepared

to defend himself, but hesitated when he noticed that the woman held a baby in her arms. Having decided to take the woman prisoner, the ranger began barking rudimentary orders at her, gesturing wildly for her to sit down. But as he did so, he noticed that unlike her fellow Comanche, this woman had pale blue eyes and lighter sandier brown hair. The ranger asked the terrified mother in clear, plain English, Who are you? And in reply, she said, me, Cindy, Cindy Ann. By 1860, the story of the massacre at Fort Parker had gained international infamy. The Texas government had named a county after the family, with Cynthia Ann being a household name in all four corners of the state. The ranger who found her must have immediately recognized who was sat in front of him and marked it one of the most momentous

recoveries in Ranger history. Captain Ross rushed Cynthia back to nearby Fort Belknap, then summoned her uncle Isaac to deliver the good news. At first he didn't recognize her, but the family resemblance slowly became evident, and Isaac was stunned to realize the girl was his long-lost niece. To say that Cynthia's entire world had fallen apart would be a huge understatement, and it wasn't the second time she had endured such a calamitous event. She wasn't exactly thrilled to have returned to civilization, but she also acknowledged Isaac as a relative and agreed to return to Isaac's home in Weatherford.

Shortly afterward, the state of Texas compensated Cynthia by granting her 5,000 acres of land and an annual pension of $100 for the next five years. They appointed her Uncle Isaac as her legal guardian, wishing her a long and happy life, then left her to decompress. By all accounts, Cynthia tried her best to reintegrate back into Anglo-American society, but adjusting to such a radical culture shift proved a feat too difficult to accomplish a second time.

Her uncle Isaac would sometimes catch her performing intricate rituals involving fire and tobacco smoke, and he once asked her the purpose of such things. In broken English, she told him that they were prayers, prayers for the husband and children she'd lost, and prayers that she could finally be happy with her blood relatives. At one point, a man fluent in the Comanche language came to visit Cynthia in the hopes of learning more about her time living with the tribe. Initially, Cynthia stared daggers at him,

having long grown tired of being gawked at by curious white men. But when he spoke to her in Comanche and invited her to talk, she quite literally threw herself at the man's feet. In a voice that trembled with tears held back, she replied, Yes, let us talk. For Cynthia Anne, her time with the linguist was perhaps the happiest in recent memory. She shared a great deal with the man, not because she enjoyed his company, but because she could finally communicate herself properly. When they tried to have dinner, Cynthia playfully chastised the man, stealing away his cutlery as she told him.

We can eat later, but now we talk. Perhaps there was a slim chance for Cynthia, but it died along with her daughter. prairie flower, who succumbed to influenza in 1864. The grief of losing her final child drove her over the edge, and she began to engage in a series of grisly Comanche grief rituals. She would slash at her breast with a razor-sharp knife, dribble the blood onto some tobacco, and then inhale the smoke it produced when put to flame. She did this for hours on end, on a daily basis, until she finally made the decision to stop eating. After wasting away for the better part of a month, 43-year-old Cynthia Ann Parker passed away in March of 1871,

and was buried in Foster Cemetery near the small town of Poir, Texas. Cynthia Ann's story, as well as that of the wider Parker family, is perhaps one of the most horrifying, heartbreaking, and under-explored in all-American history. But not all of their lives had had such tragic endings, and as an epilogue, I'd like to touch on the life of Cynthia's younger brother and fellow Comanchee captive, John Richard Parker. Much like his sister, John was raised as a Comanchee, but his upbringing was radically different to that of Cynthia Ann. Comanchee boys between the ages of around 9 to 14 led lives that would inspire envy in their modern-day counterparts. They had absolutely no responsibilities, no chores, no formal education. They just played around with their bows and

blunt arrows, rode around on horseback, and generally did as they pleased. They did this day in and day out for years, and by the time they were young men, they were phenomenal archers and master horsemen. John spent six years with the Comanchee from the ages of six to twelve years old, but was ransomed back to Texan authorities in 1842. In contrast to his sister, 12-year-old John made an attempt to reintegrate himself back into Anglo-American society, and soon ran away to rejoin. his Comanche war band. The Comanche were no doubt delighted with his decision, and even the most skeptical of warriors would have been impressed. The boy had deserted his own blood relatives

to rejoin the war band, a demonstration of loyalty tantamount to an oath of allegiance. John would have no doubt spent the next few years preparing to become a fully-fledged Comanche raider, and by the time he was 18, he was participating in devastating raids deep in the heart of Mexican territory. This means John would have participated in all the torture, murder, and violation that came with successful raids, and by the time he was a veteran warrior in his mid-20s, it's likely he'd killed hundreds of soldiers, civilians, and rival Apache. Yet it was on one of these raids that John almost met his end, not by the tip of some Apache arrow or Mexican bullet, but by an invisible killer responsible for more death than any weapon of war. After one particularly profitable raid, John's warband was on their way back to Texas when he began to feel ill.

Before long, he was too sick to ride, and with a rudimentary medical exam, his fellow warriors discovered that he was suffering from smallpox. The Comanchee were well aware of how devastating the disease was, and John understood that he had to be abandoned in order to protect his brethren. It's likely he accepted this fate with a quiet stoicism. as would be expected of him as a warrior. But to alleviate his suffering, his Comanche comrades ordered a captured Mexican slave girl to stay with him until his death. Miraculously, not only did John survive his bout of smallpox,

but his impromptu caregiver failed to contract it in turn. As she nursed him back to health, the pair fell deeply in love, and after returning the girl to her family, John proposed and they were married. Incredibly, John would later return. to the United States at the outbreak of the Civil War. His motivations for doing so were unclear, as he most likely felt no loyalties to his former home, but he soon signed up with a group of

Texan Confederates and rode north to battle the Union. His tactics, no doubt, would have suited his unique Comanchee skill set, and his commanders used him to devastating effect. Shockingly, John survived the Civil War and returned to his home in Mexico following the collapse, of the Confederacy. The loot he came home with made him a very wealthy man, and he was able to purchase his own ranch on which to raise a family. He lived to the ripe old age of 85, and died peacefully of natural causes sometime in 1915. John's life and death provided a remarkable silver lining to the violence and grief of the raid on Fort Parker. He is one living proof that the Comanches were not monsters, merely a nomadic primordial civilization shaped by centuries of

deprivation, forced migration, and intertribal warfare. His story, like that of his sisters, underscores the complex layers of cultural and personal identity, shaped by the tumultuous events of their times. Both siblings, in their own ways, navigated and survived the harsh realities of frontier life and tribal conflicts, leaving legacies that challenge simple narratives and invite deeper reflection on the history of the American West. My most terrifying workplace experience involved an encounter with what I believe to be a demonic entity. It was an experience that I'll never forget. This happened a few years ago when I was working overnight as a custodian on a college campus.

Working nights in an empty building is creepy by default, but there was something different going on in building 8, something unsettling, something malignant. Starting the very first day after being reassigned to that building, I began having intense nightmares. These weren't your normal bad dreams. They were unlike anything I'd ever experienced, night after night of violence and carnage, and they didn't go away when I woke up. They lingered long into my shift each night.

A key piece of backstory was my recent divorce. I was only a few months removed from it when I started working there, and that divorce destroyed me emotionally, spiritually, and financially. I went through a prolonged, dark stretch, and this job was the first step to getting me back. on my feet. I liked having a series of tasks to keep me busy each shift. It gave me a sense of purpose and accomplishment, but that all changed when they moved me to Building 8. There was something different about those shifts, a pervasive creepiness that grew as each shift wore on. It was unsettling.

I had a co-worker that we called the gentle giant, whose shift ended halfway through mine. I hated to see him go because once he was gone, I was alone in the building for the rest of the night. At that point, my uneasiness would rapidly intensify, almost as if the malignant force knew that I was now alone and would ramp up the psychological oppression. Fragments of the previous night's nightmares would force their way to the surface, and they were horrifying. In each dream, a new murderous, lust-filled chapter unfolded. The dreams would start with me attacking my ex in some violent, rage-filled manner, and then I'd have my way with her in every way possible, sometimes mutually, sometimes against her will.

But always, always afterward, I'd finish her off in some brutal fashion, usually with a blade, but sometimes with my own bare hands. Having a nightmare like that just once is eye-opening enough, but having it night after night is horrific. It affected me, poisoned me with intrusive thoughts, left me teetering on the verge of real-life violent outbursts. And it goes without saying, but I probably should mention it. That is not who I normally am. I've never been violent toward any women, let alone my ex, and the last time I got into a fight was in middle school. Needless to say, those nightmares were changing me into someone else, and I feared that I was nearing a breaking point. Between the divorce, the sleep deprivation,

and whatever was in that building slowly overtaking me, my sanity was teetering on the brink, and something was bound to give. There was another unwanted side effect of those nightmares, and that was me obsessing over my ex all over again. I'd find myself scouring her social media, dwelling on all the ways she'd done me wrong, fixating on her posts with her new boyfriend, and becoming increasingly vengeful. My obsession got so bad that one morning after my shift, I found myself parked outside her apartment, contemplating how easy it would be to make one of those nightmares a reality.

I shook off that compulsion and drove away, but it was undeniable that some oppressive force was slowly enveloping my mind, body, and soul. And then came the night of my creepy experience. I was on the back half of my shift on an otherwise typical night, Jared had already left, and once he did, the images from my nightmares began to overwhelm my thoughts. I put on a podcast to distract my mind, and it did help, but the oppressive force intensified. Then I thought I heard something, the sounds of someone shuffling down the hall.

I thought maybe Jared had returned, and I went looking for him. As I did, the shuffling sound continued, but I couldn't pinpoint what direction it was coming from. I found doors unlocked, lights left on, but no sign of Jared or anyone else. After looking around, I tried to convince myself that it was just the sounds of the building settling, and then it happened. I heard a cacophony, a banging sound throughout the entire building. I turned around to see the classroom doors of the hallway were all thrown open, close to a dozen of them.

These were heavy fire doors and had to be manually opened. My pulse was racing as I stood there. alone in the empty hallway. Images from my nightmares flashed through my mind. I turned and ran, and as I did, I heard whispers from every direction, whispers telling me to end her, to punish her. When I rushed out of Building 8 and ran across the empty parking lot, the whispers seemed to follow, and it felt like they were chasing me. It took me a frustratingly long couple of seconds to retrieve my car keys, but when I finally found them and piled into my car, the whispers sleeped slowly receded. I drove out of the parking lot and went straight home, and I never went back

to that job. The phone calls from the college began a few hours later and continued steadily for the next few days. I never answered a single one. Eventually they slowed and then ceased altogether, and just like that, my nightmare stopped. The irritability faded, and I began to feel like my normal self again. I found a new job doing admin work, and I got back to live. living. Maybe it was six months later when I ran into my old co-worker Jared in the parking lot of a strip mall. He was excited to see me and immediately asked me what had happened that night. I explained the beeping and the doors, and then he asked me about the graffiti. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about, and he pulled out his phone and had me scroll through a series of

photos. He explained that in every classroom of that building, something was painstakingly drawn on the whiteboard. Some of the drawn. Some of the drawings were. were variations of the same word, while others were complex images that looked like hieroglyphics. The word, written in dozens of different forms and languages, was Asmodys. Jared explained that this was the name of an ancient Persian demon that predated the Bible and the Talmud. Now I've never been very religious, so I don't know what to make of all that, but I will say this. Whatever entity lurks inside that building, I hope to never encounter it again. This first event took place when I was 14 and the second when I was 22.

When I was in high school, I had a best friend named Andy and my cousin Joseph. We did everything together and hung out often. They live near each other in a bad part of town, but I would often visit them every week. We'd walk to a nearby park to hang out and just talk about life. Next to the park was a sort of maintenance tunnel with two entrances leading underground. shallow water ran out from them into a creek. The tunnels were made of concrete, and the entrances on both sides were square.

Outside there was a concrete ramp sloping down toward them. One day, we decided to sit on the ramp and look into the tunnels. We noticed graffiti on the left one, above a corner, that said, This way to hell. Being young and thinking we were brave, we wanted to see what was down there. The ceiling was low, so you had to crouch, to walk inside. We got about 10 feet in and realized that if we went further, we wouldn't be able to see anything. We planned to get flashlights and come back later. Our moms bought us some cheap

ones that could barely shine, so we made it just a little further than last time, but we could see some of the graffiti inside. One said, run boys and girls, as you got further down the corner going toward the right. Before it did, there was a final warning that read, You're halfway to hell now, with an arrow pointing in the direction of the turn. At that point, we couldn't see anything around the corner, so we said that we'd save up for some good flashlights and come back later. About a week later, I got to class, and my cousin, who usually joked often with me, looked a bit shaken up. He was quiet and didn't say much. I finally asked him what was wrong, and he hesitated to tell me, but finally said, me and Andy went into the tunnel yesterday by

ourselves. My mom bought me a powerful flashlight, and I ran ahead of Andy. When I got to the corner, I turned, and the light shone on something. It was black and big, and when the light hit its back, it turned its head towards me, and stood up all the way. He had a serious expression on his face, and I could tell that he wasn't joking. I wanted to believe him, but Andy had a bad habit of lying, and I figured maybe Joseph and he were just trying to prank me. We didn't go into the tunnels for a while. One day, I went to stay over at Andy's, and he invited a girl over from class to hang out. We told her about the creepy tunnel, and she wanted to see it. So we went there when it was dark. Being braver than both of us, she kept getting ahead of us. Andy tried to warn her,

practically begging her to slow down. We turned the corner and proceeded to go down the long part of the tunnel. Even with three flashlights, it was difficult to see much. There was no graffiti, just shallow water. We got to a wall that had a smaller circular hole that led further down, and just before that, the ceiling arched upwards. We stood up to stretch our backs. Me, being six four, was able to stand up all the way without my head hitting the top. As we stretched, it suddenly hit me what Joseph had said about seeing something stand up at the end of the tunnel, a part that neither of us had reached before until now. I looked at Andy and said, Joseph wasn't lying.

We got out and went back to Andes. We told Joseph what had happened, and at this point, although we were scared, it was still something scary to show others. He called one morning to tell me his cousin stayed over the night before, and that after telling him, his cousin wanted to see it, but not to go in, just to see where it was. Joseph's mom was a bit strict on him leaving past a certain time of night, so when she fell asleep, they snuck out in the middle of the night to go see it. When they arrived, Joseph said that they walked down the concrete ramp and heard voices, like multiple people

talking from down the tunnel. He went to get closer and stepped into the water when he heard voices and a commotion saying, someone's here, then splashing from down the tunnel as multiple footsteps began running through, making it echo. He said he and his cousin ran all the way back to his house, afraid that someone might have seen or even followed them. He got his grandpa's rifle and kept it by him, not knowing what to expect, but nothing ever happened. One night, I was at home, and my Aunt Priscilla came over, so it was me, my sister Renee, my aunt, my sister's friend Erica, and a friend of mine named Michael. We started telling scary stories, and I brought up the tunnel. My aunt asked where it was and offered to drive over because she wanted to see it, and this got

everyone's interest. I went outside to tell my dad where we were going, and he told me that incidents had happened there with kids when he lived in that neighborhood. My dad told tall tales, so I didn't really believe a word he said, but to my surprise, he handed me a pocket knife if I insisted on going in there. We showed up, and Erica said that she was staying in the car. I called Andy and Joseph and asked if they would want to go with us in a big group. I guess safety in numbers.

And since we didn't see anything last time, I figured it would be smart. They walked over, and we all went in. As we got to the corner and turned, my sister started to get ahead of me by a few feet. I was trying to catch up while holding the light ahead to shine with hers when I saw the light reflect off something dark. I immediately stopped and started to tell Renee to get back. She either didn't hear me or didn't care and took two more steps and shone the light upon what I had mine aimed at. Something crouched down with its back turned at first turned its head back to us and stood up. The skin was solid black and the light seemed to shine off of it, almost glistening.

From what I could tell, it was massive and the head near the ceiling as it was where the roof arched upwards. The thing I could clearly see were its red eyes. Just two embers in the dark, staring down at it. us. I've never heard my sister scream like that, just pure guttural terror in her voice. She turned to run past me, pushing my arm, yelling at me to run. My entire body locked up from fear, but she didn't see that I was still behind and kept running. I'd never been so scared that my body refused to move. I panicked and grabbed my leg, forcing it to budge, and then the other, too afraid to look up, but imagining that this thing was heading my way.

As soon as my legs could move, I turned and ran faster than I'd ever run in my life. I ended up being the first person out of the tunnel, although the rest of the group, including my sister, were ahead of me. We agreed to never go in again. A couple of months later, me and Andy planned on going to the park to hang out and saw a birthday party was happening, so I suggested that we go into the entrance of the tunnel where the light from the sun was still visible,

just to have a little bit of privacy and talk and not be near anyone. He was hesitant at first, but agreed as I told him that I wasn't going anywhere near the darkness. We got a little ways in, and the uneven ground elevated near a spot, making the water run around it, creating a dry spot, and we sat down and began talking for a bit, until we heard some kids from the party come down to the entrance and ask us what we were doing. We tried to encourage them to go back, and when they insisted on staying to ask questions, I told Andy,

let's get out. I don't want them coming down here. We went to leave, and as we came out, we saw a man telling the kids to go back. He turned and looked at us and asked, What were y'all doing down there? I told him that we were just talking and hanging out, and his face turned very serious. And he asked, Did you see anything down there?

I felt my heart began to pound. This was a complete stranger, that we had never seen before, and I tried to pretend that I didn't know, and asked, what thing? In a quiet voice. He began to raise his voice and said, That thing, that big black, no-name thing, did you see it? We stayed quiet until I finally asked, how do you know about that? He responded, let me tell you something, man.

When me and my friends were your age, we thought we were brave and cool, and went down there too. you ain't got no business going down those tunnels you hear me he was getting angry although we weren't arguing this is until he began to yell and andy began to back talk and tell him that he didn't need to listen to him andy andy was short and stocky and me being a pretty tall teenager was really too scared to say anything the man threatened to take andy down to the tunnel and kill him and something about the way he said it made me feel that he was pretty serious suddenly a man from the party, drunk, came down to the area and went to unzip his pants and relieve himself in the water away from us, said, man, where'd you go? We were looking for you. The other man replied,

I'm just talking to these kids. And the drunk man asked him to hurry up and went back to the birthday party. The man turned back to us and pointed a finger at us and said, I'm serious, stay out of those tunnels, then walked off without waiting for a reply. Andy finally expressed how scared he was but didn't want to show the man, so tried to be brave and talk back, and we went to his house and made his promise that day to never go there again. Years later in my late 20s, I told some friends, and I agreed to go show them the entrance. The graffiti warning was still there. Trees had overgrown, covering the top of the entrance with hanging limbs and leaves,

and a gate was installed, blocking the entryway to both sides with a sign that said, no trespassing. I'm not sure why it was installed, as I hadn't seen it in years, but to this day, at age 36, it still gives me the creeps to think about our experience in there, and how foolish we were just because we wanted to be young and dumb. I still have no idea what we saw that day. I've only shared this story with a few people, but even now, when I think about it, it still freaks me out. I was around 16 years old, growing up in a small town where experience Exploring the hills was the thing to do. This incident took place at the north end of Ruby Valley in Elko County, Nevada.

Someday I'll play around on Google Earth and try to find this place, but it's slightly north of the road off of Highway 93 that goes into Ruby Valley. I always like checking out old mine shafts and ghost towns. That kind of stuff really intrigues me. At the Burger Bar in Wells, Nevada, where I'm from and grew up, they had these old turn-of-the-century maps under glass on the tables. On one of them, it showed several ghost towns just north of Ruby Valley, so I figured that I would go check them out, as I hadn't been in the area very often. I gassed up my 72 Dodge pickup.

Being a redneck and a SLK before 4chan even existed, I grabbed my HK91 and set out. I found some old foundations in the lower country and started heading into the mountains themselves. I started finding abandoned mineshafts, and it was pretty cool, so I kept going to. up. I took this ancient road that was no more than an overgrown cattle path by this point in history and came upon a tree blocking the road. It was an old Pignon Pine, also two feet in diameter, that blocked the road. After the tree, the road continued straight for about 200 yards, then hooked right before coming back 180 degrees. I parked my truck in front of the tree and set out on foot. I grabbed my HK91 with one 20-round mag.

and the rifle and put another 20-round mag in my back left pocket. I always had my rifle with me. I've encountered mountain lions and mine shafts before, and just generally, I like to shoot stuff and get up on the ridge lines and shoot boulders from a couple of hundred yards away. Anyway, as soon as I climbed over the fallen tree, I had a creepy feeling, as if I was being watched. I continued on for about 200 yards to the point where the road started curving right and gaining elevation towards the cabin. At this point, I realized not only did I feel like I was being watched, but it was also dead quiet. This was in June, so everywhere else you went, you could hear cicadas, but not here. It seemed as soon as I crossed the fallen tree, the mountains were

silent. No bugs, no birds, nothing, just deafening silence. As I came up to the turn, there was this big rock about 15 feet in diameter. It used to be a little bit of a little bit of be on the road, but due to years of erosion and snow, it had slid down just slightly off the road. It seemed to be red limestone or something like that, which stood out since they are not that common in this area. I looked at the rock, and you could tell that there were carvings in it at some point in time, and due to weathering, whatever was carved on it had been worn off. I kept walking up the road, feeling incredibly creeped out, but I really wanted to check out that old cabin. It was obvious that no one had been there for quite a while. At this point, I was probably

three hours off road to get to this point, and I got up to the cabin. As far as abandoned houses and cabins in Nevada go, this one was in pretty good shape. All the glass on the window was still intact, and there were remnants of curtains behind the windows. In the back of my mind, something told me that I should be leaving. I went inside the cabin, and that's when I started to get the feeling that something was off. Most cabins you find out in the middle of nowhere in Nevada are barren, with maybe a bit of broken furniture. This one was different. It was completely furnished. Time had taken its toll, but everything was still there. What was left of an old mattress and bedding, plates, and other cookware throughout the house, along with tattered clothing and personal

effects like a chest, faded pictures and the like. What really creeped me out, was the dinner table. It was set for four people, ten plates, glasses, and silverware. This was the first cabin I had ever found in this condition. It was as if whoever resided here had just up and left everything behind. I felt like I shouldn't be in the cabin and went outside to see if I could find the mine shaft or anything else. Once I was out the door, I decided to chamber around in my HK91. The sound of me racking around echoed throughout the canyon and broke the silence. As little of a thing as it was, this calmed my nerves very slightly. Directly behind the cabin was a well, and it was still intact.

As I got closer, I heard noises coming from it, like a slight breeze rustling through it. When I got within about 30 feet of it, I started to smell something. It was absolutely putrid. Definitely. Something had died in that well. The smell of decay was heavy in the air, with an acrid copper scent that tore at my nostrils. I didn't want to get any closer to the well and started walking towards the left where I could see the opening to a mine shaft up on the hill. The closer I got to it, the more I felt the breeze coming out of it. This is not really uncommon if you've explored mineshafts before, as the breeze could be coming in from another opening for the mine.

But the thing was, it was perfectly calm. As far as I could see, there were no trees moving or any signs of wind. As I got closer, another thing struck me as odd. The breeze coming from out of the shaft was hot. Most of the time, it was cool, as most mineshafts maintain a constant temperature. The closer I got to the shaft, the slower I moved towards it. Nothing since I crossed the fallen tree seemed right. The closer I got to the opening of the mine shaft, the more I had a feeling of dread and being watched.

I got within about 15 feet of the shaft when the smell hit me. It was the smell of decay and copper, but much stronger than the well. Right then, all of my spighty senses started going off. I had to get out of there. I started turning left to run when I saw a dark shadow moving in the opening of the mine shaft. Whatever it was, it appeared to be crouched down to fit in the mine shaft, and most mine shafts I've been in have eight to ten foot ceilings. At first I thought it was a mountain lion, and then I remembered how big the shafts.

were. My mind raced, trying to think what it could be. It was too big to be a black bear, which are rare in northeast Nevada. I nearly froze with panic, and then it slowly kept coming towards the opening of the mine shaft. It was probably within 10 feet of the opening, and the light was starting to show whatever it was. It was covered from head to toe in grayish brown fur, and then it screamed. It was unlike anything I had ever heard in my life. My ears were ringing from it. I flipped into panic mode and did what any good redneck would do. I shot at it. I pulled up my HK91, placed the front blade on what appeared to be the center mass, and ripped off five rounds as fast as I could accurately shoot. If you've ever shot big game with a large

caliber rifle, you know the sound when you connect with something. I had four solid hits in one round that went high, and this made it scream even louder than it had in pain. At this time, I started hearing more and separate screams coming from over in the well and in the hills above the mine shaft. I started running down the hill as fast as I could. In the tree line above the road, approximately 75 to 1.25 yards away, I could see fast movement. Rocks were tumbling down the hill, and there were several other screams from the mine shaft. I could hear the wailing of whatever I had shot. Whatever it was, I had definitely connected, and it was hurt. Up in the tree line, they were running from tree to tree on all fours, getting closer to me as I ran towards the rock. I was shooting

in the general vicinity of the movement on the top of the hill, and by the time I got to the limestone rock, I had expended the 20-round mag in the rifle. I ripped it out, put in my spare magazine, chambered around and started spraying towards the fallen tree approximately 200 yards away. By now, I kept glancing back, and whatever they were, they were staying in the trees. I could make out their masses and fur, but they wouldn't stay in the open. I got back to the fallen tree and ate dirt trying to jump over it. I got up, fired between 12 to 15 rounds at the closest movement, which was approximately 50 yards away from me. I heard a few rounds connect and it started screaming louder.

Between the screaming and gunshots, my ears were damn near deaf. I opened the door of my truck, got in, and started up as fast as I could, backing up to turn around. I dang near put my truck down in the canyon, and as I started going forward to leave on the road that I came in on, I finally got a look at one of them. It was crouched over with its front feet on the tree. It was covered from head to toe in grayish-brown fur, with long, slender fingers with claws tipping off the fingers. The back of it was hunched, and the face most closely resembled that of a badger,

but with sunken in eyes. It was shaking its head back and forth, and it sounded like it was attempting to speak, but it was so garbled, and with the noise of my truck, I couldn't make out what it was. I averaged 50 to 60 miles per hour on this terrible dirt road that I had done 15 on the way in. I didn't slow down or stop until I got back to pavement, and by now I was so shaken that I had to stop and collect myself. I got back to town and was in a bit of shock. My dad had been a guide in the Ruby Mountains for about 20 years. He asked me how my trip went and where I had been.

He could tell that I was startled and asked where I had been, and I told him that I had been north of Ruby Valley. He got quiet and asked if I had seen a cabin with a tree falling over the road. I told him yes. He looked me in the eyes and told me that it was somewhere that I should never go again, especially alone. We never spoke about it again after that. A few years had passed and I asked some old timers, and one of them told me a story about the Ruby Mountains, and I'll make it quick.

You see, during the 40s and 50s, the Army Air Corps operated out of the Wendover Air Base. Every now and then, during bad weather, a B-25, B-17, or B-29 would crash, into the rubies due to poor visibility. Some of the local ranchers got recruited to help the military go up to a crash site during the winter to recover the bodies. A rancher I was talking to told me that it took them about three days to get up to where the crash was on horseback and recover the bodies. He said that when they got to the wreckage,

all of the crew members were laid out side by side next to each other in a clearing in the wreckage. Many of them had severed limbs, and it was apparent that they all died on a wreckage. impact. Somehow they ended up laid out next to each other, and this was at nearly 10,000 feet elevation as well. I have never been back there. Part of the reason is I live in Western Nevada now, but in the back of my mind, there is something that's telling me that I should go back, and one day I do want to go back there. Now this was back in 2001 before camera phones,

and I was too broke to afford any sort of digital stuff. I want to go back with a camera, preferably a GoPro on my helmet, and with several friends that are armed. There's just something about there, even with all the stuff that I experienced that day, that's drawing me back, and one day I will go, and I guess I just need closure on what happened that day. I've always had an overactive imagination. I'm an artist and was diagnosed with ADHD as a child, though I was never medicated, so my mind was constantly everywhere, and I was always drawing and fooling around.

As a kid, my imagination would do terrible things to me sometimes, probably as a result of watching horror movies at a young age, scary stuff lurking around every corner. But on one occasion, I knew it wasn't just my imagination. I was in sixth grade at the time, probably 12 or so, and I lived in a very small town off a major highway. Seriously small, the only significant thing in this town burnt down about 20 years, ago, and then a kid died in the high school, so it was condemned.

The only things here now are a cemetery, a lake, a post office, and a gas station, all within about four blocks of the town. Another strange thing about this town is that it was booming in the early 90s, but now it's a dusty, literal ghost town with about 40 people living here, and people who never speak or even really go outside. The only other kids were my best friends, and there were only three of us. Every morning we walked together to the bus stop, and most mornings, none of us spoke. One morning, it was foggier than usual, but I remember it was cold and a little misty.

My uncle, who was now deceased, grew up here, and he always told me messed up stories about this town. He told me to watch myself. Strange things were always going on here. But he was kind of loony, so I didn't really worry about it most of the town. the time. However, this morning felt kind of off. I wasn't too stressed because I knew the others would be waking up soon enough, and when they didn't, I started to freak out. I stood alone at the bus stop, and my imagination started going wild. I was in the middle of imagining a set of eyes

in the mist, about ten feet away from me, when I saw something walking. This was absolutely real, and I remember every detail. It was a man in shape and stature, but the The way he walked seriously made my bones feel numb, slow and rhythmic, almost like he was floating. My 12-year-old eyes bulged out of my skull, and I remembered freezing in terror. I can't even stop shaking while I'm currently typing this. And then he looked at me, looked directly at me. His eyes were so far apart, they were almost on the sides of his head, which were oblong like a sideways egg, but not that long.

He had a small nose in the center, absolutely hairless, with crooked, jagged yellow teeth underneath a disgusting smile. I've read a ton of creepy pasta threads and heard almost exact descriptions of ghouls, and I've wondered if maybe they saw who or what I saw, but it's never the same. He didn't leave me until the headlights of the school bus came over the hill. And then, without taking his eyes off of me, he raised one hand and waved, not like a goodbye wave, more like a see-you-around wave. And then he walked slowly away from the,

the spot he stood, which felt almost like a small eternity. When the bus pulled up, I was crying. I don't know why. I don't remember what triggered it, but the driver had to call the school, who called my mom, and she came and picked me up. I tried telling her what I saw, but she didn't believe me. She said it was probably just a guy in a mask messing with me. I knew it wasn't. I know it wasn't because for the next five years of my life, he was. there, watching me and almost enjoying our time together. For the first few months, his appearance sent me into a terrible frenzy of crying and screaming. My mom, who was single most of my childhood, worked second and third shifts to keep our house,

so she was never there at night or in the afternoon to watch me. I never had anyone to tell I was frightened and alone so much, but whenever I would see him, I would call my grandma and talk to her on the phone, hoping that he would see that. this and think that I was talking to the cops or something. I don't know. I was 12 or 13. I would shut the blinds and watch TV and try not to think about it, and he would only make appearances like once a week, so it wasn't an everyday kind of thing. Then at some point, I realized that he never came near me or touched me or anything. He just stood watching me, whether it be outside my windows or in the cornfield just beyond the fence of the school playground. I got used to him, and after a

while, he was nothing more than scenery. When I would go on trips or vacations, he wasn't there. It was only around this small town. On one instance, when I was 15 or 16, I was on a walk with a friend of mine. We were walking near the edge of town where the paved road turns into gravel, and the cemetery sits next to the graveyard. And that's when I saw him again, the being that I had taken to calling a skin walker. He was about 100 yards away, leaning casually against a gravestone. I asked my friend while keeping my eye on Skinwalker, want to go into the graveyard, and he was down, so we went in. It had become obvious to me that Skinwalker wasn't noticed by anyone other than myself, so it wasn't a shock that when I walked almost directly

next to him, my buddy was oblivious. I remember that was the closest I'd ever seen him. He was so much more detailed this close, his skin, I'll never forget it. It was almost translucent. He wasn't just pale, he was old, and he was staring directly into my eyes. His eyes were green but dark, not completely black, and I remember it was a green with a hint of yellow and brown, and I remember he had what I would describe as pretty eyes, but they were so beady and far apart. I had forgotten all about my friend when he said, why are you staring at that gravestone? I looked at him and then the skin walker, but he wasn't there anymore, just an old weathered slab of tall concrete. I looked at it for a second, then noticed a name, Blankety Blank, 1846 to 1847. I paid no

attention to this for a long time, until I noticed that every time I was in the graveyard, there he was, same pose, same stone, watching me. And one day, I was reading a book on the paranormal when I thought about something. Maybe he was just a ghost, and maybe he wanted me to help him. So I came up with a plan. I rode my bike to the graveyard. I don't know why at the time. I thought that it might make a quicker getaway if he tried to get me or something.

I don't know. Anyway, I approached him standing there as usual, and I said, Can you hear me? And he just looked blank-faced and no response. If you need my help, tell me. Then he seemed to get angry. I don't remember exactly what happened. All I remember was that I ran.

I ran and didn't look back until I was back on my bike. And then when I got on my bike, he was standing there, still at the gravestone, with one arm stretched out towards me, like he was reaching for me to come back, or like he was sorry or something. I don't know. I didn't stick around much longer to find out, and I rode as fast as I could home, and that was the last time I saw him for a while. A few months went by and I started to get really anxious, avoiding being alone, avoiding going outside after dark.

I was so scared that I would see him again, but at the same time I felt bad, like I shouldn't have upset him. I felt sorry for him. I don't know. It was weird, but I almost felt like we were friends at this point, and I still feel like we're friends. The first time I saw him again was while I was riding the bus to school. I no longer had to walk to the bus stop.

I was in high school, but I knew that it was him. He was walking or dancing down the sidewalk, but it was only a quick glance. He watched me go past him, and I knew that he knew that I was on, and that was it. His appearances became less and less frequent until one night. The last night I'd never see him. I was 17 years old, and my mom announced that we were moving. Things had gotten serious with her boyfriend, and we were moving in with him. Our boxes were being packed, and the house was on the market. It was about midnight, and I was alone in the house, as usual. I was drawing in my living room.

I had my supplies laid out in front of me, and I was going to town on the paper when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, but this was the first. He was now in my house, and my first reaction was to scream, and he took a step back. I remembered this as being a very strange moment.

It was quiet, and he seemed scared. We watched each other for a moment. and then I realized that I didn't have anything to fear, and I went back to drawing. He moved about for a moment and wound up standing behind me. It was like he wanted to watch me draw, so I remember letting him, and he moved in front of me, and he stood there, looking not at me, but at my sketches. I'm not sure how long this lasted, but at some point, I realized that he must have wanted me to draw him, and so I did.

I started slowly, but eventually it was normal. I just sat completely silent, drawing this being, this messed up thing that followed me for damn near five years. And when I was done, I held my notebook up, and he seemed to be happy, ecstatic actually. His smile seemed bigger, and his eyes seemed kinder. I'm pretty sure I smiled too, and he liked it. I have absolutely no idea how long we stayed that way, but eventually he turned away from me and walked into the other room, and then he was gone, forever. My mom and I moved and went on with our lives. I'm 20 now and living on my own. I wish with everything inside of me that I hadn't left that notebook with my mother,

because it's probably in storage somewhere now. I'd also like to say this. Every year since I moved, I go back to the gravestone and leave flowers, and every year I've hoped to see him standing there, and I plan on doing him. this until I die. I moved to Kentucky for the fire service, buying 10 square miles of hilly forest with a home at an auction. The previous owner had lived there his entire life and died on the land. His family sold it to make a quick buck, and I started planting more trees. Although the forest was dense, it could use more, especially around the house. I installed trail cams due to homeless wanderers coming onto the property. Something was getting angry and ripping down the trail cams, including one

high up in the trees. I found piles of them in tree hollows. I grabbed my shotgun and camping supplies and headed out to persuade the homeless person to leave my property, but I couldn't find anyone, only tiny, four-toed prints in the mud by the streams. Initially, I thought it was a raccoon, but the spacing made me think it was standing upright. I made camp and hunkered down, cooking some tasty rabbit stew. Too tired to clean the pot, I went to sleep. Around 3 a.m., I was I woke up to weird grunting noises outside the tent. When I opened the window flap, the stew pot was swinging, but all I saw near it was a mossy rock about the size of a gallon jug that I hadn't noticed before. I thought nothing of it and went back to sleep.

The next morning, the stew pot was licked clean and the mossy rock was gone. I assumed raccoons must have cleaned it in the middle of the night, and the rock was the culprit. After searching the area and finding nothing, I returned home, tired and bummed out from not finding anyone and losing my knife. That night, there was a light knocking at my door. Groggy, I eyed my gun, peeked through the window, but saw no one. I grabbed my shotgun, opened the door, and poked my head out. Again, no one was there, only forest noises in the occasional butterfly. When I stepped out, my foot kicked something. It was my knife, lying on a bed of flowers in the grass. Confused but happy that someone had found my knife,

I shouted a quick thanks and invited them to come see me so I could talk to them. I noticed about three rocks, all around the size and shape of a milk jug, just on the border of the forest. I picked up my knife and went back inside. When I glanced outside again, the rocks were gone. A month later, while planting more trees and working the land to make a small garden, a puppy named Hugo was walking around sniffing things. I noticed two rocks on the edge of the forest and thought nothing of it.

They didn't bother me, and I didn't bother them. I was getting used to them and expecting them by now. Honestly, I didn't feel afraid, and Hugo didn't seem to mind them. One day, as I was really into my gardening and lost track of time, I looked up to find Hugo sniffing one of the rocks. The rock shifted a little when his nose got too close. I ran over to Hugo to keep him from getting hurt in case the rock tipped over. That's when I saw the moss on the rock shift and sprout out a tiny, spindly little arm.

I stopped walking for a second and blinked to make sure I wasn't seeing things. It was hot and humid, and I hadn't been drinking as much water as I should have. The arm continued to extend slowly towards Hugo, recoiling a little whenever Hugo's nose touched it. I cautiously stood back up to not spook the rock thing. It was getting nearer to Hugo, about 50 yards away, and I saw that it was petting Hugo's head. Hugo was wagging his tail and seemed to be enjoying it. I got about 10 yards away when I stepped on a twig, making a loud noise. The creature's arm shot back into its body, and the rock started tumbling frantically away.

Hugo ran after them, and I chased after Hugo. I lost sight of my dog and searched for him until nightfall. I went back to my house to grab a little. flashlight and my camping gear to find my pet. As I got closer, I saw a white and black lump on the porch. I started running toward my house, and as I got closer, I saw that it was Hugo. He was lying on the porch, not moving. I got upset as I approached, and I saw red and pink around his head and neck. I started sprinting, thinking my dog was hurt or dead. About 10 feet away, Hugo's head jerked up, and he looked at me. He stood up and came to greet me with a slobbering mouth, clearly happy to see me.

He had a little crown of red and pink flowers around his head and neck, and a rope tied to his collar and my door. I hugged him, tears welling up because I'd come to love this pet so much. I stood up and shouted a thank of you to whoever had brought him home, and then went inside to sleep. I've been on this property now for about four years, and have a lot more stories about them if people are still interested. I've gotten very close to them, and I'm trying to build up my trust with the little things. About a year later, I kept seeing the rocks around my house, and they were getting closer. I noticed one was living in my garden now, a little different from the others, greenish-gray and very round, almost spherical. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of it

moving around very slowly and methodically in the garden. The garden has never looked more beautiful since it moved in. I go out to my garden often and see it on the opposite side from me. One day, I decided to approach it and show it that I meant no harm. It was unsuccessful. It just tucked its arms and legs in whenever it saw me. It looked like a chubby sloth carved out of stone, with no mouth or nose, just two beady little eyes. I decided to leave it alone. It seemed to be helping me with the garden, and I appreciated that. Sometimes some of my veggies would be gone or half-eaten, sitting by the stone. I let it have them and left some veggies near the edge of the forest one day. I noticed that the stone was gone and the veggies were no longer being eaten. The garden was looking

a little worse for where, and the stones were gone from the tree line. I was genuinely sad that they were gone. About two weeks later, I went into the forest looking for them. I came to the middle of my property where a massive oak tree had fallen. It was probably around 100 feet tall. When I I got closer, I noticed that there were dozens of the stones on and around it, all leaning on it like they were kissing it or resting their heads on it. I was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of sadness, almost as if a family member had died. I walked over to the tree and placed my hand on it, whispering some sweet nothings to the stones. I went back home after spending almost three hours at the tree, feeling bereft of an old friend. For some reason, I remembered

that I had a white oak sapling in my yard outside my house. I dug it up and took it to the fallen oak in the forest the next day with Hugo. I planted it next to the fallen oak to replace the giant hole the older one had left. Hugo was walking around, and I caught a glimpse of a few stones petting him. A few days later, I noticed the stones were back on the edge of the forest. The garden stone was back and everything looked lush and vibrant again. I have one other notable story that was kind of scary. Well, not really scary, but it does involve a crazy homeless guy. I went out to the forest one day with Hugo to look around for bums, say hi to some friends, and just be outdoors. I noticed more and more signs of a homeless person living here, trash everywhere, broken branches,

and plants, etc. Finally, I made it to where I thought the guy was camping. I found a shelter and took it down, but I neatly folded it for him so he could get off my property. quickly. It was starting to get dark, and I was getting a little worried that I might have made him angry, or he was dead somewhere on my property. I saw someone moving deeper into the forest and shouted out to him to stop and talk to me. The guy had a pickaxe, so I kept my shotgun ready in case he got violent. I saw that he was smashing something with it and started to freak out, thinking that I'd stumbled onto a killing. That's when I heard the unmistakable sound of rocks being smashed. I fired into the air, getting his attention quickly. He dropped his pickaxe and

put his hands up, mumbling something unintelligible. My adrenaline was pumping. I was shaking, and Hugo was going mad on his leash. I screamed at him about smashing the rocks. He started saying how they were following him and throwing stuff at him. I almost shot him then and there, but instead I led him at gunpoint to the edge of my property and told him to get out and never come back. A few days later, I got a call from the sheriff's office about a body they found near my property, a homeless guy, beaten to death and stuffed into a tree. They told me a deputy would be coming to talk to me. The deputy showed up about an hour later and questioned me about it.

If I had any interactions with the homeless guy, I told him no. He started to leave, then turned a little. around on my porch and mentioned my stone fence was a little low but looked good. I looked around and saw the entire edge of the forest around my house was surrounded by stones. I thanked him and saw him get into his cruiser. He left and I looked back at my house. All the stones were gone except for two. I had a lot of small ones like gifts and whatnot, and they left me flowers, sometimes morel mushrooms, and things I've lost. I've been giving them about a third of my veggies, and they seem to like that. More and more of them show up in my yard rather than my tree line, and they only seem to

move when they don't notice me there. They're very slow moving, and the only time I've ever seen them move quickly is when they roll. I have a lot more animals in my area now in the forest and the yard, and the garden are much more lush and green when they're around. They seem to disappear during storms. I think they either go into tree hollows or patiently waded out under other kinds of cover. The garden rock likes to go into a small covered trellis that I built for it when the rain comes. I've never heard them speak, and I've only seen their faces a few times. It's just an oblong rock with beady black eyes that look like polished black glass, very spindly arms and legs, not bony looking, but more vine-like, that they tuck back onto the body and aren't noticeable.

They have four toes and three fingers and a thumb. The bodies are shaped like a bullet, and they They're about the size of a gallon jug. The garden rock is more round, though. Their heads sit on the front of the body rather than on top and kind of blend into it. The eyes are wide spaced, almost parallel to each other, and about the size of a small marble. They're covered in moss and can range from green to burgundy, and I think that might indicate age, but I don't know. When they stand up and walk, they look hunched over, and they tend to wobble more than just walk with arms out, like they're carrying something under them.

There were a couple of things left in the house before I moved in, like some personal documents, mostly health records. And other than that, I know the guy came from Holland, and he built the house when he was over 50. None of his family wanted the land. They just seemed to want to make some quick cash. I did let them spread his ashes in the forest, though, because that's where he spent most of his time with his wife,

and her ashes were also spread out there, according to their daughter. He seemed like a sweet old man. He liked woodcrafting, and I found some of his stuff here and there in the basement in the shop. I left to figure out that he made on the porch, and the next day it was gone. I'm not sure if the little stone people took it, or if it was some other animal passing through. I know that immoral doesn't quite cover it. It isn't as though I awoke one morning and decided that was the Thursday I was going to roll out of bed and become a piece of crap. I didn't pull on last year's trainers and make a pact with myself that my bank balance would triple because I was going to become a ghost-hunting scam artist, greasing my endless lies with

snake oil. But it doesn't matter, not really. Karma came for me in a big way, and it was deserved. We gained a bit of a niche following online, nothing to write home about, but we made our money from donations, and of course the cold hard cash from the people we sucked the life out of. I won't bore with fine details, but we ghost-busted 19 homes before we reached the whistlebees. With each home, we bought more equipment to really add credence to the whole wraith-rangler thing. We turned creaky floorboards into demons. Water tank leaks into internet views. It was fun, until it wasn't.

I'd never met a family quite like them. The others, they were young couples afraid of whistling wind, old singles desperate for validation that their home wasn't heavy with the weight of vengeful spirits. It was easy, muscle memory. But the whistlebees, God, they were terrified, young parents and two children with their family dog, cowering in the corner when we set up for our bull crap interview. The daughter was so pale she seemed to sink into the walls behind her, face gaunt and eyes haunted. It was her we latched onto as we probed, stifling excited smirks with our palms. He never leaves, she whispered, staring through us as if we weren't really there.

If her eyes glimmered once, they certainly didn't now, lost and soulless as she gazed into the abyss. It was Adam who managed to coax the words from her lips, voice soft as he gently probed. Who is he? We have plenty of equipment here to find him in whatever corner he's hiding. We just need to know as much as you can tell us. A wry smile made its way onto her lips as she finally looked at Adam, voice low and deliberate. You don't need to find him. You'll know where he is.

I promise. He walks on the ceiling and crawls down the walls. He'll find you. The young girl's mum spoke suddenly, eyes full of tears. She didn't used to speak this way. She breathed, gaze darting around the room. She's so tired, so tired. She doesn't sleep anymore. It doesn't let her. Jonah stood up then, grinning as he clutched his camera for dear life. Ma'am, don't you worry for a second. You're in the right hands. We'll find out what your visitor and we'll cast him right out of here. You have my word." His word meant nothing, but they didn't need to know that. The fear in their aura was palpable. It was as if they had their own pulsing circle of gravity sucking the life from the room.

Their dread did something foreign to me. It made me nervous. In all the nighttime giggling and masquerading in people's homes, I'd never been scared. To do this job was to know that Ghosts were as real as fairies and whimsical tales. It was to laugh at the notion. But during that interview, I wasn't laughing. The girl's eyes were black holes, and they looked like they'd sucked her soul out long ago. So with the image of those eyes burned into my retinas, we did what we did best. 11 p.m. rolled around, and with the family booked into a hotel, it was showtime.

Show yourself, demon! Jonah lunged through the front door as nighttime blanketed the house. and darkness, hauling our masses of equipment through. We didn't need any of it, obviously, but it made people feel as though we were legitimately expelling ghosts from their homes with the flick of a battered crucifix. Adam rolled his eyes, glancing down at the EMF reader in his hand. Bro, come on. Did you see how scared that girl was? I feel a little bad. Damn, she was creepy. Jonah chomped on his gum, leaving muddy bootstains as he clambered up on the sofa to stick his camera to the wall.

He walks on the ceiling. Dude must have the mother of all headaches. I stayed quiet, chewing my lip as I set up our audio equipment and eyed the tired-looking lump of plastic. The older it looks, the more authentic it appears, Jonah had assured me. And sure, I supposed it did look like it belonged in a 1998 horror game,

but it was pretty crap. Not that we'd ever picked up anything on it before. There was the great scare of how, house 12 when the fridge appeared to hum a lilting tune, but it was just super broken. Right, Jonah jumped downwards, nearly knocking over the coffee table. Plan is, Megan Donovan is leaving the house party you guys didn't want to go to at like 2 a.m. I say we wrap up here by 1 a.m., swing by the party, and I'll be her shoulder to cry on, because her douchebag boyfriend was a jerk again all night.

Adam scowled as Jonah cackled, but I stayed mute, casting my eyes around the room. I couldn't deny this place felt different somehow. Even with all the lights dancing across the house, there sat an empty, tepid coldness that seemed to seep through the walls. There was no warmth here, no safety. Loving family photos littered the room, but somehow it felt barren. Wrong. I'm down to do this quickly, at least.

Adam muttered, eyes darting around nervously. You guys feel that? Place feels... Haunted? I finished for him, rolling my eyes at Jonah's gaffaws. All right. I'll get started. He stared ominously into our main camera placed across the room,

red light blinking towards the sofa we were sitting on. It's time, everyone. As always, first we'll try to contact the ghost and see if we pick up anything on the microphone or the EMF. Clearing his throat. Adam stole a glance at me. Uh, okay. We're here in your domain, ghost.

He tried to project, but I heard the slight crack in his voice. We're here to find out what you want, why you haunt this family. We're here to set you free. I counted down from six, bulging my eyes as I shrieked, throwing myself backwards. No way, I bellowed, pointing off camera. There's no way. And we did the usual scramble. All of us claiming we saw a photo frame go flying, switching to shaky hand-cam footage,

as Jonah retrieved it from the floor we laid it on earlier. It was rehearsed, but something just felt different. It's hard to describe, but I couldn't shake the feeling a pair of eyes were locked onto me, a horrid gaze burning into my back. The feeling amplified as we pulled out the trusty Ouija board only moments later, laying it on the table and pushing it into frame. I scratched at my arms nervously, trying not to stare at the shadows that seemed to be consuming the room. All right, Jonah muttered, placing his finger on the planchette.

I ask its name. We give it something creepy like Maurice. I'll move it. You guys just stay still. Feel free to run the show on this one, I offered. Goose bumps erupting over my skin. Had it gotten colder in here? Adam certainly thought so as he hugged his hoodie tighter,

shaking something off as he placed his finger on the planchette with us. The dread was otherworldly, beginning to creep across my skin and begging me to stop. Spirit, Jonah demanded, dramatically eyeing each corner of the room. Make yourself known to us, show us, communicate with us. I want to ask what name gives you your power. What is your name ghost? He waited a fairly believable amount of time before the planchette slowly began to move towards M. But I knew my heart wasn't in my lackluster reaction. Jonah would yell at me later,

claiming I ruined the entire Ouija shot, but I swore I could see something in my peripheral, just out of view, staring at me. I didn't turn my head, didn't dare. Instead, I gritted my teeth and focused on the board, letting my jaw drop dramatically. M-A-U-R-I. And just like that, the planchette halted, painfully, almost. Jonah scowled, head snapping to us. Really? Dude, I was nearly finished. You stopped, I argued, wondering if it was a blanket on the bookshelf or a crumpled up man staring dead-eyed at me as I was beginning to suspect it was. Just do it again, Adam grumbled, and it wasn't usually like this. We didn't fight, we didn't bite. The house felt as though it was draining the life from us, the joy. I felt physically tired, as though even being here was soul-sucking.

But as I told myself, ghosts were not real. We were not real. We were opportunistic bastards, and we were leaving at 1 a.m. The planchette moved to M with ease again, and we forced our shock, but with less enthusiasm this time. It seemed even Jonah was struggling now, eyebrows knitted together tensely. M-A-U-R-I-C. And it stopped again, but this time it jerked to the left, causing a gasp to leave Adam's lips. Jonah, for Pete.

What is your problem? Jonah cried, looking between us, as though we were crazy. Ever since we got in here, you've been acting like a couple of little girls. I swear to God, if Megan... But his words died on his lips, because... As we all scowled at one another, The planchette yanked our waiting fingers in the opposite direction, landing on a letter. B.

Adam for Christ. E. The planchette scraped horribly against the Ouija board, and I couldn't tear my eyes away, sitting between the chaos of my friends arguing as each blamed the other, neither paying enough attention to the board. I swallowed, trying to watch for a twitch of the muscles in their fingers, some indication of which one was messing with us. E. But there was none. Their fingers were light, barely grazing the object, jerking clumsily

around the board. Adam met my eyes, trepidation lining his features. Listen, I just want to get this crap done and get out of here. If this is you, L. It isn't, I returned, voice lost in the sound of Jonah growling and wrenching up the planchette, launching it across the room till it hit the wall with a sickening crack. I could only stare in shock at my furious panting. friend, but Adam leapt upwards, throwing his arms out in question. You can't be serious. Jonah, for hell's sake, what is wrong with you? And they argued, yelled, threw their arms around, ignored the room. But I couldn't ignore the room. I hadn't been able to ignore it from the second we'd stepped in here, the atmosphere wrapping around my throat from the very first second we dared.

And they weren't seeing it, but I was. The blanket in the corner of the room, hanging limply from the figure underneath it. Tall, impossibly tall, shrouded in shadow, and with the fabric sagging off it horribly. Shut up, I whispered to the boys next to me, but they didn't stop. They didn't stop as the blanket began to drag closer towards us, the sound of toenails scraping on the floor echoing louder than even my friends. I could see the silhouette underneath it, the darkness that followed, the cold, but they didn't notice. Not. not until a screech sounded, sending our eyes all in the direction of the bleeping monstrosity. Damn, Adam cried, shaking his head at the EMF detector, which was flashing a bloody red color

and wailing to attention. I was only distracted momentarily from the carnage, turning around in time to feel a horrid whoosh of air as the blanket fell into a crumpled heap a mere inch from my nose, dropping to my feet. The air was sucked from my lungs as I tumbled backwards, collapsing on the sofa and gasping instead of forming words. Adam looked upon me with concern, but Jonah was done. Nah, he growled, wincing at the wail of the EMF machine. Listen, I'm not doing this all over again. Come here, let's do something with this godforsaken thing. Grab it, wave it around, just get up. My eyes were still darting around the room and only pulled from their trance as a buzzing fly landed on my hand, narrowly avoiding death with the flick of my shaking finger. It was

woke me up, my voice sounding more strained than I would have liked. Are you hearing that? It's detecting something, Jonah. I swear to God, I saw. Faulty microwave, shoddy electrics. I don't know. His voice raised threateningly. Seriously, stop. Let's leave the room and run in. We'll act shocked about the EMF. We'll walk around a bit and then we're going. I'm sick of you both. I should have argued. Obviously, I should have argued. But I can't describe the way I felt in that moment. It was as though my fear gave way to denial so quickly that I was already calling myself crazy, reaching desperately for the idea that no, I was seeing things, feeling things, as though I needed to prove to myself that I was crazy,

and the horrors my mind was conjuring simply couldn't exist. So I stayed. I stayed as the three of us trudged out of the living room, as we all pulled our clothes tighter and ignored the ice seeping into our skin. I ignored Adam squeezing my shoulder, a sentiment he'd never bothered with before. I ignored my thudding heart as we clutched our cameras, bursting into the living room in our most epic movie yet,

ready to contort our faces in horror. But we didn't have to fake it. In the corner was our screaming EMF reader, blinking red as it had been for the last five minutes. But the problem was the endless claws wrapped around it, attached to a figure so tall its head brushed the ceiling, and black eyes glared upon us. It swayed in the shadows, but I could see its arms, gaunt and as long as its legs,

neck cracking awfully as it turned to look at us in an instant. A sick dripping sounded just loud enough for us to hear, and to this day I imagine it as thick crimson blood falling from its fingers onto its dead, curled toes. Holy crap, Adam whispered, so I knew in fact I hadn't lost my mind. We ran, of course, scared idiots launching themselves back. backwards and tripping over everything, legs jelly as we bolted for the front door. I cursed myself for not leaving more quickly, begged for a time machine to have me believe my eyes the first time. We didn't make it. There in the hallway was our 1998 horror movie audio device,

except now it was crackling, and a rasp sounded from it, too deep in gravelly to be human. Layers of voices sounded at once, so distorted I could barely make them out. I spent, Smell your blood, it rasped. The voice touching me so closely I could practically feel it inside of me. I'll suck it out of your veins and wear your skin. And then, before there was time to react, every light bulb in the house smashed at once. I know, because I heard the shards hit the floor in every room, cried out as pure darkness filled the space,

leaving me with no idea where my friends were and if they even existed anymore. The door won't open! Adam screeched from my right, audibly jamming the handle. It won't open! Where's the crucifix? Jonah begged, and I could hear the tears in his voice. Adam! Where? But now it was only footsteps we heard, not slow ones, thudding, loud footsteps,

gaining pace and getting louder and louder, till it sounded like something was running at us. But the sound didn't come from the floor. With the most gut-wrenching feeling of horror, I realized it was coming from the ceiling. Oh my God! Adam's voice was below me somewhere because he'd fallen down into a heap of fear.

What the hell is that? What is that? It was deafening, all of it. The wailing EMF detector, the rasp of crackling audio threatening to break all our bones at once, the footsteps slamming to a stop directly above my head.

All leading to the moment I looked up, a silent tear disappearing in a slow trickle down my cheek. Its body was contorted horribly, as it glowered down from the ceiling, neck cracked at an unnatural angle, with bones jutting out everywhere. Dead black holes for eyes bored into mine, hell radiating from them in such a way that I was knocked to the floor by the sheer force of it. Rows of razor teeth were pulled back into a horrific grin, stretching much in the way its wings did as they grazed the ceiling,

reams of liquid trickling from them onto our heads. Hell, staring from above me, my memory is hazy, and part of me thinks my brain tried to erase the trauma to give myself half a chance to go on with my life. I remember Jonah being lifted into the air with such a guttural wail that I've never heard a sound like it since. Remember the sound of his bones crackling as we ran, making straight for the living room. We threw furniture at the window and ignored the thud of Jonah's lifeless body being hurled at us, hitting the wall with a sick crack.

I know we got out. I felt its eyes burning from behind me as our skin snagged on glass, as we sprinted into the hammering rain, screaming for any help we could find. When the paramedics came, most of Jonah's leg had already been eaten, the remains nowhere to be found. He woke up six days later, screaming bloody murder.

Screams he kept up till he was sedated, only reducing to a whimpering wail the third time they woke him up. The bottom floor of the house was destroyed, along with everything in it. Our equipment crushed. All evidence of our horrors erased, other than the haunted look in Adams' eyes, and the nightmares that still wake me at 3 a.m. Wild animals tore the leg from an unconscious Jonah, the local police said. We were just idiots holding a seance in a house,

leaving the back door open to all manner of wild animals as we partied ourselves silly. At first they thought we trashed the house, but the whistlebees assured the police that no, it simply wasn't the case. This had happened before, they told them. We were just caught in the crossfire. They gave their statement that night, protested our innocence, then packed their bags. They never left. Their little girl went missing that night, right before they could flee.

Her suitcase sat in her room, untouched, and that house became a sad legend on those streets, spoken about in hush tones. I left town, but something inside it never left me. We don't speak of it, the three of us. We left, and when we meet, that night exists as the elephant in the room, Jonah's scarred stump reminding us that we didn't imagine the entire thing as a collective fever dream. So I left, lived my life, started going to church, took up cricket, and when I hear the sound of thudding footsteps hammering along the ceiling of my hallway

in the dead of night, I pull the covers over my head and pray to every God that may or may not exist that I'll live another day. It takes such a long time to pick up all 104 crucifixes off the floor the next morning, but for the life of me, I'll never stop doing it. I'm a 36-year-old female in Sweden. I've worked in mental health care for the last 18 years, mainly with people with psychotic illnesses like schizophrenia. I worked at a group home for nine years, and was very close with my car. co-workers there, especially two females. In the last few years I worked there, another female started working with us, we'll just call her M, and the four of us grew very close. She was very timid, shy, friendly, and we all got along well. She was often on long-term sick leave due to her

own mental health issues, so we didn't see her much at work. However, she always showed up at our after-work dinners, allowing us to stay in touch even when she wasn't well enough to work full-time. She told us that she had a history of schizophrenia, just like the patients we were treating, but that she was medicated and hadn't had any psychotic episodes for years. Since I have an education in psychiatry and extensive experience with schizophrenia, I had no judgment toward people suffering from the illness, and it didn't bother me to be friends with someone who had such a diagnosis. Even after what I will tell you, I have to say, I still feel the same way. In the summer of 2023, I had moved on to work at a new place,

still within mental health, but this time in forensic psychiatry, like a halfway house for mentally ill individuals who had committed serious crimes. The four of us stayed in touch and still met for dinner parties. M. told us that she had been evicted from her apartment because of an incident where she accidentally entered her neighbor's apartment in the middle of the night. She explained that in the huge apartment complex, all the doors looked exactly the same, and she had simply walked into the wrong door by accident. She claimed the neighbors had created a scene and reported her to the police out of pure drama. I felt that while eviction seemed out of proportion for that incident,

perhaps the landlord took action because he had judged her based on her medical history, and I felt bad for her. I questioned her if something else had happened, but she insisted that that was the full story. In Sweden it's very difficult to get a contract for an apartment after being evicted. You pretty much get blacklisted. M asked me if she could move in with me, saying she was literally homeless, and I said, of course, you can. I've always gotten myself into uncomfortable situations by saying yes

instead of thinking about myself, and I had no idea how severe the situation would get when I said yes to M. I live in a small apartment with one bedroom, a living room that only fits a couch and a TV, a small kitchen and a small bathroom. I also have two cats. We decided M would live in the living room, and I offered to throw out my couch so she could have the bed there, but she said she was fine with sleeping on the couch. I insisted on giving her a bed, but she declined. There's a door between the living room and bedroom, but only an open arc between the living room and hallway, so she wouldn't

have total privacy. I hung up a thick velvet curtain to give her a sense of a door and more privacy. There's another door from my bedroom to the kitchen, so I kept the kitchen door open at night for my cats to go in and out. She wasn't working at this time because she was on one of her long-term sick leaves while I was working shifts. Sometimes I had to get up at 6 a.m., and sometimes I didn't get home until 11 p.m. I have severe insomnia and need to combine sleep medications. And even then, I wake up easily. I told her I would appreciate if she could try to stay quiet on nights when I had to get up early, but that it was fine to be loud when I was off work or doing evening shifts. She was a heavy smoker and coffee drinker,

so I bought her a coffee machine to make her stay more comfortable. The coffee machine and sink are placed right outside my bedroom door in the small kitchen. The first night together, I had to get up at 6 a.m. for my shift. As usual, I had a hard time falling asleep. M. had been up several times that night to smoke, waking me up each time. At 5 a.m., she started making things. coffee, and the noise woke me up completely. I asked her nicely why she was waking up so early, wondering if she had any plans. She said she couldn't sleep. I explained that I really needed that

last hour of sleep because of work, and asked if she could wait until 6 a.m. to make coffee. I also mentioned that my epilepsy gets worse when I don't get enough sleep, and I was at risk of having seizures at work if I didn't sleep enough. She said that she wanted coffee with her cigarettes, but would try to wait next time. Despite this, she continued to wake me up early in the morning and throughout the nights, insisting that she needed coffee with her cigarettes. I suggested making coffee the night before, or drinking iced coffee or Coke instead, but she refused.

She demanded silence at 10 p.m. Because that's when she wanted to sleep, and I respected that. She also had moments of binge eating, emptying my fridge and pantry. Once she ate an entire loaf of bread within 30 minutes of me leaving the apartment, promising to replace it once she got money. I'd also told her to feel at home, so I couldn't really get mad, but it started to annoy me because of the cost and inconvenience. M had long black hair that was everywhere, on the sink, floor, and bathtub.

I'm not a clean freak, but it was unpleasant, and she also left fingernails and toenails on the bathroom floor and drops of urine on the toilet seat. I saw a silverfish on the bathroom floor, which feeds on hair and nails, likely enjoying its dessert. I initially tried to imply the need for cleaning by putting a broom and shovel in the bathroom, but it didn't work, and I eventually asked her nicely if she could clean the bathroom floor more often, using we instead of you, to avoid making her feel attacked. She promised to think about it, but nothing changed.

I started dating a guy and was head over heels for him. He was also in a roommate situation, so we had a tough time getting alone time. I asked him if we could have one day to ourselves occasionally, but she could have the apartment to herself as well. She claimed that she had nowhere to go, no friends or family. I wasn't asking for 24 hours, just a few hours for quality time, and she eventually accepted after some persuasion, and stayed with a friend one night while I stayed away the next week to give her more alone time.

One morning I found my cat's water bowl completely dried out. There was no spill, and it looked wiped out with a towel or paper. I had filled it the night before. She claimed that the cats must have tipped it over, but there was no evidence of a spill, and my overly social cats began to withdraw from her, spending most of their time in my bedroom, which was unusual. I had an old saucepan from the 60s that meant a lot to me because it was my grandmother's and held nostalgic value.

She burnt it and made no attempt to clean it, just left it on the stove and went out for a smoke. I found it ruined and cried, and she didn't even apologize. She also broke dishes several times without replacing them or apologizing, and this added to my frustration. After two months, she kept waking me up at night, binge eating my food, never cleaning, never leaving the house, scaring my cats, and ruining my things. I realized that she had stolen my prescribed sleeping pills. I had 20 in my nightstand when I left for work, and they were gone when I returned.

She denied it, but no one else could have taken them. The summer heat was strong, and I felt locked up in my tiny bedroom with my two cats. I never got any time to myself or alone time with the guy I was dating. My apartment was messy, and she was stealing from me. Out of nowhere, my old elementary school classmate texted me on Facebook and asked how I knew M. He had seen my Facebook post about us being roommates. I told him that we were old co-workers and that she needed a place to stay because she got evicted.

He said, I know. Do you know why she was evicted? Yeah, she accidentally went into her neighbor's apartment, I replied. He said, that's not the full story. She broke in and snuck up to their sleeping baby with a knife in her. her hand. The father woke up and wrestled her down, saving the baby. I felt sick to my stomach. Could this be true? It would certainly explain why she was evicted, but it sounded so horrible. She seemed so timid, and my friend had the full police report. Apparently the couple that she broke into was his ex-girlfriend's family. It seemed M. had a psychosis during the break-in,

but those parts weren't public. It was clear that she had been lying about what happened. and how long she had been mentally stable. I started getting paranoid and wanted her to move out. We had a contract with a 30-day notice period. I knew asking her harshly would mean 30 days of chaos, so I wanted to handle it nicely. I started looking for cheap hostels for her to suggest so that she wouldn't be in the streets.

I sat down with her and explained that I missed my alone time, and the apartment was too small for two people. I said it wasn't personal and that I wouldn't want to live with anyone right now. I expressed regret and hope that we would remain friends. She looked crushed and said it wasn't possible. I showed her the hostile I found and explained that I needed her to move out because I felt suffocated. The summer heat made it tough to keep the door to the bedroom closed and I needed my sleep. She said that she would try to move out but not until the 30 days had passed and I agreed.

The first night after our talk, she got up and made coffee at 2.30 a.m. I nearly had a mental breakdown. I was going to get up at 6 o'clock and couldn't go back to sleep. I asked her in the morning for probably the 10th time to wait until I got up to make coffee, but she didn't even answer. She just sat on the sofa and stared out the window. I was freaked out but left for work. She kept being weird, making a mess, waking me up, eating my food, and all I could think about was the incident with her and the baby and the knife. Eventually, I got so angry about being woken up by the coffee maker that I unplugged it and stored it in my attic, which she had no access to.

It might have been childish, but I was going crazy and just wanted her to stop. The next night, I woke up at 4 a.m. to her making coffee in a saucepan. I tried talking to her again, but she just, just stared and didn't reply. In my frustration, I stored the saucepan in the attic too. The third night, the guy I was dating was sleeping over because I was getting really paranoid about her weird behavior. I woke up to him poking me, whispering, look in the doorway. M was just standing silently, staring at us. It was like a scene from a horror movie, with her long black hair over her face. I didn't say anything at first, wondering if she was

doing something by the door, but realized that she was. was still just standing still, staring. It reminded me of the ending of paranormal activity where Katie just stares at Micah. I sat up and said, What are you doing? But before I could finish, she slammed the door shut, and I heard the sound of something metal falling and her running into the living room. I yelled,

You need to leave! And just started crying hysterically, because this was turning into a literal nightmare. Of course, I didn't go back to sleep and was really happy to have company that night. I kept asking myself if she had done this before, staring at me in my sleep. The next day, I opened the door that she had slammed shut and saw a kitchen knife on the floor. That was the metal sound that I had heard.

I took all my knives and locked them in the attic. I asked a friend to come over when I told M that she had to move out immediately. During the conversation, I tried to stay calm, knowing that she had a mental illness and meant no harm despite my frustration. She didn't answer me, just stared out the window. She left the apartment and sent me a text, saying that I was disrespectful for bringing a friend over to her place. That night, I thought that it would be quiet

without the coffee maker or saucepans, but at 3 a.m., I woke up to her burning dry coffee powder in a frying pan, and I was terrified. Her face was dead, her eyes black, and I suspected that in that moment she was in a psychop. I stopped the fire that was starting, and she ran off to the living room in silence. She had an appointment with her psychiatrist the next day, and while she was away, I packed all her things and sent her a text telling her that she needed to pick them up and

return my keys. I offered to give her money for a hostel for the remaining 26 days, and she didn't reply. The guy I was seeing came to keep me company in case she fought about it, and she didn't. She left the keys without looking at us. and left. Our co-workers told me that she moved in with the guy she was dating and stayed there for a few weeks until she somehow got an apartment on her own. She started working again, and I was always happy to hear this, and she seemed to be doing well. Then in January, one of our old co-workers told me that M had called her, saying, everything must burn. I have a baby to save, and some other very delusional stuff. She had called 112, the Swedish emergency number, but they hadn't taken it seriously.

M then proceeded to burn her entire apartment down because the voices in her head told her that she had to burn everything to save her friends and family. Her neighbors tried to rescue her, but she fought them off and ran back in, pouring liquor on the fire to make it burn more. She was arrested and sentenced last week for aggravated arson, and she will serve her time in a mental institution. Ironically, she will probably be in the facility where I used to work and where she used to work herself. My old co-worker was a witness at the trial. Apparently, M. had stopped taking her medication, Abilify, because she felt that it made her numb and thought that she was stable enough to function without it. Apparently not. She had also stopped taking her medication the last few weeks that she stayed at my house,

which explains her behavior. It's disturbing to that. think about what could have happened to me and my cats if she had stayed, or if I had been a heavy sleeper. I also think about what could have happened to that baby she snuck up on before she was evicted. I know it's crazy that I didn't throw her out sooner. It was complicated. The reason I haven't been able to talk about it with my friends is that they sympathize with her and minimize my experience. They think I'm making a bigger deal out of it than it was, and I sort of understand, since they never saw the darkness in her eyes that I saw in those last couple of days. A bunch of years ago,

I matched with a guy on Tinder. I was a freshman in college and had just gotten out of a relationship, so I was having fun. I matched with this guy. He was 24. We'll call him D. He was a little odd, but we had similar interests and went to the same school, so I thought, why not? The red flag started rolling in immediately when I said I would go on a date with him. Of course, the fact that he was much older isn't lost on me as the initial red flag. At this time, I didn't have a car. Dee offers to pick me up but tells me that he's not in town. However, he would leave his grandmother's funeral early, which was at a minimum five hours away, to come and pick me up. He showed up in sweatpants, a wife-beater, and flip-flops, which struck me as odd because he said that he was coming

from a funeral. We had made plans just to get a bite to eat and hang out, since he had been out of he asked if it was okay if we stopped by to pick up his dog. He had left the dog with a friend. I like dogs, so I was like, no problem. It's dark, and we pull up to an apartment complex. He leaves me in the car and comes back with a golden retriever. The dog immediately starts growling at me, which has never happened to me before,

so I start feeling a little weird. Dee doesn't say anything about the dog's temperament. Because we have the dog, he wants to drop him off at his house, and this feels logical to me. me, so I agree. When we pull up to Dee's house, he asks if I want to come in. Not wanting to sit in the car, I do. The moment I walked in, I immediately knew that it was the wrong choice. The house was trashed, garbage everywhere, trash bags full along the front entry, bottles and wrappers on the

couch, and just general crap everywhere. Dee lets me know that he has a roommate, but that the roommate isn't home. I assume this is to imply that the mess isn't his. After brushing the trash off the couch, he asks if I want to sit and play chess. I had expressed that I was interested in learning, and he seemed more than happy to help me learn. And this too was a mistake. D begins explaining the game to me, and it isn't just fun first date explaining. He's gotten very serious, and is showing me each piece while telling me what it is, what it does, and how it moves. D then begins questioning me over each piece, which I mostly get wrong, and every time I get one wrong, he yells at me the correct answer and tells me to try again. He got more and more frustrated,

and it made me very uncomfortable, so I suggested that we just pause chess and do something else. Dee suggests watching a movie, which is fine with me. The idea of us leaving and going to get food was seemingly forgotten. D tells me that we can watch a movie. movie in his room, and I oblige. But then he explains that he has to put clean sheets on the bed. I'd assume that we were moving to his bedroom because it may have been cleaner, but when we go in, it's not, and there was no TV in his room. He proceeds to put on Iron Man on his phone to have us watch, and we watched about ten minutes of it before things got intimate. I won't tell you strangers all these details, but long story short, we didn't actually go through with it.

but other little things went down. I will say those things were consensual, and after they occurred, I was feeling really odd about the whole situation, and told him I didn't want to go any further than that. D was confused, but didn't push it at first. He said fine, and we watched maybe five more minutes of the movie

before he said that he didn't want to watch the movie anymore. He started complaining and asking me why I didn't want to do things with him, and I simply said that I wasn't in the mood anymore. He then began pressuring me to tell him exactly what it was about him that made me feel that way. And at this point we had moved from the bedroom back into the dirty living room. You might be thinking, seems like a perfect time to leave, and I thought so too. But this is where things start to get scary. As if he knows I'm thinking about how I'm leaving, he explodes and begins to scream at me.

This is a six-foot-something man screaming in the face of a five-foot-nothing young girl. Of course I'm internally freaking out, but I'm trying to make sure that I don't make him any more angry but also not agreeing to anything. For the next five to ten minutes, D screams at me about why I don't like him, why I don't want him, and continuously asks what's wrong with him, and to tell him. I tried to placate him as best as possible, saying the old, it's not you, it's me, and no, I don't want to leave. Again, this man is my only ride home, and I'm truthfully not. not sure exactly where I was, though I did have my phone in Google Maps. I didn't have Uber downloaded at the time. Dee finally calms down when he believes I'm going to stay, then suggests we try playing some video games. I was in full internal freak-out mode, trying to make sure that I was

playing the part of the interested date because I was terrified that if he felt that I wanted to leave, he would freak out again. We played this game for a while. I forget what it's called overwatch or something, and Dee starts getting upset again. He starts yelling about why no one likes him, why no one wants to get to know him, and why no one loves him, saying that he has never had a girlfriend, and all his dates had been just one-night stands. Again, I placate him with a, I don't know, lots of girls are just snooty like that, and at this point, I'm saying anything and everything he wants to hear. He even starts crying about how his mother never loved him, and telling me very deep, dark things about what his mother has said to him and treated him like.

After he finally calms down once more, he gets up and goes to the kitchen to fix us some drinks. Now, if you're anyone with a brain, you're thinking, absolutely not, which was my exact thought at that moment. I decline his multiple offers for a drink, and he asks instead of alcohol if I wanted water. And of course, I declined that too, feigning that I wasn't thirsty. I stayed at his apartment until about 1 a.m. because I was sitting next to him, terrified to one, ask him to take me home, two, say I'd walk home, or 3, figure out how to get an Uber. I've been trying to download Uber on my phone without him noticing, but then it asked for card information, and that was too hard to do without him noticing. So around 1 a.m., I yawn very

loudly and say, Oh, wow, it's 1 a.m. my roommates are going to be so worried about me. I laugh as if my roommate would be stupid to worry, and that I hadn't been watching the clock since he picked me up at 9 p.m. and then said, I'm so tired. I should get home soon. Again, I was super scared that he would freak out, but he didn't explode. He just looked at the clock and said, yeah, it was late, but I was not taking any chances. So I said, I've got a great idea. If I get to bed soon, I'd love to have breakfast with you on campus. I was hoping my offer convinced him that I was intending to see him again, and it did. He seemed very happy at the prospect of it and jumped up, walking me out of my house into his car. The drive back was excruciatingly long. The ride was completely silent. Neither of us spoke.

It was only a ten-minute drive, but I could have sworn that he slowed down every time we got to a particularly dark area or underpass. D dropped me off, and I smiled and made a good show of being tired, yet excited to see him tomorrow. He offered multiple times to walk me to my door, but I declined every time, and said that I didn't want to bother him, and I'd see him tomorrow. I walked myself to the building, and the moment I got around the corner, I sprinted so fast up the stairs into my door before he could change his mind and follow me to my door. When I got in my dorm room, I genuinely felt like I had just escaped a serial killer. Even now, writing it makes my heart race a bit.

I never met up with him, but he begged me for multiple days after to meet up with him again. He even asked to pay me $20 an hour to sit near me in the library. I declined obviously, and only ever saw him once after at the gym on campus. He didn't see me, and I left immediately. I thought about Dee occasionally since the date, and wondered if all those girls that he had one night stands with had the same experience I did, and I still sometimes wonder how many girls there were after me. As the sun dipped behind the distant peaks, casting long shadows over the Montana wilderness,

Julia and I finished setting up our campsite. The air was crisp, fresh with the scent of pine and the subtle musk of earth, a smell that always brought me back to simpler times. We had chosen a spot less frequented by tourists, but well-loved by locals for its tranquility and natural beauty. It was our escape, a place to forget the world's chaos. I spread out our newly purchased map on the foldable table we had set up beside our tent. Looks like we could try hiking up to Black Ridge tomorrow, I suggested, tracing the route with my finger. Julia nodded, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. She was always up for a challenge, and our adventures together were the threads that wove our friendship tighter over the years. As the evening

grew darker, we lit our campfire, the flames casting playful shadows around our sight. We sat there, roasting marshmallows, the crackling fire blending with the chorus of crickets, and the occasional distant howl of a coyote. It was perfect until a dusty SUV rattled past our campsite, slowing down just enough to peak our curiosity and unease. There's something off about that, Julia murmured. Her brow furrowed as she watched the vehicle disappear, only to see it reappear minutes later, moving back the way it came. This time, one of the passengers leaned out the window, his phone raised as if filming us. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. Let's get a photo of their plate just in case, I said, more to assure myself than out of any real

suspicion. But as I approached, I saw the plate was smeared with black paint, deliberately obscuring the numbers. My stomach tightened. That's not good. Back at the fire, we debated what to do. Probably just some guys being creeps, Julia said, though her voice lacked conviction. We were no strangers to the unsettling attention that sometimes came our way, especially when we were alone in remote places. But leaving meant conceding, and neither of us was willing to let paranoia disrupt our long-awaited escape. We'll stay in the car tonight, I decided, and, Julia agreed. We set up an empty tent as a decoy, hoping to trick anyone into thinking we were asleep inside. Securing everything else, we retreated to my old Ford, the back filled with blankets

and pillows atop the folded seats, a makeshift bed that now felt like a fortress. As we lay there, the fire outside our window reduced to glowing embers. The forest around us held its breath. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of leaves tightened the knot in my stomach. Julia's hand found mine in the dark, her grip firm. We didn't speak. Words were superfluous when the sharp edge of fear was pressing against our throats. Night in the wilderness is never silent, a fact you forget until you strain to hear every small sound. It was deep into the night when the murmur of voices sliced through the silence.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I peered through the, the fogged window, catching the faint outline of the same SUV creeping past. They were back. My breath caught as I locked the doors quietly, avoiding the telltale beep of the alarm. Julia and I lay still, barely daring to breathe, listening to the muffled voices outside. As the minutes dragged into hours, the voices faded, replaced once more by the natural sounds of the night. But sleep remained elusive, chased away by the echo. of unwelcome whispers and the unsettling feeling of being watched. The night stretched endlessly, each minute longer than the last.

Lying in the back of my ford, I could feel every beat of my heart, loud in the suffocating silence of the car. Julia's breathing beside me was shallow, punctuated by the occasional quiet shift, as she tried to find a more comfortable position on the makeshift bed we'd made from our camping gear. Outside, the branches of the pine trees rustled, though there wasn't a little bit of the a breeze to stir them. I strained to listen, my ears picking up the subtle shifts in the nocturnal orchestra, a twig snapping underfoot, whispers floating through the trees. They were muffled, barely audible over the pounding of my own pulse in my ears, but they were unmistakably human.

I felt Julia tense next to me. Should we check it out? She whispered, her voice a threat of sound in the darkness. No, stay down, I replied. My voice firm, despite, the tremor I felt. We couldn't risk revealing our true location, hidden as we were within the car. As hours ticked by, the eerie sounds continued, now closer, now retreating, like a sinister game of cat and mouse played in the shadows just beyond our sight. Our car, usually a small sanctuary against the wilds of Montana, felt like a glass cage, fragile and all too visible. Finally, just before dawn, the unsettling presence seemed to lift. The sound of the SUV's engine faded into the distance, leaving behind a heavy silence that seemed

to press against the windows. We waited, neither of us willing to break the fragile peace that had settled. When the first light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting long, thin shadows across the ground, we dared to breathe a little easier. I was the first to leave the safety of the car, stepping out at it. into the cool morning air that smelled of pine and damp earth. The ground was littered with pine needles, soft underfoot, muffling my steps as I moved towards the tent.

The sight that greeted me stopped me cold. Above our tent the deer hung, suspended from a tree. Its lifeless eyes stared down at me, accusing. Its body mutilated in a grotesque display. Blood dripped slowly onto the fabric of our tent, staining it dark red. The limbs were severed, arranged in a chilling circle around the tent like some macabre ritual.

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat as the reality of what had occurred while we hid hit me full force. Julia joined me, her gasp sharp in the quiet morning. Oh my God, she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth, tears shimmered in her eyes, but her face was set in a mask of determination. We need to call the police. Now. We didn't bother packing up, our camping gear, our belongings.

They all seemed contaminated somehow, touched by the malice of the night's events. Using our cell phone, Julia called the authorities while I stood watch. The unease never quite leaving, despite the morning light. As we drove away, leaving behind the scene, I couldn't shake the image of the deer, the sense of being watched that lingered like a shadow. The wild had always been a place of refuge, of peace. peace, but now it was tainted, corrupted by the actions of those who had turned it into a stage for their cruelty.

I don't know if I can ever come back here, Julia said quietly, mirroring my thoughts. And as we drove toward home, the wilderness that had once felt like a friend now seemed like a stranger, unpredictable and dark. I remember thinking that Christmas in Paris would be magical. That's what you'd expect, right? Lights, laughter, and the kind of holiday spirit that you only see in movies. It was supposed to be a grand adventure, a big girls' trip, as Mom called it. It was just Mom and me, along with some friends from the base where Dad was stationed.

We were a military family, so home was wherever we unpacked our bags, and that winter, it was going to be Paris. Our first few days in Paris were like a dream. We visited all the famous spots, the Eiffel Tower shimmering with its golden lights, the bustling Christmas markets that smelled of spiced, wine and roasted chestnuts, and the wide-eyed wonder of Disneyland Paris, where I met princesses and pirates. Those days were filled with laughter and endless photos, moments I wished could last forever. But as they say, all good things must come to an end, and our perfect holiday took a sharp

turn one chilly afternoon. We were all huddled in a Starbucks under the Louvre, the famous museum that was much more than just a home to the Mona Lisa. It had a sprawling underground complex with shops and eateries. It was there, sipping hot chocolate that all the moms, including mine, received the same shocking email. Our flight back was canceled due to severe snowstorms. Panic didn't set in immediately. It was more of a slow, sinking feeling as everyone scrambled to pull up new flight information on their phones. It's okay, honey, mom reassured me, though her tight smile told me she was worried. We'll figure this out. The adults talked rapid discussing options, while I and the other kids sensed the change in mood and grew quieter,

our laughter fading away. The airline managed to re-book everyone, but somehow, in a jumble of bad luck and worse timing, Mom and I were placed on different flights. Mom argued with the airline representatives over the phone, her voice firm yet polite. There was no way she'd let me, a nine-year-old, fly alone. After what felt like hours, they told us the next available flight for us to fly together, wouldn't leave until four days later. We'll need to find a new place to stay, Mom said as we left the cozy confines of the cafe. Our original hotel was fully booked for the rest of the season. I could tell she was trying to keep the mood light, but the crease between her brows deepened. Finding a new hotel on such short notice was tough, but Mom managed

to book something online. It'll be an adventure, she said, with a forced cheerfulness as we're we climbed into a taxi. The driver, a middle-aged man with a gruff voice, looked at the hotel address, and then back at us with a stern expression. Be careful, he warned as he helped us with our luggage. Don't go out at night. His words echoed in my mind as we checked into the hotel. It was nothing like the pictures online, darker, dingier, a stark contrast to the festive spirit we had enjoyed just hours before. As Mom handled the check-in, I clung to her side, trying not to think about the taxi driver's warning or why he'd felt the need to say it. That night, as we settled into our less-than-perfect room, Mom wrapped an arm around me. It's just for a few nights, she whispered, kissing my forehead.

We'll make the best of it. Despite her reassurance, I lay awake long into the night, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the city and wondering what the next few days would bring. The days seemed to stretch longer as Mom and I tried to make the best of our unexpected extended stay. We spent our last day wandering around the beautiful streets near Sacra Kerr, marveling at the painters and street performers who brought so much life to the quaint cobblestone squares. But even the bright winter sun and the vibrant colors around us couldn't completely chase away the unease that settled in my stomach every time I remembered the taxi driver's ominous words. By late afternoon, as shadows began to creep across the city, we decided it was best to head back to our hotel, earlier than we had any other night.

The warning to avoid the night echoed in my mind, and I clutched Mom's hand a little tighter as we made our way back through the bustling crowds. Back in our hotel room, the sense of safety I felt during the day began to dissolve as soon as the sun set. The building seemed to transform at night, with every creek and whispered. of the old structure feeling like a warning. Mom tried to distract me by turning on the French TV, which was showing a cartoon that neither of us understood but appreciated for the noise it added to our silent room. But then, the unsettling became terrifying.

Loud noises erupted from the lobby, shouts, and the heavy pounding of footsteps that seemed too forceful, too angry to belong to any normal hotel activity. The sounds of other people should have been comforting, But these were not. They were alarming. Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at our door, followed by an insistent pounding. A man's voice, loud and slurred, filtered through the thin door, speaking rapid French peppered with angry shouts.

We know you're in there, he yelled, banging harder. I could barely breathe, frozen in fear. Mom's face was white as she quickly motioned for me to stay silent. She dragged me to the corner of the room, furthest from the door, whispering urgently, Don't make a sound, sweetie. Stay down. Her phone was in her hand,

and I could hear the desperate trembling in her voice as she tried to call dad, but the call wouldn't go through, and she was left frantically texting him instead, telling him to call the police. The pounding continued, each thud against the door sending a shockwave of fear through me.

The man outside kept shouting, now making threats, his words unclear, but his tone unmistakably men, We sat huddled together, the only light in the room coming from the flickering images on the TV, which we left on to mask any sounds we might inadvertently make. Hours passed, hours marked by the periodic return of the pounding at the door, the shouting never ceasing. Somehow, amidst the terror, exhaustion took over, and I drifted into a fitful sleep,

curled up in my clothes with my backpack as a makeshift pillow. Mom didn't sleep at all. her eyes wide and watchful, guarding our little fortress. When dawn finally broke, the noise and the threats had stopped. Mom peeked through the window to see the first light of morning and decided it was safe enough to leave. We gathered our things silently, left the room with as much stealth as we could muster, and didn't stop moving until we were safely inside the airport.

At the airport, while waiting for our flight, mom finally broke down and cried, not just from fear, but also from relief. We were safe, we were going home, and soon this nightmare would be just a memory. As a small consolation, the airline upgraded us to first class, an unexpected end to our harrowing ordeal. From the moment Dan and I decided to head out to the local grocery store,

I knew it wouldn't be just any regular shopping trip. The town we live in thrives on cheerfulness, and an almost forced sense of community. Everyone is supposed to smile, wave, and chat like old friends, no matter the underlying currents pulling us apart. As much as I admired the lively spirit of our small town, sometimes, it felt exhausting, especially for someone like me, who cherished quiet and personal space. Dan, with his striking tattoos and the remnants of a tough past visibly etched in his posture,

often drew mixed stairs. While some greeted him with warm, forgiving smiles, Others couldn't hide their murmurs and skeptical glances. I always admired how he handled it, with a sort of resigned grace, knowing he couldn't change his past but could shape his present. The grocery store was buzzing when we entered. The familiar ding of the door seemed to announce to everyone that Dan and I were there, triggering a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

I tried to shake off the unease creeping up my spine as we grabbed a basket and started down the first aisle. Hey, I'll go grab some veggies, Dan said, nodding toward the produce section. Meet you by the bread and five? Sure, I replied, giving him a small, reassuring smile. As he walked away, I felt the safety of his presence diminishing, leaving me exposed somehow. It wasn't long before I felt the weight of a stare. Turning slightly, I saw him.

A man about my height with a too bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He approached me with an eagerness that set off alarms in my head. Hi, I'm John, he said, stepping a bit too close. His voice was friendly, but his proximity wasn't. You're Olivia, right? I've seen you around. Mind if I join you for your shopping. I backed away slightly, clutching my basket tighter.

I'm actually just finishing up, I lied, glancing around in hopes of spotting Dan. Oh, come on, I insist. It's always nice to make new friends, don't you think? John continued not picking up on or blatantly ignoring my discomfort. As I struggled to maintain politeness, I felt increasingly trapped. I really need to find my boyfriend, I managed to say, hoping to deter him. Just then, Dan appeared at the end of the aisle, his eyes quickly sizing up the situation. Without a word, he moved to my side, his presence like a shield.

John looked between us, his smile faltering but not disappearing. Everything okay here? Dan asked, his voice calm but firm, his stance protective. Absolutely, John replied, though his eyes darted nervously. Just saying hello to Olivia here, but I see you're busy, so I'll leave you to it. Relief washed over me as John finally turned and walked away. Dan watched him leave, his brow furrowed. You okay? he asked, his hand-finding mind. Yeah, thanks to you, I said, squeezing his hand.

Let's just get what we need and go home. As we resumed our shopping, I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on us. Was John just overly friendly, or was there something more? I shivered, wishing the world could be as simple as just a trip to the grocery store. As Dan and I walked out of the grocery store, the cool air outside couldn't wash away the lingering discomfort from our encounter with John. Dan's hand felt reassuringly firm in mine, a silent promise that he was there, always.

looking out for me. But even as we loaded our groceries into the car, I could feel his tension, a silent vigilance that had tightened around him like a coil ready to spring. We're not coming back here for a while. Dan said once we were inside the car, his voice low but resolute. I nodded, understanding his concern without needing any explanation. The safety of familiar places had been tainted and the comfort of routine replaced by caution. As we drove home, the silence between us was thick with unspoken worries. Once we were safely inside our apartment, Dan turned to me, his expression serious. Let's check out that Instagram account John mentioned. Something felt off about him. I hesitated for a moment, but knew he was right. Pulling out my phone, I searched for the

username John had unwittingly given when I tricked him with the fake account. What we found was a public profile that seemed normal at first glance. Pictures of landscapes, food, a few selfies. But the longer we looked, the more we realized how impersonal it all was. There were no friends tagged, no comments from family. It was as if John wanted to present an image of normalcy while revealing nothing truly personal. It's like he's hiding in plain sight, I murmured, scrolling through the posts. Dan nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen. And no locations tagged in any of these photos. It's all too generic. he added, pointing at the pictures that could have been taken anywhere.

We discussed the possibility that John might be more dangerous than he appeared, perhaps scouting for people to target. It was a chilling thought, one that made our own openness feel like a vulnerability. Later that evening, as we sat on our couch, the weight of the day's events finally settled around us. I couldn't help but feel isolated, a feeling amplified by the town's expectations of sociability. It's hard, you know. I said, breaking the silence.

Feeling like you always have to be on guard, even among neighbors. Dan reached out, his hand covering mine. We'll be okay. We just have to be a bit more careful. Keep a lower profile for a while. His words were meant to comfort, but they also painted a stark picture of our reality. We had to adjust our lives, change our habits,

because of one unsettling interaction. It was a small but significant shift, acknowledging that the line between public and private had to be guarded more fiercely. As the night drew in, the conversation turned lighter, but the resolve remained. We decided to change our shopping habits, opting for less frequented stores or different times when fewer people were around. It wasn't just about avoiding John or others like him. It was about protecting our peace,

ensuring our little world remained intact despite the unpredictable nature of the one outside. I hope this never happens again. This first started happening 15 years ago and would take place over the next 13 years of my life. It all started in the summertime, about four months after we had moved to a new house in a different state. I was nine years old at the time, and I didn't really have any friends in the area. One day, I was out in the front yard helping my dad with yard work. He would mow the front and backyards, and I would either pick dandelions out of the grass. or water the plants at the front of the house.

Not super helpful, I know, but I was nine and wasn't allowed to do anything with the lawnmower besides maybe pull the cord to start the motor. My dad had just finished the front yard and had moved his way to the backyard while I stayed in the front yard to finish up. I remember seeing a package on the porch in front of our door and going up to pick it up, and that was when I turned around and saw him. A man in his late 30s, with long, dark hair. tied in a ponytail hanging down past his shoulders, wearing a plain white t-shirt, black

pajama pants, and no socks or shoes. He was standing at the end of our street, standing with his arms crossed and staring directly at me. Now for context, my house is four houses down from the end of the street. At the end of my street, there is a road that forms a T-shaped intersection. On the other side of this intersection from my house, there are three houses, with one house lined up with the middle of my street and the other two houses sitting to the right of it. To the left of the house lined up with my street is an old steel treating factory that existed, surrounded by houses in our neighborhood, and, at that time, was still active 24-7. This man was standing in front of the house lined up with my street, at the top of the

T-shaped intersection. He was standing right off the edge of the street and in front of what I assumed was his house, just staring at me. As soon as I saw him, I immediately froze and stared back at him with a sudden uneasy feeling washing over me. The longer I looked at him, the more red flags I began to notice. To my nine-year-old mind, this man was dressed very strangely, and that had already been an immediate red flag. But the creepiest thing that stood out to me was his face. His face had absolutely no expression of any kind. There was just this intense and piercing stare with him looking,

directly at me. It felt like he was staring right through me, and for at least two minutes, we stared at each other, never looking away, or even blinking. Eventually, the uneasy feeling built up enough for me to slowly walk myself down off the porch and over to the side of our house, never looking away from the man. When I made it out of sight, I ran to the backyard to tell my dad about what had just happened. I came up to him as he finished mowing the backyard and described what I had seen, and that was when he told me that he had seen this man the other day doing the same thing, except just staring straight down our street. Arms crossed, plain white t-shirt, pajama pants, no shoes, just like when I had seen him. After that, my dad told me that he

thought that man seemed off and to stay far, far away from him. Unfortunately, that would not be the last time that I saw the man at the end of our street. From that point on, I would see this man. I would see this man much more often. I would be riding in the car with my family, or outside, doing something in our yard or on our block, and I would look over and see him standing in the same spot, arms crossed, intensely staring. He wasn't there 24-7, but at least three days a week, I would see him outside, sometimes for five or more hours at a time. If not staring at me, staring at someone walking their dog or a car passing by. Once, I tried to find him. I tried to figure out his schedule, so I wouldn't have to be around him as much, but it felt too creepy

keeping track of him, because he would occasionally start scanning his head around looking for people to lock onto, which really creeped me out. Now some of you may be thinking, he's just staring and not doing anything, that's not that bad, right? Well, sadly, I would later find out that things were far worse than I had ever imagined. So fast forward about nine years. I am now 18 years old and looking to get a job to save up for my first car. I hadn't really been able to save any money up to that point, and my parents weren't in any position to be able to help me with purchasing one, so I knew that I had to try and find a job that would be easy for me to get to,

and that would pay me enough for me to hopefully get a cheap car quickly. Lo and behold, the steel-treating factory next to the creepy man's house has a now-hiring sign out front, and I decide that a two-minute walk to work had to be worth it, even if it meant walking by the creepy man's house. I had seen this guy doing this routine for almost a decade at this point and figured that it wasn't going to be a problem, so I applied and ended up getting the job. It was hard work,

which usually consisted of heavy physical labor and keeping up a constant pace, but nothing I hadn't expected. I started off fairly slowly, but ended up getting much better and able to do tasks much faster. About three months in, I was assigned to work on a machine that I had,

not previously worked on, located in the loading dock. From the loading dock I had a clear view of the wooden fence that separated the factory loading zone from the creepy man's house, as well as the front of his driveway where he would normally stand. I couldn't see the man standing at his post, but I was able to notice a large hole in the fence, which seemed like it had been made in some kind of accident. The fence was not broken cleanly, but there were splinters and cracks in the fence where the hole had been made. I asked, the floor worker who was with me at the dock, let's call him Ronnie, if he knew anything about this. And this actually got us into a longer conversation about the creepy man. Ronnie had been with

the steel treating factory for over 15 years, and had seen the man during his staring routine more than once. According to Ronnie, the hole in the fence had been made by the creepy man, and he had told the managers of the plant that it had been an accident with his truck. But that's not all. Ronnie then went on to tell me that creepy neighbor guy actually runs a daycare out of his house, and that it was an unregistered business and has actually led to police being called on him more than once. This surprised me, as I had never seen the police over at his house before, but after Ronnie told me this, something else occurred to me. When looking at creepy man's house, whenever his van wasn't sitting in the driveway,

you could see one of those children's mini playgrounds with a slide and toys built into it the kind toddlers would play with. This always struck me as odd because never once in those nine years up to that point had I ever seen anybody else come or go from his house, especially not any children. But I had never really dedicated much thought into it. After Ronnie told me this, I thought back to when I had first seen him as a nine-year-old and all the other times he had stared at me growing up, and I began to wonder if he had been secretly plotting to try and get me over to his unofficial daycare.

Sadly, I couldn't really confirm what Ronnie had told me, and at this point I had been dealing with my own personal problems at home, so I just filed the story into the back of my head as something I would not at all be surprised to find out was true. I left that job not long after this. I had saved up the money I needed for a car and was able to make my way into the career field I had been hoping to make it into. Fast forward to three years later, and to one of the scariest things that has ever happened to me,

and the reason for my posting this. At this point, I had moved away from home, but ended up having to move back home with my parents for reasons I'm not going to get into. I had also met my girlfriend, and we would spend some nights driving over to my parents' house to watch old movies or play games with my janky basement setup. By this point, my girlfriend was aware of the creepy man, but paid him as much mind as anybody else.

As creepy as he was, he wasn't breaking the law by standing there, and our lives already had too much going on for us to be focusing our time and attention on his weirdness. On this night, I was driving home with my girlfriend for a normal night of watching movies. I didn't want to block my mother's car in on our single-lane driveway, so I had recently started parking in the grass patch behind our house. Behind our house was an alley that ran past everybody's backyards. Our backyard had a wooden fence up against the alley, with a separate garage building which opened up into the alley.

I had started to park in the grass patch area in between the garage doors and the alley more often, and so that was the direction I had been driving home, silently hoping to myself that the creepy man wouldn't be outside on a pleasant night like this. Well, of course, I had jinxed it, and the way home that I was going ended up taking us right past him, standing and staring us down. I locked eyes with him very briefly as we drove past him, headed to the right side of the T intersection to turn into the alley to go behind my house. But here's where things got scary.

For some reason, I don't know why, as we passed by the creepy man I got a really bad feeling, a feeling very similar to the day I had first seen him, a gut-wrenching something is wrong kind of feeling. and so I decided to look in my driver's side mirror. To my horror, the creepy man had actually left his post and started walking quickly in my direction. I can honestly say that this was the first time I had ever seen the creepy man not standing completely still, and here he was walking the same direction I had gone. As my thoughts started racing, I turned into the alleyway and then went four houses down,

turning into the grass patch behind the garage in our backyard. I immediately told my girlfriend what I had seen and how strange it was. I did not want to freak her out, but I didn't want her to get blindsided if something bad was about to happen. From the angle that my car was parked, I could turn around in my driver's seat and stare at the alley way through the slits in the wooden fence in our backyard. I would be able to see if he was coming and see if he rounded the corner. I locked my car doors, turned in my seat, and reached into my pocket to tightly. grip my pocket knife. My eyes widened and my heart started beating fast as I saw him casually walking down the alley through the slits, right up to the edge of the wooden fence,

and then pause. After a few moments, he turned around 180 degrees and started walking back down the alley in the direction he had come from. I waited about two minutes before getting out of my car and slowly approaching the edge of the fence, then walking into the alley to see that he was gone. I have thought about this quite a bit since it happened two years ago. I don't actually know if he recognized me, or the house that I had pulled into, or why he chose that night to follow me and my girlfriend and scare the hell out of us. Honestly, I don't really care. I was able to move out of that house shortly after that happened,

and am now living with my girlfriend, who today is my fiancé, but to the man that stared at me in my entire neighborhood for over half my life, and who followed me and my girlfriend into a dark alley for God knows what reason, let's never meet again. It was summer break, and unlike every other break, my family didn't go on any trip. I was just eight years old, and my younger sister was three. We were playing with other kids who lived in the same building as us, just on different floors. The building is not exactly an apartment building.

It's more of a multi-storied house. The front gate, which is the only entrance and exit, is a bit further from there. Since we were downstairs playing, anybody who would enter or exit the building would be visible to us, and we'd greet them because every tenant knew us, and we knew them, as well as their family members who might visit. Although a new person visiting any tenant is rare, it is not impossible. Right adjacent to the big entrance gate is a small, old-style window with a grill, but it has a small opening at the bottom. We were all playing, but then I got tired and sat on one of the chairs placed on the porch area.

From there, the window was on my right side and I could clearly see the gate. I was just looking out when I noticed a man staring at the gate. He was able to look at my sister and friends through that gate. It concerned me when I realized that he wasn't even trying to look away and was just staring at them blankly. I turned around from where I was sitting to signal my friend to move to the other side, away from his sight, but she didn't understand. Frustrated, I turned back and was about to stand up.

when my gaze fell on the guy, and he was now staring at me. My body froze, and I could feel fear creeping up on me. I couldn't move. I don't know why, but I stared back at him, and suddenly he started smiling, a full-on grin from ear to ear that scared the soul out of me. I mustered some courage, got up, and ran towards my friends. I didn't tell them anything and just asked them to go upstairs with me, which thankfully they did without questioning. I didn't know. I didn't I didn't mention anything about this to my parents because I thought they would stop me from going downstairs to play. The next day, we came to play again, and I looked through the window just to make sure he wasn't there. Fortunately, he wasn't, or so I thought.

Fifteen minutes in, and I spotted that guy again, standing at the very spot and staring at us, at me. I tried to play it cool because my friends knew nothing about him, but I couldn't for long, and we went back inside. From what I remember, this happened for three to four days. Now my friend started complaining about how I didn't let them play, and that they had to come back earlier than they were supposed to. On the fifth day, or fourth, I don't remember correctly, I made up my mind not to pay attention to him and just focus on playing. We were playing cricket that evening, and I was batting.

I hit the ball hard, causing it to go over the gate, which was a very normal thing. As per the rule made by us, the one responsible, must fetch the ball. My heart started beating because I could see his grin getting wider and creepier. He went towards the ball in the road and picked it up. He then held his hand out, gesturing for me to come and take it. I was scared, but I had to go, so I did. As soon as I reached to take the ball from his hand, he bent close to my ear, and his words are still ringing clearly in my ears to this day. I'm a good man. Look at the window when you go inside. I'll leave something for it.

you. That sent shivers down my spine, and I ran with the speed of light. After we were done playing, I saw him sliding a piece of paper through the little opening. He then looked at me, grinned, and waved goodbye. I grabbed the paper and opened it. He had written his phone number and asked me to call him at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, knowing my parents would be asleep by that time. It was also written that if I didn't do it, my friend's lives would be in danger. As an eight-year-old, I didn't know any better, so I called him using my mother's phone. He picked up, and I didn't have the courage to say anything, so I stayed silent. He said, You're a good girl, just like me.

You should come stay with me, come outside. I'm waiting to pick you up. Since I lived upstairs, I went to the balcony, and he was actually standing near the gate, looking directly at me, waving and smiling. I couldn't contain it anymore, so I started crying, and disconnected the call. I ran inside and bawled my eyes out in my room. Thankfully, my mother didn't wake up, and I cried it all out.

I didn't go out for the next few weeks, and everybody kept asking me about it. That guy stopped coming, too, and I don't remember when he stopped coming, but he did, and I was relieved. Eventually, this experience just started fading, and I grew up. Fast forward ten years. I was 18, and my mother asked me to buy some snacks. I took my sister and went out, and the shop I had to go to was at the end of the road, several houses away, so not too far.

I was standing in a queue when I felt uncomfortable, because the man behind me kept pushing me. Annoyed, I looked at him only to realize that it was the same man. My face went pale, and I could feel my heart throbbing in my throat. I tried not to panic and calmed myself down by telling myself that he couldn't do anything in public. There were tons of people there. and that gave me a sense of security. As soon as my order came, I took out my wallet hastily to pay,

but he beat me to it. The owner looked at him weirdly, and then at me because I was a regular there, and he was seeing this man for the first time. I paid for it anyway, and the owner politely asked him to take his money back. I gave the bag to my sister and asked her to go home and inform our mom about a man following us,

and just in case he attacked, I'd have a backing. and she would be safe too. Our house is within the vision range of the shop, so I waited for her to get inside, and now it was my turn to go home. As soon as I stepped out, the man followed me and said something like, you're a beautiful lady now.

We should catch up. I kept walking, but now that we were far from the shop, he started speedwalking, and I had to walk faster. I could feel goosebumps all over my body. I started running, and I could see him catching up to my shop.

speed. When the owner called for him loudly, saying that some of his money was still at the counter and asking him to come back, it gave me enough time to get inside and lock the gate. I haven't seen him since that day, and it's been two years. I'm 20 now, and I hope to never meet him again. I don't know why, but it's instilled a sort of paranoia in me, and I dread seeing him when I turn. 28. I'm a 20-year-old guy from a rural part of South Carolina in the low country. I won't give an exact location for obvious reasons, but I will tell you my whole family is from here. Currently, I live in a small town not too far from where I'm from. To sum it up, my uncle, cousins, and aunts still live back at home, while my mom, siblings,

stepdad and I live in this nearby small town. I grew up mostly fishing, while my other family members mostly hunted. I'm writing this story on May 10, 2024, and it's been about six months, since this creepy encounter happened. I've had a couple of experiences. The first one wasn't so bad, but the second was very scary, and that's the one I want to share.

I've always heard about sleep paralysis, but never really believed in it. I believe in spirits and ghosts, but for some reason, never anything like sleep paralysis. When I heard that people could wake up unable to move and often see figures, I didn't pay it much mind,

thinking they were just vivid nightmares. But then it happened to me, me one night, about six to eight months ago. I was in my bed, falling asleep because I had to work the next day. Quick note, my brother and I share a room in our family's house. Everything was off in the room when I suddenly woke up later to a loud ringing sound in my ears. I thought it was my alarm or something, so I opened my eyes and tried to check my phone but couldn't move at all. I started to freak out. I couldn't even talk. I could only look around. I looked at. I looked, looked at my brother as he slept, wondering how he couldn't hear the ringing.

At this point, I felt paralyzed, but somehow I managed to move the tip of my finger and snap out of it. I wanted to scream and yell, but I was too shocked by the experience. I did tell my sister about it, and she knew immediately what it was. I didn't want to wake anyone up, so I just went back to bed. Fast forward a couple of months later, it was hunting season in South Carolina. For those who don't know, in our game zone, hunting season with a rifle starts August 15th and ends January 1st. It was around November I'm going to assume, and my cousin and I were going hunting on my uncle's land where I grew up. We planned to get up early before daylight around 5 a.m., so we would be ready when the deer started coming out.

I'm not a great morning person, at least not that early, unless it's for hunting or fishing. Then I'm raring to go, so that day we got up early, through. threw on our hunting clothes and grabbed our guns. We discussed which stand we wanted to take. There were four in total, and only two of us hunting that day. I chose to take the middle row stand because it's basically in the middle of the hunting area. We started walking in the woods. Soon he went off to his own stand, and then I headed to mine.

It was 5.30 a.m. by that point, and I'm sure both of us were still tired. I made it to my stand, set my gun on the side, and basically waited for daylight. I got on my phone and scrolled through social media with my sound and brightness down. I laid my head to the side on the deer stand, tired, but not tired enough to go to sleep. I closed my eyes for about a moment when all of a sudden, I heard this sound. I had my eyes closed, but I'm telling you, I wasn't asleep. Wasn't far from sleep, but definitely awake enough to know what was going on. I thought nothing of it, thinking it was my uncle's dog, because sometimes he would make his way back on the hunting trail.

But it didn't sound like a dog running through the woods. No, this sounded more human if you know what I mean. Maybe it's just me, but animals tend to not make as much noise as people do carelessly walking through the woods. I was still trying not to think much of it until I heard what sounded like a little boy singing. I listened closely, trying to figure out what he was singing, but I read. really couldn't tell. At this point, I didn't even want to open my eyes because I was so freaked out, hearing a little boy sing while it was still dark in the woods. Screw that. I would have gotten out of the deer stand and just left, but at the moment, I felt safer in it. I heard him walk through

the leaves on the ground, getting closer to the point where he was right behind my deer stand. Then all of a sudden, he stopped. I was thinking, what the heck, there's no way this is actually happening. A couple of minutes went by, and I heard the stepping again, but this time it was coming up the deer stand steps. The deer stand sits about 20 feet high with a built-in ladder to get inside. All I heard was this supposed little boy coming up my ladder slowly, and no longer singing. At this point, I was an inch away from a heart attack. I thought to myself, I've got a gun, but if this is a ghost, that ain't going to do no good. Finally I heard him, or whatever. whatever it was, get up to the last step, like it was right on the other side of me with the wall

of the deer stand blocking him. I kept my eyes closed, hoping I was, in fact, dreaming. I know this might sound unreal, but I kid you not. Out of nowhere, a little boy's voice came right into my ear, saying something really fast, like he was right there beside me whispering. Whatever he said was so quick, I couldn't understand a word of it. I snapped out of whatever trance I was in, and everything stopped. I still stayed in the stand until the hunt was over. Neither me nor my cousin got anything. I did tell him about it,

and basically all my family, except my uncle. As for him, I knew he would just laugh at me, but everyone else, for the most part, seemed to believe my story, but they didn't take it as seriously as I do. I can't say I really blame them. No one knows how scary an experience really is, unless it happens to them.

Now, I still go hunting these days. Not going to let something like that scare me off forever, but it definitely shook me. I always ask myself, though, was it sleep paralysis? I don't think I was asleep. Was I in some kind of trance, or could it have simply been a ghost? I still wonder what it said to me. I have no good explanation, although I was never harmed by either of these events. I don't wish them on anybody.

It's just creepy, man. My name's Rick, and if you're reading this, you're probably like me, always on the hunt for the next big adventure. I run a travel blog that's all about diving into the unknown, the kind of places that make you feel alive. My buddy Tyler, on the other hand, would rather spend his weekends at home playing video games. But somehow, I managed to drag him along with me to explore an unnamed state park in North Georgia. It was early spring, and the wildflowers were just starting to peek through the leafy underbrush, painting the landscape with dashes of color. Tyler wasn't thrilled from the start.

As we pulled into the park's entrance, a wooden sign creaked ominously in the gentle wind, the words, danger, unstable terrain, boldly warning us. I chuckled and clapped him on the back. Come on, man, when have we ever stuck to the beaten path? Tyler just frowned, adjusting his heavy backpack. The park ranger at the entrance booth wasn't any more reassured.

He eyed our equipment, my camera, Tyler's oversized pack, and suggested we stick to the marked trails. We've had some sinkholes appear recently. He said a stern look crossing his face. Don't wander off. It can get pretty risky out there. But the thrill of discovery pulsed through my veins. I could already imagine the stories and the photos I'd share on my blog.

Convincing Tyler, though, was another story. Look, we'll be fine, I assured him. I've got the GPS, and we'll keep close to the trail, sort of. As we ventured deeper into the park, the well-trodden path gave way to a thick, verdant forest that seemed untouched. Every few steps, the scenery changed dramatically, from towering oaks to dense patches of pine. It was breathtaking, and for a moment even Tyler seemed caught up in the beauty of it all. However, the further we walked, the more I felt a tug of curiosity, to see what lay beyond the next ridge, beyond the next cluster of trees.

Ignoring the signs and Tyler's increasing unease, I steered us off the path. Just a quick detour, I promised him, though I wasn't sure myself. The ground beneath our feet became uneven, covered with a tangle of roots and loose stones. We had to be careful with every step, but I was too excited to worry much. That was my mistake. Without warning, the earth beneath me just disappeared. One second I was there, and the next I was falling through open air. A shout caught in my throat. I crashed down into darkness, the impact knocking the wind out of me. I lay there for a moment, stunned and gasping for air. Above me I could hear Tyler shouting my name, his voice laced with panic. I tried to respond, to let him know I was alive, but my voice was just a hoarse whisper. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the hole I'd fallen through, I realized I was in some kind of cave, alone, hurt, but alive. I had no idea how I was going to get

out, or what was waiting for me in the shadows of the cave. But one thing was clear. I should have listened to the warnings. The pain hit me first, sharp and demanding as I tried to move. My left arm throbbed terribly, and my head felt like it had been split open. I lay on the cold, damp cave floor, trying to catch my breath, every inhale like fire in my chest. Tyler! I shouted, or at least I tried to. My voice was barely a whisper, echoing faintly in the vast darkness. With shaky hands, I reached for my phone. Thank goodness it was still in my pocket, and somehow it hadn't broken in the fall. I turned on the flashlight, and a narrow beam of light cut through the darkness. The cave was larger than I had imagined, with

jagged walls and a ceiling lost in shadow. Stalactites hung overhead like silent watchers, and the air was thick with the musty smell of damp earth. I was trying to stand when I heard it, a soft, shuffling sound in the darkness. My heart skipped a beat. Who's there? I called out, my voice stronger this time, but still quivering with fear. There was no answer, just the sound again, closer this time. I tightened my grip on the phone, using the light like a shield as I turned slowly around. Then I saw it, a figure, or rather, the vague outline of something inhuman, hovering just at the edge of the light. Don't be afraid, it whispered. Its voice a chilling caress that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. What are you? I managed to choke out.

My entire body tensed for a flight I knew was impossible. I am what remains, the voice said. I am the forgotten, the consumed. My mind raced. consumed, forgotten, what did that mean? But I understood one thing clearly, this entity, whatever it was, survived on whatever fell into its domain. And right now, that included me. We talked, if you could call it that. The entity never moved into the full light, and I never saw its true form. It spoke of time in a way that made no sense, of centuries passed in darkness,

waiting for the occasional unfortunate soul to tumble down as I had. Meanwhile, above, Tyler must have been going out of his mind with worry. I wondered if he had gotten help yet. The thought of him alone out there, scared and helpless, made me feel even worse. I needed to get out, not just for myself, but for him too. As the hours dragged on, my initial terror gave way to a grim determination. I wasn't going to end up like the others. the entity's past meals.

I wasn't going to be forgotten down here. I had to survive, to find a way back to Tyler, back to the light. The creature continued to talk, its voice a haunting melody that tried to lull me into despair, but with every word it spoke, I felt more awake, more alive than ever. I knew then that I had to keep fighting, to keep hoping, even in the face of such ancient darkness. And so I waited, clinging to the slivers of sunlight that streamed through the hole far above, a reminder that there was still a world outside, a world worth returning to. I never knew how much I'd missed the sound of birds chirping until I thought I might never hear them again.

Lying in the dark, damp cave, listening to the eerie silence broken only by the occasional drip of water, I realized how close I was to never seeing the sky again. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and hope as I clung to the thought. of rescue. Above ground, Tyler must have been frantic. I could almost picture him running through the woods, tripping over roots in his desperation to find help. He wasn't the outdoorsy type. The fact that he was out there, fighting his fears to save me, made me feel a mixture of guilt and gratitude. The weight felt endless. My mind raced with thoughts of my family, my blog readers, and all the unexplored places I still wanted to see.

I wasn't ready to be a story of tragedy, just another cautionary tale. Then, finally, the sound of voices echoed down from above. Rick, can you hear us? It was Tyler's voice, strained with relief and worry. Other voices joined his, shouting instructions and encouragement. The rescue team had arrived. I yelled back, my voice hoarse. I'm here.

I'm alive. Every word felt like a victory. The rescue was a blur of ropes, lights, and urgent voices. The cave filled with the glow of flashlights as rescores worked to secure a safe way to lift me out. I saw the creature one last time as I was being hoisted up. It lingered in the shadows, its form still unclear, a silent sentinel of the deep. Its presence was a chilling reminder of what awaited those who ventured too far from the light. The sunlight hit my face like a warm embrace as I emerged from the cave.

I had never been so grateful for fresh air. Tyler was there, his face a mask of relief and tears. We hugged, the kind of hug that said everything we couldn't put into words. Sitting on the back of the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, I watched as the rangers cordoned off the area around the sinkhole. The park ranger I had dismissed earlier approached me, his expression serious. You were lucky, he said. Most aren't.

His word struck a chord. I had been reckless, driven by a thirst for adventure and stories for my blog. I had ignored warnings and endangered not just myself, but my best friend. The weight of my action settled on my shoulders, heavy and uncomfortable. In the weeks that followed, my recovery was slow but steady. Tyler stuck by me, never once saying, I told you so, even though he had every right to. I spent a lot of time thinking about the creature in the cave, the lives it had claimed, and the lives it might still claim. I returned to my blog not to

share tales of reckless adventure, but to warn others of the dangers of ignoring signs and overstepping boundaries. I wrote about the beauty of the wild, but also about respect and preservation. My experience had changed me. I had sought a story and I had found one, but not the one I expected. It was a story of survival, friendship, and respect for the forces of nature, forces that are as beautiful as they are dangerous, as inviting as they are unforgiving. Every year, my friends and I head deep into the forest near our hometown for a camping trip, but this year was different. The place felt strange as soon as we arrived. Maybe it was because we hadn't been there in a while, or maybe it was just us growing up and seeing things differently. Looks like nature took over, Maddie commented,

her voice echoing slightly in the dense, overgrown forest. Coal, Jackson, Aaron, Hudson, and I exchanged glances. The two small two-story log houses we built as kids stood somewhat proudly among the thick underbrush, more rugged and wild than I remembered. We used to play in those cabins, pretending they were forts or castellated towers in some ancient land. They were our retreat, our little piece of adventure. Despite the nostalgia, the sight of them in such a run-down state was a bit disheartening. Well, they're still standing. That's something, right? Hudson said with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood as he dropped his heavy backpack by the door of the nearest cabin. We spent the first few hours clearing out some of the invading flora and making the

the cabins livable. As the sunlight began to fade, casting long shadows through the trees, a peculiar smell caught our attention. It was faint at first, but grew stronger, more foul as we ventured closer to the source. What is that smell? Aaron asked, covering his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. We followed the scent, stepping carefully over twisted roots and crunching dead leaves underfoot, until Maddie, who was leading the way, stopped dead in her tracks. Her was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the forest. What's wrong? I hurried over to her side, and that's when I saw it, a deer carcass.

Not just any deer carcass, though. This one was grotesque, its limbs torn off and shoved down its throat. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. Not just the sight, but the whole vibe it gave off was wrong. Oh man, that's brutal, Cole muttered as the rest of us. gathered around. Everyone was visibly shaken, their faces pale and eyes wide. We should move it, get it away from here, I suggested, after a moment of stunned silence. Reluctantly, we agreed, dragging the carcass to the nearby lake to dispose of it. The task was grim, and it left us all

feeling uneasy. By the time we got back to the camp, the sun had set, and the forest around us seemed darker than before, more menacing. We tried to shake off the unease. We tried to shake off the unease, with food and drinks around the campfire. The light from the fire flickered across our faces, casting strange shadows and making the trees around us look like they were moving. As the night progressed, Cole began to tell us about the Wendigo, a creature from folklore known as a mimic and shapeshifter, capable of luring people away with familiar voices.

His story was meant to scare us, and it worked, especially considering the day's earlier events. Most of us laughed it off, trying to hide our nervousness, but the seed of fear had already been planted. As the fire died down, and we retreated to the cabins, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching us from the darkness, waiting. We settled into the cabins and tried to make the best of it, but as I lay in my sleeping bag that night, the image of the mutilated deer and the sound of Cole's voice recounting the Wendigo legend echoed in my mind. sleep when it finally came was restless and filled with strange shadowy dreams the sky was still a blanket of black when we decided to go for a hike along the old trail we knew so well as kids despite the familiar path everything felt more sinister in the dark the events of yesterday still hung heavily on us but we tried to keep our spirits light cracking jokes and reminiscing about less eerie times about about About 15 minutes into our hike, Jackson abruptly stopped and muttered that he needed a bathroom

break. The rest of us paused, waiting for him to disappear into the woods. Hudson offered to go with him, but Jackson waved him off, saying he'd catch up in a few minutes. The air grew chillier as we waited. We talked about school, the latest movies, and even touched on politics, anything to distract from the eerie silence of the forest. Suddenly Jackson emerged from the trees. He said, but something was off. His voice was flat, his usual cheerful spark gone. He looked different too, thinner. Jackson has always been a bit stocky, so seeing him look almost gaunt was unsettling. I chalked it up to the dim light playing tricks on my eyes. We resumed walking, but the atmosphere had shifted. Jackson was unusually quiet, just staring ahead, not participating

in the conversation. Then, my phone rang. It was Jackson. confused, I answered, Hey man, where are you? Uh, I think I got lost. Where are you guys? His voice came through the speaker, sounding genuinely confused and a little scared. I stopped dead in my tracks,

staring at the person who claimed to be Jackson. What do you mean? You're right here with us, I said, the blood draining from my face. I didn't even reach you yet, he replied. His voice tinged with panic. The person in front of us turned slowly, a smile creeping across his face. face. It wasn't a friendly smile, but something malicious, something that sent shivers down my spine.

Then, without a word, he walked back into the darkness of the trees and vanished. We stood there, frozen, until a distant scream shattered the silence. It sounded like it came from the direction the imposter had gone. Without thinking, we scattered, running blindly into the forest. I found myself running down a narrow path, my heart pounding in my ears. Branches scratched at my face and arms, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. Fear propelled me forward until I stumbled into a small clearing, illuminated only by the moonlight. Breathing heavily, I tried to orient myself, but before I could take a step further, Aaron burst into the clearing. His eyes were wide with terror. It's chasing me, he yelled as he ran past.

Glancing back, I saw a dark, hulking shape on all fours gaining on him. Panic surged through me, and I ran in the opposite direction. Sounds of chaos echoed through the trees, shouts, more screams, the snapping of branches. I pushed myself harder, trying to find my way back to the campsite. It seemed like forever before the familiar glow of our dying campfire came into view. I collapsed near the fire, gulping down water to calm my shaking hands. Just as I was catching my breath, my phone buzzed. It was a group call from Cole.

Is everyone okay? He asked. His voice strained. One by one, we checked in, all except Hudson and Aaron. Their silence was the most terrifying response of all. The morning light felt harsh as it broke through the trees, illuminating the campsite that now looked more like a battleground than a retreat. My eyes were heavy from a night with hardly any sloth.

sleep, filled with nightmares that continued even when I was awake. We gathered around the campfire, its embers barely glowing, each of us looking as battered and shaken as the other. Hudson was the last to arrive, limping slightly with a deep cut on his arm. He looked worse for where, his eyes darting around as if expecting the creature to leap out at any moment. Aaron wasn't with him, and my heart sank. Aaron tripped and it—it went after her, Hudson choked out, his voice. breaking, the relief of seeing each other alive was dampened by the worry for Aaron and the lingering fear of what still might be lurking in the shadows. We shared our stories in hushed tones, piecing together the events of the night. Jackson spoke of his own terrifying encounter

after the imposter had led him astray. Maddie and Cole recounted hearing distant screams and the unnerving feeling of being watched. As we spoke, our phones vibrated with a message from Aaron. She was okay, just shaken and hiding until daylight. She'd make her way back to us soon. The tension eased slightly, but the air remained thick with unease. We decided not to wait any longer in these woods. Packing up felt like the longest task, every rustle in the underbrush making us jump. As we hurriedly stuffed our belongings into our backpacks, the reality of what had happened began to truly sink in. We were leaving, but the memories of what we'd experienced, would linger far longer.

The walk back to civilization was quiet. Words seemed unnecessary, inadequate after what we'd faced. When we reached our cars, parked at the trailhead, we agreed to call the police and report what had happened. I dialed the number, my hands still trembling. The voice on the other end promised to send a team to investigate, but as I hung up, I wondered if they'd find anything. Would they believe us?

Did it even matter? We drove away in a convoy, the forest receding behind us. The further we got, the more the forest seemed like a distant nightmare, a story from someone else's life. Yet the glances we exchanged told me that none of us would forget, nor would we be the same. The following days were a blur of phone calls and restless nights. Hudson's wound was treated, and thankfully it wasn't serious. We kept in touch daily, needing the reassurance that came from knowing the others were still there, still okay, or at least as okay as we could be. It's been two years since that

trip, and we haven't gone back to the woods. We still meet up, though. Our gatherings are now in places where the lights are bright, and the night is less threatening. We talk about going back sometimes, half in jest, half in a dare, but some unspoken agreement always stops us. We know some places, like some memories, are better left undisturbed. The woods are off limits now, a chapter closed in our lives. But the bonds we formed there, under the strangest and most terrifying circumstances, those will last a lifetime. The evening breeze was cooler than usual, as it rustled through the sparse, scrappy patches of forest bordering our backyard. I could still smell the faint scent of newly turned earth mixed with the residual wildness from the forest.

A reminder that only a few years ago this place was farmland. That summer, at eight years old, both a pang of adventure and the pinch of solitude as my older brother decided he'd outgrown backyard camping. I dragged the family's old four-person tent from the garage by myself, the fabric musty but familiar. The tent was a relic from countless family trips, its canvas speckled with patches of mud and pine resin. Setting it up became a ritual I knew by heart, unfolding the canvas, connecting the rods with a satisfying click, and securing the stakes. The tent was squeezed, into the small flat clearing we had, a stone's throw from the dark silhouette of the house. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that crept across the yard like curious fingers.

My brother stayed inside, glued to whatever new video game had captured his attention, the blue glow from the TV flickering against the living room window. I felt a twinge of rejection, quickly swallowed by a surge of defiant independence. With the tent up, I grabbed my essentials, a flashlight, a pack of slightly squash sandwiches and a bag of crisps. My inflatable mattress filled the floor of the tent, and I spread a thin blanket over it. The summer had been particularly hot,

and the thought of a sleeping bag made me itch with anticipated discomfort. I settled down as the first stars began to wink in the twilight sky, my little dome of nylon feeling more like a spaceship than a tent. I was the captain, ready to steer through the night alone. My parents had left the back door unlocked, a silent acknowledgement of their trust in the safety of our small community, and perhaps in my growing independence. But as I drifted off to sleep,

the comforting familiarity of the day melted away. Night in the country isn't silent. It's a symphony of whispers, rustles, and distant calls. Yet something else cut through those usual sounds, an irregular heavy patter. Footsteps. They were too deliberate, too heavy to belong to any animal I knew. I froze, the childish fantasies of adventure curdling into real fear.

The footsteps circled the tent, each thud like a drumbeat against my pulse. My mind raced. Was it my brother, trying to scare me? But no, he'd never ventured out alone at night either. Maybe dad checking on me. I clung to that hope, but the unsettling thought lingered. They both knew better than to frighten me. me like this. Dad? My voice was a shaky whisper, swallowed by the vast darkness. Silence answered

first, then a low, guttural growl vibrated through the thin tent walls. It was unlike any sound our dog made, or any animal I'd heard before. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I grabbed my teddy bear, pressing it to my chest like a shield. The growl morphed into something between a groan and a snarl, sending chills down my spine. I was no longer an adventurer, I was prey, trapped in a flimsy shell of fabric and poles. As I lay there, paralyzed by fear, the creature, or whatever it was, continued its ominous patrol around my makeshift fortress. Each minute stretched into an eternity, the night air thick with my silent terror and the unknown menace lurking just beyond the thin walls of my childhood sanctuary. The moon was a

thin crescent, barely shedding light over the small clearing where my tent stood. Its pale glow was insufficient against the dense darkness that the night draped over everything. Inside the tent, the thin fabric seemed to amplify every sound, making the night feel even more alive, and more menacing. My heart hammered in my chest as the creature's presence intensified. Rocks began pelting the tent with soft thuds, jolting me further into terror. The quiet of the night had turned hostile, each strike a declaration of danger. I burrowed deeper under my blanket, the familiar feel of the teddy bear pressed against my chest, failing to comfort me. The silence that followed was suffocating. It seemed as if the night itself was

holding its breath. The suspense was unbearable. Then, just as sudden as the quiet came, it was broken by a sound that curdled my blood, a laugh, low and cruel, unlike anything human. It echoed around the tent, bouncing off the trees and filling the space with dread. I gathered every ounce of courage I had left. I couldn't just lie there waiting for whatever was outside to come in. Clutching the flashlight like a lifeline, I flicked it on, the beam cutting through the darkness like a sword. I aimed it toward the zipper just as it began to jiggle.

Go away! I yelled, my voice quivering. But the zipper continued its dance, slowly revealing the night outside. Heart pounding, I braced myself against the back of the tent, pushing as far as far as far from the opening as I could. As the zipper reached its zenith, the laughter stopped abruptly. There, framed in the doorway, was a face so grotesque it was almost unreal. Eyes deep, black, and endless stared back at me. The skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. It was a visage of nightmares, its mouth twisted in a silent snarl. Adrenaline surged through my veins, and with a scream that tore from my throat raw, I shone the flashlight straight into

those dark, pit-like eyes. The creature recoiled as if struck, its arm, the one that was poised to pull the tent further open, jerking back. The rocket had been holding dropped with a dull thud. For a moment we were both frozen, caught in the standoff. Then, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps from the house broke the night. My dad, alerted by my scream, was coming. The creature gave one last look, a mix of curiosity and malice, before it turned and disappeared into the darkness, as swiftly as it had appeared. I collapsed back, gasping for breath. The flashlights beam now just a shaky spot on the tent fabric. The aftermath was a blur of motion and comforting words. My dad's arms were around me in seconds, lifting me out of the tent and away from the nightmare. Back in the house, the light seemed

too bright, the safety too thin, but I was alive, shaken, and unable to unsee what I had seen. Morning light brought no relief. The rocks lay scattered around the tent, a silent testament to the night's terror. My dad, trying to rationalize, suggested a possum or a stray animal, but the memory of those endless black eyes haunted me. It was no animal I knew, nor any creature I could name until years later, when my brother would finally admit he too had seen it. We never camped out again after that night. The woods held secrets dark and deep, and some were better left undisturbed. It was just another one of those nights, really. Living in a buzzing city, you'd think I'd sleep soundly with all the constant hum of life outside. But no, not me. I was a little bit of the

was the kid who craved ghost stories, who lingered on forums about the unexplained, and who jumped at the chance to watch every horror flick that hit the theaters. So yeah, my nights were different, filled with a weird mix of dread and anticipation. I remember that night clearly. I was about 15, maybe 16, caught between feeling invincible and being scared of my own shadow. It was around 2 a.m. when nature called. I slipped out of bed, still half a sleep. shuffling towards the bathroom. Our apartment was not large, but at night, every hallway seemed to stretch on forever. After I finished up in the bathroom, I stood at the doorway. I had this bizarre habit, don't ask me why, of looking down the hallway into our living room every night. Maybe I was

hoping to scare myself, or maybe I was just a glutton for punishment. The darkness of the living room was like a canvas for my overactive imagination. But that night, as I peered into the shadows, my heart froze. Two bright, shiny eyes stared back at me. They weren't like any animals or human's eyes. They glowed with a strange, almost metallic light. The figure was perched on our old couch, its body curled into a fetal position, but its head was turned unnaturally towards me. It looked wrong, twisted. I should have screamed or run, but I should have screamed or run, but I didn't. I was rooted to the spot, my breath caught in my throat. The eyes didn't blink, they didn't move. They just watched me, and I watched back, my mind racing but my body unnervingly

still. The kitchen light, left on by mom who always forgot to turn it off, cast a faint glow that illuminated the creature just enough for me to see its pale, hairless skin. It was eerie, like something out of a nightmare, yet there it was in my living room. It looked like it could be tall, maybe over six feet, if it stood up. I noted its skinny, almost fragile frame, and shuddered. What was it? Why was it here? My mind spun with questions, but my legs finally decided to cooperate. I backed away slowly, not taking my eyes off those glowing orbs, until I had to turn my back to slip into my room. I closed the door softly, half expecting the creature to pounce at any moment. lying in bed I stared at the ceiling, wide awake now. Was I scared?

Strangely, no, shocked, definitely. I tried to rationalize what I had seen. Was it a burglar? A very strange, very naked burglar with shiny eyes. That didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. I didn't sleep that night. Instead I lay there, thinking about my family sleeping in the next rooms, about the locked doors and windows, and about the things sitting in our living room. What did it want? Why me? Morning light eventually crept through my curtains, offering some relief. As quietly as I could, I crept back into the living room.

It was empty, no sign of the visitor from the night before. Had it been real? I touched the couch, half expecting it to be cold from an unearthly presence, but it was just a couch, ordinary as ever. whatever I had seen it was gone now, but the memory of those haunting shiny eyes lingered. I knew things might never be the same again. The first rays of morning light seemed harsh, almost intrusive as they filtered through my window. I had spent most of the night staring at my ceiling, replaying over and over the bizarre

and terrifying glimpse of whatever that thing was. With the sun up, it felt like whatever had happened could be dismissed as a trick of the shadows, or maybe a dream. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. I dragged myself out of bed, my body heavy with exhaustion. The first thing I did was tiptoe to the living room, half expecting to see that creature still there,

curled up and watching. But there was nothing. The couch was empty. The room looked just like it always did, bathed in the comforting light of day. The normalcy of the morning felt surreal. Mom was already in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made breakfast. Dad was at the table, buried in his newspaper. Neither of them

seemed any different, oblivious to the fact that something extraordinary and terrifying had invaded our home last night. Morning, I muttered, trying to sound normal. Good morning, sleepyhead, mom replied cheerfully. Did you stay up late reading again? Uh, something like that, I said, grabbing a bowl and pouring myself some cereal. The day dragged on. I went through the motions at school, my mind constantly wandering back to those haunting eyes. I tried telling a couple of friends about what I saw, but they laughed it off, suggesting it was just a bad dream, or that I'd watched too many horror movies. Maybe they were right, but I couldn't shake the feeling of what I'd seen.

After school, I headed straight to the library. I figured if there was any truth to what I saw, there might be records or similar stories. I dove into local history books, folklore, and even online forums, searching for anything that sounded like the creature in our living room. I found stories of shadow people, urban legends of creatures that visit you at night, but nothing matched perfectly with what I saw. My search did uncover a few posts from people in nearby areas who talked about eerie encounters with inexplicable entities.

But again, nothing concrete. That night, as I lay in bed, the house felt different. The normal night sounds of creaking and settling seemed ominous. I decided to keep a flashlight in my old camera next to my bed, just in case. Maybe I could catch a photo or just feel a bit safer. Reflecting on my fear, I realized that my lifelong curiosity about the paranormal had never been truly tested. Now that it had, I wasn't sure how I felt.

I was scared, yes, but also incredibly curious. What was that thing? Why did it come here? Sleep was slow to come as I pondered these questions, and I realized that my fascination had shifted. It wasn't about thrill-seeking anymore. I needed answers. I needed to know if what I saw was real, and if so, why it came to visit me. Was it just passing through, or was it something more? I decided then that I wouldn't just wait for it to come back.

I would look for it cautiously, but I needed to know. And as I finally drifted off to sleep, a part of me couldn't help but feel a strange excitement alongside the fear. Whatever was going to happen, I was going to face it head on. I've always thought of myself as part of the woods on my dad's property in rural West Virginia. With its steep cliffs, deep caves, and thick forests, I grew up exploring every inch of it, or so I believed. But a few years back, I discovered that some secrets are hidden, even in the places we think we know best. It started subtly enough, almost innocuously. Nightly

sounds that didn't fit the usual chorus of wildlife began to intrude into the familiar. The first few times I brushed them off as the wind, or maybe a coyote with a strange howl. But as the days passed, these sounds grew stranger, more unsettling, a mix of the world. A mix of the wind. A lot of of cries and howls that didn't belong to any animal I knew. At first light, I'd head out with my rifle, expecting the normalcy of my routine hunts to quell my unease. Yet the forest seemed to tighten around me, as if keeping a secret. Then I started finding them, the carcasses, deer mostly, and some rabbits, all torn up in a way that made little sense, half eaten, mutilated, left to rot under the cover of the brush. It wasn't like any pre-examined.

predator I knew. Predators kill to eat, to survive. This was different, gruesome and wasteful. I remember the chill that ran through me the day I found the first deer. It was as if whatever had done this was playing a sick game. I could handle the sight of blood and death. I had to as a hunter, but this was different. It felt wrong. I told myself it was just another predator, maybe a sick bear, marking its territory in a new, violent way. But deep down I knew these weren't ordinary animal behaviors. The forest felt different, like eyes were watching, following my every move. I tried shaking the feeling off, blaming it on my imagination. That was until the evening that changed everything. I was up in my tree stand that evening, the sun dipping low, casting long

shadows through the undergrowth. It was the perfect time to catch deer wandering through. My eyes scanned the foliage, searching for any sign of movement. That's when I saw it, something pale flickering between the trees. At first glance, I thought it might be another hunter, maybe a poacher. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized it was no human. It moved all wrong, its limbs too long, and its movements too erratic. It scuttled like a spider, darting from tree to tree with unnatural speed. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

The creature paused, and for a moment it felt like the world held its breath. It was vaguely man-shaped, but everything about it was distorted, wrong. And then, its head turned, and I swear it looked right at me with pale, lifeless eyes. I sat there, frozen, not even daring to breathe. The creature stared for a moment longer, then vanished into the growing darkness. I didn't climb down from my tree stand until the night was fully upon me. and when I did, I moved quickly, my eyes darting to every shadow, every rustle of leaves. Back at home, I didn't know what to do. I knew telling anyone would sound crazy.

Who would believe such a story? It sounded like something out of a horror movie, not something that could happen in these familiar woods. But I couldn't deny what I had seen. I needed answers. That night, under the dim light of my desk lamp, I began to search for anything. any legend or story that matched the horror I had witnessed. What I found was more disturbing than I could have imagined. After that evening, the woods were never the same for me. They had always been my escape, a place where I felt at home. But now, they held a sense of foreboding,

a whisper of something sinister lurking in the shadows. Despite my fear, I knew I couldn't let it go. I had to find out what that creature was, even if part of me dreaded what I might discover. I started by setting up trail cameras and motion sensors around the areas where I had seen the creature and found the mutilated animals. Each night I reviewed the footage, hoping for a glimpse of something that would give me answers but expecting nothing.

Days turned into weeks with no sign of the creature. The forest seemed to mock me, staying silent, as if it had swallowed the secret hole. But I couldn't shake the obsession. I spent every spare moment in the woods, eyes peeled for any anomaly, any hint of pale skin or unnatural movement. Then it happened again. I was sitting hidden in the underbrush near a clearing where I had found one of the carcasses. The air was thick with the musky scent of damp earth, and my body tensed with every rustle of the leaves. Suddenly, there it was, at the edge of the clearing. The crawler.

It was crouched over something. The body of a deer, its form grotesque and otherworldly, its skin seemed almost translucent in the dim light, and its limbs twitched and jerked in unsettling ways. My breath caught in my throat as I watched, unable to move, unable to look away. The creature lifted its head, and its milky white eyes seemed to pierce through the shadows,

straight into mine. A shiver ran down my spine as it led out a high-pitched wail that echoed through the trees, a sound so chilling it seemed to freeze the very air. My hand trembled as I raised my rifle, the weight of it both a comfort and a curse. But before I could steady my aim, the crawler vanished, disappearing into the woods, as quickly as it had appeared. It moved with a horrifying grace, leaving only the rustling of leaves and a lingering sense of dread. I lowered my rifle, my heart pounding in my ears. I was both relieved and disappointed. Part of me had wanted to end it, to rid the woods of this nightmare,

but another part feared what killing it might bring. The encounter left me shaken, but it also sparked a realization. This creature, as terrifying as it was, belonged to these woods. It wasn't some supernatural being. It was a part of the ecosystem here, as natural as the trees and the streams. It was a predator, albeit a strange and frightening one. My abysm. My abysal the obsession began to wane after that. I still went to the woods, but less often, and not with the same purpose. I removed the cameras and stopped looking for the crawler. It seemed pointless, chasing shadows that refused to be caught. Nowadays, I don't talk about the crawler much. It feels like a chapter of my life that's closed, a strange, dark tale that's best left in the

past. But sometimes, when the night is still and the forest whispers, I think about it. I wonder if it's still out there, moving through the trees, a ghostly presence in the twilight. I know what I saw was real, at least to me. It's a part of those woods, and now a part of me. Sometimes I even miss the thrill of the hunt, the mystery, but mostly I'm content to let the woods keep their secrets, as they've always done. I had a friend named Felix. A few years back, we had a sleepover together and something happened. Our parents are great friends, so they agreed for us to have a sleepover at his place. However, when I told my other friends, they were a bit skeptical, as I'm a girl and Felix is a boy. We were 13 years old and we never had those

kinds of intentions. His parents were gone, and it was only us, his older brother and his brother's friend, who were both 17 at the time. His older brother, Bastion, and Bastion's friend Lucas were told to watch us, so we didn't get up to no good. Looking back now, we definitely weren't the reason all this happened. Now, Felix and Bastion's place was fairly big. It was two stories tall and had a basement below that. The place was also surrounded by woods. The bedroom we stayed in was on the highest floor. It was actually Bastion's room, as Felix's room was in the basement, and I simply refused to sleep down there as I hated basements. You never know what lurks in the dark. Hey Finn, do you like Fast and Furious? Lucas asked after we were all settled on the bed.

and had two air mattresses on the floor for me and Felix. Lucas never called me by my full first with an emotional name. He said he thought Finn was cuter. Yeah, I do, I answered. Yeah, Lucas yelled, and I don't think I ever saw someone put on a movie so fast. One movie later, Bastion mentioned he was hungry. He said he would order something to eat and asked what we wanted. Can we have pizza?

A half-asleep Felix asked as he rubbed his eyes. Sure thing, Sleeping Beauty, Bastion chuckled. A few minutes later, he finished his order and told us that he and Lucas would be driving to go get the pizza. All right, you two. You know the drill. Don't open the door to strangers. Don't burn down the house. Blah, blah, blah. Lucas babbled as they walked out of the room. Hey, Finn, Felix said next to me in a very tired voice. Can you stay awake while I take a nap? That basically meant, can you keep guard while I sleep because I'm scared something. something will happen.

Yeah, sure, I answered, and soon I heard lights snoring next to me. So I put on a TV show and relaxed. Normally it would take around an hour and a half for the guys to get to the pizza place and come back altogether, so I was surprised when I began to hear knocking from the entryway door. From the room window, you could see the front door. I was just about to go downstairs to open the door, but then realized one thing. The boys had a key.

they would not have to knock. I then heard a voice that didn't sound quite like Lucas, but it tried to be. Finn opened the door. It couldn't be him. He never called me by my full first name, not even when he was angry. I froze and held my breath. The only things that could be heard then were Felix's light snoring and someone outside calling to me. Come on, it's me. It's Lucas.

I felt scared, but also mad. I was scared for obvious reasons. but the anger was from the fact that someone was trying to imitate a good friend of mine. But then came a new voice, one that I didn't expect. Sweetheart, it's us. We've come to pick you up, my mother said. What in the world? I thought. I heard the voice come again, asking for me to open up the door, then the same request this time from the Lucas voice. Did that mean there were two entities outside, two people trying to break in, imitating my loved one's voices, but the voices were eerily similar.

Were they even human? Suddenly, I heard Felix waking up. I rushed back to him. He heard the voices then too. I covered his mouth quickly to quiet him down. I didn't want him to respond. He just looked at me with wide blue eyes, as if trying to ask me what the heck was going on. I put a finger to my mouth, motioning him to stay quiet.

And he nodded. I removed my hand, and he whispered, Who the heck is that? Why are they trying so hard to sound like Lucas and your mom? I replied, don't freak out. I don't know. Suddenly, we began to hear scratching at the door. I slowly, and I mean very slowly,

got up and walked over to the window. That's when I saw them, three figures at the front door. I could only see parts and silhouettes, as it was so dark, but the light being cast from the porch light helped a bit. They were all quite tall, and each of them had arms that seemed way too long for their bodies.

I couldn't see their faces, but they did appear to have not eaten for some time. They just looked wrong, and they definitely weren't my mom or Lucas or Bastion. I was so terrified then and confused. I stood frozen there. Felix, call your brother right now, but be quiet, I whispered. He did as I did as I.

said, and I began to cautiously retreat to the bed where we had just been happily sitting and laughing only an hour ago. Felix, I heard Bastion's voice answer. He was completely unaware of what was going on at his own home. I mean, how could he know? I took the phone and whispered in a shaky voice. Bastion, there's someone or something outside. They're pretending to be Lucas and my mom. They're trying to get in. I was on the verge of tears. What? Finn, show me, he said. I stood up again and went to the window. I turned the camera and pointed it outside. I heard him gasp.

I turned back and sat next to Felix, who was under a blanket now. I got under it with him and began to cry quietly. Okay, listen. We're on the way home. We'll be there in 15 minutes. Stay quiet and keep the doors locked. After the longest 15 minutes of my life, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I then heard the door unlock,

and when I saw Bastion and Lucas, I was so happy. Bastion called his parents, telling them I'd had a panic attack. He lied, of course. We agreed it was probably best not to tell anyone what happened. At worst, we simply watched a scary movie and freaked ourselves out. But I know what we experienced. I don't think I'll ever forget those voices. I've been seeing, hearing, and feeling things since as far back as I can remember.

The earliest memory I have of something paranormal is my own imaginary friend. Growing up, I had my middle sister who's only two years younger than me, but as anyone with siblings knows, sometimes you both don't want to play outside or do what the other one is doing. So when that happened, I would play with my friend, a friend I called Mary. At first, my parents thought nothing of Mary, just that I had an active imagination, kids being kids. I would play cops and robbers, run through the woods, even have tea parties with Mary.

To me, she was just another kid who wanted a friend. One day in September 1998, my seven-year-old self decided I wanted to build a fort. Mary and I built a fort using mine and my sister's blankets, and even my mom and dad's blanket off their bed. It was huge, and I remember playing in there all day. Even my sister joined us at one point. Now, my sister couldn't see Mary. and a lot of times that fact upset me, but Mary would always tell me she was there

because she knew I needed her. I would smile and just keep playing, not thinking much of it. One night, not long after the fort, I was lying in bed. My sister and I shared a room at the time, so my twin bed was on one side of the window while hers was on the other.

From my bed, I could look into my parents' room, and if their bedroom door was open, I could see into the living room just past the front door. I remember being sleepy and closing my eyes after my dad read us a story. I don't know how long I slept before waking back up. I just remember waking up. It was late and still dark out. I lay there awake when I began to hear walking.

My mom was a night shift nurse at the time, so I first assumed she woke up to go to the bathroom or get some water, maybe even to get ready for work. I sat up to look when my breath caught in my throat. standing in my parents' doorway was a tall misty figure. It looked feminine, but I couldn't see the face, only an outline. I lay back down, threw my blanket over my head like any kid, and began to cry quietly. A few days before, when I'd built my fort, I had accidentally put a hole in my blanket,

so I shifted myself under my blanket so I could look at the figure without having to uncover my head. I saw the misty figure beginning to float towards my parents' bed, where I knew my dad was sleeping. It then knelt next to him. The figure stayed there for a long time, not making any sounds, just kind of hovering next to my dad. When it finally stood up,

the figure floated into my room, going between mine and my sister's beds, before disappearing into the wall next to mine. I remember crying and wanting to get up, and Mary was next to me. She got in my bed and told me we should rest, that she would be there for me when I needed her. I woke up the next morning telling my dad and mom everything, even my grandma.

While my mother, who was skeptical, brushed it off, my grandma and dad searched the house. Then my grandma asked me to describe Mary to her. I told her my friend was an African-American girl close to my age. Her hair was braided in two pigtails, and her clothes were kind of weird, like an old flower sack. I said that she had a mark over her right eye, like a scar I got when I fell off my bike. My grandma looked at me, and I swear I thought she was going to cry. My dad looked at my grandma and asked if she was okay. My grandma wouldn't tell me then, but later in life,

she would explain to me that the description I gave her was the same as her friend who had gotten killed while they were playing in the woods when my grandma was just a little girl. The figure I saw, nobody understood what it was, until one day in late October of the same year. My sister and I left for school, telling my dad and my mom goodbye. My mom was heading off to work, and my dad was off for the day, so he lay back down to take a nap after we got on the bus. But that would be the last time I ever spoke to my dad.

He passed away in his sleep that day, and when I got home from school, everyone was at my house. I didn't understand at first, until I saw Mary in my room, and I asked her what happened. She told me that my dad was in a better place, that she would stay with me until I no longer needed her. After this experience, I would have vivid dreams. I dreamed of people passing away before they passed away. Two years after this, in May of 2001, I had a dream about my papa, my dad's dad, and he passed away shortly after. Once I turned 11 or so, I stopped seeing Mary, but I still to this day have to be. these dreams. The most recent one was about my uncle and my boyfriend's mom back in 2022. I even

dreamt of losing my child before I ever found out I was pregnant. I'm not sure if it's just coincidence, or maybe I have a gift or curse, but sometimes the dreams I have are not pleasant, nor are they nice. Sometimes I don't want to keep dreaming. Either way, I guess I feel haunted sometimes because the shadows and figures I see in my dreams have started to show up while I'm awake. Has anyone else ever dealt with something like this? Honestly, I really just want some clarification or answers. Is something wrong with me? I had an encounter in February 2007.

I used to work the third shift at a paper stock factory warehouse. The primary day shift supervisor was on vacation, so our boss on the night shift decided she wanted to leave early. She let us sneak off about two hours earlier than our average shift time, which would end somewhere between 4.30 and 5 a.m. I was following a co-worker down a county road as the warehouse was on the outskirts of my small rural town. I noticed he hit his brakes and proceeded to swerve off the road. I was probably about a thousand feet behind him, and I thought to myself,

What the heck is this dude doing? And that's when I saw it. I saw a tall, dark figure walking down the middle of the road, hunched over and swaying from side to side. It moved in an unnatural way, similar to one of those tall, inflatable figures you see swaying at a car dealership. It's hard to describe accurately, but it's something that would make more sense if you saw it for yourself. I saw what looked like a tall person wrapped in a large dark blanket or cloak. I had to hit the brakes and swerve, but I stopped completely. I couldn't make out any features or characteristics. I saw a large torso with two legs. The upper half was

hunched forward, leaning like an older person would if they had a walker or something to assist them. At the time, I was driving a 1998 Ford Explorer, and I looked up the vehicle's height. It's listed as about 67 inches, but whatever walked past my driver's window that day was a good foot or so higher than that, leaning forward. So I believe whatever was walking was over seven feet tall at a minimum. I couldn't see its head or arms, just a figure with legs walking. My taillights illuminated it as I started to drive past it. I couldn't give you any real definite details about the body. I didn't see fur, skin, or anything like that. It was solid, not like a translucent type of thing. It was enormous, thick, black, and maybe very dark gray. My co-worker had pulled into a

parking lot a few miles down the road, and I followed him in. You could tell that he was scared. He said something like, what the heck was that? It didn't look like it had a head, among many other things most panicked people would say. We decided to drive back down and see if it was still there. I went in front, and he followed behind me. We approached him. We approached him. the general area and I noticed a large black animal lying in the middle of the road. It appeared to be a big black dog. Part of me knew it wasn't large enough to be what it was before, but I was still too scared to stop because it was in the middle of the roadway. I didn't really have a choice though. I decided to get out and walk up to it, all the while my coworker was yelling at me to get back in my car.

As I approached whatever it was lying in the road, it raised its head and looked back at me. me. Its eyes glowing yellow, which I write off as eye shine from the headlights, but it growled at me, so I stopped dead in my tracks and just started watching it. This thing stands up on its back legs like a person would, but it falls back down. It sits back up and hobbles off to the side of the road like a wounded animal that couldn't use its front legs. It almost looked like your typical German Shepherd slash wolf-type face, but its fur was puffy like a chow dog. It was a lot bigger than most dogs I've ever seen, but still nowhere as tall as whatever was walking down the road before. I didn't see any blood or wounds, so I can't say if it was actually

hurt or not. We got back in our car and drove off. Honestly, I'm pretty traumatized, and I've been doing my best to rationalize this experience. The thing that doesn't make any sense, though, is what was going on and what did I stumble upon? Did I find another creature attacking one? Did I see something that got hit by a car, and maybe the other creature was checking it out? I don't know. What are your thoughts? I've always found solace in the wilderness, the isolation, the raw beauty, the sense of purpose that comes with planting new life in the ground. It all feeds a part of me that the modern world seems intent on starving. So when I got the assignment to plant trees, near Smithers British Columbia, I didn't hesitate. The remote location, about an hour and a half

into the mountains on dirt roads, was exactly the kind of challenge I craved. The journey was grueling, but I welcomed it. My old truck groaned and shuddered over the rough terrain, each jolt reminding me of the toughness required to do this job. The road snaked through dense forest, occasionally offering glimpses of the towering peaks that surrounded me. The air was crisp and clean. a welcome change from the smog-choked cities I usually found myself in. As I drove deeper into the wilderness, a sense of anticipation began to build. There's a unique thrill in knowing you're about to be completely alone with nature. No cell service, no distractions, just me and the trees.

By the time I reached the campsite, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows through the forest. The standing dead trees, skeletal and silent, created an evening, eerie but oddly comforting backdrop. Setting up camp was second nature to me. I pitched my tent near a cluster of these dead trees, their creaks and groans, a familiar symphony I had come to associate with nights in the forest. As darkness fell, I made a small fire, its warmth and light pushing back the encroaching night.

I ate a simple meal and settled into my tent, the sounds of the forest lulling me into a sense of security. That first night I slept soundly. The creaking of the trees, the rustling of leaves, even the occasional call of an owl. All these sounds were like a lullaby. The next day, I threw myself into my work, planting saplings with a vigor that left me exhausted but satisfied by evening. It was hard physical labor, but it was honest work that left a tangible mark on the world. The second night, however, something changed. As I lay in my tent, I noticed a profound silence settling over the forest.

The usual creaks and rustles had ceased, replaced by a heavy stillness that felt unnatural. I told myself it was just my imagination, the fatigue playing tricks on me. But the silence persisted, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket. Then faintly at first, I heard it, the sound of sticks cracking underfoot, distant but unmistakable. My pulse quickened as the sound grew louder, closer, footsteps, deliberate and heavy, advancing through the forest. My mind raced. Could it be a bear? A cougar. The footsteps stopped, no more than 15 feet from my tent. The silence that followed was deafening. I knew I had to do something. My heart pounded in my chest as I summoned the courage to yell out, hoping to scare away

whatever was out there. My voice echoed through the trees, a stark contrast to the surrounding silence. But no reply came, no sound of retreat. no rustling of leaves, just silence. I sat there, paralyzed by fear, trying to rationalize what had just happened. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the silence pressing in on me. Then, out of nowhere, a sound unlike any I had ever heard filled the air. It was a creek, but not like the usual creeks of the trees. This sound was drawn out, a single note held for an unnervingly long time. It felt like a mimicry, something trying to imitate the natural sounds of the forest, but failing in a way that sent chills down my spine. I barely slept that night,

my mind racing with questions and fears. What was out there? Why was it mimicking the trees? The next day, the exhaustion was palpable. Every step on my hike weighed down by the sleepless night. I tried to push the memory away, to focus on the work at hand, but the unease lingered, a dark shadow on the edge of my thoughts. The unease from the night before stayed with me like a shadow I couldn't shake. As I worked through the day, planting saplings one by one,

my mind kept drifting back to the sound, the mimicry that had chilled me to the bone. I told myself it had to be something explainable, something rational. But every time I tried to settle on an answer, it slipped through my fingers like smoke. That night, the forest seemed even more oppressive, The usual sounds of the wilderness felt muted, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

I forced myself to go through the motions, dinner by the campfire, a quick check of my equipment, then into the tent, but the routine offered little comfort. Lying in my sleeping bag, I listened intently. At first, all I could hear was my own breathing, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone trying to convince himself he wasn't scared. But soon enough, the silence began to fray. Fain at first, then louder, came the unmistakable sound of sticks cracking underfoot. The footsteps were back, slow, deliberate, almost cautious, as if whatever was out there knew I was

listening. Each step seemed to echo in the stillness, amplifying the growing dread in my chest. I lay perfectly still, my ears straining to pick up any detail, any clue as to what was stalking my camp. The footsteps stopped, closer this time, no more than ten feet from my chest. my tent. My heart pounded so hard I was sure it would give me away. I knew I had to act, to do something to break the tension. Summoning all the courage I had left, I shouted into the darkness, my voice raw and desperate. Get out of here. The echo of my shout faded, swallowed by the forest. For a moment there was nothing but silence, thick and impenetrable. Then, just as I started to hope that maybe it had worked, I heard it. That same unknown.

natural creek. The sound was almost identical to the night before, but this time it felt more deliberate, more menacing. It held the same note, a drawn-out groan that seemed to vibrate through my bones. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. A bear, a cougar. Nothing in the forest should be able to make a sound like that. It was as if something was trying to mimic the trees, to blend in, but with an eerie, almost mocking tone. I lay there, paris. paralyzed by fear, every muscle in my body tensed. The sound came again, closer this time, as if whatever it was knew I was listening, knew it had my full attention. It felt personal, like a predator playing with its prey. Minutes dragged on, each one in eternity. I wanted to flee,

to run as fast as I could, but the rational part of my mind told me it was safer to stay put, to wade it out. Eventually, the mimicry stopped, leaving a ringing silence. in its wake. The rest of the night passed in a haze of sleepless terror. Every rustle, every creek, sent my heart racing. I clung to the hope that daylight would bring some clarity, some answer to the nightmare I was living. When dawn finally broke, the forest seemed almost peaceful again. The horrors of the night relegated to shadows. But the unease remained, gnawing at me. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting. As I packed up my camp, I knew I couldn't ignore what had happened.

This was more than just a strange noise in the night. It was a mystery, a threat, something that demanded answers. And as I drove back down the dirt roads, the oppressive silence of the forest lingered in my mind, a constant reminder that I had only just begun to uncover the truth behind the mimic in the woods. When I was younger, I preferred to spend time at my great-grandmother's house rather than my own. Being right next door, my grandmother would often let me spend the night with my great-grandparents to get me out of her hair. My grandparents had their own bedroom on one end of the house, and on the other end was the room in which I slept whenever I visited. This bedroom was big to a six- or seven-year-old, with a large bed that had sliding-glass door cabinets for a headboard and two large windows.

one of which had a crate of toys for it mostly building blocks and the like that faced the side yard which had several young pine trees the other window faced the large barn out back that housed their camper and all manners of other things Before I continue, I ought to mention that I'm a quarter Native American. My mother was adopted by a family whose heritage was distinctly French. While my grandmother wanted my mother and me to have nothing to do with our heritage, my great-grandmother embraced it but never kept it from us and even taught us a little bit about it. Me far less than my mother, since I was way too young to understand much before she passed. One night, when I was sleeping over at my great-grandma's house, I woke up when the motion-detecting floodlight on the barn out the back turned on.

The room was flooded with light, and I could see everything was clear. Unable to go back to sleep, I got up and decided to play with the blocks until the floodlight went out, and I could go back to sleep. For some reason, I felt the strange urge to look out the window into the side yard, so I climbed up on the crate under the window and peered out. There, in the side yard, was a man. He was in his late teens, 17 to 19, with neatly cut straight black hair nearly ear length.

He wasn't dark-skinned, but he wasn't white either. He wore what looked like tan Carhart overalls and appeared to be examining a young pine tree not 15 feet from the window. The tree wasn't very tall, maybe eight or nine feet, but the young man was carefully moving the bottom branches this way and that as if looking for something. I watched him for a minute or two, simply observing. I didn't feel frightened. rather I was curious.

Then the young man lifted his head and looked around. When he saw me, the strangest thing happened. He looked startled, almost terrified. His eyes widened so far that I could make out their whites in the low light. There's no other way to explain what occurred after that other than the crazy-sounding one. He turned into a deer and bolted away into the darkness. He simply turned to his left, dropped to all fours, and was a deer by the time that he would have his hands on the ground. He ran off beyond the barn where I couldn't see. I don't remember the

conversation I had with my grandmother about this in the morning, only that she seemed upset and was tight-lipped and that she and my great-grandfather went out to look for that exact tree later that day. They didn't find anything, and my grandfather didn't want to hear about it anymore, so I shrugged it off. Years later, I would learn what skin walkers are. I would think back to the young man and how he could have been a skinwalker, how his overalls could have been deer skin. I would also think that my experience didn't line up with other skinwalker encounters. I didn't feel any fear. I didn't notice a stench, and no one called my name. Also, the young man seemed to be afraid of me. Then again, I suppose if I were looking for something and I saw a small

child staring at me at a window, I'd probably be pretty freaked out too. As time went on, I had for the most part convinced myself that I had just happened to witness a teen boy hunting illegally on our property and my startling him startled the deer he was after, and my child brain just processed it strangely. That is, until I decided to bring up the concept of Skinwalkers to my mother. I had told her about what I could have possibly seen one day when I was a child, when she said, oh, you saw the birdman too, huh? My belief that I misremembered a teen boy hunting shattered. She wouldn't say much about it when I seemed confused, simply stating,

Oh, there was an old balding man who would dance around the roof with his belt made of feathers. And when I would go out there to yell at him for being so loud, he'd smile at me and fly off like a bird. I'm 16, and live in the western United States. I've been involved in rodeo for as long as I can remember. This story took place late last winter. My brother, our close friend T. and I had gotten permission to use the arena at a local reservation to practice roping. We arrived early in the morning, eager to make the most of our day. As soon as we got there, I noticed something was off. All of our horses seemed unusually on edge.

My brother's horse and T's horse are usually calm and don't spook easily. My mare, on the other hand, is always a handful. She panics at the littlest things. That day, she was particularly jittery. We figured the horses just needed to get used to their new surroundings. We spent most of the day throwing ropes and chasing cattle. The horses seemed to settle down a bit, and we started to relax. By afternoon, we decided to take a break and explore a trail that led down to a nearby river. The idea was to let the horses drink and give ourselves a bit of a rest. As we approached the river, a foul smell hit us. It was like a rotting dead animal. The closer we got, the worst it became. The horses tensed up again. My mayor flat out refused to go any further.

Frustrated and tired, we decided to call it a day. It was too late to load up our gear and horses and take them back, so we opted to leave them there for the night and stay at Tease place, which was closer. We prepared the stalls, fed and watered the horses, and headed to T's family friend's house for dinner. The evening was a welcome distraction. We laughed, played pool, and enjoyed a good meal. By the time nine o'clock rolled around, we were ready for bed, but I wanted to check on the horses one last time. When I mentioned this to Tee, his family friend warned us not to go there alone at night. Tea offered to drive down with me, respecting the warning. The road was icy, so we had to drive slowly. As we neared the bridge over the river, a feeling of dread

hit me. I looked out the window and saw glowing yellow eyes staring back at me from the darkness. The light wasn't enough to make them glow the way they did. I felt something was very wrong. T turned to me and asked, Do you smell something bad, or is it just me? I hadn't noticed the smell until she mentioned it. When I didn't respond, she looked at me, then followed my gaze to the yellow-eyed glare.

We were both terrified. The creature looked like it was at least eight feet tall. There are no animals that large around here. I finally snapped out of it and hit the gas. The truck slid on the ice but caught traction and we made our way back to the arena. When we pulled up, the headlights hit the horses. My mayor hadn't touched her food, which was odd because she usually eats more than her fair share. The other two hadn't eaten either.

Too scared and cold to investigate further, we got back in the truck and drove back to T's house without incident. We arrived around 11 p.m. and fell asleep almost immediately. But in the middle of the night, my brother woke me up, shaking my arm. He pointed to the window where we heard tapping and occasional scratching. It was 3 a.m. I tried to calm him down, saying it was probably nothing. But I knew deep down it was that thing from the bridge. I didn't sleep the rest of the night, and as soon as the sun was up, I woke tea and my brother to get our horses and leave.

The sun finally rose, and I was still wide awake. The sense of dread from the night before hadn't left me. I woke up T and my brother, explaining that we needed to get to the horses as soon as possible. We quickly got ready and grabbed some coffee, needing the caffeine after the sleepless night. Before we left, T and I decided to check outside the window where we had heard the tapping and scratching. Sure enough, there were tracks in the snow. They looked like deer hooves, but were different. The tracks were spaced too far apart, as a lot of the tracks.

if whatever made them was walking on two legs instead of four. This spooked us even more, and we hurried back inside to tell my brother. We didn't waste any more time. We jumped in the truck and headed back to the reservation. The drive felt longer than usual, the tension in the air making every minute drag. None of us spoke much. We were all too anxious about what we might find. When we got to the arena, the horses were still in their stalls. They hadn't touched their food or water, just like last night. This was completely out of character, especially for my mayor. She usually ate everything in sight. Something had definitely scared them. We quickly loaded up the horses, eager to get out of there. As we finished, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. We drove off,

the atmosphere in the truck heavy with fear and uncertainty. As we approached the bridge over the river, I felt my heart start to race. I couldn't help but look into the tree line. hoping not to see anything. But there it was, a massive buck. It was larger than any deer I'd ever seen, with skin hanging loosely from its bones. Its legs were bent in unnatural ways, making it look like a twisted, nightmarish creature.

And then I saw its eyes, those same terrifying yellow eyes from the night before. The buck seemed to be staring right at me, and I felt a chill run down my spine. It looks sickly and unnatural, like something out of a horror. movie, but the worst part was its smile. It had a sickening grin, with yellow pointed teeth. I couldn't look away, feeling like it was trying to pull me in with its gaze. I snapped out of it

and quickly looked away, telling T and my brother what I had seen. They glanced out the window, their faces paling when they saw the creature. None of us could understand what it was, or why it was following us. We sped up, desperate to get away. The rest of the drive was a blur, my mind racing with questions and fears. What was that thing? Why was it here? And what did it want with us? When we finally got home, we unloaded the horses and made sure they were safe and comfortable.

I felt a little better knowing they were out of that place, but the sense of unease still lingered. I couldn't shake the feeling that we hadn't seen the last of that creature. Over the next few days, I tried to go back to my normal routine, but it was a little bit of was hard. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those yellow eyes and that horrible grin. I knew we had encountered something beyond our understanding, something that would haunt me for a long time. And I couldn't help but wonder if it was still out there, watching and waiting. I still remember that October night vividly, even though it's been a few years. My best friend Jake and I were

16, and hunting was our thing. Growing up in Texas, it was a pretty common hobby. But for us, it was more than that. It was an adventure. We spent countless evenings perched in our hunting stand, rifles ready, waiting for wild hogs to wander into our sights. Jake's yard was massive, sprawling across four acres with two ponds, one on the side of his house and another in the front. It was a beautiful place, especially in the fall,

when the air was crisp and the leaves were turning. But the hogs were a problem. They dug holes everywhere, tearing up the yard and up, brooding plants. Hunting them wasn't just for sport. It was necessary. That night we were sitting in the hunting stand Jake and his dad had built a few months back. It was sturdy and well placed, at the back left of the upper front pond, closest to the house. From our vantage point, we could see the feeder about 80 feet ahead, set in a clearing at the very back of the yard. We were hoping for a successful night. It was around 10 p.m. when we settled in. The night was still. With the

only the occasional rustle of leaves or distant croak of a frog breaking the silence. We had our rifles equipped with infrared flashlights. The beams shone red, invisible to most animals, which made it easier to spot our targets without startling them. We sat quietly, scanning the clearing, our breath visible in the cool night air. Suddenly we noticed movement. At first we thought it was a deer. The shape was unmistakable, a graceful figure stepping cautiously.

into the open. We were excited but knew we couldn't shoot. It wasn't deer season, and we didn't want to break the law. But something about this deer felt off. It stood there, not moving, just staring in our direction. Jake and I exchanged uneasy glances. What's it doing? I whispered. Jake shrugged, his eyes never leaving the creature. We waited for it to pass, hoping it would move on so we could focus on the hogs, but it didn't. Instead, it kept looking at us, almost like it was fixated on us. My heart began to race. Then the unthinkable happened. The deer stood up on its hind legs. For a moment, we were too stunned to react. It was as if time had stopped. Then Jake and I started yelling, unable to contain our fear. That wasn't a good idea. The creature let out a screech,

a sound so unnatural it made my skin crawl. It was metallic, like nails on a chalkboard, mixed with the grinding of gears. My hair stood on end as the thing started sprinting toward us in a zigzag pattern. I barely had time to think. Instinct took over, and I raised my rifle, firing twice. One of the shots hit it, and it fell on its back. In that brief moment, everything seemed to slow down, and I got a good look at it. It wasn't a deer. It was something else entirely. The creature was pure gray, extremely skinny, with a rack of antlers on its head. Its eyes were dark, almost empty. When it got its bearings, it scrambled to its feet and high-tailed it back into the woods, screeching that horrible metallic noise again.

Jake and I sat there frozen, trying to process what had just happened. My mind raced with questions. What was that thing? How could something so terrifying exist? I didn't have any answers. I didn't have any answers then, and to this day I'm still not sure. But one thing was certain. I wasn't going back into that yard after dark ever again. The drive back to Jake's house was a blur. My hands were shaking so much I could barely grip the steering wheel. When we finally pulled into the driveway, we sat in the truck, trying to catch our breath. Neither of us spoke. It was like we were both trying to make sense of what just happened. Eventually, Jake broke the silence. What the hell was that man?

His voice was barely above a whisper, still tinged with fear. I don't know, I replied, my own voice shaky. It wasn't any animal I've ever seen. We stumbled out of the truck and hurried inside, slamming the door behind us. Jake's parents were already asleep, so we crept upstairs to his room. Once there, we finally let ourselves talk about it. I thought it was a deer, Jake said, pacing the room. But it stood up like a person, and that screech, it was like something out of a

nightmare. I nodded, my mind replaying the moment over and over. And its eyes, Jake, did you see its eyes? They were so dark. It was like they were empty. We spent hours talking, trying to piece together every detail. The more we talked, the more real it became, and the more scared we felt. What if it came back? What if it was still out there, watching us? The thought sent chills down my spine. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and we fell asleep. But even in sleep, I couldn't escape it.

My dreams were haunted by the creature's metallic screech and those empty dark eyes. The next morning, we were both exhausted but determined to find out more. Jake suggested we checked the spot where I had shot it, so after a quick breakfast, we grabbed our gear and headed back to the hunting stand. As we approached the clearing, my heart pounded in my chest. I didn't know what we'd find, blood, tracks, or worse, the creature itself, but we had to know. When we reached the spot, we found blood on the ground. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to confirm that I had hit it.

There were also strange tracks leading back into the woods, unlike any animal tracks we had seen. They were long and narrow, almost like a person's footprints, but with claw marks. We followed the tracks a little way into the woods, but soon lost them. The forest was dense, and it felt like the trees were closing in on us. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made us jump. We decided to turn back before we got too deep. Back at the house, we researched everything we could think of, folklore, cryptids, paranormal encounters. We read about creatures, like the Wendigo and the Skinwalker, but nothing seemed to match exactly what we had seen. The lack of answers only made it worse. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

Days turned into weeks, and the fear slowly started to fade, but it never really went away. Every time I was in Jake's yard, I couldn't help but look over my shoulder, half expecting to see those dark eyes staring back at me. We never saw the creature again, but the memory of that night stayed with us. It changed something in us. We weren't just two kids hunting in the Texas woods anymore. We had seen something that defied explanation, something that made us question everything we thought we knew.

Even now, years later, I still wonder what it was. Sometimes, when the night is quiet and the air is cool, I find myself back in that hunting stand, reliving the encounter. And every time, the fear is just as, real as it was that night. I've been a geocasher for over a decade. For those who don't know, geocashing is a real-world outdoor treasure hunting game using GPS-enabled devices. Participants navigate to a specific set of GPS coordinates and then attempt to find the geocash or container hidden at the location. The thrill of the hunt, the joy of discovering something hidden in plain

sight, and the camaraderie of fellow enthusiasts have kept me hooked. I lead a small group of professional geocashers. We're known for tackling the most challenging hides that stump even the most seasoned of pros. Our latest obsession was a hide called the devil's puzzle. It had a difficulty rating of five out of five, the highest possible. No one had logged a find since it was rumored to have been put up two years ago, and the cash owner had long since vanished from the community. Rumor had it that the coordinates led to an area of the woods notorious for its dark history of devil worship and human sacrifice. It was a cold gray morning when we set out.

My team consisted of Jim, a tech wizard with an uncanny knack for decoding even the most cryptic of clues. Sarah, whose sharp eyes missed nothing. And Mark, a local history buff who often provided crucial context about the areas we explored. We were ready for whatever the devil's puzzle could throw at us, or at least we thought so. The first coordinates led us to the edge of a dense forest locally known as the Dark Woods.

The stories about this place were the stuff of urban legend. In the 1800s it was said to be the site of old rituals and gruesome sacrifices. People claimed to have heard chanting and seen strange lights at night. As we approached, an uneasy feeling settled over us. The trees seemed to close in, their gnarled branches twisting like skeletal fingers. The cache description was vague but mentioned a series of waypoints, each puzzle leading to the next. The first clue was carved into an old, crumbling stone inside the tree line. Jim took out his equipment and began scanning it, while Sarah and Mark searched the

area for additional hints. The stone bore a series of numbers and symbols. After just a couple of minutes, Jim cracked the code, and we were off to the next waypoint. The deeper we ventured, the darker and colder it became. The trees grew denser, blocking out the sunlight. we reached the second waypoint, a small dilapidated cabin. Inside, the smell of decay was overwhelming. In one corner, we found a rusted metal box containing old photographs and scraps of paper with more symbols. Mark recognized the symbols used in old occult practices,

but their meaning alluded him. After hours of piecing together the clues, we deciphered the following coordinates. As we trekked further, we noticed a strange silence, There didn't seem to be any birds or rustling of leaves, just an oppressive stillness that lurked around every nook and cranny. The air grew thick, making it hard to breathe. Finally, we arrived at an old stone altar covered in moss and ivy.

It was eerily pristine compared to the surrounding decay. This was the final waypoint. There was a metal box on the altar, similar to the one in the cabin. It was locked, but Jim had come prepared. He quickly picked the lock, and we opened it to find a single yellowed piece of parchment. On it was a hand-drawn map leading to the final cache location deep in the heart of the woods. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me as we followed the map. The path led us to a clearing, at the center of which was a large stone circle similar to those used in ancient rituals.

In the center of the circle was a wooden box, intricately carved with strange symbols. We approached with caution, the air heavy with an unseen presence. When we opened the box, we found a small leather-bound journal. As I flipped through its pages, my hands began to tremble. The journal detailed the activities of a cult that had once operated in these very woods. It spoke of summoning rituals, human sacrifices, and a guardian bound to protect the Cash's secrets. The last entry was a warning. Those who seek this treasure will find only death.

Suddenly the air grew colder, and a low, guttural growl emanated from the darkness beyond the clearing. We froze. Sarah screamed as a shadowy figure emerged from the trees, its eyes glowing and unnatural red. We bolted, adrenaline fueling our escape. As we ran, I could hear them, whatever they were, crashing through the underbrush behind us. Their growls getting louder. We stumbled back to the cabin, barricading ourselves inside. The journal mentioned a way to banish the guardian, a ritual involving fire and the symbols we had seen.

Desperation fueled our actions as we recreated the symbols around the cabin and set fire to the journal. The air filled with an ear-splitting screech, and the ground shook violently. Then there was silence. We waited until dawn before daring to leave the cabin. The forest felt different, lighter somehow. We returned to civilization, our faces pale and our hearts heavy. The authorities dismissed our story as a collective hallucination brought on by stress and exhaustion, but we knew the truth.

The devil's puzzle had been solved, but at a significant cost. We vowed to never return to those woods, leaving the secrets of the past buried where they belonged. And though we continued to geocash, the thrill of the hunt was forever tainted by the memories of what we unleashed in those cursed woods. They always say curiosity killed the cat, but no one mentions what happens when curiosity gets the best of a human. My name is Lucas, and my curiosity nearly killed me, or perhaps something worse. I have always been fascinated by mysteries and eerie tales of the unexplained.

I was hooked when I first stumbled upon the lore of the missing four-werect. 1-1 cases, people disappearing without a trace in national parks, especially Yosemite. It was the perfect blend of intrigue and terror for my taste. In the spring of 2023, I decided to dig deeper into these mysteries. With my hiking gear, a sturdy tent, and enough provisions to last at least a week, I set out to uncover the secrets hidden within Yosemite National Park. The park's beauty is unparalleled, but beneath its serene surface, I felt an understanding unsettling tension that gnawed at my resolve.

Day one of my expedition was rather uneventful. I set up camp near the base of El Capitan, marveling at the sheer rock face towering above me. The day passed with nothing but the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves. However, as night fell, a heavy silence descended upon the forest. It was as if the entire park was holding its breath. Around midnight I awoke to the faint sound of a child's last. The sound was distant, almost ethereal.

My rational mind told me it was just the wind playing tricks, but a more profound primal part of me knew better. I sat up, listening intently. The laughter grew louder, then abruptly stopped, replaced by an oppressive silence. I didn't sleep well that night, to say the least. The next day, I hiked deeper into the wilderness, determined to reach an area with the most disappearances,

The deeper I went, the less the park resembled the idyllic place I had visited. The trees seemed older, more gnarled and twisted, as if shaped by unseen forces. The air felt thicker, charged with an inexplicable energy. Sometime around noon I stumbled upon an old, dilapidated cabin, half hidden by the underbrush. My heart raced as I approached it, the door creaking ominously as I pushed it open. Inside the cabin was an absolute shambles, as if abandoned in a hurry. Dust covered the furniture, and everything lay scattered about. The stove in the corner looked like it hadn't been touched in many years,

but what caught my eye the most was a diary lying on the table, its pages yellowed with age and grime. The diary belonged to someone named Henry, who had written about his solo hike in Yosemite in the early 1980s. His entries started rather normally, detailing his love for nature and peace in the wilderness. But as the days went by, his entries grew darker. He spoke of strange lights in the woods,

whispers that seemed to follow him, and shadows that moved independently. His final entry sent chills down my spine. They're watching me. They know I can see them. I don't think I'll make it out. If anyone finds this, beware the shadows. They're not what they seem.

As I read those words, a cold dread washed over my body. I decided to leave the cabin and continue my hike, but a nagging fear had taken root. As the day wore on, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The forest seemed to close in around me, the trees whispering secrets I couldn't quite understand. That night, I made camp near a small clearing. I was too unnerved to sleep,

so I sat by the fire, clutching my flashlight. The forest around me was deathly quiet. The sound of the crackling fire was all I could hear. Around midnight, I heard it again. A child's laughter, closer this time. My blood ran cold as I saw a figure standing at the edge of the clearing. It was a child, or at least it looked like one, but there was something wrong, something off about its features.

Its eyes were too large, reflecting the firelight like a cat's. It just watched me with an unsettling intensity. I called out to it, but it didn't respond. Instead, it turned and walked back into the forest, vanishing into the shadows. I didn't sleep at all that night. How could I? As dawn broke, I packed up and continued my hike, hoping to put as much distance between myself and that clearing as humanly possible. But no matter how far I went, I couldn't escape the feeling of being watched.

On the fourth day, I reached a remote. remote area called Tenaya Canyon, which locals called the Bermuda Triangle of Yosemite. The area had an eerie beauty, but was filled with foreboding. Too exhausted to go further, I set up camp by the river. As night fell, the atmosphere grew heavy with tension. I built a fire and sat close by it to feel safe, my flashlight within reach the entire time. Somewhere around midnight, the forest came alive with strange noises. Whispers echoed through the tree. trees, and shadowy figures darted just beyond the firelight. My heart pounded as I saw the child again, standing at the edge of the clearing. This time, I didn't think it was alone.

More figures emerged from the shadows, their eyes reflecting the firelight. They surrounded me, their whispers growing louder. Panic set in, and I grabbed my flashlight shining it at the figures. They recoiled, but didn't disappear. Panic still deep within my veins. their whispers filled my mind, incomprehensible yet maddeningly persistent. Desperation took over, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ran. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted into the forest, not caring where I was going or where I would end up. The whispers followed me, growing louder and more insistent. The forest seemed to twist and turn around me, the trees closing in. I stumbled over roots and branches, my heart pounding as I desperately

tried to find my way out. After what felt like hours, I stumbled into a clearing and collapsed, gasping for breath. The whispers were finally gone, replaced by an eerie silence once more. I looked around, realizing I had no idea where I was. My GPS was useless, showing only static. Exhausted and absolutely terrified to my core, I set up a makeshift camp and waited for dawn. When morning finally came, I found my way back to a familiar trail. The experience had shaken me so much that I didn't really think I was thinking straight until I finally found civilization. The oppressive feeling gradually lifted as I neared the park's edge.

Back in the safety of my home, I tried to make sense of what had happened. The diary, the child, the whispers, all pointed to something beyond my understanding. I reported my experience to the park rangers who dismissed it as stress and an overactive imagination. But I know what I saw, and I know how I felt. There is something strange in Yosemite National Park, something that watches, something that waits, the missing people, the unexplained disappearances,

they're not just accidents, there's a presence in those woods, something ancient and evil. So if you ever find yourself in Yosemite, be very wary of the shadows. They're not just the absence of light, there's something more that might swallow you. In 2004, my family and I packed up our lives in California and moved to a small town in Mexico. My parents said it was for personal reasons, but to me, it felt like leaving everything I knew behind. Our new home was in a town where my parents grew up, a place that felt like a different world to me. The house was old and unfinished, with a second floor that was just a skeleton of what it was supposed to be.

We all squeezed into the ground floor, which had a living room with a big plastic skylight over the stairs leading up to the second floor. My parents were busy trying to settle in, and I was trying to figure out how to fit into this new life. At first, I was pretty lonely. But soon, I started hanging out with my cousins who lived nearby. They were around my age, and we quickly became close. We began having sleepovers, which made things a lot more fun. Our favorite spot was the living room, right under that big skylight. We'd spread out blankets and sleep next to each other,

telling stories and playing games until we fell asleep. One morning, after a few sleepovers at my place, my cousin Javier brought up something weird. Hey, do you ever hear strange noises at night? He asked me while we were eating breakfast. I looked at him, not really understanding what he meant. What kind of noises? I asked.

Curious, but also a bit skeptical. Like tapping sounds on the roof, but not like birds. It's different, he said, his face serious. I shrugged it off. It's probably just birds. They land on the skylight all the time. You can see their feet during the day, I replied, trying to keep things light. Javier shook his head.

No, I've seen the birds. This is different. It sounds like tiny footsteps, like someone running. I laughed, trying to scare him a bit. Maybe it's a little ghost, I shouted, and Javier burst out laughing too. But deep down I was a bit uneasy. We had been living in the house for a few months, and I hadn't noticed anything strange. I didn't believe in ghosts or anything paranormal, but his serious expression made me wonder if there was something more to it.

A few nights later, curiosity got the better of it. us. We decided to check it out. We grabbed a ladder from the shed and climbed up to the roof. The town's dirt roads meant that a layer of dust covered everything, including our roof. When we got up there, I couldn't believe what I saw. There were tiny footprints in the dirt, smaller than my pinky finger. They circled around the skylight like something had been walking in circles. See, I told you, Javier whispered, his eyes wide with excitement. and fear. There's no way I made these. We've been inside the whole time. I put my hand next to one of the footprints, feeling a chill run down my spine. They were definitely not ours, and they didn't look

like any animal prints I'd ever seen. The thought of something or someone running around on our roof at night freaked me out. We climbed down quickly, my mind racing with questions. That night I told my mom about what we found. She didn't believe us, of course. It's probably just some kids playing a prank, she said, waving it off. There's no such thing as ghosts. I wanted to prove it to her, but without a camera or any way to document the footprints, I felt stuck. We had no way of capturing what we saw. All I could do was lie awake at night, listening for those tiny footsteps, and wondering what was really out there, just beyond the skylight. The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about those tiny footprints.

Javier and I talked about it constantly, trying to figure out what could have made them. We knew it wasn't us, and it definitely wasn't birds. But what else could it be? Javier was convinced it was something supernatural. He wouldn't stop talking about ghosts and other creepy things he'd heard about from our grandparents. One evening we decided we had to investigate further.

We waited until nightfall, hoping to catch whatever it was in the act. We set up our blankets in the living room like usual, but this time we stayed awake listening. Every creek of the house, every rustle outside made my heart race. Around midnight we heard it, the faintest sound of tiny footsteps tapping above us.

There it is, Javier whispered, eyes wide with excitement. Did you hear that? I nodded, feeling a mix of fear and curiosity. We grabbed the flashlight and the latter, and quietly made our way outside. Climbing up to the roof in the dark was a lot scarier than doing it during the day.

My hands were shaking as I gripped the ladder, but I was determined to find out what was making those noises. When we got up to the roof, the tiny footprints were there again, circling the skylight just like before. This time, we followed them as far as we could, but they seemed to just disappear off the edge of the roof. It was like whatever was making them had simply vanished into things.

simply vanished into thin air. How can this be happening? I whispered more to myself than to Javier. It's like something out of a horror movie. Javier nodded, looking around nervously. We have to find a way to prove this. Maybe we can set up a trap or something. We spent the next few days planning.

We didn't have much to work with. No cameras or fancy equipment. But we were determined. We borrowed an old tape recorder from my dad's study, hoping to catch the sound of the footsteps. We also spread flower around the skylight, hoping it would help us see the footprints more clearly. The first few nights nothing happened.

We stayed up late, listening and watching, but the tiny footsteps didn't come back. Just when we were starting to think it was over, we heard them again. This time, the tape recorder picked up the faint, rhythmic tapping, and the flower showed clear, tiny footprints circling the skylight. We couldn't believe it. We had proof. But now what? We showed the tape and the flower prints to my mom, but she still didn't believe us. You boys are just imagining things, she said, shaking her head. There's a logical explanation for all of this. Frustrated, we didn't know what else to do. We tried to think of other ways to catch whatever it was, but our options were limited.

As weeks passed, the footsteps became less frequent, and eventually they stopped altogether. It was almost like whatever had been visiting us had decided to move on. Years later, after we moved back to the United States, I came across stories about the Duende, tiny mythical creatures known for their mischief. I couldn't help but think about those tiny footprints and the eerie footsteps on the roof. Could it have been a Duende? It seemed crazy, but after everything we'd seen and heard, it was the only explanation that made any sense.

Even now, I sometimes lie awake at night, remembering those strange sounds and the tiny footprints in the dust. I still don't have all the answers, but I know one thing for sure. Those nights in Mexico were something I'll never forget. My name is Ryan, and I'm going to tell you about some strange things that have happened to me and my friends, things that are hard to explain and even harder to believe. Our story begins in southern Ohio, right at the edge of Perry State Forest. where I've lived my whole life.

My house, along with my grandpaws, my aunt and uncles, and a few other relatives, all sit on a large hill overlooking the forest. Living so close to the woods, you'd think we'd be used to the sounds and sights of nature. But Perry State Forest isn't like other forests. It's wilder, almost like it has a life of its own. My aunt and uncle have a farm right here with goats and free-roaming chickens. It was pretty normal for us to wake up and find that a chicken or two had gone missing overnight. We all thought it was just the coyotes sneaking around, but that changed when we found something startling on our trail cams.

One morning, my uncle called us over in a rush, excitement and worry mixed in his voice. On the cam, clear as day, was a mountain lion, creeping through the underbrush. The thing is, mountain lions aren't supposed to be in Ohio. But there it was, a ghostly figure moving through our wild woods, and it looked like it had made itself right at home. Nighttime around here was always a bit creepy. We'd hear things like knocks on the walls, soft whispers that seemed to float on the wind, and sometimes the distant beat of drums as Halloween approached. Most of the time we could laugh it off, chalk it up to the wind, or just our imaginations running wild.

But when I was eight years old, something happened, that I couldn't just shrug away. It was late, way past my bedtime, when I fell asleep on the couch in our living room. The TV was still on, casting a flickering light across the room. I woke up around 3 a.m. to a strange buzzing sound. The TV was just static. Grogly, I turned to look out the window next to the TV,

and my heart nearly stopped. There, standing just on the other side of the glass, was a tall figure in a brown cloak made of what looked like deer skins. It wore a deer skull over its face, and the hollow eyes seemed to stare right into me. Beside it stood a little girl with braided hair, wearing a plain dress. They just stood there, looking in at me. The figure raised its hand slowly, waving in a way that seemed to say, Come outside, it's okay. I was frozen with fear, after what felt like hours they finally moved out of sight. I didn't dare follow them. Instead, I cried out loud.

the sound of my own voice snapping me back to reality. I ran to my room and didn't come out until the sun was up. The next morning, I told my mom about what I'd seen. She tried to calm me down by saying it was probably just a friendly Indian chief who was visiting. I wanted to believe her. It wasn't until years later that she sat me down and told me the truth. That figure wasn't friendly at all. According to her, it was the spirit of an Adina chief

who used to take children from their homes, long ago. She said he was evil, a word she never used lightly. Whatever that thing is, it's evil, she had said firmly. Don't ever go out into the woods alone at night. Stay away from the deep parts of the forest. Of course, being a kid, her warning only made the forest seem more mysterious. And eventually, curiosity would get the better of me and my friends. But that's a story for another time. It was a Friday night like any other, except Nick Jeremy and I were bored out of our minds. We'd just finished a marathon of horror movies,

and the adrenaline was still pumping through our veins. That's when the idea hit us. Why not head into Perry State Forest for a real thrill? I mean, after all the stories and my own eerie experiences, it seemed like the perfect place to test our courage. We're doing this, Nick declared, his eyes wide with a mix of excitement and nerves. Jeremy, always the skeptic, shrugged but agreed.

Let's just see if this forest is as spooky as Ryan always says. With a plan set, we grabbed some flashlights, piled into my dad's old BMW, and drove off. It was around 2.30 a.m. when we turned off the main road and entered the forest. The moment we crossed the threshold, it felt like we hit a wall of something. It wasn't physical, but the air turned heavy, and a weird pressure settled on our chests. Dude, do you feel that? Jeremy gasped, rubbing his eyes. Yeah, it's like I'm suddenly carrying a ton of bricks, Nick replied, his usual grin replaced by a frown. The headlights sliced through the darkness, but they only lit up a small patch of ground ahead of us,

which was odd because those LED lights were super bright. I tried to keep my focus on the road, but my mind kept drifting back to my mom's warning about the forest. We drove in silence for a while, each of us lost in our thoughts and the oppressive feel of the forest. That's when we saw it, a lot of the world. large black figure standing just off the side of the road. It was darker than the shadows around it, and as we passed, it vanished into thin air. Did you guys see that? I blurted out, my voice shaky. Yeah, no kidding. What was that? Jeremy replied, his skepticism fading. The forest seemed to close in around us as we drove. The darkness was suffocating, and even though we were on a straight

road, something felt off. Then Nick, who had been quiet for a bit, spoke up, sounding panicked. Guys, the sky, look at the sky. We looked up through the windshield and the sky was a deep blood red. It was so out of place, so bizarre, especially since it was only a little past 2.30 a.m. We should turn back, I suggested, a nod of fear growing in my stomach. But before anyone could agree, Nick yelled out, no, no, no, we just saw that tree. We just saw that tree. I just saw that tree. Are we going in circles? I shook my head. That's impossible. It's a straight shot through here. But no matter how far we drove, the same landmarks kept appearing over and over. It was like we were stuck on a loop, but there were no turns, no deviations from the path.

Dang, this feels like some Blair Witch stuff, Jeremy muttered, trying to lighten the mood, but his voice was edged with real fear. As we continued, the sightings grew more frequent. Dark figures watched us from the trees, and deer with hollow, empty eyes stood by the road, swaying unnaturally. Every once in a while one would jump towards the car only to vanish before impact. This isn't right. This isn't real, Jeremy said, finally breaking. We need to turn around Ryan. We can't keep doing this. He was right. We were way over our heads.

I turned the car around, intent on finding the way out, but that's when the real horror began. The whispers started, sounding like they were coming from inside the car, and the air filled with screams and cries. We were trapped, and whatever was in that forest wasn't just a figment of our imagination. It was real, and it was terrifying. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, they did. The car suddenly died, its light snuffed out like candles in a breeze, plunging us into darkness so thick it felt like a blindfold. Nick and Jeremy shouted in panic,

their voice is shrill in the close confines of the car. My heart pounded against my chest as I fumbled with the ignition, trying to bring the car and its comforting dash of light back to life. It's not starting, I yelled, my voice sounding strange and distant in the enveloping darkness. Suddenly, a loud sound pierced the silence. It was a train horn, long and mourn. powerful, echoing through the trees. But that was impossible. There were no train tracks anywhere

near Perry State Forest. The sound grew louder, the ground vibrating under the tires, as if the phantom train was barreling down on us. Is this actually happening? Jeremy whispered, terror evident in his voice. I didn't answer. My focus was on restarting the car, my hands shaking as I turned the keys. Just as the sound reached a deafening crescendo, as if the train was passing right through us, the car lights flickered back on, and the engine roared to life. Without wasting a second, I slammed the gas pedal, the car lurching forward, as if just as eager to escape the nightmare. We drove in silence, the earlier bravado and excitement now replaced by a sobering fear. The forest around us seemed to watch, its shadows deep and menacing.

but no matter how fast I drove, the same eerie landmarks greeted us over and over again. It was as if the forest refused to let us leave, its grip tightening the more we tried to escape. I saw those headlights too, Nick suddenly said, breaking the heavy silence. There was a car coming right at us, wasn't there? Yes, Jeremy and I responded in unison, the memory of the disappearing vehicle fresh in our minds. But then, as suddenly as our ordeal had begun, it ended. The forest cleared without warning, and we found ourselves on new reservoir road, the familiar lights of the city twinkling in the distance.

The clock on the dashboard read 3 a.m. as if no time had passed at all. Did we just teleport? Nick asked, his voice a mixture of relief and confusion. None of us had an answer. We drove to the nearest Taco Bell, the need for normalcy driving us to seek out the most mundane thing we could think of. As we sat in the parking lot, eating and recounting, our experiences, we realized that each of us had seen and felt the same horrors. It wasn't a group hallucination, it was real, as real as the tacos we were mechanically eating. After that night, we promised each other we'd never go back to Perry State Forest.

But, as fate would have it, that promise didn't last. Maybe it was the pull of the unknown, or maybe we just needed to prove to ourselves that we weren't crazy. Whatever the reason, years later, we found ourselves planning a camping trip to the very place we had vowed to avoid. As I write this, the camping trip is just a week away. I don't know what awaits us in Perry State Forest this time, but I feel a strange sense of inevitability as if some things are just meant to be faced again, and maybe this time we'll find the answers we're looking for, or maybe the forest will reveal more questions.

Either way, I know one thing for sure, Perry State Forest hasn't finished with us yet. I was camping in the woods with some friends, when we encountered something that still gives me chills. It was late at night, and we were huddled around the campfire telling ghost stories and roasting marshmallows as you would. Then out of nowhere, we heard a strange noise coming from the trees. It sounded like a low growl at first, unlike any animal noise I was familiar with. We shrugged it off and continued with our night, but the sound grew louder and more frequent as the night continued. I am not a wildlife expert, so I tried not to freak out, but finally, at one point, we heard something moving in the bushes nearby.

We shone our flashlights toward the noise, but couldn't see anything at all. It was too dark and too dense with trees and brush. As the night progressed, the noises grew more intense. We could hear something moving around our campsite, but could hear something moving around our campsite, but could see anything in the darkness. There was something there. It was watching us, stalking us from the shadows, a feeling I just can't describe. Eventually, we decided to pack up and leave, and as we were gathering our stuff, we heard some sort of blood-curdling scream coming from the trails. It was a sound that made our hearts stop in terror, and I instantly got cold

sweats. Again, we could feel something watching us, waiting for us to make a move. It was such an intense feeling. We ran back to our car as fast as we could. We could hear something following us, just a few feet behind. The creature, the thing, the person, whatever it was, was right on our heels, breathing down our necks. We finally reached the car and sped away with our hearts pounding. We still don't know what kind of creature it was. I have no idea what was lurking in those woods that night. It's something I probably won't ever know and will likely remain unexplainable, but it still haunts our memories and makes us fearfully shiver.

However, I'm just glad that I survived. A few years ago, I landed a job as a camera operator for a discovery special on the Yeti. However, that special never aired, and here I am breaking my NDA to explain why. I believe these events need to be made known. Professionally, I'm a photographer and cameraman, primarily focused on nature photography, but a gig is a gig. I had a friend from college who worked for Discovery, filming for some of their extreme nature shows like Bear Grills' survival series, or documentaries exploring Egyptian tombs. At the time, I was primarily doing wedding photography, but I always wanted to try my hand at something like what my friend was doing for discovery.

Luck would have it that he fell seriously ill right before a scheduled trip to Kathmandu Nepal for a new TV special on the Yeti. He recommended me for the job, and I happily accepted. I was thrilled. It meant a free trip to Nepal and a reality TV gig. After gathering my gear, I drove down to L.A. to meet my sick friend, who graciously let me use his equipment. Don't sweat it, he said. Have fun over there, and make sure you listen to what they want you to do.

You'll be going into some pretty rough terrain. It's hard work, so stay hydrated. The physical aspect wasn't a problem for me. I walked a lot and even ran marathons. After thanking him again, I headed to the airport. The plane ride was long, really long, but otherwise uneventful. I mainly needed to nap. My back was killing me from the seats and the jet lag on top of that.

At the airport, I met the others in the crew. There was one other cameraman. His name was Willie, who knew my friend from back home. Then there was the show's host, an Aussie named Rob, and Rob's assistant producer Karen. As soon as I stepped out of the airport, I felt like I walked into a wall of pollution. Kathmandu was huge, dense, smelly, and noisy. Nepal bordered India, so if you've ever been there or seen places like Delhi on TV, Nepal is not much different. Willie, who was also Filipino and blended in better with the locals, hailed us a cab, and we went to a Western hotel.

Karen informed me that she would be staying at the hotel when we would be meeting a local guide that she arranged for us. The rest of the day, I mainly walked around near the hotel, ate some local food, and took some photos with my own camera. Karen and I were the only one still awake at this point. I still felt weird despite being exhausted from the flight, so we walked down a bit to a nearby square where we heard some music coming from. There were about 20 or so people there crowded around a Nepalese man who was dancing in a circle while some other men played drums, and an instrument I couldn't recognize. It was some sort of flute. The dancer was wearing a golden silk gown and a paper-miche mask. The mask was interesting, though. It looked like what you'd

see during the Chinese New Year, painted bright red with intricate yellow and green patterns surrounding orb-like white eyes and two long fangs that slanted outward from the mouthhole. The mask also had long bright red hair that covered the dancer's head entirely, so all you saw was the mask and his body. Karen was able to speak a bit of Nepali and gestured to the dance. She asked one of the drummers what the mask was. He looked confused at her poor Nepali for a moment, and then laughed and simply said, low. Later at the hotel, I googled on the brutally slow internet what a low was, and apparently it was some sort of demon from Nepalese folklore that protects townspeople. I shut off my laptop and then managed to get a nice

long sleep. The next day, we met our guide, Sherpa Harish. He was from a village about eight hours northeast of Kathmandu, going up into the Himalayas. We put our equipment into a rented truck, and then up we drove through the city, and then the poor slum suburbs beyond, before finally reaching mountainous farmland. Rob got Willie to film him interviewing Harish for a bit as he drove. Harish told us that he had seen glimpses of the Yeti as a boy, and the beast left footprints in the sand near rivers and streams. Many of the villages near him had reported sightings too, but often some kids go looking on their own, he says. But mostly they get lost out in the dense mountain jungle. Sometimes they'll come back with scratches and bruises, usually from falling,

tripping, or even sometimes bites from snakes. Harish continued explaining that the local legends of the Yeti became world famous when Western explorers began coming to Nepal for exploration, mainly around the early 20th century. The myths exploded as more mountaineers came, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Bigfoot cousin on their climb up the various mountains, the most famous obviously being Mount Everest. Harish claims that the Yeti exists but understands

why many Westerners and even those from the cities are more skeptical because there are other great apes like orangutans in the jungles, which people could think are the Yeti. We stopped filming and let Harish drive. It took us almost all day, and it was not a pleasant ride. Most of the roads were little more than dirt paths, and some spots were very high up, overlooking gorgeous scenery with nothing but flimsy aluminum barriers to protect your vehicle if it veered off the road. We reached his village at about 9 p.m. local time. I was expecting some wooden hut village like you saw on TV, but this village was more like a small town.

They had power, concrete buildings, and a few paved, albeit poorly maintained streets. Most of the buildings, though, were shanty huts with aluminum ceilings and wood or old concrete as walls. Harish took us to the only hotel in town, which was a simple two-story motel. We agreed to meet early in the morning at around 5 a.m. since Harris said that that was the best time to potentially get a siding.

The hotel room was what you would expect from the third world, a bare-bones mattress that was right on the ground, a hole in the ground with a plastic cover for a toilet, and a hose with a nozzle for a shower. Luckily, the motel restaurant served some decent chicken. I managed to get a few hours of sleep, but slept in my clothes as the nights got very cold that high up in the Himalayan foothills. I woke up and met the crew bright and early.

Arish drove us a bit away from the village, but not too far. We'd have to go the rest of the way on foot, he said. Most sightings are near a stream that runs at the bottom of a gorge. However, the Nepali government was building a dam just north of the village, and most of the river was dried up, so we could walk along the sandy banks. The river was not far from the road, maybe a 15-minute walk through the jungle. I could see what the dam was doing to the gorge, though. The water was confined to a small stream in the middle of what must have once been a great river.

On the other side, as Harish said, were sandy banks and rocks. Willie and I began filming at this point, and we began trekking north. On either side of the gorge were steep tree-covered hills, and you could see in the distance the first mountains of the Himalayas. Every so often we would stop, and Harish would explain to Rob a bit more about the Yeti. and Rob would relay his own opinions as well. Harish would point out various animal tracks, including bears and even a tiger, so we had a reference for when he showed us the real Yeti footprint up ahead.

We trekked on for what felt like an hour, following the dried-up riverbank. My friend back home was certainly right about it being tough terrain. I considered myself pretty fit, but even this was getting tough as we kept going uphill. Eventually, we hit a turn in the river marked to my right by a seat. steep cliff face. Harish beckoned us over to show some sort of ape-like footprint in the dried river sand. I kept filming as Rob asked some questions about how the villagers found it. Could it just be a regular ape or an orangutan, that sort of thing? The footprint was pretty odd, though. Even if it was an orangutan, it was about the size of a bear, but definitely humanoid and ape-like

in shape, with four toes and a larger opposable toe. We took photos of the print, and then used the opportunity to have a lunch break. The footprint was weird but interesting I thought at the time, and looking back, this is where I wish we had stopped. After lunch, Harish told us that the Yeti is probably an undiscovered ancestor, or relative to apes. He says it likes to live in caves and has evidence. The cave mention was given to Karen, who told Rob weeks ago, so it was no surprise to Rob. These nature productions are all generally scheduled well in advance, so there are no surprises. We packed our stuff up and began to hike up into the jungle, towards this cave up the steep terrain near the cliffside. When I thought the hike up the river was tough, I hadn't experienced a real hike

yet. Back home, I would hike around Seattle near Portland when I would visit my parents, but trails cannot compare to walking through unexplored Himalayan jungle bush. Not to mention I had 60-odd pounds of AV equipment on my back. The jungle was certainly a unique place, though. You're introduced to a whole new soundscape from monkeys yelling at each other, tons of different birds, the rustling of vegetation, and even some weird chirps from insects I couldn't even name for you. Eventually, the constant uphill battle took a turn south, literally. Harish led us downhill until we were standing face to face with this cave. It had a low ceiling, maybe five feet, but it was quite wide, about the length of a city bus. The entrance was covered in thick

bush except for a cutaway hole, where presumably this Yeti entered and exited. At that moment, Willie began to film Rob and Harish entering the cave, and a shrill shriek came from behind the area we hiked up. I nearly fell over and my muscles went stiff. Instinctively, I swung my camera around but couldn't locate where the shriek had come from. Rob turned with a look of concern. Willie and Harris, on the other hand, were grinning at me. Willie had his camera pointed into the treetops and was holding back a laugh to keep his camera steady. Willie pointed up and told us to look up there.

I followed his gaze to see a small brown monkey hanging from a branch, howling. Monkey looks like you saw a ghost, huh? The anxiety in me slowly let down as the monkey screamed again right at us a couple more times before taking off into the tree tops. I must have let out the biggest sigh of my life, and we turned to go into the cave. Rob interviewed Harris again before entering, and Harish said some local boys found this place, and they saw the Yeti leaving the cave. Rob made a little joke, and then we went into the cave.

As you would expect, the cave was pitch black, and it was a good thing we had our lights on our cameras in addition to night vision. The cave didn't seem to go that far back, but it was difficult to tell. The ceiling seemed to get to the sky. lower and lower as you went in. Rob was walking sort of backward, talking to the camera as he spoke about the history of the Yeti sightings, that sort of thing. We started having to duck our heads as the ceiling kept getting lower, and the light from the entrance grew smaller. We were maybe 30 yards in when Rob started talking. The first western sighting of the Yeti was in 1832 when

he stopped as his foot hit something. He mumbled and turned to see how big the rock was to move around it. when he turned and shined his headlight on the ground, his foot had not hit a rock. I could see through my camera a humanoid mass on the ground like someone in a fetal position. Rob jumped back and Harish went to go see what was wrong. He turned the man over and the man was completely naked and covered in filth. Harish looked up at me and the man was clearly a westerner. He had a shaggy beard, was very skinny and looked extremely dehydrated. This body on the ground was still alive, though, mumbling something and holding himself. There were two small holes in the side of the man, like some sort of bite, a bat maybe. We were in a cave, and the man had clearly been here for

some time. We thought that he was a lost tourist or a mountaineer at first, but then Harish picked up a piece of plastic near the man and held it up to me. I read it out loud. Jacques Richard, Engineer. Engineer. That was French for engineer, obviously. and he must work at the dam. Harish explained that the dam was partially funded by the French government and the World Bank. We agreed that he must have gotten lost and went to help him up when the same shriek from the howler monkey emerged from the cave entrance. I turned slowly, keeping my camera rolling.

Through the lens, I saw a very tall, dark, lanky figure standing in the cave entrance. It had no clothing, no fur, just a huge head of hair that was completely dark, like the rest of its silhouette. I could make out the monkey's squirming body in the creature's mouth. It screamed again, and then there was a crunch and a sickening, slurping noise. All I could make out from the silhouette were two enormous beady white eyes staring at my camera. The creature let out another terrifying scream, dropping the monkey, and quickly retreating deeper into the jungle, disappearing into the dense foliage. The crew, stunned and terrified, gathered their wits and decided that they needed to get out of the cave and back to the village immediately. We carefully lifted the

injured and confused man and started making our way back through the treacherous terrain. The injured man, Jacques Richar, was weak but conscious, mumbling incoherently about being hunted by a creature. His delirious state suggested that he had been through something very traumatic. The journey back to the village was arduous. We faced multiple challenges as we had to carry Jacques. The paths were slippery, and there was the constant fear that the creature might actually return. Harish was leading the way quickly, using his knowledge of the terrain to guide us back safely. As we walked, Jacques's mumblings became more coherent. He talked about being part of a team working on the dam, and how they encountered the creature during their surveys. He described the creature's attacks

and how it seemed to be protecting its territory. Jacques mentioned that others from his team went missing and were never found. We finally reached Harish's village late at night. The villagers were shocked to see Jacques, whom they presumed to be dead. Harish quickly arranged for medical help, and the village doctor attended to Jacques's wounds and dehydration. The crew gathered to discuss our next steps. Rob and Karen decided to return to Kathmandu to report the incident and share the footage with discovery. Jacques, now slightly more stable, insisted on coming with us. He believed that the footage was vital and that the world needed to know about what was going on here. The journey back to Kathmandu was tense, but relatively uneventful. We were

constantly on edge, fearing another possible encounter with whatever that thing was, but still relatively just in shock. After reaching the city, we were able to communicate directly with Discovery's producers. These executives were initially skeptical, but were soon convinced by the footage that we uploaded to their server. After reviewing the footage, the executives instructed us to hand in all our AV equipment at the airport, and assured us that they would be in touch soon upon our arrival. We complied, although it did feel very strange and disheartening to part with our gear in such a manner. Weeks passed, and we heard nothing about the footage or the planned special. We had long since lost contact with Jacques. Attempts to contact discovery were met with very vague responses

and brush-offs. Rob received an anonymous tip that the footage may have been classified, and the project had been shelved indefinitely. There was some speculation that some very powerful people wanted to keep the existence of the creature, and that cave a secret. Even though I am under a strict NDA, I have felt utterly compelled to share this story. The world deserves to know about the events that we witnessed, and the creature that remains hidden in the shadows of the Himalayas.

The truth should not be suppressed. and I just hope that this account reaches those who seek to uncover the very dark mysteries of our world. I spent about eight years in prison doing hard time, paying for the mistakes I made in my youth. Every day, I dealt with screaming guards and bloody fights between cellmates. Every day was like living in my own personal hell. The only thing that kept me sane was what I had planned when I got out. You see, my dad owned about 20 acres of forest in Montana. When I was a kid, I found myself enthralled by Mother Nature's beauty, living more in the wilderness than I did in my own home.

The thought of all the gorgeous scenery and untainted air, looking forward to that slice of paradise, was the only thing keeping me sane. When it finally came time for my release, the vast wilderness was my destination. After stepping off the bus and catching up with my family, I packed a bag, filling it with supplies and even a tent. After waiting this long, I planned to stay a few days. During the start of my trek, it was more awesome than I could have imagined. The air was so clean and pure, a far cry from the stench of blood and cold steel. The pine cones crushed beneath my feet, giving me a satisfying feeling. Different birds broke the silence with happy chirping.

This was what I prayed for during those eight agonizing years. As I continued onward, the sun started to set, giving all the sun. off a stunning orange glow that brought a smile to my face. I swear, people focused too much on the everyday hustle and bustle of life. I felt like I could stay out here and live happily. But since it was getting late, I needed to find a spot to set up camp. I wasn't picky. Dirt would be better than one of those prison cots. I settled under the cover of some really tall pine trees. I had planned to build a fire and roast some marshmallows. But to do that, I needed some stray branches. That's when my trip took a strange turn. As I walked deeper, little things seemed

off to me, like the many broken trees, not small ones either. There were thick and mighty oaks snapped clean in half. Upon further inspection, they didn't seem to be rotten. This left me dumbfounded, as I didn't remember any tornadoes in the forecast. Regardless, I pushed on in search of more wood. However, this time, an awful smell caught my attention. The whole area seemed to wreak of body odor, or that of a decaying animal. But I assumed this sort of smell was normal in the middle of the wilderness. Eventually, I came across a small cave. It looked so peaceful and serene, like I could throw out my tent and sleep there.

But that putrid sewage-like stench filled the air even worse than before, like someone had been dumping their trash in this cave for years. As I inched closer, trying not to vomit, I saw something moving around inside. It looked like a small child, albeit covered in brown matted hair. As anyone else would have, I tried getting closer to quell my curiosity and see what in the world this creature could be. But as I did, footsteps rivaling that of thunder started approaching me. I tried to figure out what was going on, but before I could, something struck my head hard, instantly sending me to the ground.

My vision became hazy, and I felt something wet coming from my forehead. I rubbed my fingers into the liquid, quickly realizing it was my own blood. I glanced down to see a large rock, obviously what caused the damage. I tried to stand up and gather my bearings. Unfortunately, this would be a moment that stuck with me for the rest of my life. Towering above me was a horrifying creature straight out of a monster movie. It had to be around nine feet tall, covered in moss-like brown hair. The creature's stench alone was enough to bring a man to his knees.

Now I've never considered myself a coward, especially considering I fought for my meals eight years straight. But standing before this colossal ape-like creature left me with only one option. Run. I sprinted in retreat as fast as I could, knowing my life depended on it. To my terror, I could hear the creature's boo-and-law.

foaming footsteps chasing behind me. I don't know what it was trying to protect, but it would have killed me before I found out. As I ran and ran, the behemoth had no trouble keeping pace with me. It was to the point that I was sure its long arms could have reached out and grabbed me. Not only that, but the grunting noise it made with every step was terrifying. It sounded inhuman, downright demonic, if I was being honest. My lungs felt like they were about to burst, but stopping for a breath was not an option. There was no way I was going from locked away to being killed by this thing. Even when the blood had nearly stolen my vision, I kept going.

Thankfully, the end of this massive forest came into view. Seeing as I was out of its domain, I no longer heard the creature. Leaving all my supplies behind, I raced back to my father's house. I explained to him what happened, but he shook his head, going as far as to accuse me of being on drugs, that I must have taken a bad hit and started hallucinating. Even the large gash in my head had to be self-inflicted. I was so angry, but I guess it was understandable.

After all, who would believe that I saw such a monster? I've never been a fan of the paranormal, but after researching, I came to the conclusion that what I saw was the legendary Bigfoot, a being that until now, I would have told you was completely fabricated. It was so unreal. I wish it were drug-induced. Fortunately, I never saw that terrifying beast again, and it was safe to say that I lost any and all interest in the great outdoors.

Now, with a job in living the straight and narrow, I've put all that behind me, but I will never forget my encounter with the terrifying Sasquatch. I'm a 62-year-old man who has seen a lot in life. My mother and grandmother were Cree natives, and one day my mother told me a story from her grandmother about the Wendigo and how it related to our people. She always warned me to be aware of the Wendigo. When I came of age, I joined the Canadian Armed Forces. My folks drove me to the gate to walk me into my new life, and my mom told me, I'm proud of you, my son.

I'm sure you'll do well. Just be careful when you're out in the wild and watch for the Wendigo. After my basic training, I was sent on a tradesman course, and then to my first post. I was assigned to the Special Service Forces in Petawawa, Ontario, as a communication specialist. Since my job included fixing telecommunication equipment, I had top secret security clearance. We trained hard while I was there, and I was ready to go head to head with whatever enemy I would encounter in my missions. One day in December, we were

transported via helicopter to a mountaintop close to Algonquin Provincial Park for a week of winter warfare courses. During this week of training, each of us had to do guard duty at night. On one of those nights, at around 2 a.m., I started hearing strange voices down the mountain. That night, the temperature was around negative 30 degrees Fahrenheit. At first, I checked to see that everyone was sleeping in their tents. They were all accounted for. I scanned the area to see if I could locate someone. There was nobody there, at least no one that I could see with my military issue flashlight. I continued hearing those voices for a while. so I decided to call out to whoever was there.

Hello, who goes there? You're on a Canadian Armed Forces base. Identify yourself. There was no answer. I kept looking for whatever might be there, but I was still hearing those voices that sounded almost Asian. Some came from the right, others from the left. They seemed like they were having some kind of conversation.

Since it was a training and learning exercise, we had no ammo in our weapons, Not knowing what to expect, I did the second best thing I could do. I fixed the bayonet and kept walking around the camp. The voices stopped after a while. I wondered who in their right mind would hike into the wilderness for at least 20 miles in such miserable weather, just to pull a prank on us. That week, they closed down the base two times because it was so cold.

Of course, we stayed on the mountaintop. It was part of the training, they said. My replacement came after a while, and when he, he showed up the first thing he asked me was what I was doing with the bayonet on my weapon. I didn't want to say that I was hearing voices down below us, so I told him it was so cold that I decided to do some drill movements to warm myself up. I don't know if he believed me or not. The next month, there was a huge military exercise in Wainwright, Alberta. The entire brigade ended up there. One day, I was going on a call with my partner to do a repair on a piece of

equipment that was out in the middle of nowhere. We had been driving for about 45 minutes in deep snow and could not find the equipment. I was driving and decided to stop and check our location to find our target. My partner was looking at a topographical map while I was trying to see if I could locate a reference point. On our right, there was a forested area with pine and underbrush. On the left, there was an open field. At about 100 feet from the tree line, in my 10 o'clock position, there was a large white-tailed buck foraging in the snow. The deer was facing us and looking out in our direction. Then, out of nowhere, a huge creature blasted out of the tree line and aimed directly toward the grazing deer. It took less time for the beast to cover the

approximate 100 feet to the deer than it took for me to tell my partner to look. The beast grabbed the deer by the head. It was taller than the deer by about two feet. It was reddish-brown in color with very wide shoulders. The head was pointed and set on the shoulders without a neck. The arms were long and muscled. The legs were like 50-gallon drums, and the body was covered with long hair. I wish I had more time to look at it and get more details, but everything went so fast. As soon as the beast reached the deer, it placed one hand on the top of the deer's head and the other on the back of the neck and then twisted it like it was a rag. Without even stopping, it headed back into the woods with the deer over its shoulder.

I put the truck in gear and said, Let's get out of here. My partner managed to find the trail leading to our destination, and we found the equipment. When we made our way back to the Bivouac area, my sergeant asked me if everything went okay. I told him I didn't know what I saw on our way to the other location, but it was pretty freaky.

He looked at me and said that he didn't want to hear about it, so I kept it to myself and walked away. As time went on and I grew older, I realized that I had witnessed a Sasquatch harvesting that deer. I had a nice career in the army. I did some missions and went on several peacekeeping missions throughout the world. I saw a lot of strange animals and witnessed many unusual situations, but the beast in Alberta was the one that I will never forget. It's been many years since this happened to me,

and I had originally thought a mountain lion was the cause of it, but now I'm not so sure about that. Back in the early 1990s, my best friend and I went camping. It was the weekend before Memorial Day, and we were camping in a small campground off the road between Lake Castaic and Lake Hughes in Southern California. The first night was so annoying due to all the gangbangers from L.A. showing up and making noise all night, that we packed up and left on Saturday morning.

I had heard about a place called Sawmill Mountain from one of my co-workers, and it was close by, so we headed up there. Sawmill Mountain is off the road between Lake Hughes and Gorman. To get there, you need to travel several miles from the turnoff on unimproved dirt roads to the campground. When we got there, it was midday on Saturday, and we were the only two people in the campground. The elevation was about 5,000 feet, and it was nice and cool up there with a beautiful view of the valley below. It was a great campground. We pitched our tents, set up camp, then ate some lunch, and sat down to relax.

in the shade. My buddy went inside his tent and took a nap, and I went to my tent and did the same. After a short nap, I decided to do a little exploring. About 25 yards from our campsite was a trail, and I walked on it for about 150 yards. Off to the side of the trail, along the tree line, I heard something moving and looked in that direction. I thought I caught a glimpse of something light-colored, but it stopped moving. I was still in condition white, a.k.a. low-level alertness, and didn't think anything was wrong. I kept walking a few more yards, noticing that the wildflowers were blooming everywhere and enjoying the views. All of a sudden, I began to think of that movie, Predator, where the monster could see people, but they couldn't

see him. Then I noticed that everything had gone absolutely quiet, no insects, no birds chirping, nothing. I did a 360-degree turn and didn't see anything. Maybe the such thing. Maybe the such and silence had triggered some primordial fight or flight response in me that made me think of that movie. Anyway, I was armed at the time with a Smith and Wesson 10 millimayer, and I made sure that I had my hand on it. The gun gave me absolutely no comfort whatsoever, though. The feeling of dread and despair was so immense that I felt like I was in a panic. I felt frozen in place for a few moments. Then that little voice in the back of my head kicked in and said, get out of there now i didn't run because all i could think about was a mountain lion and running would make

it chase me i couldn't see what was watching or stalking me and you can't shoot what you can't see i started calling out to my buddy as loud as i could and walked quickly back to camp even after i got back i still felt pretty freaked out my buddy was there drinking a beer and i told him what happened While you were napping in the tent, I did the same thing, he said. I felt the same way you did, and I never felt a feeling of dread like that before, and haven't since. It was so powerful it was crippling. The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Some A-hole in a Subaru brat came up and drove around the campground like he was in the Baja 500 around sundown.

But nothing else happened. It was a great place to camp, but neither of us went anywhere alone. We had been back several more times for weekend campouts with larger groups of friends, and nothing odd had happened. Then, on one campout with the same buddy a couple of years later, something did happen. Once again we were the only two up there. I think we played hooky from work and went up midweek. Anyway, we had a campfire going and had just polished off a couple of thick rib-eyes.

I believe it was summer at the time. I was telling my buddy what a big wall of flame a 10-millimeter would produce. and he said, Well, let's see it. So I shot off a magazine from it. As predicted, lots of flame and noise. I holstered the gun and sat down by the fire. You remember that creepy feeling when we first discovered this place?

My buddy said to me, and I said that I did. Well, I think it's back. I didn't pick up on it this time, but I guess he did. We both had our guns out and flashlights in our hands. My buddy thought that whatever was causing it was watching us from beyond the camp. We walked toward it, shining our lights up in the trees, thinking it was a cougar or a bobcat, but there was nothing. About ten yards from camp, all of a sudden, something growled at us.

I won't repeat what my buddy said, but we high-tailed it back to camp as quickly as we could. When we got there, we lit every lantern we had, and threw a bunch of termite-eaten pinewood into the fire to get things as bright as we could. That night was rough to sleep through, but nothing bothered us after that. Now fast forward to about three weeks ago, I was talking to my buddy by text message about what we've been calling the ghost of Sawmill Mountain, and I had said that I thought it was a mountain lion. What he said blew my mind. He is pretty sure it was a Sasquatch that day many years ago. He pointed me to a bunch of Bigfoot websites, and I did a little reading. I have to say that I'm starting to agree with him. From everything I read, they stay close. close enough to us, that they can keep an eye on us. Unlike the hippie view that they're the

gentle guardians of the forest, they're actually an apex predator. I think on that day, I was either on the menu, or I made the thing mad by scaring off what it was after. I also think the growl a couple of years later was a gentle reminder to stop making so much racket in its territory and stay in our campsite. I found out that the Pacific Crest Trail, which runs from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon and Washington, cuts right through the sawmill mountain campground. The websites that track Bigfoot sightings have had a few in the general area. I live in Arizona now, but I'd like to go back there someday

to look for evidence of stick structures and other strange signs. Anyway, that's my little story of Bigfoot. In the spring of 1988, my boyfriend and I, along with other college friends, decided to spend our whole spring break hiking and camping and camping in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. One of our friends' fathers grew up in that area and recommended a spot for us near a place called Round Lake. We hiked into the mountains and had a beautiful view of the lake. There were seven of us on that trip, and we planned to stay for a couple of days. At around 8 p.m. on the second day, we had our dinner and were just finishing up the

dishes. One of the other couples went for a walk, ostensibly to find a spot to watch the sunset. An hour or so later, they came running back into camp, saying they had seen a monster. They explained that they were sitting on a rock ledge when they noticed a pine tree shaking wildly. The trees in that area were not tightly packed, and there were many bear spots, so the shaking pine tree stood out. As they watched, they glimpsed a large black figure and initially thought it was a bear. Then the shaking stopped. To their surprise, a strange-looking creature emerged from the woods, running in an unusual way. It seemed deformed, propelling itself forward with its front legs

instead of using its back legs. As they continued watching, they realized it wasn't a bear, but, as one of them described, the biggest freaking chimp I've ever seen. The creature then transitioned from moving on all fours to casually walking on two feet. It stopped, stared out over the valley, and then sat down with its back to them. They estimated that it was at least five and a half feet tall when sitting. Although it had seen them, it seemed almost indifferent to their presence. My boyfriend remarked, Well, that sounds like Bigfoot.

And excitedly, everyone wanted to go see it. So the whole group walked to the spot. By the time we arrived, the creature was gone. My boyfriend then pointed to the dark sky to the east, asking, Do you guys see this? We all looked and saw spinning lights. though the source of the lights was invisible. The lights stopped, and we heard a loud moan to the right of us that lasted about 45 seconds.

When the moan stopped, it was followed by a higher-pitched whoop, and then the spinning lights resumed. This cycle repeated several times, each time with the lights getting closer to us. As the phenomenon continued, we heard the moans and whoops coming from all around us, and even from above, further up the mountain. We were all terrified, and someone suggested returning to camp. Once back at camp, we should have packed up and just left, but we inexplicably felt safer at our campsite.

We talked about our experience, but no one suggested leaving. We continued chatting, and oddly enough, I don't recall, feeling fear. Yet someone then mentioned seeing something in the woods darting from tree to tree. When I asked if it was a big foot, my friend said that it was glowing, a silvery white color and was only four feet tall. He suddenly yelled, Look, it's right there! And we all scanned the woods, feeling more freaked out. I saw the look of shock on my boyfriend's face, so I looked where he was looking. There, eight to ten feet up a tree, was a silvery white being with its hands holding onto the trunk.

The firelight didn't illuminate the whole tree, so the details were pretty unclear, but it had five fingers with what appeared to be suction cups on its stomachs. tips. I saw one side of its bulbous head and one large eye, the size of a baseball. The head was as large as a party balloon. Minutes later we heard a large crack of a tree limb. One of the guys said that they saw red eyes glowing and then moving back behind the tree. Suddenly, one of the girls screamed, and we all jumped up in fright, looking in the direction that she was pointing. There it was, a Sasquatch standing and staring at us while swaying back and forth. My God! God, this thing must have been well over eleven feet tall. It breathed very heavily, its mouth

pursed downward, inhaling through its nose and exhaling with a loud growl. We then heard the sound of brush moving and saw a bright lighted figure appear. We watched as the Bigfoot turned and walked out of the campsite toward the figure, and that was our chance to escape. None of us really packed anything. We just ran to the cars and left. A few of us returned the next day to retrieve some of our belongings. Nothing had been touched, not even the coolers of food, and as far as I know, none of us ever went back to that location. Most of us still keep in touch, but we rarely ever talk about the surreal events of that night. My family owns a cabin in the mountains. My great-grandfather built the original section, and my grandfather father and I have all

added more to the cabin over the decades. It went from a small two-room cabin to a two-story, story five-room cabin with a porch. Upstairs is the bedroom with two beds, and downstairs is the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and study. The study has an old steel tanker desk my grandpa put there, bookshelves full of old hunting, fishing, and trapping books, and a ton of old sci-fi novels my dad read as a kid. I decided to stay at that cabin over the summer, instead of working between college semesters to maintain the property. Neighbors in the area had complained of vandalism and theft, and my dad was worried about someone breaking into the cabin, so I planned to live there for the summer and take care of the property. I packed up the old Ford Bronco with food and other necessities,

took a rifle and a revolver, and even brought my dog. The dog, an Australian shepherd named Roscoe, was a great companion. The five-hour drive to the cabin was pretty uneventful, and when I arrived, I was greeted by the serenity of nature. Yes, I would be alone for the whole summer, with the only human contact being trips into town for gas and food, but I was cool with that. I spent the rest of the day unloading my supplies into the cabin, getting the generator started, turning on the lights, and generally settling in. Nothing unusual happened the first night. The next day, I mowed the grass around the cabin, hacked down weeds and small trees growing along the trails, cleaned out deer blinds and got rid of wasp nests on the eaves of the cabin.

Roscoe kept freezing and staring off into the woods like he saw something, but then he would just shrug it off and follow me, panting and wagging his tail. I spent the rest of the day cleaning solar panels and checking batteries so I wouldn't need to run the generator for anything except the AC or TV. The TV was an old console style from the 60s, and the antenna didn't pick up anything but static since everything is digital now. However, it had my old NES from when I was a kid hooked up to it, which was very nostalgic. That night, I cooked some wolf-brand chili, no beans because chili doesn't have beans, you heretics,

on the gas stove in the kitchen, and admired the view out the kitchen window. The motion-triggered lights picked up a raccoon hanging around behind the cabin, and I watched it while I cooked. I ate dinner in the living room while reading a book on African big game hunting, death in the tall grass, I think it was called. The light started dimming and something was wrong with the inverter. The solar cells weren't charging the batteries fully. I called it an early night and headed to bed to save the batteries. The following day, I tried to figure out why the batteries weren't charging, but was completely clueless.

Roscoe kept looking off into the woods and whining. I gave up on fixing the battery charger and decided to run solar by day and the generator at night. I headed off into the woods to check the fence line. of the property. I had my grandpa's old S&W Model 10, a 38 revolver from when he was a cop in the 60s, on my hip in case of snakes or whatever. Roscoe was acting increasingly nervous, though, refusing to leave my sight and staring into the woods and whining. It was unusual behavior, but I just kind of shrugged it off. The fence was damaged in a couple of places, so I made a note of where I needed to do repairs. I had all summer, so I was in no

hurry. Suddenly, Rosco started barking and snarling like something was there. I turned to look but didn't see anything. I drew my revolver and called out, who's there? Roscoe charged off into the woods, still barking, and something big went crashing through the brush, pursued by Rosco. I called my dog and chased after him, worried that he was going to get into a fight with a bear or something. Suddenly, I heard Rosco yelp, and he ran back to join me, tail tucked back. between his legs. There was a loud roar like nothing I had ever heard before, and more crashing in the brush ahead. I still hadn't seen whatever the dog was chasing, and at this point, I didn't want to see it. I ran back to the cabin with Roscoe right behind me to load the rifle.

It was a Gibbs carbine, basically a sportorized Enfield rifle in 0.308 with a nickel finish. I had only brought it along in case a bear tried to break into the cabin, not because I intended to actually shoot anything. With a round in the chamber and the magazine fully loaded, I stayed in the cabin for the rest of the day. I didn't see or hear anything unusual, and eventually I relaxed. I cooked some dinner, fed Roscoe, read some more of my book, and headed to bed, revolver now under my pillow and rifle leaning against the wall next to the bed, of course. The next day, I set out to finish checking the fence line, taking the rifle with me this time. Roscoe was increasingly nervous, tail tucked between his legs, shaking and growling while

staring off into the woods. He was making me nervous too, but I didn't see or hear anything odd. The birds were chirping, squirrels were doing their thing, and everything seemed normal except for the dog. I started checking the area near the creek, and that's when things got bizarre. The berry bushes were picked clean. Normally they would have berries this time of year. to suspect that we had a bear in the area, and that's what we had encountered the previous day. There were weird footprints in the mud around the creek, too big and shaped wrong to be a deer or a pig, but there were so many prints that the mud was churned up, and I couldn't get a clear look at any of them. Suddenly, something sailed through the air and landed on the trail a few feet from me.

It was a pine cone. What the heck? Another one flew out of the woods and landed on the trail. Somebody was throwing pine cones at me. I shouted, Who's there? No response. I informed whoever was in the woods that they were trespassing on private property and that I was armed.

A large stick flew at me and missed. I threw it back and yelled that I was calling the sheriff if they didn't leave. They threw a rock at me. Forget this. I flipped off the safety on my rifle and fired a shot into the air. There was dead silence other than the ringing

in my ears. I made a show of chambering another round and yelled that I was going to call the sheriff, so they needed to leave immediately. There was dead silence again for a long, tense moment, and then a hailstorm of rocks, sticks, pine cones, and other stuff was thrown at me from the woods. A couple of them hit me hard enough to hurt, and Roscoe yelped when a rock hit him. I still couldn't see who was throwing things. I fired another shot, this time into the woods in the direction the rocks were coming from, instead of into the air. There was that loud roar again, and I said, forget this. I was out of there. I ran back to the cabin with whoever was throwing rocks and things crashing through the brush parallel to the trail, still throwing stuff. Roscoe finally had enough

and charged off into the woods, snarling. There was an ear-splitting scream, and my dog was snarling and barking like he was fighting something. I started to follow Roscoe, chambering another around in my rifle, but then another rock flew through the air and hit me in the head. That one knocked me for a loop. I saw that there was blood everywhere, and I retreated back to the cabin and locked myself inside. Roscow showed up a few minutes later. He was covered in mud, blood and leaves. I checked my phone, and of course no signal out here. I topped off the magazine of my rifle and considered driving into town to call the sheriff. No, forget that, I thought. My heart was going a mile a minute, and whoever was throwing rocks should be more scared of me than vice versa.

After all, I had a gun, and Roscoe clearly got into a fight with whoever it was. I cleaned the dog up, put some antibiotics on his wounds, and then checked mine. I had a nasty bruise on my forehead and a small cut. I cleaned it up and slapped a band-aid on it. I was in siege mode just in case that thing returned. I ran the generator, so I had lights. I kept checking out the windows while I cooked dinner. The motion-triggered lights went off a few times, but I never saw anything.

I eventually decided the trespasser had enough and wasn't going to come back. I shut off the generator and headed to bed, guns still ready to go, of course. I woke up the next morning, grabbed my rifle in Roscoe, and went to check the property for any signs of the trespasser. The woods were eerily quiet, though Roscoe was acting nervous once again. and I was at this point thoroughly creeped out. I decided to spend the entire day hold up inside the cabin. I didn't see or hear anything unusual whenever I checked outside,

but it was still eerily quiet. No birds, no animals moving, nothing. I spent the entire day alternating between reading and nervously looking out the windows. Come nightfall, I refueled the generator and started it before it got too dark outside. Then I headed into the kitchen and started cooking a pot of canned beef stew. The motion-triggered lights kept going off,

but I didn't see anything. Roscoe was whining and acting nervous again. I kept the point three-eight holstered on my hip and the rifle next to my chair in the living room. After checking the front windows again, I walked back into the kitchen just in time to see something looking through the window at me. I couldn't tell what it was.

I just saw its eyes in the dark silhouette. I shouted and drew my revolving, pointing it at the window, and at that moment, whatever it was, vanished. Running up to the window, I looked outside as the motion lights went off, and saw a large shadow disappearing into the trees. The window was high off the ground, and walking out the back kitchen door required going down a short flight of steps. I'm six feet tall, and wouldn't be able to look into the kitchen window from outside,

so whatever was peering into the window must have been massive. I was convinced it was a bear. So, I holstered my gun again, stirred the stew on the stove pot, and turned down the heat so it wouldn't burn. Then I retrieved the rifle and stepped out the kitchen door to see if I could see or hear anything. The lights flickered, and the generator sputtered, coughed, and then died. I was left in the dark. I headed back into the cabin, barked my shin on the coffee table,

and laid my rifle in the chair. Roscoe was whining, and then I grabbed an old army anglehead flashlight from by the front door and stepped onto the porch. The generator was in an enclosure to the left of the door. I opened it up to double-check the fuel tank and didn't see anything obviously wrong, then started the generator up again, and the lights came back on. There was the sound of shattering glass, and I ran back into the kitchen just in time to see a long, hairy arm reaching through the broken window and grabbing my pot of stew on the stove. I whipped out the point three-eight and emptied it at the window. There was an ear-splitting screech, and the pot of stew was dropped, making a mess all over the

stove-top and kitchen floor. I ran to the window in time to see a huge figure vanish into the trees again. I grabbed my rifle from my chair, and then ran upstairs to the bedroom. I ejected the empty cases from my revolver and reloaded from the box of ammo on the nightstand. I checked out the bedroom window, the motion lights were on, but I didn't see anything. I headed back downstairs and went out the kitchen door. Roscoe was shaking and refused to follow me. I stood at the very edge of where the motion lights illuminated the tree line, shining my light into the woods and shouting threats. Something rustled in the brush, and I caught a glimpse of motion in the beam of my flashlight. Shouldering my rifle, I started to squeeze the trigger when the lights went out. Wait, the lights didn't

go out. I could still see the yard lit up. I turned, and there was something huge between me and the lights, creating the dark spot. I somehow avoided defecating myself and fired my rifle at the silhouette. There was a scream, and something shaped like a person ran off into the woods. I chambered a new round and fired again, and a rock came sailing out of the woods in the direction of where I saw motion. There were two of them. I fired a third shot in the direction of the rock thrower, then drew my revolver and emptied it into the woods. There was another loud roar, and something huge crashing into the brush as another rock sailed towards me. I heard more crashing off to the side where the one that got between me and the cabin ran. Forget this, I thought. I

wasn't getting surrounded, and I hauled my butt into the cabin, double-checked all the doors and windows were locked, reloaded both guns, and covered the broken kitchen window with a piece of plywood, nailing it into the wall. There was a constant thumping sound as at least two of the creatures were hurling rocks and sticks at the walls of the cabin. I retreated upstairs with Roscoe,

opened the bedroom windows, and fired multiple shots into the woods around the cabin. The rain of rocks and sticks stopped, and after a while, the motion lights stopped going off. I heard a weird noise coming from the woods, like a cross between animal grunts

and somebody singing without words. I fired another shot into the woods and the noise stopped. I stayed up all night, too afraid to sleep, and the generator ran out of gas at around 3 a.m. And the cabin switched to battery power. The batteries still weren't charging properly, so the lights went out less than an hour later, leaving nothing but dead silence.

Dawn finally arrived, and I jumped in the Bronco with Roscoe and hauled ass into town. As soon as I reached the gas station on the edge of the small town near the cabin, I pulled out my phone and called my dad to tell him what happened. He told me to stay put and that he was on his way. It was a five-hour drive, so I had a bit of a wait, and I just sat in the Bronco with Roscoe the entire time, dozing but too high-strung to actually fall asleep.

Dad finally pulled into the parking lot next to me, had me tell the whole story, and then we called the sheriff. A deputy showed up, and I told him the whole story. The deputy was obviously very skeptical, but followed us to the cabin. We showed him the rocks and sticks all around the cabin, the scuff marks on the wall, the broken window, the spilled stew, etc. The deputy also noticed all the spent brass where I had been shooting

and decided that something obviously happened, and I wasn't just making it up. We all three hunted around for footprints or other evidence, and we found a few, but they were never clear enough to really make out. The deputy wrote it all down in his little notebook and said three other people reported similar incidents in the past month, and then he left. Dad helped me clean up the mess in the kitchen, refueled the generator, and fixed the inverter so the solar cells charged the batteries properly.

I threw all my things in the Bronco because screw staying here all summer. I didn't return to the cabin until hunting season the following winter, and only with my dad and uncle with me. I never saw or heard anything unusual again. Our house sat at the edge of an expansive. of woods so vast you could lose a day just hiking through them. Most folks would call it peaceful, but to me those woods always held a quiet menace, like a predator waiting to pounce. It was home, though, and for the most part, we'd learn to coexist with the wilderness. Every day, like clockwork,

I took our two dogs out to their kennels. The Black Lab Husky Mix, Bella, and the Staffordshire Terrier, Max, needed the exercise in space to stretch their legs. The kennels were sturdy, placed just on the border where our yard met the forest. Usually they loved it out there, barking at squirrels and chasing shadows. But lately, something had changed. It started with small things. When night fell, Bella and Max would bark and whine to come back inside. I figured they just wanted the comfort of the house. But their behavior seemed more desperate, almost fearful. The first time it truly unnerved me was three nights ago. That evening, I was running late.

It was already dark by the time I went to fetch the dogs, but the security light by the kennels cast a reassuring glow. As I approached, I noticed the eerie silence. Bella and Max always barked excitedly when they saw me coming. But tonight, they were silent, their bodies tense and alert. My heart picked up its pace, a primal response to the unease in the air. It felt electric, like the moments before a lightning strike. I shook it off, trying to focus on getting Bella out first.

She stood at the front of her kennel, tail tucked between her legs, eyes darting toward the woods. I opened the gate and just then I heard it. A heavy snap, like a thick branch breaking underfoot. My blood ran cold and I froze. Bella did too. For a moment, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. Max whimpered from his kennel, pressing himself as far from the woods as he could get.

I hurried Bella out, my hands shaking. She bolted toward the house, practically dragging me along. I felt guilty leaving Max, but I had no choice. I turned back, the path to his kennel seeming longer and darker than before. The air grew heavy, a rank smell of decay wafting from the woods. My steps slowed, dread creeping in like a chill. Another snap. Closer this time. I could barely move, feeling like I was walking through molasses. Max was pressed against the back of his kennel, eyes wide with fear. I fumbled with the latch,

the feeling of being watched intensifying. As I finally got the gate open, I heard it, heavy breathing, low, and menacing. Max growled, his hackles raised, and I knew we had to run. The breathing grew louder, closer, as if whatever it was, was right behind me. We ran, Max pulling me with a strength born of pure terror. A scream tore through the night, chilling me to the bone. I didn't look back, couldn't look back. We reached the house, slammed the door shut, and I flipped off the lights. My heart hammered as I stared out the window, watching the edge of the woods. Something moved out there, just beyond the reach of the light. It swayed back and forward. A dark silhouette that sent shivers down my spine.

For five long minutes, it lingered, then vanished into the darkness. I didn't sleep much that night, every creek and rustle setting my nerves on edge. The next day, I decided to bring the dogs in earlier, before dusk. I hoped it would be enough, but deep down, I knew whatever was out there wasn't going away. It was watching, waiting, and it had just begun. The next evening I decided to bring the dogs in early, just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. I hoped it would make a difference, but deep down, I knew it was a thin veneer of safety. The woods felt alive, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Bella and Max seemed calmer at dusk, their usual selves, playing and barking in the kennels. I approached them with a sense of cautious optimism. Maybe the darkness was the real enemy, but as I unlatched Bella's kennel, a sharp crack echoed through the trees. It wasn't just a branch breaking, it was something deliberate, calculated. My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to stay calm. Bella sensed my unease, her ears perking up, eyes fixed on the forest. I hurried her out and we made our way back to the house.

The tension in the air was palpable, like a rubber band stretched too thin. When I returned for Max, the shadows were lengthening, the forest amass of dark shapes and indistinct sounds. I could feel eyes on me, but I didn't dare look. Max was at the far end of his kennel, whimpering softly. The moment I unlatched the door he bolted out, nearly knocking me over in his haste. We had barely taken a few steps when a crashing sound erupted from the woods, followed by the unmistakable sound of something big moving fast.

My heart pounded in my ears as I grabbed Maxx. his collar and we ran. The sound of heavy footsteps behind us sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins. We didn't stop until we were safely inside the house. I slammed the door shut and flipped off the lights, peering out the window. The woods were still now, eerily quiet, but I knew it was out there, watching. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. This was no ordinary animal. For the next few nights, the noises continued. The sounds of of branches snapping, objects being thrown, and a low, guttural growl that sent chills down my spine. It felt like a siege, an invisible force wearing us down, waiting for the perfect

moment to strike. I started taking Bella and Max for walks during the day, making sure we were all inside before dusk. It was a temporary solution, but I knew we couldn't live like this forever. The fear was consuming us, seeping into every aspect of our lives. One night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I had to do something. The next morning I went into town and bought a gun. It felt heavy in my hands, a cold, metallic reminder of the reality we were facing. I wasn't sure if it would help, but it gave me a semblance of control, a way to fight back. That evening I sat by the window, the gun in my lap, watching the edge of the woods.

Bella and Max were inside, restless and on edge. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the familiar sounds started up again, branches snapping, the growl, and then the scream. It was closer this time, more insistent. I tightened my grip on the gun, my heart pounding. I knew I couldn't let fear control me. Whatever was out there, it was time to face it. I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, the darkness enveloping me.

The sounds grew louder, the growl turning into a roar. I stood my ground, gun raised, ready to confront whatever horror the woods held. The night was thick with tension, the air electric. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. This was our home, and I wasn't going to let it be taken from us, not without a fight. I'll never forget the summer of 2006. I was a drifter, always looking for a place to crash and a good time. What had started out as a great year quickly turned into misfortune.

The guy I was seeing ditched me, literally leaving me behind for another town. I had zero money, no job, and only trouble on my mind. I couldn't tell you what brought me to that little town up north, but I can tell you what made me leave. I was living in Clemens, North Carolina. hanging out at a local bar, nursing a whiskey on the rocks. There was this art retreat I tried to get into, but I failed and got denied. I didn't even meet half the requirements. Now I was drifting, sleeping on couches, and rapidly running out of options.

I wasn't planning on living in Clemens forever, but it had a quaintness, and the people had their own vibe. I wasn't exactly racing to get out of town or anything. I figured something would come along eventually, just like it all. always does when you need it to. That's when I met him. Pizzu, or Pee, as he liked to be called, came in alone and totally caught my eye, tall and lean, with dreadlocks and ink on every inch of his body. His arms, face and throat were all marked up with something. He took a seat in total silence and didn't seem to have a relationship with the bartender, just ordered a straight whiskey. Needless to say, this guy had my attention. I moved down the bar, and he started chatting me up

right away. He said he lived in town, his mom did too, and he'd been local his whole life. He said he owned some properties throughout the community, which, once you get to the end of the story, you'll know is total crap. I think what he meant by property was really bodies. He had bodies buried all over the community. Obviously I didn't know this at the time. All I saw was this mysterious, edgy-looking guy making eyes at me from the next bar stool over. He was charming in this twisted sort of way, with a wicked grin and a glint in his eye. He invited me to stay with him and his friends, and I jumped at the chance. I mean, who wouldn't want a free place to stay? Totally free, I asked. He said, everything in life should be free.

The only price we pay for anything should be sin. I thought this was his attempt at poetry, but I'd find out just how wrong I was. We got to the house, and it was a total dump. I don't really know what I was expecting, but after the stories I heard at the bar, I kind of thought he had money. It was what looked like a double-wide trailer set atop a brick basement foundation, a dingy site-built home very common throughout the Carolinas. He led us in through the ground entrance, where I discovered the ultimate bachelor pad,

spray paint on the walls, food in the sink, and empty beer cans cluttered on every surface. It was a dump on the outside and a putrid mess on the inside, even carrying its own moldy smell, one I'd never really experienced before. P. didn't apologize or even address the level of filth he lived in. He showed me a room that had some semblance of normalcy, a mattress with an end table, pretty much empty otherwise. He said he rented this one out periodically, usually when he needed the money, but I could sleep there for free. For some reason he lied to me and wanted to take me under his wing. At first,

it was a party. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, and we lived life on the edge. The first night he threw a party, it was just for me, literally painted a welcome message for me on the wall adorned with this quote about how evil was the only way to live. His friends were nuts too, but nowhere near the level of depravity that P was on. They sat in circles, chanted, did rituals with their own blood, and talked about the craziest stuff that I've ever heard, not just about the occult, but what they wanted to happen to the world. All the crazy messages painted on the wall started to make sense to me. These guys truly believed they were agents of evil sent to bring hate to the earth. I'll admit P. was fascinating. His stories of Satanism and the occult intrigued and intimidated

me, but I wanted to fit in, so I played along, pretending to be interested in his dark rituals and sacrifices. Honestly, it wasn't that hard. Like I said, he went out of his way to make me feel comfortable that first night, maybe even that whole first week. I was in a perpetual state of drunkenness, getting fed a steady dosage of pretty much whatever drug I wanted. He had hookups, and somehow had the leverage to make deals and always score, whether it be booze or drugs. He claimed it was the work he did for Satan. He said the darkness would never let him go without what he needed. That is a direct quote, and he meant it every time he said it.

P. truly believed there was an evil spirit that looked out for him, paving the path anywhere he went. Regardless, I paid it no mind and enjoyed the free couch and the non-stop. party. But as the days went by, things began to get weird. The house was a mess. The dirty dishes piled up, unwashed clothes scattered everywhere, holes in the wall. It was like they didn't care about anything, least of all hygiene. I was starting to hear P. gloat about his daily services for the devil. He claimed he hadn't showered in three years, and that by keeping his body in that natural composition, Satan made it impossible for him to get sick. Infection was a thing of the past for him, hence the disgusting filth that he lived in. P. used the grime in Greece as a method of warding away the

normal, the good, the decent. It was a repellent for anyone who also didn't worship the devil. P. also said that he stopped brushing his teeth, which I noticed he had personally manipulated. I didn't see them in the bar, but after a few nights together, I saw the brown rot. but I also saw something else, too. He had literally filed his teeth into points. He looked like he had the mouth of an animal or a demon. He did everything in his power to make himself unapproachable, and if you did approach him like I had,

you would never be comfortable around him. And then there were the animals. Pea had all kinds of creatures, from snakes to spiders, and he loved to torture them. I tried to ignore it, but it was hard to stomach. He would torture them with different tools, like a lighter, or even put them in the freezer,

claiming that he was conducting a ritual to control the weather. Satan had gifted him these animals to use to control the world around him. If he set the spider's feet on fire, it would be a warm day. If he put it in the freezer, it would be a cold, dark day. Very strange, simplistic thinking, but I will say this. It may have been the drugs or just my method of nodding and smiling every time he spoke, but it seemed like the weather actually followed his actions. If he burned the spider, I always remember the next day being a goddamn scorcher,

although he could have just been checking the weather and pretending it was a magic trick. Then there were the confessions. Pee would get drunk and start talking about all the things he'd done. At first I thought he was just bragging, trying to shock me. But as the stories went on, I quickly realized that he was telling the truth. He went on at length about the piles of animals. he'd killed for rituals and sacrifices, dogs, cats, rabbits, literally anything he could get his hands on.

There's nothing like taking a bite out of a still beating heart, he said at the top of his lungs one night. Better than any drug on earth. It's pure ecstasy straight to the bloodstream. And it's even better if the animal dies while you're eating it. Talk about a rush. It's hard to take something like that seriously when you hear it in real life, but it's even harder when you're living with the person.

I think I was overwhelmed with denial that this guy couldn't be as crazy as he seemed. That second week really turned the tables, as he was in a constant state of blackout drunkenness, but then would randomly recover and seem coherent, well-spoken. He said it was because demons were in and out of his body, helping him get things done. Those confessions got worse to the point of being outright heinous. P. said he killed a number of sex workers over the last couple of years. He said they were the easiest, and no one was looking for them. By society's standards they were already missing,

so P just did the work of the darkness, and brought them suffering of a different caliber. It wasn't just that he was claiming to be a murderer. Pea said that he ate their corpses, feasted on them for multiple days before burning their bodies and disposing of the remains in the rivers and forests outside of town, killing them brought terror to the world, and eating them brought power to the world,

underworld, opening the doorway for just a moment, as he said. I remember we exchanged a look, and I think P could tell that I didn't believe him. He just nodded and said, you'll see, you'll see the fires. By the third week things had really escalated. I woke up, and it was like I was in a totally different house. The smell was worse. The wasteland of trash was worse. Everything was worse. I could see that Pee was getting more and more strung out on the the drugs and alcohol, teetering on violent and manic. I found him one morning painting the walls with blood. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He said he needed protection. Soon, I wanted to ask, protection from what? But decided to ask

where he got that blood from. He pointed to the backyard and said he spent the morning butchering an animal and draining every drop of fluid from it. Killing animals, in the backyard was one thing, but by the next day, there were literal pieces of these animals strung up on fishing line, dangling from the ceiling, legs, paws, ears, eyes. What wasn't suspended from the ceiling was stored in a cooler by the fridge, and pee would ritualistically eat the raw, rotting flesh. This was when the flies started to build up, and I'm talking hundreds, if not thousands. The house was disgusting when I arrived, but it turned into something else during that last week, and P. did not care. He liked it, felt like it gave him power. It was a

house of horrors, and for some reason I was voluntarily living there. It was a hub for outcasts and misfits of all kinds, as was the company that P kept. With the spiral, though, it didn't feel safe anymore, especially not for women. I returned back to his house one night as he'd left for the woods, and I didn't want to go. When I got back, I heard weird sounds, coming from the basement. When I entered, I found a group of strangers engaging in twisted rituals. Obviously, I recognized P. and a couple of his friends, but the rest were unknown to me, half of them women. They were painted in what looked like blood, partaking in some of the strangest, scariest sex that I've ever seen, masks, open wounds, and lots of drugs.

Pee gave me this gross, distant, menacing stare before beckoning me over. I didn't go, simply turned and barreled back out into the cool night air. Better believe I kept running. I knew I would be leaving this house soon. I was living in a complete nightmare, and I didn't know how to wake up from it. I'd been so scared to leave before, but now I was too scared to stay. What the hell had I gotten myself into? It occurred to me that everything he told me could be true, that I could end up with my throat cut deep in the Carolina wilderness, getting danced around and spit on by people using me for what they believed was magic. Finally, after weeks of living in terror, I found the courage to leave.

I wish I could say it was more dramatic, but I simply bided my time until he was out of the house, then made my move. I packed my bag and slipped out of the house unnoticed and unseen. I didn't stop running until I was out of that town, eventually out of the state and far away from Pizzou-Algarad. I never looked back. and I never spoke about those weeks again, at least not until his case broke national headlines. It turned out a lot of us passing through Clemens had stayed with this lunatic.

I was very fortunate to get out when I did, as I read he openly murdered more people later in life. Those memories haunt me still to this day. I know I'll never be the same. I've seen some terrible things in my time as a detective, but the case of Pazuzu Algarad was something completely else. This guy has a rap sheet, quite a colorful history, and it's always bothered me a bit. I feel like we should have had a lot more data on this guy, but the reality is he terrified everyone that he came in contact with. The people that knew him and lived around him avoided that guy at all costs, and for good reason.

Not only was he disgusting as a person, but he was very violent, very unpredictable. Everything about his persona screamed isolation, mental illness, and this open disdain for not just authority, but mankind in general. This guy was out to have a bad day every day, and he didn't make that a secret. It started from a tip from a local resident who reported a strange smell coming from the house in town. A house we all knew well. When we arrived, we found two bodies buried in the backyard. The house was literally covered in blood and filth.

To this day, it goes down as the most disturbing case that I've ever witnessed. The home itself was a pigsty, an unbelievable amount of filth on every surface, including human waste. As we dug deeper, we discovered that Pizzou was a self-proclaimed Satanist, who had a fascination with the occult and a history of animal cruelty. He had a group of followers who were just as twisted as he was, and together they had committed some of the most heinous crimes I've ever seen. Followers might be a strong word, a rag-tag group of losers is more appropriate, but they were all loyal to pee.

They never ratted on him, didn't give up the game they were playing, regardless of the rules or the stakes. They would just go along with whatever insane deranged plans this guy made and laugh with him about it later. He even managed to keep girlfriends and a couple of fiancés throughout his stint. Honestly, he kind of reminded me of Charles Manson, cunning, clever, but pure evil. at his core. The difference, though, between Manson and P. was that P. was the one who wanted to do the stabbing and the killing. He didn't send in his followers. He was first in line to draw blood or drink it. He didn't want to just talk about it. His victims were mostly prostitutes and drifters, people who wouldn't be missed. Pazuzu would lure them into his house, where he would torture and kill

them, then burn their remains in the woods. It was this sickening ritual, and one that he seemed to enjoy. As we investigated, we found evidence of Pazuzu's crimes everywhere. There were bloodstains on the walls, bones in the backyard, and a collection of satanic artifacts that would make your skin crawl. It was like he wanted us to know what he'd done, like he was proud of all of his crimes. The most disturbing thing was the way he seemed to manipulate people. He had this charge, charm, a charisma that drew people in, made them do his bidding. His followers were brainwashed, completely under his control. They would do anything that he asked. One of his close friends had this to say about him. He had this twisted sort of charisma. It's the kind of charisma that

isn't going to appeal to everyone, but certain minds are going to be drawn in by it, the misfits, the outcasts, people living on the edge, or people who wanted to live on the edge. Here's the crazy part. We had reports from his friends that were beyond outlandish. We'd collect some of these people that were connected to P, jam them up pretty hard just to get some info to help build the case. They told us about crazy sex orgies, animal killing. But they also told us something that we hadn't heard yet.

Pee would throw parties wherein all the attendees would use the same knife to cut themselves open. Then Pee would drink everything that came out. We're talking quarts of blood in this guy's sense. stomach. Absolutely disgusting. Next-level stuff. Like I said before, this guy had been on our radar for a long time, but it wasn't until 2010 that it all started to close in around him. He took in a friend who had shot and killed a man in the woodland outside of town, and when his body was discovered the next day, authorities had pieced the crime together pretty quickly. By that, I mean we were looking for a named suspect. When we approached P, he lied, misdirected us,

muddied the waters of the investigation. Only later did we realize the suspect was being harbored at Pease House. So we arrested him as an accessory, gifted him some charges that would be on his record forever. Once he was on the radar, it wasn't long before we had a warrant for his property. The neighbors were already calling in for the smells, strange sightings, threats, all kinds of stuff.

On top of that, authorities had their own pile of questions and evidence that could only be answered, by taking pee and walking his property. When the officers arrived, one half moved inside to situate the Satanist, make sure he couldn't run or grab a weapon or conceal anything else. The other half of the officers patrolled the front and backyards, quickly finding what we were looking for, two shallow graves very near one another,

housing the brutalized remains of two different people, Tommy Welsh and Josh Wetzler, both of whom had been missing since 2009. The handcuffs came out, and we arrested both P. and his fiancée at the time, a woman named Amber Birch, who was complicit in essentially everything. Both men had been shot and killed, but there was evidence of further desecration of their corpses,

as well as possible cannibalism. We locked them up, as well as a few other accomplices, and the rest is pretty much history. The town bulldozed that hellhole of a house, deemed it unlivable after they discovered what was going on within it, only to never let it see another sunrise. P. went on to kill himself almost exactly one year later in prison, or at least that's the story. For some reason, I just can't believe that prick would commit suicide.

He was too proud, too much of a narcissist to ever do something like that. If it wasn't obvious from his behavior, the guy was desperate for attention. Now he was on the world stage behind bars. Part of me thinks some kind of shady justice got dealt to him. North Carolina is a heavily Christian state. especially Clemens. It wouldn't surprise me if a couple of correction officers, or even someone higher up, made sure peace stopped breathing that night. I can't even imagine how much he annoyed the guards in prison. This guy was constantly talking crap and giving any kind of attitude. But even now,

I can't shake that feeling of unease that this case has left me with. Pazuzu Algarad was a monster, true evil, and I'm just glad that he's dead and can't harm anyone else. I've lived in this neighborhood for over 20 years, and I've seen a lot of things, but nothing could have ever prepared me for the terror that was Pazuzu Algarad. That was the name that came later, though. I originally knew him as a boy named John Lawson and his mother, Cynthia. They moved in when John was still a boy, but that didn't mean he was normal or anything like that. He was just about the angriest kid on the block, always blowing up and yelling threats at people.

We'd see him or hear him screaming insults at his mother at least once a week, either inside the house or even in the front yard. She seemed to be a woman at her wits end, and I could see why. John made everything difficult, and honestly he seemed like he enjoyed doing it. It was absolutely no surprise when we would later learn he called himself a Satanist. All the clothes, piercings, tattoos, it all started to add up. Whenever we saw a pentagram painted on a sign or a brick wall, we assumed it was him and his stupid friends. At first, he was just a kid always getting into trouble.

I'd see the cops bringing him home or stopping by for a chat at odd hours. His mom always apologizing, always making excuses for his behavior. But I knew there was something off about him, even back then. As he got older, things only got worse. He started hanging out with a rough crowd. I'd see them gathered around his house. smoking and drinking. I'd hear strange noises coming from inside, like chanting and screaming. I tried my best to stay out of it, but it was hard to ignore. We lived right there. This was

right around the time that he actually changed his name. We started hearing Pazuzu up and down the block. Now I myself am a god-fearing man. I've gone to church every week for 40 years. I recognize the name that he gave himself from the movie The Exorcist. Again, I'm a Christian, but I enjoy a good scare. I remember hearing that name in the flick, so I decided to look it up for myself. It turned out that the name Pazuzu was a real demon in Mesopotamian culture. He was considered the king of all demons. His surname in the full right means the Lord of the Locust in Arabic, a truly frightening title for a kid who lives up the street from you. But at this point, he was starting to turn into a man. He was a legal adult. He could change his name. I only

only know his surname because it was spray painted in the parks. The guy was a problem throughout the community, but no one had the brass to approach him. The cops had been involved in his life since he moved to the neighborhood, but for whatever reason, nothing ever really stuck. They'd come, ask questions, then leave, then do it all again the next month, the same song and dance. I'm sure P. and his followers said it was due to Satan and their sacrifices. Satan was protecting them from recourse, and who knows, that could have been true. It didn't last very long, as I'll never forget the afternoon the cops flooded our neighborhood, patrols up and down the block, and a group going to knock on the door.

The patrols were just in case he tried to flee, I suspect. Running never really seemed his style. P liked conflict, liked confrontation, and anyone in our neighborhood would definitely agree with me. But again, after a bit of questioning, they left again. This time only for a week or so. The police would later come back, much more subtly this time, and ran what was going to be a full raid on his house. He ended up stepping out and giving himself up.

I'm almost positive they were prepared to kick in his door and everything. P. caught his charge as an accessory to murder, and served a short stint, as I remember him appearing back just a few months later, maybe a year at most. At this point, there was a girl with him all the time, always in and out of the house. She was nowhere near as scary as P was, but she had a mean face and a bad attitude.

She never really had anything kind to say. We avoided her just as much as we did her boyfriend. There would be parties, loud music, sometimes dozens of people showing up to do drugs or whatever else they were up to. The rumors themselves were horrific. Sex cults, drug overdoses, abduct and kill animals from the neighborhood,

all that usual satan, panic panic kind of stuff. We avoided the house at all costs. But even if there was any kind of racket, no one ever left their house, music blasting, people screaming, all that going on at two in the morning. What do you do? Go over to the psychotic Satanist's house and risk being murdered, not a chance. We'd call the police, and they usually wouldn't even bother showing up. P. controlled the neighborhood back in those days. It's a mark of shame for all of us who lived there. But then 2014 came along, and the real story broke. It was much the same, though, cops crawling up and down the street,

but this time they actually went in the house, lots of them. The rest paraded into the front and backyards, outfitted with metal detectors and cadaver dogs. It wasn't long until we heard barking and a whole lot of shouting. Then we heard it again. Two hits, I suspected, and later confirmed by a voice shouting to the others. Get the commander on the line, we've got bodies back here. It was a gruesome thing.

Two men had been buried back there for as long as five years. They'd been missing since 2009, local boys. They'd likely run with groups somehow affiliated with Pizzou. Either someone spoke out of line, a drug deal went bad, or something occurred for P to kill them. Until we learned that his girlfriend had actually killed the second, a real duo made in hell, if you will. It was a huge relief to the community when both he and her were arrested and never seen in town again.

By April of the next year, after the case closed and all the charges were properly filed, the city came in to demolish the house. It was a bittersweet day. Many of us were happy to see it go, especially after the police went through it. The building itself was full of blood, carcasses, and human excrement. The amount of work required to make it livable again would have been ungodly. And after so many crimes throughout so many years, it was just time to bury it. Literally, the whole block came out to watch it get pushed over and loaded up into the back of a big dump truck. By the second day, there was nothing left but the rubble of the foundation.

It was relieving and still is to this day. P and his cronies disappeared, and apparently, the guy offed himself not long after being arrested. So much for the Lord of the Locust. Although I must confess, part of me was still drawn to the whole thing. I couldn't believe how close to my life all of this had gone down. I found myself thinking about the evil that lurked just across the street. I wondered if it would linger. One night, I found myself curious enough to walk over to the empty lot and just look at it.

I needed to see that there weren't ghosts dancing under the moonlight or corpses crawling up out of the dirt. I got over there and found nothing, just random leftover debris from the demo. The only thing unpleasant that lingered was a smell, and honestly, it took a couple of weeks to dissipate. That level of death and decay doesn't just go away, even if you destroy every scrap of the home. It's literally in the earth at that point. The only other thing that remained was just a heavy presence. When I crossed the street, I felt a weight just come down on my shoulder, like I didn't want to be over there, but I needed to see it for myself.

There was nothing. I turned back after 10 or 15 minutes of studying the area. When I did, I heard something, a voice. I don't know what it said, but it was unmistakable. It sounded like pee. I'd heard that kid yelling up and down the street for more than a decade at that point, so I knew his voice for many others. It sounded like a laugh, but also sounded like words.

dumb-ass old man is what my brain pieced together. But here I am ten years later, still unsure to this day. But I can tell you there's nobody over there. I think it was just a fragment of my imagination. Years of terror have been put to rest, but my brain still thought he could be around. He wasn't. He died in a cell not long after that night. I don't hear him anymore, and the air on my street smells better than it ever has.

I left Colorado at the crack of dawn, the air already hinting at the scorching heat of the day to come. I had packed everything the night before, taking extra care to leave enough food and water for my cat, Morris. He watched me with those piercing green eyes, as if he knew I was off on some grand adventure without him. Don't give me that look, I told him, scratching behind his ears one last time. I'll be back before you know it. I'll even leave the TV on your favorite channel. By 5.30 a.m., I was on the road, the sky just beginning to lighten. There's something about the early morning hours that I love. The world feels fresh, untouched. I adjusted my mirrors, set the GPS, and glanced at the map spread out on the passenger seat. I felt like Kit Carson, preparing for a

trek into unknown territory. California was a long way off, and I knew I'd have to stop for the night somewhere before hitting the Rockies. The drive was uneventful at first. I hopped onto the interstate, the miles ticking by as the radio played softly in the background. The scenery changed from the lush greens of Colorado to the arid, open spaces of Nevada. As the day wore on, the heat intensified, but the promise of a new destination kept me going. By the time the sun began to set, fatigue was setting in. I consulted the map again and decided to stop in a small town in northern Nevada. Or at least, that's what I thought it was. As I approached, it became clear that town was a generous description.

The GPS directed me off the main road and onto a dark, narrow path. I drove slowly, my headlights cutting through the inky blackness. The town, if you could call it that, consisted of an old gas station and a rundown motel. There were no other cars in sight, no lights, no signs of life. This doesn't look like an incorporated area, I muttered to myself. I pulled over, peering into the darkness, hoping to find something more promising up ahead. But the map confirmed it. There was nowhere else to stay the night until after the Rockies.

I glanced at the gas station. It was clearly abandoned. The windows broken and the pumps covered in rust. The motel, set back about 200 feet from the road, wasn't much better. It looked like it hadn't seen a guest in years. Still, the thought of driving any further, half asleep at the wheel, wasn't appealing. As I debated my next move, I saw a flicker of movement near the motel. A dark figure slipped behind the building, vanishing into the shadows.

Maybe it was the motel owner? I got out of the car and called out, Hey, can I get a room? Where's the office? My voice echoed in the stillness, but there was no reply. Curiosity got the better of me. I walked around to where I'd seen the figure disappear, finding a door that looked like it led to a cellar. For a moment, I thought I heard a faint moaning sound.

I shook it off, probably just the wind. I headed back to the front of the motel and pushed open the door. Inside, it was pitch black. I fumbled for my flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. The air was stale, filled with the scent of decay and disuse. As I moved further inside, I heard a faint crackling sound like a radio tuned to static. It was coming from behind a door at the end of the hall. A shiver ran down my spine. Something about this place wasn't right. I decided it was better to push on through the night than stay here.

But as I turned to leave, I caught sight of the dark figure again, this time standing just out inside the window, watching me. My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn't see their face clearly, but there was something unsettling about the way they stood, unmoving, staring. I had to get out of there. I bolted for the door, my footsteps echoing in the empty motel. As I reached my car, I glanced back one last time. The figure was still there, now standing in the doorway, their silhouette framed by the dim light of my headlights. I didn't wait to find out what they wanted. I jumped into the car, started the engine, and drove off into the night. My heart racing, the eerie image of the figure burned into my mind. The motel room was a step above

a cave. The bed was old, the mattress sagging in the middle like a tired old horse. But it was a bed, and after the day I'd had, that was enough. I locked the door behind me, bolted it for good measure and drop my bag on the floor. I tore open a pack of jerky and a loaf of bread, the meager dinner doing little to settle my nerves. I tried to shake off the encounter with the dark figure, convincing myself that fatigue was playing tricks on me. I looked around the room, my eyes settling on a vent at the base of the wall. Strange, given there was no visible air conditioning or heating system. Just one more oddity in a place full of them. I laid down on the bed, staring at the vent, trying to dismiss the eerie feeling creeping over me.

The mattress was uncomfortable, but exhaustion eventually pulled me under. I woke to a sound, faint, but persistent. I lay still, listening intently. It was coming from the vent. The same wheezing breath I'd heard from the creature earlier. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I stayed motionless, trying to control my breathing, hoping the sound would stop, but it continued, steady, and relentless. Hello, I whispered, my voice trembling. The wheezing stopped abruptly. The silence was worse, an oppressive void filled with my rising panic.

I sat up slowly, every muscle tense. I had to get out of there. I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text to my parents, hoping they'd see it when they woke up. Hey, dad and mom, I'm at a motel in northern Nevada. creepy place, saw a weird guy, heard moaning from a cellar. There's wheezing coming from a vent, leaving as soon as possible. No sooner had I sent the message than my phone buzzed with a reply. My parents must have had their phones nearby.

Son, your mother and I just saw a report on the news. A missing person was reported in that area. Multiple disappearances linked to an abandoned motel. Get out now. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. my breath came in short rapid gasps the vent weased again louder this time almost like it was mocking me i grabbed my keys and shoved my phone into my pocket i couldn't stay here another second I crept to the window and peered out into the darkness. The car was right where I left it, and there was no sign of the figure.

I tried to steady my nerves and unbolted the door as quietly as I could. The wheezing from the vent grew more insistent, a garbled noise mingling with the breath, as if the creature was trying to speak. I yank the door open and bolted for the car. Behind me, I heard a guttural scream, a sound that froze my blood. The creature was right behind me, its deformed face contorted with rage. I fumbled with the keys, finally managing to unlock the car and jump inside. I started the engine, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

As I sped away, I saw the creature in my rearview mirror, its mouth flopping around, emitting that horrible wheezing noise. I drove into the darkness, the headlights cutting through the night, my heart racing with fear and adrenaline. By the time I reached my parents' house, I was beyond exhausted, but too wired to sleep. I told them everything, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. My father called the police, and soon the FBI was involved. It was then that I learned the motel's dark history, decades of disappearances, never solved.

I had narrowly escaped becoming another victim. The memory of that night stayed with me, a shadow that never quite faded, a reminder of the horrors lurking just beyond the edge of the familiar world. I've lived in this remote cabin for five years now, surrounded by nothing but trees and snow as far as the eye can see. It's a place where winter rains supreme, and the storms that roll in can be catastrophic. I've learned to prepare for them, stockpiling firewood and food, and making sure my generator is in good working order. This isn't where I live all the time. I inherited the cabin from a relative after he passed, and honor the memory of the family traditions built there. I try to spend a few months out of my year residing in

this cabin to maintain many of its more delicate features, as well as escape the droning hum of city life. I came here seeking solitude, a place to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. I was a writer, or at least I tried to be, but the constant noise and distractions made it almost impossible for me to focus. Out here, I can work on my craft without interruption, and the silence is almost palpable. I feel like I am connected to my family being in that cabin, and I also feel connected to myself. I rekindled my old hobby, started making progress in a number of different projects, most notably a novel that I still haven't finished yet. My days out there are fairly simple. I wake up early, tend to my fire, and then spend some time writing. After that, I usually take a walk in the

woods, exploring the trails and streams that crisscross the forest. It's amazing how much beauty there is in a desolate landscape. When I'm not doing the fun stuff, I spend an incredible amount of time splitting wood, fire-wising the property, fixing the multitude of creaky stepboards, or splitting window sills. The back and forth of extreme seasons is really hard on the cabin exterior, and if it isn't addressed each year, it becomes a bigger problem very quickly. My uncle's left the roof unattended for two years and had a leak not long after. It's just the name of the game living in a structure that your grandpa made with his bare hands. That is to say, it isn't winter all the time here.

Spring comes, and everything is wet for two months, absolutely saturated to the point of flooding. The last month's break, and suddenly a heat wave comes in, dries everything out, and even threatens a drought. Fall brings those whipping winds that blow away. the last rays of summer. Then it's dark, dreary, and snow-packed once again. Winter changes everything. The storms can last for days, and the snow drifts can reach up to the windows of my cabin, sometimes well beyond that. It's a time of quiet and contemplation, and the only sound is the howling wind and the creaking of the trees. Sometimes the wolves will call up to the moon, but things like that don't really frighten me. They never have. What frightens me is,

people. This is the story from my family cabin that happened in 2001. After one particularly bad storm, I noticed something strange. Footprints in the snow wandering around my property and out into the woods. They were light, as if whoever made them was trying not to leave a trace. This is weird because there aren't any other cabins out here for at least 25 miles. This was deep in the national forest, prime backpacker and hunting territory. But there were about a dozen of a us that had property scattered around the mountainside. Parcels of land without running water, just walls, and a roof. Footprints in my area might not be the strangest thing, as there was a lake further up the mountain, but for the most part the cabin properties were tucked away and done so

on purpose. Usually, if someone accidentally came upon my property, they would quickly turn around, perhaps wave if we saw each other, then go back the way they came. These footprints, however, seemed to circle around the outskirts of my property over and over again. I counted at least five laps, which took me nearly 30 minutes to complete. Whoever was walking around out there had some sort of agenda. I kept an eye out for anyone hanging around the woods, but as the snow melted, the prince slowly disappeared too. I never saw anyone. I just assumed it was a distant hiker passing through. The laps around my cabin were weird, but I chalked it up to being something logical, like maybe he was looking for service or something, thought maybe my cabin would have

better luck getting a signal. I looked to see what direction he may have gone after wandering off, but the overlapping nature of the tracks made it really hard to tell. Three or four days went by, and I didn't see anyone else, but periodically there would be fresh prints in the snow. There were these little dustings coming through, replenishing the melted snowfall on the ground. Every single time it snowed, there would be a new set of troughs. tracks somewhere outside, that same weird boot print. By the end of the week, I was getting uncomfortable with this situation, as I was totally alone out there. There wasn't a quick way for the sheriffs to get to me. Then one morning, I actually saw him. I was fixing a cup of coffee

and stoking the fire when I caught sight of something outside the window, a figure lurking at the edge of the forest, dressed in these tattered clothes, with these hyper-eratic movements. My gut immediately told me that something was off. This person should not be here. I tried to get a better look, but they vanished into the trees before I even could. This shook me up so much that I didn't know what to do. Obviously, I wanted to barrel out of the door and chase after him, but something in my gut told me I would never find him. He was poking around but doing everything in his power not to be discovered. I realized I've been thinking about this person and situation non-stop for the better part of six days. Then it came to me. This was a perfect thing to write about.

The following is a real piece that I wrote the morning after seeing that stranger. I've seen him now, getting closer and closer to my cabin and barn. I know it's him, the stranger from the woods. I don't know what he wants, but I know I don't want him here. Why would he walk around here for so long, and in the middle of the night no less? The light is fading now, the shadows are growing sinister. I can feel a presence out there watching me, waiting for its moment to strike. I'll keep my rifle close and my eyes open, but I know I'm still unprepared. What could he want? What has he seen?

The days blend together in a haze of snow and darkness. I've taken to keeping my rifle by my side at all times now, even when I'm inside the cabin. I've seen the stranger's footprints every day now, always getting closer, always circling around my property like some sort of predator stalking its prey. I feel like a rabbit before a wolf,

trembling and desperate. I should go outside and empty the clip of my rifle in the air just to remind both him and me that I'm not a rabbit, but a man. I've tried to stay alert, to keep watch for any sign of him. The isolation is starting to get to me. I'm jumpy. Every little creak and groan of the cabin makes me spin around expecting to see him just standing there.

His eyes fixed on me, lips poised to speak. I wonder what he would say to me in that moment. A threat. What would the last words I'd ever hear be? I've tried to distract myself with my writing, but the words won't come. My mind is a jumble of fear and paranoia. I can't focus on anything except the stranger and his intentions. I've taken to pay things. facing back and forth in front of the windows, scanning the trees for any signs of movement. The snow is deep and untouched, a pristine expanse of white that stretches out to the horizon, but I know he's out there, watching me, waiting for his moment to strike. And then, one night, I see him.

He's standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes fixed on me with an unblinking stare. I raise my rifle, my heart racing, and take aim. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, just keep staring, his eyes boring into my soul like a cold, dead weight. I hold my breath, my finger trembling on the trigger, then suddenly he's gone, vanished into thin air, leaving me shaken and confused. I tried to tell myself it was just a hallucination, a trick of the light in the shadows, but deep down I know it was him, and I know he'll be back. The next day, I saw his footprints again, closer than ever before, They were right up against the cabin, as if he was trying to taunt me, show me that he can come and go as he pleases.

I knew I had to do something, but I didn't know what. I was literally trapped here, alone and vulnerable, with no way to call for help. All I could do is wait and watch and hope he didn't come for me. I made a vow that if I spotted him again, I would go straight to my neighbors and tell them what was going on. As the days passed, the snow began to melt, and the footprints, vanished as well. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the stranger had finally moved on. It was possible that he was a backpacker lost between cabins, maybe a friend on the mountainside. The woods were treacherous and very easy to get turned around in. I was telling myself all manner of stories to

keep the denial going. A day went by, then another. Soon I was coasting back to normality, but my peace was very short-lived. One morning, I woke up to the day. up to find a fresh pair of boot prints leading straight into my property. My heart sank as I followed them around my home and barn, watching as they circled each window, as if the stranger was searching for something. This was the exact kind of thing that I didn't want to find, and I knew I was no longer safe. Whoever this was was a complete whack job. All my denial went down the drain. The tracks wound back into the trees, then meandered into the barn. I can't tell you how nauseating it was, seeing them stomp into the darkness of that old building, one step at a time. There wasn't even

any electricity in there, so I couldn't just peek in and see what was going on. I needed a flashlight, and I needed to actually enter the structure. I did a full circle of the building and paused. There were no exit tracks. Whoever entered my barn was still inside there. Despite the chill in the air, my body turned to absolute ice when I realized he was probably looking out at me through the boards. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight, mind racing with the worst-case scenario. As I entered the barn, I followed the muddy, snowy tracks, the stalls and bales, my heart pounding in my chest. Whoever this was, they did a pretty thorough job exploring. I followed the tracks all over and saw all the stuff they had touched. This was a pretty decent-sized barn, a few hundred square feet.

grandpa kept animals on the property during his day so this is where they stayed throughout the winter now it just housed extra equipment stuff to make repairs and apparently some drifting lunatic hiding somewhere inside the dark then i saw him a dingy homeless man with fire-red hair hiding behind the boards and hoses in the back he looked up at me with this crazy glint in his eye and i knew i was in trouble Hey, mister, he said in this monotone voice. I didn't respond to him. I just watched the cold clouds of our breath reach out and meet one another. I confronted him with the rifle, forcing him outside into the daylight. He was wearing ripped jeans and a dirty old poncho, had this placid look on his face as if this were a typical Monday morning for him.

The clothing he had was seriously dated. I could tell he'd been wearing the same outfit for years. His boots were all but blown out, and now I understand why those tracks look so funny. They had absolutely no tread on them. It was long worn to nothing. I kept a healthy distance, and the barrel trained right on him. None of this even bothered the guy at all, though. We got out into the yard, and I continued questioning him, but he just gave me these nonsense answers, his words tumbling out in a mad stream.

I realized he was mentally unwell, and my fear quickly turned into pit. pity. He was tall and skinny, almost emaciated. His hands looked severely injured, as if he'd broken them before, and they never properly healed. His red hair was frizzy and long, tucked under a beanie cap. He had a red, bushy beard like a caveman. He was covered in freckles and said his name was Adam. Honestly, now that I saw him, I wanted to ask him some questions, but I knew it would lead to nowhere. I'd never find out where he came from or what his story was. Instead, I just told him to leave my property, giving him loose directions back to town. He nodded, but I could see the madness in his eyes. As he turned to leave, he produced this red bick lighter from his pocket.

Would you take this? he asked. For what? I countered. Anything. I'm not supposed to have it, he explained. I might use it. What are you asking? What? You ask? me, I tried to clarify. A drink, anything, he said. I eyed the lighter warily, but refused. Just leave, I said, my voice firm. I didn't want to get tied up with this guy any more than I already was. You can drink some snow melt, but you can't stay here. I'm sorry, but you need to go, man. He wandered off into the freezing woodland, never looking back. The last thing I heard was him just talking to himself. His words a dark, dreadful litany of him. He was a dark, dreadful litany of crazy, insane things. It almost sounded like he thought he was in school or something. He referred

to me as Mr. Schooner, and I could hear him referring to other Mr. and Mrs. underneath his breath. He was having flashbacks of some kind, and I have no idea where he actually was. I watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and unease. I knew I had to tell the local sheriff deputies about the stranger and those strange occurrences on my property. As I turned back to my cabin, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just encountered something dangerous, something that lurked beyond just the edge of insanity. As I settled back into my routine, I couldn't help but wonder if I had really seen the last of that red-headed stranger, or if he would return, his madness burning brighter than ever. I wondered a lot about that lighter, and what he was trying to communicate to me.

He wasn't allowed to have it. What did that mean? Weird stuff. But I guess that guy was crazy after all. Two days of calm had passed since that red-headed stranger's departure. I almost convinced myself that the encounter was just a strange anomaly, a blip on the radar of my isolated life. But then I saw it, a smokestack rising in the distance in an area where no houses stood.

The black smoke rolling away was a dead giveaway. Wildfire. My heart racing I radioed in, only to find out that it had already been reported and responders were on the way. But I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The memory of the dirty lighter that the stranger had offered me, lingered in my mind like a shadow. He hadn't just entered my barn but my very psyche. He lurked in the great folds of my brain too.

Curious, I hopped in my truck and drove toward the fire, arriving just as the first wildland firefighters were pulling up as well. And then I saw him, that red-headed stranger, shirtless, waving a smoking branch around as he ran between the trees. I approached the firefighters explaining the situation with Adam, and they quickly radioed for law enforcement support. Soon the police arrived, the fire was doused, and the stranger was arrested. I watched gratefully as the chaos was brought under control. Adam didn't try to resist at all, simply surrendering to the law the moment they asked him to. As I drove back to my cabin, I couldn't help but wonder if the stranger's madness had been the spark that set that fire. I also knew I'd come very close to disaster.

My property almost burned to the ground by the whims of a madman. He turned out to be a wakadoo from the next stayed over, had quite the reputation for getting himself into trouble, usually in the depths of winter. He was a roadside drifter, heavily addicted to hard drugs, further exacerbated whatever underlying mental illness he already struggled with. Deputies got him to a clinic for treatment and evaluation, and I didn't hear much more after that. What I do know is this. I think I'm very fortunate not to have fallen victim to that guy. I don't think he was actually capable of killing me, but he definitely could have set my house and my barn on fire. That was definitely a year I'll never forget. I settled into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking

beneath me as I adjusted my position. The familiar scent of the car, a mix of old coffee, Max's cologne, and the faint smell of gasoline, wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. Max, my boyfriend of five years, flashed me a tired smile. His dark eyes held a mix of exhaustion and excitement as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I felt a thrill of anticipation wash over me. We were finally heading home. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the campus as we pulled out of the parking lot. We had spent the last few hours scrambling to pack our belongings, saying goodbye to friends, and grabbing a quick dinner before hitting the road.

It had been a whirlwind, and we were both fried, but the prospect of surprising our families for the holiday weekend kept us going. They had no idea we were coming, and the thought of their reactions filled me with a giddy excitement. Max merged onto the highway, and the darkness seemed to swallow us whole. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft murmur of the radio playing some obscure indie station that Max was obsessed with. I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes, and letting the rhythmic thrum of the wheels on the pavement lull me into a state of relaxation.

Don't die on me now, Max said, his hand resting on my thigh. I'm just resting my eyes, I replied smiling. Max chuckled and tickled the inside of my leg, causing me to jerk upright and laugh. He always knew how to get me. We had already put an hour or two of driving behind us, and Max was holding up like a champ. We had been together since freshman year in high school, so this wasn't our first time driving home together. We were both thrilled to be escaping the chaos of campus life, even if only for a few days. Our families would be ecstatic to see us.

I couldn't wait to indulge in some home-cooked meals and quality time with them. Max was excited to get back and wrestle with his little brother on the mat. Hey, check it out. We got a road buddy, I said, peering into the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights came up the interstate, not so fast that it was alarming, but enough to catch my attention. Once they got maybe a quarter of a mile behind us, they slowed to a more neutral speed and just coasted a lot. long. For some reason, I always preferred having cars on the road when driving late at night. It helped me feel like I wasn't completely out there alone. As the miles flew by, the landscape outside my window transformed from suburbs and forests to rolling badlands, hills,

scrub brush, and even cactus. The GPS announced our progress in a soothing voice, the screen glowing with an ethereal light. Max and I chatted sporadically, Our conversations punctuated by comfortable silences, where we would just jam to whatever song was on. The night wore on, the stars twinkling above like diamonds scattered across the sky. At some point, I dozed off, my head lolling against the window as Max continued driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The music had changed to some soft rock station, the melodies blending together in a soothing haze. Soon I drifted off to sleep, a temporary one that was.

would come and go for the rest of the night. The hum of the engine, the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and Max's presence beside me created a cocoon of safety. Little did I know, this drive home would be anything but ordinary. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the darkness outside our windows deepened, and an eerie sense of foreboding began to creep into my dreams. I woke up with a start, the eerie silence of the highway broken by a sudden sharp sound. linking the sleep from my eyes, I looked around disoriented. The headlights behind us were closer now, almost too close. My heart began to race as I tried to shake off the remnants of sleep. What's going on? I asked, my voice thick with drowsiness. Max's jaw was tight, his hands

gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. I don't know, but they're driving weird. I'm going to let them pass. The vehicle behind us didn't seem to want to pass, though. Instead, it stayed right on our tail, its headlights glaring through our rear window. My stomach tightened with unease. Why are they doing this? I muttered. More to myself than to Max. The car behind us suddenly killed its headlights, plunging the road behind us into darkness. My pulse quickened. What the hell?

Max's voice was strained as he tried to maintain control. The vehicle swerved into the other lane, then back again, edging closer to our bumper. panic bubbled up inside me as I clutched the edge of my seat. In an instant, the vehicle rammed into us, sending our car skidding off the road. Max struggled with the wheel, but it was too late. We careened through brush and rocks before coming to a jarring halt in a ditch. The world spun around me, and everything went black. When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the taste of blood in my mouth.

My head throbbed, and I could hear the same soft rock. rock song from before, now playing through the car's broken speakers. There was a breeze in the car, and I realized one of the windows must have shattered. Kendall, oh my God, are you okay? Max's voice was a panicked whisper. I nodded, still trying to process what had just happened. Our car was stuck in the ditch, the engine sputtering. The dashboard lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over our surroundings. That's when I saw them. Two men emerging from the darkness, their faces twisted into cruel grins. They stumbled toward us, their boots crunching on the gravel.

I could see the beat-up truck they had come from in the red light of our brake lights. Well, well, well, what do we have here? One of them sneered, leering at me through the window. A couple of lovebirds all alone? The other man laughed, planting a boot against the side of our car. The whole vehicle rocked, and I felt the shattered glass from the windshield. dig into my lap. I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, and the impact had thrown me forward. Max locked the doors, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone.

Call for help, I croaked, my voice barely audible. The men began to circle our car, their footsteps echoing through the night. Y'all a long way from home, ain't you? One of the men asked, his voice like a rusty gate. Shouldn't be out here all alone? Leave us alone, Max shouted, his voice cracking with fear. The man laughed again, a harsh grating sound. Now that ain't very nice, he said, then smashed his fist against Max's window. The glass held, but the thump was so loud, I yelped. Max and I exchanged a terrified glance.

We were trapped, with no way to escape. The men outside were drunk and unpredictable, and I could see a knife glinting in the moonlight. "'We're going to teach you all some manners,' one of them said, dragging the knife along the side of our car with a screech. The other man laughed and turned back to their truck, saying something about getting a shotgun. Max's grip tightened on the wheel. "'We can't just sit here,' he whispered.

"'We have to do something.' Panic surged through me as the man with the knife pressed his face against my window, grinning. "'Oh, honey, I like it when you're scared,' he said. Max looked at me, determination hardening his features. Stay down, he said, and then he flung open his door launching himself at the man with the knife. Chaos erupted. Max tackled the man to the ground, and they struggled in the dirt.

The other man turned, shotgun in hand, and I screamed as he aimed it at Max. Time seemed to slow as Max wrestled the knife away, and the shotgun fired, the blast echoing in the night. The next few moments were a blur of movement. in noise, and when it was over, Max was standing, bloodied but triumphant, and the men were retreating, their faces pale with fear. I sagged back in my seat, shaking with adrenaline. Max climbed back into the car, breathing hard. Let's get out of here, he said, and I nodded, my heart still racing. As we drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had just narrowly escaped something far worse than a simple car accident. The night was still dark, the road still long, but we were alive, and that was all that

mattered. I gazed out at the winding logging trail, my mind flooding with memories of my youth. My dad would drag my sister and me out here, deep into the wilderness, to go boondocking, camping off the beaten path where the only sounds were the trees creaking and the wildlife roaming free. I had fond memories of hiking through these woods, exploring the streams and waterfeworthy, and sleeping underneath the stars. Now I was bringing my own son out here, hoping to recreate those memories and forge new ones. As we turned onto the trail, the trees seemed to close in around us, casting long, ominous shadows. The air grew thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. My son was excited to be on his first boondocking trip, chattering enthusiastically in the passenger

seat next to me. His name was Andrew, and at the time he was thundalking. He was thundixte. And at the time, 13 years old, just about to start high school after the summer. But as we wound deeper into the woods, I felt a growing sense of unease. The trail was familiar, but somehow different. That's when we came around a bend, and I saw it, a hulking cell phone tower, its metal latticework looming over the treetops like a giant skeleton. I felt a jolt of shock and almost a fence. This monstrosity had been erected in my childhood playground. I glanced over at my son, who was staring up at the tower in awe. Dad, look, he exclaimed. I forced a smile, trying to hide my discomfort. Yeah, buddy, that's quite a structure. We continued on, passing a few campers and RVs, but I couldn't shake the feeling of annoyance.

That tower loomed over us, its presence disrupting the peaceful atmosphere of the woods. I decided to push on and find a spot far away from that tower so that we could still experience the wilderness as it was meant to be. The trail grew rougher, the trees closer together, and the shadows darker. My son's chatter had died down, replaced by an uneasy silence. I could feel his eyes on me, sensing my tension. I tried to reassure him with a smile, but my mind was racing. What was that tower doing out here?

Who had erected it and why? What kind of people would camp so close to such a monstrosity? The question swirled around in my head like a vortex, drawing me into a series of dead-end thoughts. Then, just like that, I was over it. The reality was that my feelings were hurt. Seeing that tower felt like a slight against all the memories I had with my father and grandfather out here, as if it somehow overrode them and took them away from me.

I just gripped the wheel and pushed deeper in. into the forest, determined to find a good place to spend the night. As we bumped along the road, the trees seemed to close in around us, the air growing thick with an unsettling energy. I knew we had to keep moving to find a spot where the wilderness was still wild, where the memories we would make would be untainted by that looming presence of the tower. We rounded a bend in the trail to find a picturesque meadow unfolding before us. It was nestled in a tranquil valley, the sun lighting up the area and illuminating the rolling hills and woodlands beyond. I glanced over at Andrew, his eyes wide with excitement, and I knew we'd found our perfect campsite. I parked the truck

and helped Andrew gather firewood before setting up the tent. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the occasional bird call or rustling leaves. As we worked, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. This was what boondocking was all about, escaping the and bustle, reconnecting with nature and sharing it with the next generation. With camp now set up, we decided to take a short hike to get our bearings. The dry creek bed nearby offered a natural path, winding its way through the hills and woodlands. We followed it, our footsteps echoing off the trees until it intersected with a serene lake. The water sparkled in the fading light, and I felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Andrew, I remember this lake. I see.

said, my voice barely above a whisper. I came here with your grandfather so many years ago. Andrew's eyes lit up. Is there fish in there, dad? I smiled. Lots and lots of trout, son. This lake is a hidden gem. Not many people even know it's back here. As we scan the shores, I noticed something odd. There wasn't a single fisherman in sight. The lake was untouched, pristine. Andrew then asked if he could fish, and I agreed, but told him we have to do it tomorrow. He nodded, his face aglow with excitement. As we headed back to camp, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the meadow in a warm orange glow. We spent the evening swapping stories, watching the stars twinkle to life above. The fire crackled, and the smell of

hot dogs and beans filled the air. Andrew chattered about his school year, his eyes sparkling with wonder. I listened, my heart full of pride and nostalgia. We settled in for the night, the darkness pressing in around us. I focused on the peacefulness of the moment. I think everyone has that feeling when they go camping, though, feeling unprotected, unshielded out in the darkness of the wild. It lends a natural vulnerability. It's probably human to feel an instinctual fear deep inside when we look out into the night.

Soon, though, we said good night to one another and went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, the sound of crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl led me back into a sense of security. I passed out and got some of the best sleep of my life that night. The morning crept over the hills, casting a warm glow over our campsite. I stirred the embers of last night's fire, adding fresh kindling to coax the flames back to life. Andrew emerged from the tent, rubbing the sleep from his eyes,

and we set about making breakfast. The sizzle of bacon and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee quickly, filled the air, and my stomach growled in anticipation. After breakfast, we set up a makeshift archery range. Our targets pinned to a tree about 30 yards away. Andrew and I took turns shooting, our bows creaking as we loosed arrow after arrow. The thunk of the arrows hitting the target was very satisfying, and we spent the morning lost in the rhythm of shooting and retrieving. This was a new pastime, not something I ever did with my father. It was cool to be forging new memories with my son. Next, we laced up our hiking boots and tackled the highest

hill in the area. The climb itself was grueling, but the view from the top was breathtaking. We sat on a rocky outcrop, our legs dangling over the edge, and gazed out at the rolling hills and woodlands below. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. By the time we returned to camp, the sun was high overhead, and I was exhausted. He exhausted. Andrew, on the other hand, was still raring to go. Hey, Dad, can we go fishing now? he asked. His eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. I smiled, happy to oblige. Sure thing, kiddo. Just be careful and don't go too far.

I helped him gather his gear, and he set off towards the lake. His rod in one hand and tackle box slung over his shoulder. I watched him go, feeling a sense of pride and nostalgia wash over me. My little boy was growing up, becoming more and more independent by the day. It reminded me of myself, sneaking off to explore alone, feeling the weight of becoming a man. As soon as Andrew disappeared from view, I crawled into the tent, my eyes heavy with fatigue. I collapsed into my sleeping bag, feeling the softness enveloped me. The sound of birdsong and rustling leaves lulled me into a deep sleep. As I drifted off, though, a feeling of unease quickly came over me.

The woods seemed quieter than usual, the silence almost oppressive. I pushed the thought aside, telling myself I was just tired and needed to get over it. But deep down, I knew better. The wilderness was full of secrets. I had a feeling we were about to uncover one. Then something woke me up. I wasn't sure what at first, but it was very loud and abrupt, a shrill sound of some sort. I snapped awake, disorientation.

unsure of where I was, or even what time it was. The stillness beyond the nylon of the tent told me the sun was going down. As I unzipped the door, I found that to be correct. Andrew was nowhere to be seen, and panic quickly rose inside me. I tried to calm myself down, reminding myself that he was handy and capable. He had a flashlight, a small first aid kit, even a pocket knife. He could take care of himself for a couple of things. hours. As I exited the tent, I started getting camp together, splitting kindling, getting the

fire going, and prepping dinner. As the time wore on, the forest grew darker and darker, and I started to worry again. Worrying about my son, I looked over in the direction of the lake and heard that same shrill sound again, a deafening shriek from a little higher up the hill. It almost sounded like a woman screaming, but after another shriek, I placed it for what it actually was, a mountain lion. They have this incredibly shrill sound that they make, and for a moment, I was petrified. I knew Andrew was probably on his way back. I realized he could confuse the sound for a woman screaming, maybe go into the woods for help, which could be fatal. I grabbed my flashlight and my pistol, and began the jog over to the lake, all while hearing that mountain lion

shriek. Soon the water came into view just as the last of the sunlight was disappeared. and I could make out Andrew on the far side, getting ready to march into the woodland. On my side of the lake was all his fishing gear, but across the water, all I could see was his back. He was looking up into the trees on that hillside for any sign of what was making the sound. It had lured him all the way around the far side of the lake and was now coaxing him into the darkness, into whatever trap that animal had set. I screamed for him to stop, just in time too, and then instructed him to come over to me. He jumped, turned, and then slowly started making his way back over.

It took him a while, a good 20 minutes or so, to hopscotch the rocks and shoreline, but he finally made it intact. Thank God. What the hell were you doing? Andrew admitted he thought those sounds were that of a distressed woman. I'm beyond relieved that I prevented such a fatal mistake. I explained to him the dangers of the predators in the wild, and we spent the night listening to coyotes and out.

owls, sometimes that mountain lion, until we both slipped off to sleep. Andrew didn't catch any fish, but he did learn a great deal about survival. By the next morning, the area was thick with law enforcement, forest rangers, and even some game and fish wardens. There had been a mountain lion attack during the night, right inside someone's camp, where a man was attacked and his dog was killed. Andrew and I, blown away by our good fortune, decided not to risk our luck for another night. We packed up camp, our senses still on high alert, and made our way back down the mountain, grateful to have escaped the clutches of that mountain lion's deadly claws.

During the long weekends and the right seasons, my favorite pastime is through hiking. Some people call it backpacking, but I like to call it conquering long-established distances. Examples of this would be the Appalachian Trail or the Arizona Trail, both of which can take months to fully complete. These are daydream hikes for me, as the excursions I map out are anywhere from 20 to 40 miles, and only take two to four days. This is because I like to hike alone,

pretty much in deep wilderness, well away from civilization. I overnight camp wherever the trail leaves me, then pick up where I left off in the morning. My story is about a time I was doing a through hike in an area familiar to me. In fact, it was one of my favorite places for a quick turnaround trip. It's beautiful, it's jagged, and the people stick to the main draws and paths, so it's easy to leave them behind.

I drove out to the trailhead, parked my truck, and spent some time making sure that I had everything packed up. There is nothing worse than getting out on the trail, putting a few hours between the trail, you in your vehicle, only to realize you forgot matches, or your reading book in the glove box. There is no turning around. I just have to make do with whatever I might have forgotten. After ensuring everything was secured, I shouldered my pack, the weight feeling familiar and comforting, then set off from the trailhead with a sense of excitement and anticipation. In two days, I'd be finished with this section of the trail. I've done this before many, many times. There's something special about this particular stretch. Maybe it was the promise of solitude or the challenge of the

terrain. Whatever it was, I was ready for it. The first few hours flew by in a blur of sweat and exertion. I hiked with purpose, my boots eating up the miles as I wound my way through the trees. The sun beat down on me, warming my skin and casting dappled shadows on the ground. As I passed other hikers, backpackers and day-trippers, I exchanged nods and pleasantries as we crossed paths. The trail was well-worn, and I knew I wasn't alone out here. As the day wore on, though, the crowd started to thin out. I found myself completely alone out there on the trail. The trees grew closer together, the canopy overhead of vibrant green. I heard the burble of a stream up ahead, then followed the sound to a picturesque clearing.

Fishermen dotted the banks, their lines cast out into the water. I watched for a moment. I watched for a moment, mesmerized by the gentle ripples on the surface. As I continued on, the trail led me higher and higher into the mountains. The air grew cooler, the trees more sparse. I could feel the weight of my pack digging into my shoulders, but I pressed on, driven by a sense of determination. Finally, after hours of climbing, I crested a ridge and found myself in a stunning clearing. The sun was still high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the scene before me. I dropped my packed to the ground, relieved to be free of its burden for a moment, then took a moment to soak it all in. The clearing itself was a natural amphitheater, surrounded by towering trees and a ring of

boulders. A small stream ran through the center, its source and destination unknown to me. I explored the area, my boots quiet on the soft earth. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me. This was exactly why I made these trips, for the therapy for my body, mind, and soul. There wasn't any danger out here. One of my first chores for making up my camp was to clear away a healthy blanket of poison ivy. I keep a knife like most hikers, but I also carry a decent-sized machete strapped to the exterior of my pack. It's good for angles that I can't reach without taking the straps off. I used it to whack away the poison ivy and keep the area clear of any potential rashes. As I made it, I made

my way back to my pack, I noticed something odd, a piece of fabric caught in the bush. I walked over to investigate, my mind already turning over possibilities. It was definitely a piece of cloth, but it was torn and frayed. It looked old, like it had been here for a really long time. I shrugged it off, telling myself it was just some leftover from a previous hiker. But as I set up my campsite, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was now being watched. I looked around but there was nothing out of the ordinary, just trees, rocks, and the quiet of the wilderness. I gathered firewood, reset the stones around the pit, then set up my single-person tent and a stump to sit on. I even whittled a spear and tried my hand at fishing in the stream. Later, I settled in for the night,

my fire crackling and spitting as I cooked my dinner. The sky was beginning to darken overhead. I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. This is exactly. where I wanted to be. But as I lay there, trying to enjoy that sunset, that feeling crept back in, that feeling that I wasn't alone in this clearing. I tried to think back to the last place that I saw anyone, and the only ones I could remember were the fishermen down at the bottom of the hill, a solid two miles away and well off the trail. By that, I mean there wasn't any actual path that would lead anyone directly to me. They'd have to follow the glow of the firelight, And even then, that would be very odd behavior for the area that I was in.

As night began to fall, I settled in, trying to just relax after that long day of hiking. But the darkness continued to deepen, and I started to hear a strange noise off in the distance. At first, I thought it was just an animal, but the sound grew louder and more persistent. I tried to ignore it, telling myself it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But as the minutes ticked by, the noise grew louder and more intense. It sounded like someone was hurt or in distress. Now my instincts kicked in, and I knew I needed to investigate. It was like a flapping sound.

It's really hard to explain. I wasn't sure if it was an injured hiker or an injured animal, but something was off with what I was hearing. I grabbed my flashlight and set off into the darkness, my heart slamming with anticipation as I made my way through, the trees. I stumbled upon more evidence of recent human activity, more fabric caught on branches, discarded hiking gear, even a recent fire pit. My mind continued to race with possibilities. Was someone injured? Was someone lost? I started to entertain even darker thoughts, like maybe someone

was disposing of a body out here. I pushed through a thick patch of trees, my flashlight casting eerie shadows on the ground. And then that's... That's when I heard it. The sound of voices panicked and urgent. I rounded a boulder and suddenly found myself face to face with a young couple, naked and intertwined in a passionate embrace. When I say I rounded the corner and they were there, I mean I almost stepped on them. As they were rolling around, I almost bumped into their flesh as they rocked back and forth.

To take it a step further, I could literally smell the deed in the air. It was strange and honestly kind of gross. For a moment we all froze, our eyes locked in a silent understanding. I was the intruder, the unwanted observer. I apologized, trying to back away, but they didn't really react well. They both went into a complete panic but made no effort to dress themselves. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I repeated. I thought someone needed help out here.

You're a pervert. How'd you even find us out here, dude? The guy screamed at me. You like sneaking up on people? The girl pressed, You're going to prison! They were up and coming right at me, screaming all types of manner of crazy insults.

I had no other option but to keep backing up, trying to get away. But as I did, my steps became more and more rapid. I was glad to have my good boots on, with no heavy pack across my back, light and fast, just what I needed to be. Something had obviously snapped inside that couple.

They launched themselves at me, rocks and insults flying through the air as they chase me through the forest. And I mean it, they were actually throwing rocks at me. When I saw this, I knew they were crazy, and I couldn't let them get any closer. If they were willing to throw rocks, who knew what they would do if they could actually get their hands on me? I ran, my heart pounding in my chest,

flashlight casting wild shadows on the trees. I could still feel their rage and anger, their desperation to protect their secret, I knew I was in some kind of danger here. As I stumbled through the underbrush, I could almost feel their breath on my neck, their footsteps closing in closer and closer. I was all alone, vulnerable, and completely at their mercy. I knew I had to just keep running, no matter what lay ahead. I crashed through the forest, my feet pounding against the earth as I desperately tried to escape them.

They were gaining ground. footsteps closing in on me like some kind of predator. I could still feel that rage and that anger, that desperation to catch up. It was such a weird reaction to my accidental intrusion. Any normal person would be embarrassed and try to cover up. It made me wonder what I really discovered out there, was the girl underage, kidnapped, who would hike out miles and miles into the middle of nowhere just to do the deed? It just seemed very strange. I continued fumbling around in the darkness, my flashlight beam casting eerie shadows around me. I knew the flashlight was a liability, giving away my position with every step. I needed to get rid of it. I darted around a massive

trunk and killed the light, just holding my breath. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I could still hear the couple crashing through the underbrush, their footsteps growing louder and louder with every passing moment. They were like wild animals, driven by a primal fury. I pressed myself against the tree, my heart racing in my chest. I could almost feel their eyes on me. Slowly, the couple moved off in the direction of my camp, their naked bodies disappearing into the darkness.

I let out a sigh of relief, my muscles relaxing ever so slightly. But I knew I couldn't stay here for long. I had to get back to my camp, get my gear, and get the hell out of here before they came back. I continued creeping through the darkness, my senses now on high alert. I could hear the couple's distant shouts, their insults and threats echoing around the forest. They were still out there, still searching for me, and would continue to do so for many, many hours. This was a crazy, scary experience, and one that stays with me to this day.

Slowly and silently, I left my hiding place and crept back to my camp. There was no one there, no naked assailant waiting for me in the brush. I pocketed my flashlight, grabbed my machete, and proceeded to pack up all my gear as quietly as possible. With shaking hands, I continued to pack, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. I knew I couldn't hike back to the trailhead in the dark, not with those two lunatics on the loose. I had to hide and wait for dawn before I could make any kind of move. I got everything secured, loaded onto my back once more, then proceeded back into the forest, away from the sounds of that thrashing couple.

I moved up the hillside, my eyes fixed on the rocks above, and tucked myself away into a small crevice, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear their footsteps, their labored breathing as they stumbled through the darkness themselves. They were getting closer still, and their anger and frustration were very palpable. I figured that if they caught me, they would try to kill me. Why else would you spend so much time and so much energy hunting someone down? As the night wore on, the shouts grew louder, their insults more vicious. They were out of breath, still scratching and bruised, but they would not give up the chase.

I could still see them stumbling around through the darkness, their naked bodies barely illuminated by the faint moonlight. They passed my hiding place more than once, their eyes. scanning the rocks above me. I held my breath, my heart frozen in my chest. They were so close, so close to finding me. I had to stay hidden. I had to wait until dawn before I could make any kind of escape. Thankfully, their shouts grew fainter, their footsteps disappearing into the distance. I let out a sigh of relief, my muscles relaxing ever so slightly. I had made it through the night, but I knew I couldn't stay here for very long. I had to get to. get out. I had to get back to civilization before those two psychos came after me again.

The morning was uneventful, almost to the point that I started to think maybe I hallucinated the whole encounter. I remembered the clearing of the poison ivy and wondered if there was another plant mixed in with them, something that might make me hallucinate or something like that, but I couldn't imagine what that would be. I trudged down the hillside until I intersected with the main river and came upon more fishermen. They waved to and I waved one back, continuing on my merry way back to my truck. I never saw that couple again, and I can also tell you that was the only time I didn't finish a through-hiking trip. It was just too weird and crazy, too scary to try to push through it. After that, I kept my eyes on the papers

for anything weird in that area the rest of the year, but never saw anything reported. I took a few months off and planned more trips in a more remote area, and I never did have anything like that happened to me again. For that, I'm very thankful. For as long as I can remember, my family and I have shared a deep love for the great outdoors, particularly the enchanting allure of the forest, the allure of nature's symphony, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the melodious songs of birds never failed to captivate our senses. The verdant foliage, adorned with vibrant flowers, created a kaleidoscope of colors that danced before our eyes, while the towering trees whispered ancient secrets to those who would listen. It was a place where tranquility and serenity

embraced us, soothing our souls in the embrace of nature's embrace. Our excursions into the wilderness were often brief, day trips filled with laughter, exploration, and a shared appreciation for the natural wonders around us. But the recent addition of an RV to our family provides provided an opportunity to embark on a new adventure, an overnight camping trip nestled within the embrace of majestic mountains and the allure of the forest. Excitement bubbled within us as we meticulously planned our journey. We imagine gathering around a crackling fire,

its warm glow casting dancing shadows upon our faces. The scent of burning wood, mingling with the crisp mountain air, would create an intoxicating aroma that would forever be etched in our memories. in our memories. Finally, the day arrived, and we eagerly set off, our RV becoming our mobile sanctuary. The journey itself was a testament to the beauty of the land we traversed. Majestic peaks rose like sentinels, their snow-capped summits piercing the heavens. As we delved deeper into the heart of nature's domain, our anticipation heightened, and our hearts beat in sync with the rhythm of the forest. Upon reaching our destination, we carefully parked our art

RV, a tiny fortress amidst the towering giants. The forest seemed to embrace us, its silence broken only by the distant chirping of birds bidding us welcome. The air carried a crispness that invigorated our spirits, as if it whispered tales of forgotten legends and ancient mysteries. With each step we took, the forest welcomed us into its secret realm. Our senses were intoxicated by the sweet aroma of pine needles underfoot, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil. Sunlight, filtered through the canopy above, created dappled patterns on the forest floor, like nature's own mesmerizing tapestry. As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the campsite, we gathered around

the fire pit. Amelia, our adventurous and nature-loving daughter, was brimming with excitement at the prospect of building a fire. Amelia's eyes sparkled as she clasped her hands together, her voice filled with anticipation. Dad, I can't wait to make the fire. Can I help? Please? A smile stretched across my face, mirroring the twinkle in her eyes. I nodded, appreciating her eagerness to participate in this age-old ritual of outdoor adventure. Absolutely, Amelia, I replied, my voice laced with fatherly pride.

You can gather some dry branches and twigs. just be careful not to venture too far into the forest. With an enthusiastic nod, Amelia seized a small weathered basket and darted towards the beckoning trees and rustling underbrush. Watch out for the prickly bushes, sweetheart, I called out, a touch of caution in my voice. And remember, stay within sight.

Her voice, tinged with determination, floated back to me on the gentle breeze. Don't worry, Dad, I'll find the best branches. As Amelia vanished into the verse, urgent embrace of the forest, my wife Emma, emerged from our trusty RV. Her graceful movements belied her quiet excitement as she retrieved the carefully packed food provisions from within. Emma's nimble fingers unwrapped the ingredients with a practiced ease, her eyes glimmering with a mix of culinary artistry and familial warmth. She hummed a gentle tune under her breath,

her love for nurturing our family evident in every deliberate action. Meanwhile, I busied myself, by unloading the essential cooking equipment from the storage compartments. With the clinking of metal against metal, I extracted the gleaming grill grate and stoked the coals, preparing the stage for a delicious outdoor feast. After a while, with a skip in her step and a glimmer of triumph in her eyes, Amelia emerged from the lush foliage, clutching a trove of dry branches and twigs within the sturdy basket.

Yet nestled in the crook of her other arm was an unexpected treasure, an enchanting discovery that had captured her young heart. Amelia's voice bubbled with excitement as she approached, her words tumbling forth. Dad, look what I found. It's a small teddy bear. Isn't it adorable? Curiosity sparked within me as I studied the small weathered toy she presented. Its once vibrant colors had faded, its fur slightly disheveled, but it bore an undeniable charm. A silent narrative unfolded before my eyes. eyes, envisioning the laughter and companionship this cherished possession once brought to another child.

A mixture of caution and wonder mingled in my voice as I questioned, Where did you find it, sweetheart? It seemed someone may have lost it. Amelia's face radiated with innocence and genuine affection for her newfound friend. I found it near a tree, Daddy. Maybe another family played here, and the teddy bear got left behind. Can I keep it, please? my instinctual protective nature rose, a desire to shield her from the potential disappointments that accompany lost treasures, yet a tender understanding blossomed within me. This small act of generosity and acceptance would foster her sense of empathy and compassion.

Considering her wide-eyed enthusiasm, I yielded to the warmth in my heart. All right, Amelia, I relented with a gentle smile. If it brings you joy and reminds you of this beautiful adventure, then you can keep it. Amelia's jubilant squeal filled the air, punctuating the acceptance of her request. With an affectionate hug, she embraced her newfound companion, promising it a future filled with endless tea parties and imaginary adventures. Aferi set the fire, with a satisfying crackle, the flames sprang to life, dancing and flickering

in a mesmerizing rhythm. The golden tendrils reached towards the night's sky, casting a warm, glow upon our faces. The radiant heat embraced us, dispelling the chill of the evening air as we gathered around the enchanting inferno. I meticulously arranged the equipment we had brought, positioning the sturdy metal grill over the roaring fire. The scent of wood smoke mingled with the tantalizing aroma of seasoned meat, sizzling and sputtering as it made contact with the heated grates. The tantalizing melody of crackling embers serenaded our senses, a symphony of a symphony of anticipation and contentment. My wife, her eyes sparkling with both determination and tenderness,

deftly prepared the ingredients that would transform into a feast of flavors. The rhythmic symphony of chopping, the aromatic dance of herbs and spices, and the gentle sizzle of ingredients meeting the heated pan created a harmonious tableau of culinary artistry. Amelia, wide-eyed and filled with wonder, took her place by my side, her small hands outstretched in eager anticipation. I showed her how to position the meat on the grill, carefully instructing her on the art of achieving the perfect sear. Her youthful enthusiasm ignited a sense of pride within me, as I witnessed her embracing the opportunity to contribute to our family's culinary adventure. We still need some firewood. I will get some until it gets darker. I will be right back, I told Emma, and I delve deeper into the wilderness. The air was

thick with the scent of pine and earth, a symphony of nature enveloping me as I wandered amidst towering trees. My fingers brushed against dry leaves and moss-covered rocks, searching for the elusive twigs and branches necessary to further kindle our flames. But my curiosity led me further ahead, my gaze alighting upon something beyond the ordinary. What the hell? I murmured. My voice was like a whisper amidst the wilderness. I hesitated whether or not to go closer, my instincts prickling with unease. Perhaps just another camper, I told myself, though doubt lingered in my mind. I cautiously approached the abandoned camper van, each step echoing in the eerie silence of the forest. A sense of unease crept over me, intensifying with every closer stride.

The van, though not ancient, bore the unmistakable marks of neglect and abetka. abandonment, standing alone like a forgotten relic amidst the wilderness. Hello? My voice broke the stillness, but no reply greeted my inquiry. It was as if the very air held its breath, shrouding the scene in an unsettling silence. Abandonment hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over the once vibrant camping spot. My eyes scanned the scene, taking in the disarray that surrounded the camper. Camping equipment lay strewn haphazardly, a jumbled testament to the hurried.

hurried departure of its previous occupants. But it was the ominous black stain on the ground that drew my attention, a stark reminder of some past calamity, perhaps a fire that had ravaged this place. As I moved closer, my gaze was drawn to a chilling sight. A massive scraping marred the side of the camper van, like a grotesque scar etched into its metal skin. It seemed almost as if some colossal force had clawed at the vehicle, leaving behind a haunting testament to its power. The stillness of the campsite was oppressive, suffocating, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation of some unseen threat. Not even the birds dared to break the silence with their song, lending an unsettling quality to the desolation that surrounded me. With a shiver of

apprehension, I realized that I stood on the precipice of a mystery, the unanswered questions hanging in the air like a thick fog. What had transpired in this forsaken place? And more importantly, was I truly alone in this silent wilderness. The hairs were raising on the back of my neck and walked away from the silent sentinel of metal and glass. I retraced my steps through the labyrinth of trees, the distant echo of our footsteps mingling with the whispers of the forest. I was immediately relieved as the warmth of our camp awaited me, and I was not sure if I should tell Emma that I had seen another RV deeper in the forest. I decided not to. It might ruined the warm atmosphere of our moments. The crackling fire and the tantalizing aroma of the

cooking meat woven enchanting tapestry around us, casting a spell that encapsulated the essence of togetherness. As the minutes ticked by, we shared stories, laughter, and the warmth of familial love. The darkness around us seemed to fade away, replaced by the glow of our shared experiences and the promise of a memorable night. In that moment, it was not just the flickering flage, that illuminated our campsite, but the intangible bond we shared as a family. We were not merely three individuals gathered around a fire, but a tapestry of love, connection, and shared dreams. The crackling fire served as a beacon, illuminating the path towards a future filled with shared adventures, cherished memories, and an unbreakable bond

that would withstand the tests of time. As we reveled in the joyous harmony of food and company, The night sky glittered above, painting a breathtaking backdrop for our intimate gathering. The stars, like sparkling witnesses, bore witness to the magic that unfolded in that humble campsite. In the symphony of crackling flames and joyful chatter, we savored the beauty of simplicity, finding solace and fulfillment in the warmth of our shared presence. It was in this tranquil moment surrounded by the wilderness and enveloped in the embrace of our loved ones, that we realized the true essence of love. life's blessings, a serene respite from the world's chaos, and the unrivaled joy of being together,

just the three of us. As the sun dipped below the horizon, surrendering the world to the embrace of darkness, a palpable chill crept into the air, sending shivers down our spines, whips of mist curled and swirled around us, lending an ethereal quality to the night. Feeling the temperature drop, I retrieved a thick, cozy blanket from the confines of our trusty RV. Its soft fabric, woven with memories of past adventures, held the promise of warmth and comfort. Gently draping the blanket over Emma and Amelia, I ensured their precious forms were shielded from the encroaching cold. Amelia, her energy waning with each passing moment, fought against the drowsiness tugging at her eyelids. Her yawns, like tiny symphonies of weariness, punctuated

the tranquility of the evening. Sensing her fatigue, I knelt down beside her. My voice filled with gentle concern. Sweetheart, it's getting late, and you look tired, I whispered, my breath carrying warmth in the crisp night air. Would you like to go to bed? Amelia's eyes, still sparkling with the remnants of excitement, met mine. A yawn escaped her lips, a delicate melody of exhaustion. However, her spirit remained steadfast, determined to revel in every last moment of our outdoor escapade. No, Daddy, she replied, her voice a soft murmur. I'm not sleepy yet. I want to stay here and enjoy the campfire. Her response resonated with the boundless enthusiasm of youth, and I couldn't help but smile at her unwavering spirit. In that instant, I understood that this was a rare and precious opportunity,

a chance to immerse ourselves in the magic of the night, to surrender to the allure of the crackling flames and the mysteries concealed within the darkness. Then I thought of the camper van that I had just seen, and for some reason, it made me feel uneasy. Trying to ignore it, I settled myself beside Amelia, the fire's radiant glow casting enchanting shadows upon our faces. Emma, her hand tenderly clasping mine, joined us.

Her presence, a comforting, reassurance amidst the whispering night. As we sat there, the crackling fire casting an other-worldly glow upon our little circle, a symphony of silence enveloped us. The distant chirping of nocturnal creatures mingled with the soft crackling of the firewood, creating a harmonious lullaby that serenaded us into a state of tranquil contentment. Stars, like celestial lanterns, punctured the ink-black canvas above, their shimmering brilliance a testament to the vastness of the universe, and the infinite possibilities that lay beyond our mortal reach. The fragrant scent of pine mingled with the smoky essence of the campfire,

intoxicating our senses and anchoring us to this moment of fleeting serenity. Time seemed suspended, as if the world had paused to allow us this respite from the frenetic pace of life. We basked in the warmth of the fire, our souls nourished by the shared silence and the bond forged through the simple act of being present with one another. But amidst the tranquil symphony of nature, a rustling in the nearby underbrush shattered the stillness. The sudden disruption reverberated through the air, jolting us from our serene reverie. Emma's eyes widened, her hand instinctively tightening its grip around mine.

Amelia, her youthful curiosity peaked, looked to me for reassurance. What was that, Daddy? Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling flames. I cast a soothing smile in her direction. my attempt to allay any growing fears. It's probably just an animal, sweetheart, I reassured her, my voice carrying a calm certainty, maybe a deer or a boar exploring the woods,

nothing to be worried about. Yet, as the rustling persisted, growing louder and more distinct, even I couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease gnawing at the edges of my composure. The sound seemed to possess an undeniable weight, suggesting a presence larger and more formidable than initially anticipated. Emma's eyes darted nervously between the surrounding trees,

her senses attuned to the slightest movement. Are you sure, dear? she asked. Her voice tinged with apprehension. It sounds quite substantial. Instinctively I rose to my feet, my protective instincts surging within me. Stay here, I instructed, my voice firm but laden with an undercurrent. of caution. I'll go check it out. It's probably just passing through. With cautious steps, I ventured toward the origin of the enigmatic rustling, my ears straining to decipher its source.

I thought about the camper van. Was it possible that they could see our fire and wanted some company? That sounded ridiculous. Or could they have been in trouble? I should have checked that vehicle out. Each crackle of twigs underfoot seemed to amplify in the stillness of the night, magnifying my senses. As I neared the tree line, anticipation mingled with a lingering sense of trepidation. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rustling ceased, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The once vibrant symphony of nature now seemed muted, as if holding its breath in anticipation. I scanned the darkness, searching for any signs of movement, my heart thudding against my chest. Slowly I retraced my steps back to the warmth and safety of our campfire haven,

my senses on high alert. Returning to my family, I wore a reassuring smile, hoping to convey a sense of calm despite the lingering mystery. It's all right, I assured them, my voice infused with a newfound conviction. Whatever it was, it must have moved along. We're safe here. Relief washed over their faces, their tense postures gradually easing. We settled back into our makeshift sanctuary, the familiarity of the crackling fire offering a comforting embrace.

Our senses remained heightened, vigilant for any lingering signs of the unseen visitor. Just as a semblance of calm began to settle over our campsite, an otherworldly roar pierced the night air, tearing through the fabric of serenity. The sound, far from the natural symphony we had grown accustomed to, possessed a menacing quality that resonated deep within our souls. Its metallic timber reverberated through the darkness, sending icy tendrils of fear snaking down our spines. Amelia's eyes widened in terror, her small frame trembling with the weight of the unknown. Emma's expression mirrored the trepidation etched across our faces. This was no ordinary sound, a realization that hung heavy in the air. That doesn't sound like a deer or a boar, Emma stammered, her voice quivering with a mix of dispelior.

belief and dread. What could it possibly be? Before we could ponder further, the deafening roar reverberated through the night once more, closer this time. Its proximity shattered any illusions of safety that had momentarily settled over us. The air seemed to thicken, charged with an electric sense of urgency. Our instincts kicked into overdrive, urging us to abandon our belongings and seek shelter. Leave everything, I shouted, my voice laced with urgency. We have to get to the RV now. Without a moment's hesitation, we sprang into action. Emma snatched Amelia's hand, her grip tight and resolute, while I scooped up our precious daughter into my arms. My bear, she screamed and picked up her new toy. Her tiny hands clung to the worn bear with an

intensity that belied her tender age. The campfire, once a symbol of warmth and tranquility, was abandoned in an instant as we sprinted toward the sanctuary of the RV. The world around us blurred into a frenzy of motion as our legs carried us with desperate urgency. Fear propelled us forward, fueling our determination to reach safety. With each pounding heartbeat, the roar grew louder, its ominous resonance seemingly at our heels, a predator closing in on its prey. Finally, we reached the welcoming embrace of the RV, its sturdy frame offering a semblance of refuge from the unknown terror that lurked beyond. I swiftly deposit emilia onto the seat, her wide eyes reflecting the same mixture of fear and relief that mirrored our own.

As I fumbled with the keys, my hands trembling with a cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety, I spared a glance back at the abandoned campsite. The darkness swallowed our belongings, the remnants of our interrupted evening left behind as a haunting reminder of the inexplicable menace that had disrupted our peaceful retreat. With a trembling hand, I inserted the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life in harmony with the echoes of the unknown creature outside the r v became our fortress its metal walls shielding us from the terrors that lurked beyond as we pealed away from the once idyllic campsite the wailing roar echoed in the distance our hearts raced in unison our breaths coming in jagged gasps as we sought solace in the sanctuary of the rolling vehicle With a trembling hand gripping the steering wheel, I pressed my foot down harder on the gas pedal, urging the RV to accelerate.

The vehicle responded with a surge of power, propelling us forward with a newfound urgency. The engine roared in unison with the thundering beat of my heart, creating a symphony of adrenaline-fueled chaos. As the wheels churned beneath us, the surrounding trees became a blur of green and brown, their branches reaching out like ghostly spectres in our wake. The world outside the windows shifted in a dizzying dance, a kaleidoscope of fleeting glimpses and fleeting shadows. The headlights sliced through the darkness,

casting elongated shadows that flickered and danced upon the passing foliage. Each passing plant and tree seemed to contort and twist in the ethereal glow, their distorted forms morphing into grotesque silhouettes of their former selves. A heavy silence settled within the RV, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic wush of the rushing wind. Our breaths remained caught in our chests, suspended in a shared state of shock and disbelief. The weight of what we had witnessed hung in the air, a chilling reminder that the boundaries of our world were not as fixed as we had once believed. The scene we had left behind in the forest haunted our thoughts. A glimpse into a realm far removed from our own, something demonic, something that defied explanation.

The image of that otherworldly roar, and the malevolent presence it implied, lingered like a scar etched into our memories, forever imprinted upon our souls. Minutes stretched into agonizing hours as we raced along the winding road, each passing second feeling like an eternity. Our collective relief remained just out of reach, overshadowed. by the lingering unease that clung to us like a specter. The distance between the forest and the main road seemed interminable, every curve and bend in the road prolonging our escape. Finally, the familiar sight of the main road materialized before us, a beacon of respite in the darkness.

As the RV merged onto its paved embrace, a collective sigh of relief cascaded through the cabin. The weight that had burdened our shoulders began to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of safety and security. Yet, despite the relief that washed over us, the memory of the demonic encounter refused to dissipate as we were heading home. We knew that what we had witnessed in the depths of the forest would forever remain a haunting enigma,

a testament to the boundless mysteries that lurk on the fringes of our understanding. With weary bodies and restless minds, we arrived back at the familiar sanctuary of our home, The weight of the night's harrowing encounter clung to us like a heavy shroud, making the simple act of finding solace in sleep an arduous task. We all slept in the same bed that night. Tossing and turning beneath the covers, we battled against the remnants of fear that lingered within the recesses of our thoughts.

Morning finally broke through the darkness, casting its tentative rays of light upon our weary faces. The sun's gentle warmth filtered through the curtains, offering a glimmer of respite from the lingering shadows of the night. We emerged from our sleep-deprived haze, grateful for the sanctuary that our home provided. Gathering around the breakfast table, our shared silence spoke volumes.

We sought solace in the simple act of breaking bread together, a familiar routine that offered a semblance of normalcy amidst the lingering unease. No words were spoken of the night's horrors. Instead, we focused on the mundane tasks of the morning, the clinking of cutlery and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee serving as a comforting backdrop to our collective attempt at healing. As the day unfolded, we busied ourselves with the routine tasks, finding solace in the familiar rhythms.

Dusting shelves, tending to neglected plants, and tidying up the remnants of the night's chaos, became acts of therapy, a means of grounding ourselves in the reassuring normalcy of domesticity. The weight of exhaustion settled upon our shoulders, and we allowed ourselves moments of respite as the day wore on. Sunday, a day of rest, offered a reprieve. We retreated to the cozy corners of our home, seeking solace in the embrace of soft couches and plush pillows. As the hours slipped away, a quiet calm enveloped our home.

The once turbulent waves of fear and uncertainty settled into a gentle ebb and flow. Laughter and conversation began to permeate the air, intermingling with the familiar sounds of a household in motion. As the evening sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a warm glow through the living room window, we settled down in front of the TV, seeking solace in laughter and light-heartedness. I reached for the remote control, ready to immerse ourselves in the comedic world of a streaming service, when something caught our attention. The TV screen flickered to life, displaying the urgent and captivating headlines of the news. A mixture of curiosity and a tinge of apprehension filled the room, prompting me to pause and leave the news channel playing.

The news anchor's voice echoed through the room, delivering the shocking report of a missing family. My wife leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the TV, her voice trembling with concern. Amelia, her eyes wide with curiosity, leaned close. to the TV, her teddy bear still clutched tightly in her arms as she was listening to the newsreader. This is a breaking news update on a harrowing incident that has shaken the community to its core. The Hudson family who embarked on a seemingly routine hiking trip into the serene depths of the nearby forest several weeks ago, has tragically met a devastating fate. Today, authorities have confirmed the discovery and identification of their camper van and remains,

a discovery that has left investigators, medical examiners, and locals alike, in a state of shock and disbelief. The process of identifying the bodies was nothing short of a nightmare for the dedicated team of forensic experts. The unimaginable horror that unfolded in those woods rendered their task exceptionally challenging. Their bodies, torn apart by an unknown and unimaginable force, presented investigators with an enigma that defied explanation. Their positions were grotesquely twisted, their injuries inexplicable and mind-boggling. According to the investigators, an unknown force seriously damaged their RV as well. Medical examiners, renowned for their expertise, were left dumbfounded as they grappled with the mysterious circumstances surrounding this tragic event. The sheer brutality of their demise left them searching for answers that seemed to lie just beyond their reach.

The bite marks, enormous in size and ferocity, left on the bodies only added to the perplexity of the situation. Astonishingly, DNA testing revealed that these bite marks belonged to an unidentified creature, sending shockwaves of fear and disbelief through the community. The repercussions of this shocking revelation have reverberated throughout the town, leaving residents on edge and gripped by a pervasive sense of fear and uncertainty. The once serene forest, a place of solace and tranquility, now holds untold horrors that have shattered the peace and shattered the lives of the Hudson family. Authorities advise everyone not to go into the forest until they find out what happened and what killed the family.

As the newsreader went on, we all stopped eating our popacorn. In light of these disturbing developments, it is my duty to advise against venturing into the forest at this time, the safety and security that we were, once accompanied our tranquil natural surroundings have been shattered, replaced by an aura of uncertainty and fear. Folks, we cannot ignore the evidence before us, the evidence that points to an unknown and terrifying presence within those woods. I understand the allure of nature's embrace, the desire to explore, to seek solace, and to reconnect with the world around us. However,

in this moment, I implore you to prioritize your safety and exercise caution. The risk is simply too great, and the consequences too dire to ignore. I urge you to remain vigilant, to report any suspicious activities or unusual occurrences to the authorities immediately. Your eyes and ears are our greatest assets in keeping our towns safe. Together, we can overcome this darkness and restore a sense of security to our beloved community. In the coming days and weeks, we will keep you updated on the progress of our investigations, the country sheriff said to the reporter. According to the ancient tales of our indigenous tribes,

the newsreader's voice reverberated with a solemn tone. The depths of this forest are said to be haunted by a sinister entity known as the Black Beast. As the words hung heavy in the air, the camera panned over the tranquil landscape, capturing the rustic charm of a small Indian village nestled amidst the wilderness. Suddenly, the screen flickered to life, revealing the weathered visage of an elderly Indian man, his eyes bearing the weight of centuries-old wisdom. The black beast, the elder's voice resonated with a mixture of reverence and dread,

has cast its shadow over these lands for generations. His weathered hands gestured emphatically as he spoke, as if summoning forth the very essence of the creature from the depths of memory. It is a creature of terror, a specter that prowls the heart of the forest, its presence a harbinger of doom. The camera zoomed in, capturing every line etched upon the elder's face. Each wrinkle a testament to the trials endured under the watchful gaze of the Black Beast. We know not how it selects its victims, he continued, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and resignation,

nor why it chooses to spare some while condemning others to a fate worse than death. The picture went back to the studio again. As you have heard, these are just local legends, of course. We will continue to bring you updates on this developing story as more information becomes available. Our hearts go out to the Hudson family and all those affected by this unimaginable tragedy. Please stay tuned for further updates as we strive to unravel the mysteries that lie hidden within the depths of our world, the newsreader said. And they showed some photos of the Hudson family.

The images on the screen showed their smithes. smiling faces, frozen in time. The thought that the camper van I saw in the forest was the crime scene of a brutal and unexplained murder not far from our camp sent chills down on my spine. This was something I kept to myself, but we all thought about the same thing. The next ones could have been us. It was Mia's idea to go camping. In fact, most things we do start out as one of her ideas. Neither of us were exactly outdoor enthusiasts, but we had both great to go camping.

grown up in rural towns and did our share of hiking and fishing growing up. So I wasn't exactly daunted by the idea of spending a few days in the woods, but I wasn't excited either. School had just let out for spring break, and after another semester of getting kicked by midterms, it was very tempting to give in to my body's desire for a few days of uninterrupted sleep. Uninterrupted sleep, unfortunately, was not Mia's idea of a good time. She had been suggesting the idea to me for weeks beforehand, and I had always brushed her. her off by claiming I had other things coming up. But by the time the break rolled around, I had run out of excuses, and she had already prepared everything with me in mind. So it was decided.

We left on Sunday. Despite Mia making me wake up before the sun even rose to get on the road, I found myself in a strangely good mood. I had spent most of the previous day either eating or napping, the most uninterrupted rest I had gotten since Christmas. We drove up from Bakersfield, her truck bathed in the light of the desert sunrise. At first, we spoke of classes and tests, and then of a camping spot that she had found in the forests of the Sierra Nevada. It wasn't actually a campground, she informed me. It was something called dispersed camping,

which means you register a permit with park services, and then pitch a tent wherever you like. This also meant no water, heat, or electricity. Leave it to Mia to make sure everything we do is to the extreme. By the time the desert scenery had bled into the browns and greens of the Sierra foothills, I had rifled through all of our packs. I trusted Mia with the planning, but now that I realized we were going to be a little more off the grid than previously anticipated,

I just wanted to make sure. We each had our own private tents and sleeping bags, along with a few days' supply of food and water. Cooking utensils, first aid kits, and other items were divided up between our two packs, which were already stacked high enough to peek over my head when they were on my back. I recognized landmarks near Sequoia National Park in King's Canyon, but Mia took us farther north, and I lost track of the terrain. She turned on a trail that led us deeper into the mountains,

and pulled over when it ended at the foot of a hill. I was out here last week looking around for spots, she said, opening the car door. If we hike around this hill here, there's a sort of little valley with a lake at the bottom where we can set up. I groaned a little as I shrugged on my pack. How long a hike? I asked. I took a step forward and winced at the sound of pots clanging together. Next time I'm packing my own bag.

Maybe half an hour or so. A little cardio never heard anyone, I guess. And I bumped the pack higher before tightening the hip strap, trying to keep the weight from dragging on my shoulders. Mia was right. Just around the hill, the terrain dropped dramatic. towards a lake at the center of the valley, almost like a caldera, though I doubted there used to be any active volcanoes around these parts.

Mia led the way down, through some steep ground, where I worried I might slip and roll all the way down into the lake. But the firm dirt made good footing, and the trees made good handholds. Mia suddenly stopped. I heard the rushing of water. I peeked around her shoulder and saw that in front of us lay a stream, almost a small river if I was being generous. It also led towards the lake,

but a bend in the trail meant we had to cross it to continue. The snows up in the mountains must have begun to melt, because the stream had swelled in size, and the log that lay across it was already submerged by a thin layer of water. Only a few more minutes of walking after we cross this, Mia said, nudging the log with the toe of her boot. It seemed sound enough, despite being underwater. I'd watch out, I said.

leaning over the stream. There were tiny ripples at the surface, but it looked placid. They say that streams like these only look calm on the surface. Mia snorted out a laugh and stepped onto the log. Yeah, that's why I don't plan on swimming in it. She began to shimmy across, and after a few moments I shrugged and joined her. It wasn't a far crossing, maybe 20 feet, and we were making fast progress. But in the end, it was always the little things that got.

you. A little more than halfway across, Mia's foot slipped and she leaned forward to regain her balance. Her sleeping bag, tied to the top of the pack, broke loose from one of its straps and fell forward over her shoulder until it was caught mid-air by the remaining strap. That little momentum was enough. Mia tottered for a split second, and then fell. I was right. The current was fast. She reached out a hand to grab onto the log, but by the time she read, resurfaced, she was already too far downstream. I began to scramble across, hoping to get to the other side before she was pulled too far away. I guess some luck was on our side that day. The stream was fast, but it wasn't deep, and it couldn't pull her under. Some 20 yards downstream,

her pack had caught onto a fallen tree, and that was how I found her, gasping and sputtering. Maybe it was a combination of the adrenaline and the ice-cold water, but by the time we stumbled to the spot where we were going to set up camp, Mia was laughing hysterically. She had rolled her ankle during her stint in the stream and was limping on ahead of me while I stumbled after her with her pack, in addition to mine, strapped to me. I don't plan on swimming in it, Mia giggled from ahead of me, and then I fell right into the damn thing. Even I had to smile at that, despite being stuck with around 60 pounds of supplies. Maybe I did need some more action in my life. Now I really had a story to tell when I got back home. It was just about noon by the time we finished pitching our tents and hung

our wet clothes out to dry. Mia began digging a fire pit to cook our lunch as we had neglected to bring a jet boiler. I took this moment to take stock of my surroundings and was pleasantly surprised that we found a genuinely beautiful spot to set up camp. We were by the edge of the lake, where the mountains flattened out, and the tree line ended a few yards from the shore. After being in school dorms for nearly a year, The amount of quiet was almost uncanny, the only sounds being the wind in the trees and the waves breaking against the sand. It was alluring, like a lullaby. Mia cussed beside me and I looked over. She was struggling to get the fire going. Her hands shook as she tried to light another match. A small pile of used ones already lay by

her knee. Let me try, I said, sitting up. She had almost been pulled away by a stream an hour ago, I reasoned. Sometimes the shock only hits you after the adrenaline has gone away. I had more luck, and after the fire got going, the rest of the afternoon and evening went by pleasantly. I rummaged through my pack and found that Mia had packed marshmallows and chocolate for s'mores. I tossed the packaging on the ground and jokingly said, I see my pack was so heavy because it was full of all these essential supplies. Mia grinned, and then shrugged innocently. She grabbed the package of marshmallows and began unceremoniously shoving them into her mouth. Aren't those for cooking? I asked, and Mia looked up at me with a very well-acted

look of confusion. I laughed. When the sun set, both of us agreed to retire early so we could wake up at sunrise to explore the area in the morning. I shimmied into my tent and pulled the zipper closed. I checked my watch one last time before letting the sound of waves lull me to sleep. I woke up in the dark, and something was wrong. The air was heavy and my skin was clammy as if I had just broken a fever. Nothing was disturbed inside my tent, and the outside was still quiet. There was nothing reasonable that could have caused this feeling. It's hard to explain. Thinking back on it, the only conclusion I could come to is that we, as a species, are old. Younger than the forests and mountains, of course, but still old enough. And in that time,

we have seen many things. You can conjure up your life experiences and logic all you want, but deep down there is a part of you that simply knows when something is wrong, and in that moment, I knew. Suddenly there was a light tapping on the flap of my tent, and then a voice. You need to come outside, Mia whispered, and she sounded terrified. I took a few deep breaths, and clenched my pocket knife in a white-knuckle grip. In a flurry of motion, I unzipped the flap and stuck my face outside. I came face to face with Mia. Her hair was disheveled. and she looked to be on the verge of tears. I opened my mouth, but she clamped a hand down over my lips and motioned for me to be silent.

For a few moments neither of us spoke, and the only sound to be heard was our heavy breathing as we stared at each other. But then Mia's eyes slowly drifted away from mine towards the lake. I saw her pupils dilate until I could barely see the color of her eyes. Run, she whispered. I didn't have time to question her. She leaped up and sprinted into the woods. I didn't waste a second before getting up and following her. The two of us crashed through the undergrowth.

Perhaps Mia was clearing the way in front of me, because it was strangely easy. Maybe I was simply scared. Mia! I called to the shape in front of me, but there was no answer, only the sound of her breathing and the cracking of branches. Mia, what's going on?

Still nothing. And then, the adrenaline in my system began to run out, and suddenly I stopped. It was dark, almost too dark to see. We had left all our lanterns back at the camp, and the canopy practically blocked out any moonlight. We'd been running for several minutes, but there were no cuts on me, or branches clinging to my hair.

It was like I hadn't been forcing my way through the trees at all. It was as if they were welcoming me. Ahead of me, Mia had stopped too. She was standing still, and I couldn't hear her breath anymore. We have to keep going, she said. said, her voice strangely level. Not until you tell me what's going on, I called back. Mia shook her head.

It was even darker where she was standing, and I couldn't make out her face. But behind her was some sort of clearing, and the light coming through silhouetted her against the trees. We're almost out of the forest, she said, and I saw that she was right. There was nothing I would not give to be out of this god-forsaken forest. But no, it couldn't be. It took us half an hour to hike here, and that was downhill.

The forest could not end here. I was being reeled in, like a fish chasing a worm on a hook. Mia turned around, and as she did, she took a step towards me, an impossibly huge step. She had been several yards ahead, and now we were almost face to face. I ran. I turned around, and I ran like I was being chased by the devil himself. If the trees had been welcoming on the way in, they were the same. opposite on the way out. Branches caught on my clothes and cut my arms and face. I kept on

stumbling over tree roots and rocks, but I was undeterred. Behind me, I heard her running after me, but it didn't sound like Mia any longer. It sounded like, like it had four legs. I wasn't even tempted to turn around. I was too focused on running, and my eyes stayed locked on the light that marked the end of the tree line. I practically dove onto the beach and fell hard onto my hands and knees. I felt the bones in my wrist crunch at the landing. I continued to crawl until I was almost in the water before I turned around. There was nothing there. I wasn't far from our tents, and I watched in wonder as Mia's tent unzipped from the inside, and she stepped out. What are you doing? she asked grogily. I ran towards her and practically tackled her into a hug.

It was thanks to Mia that we both didn't fall because in that moment my knees gave out. There's something in the forest, I said, and to her credit, she immediately grew serious. Did you see someone? she asked, scanning the dark line of trees looming over us. No, I said. Well, yes, but I don't know. And at that moment I didn't want to tell her what I saw because speaking of it makes it all the more real. Something tried to lure me into the forest, I said at length. But I don't think it's human. Mia just stared at me. For a split second, I thought she was going to call me insane, but it never came. We need to get to the truck, she said.

If she had any questions, she refrained from asking them. No, I replied, regaining some of my composure. It wants us in the forest. We're as good as in the forest right now, Mia reasoned. The truck is right there. We need to leave. I looked up, and I could see the glint of the truck in the moonlight at the top of the hill. It seemed so close.

I outran at once. We could do it again, and there'll be two of us this time. Once we're there, we'll drive, and we won't stop until this freak show is hours behind us. We could be in Bakersfield by morning. But no, no, we couldn't, because the truck is more than a mile away, tucked behind some hill. We shouldn't be able to see it from here. It was simply impossible. Whatever it was, it was a good hunter, I admit. Because good hunters don't chase you with drums and torches. They come at night, and they come quietly, disguised as everything you could want. When you are in the dark, they are a light. When you are trapped, they are escape. And when you are lonely, they are company. I pushed Mia away. Why didn't you wake up when I ran into the forest?

I asked. She shrugged, and her facial expression clearly showed that she thought I was being an idiot. You were quiet, she replied. But you heard me when I came back. She looked me in the eyes. I guess you were louder. There was a tense moment between us where no one spoke. Then Mia threw her hands into the air in exasperation. What use is this? she shouted. We need to leave. I shook my head and took a step back. No, I said. I'm staying here. She looked at me like I had finally gone insane, but I wouldn't budge. Mia took a step toward me, and I flipped my pocket knife open and pointed it at her.

She stopped in her tracks and stared at me. You couldn't say she looked surprised. So it's going to be like this, huh? I nodded, and the two of us lapsed into yet another silence. After a while, she sat, and I followed suit. She talked to me all night. At first she tried to convince me that we needed to leave. She begged me, in fact.

She talked about how close the truck was and how dangerous it was to be out here. Then, as the night dragged on, she spoke of stranger things. She asked me if I was tired, and I didn't reply. You never have to be tired again, she said. I don't just mean tonight. What will you do once you leave? Go back to your life, work. You will be tired for the rest of your life.

You will die tired. She made a sweeping gesture with her hand that encompassed the expanse of trees behind her. You can stay here forever, she said. I promise you will never be tired again. When I didn't answer, she began to speak of her sisters. I knew for a fact that Mia had no sisters. She talked about how they would gather berries for me and how they would make me a crown of oak leaves to wear.

She told me that they stitched clothes with no seams and made fabrics from the foam of the sea. I was in a trance. She painted pictures in my mind of how they would fashion me flutes and harps, and how we would go dancing through the forest during winter, leaving behind only footprints in the snow. When you sing, she said smiling, the snows will melt,

and you will bring in the first flowers of spring. And even so, I did not move, and I did not sleep. Finally, just before dawn broke, Mia stood. So, this is it, and her voice didn't even sound like Mia's anymore. A marvelous hunt comes to an end, and she bent at the waist in a mock back. before turning around and walking into the woods. You may leave.

She laughed over her shoulder as she melted into the shadows. Her laugh echoed across the valley, making ripples in the water and shaking the trees like the wind. I didn't trust her. I waited until the sun was high in the sky before leaving everything but my knife, and I ran for it. I encountered nothing in the forest on the way back,

but I also didn't stop to look. By the time I was, reached the truck, my legs were burning, and I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. I am not lying when I say I did not touch the brake pedal even once driving out of those mountains. I never looked behind me either, but the trees cast shadows on the ground as I passed them, and just before I reached the edges of the foothills, I swore I saw one in the shape of a woman, and I saw it waving. I called park services at the nearest town and gave them a polished version of what happened. They searched the area and found Mia's body face down in the lake, carried there by the current. I don't know what I pulled out of that

stream, but it wasn't her. It might sound twisted, but I was relieved to hear the news. I had thought that, well, that maybe Mia had never been there with me, that it had planned this whole trip from start to finish. I'm still in shock, but I will mourn for my friend when the time come. I saw the stream. I knew how shallow it was. Mia should not have died, but it killed her. It got her, and it would have got me. So, as beautiful as its words sounded, I did not stay. It has no power outside. It lives in the forests. I will say it again. It lives in the forests. And when you see it, you will know. The morning was crisp, the sort that bites at your cheeks, and reminds you why a thermos full of coffee is a hiker's best friend.

I'd set out early, aiming to break in a new pair of boots on an unfamiliar trail I'd scouted on an old coffee-stained map of Washington State I kept rolled up in my truck's glove compartment. There's something about the quiet solace of the wilderness that always drew me in, away from the noise and clutter of everyday life. As my boots crunched over the frost-hardened path, the sun broke through the canopy in a lazy dappled pattern, lighting up the vibrant greens and deep earthy browns of the forest.

I was alone, or at least I thought I was, in a landscape where towering conifers whispered ancient secrets and the air smelled sharply of pine and damp moss. Deciding on a whim to veer off the marked trail, I ventured deeper into the woods. The further I went, the more the forest seemed to close in around me. The sounds of civilization faded, until all that remained was the rustle of leaves and the occasional distant call of a hawk.

About 20 minutes in, I found myself in a sunlit gully that promised new discoveries, and perhaps a view worth capturing on my camera. That's when I saw it, half hidden by a low shrub, a rusty metal ring, jagged and menacing. A bear trap, old and cruel-looking, lay in wait. My heart skipped a beat. One careless step more, and I'd have been a number. a world of hurt. Instinctively I took a step back, surveying the area with a newfound wariness. The hell you doing out here? The voice shattered the serene silence, gruff and laced with suspicion. I spun around, my hand instinctively reaching for the bear spray on my belt, only to find nothing but air. Who's there? I called out, trying to sound more confident than I felt. He emerged

from the brush like a ghost of the forest, a tall figure, his presence as rugged, as the wilderness around us. His long gray beard tangled with his dreadlocks, and his skin was weathered like leather, the scars and lines telling stories I wasn't sure I wanted to know. His eyes, intense and unblinking, fixed on me as he cradled a bolt-action rifle in his arms. I asked you a question, son, what are you doing here?

His tone was commanding, leaving no room for a weak response. Swallowing hard I managed, just hiking, sir. I didn't realize anyone was living out here. He eyed me for a moment longer, his gaze piercing. Then unexpectedly, his expression softened slightly. You see that trap back there, son? He nodded toward where I had just been standing. I nodded, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. Yes, I saw it. He spat a wad of tobacco into the dirt, his eyes never leaving mine. guess that means I gotta hide him better. For a moment, his deadpan expression made my heart plunge,

but then, without warning, he burst into a raspy, deep-throated laugh. Oh, I'm just kidding, son. He wiped a tear from his weather-beaten cheek, still chuckling. The tension broke, and I couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh, though it sounded more nervous than I intended. As he slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped closer, extending a rough, calloused hand, he introduced himself. Names Mark Hastings.

I took his hand, the grip firm and unyielding. Nice to meet you, Mark. That handshake sealed the beginning of an unlikely friendship, forged in the remote wilderness, where the shadows held secrets and the trees stood as silent witnesses. Mark's cabin was a patchwork of salvaged wood and stone, a testament to the rugged resilience of a man who chose wilderness over civilization. Over time, I'd grown accustomed to the crackle of the fire and the earthy smell of rabbit stew simmering on the hearth whenever I visited.

These visits had become my retreat, a place to escape the unending grind of the city. One evening as shadows lengthened and the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, Mark and I sat on mismatched wooden chairs outside his cabin. The air was cool, carrying the promise of night as Mark poured two glasses of his homemade honey ale. I remember liquid glowed in the fading light, and I took a sip, appreciating the subtle sweetness that tingled on my tongue. You ever seen anything really creepy out here? I asked. Curiosity peaked by the isolation and wild rumors I'd heard about these parts. Mark's face, usually an open book of hard lines and weathered expressions, closed off momentarily. He set his glass down with a deliberateness that made me tense. Zach, I tell you, there's things in these woods that'd make your skin crawl. He began with the tale of the whistler, a phantom sound that seemed to drift through the trees on nights just like this one.

Started off as just whispers on the wind, you know, but one night, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. It was like it was calling to me from the darkness, saw it too, up in the trees. Not human, not animal, something else. The fire popped, a spark shooting up into the night, as if punctuating his words. I shivered, not entirely from the cold. It gets weirder, Mark continued, his eyes reflecting the firelight as he described finding mutilated animals near his cabin.

Rabbits, squirrels, even a deer once. And then, one morning, Apuma, not killed by any beast I know, it's something cunning, something bad. The tales spun into the night, each one more unsettling than the last. When he spoke of government men in the woods, his voice dipped to almost a whisper, tinged with a blend of fear and anger. They're up to something out here, Zach. Seen him with my own eyes, doing things they shouldn't, makes you wonder who the real monsters are.

His stories filled the crisp air, weaving a tapehouse of conspiracy and supernatural that was hard to dismiss outright, given the setting and the solemn sincerity in his tone. It was during one of these conversations that Mark mentioned the tunnels. There are places out here deep below that ain't on any map. Old tunnels, long forgotten. I reckon that's what they're after, or maybe they put them there in the first place. Curiosity overcame me. Can you show me? Mark's gaze turned steely, his jaw set.

It's dangerous. Zach, but I suppose it's better you see with your own eyes. We agreed to go the following morning, and as I left that night, the forests seemed to close in around me. The usual nocturnal sounds were there, but so too was a silence that seemed laden with the weight of unspoken secrets. I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever lay hidden beneath these woods was not meant to be disturbed. The sky was a bleak tapestry of grays as I followed Mark through the dense underbrush. The chill morning air bite through my jacket. His stride was purposeful. His shoulders tense beneath the old brown coat

he always wore. The deeper into the woods we went, the more I felt the oppressive weight of the unknown pressing down on us. We rounded a bend and there it was, hidden away behind a thick grove of trees, an ancient stone-lined tunnel entrance, partially collapsed. It's dark maw like a warning. Mark stopped a few feet away, his face unreadable. This is it, he said, his voice low. One of many, but the only one I'll dare to show. The opening was blocked by rubble and earth, as if the forest itself had tried to swallow it back up.

I approached, peering into the shadows, feeling a mix of thrill and dread. What's inside? I asked, my voice echoing slightly against the stone. Bad things, Mark replied simply, turning to scan the surrounding trees. things forgotten and meant to stay that way i studied his profile the lines deepened by years of solitude and secrets why show me this because you ought to know what's out here especially if you keep coming back his gaze was stern almost fatherly there are things in these woods that don't take

kindly to intruders we didn't linger mark seemed anxious his eyes darting to the shadows that clung to the trees. As we walked back, the silence of the woods was oppressive, the usual sounds of wildlife strangely muted. Mark's stories replayed in my mind, of creatures, government conspiracies, and whispers of the supernatural. Back at his cabin, the fire crackled a warm welcome, but the comfort it offered felt shallow against my unease. Mark busied himself with skinning the rabbits he'd caught in his traps, but there was a tension between us that hadn't been there before. Mark, have you ever thought that maybe these stories, these things you've seen, are just your mind playing tricks, I asked, the question hanging awkwardly in the air?

He stopped his work looking up with a wry smile. You think I'm crazy, huh? Not crazy, just isolated. It can do things to a person's mind. Mark nodded, considering this. Maybe. But I know what I've seen and heard. The conversation shifted then, as if the mention of hearing had reminded him of something urgent.

If you're ever out here alone and everything goes silent all of a sudden, hit the ground, stay down until the sounds come back. His tone was so grave, so earnest, that a chill ran down my spine. And if they don't come back? Mark looked at me, his eyes dark pools of warning, then God help you. We ate dinner mostly in silence. The stew was rich in filling, but my thoughts were elsewhere, digesting not just the meal but also the enormity of what lay hidden,

both in the woods and within Mark himself. Later, as I prepared to leave, the air between us was thick with unasked questions and unspoken fears. At the door, Mark placed a hand on my shoulder. Be careful, Zach. Not everything out here is as it seems. I nodded, stepping out into the twilight, the echo of his warning, mingling with the whispering pines. As I drove away, the cabin disappearing behind me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving more behind than just a friend. I was leaving a mystery that was perhaps better left unsolved. I'll never forget the drive back from my uncle's funeral. It was a long,

solitary journey across state lines, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. I had been dreading this trip for weeks, as Uncle Pete had been fighting a losing battle for some time. But as I I hit the open road, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. The funeral had been a difficult ordeal, and I was just glad to be leaving it all behind. The drive itself was relatively painless, though it took a long time. I had to cut across several state lines and numerous counties for a total of a ten-hour trip. Not the worst thing in the world, but for an older guy like me, I found none of it appealing. Texas, New Mexico, and many other southwestern states are mostly flat and ugly, with nothing really to look at, and huge stretches of straight highway that

seemed to go on forever. I will say, though, I was in better spirits than normal because it was the return trip, and those always feel shorter for some reason. As I drove, the landscape outside my window changed from a bustling city to rolling hills, and finally to the vaturn. expanse of the Texas desert. I had been driving for hours. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the landscape, and I was making good time. I expected to be home a little before midnight. I settled in, cracked open a soda, and prepared for the most boring finish to a drive I could ever imagine. As I approached the border, I noticed a sign for a newly built rest stop. Having been driving for hours, I could use a break. I pulled off the highway and

into the parking lot, expecting to find a clean and welcoming facility. But as I stepped out of my car, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was just off. It was sundown at this point, and the glow was rapidly fading, leaving me in heavy twilight. The external lights of the facility kicked on and showed me the different routes to the bathroom. The rest stop itself was completely deserted except for a few cars parked sporadically around the lot. The building was modern and sleek. but it seemed to loom over me, casting an unending shadow in the fading light. I tried to shake off the foreboding feeling, telling myself I was just tired from the long drive. But as I approached the entrance, I noticed something that made my heart skip a beat.

A group of men were lounging against the wall, eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. They weren't dressed in costumes or representing a specific color, but it was obvious that they were gang-related, tattooed, shaved, heads, a mix of Latino and white, with bandanas draped around their necks or hanging out of their pockets. This was definitely the root of the dreadful sensation I had upon arriving. I nodded a brief hello that was not returned. I tried to avoid eye contact after that, but I could feel their gaze following me as I walked toward the entrance. I quickened my pace, my heart racing with anticipation. I'd heard horror stories from different folks over the years about border encounters

that could be fatal, but the gangs and cartels were all over the towns and cities, not just confined to the area I was in. I made it my mission to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside the bathroom. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered like fireflies in the darkness. The air inside was stale and heavy, thick with the scent of disinfectant and something else, something sweet and acidic. I wrinkled my nose trying to place the smell, but it lingered just out of reach. Honestly, it was probably vape exhalation. I just hadn't placed it yet. Vaping was still kind of new when this happened to me. As I made my way to the urinal, I looked around and found I was alone, thank God. Not that I have a shy bladder or anything,

but if there had been anyone waiting for me in the restroom, my only option would be to run. I figured the crowd outside was waiting to snatch me up. No one in the bathroom meant there wasn't any kind of plan in place. I remember I saw an average Joe out in the parking lot and just hoped to God their presence would keep the peace. I stood there for only 30 seconds, but it felt much longer. The whole time I was just waiting to hear gunfire sparked to life beyond that brick wall and that metal door. I imagined the gang shooting up the whole property, every building, every car, before peeling onto the highway and just disappearing forever. What I heard wasn't gunfire, though. It was even scarier.

The door behind me banged open, and I could hear a couple of people speaking in Spanish. I didn't even bother to turn around. If they were those gang members and wanted my attention, they would get it. Still, I could see them in the reflection of the mirror. They were dressed in black, their faces obscured by bandanas and sunglasses. They seemed to be sizing me up like a piece of meat. They leaned on the wall and just stared holes into my back. What's up, old man? One of them asked me.

I didn't respond, just did my best to ignore them. Hey, Poppy, don't make that mistake again. I asked you a question, the guy repeated. Just stopping to use the bathroom on my way back from my uncle's funeral, I explained, hoping to score some pity points for why I was out there in the first place. Oh, a funeral. We had no idea, he said back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. At this point I knew I was in trouble.

I zipped up and checked my pockets but no dice, nothing about my car keys, which I guess was a small victory in itself. Still, I wasn't even sure I'd locked my car. In that moment, we're going to mess you up, Tio, that same kid said. His friend spoke to him quickly in Spanish, and they both had a quick laugh. My stomach turned to mush. the first open threat I received in a long time, and boy, was I sure these kids were going to be good for it. I was kicking myself over and over saying,

What the hell? Why would you even stop here? In a place you know is dangerous? I felt like I had created this entire situation myself, and honestly I was right. Look at me. One of them sneered. I did as I was told. In that moment, I saw my only option on the backside of the bathroom door was a deadbolt.

a big heavy one. I looked over the door at a glance, and it seemed like thick, heavy metal. Locking the door was going to be my only ticket if this didn't clear up immediately. I shook my head, just trying to play it cool. Just stop for a break, guys, I replied, my voice steady, despite the fear creeping up in my throat. I have no idea why I repeated my earlier statement, probably just a result of the panic pulsing underneath my skin. They said some more stuff to me. but I don't remember any of it. The blood pumping in my ears was way too loud. The men nodded, their faces expressionless, then turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving me feeling uneasy

and unsure. I waited for a moment, hoping someone else would come in, but the bathroom just remained empty. The only sound was the hum of the vending machines, and the distant rumble of cars on the highway. In this moment, I completely forgot about my plan with the lock. I just wanted to get in my car and leave. The fact that they weren't kicking me seemed like a good sign, right? I washed my hands, and believe it or not, washed my face, did everything I could to just shake off my nerves. Finally, I emerged from the bathroom, my heart racing with anticipation. As I stepped out into the evening air, I was met with a sight that made my blood run cold. The parking lot was empty except for my car, which was now surrounded by that same group of men, their faces twisted with

cruel grins as they rummage through my belongings. Hey, what's going on here? I demanded, trying to keep my voice firm despite the fear creeping up in my throat. Looking back, I have no idea what I was thinking, just kind of rolled up on autopilot throughout that chaos. I'm not a tough guy, pretty non-confrontational, but I'll be damned if I was going to stand idle and be robbed without at least saying something. I said it loud, hoping I could get the attention of some of the other folks that I saw around earlier. Somehow, in just the 60 seconds I was in the bathroom, that entire parking lot had cleared out, end to end. Not a soul stirred in my direction, none except the gangbangers

prying through my stuff. The men then turned to face me, their eyes lit up like it was Christmas day. Just having a look around, Amigo, one of them sneered, holding up my wallet. I kept it in the center console on long drives as it's a thick old leather thing and starts to upset my back if I sit on it for too long. I felt the surge of panic as I realized the extent of their thievery. Give that back, I shouted, trying to sound braver than I actually felt. Sweat started to bead and run down my brow, cheeks and chest, despite the cool evening air. The men just laughed, their voice echoing off the walls as they continued to rummage through my car. I knew I had to act fast, but my mind was blank, unable to come up with a plan as the men closed in around me.

All right, I'm calling the police, I shouted. This time, I got their full attention. They immediately fanned out, started closing in on me. Apparently my threat was enough to turn their full attention on me now, at least until they could check me for a cell phone, or just beat me into the ground. I raised my hands in front of me and started to backpedal as the last form of defense. Too late for that, man, you know what's going to happen now. I turned and ran at a full sprint. For an old fart like me, I was hustling pretty good. I think I even surprised the gangsters because they all froze up for a second before they started chasing me, immediately giving me enough time to get ahead of them. I retreated into the bathroom, locking the door behind me

as the gang members continued to chase me. They pounded on the door, demanding I open up, or they started smashing it with big rocks that they found outside. The door didn't bend inward or anything, but it buckled with a constant barrage of pressure. Soon, the stones started flying through the upper windows and skylights, glass shattering all around me. I'm still partially convinced they were discharging firearms, but the place was so loud and I was in such a panic, I couldn't really say for sure. Fortunately, the building was all brick and cinder blocks, concrete in between, so I was actually kind of safe in there, as long as they didn't get that door open.

I moved into the back stall and just hunkered down in the cleanest place available, just in case any stray rounds ricocheted in. Eventually, they must have gotten bored and moved off from the building, but I could still hear their voices at a distance, could hear them laughing and shouting, the sound of glass shattering and metal crunching as they tore through my belongings. I felt a sense of hopelessness just wash over me, trapped and helpless.

I listened to my car being destroyed. My threat to call the police was a bold lie. My phone. My whole life was inside that car, so I was doomed to wait it out for as long as I had to. Some of them came back to the bathroom door, banging on it with their fists and hollering insults and threats again. You think you can hide from us?

Another one of them sneered. Come see your new car, another one hollered, then another string of insults. Come on, Tio, you can't take a crows. All night, if you open up the door, we won't pop the tires. I cowered in the corner, my heart racing with fear as the banging and shouting continued. It seemed like an eternity before they finally gave up and just took off, leaving me shaken and alone. This time, though, there weren't any distant voices.

It actually sounded like they loaded up and left. I could even hear a vehicle drifting out of the parking lot. I still had my keys in my pocket, so it couldn't have been mine. someone must have come to pick them up, or they had a car hidden somewhere. Either way, I was very glad to experience silence beyond those block walls. I waited for what felt like an hour, listening intently for any sign of their return. The parking lot was silent, the only sound the distant hum of cars on the highway outside. I took inventory of the bathroom, the shattered glass all over the floor, the rocks resting among the carnage.

It was a crazy amount of damage, so I figured my car could be way worse. Finally, I worked up the courage to open up the door and survey the damage. It was dark, but the rest stop was lit up with blinding light poles, or at least a few of them. Some were dark, with broken glass pooled at the base. Those guys had managed to break some of the lights. There was graffiti, too, all over the rest stop building and signs around the area. I took very quiet steps as I navigated my way back to my vehicle. My car was a complete wreck.

The windshield was smashed and half of my belongings were gone. One of the tires was flat and the body was dented and scratched. They even hit my interior with cans of spray paint, writing messages for me all over the seats and dashboard. Most of it was in Spanish, so I couldn't even read it. I just stood there, looked over the wreckage for a long time, unsure of what to do. I didn't want to leave before making a report of some kind, but I didn't have a way to do that.

I felt a wave of despair wash over me as I realized the extent of the destruction. The thing probably wouldn't even start, and that was if I could even get the key in the ignition. As I stood there, trying to process everything that had happened, other cars began to pull into the parking lot. The drivers got out, eyeing my car with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. I felt a sense of shame and embarrassment, knowing I had been so helpless to stop those gang members. But they were also eyeballing the destroyed rest stop building behind me. They probably assumed that I was the culprit, being the only person here. I mean, I looked out of my mind. I'm sure I did.

One of those bystanders, a kindly looking older man, approached me and offered me his phone to call the police. I took it gratefully, then explained everything that had happened to. the dispatcher on the other end. But as I waited for the police to arrive, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled over me. The old man listened as I explained everything, and just nodded along. He had an old revolver in a leather holster on his hip, probably just a 22 or a 38, but still, what I would have given to have that old man there with me just an hour or two earlier. When the police finally showed up, they took a statement and looked over my car, but I could tell they weren't taking it seriously. Just a case of vandalism, sir, one of them said shrugging.

We'll file a report, but I wouldn't hold out much hope of catching those perpetrators. I felt a surge of anger and frustration, knowing I'd been let down by the very people who were supposed to protect me. As I watched the police drive away from me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disillusionment with humanity. If this was how people treated each other, then what was the point of even trying? The other drivers in the parking lot continued to eye me with suspicion, but still, I couldn't shake that horrible sensation that had settled over me. The world is a dark and violent place, and I was just a small, helpless part of it all. And just as I suspected, it wouldn't even turn over.

I had to ask that same old man if he knew of a towing service nearby, which he did. this guy turned out to be somewhat of a local. He lived in the next town over. He called a friend of his who sent a wrecker out to haul me in the car back to town. $9,000 worth of repairs later, I was able to drive the car out of the shop. Thankfully, my insurance paid for most of it, but those punk gangsters were never brought to justice. And for obvious reasons, I travel much differently nowadays. As we drove away from the familiar landscape of home, Beth and I felt a sense of excitement and adventure wash right over us. We were headed to Vermont to visit my grandmother, and that long drive ahead of us seemed like a thrilling journey into the unknown. But as the hours passed and

the miles flew by, our enthusiasm began to wane. The GPS had led us off the highway onto a series of winding back roads. We found ourselves lost in a sea of identical trees and twisting turns. We hadn't even crossed into Vermont yet, and already we were running into trouble. I'd put a little too much faith into that GPS navigator. I didn't question it when it told us to veer off that country back road and into the middle of nowhere. The madness really came to light when the navigator failed to lead us back out into anything familiar. It just kept looping over and over again throughout that same area. It was almost like something out of a nightmare, but this was just part of the adventure,

and Beth and I were just happy to be together for it. At first, we tried to just laugh it off, joking about our navigation skills and the quirks of a rural roadway. But as the sun began to set and the shadows deepened, our worry started to boil over into panic. We'd been driving for hours. Our gas tank was running perilously low,

and the roads seemed to stretch on forever and ever, curving and twisting in every direction with no sign of civilization in sight, sight. Being lost was honestly no trouble to me. It was the low gas tank that had me sick with anxiety. We hadn't seen a house, a farm, or a building of any kind. There definitely wasn't a gas station out here, and we'd been up and down literally every stretch of the road that county had to offer. We even tried to use landmarks like hillcrest and tall trees to guide us, but nothing was really working. We could have had a map and a compass, but again, I really don't think that would have

helped us. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my mind racing as I tried to figure out our predicament. We'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, but where? And how could we possibly find our way back to the highway? The darkness seemed to press in around us, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. I could feel Beth's anxiety radiating from the passenger seat. Her eyes fixed on the GPS screen as if willing it to produce a solution. As the minutes ticked by, our panic grew and grew. We were truly alone out here, with no phone signal and no hope of rescue. The road seemed to shift and twist like a living entity determined to keep us lost. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest when the gaslight ticked on, telling me we were down to our last gallon, something like

18 miles of drifting. The car itself literally jittered when the light came on. Oh my God, Beth whispered. It's okay, I promise. This could be way, way worse, I said. Well, say that. What the hell is wrong with you? She shot back. I nodded and said,

Sorry, I'm just trying to be positive. I promise, though, everything is okay. What are we going to do? She prodded. Well, I don't know. First, we're going to relax and just think, I explained. Finally, with a sense of resignation, I pulled over to the side of the road.

We held hands and just took very deep, shuddering breaths as we watched the woodland around us. Some rabbits scampered by, an owl seemed to chase them, then a fox went darting in the other direction. In the moment, it was kind of fun and gave us something to admire, something to take our minds off the situation at hand. We continued talking for a bit, then started to reason through our predicament. It was easy, there were very few options. We would have to sleep in the car until sunrise, Hoping the light of day would reveal a way out of this labyrinth nightmare. It was the only thing that made sense considering how low on fuel we were.

We couldn't really afford to waste it driving back and forth in the dark. I put the seats down in the back, made us this little place to cuddle, nestled among our belongings like some duffel bags and coats. We even had some dry food to snack on that really perked up our mood as we settled in for the night. Darkness continued closing in around us like a shroud. I couldn't shake that feeling that we were being watched by something. The trees seemed to loom over, their branches creaking ominously in the wind. I remembered those animals earlier, realized that, yeah, we were being watched.

The animals around here probably hadn't seen a car just stop and spend the night on the road like that ever before. The animals also offered this sense of security, in the sense that if there were animals around here, things had to be pretty normal, right? If there were rabbits and foxes, there likely weren't any big predators. Still, we were in the middle of nowhere. Neither of us was accustomed to that. We were sleeping in a car which gave us no sense of privacy or security. And on top of it all, we didn't know where we were going and how to get out.

In the morning, we were completely at the mercy of the unknown, and that was a terrifying place to be. We huddled together in the darkness, trying to get some of the unknown. some sleep, but unable to shake that feeling of being watched. Still, silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant rumble of an airplane overhead. But then, without warning, the silence was shattered by a series of footsteps circling the car. Beth clutched my arm, her eyes wide with fear. What was that? she whispered. I... I don't know, I replied, my voice barely audible.

but we need to stay calm, whatever it was. It carried on down the road, stopped, and then came back to the vehicle. My eyebrows came together in confusion. It sounded like a person, just 20 feet, dusting up the dirt road. But as they got closer, I was sure of it. I remained frozen next to Beth, my head down in the darkness, the windows looming over us like great wicked magnifying glasses. The thing, the person, whatever it was.

was, stopped maybe 15 feet away from us, then again walked further down the road for a second time so we couldn't hear it anymore. What the heck was all that? Beth managed to get out. Right then, a howl echoed throughout the darkness. It was a sound unlike anything I'd ever heard before, a primal scream that seemed to come from the very depths of the forest. No way it was a person. Too deep and throaty, too wild sounding, I said. We tensed up, but also. relaxed. We were relieved. It was just a coyote milling around and not some kind of murderer. Oh my God, Beth whispered, her voice trembling. That is terrifying. I know, I agreed. My mind's still racing. Should we just go? Just as I said those words, we could hear those footsteps again,

except this time, they were running toward the car, and I mean a full-on sprint. Then, a heavy-sounding thump sounded on the roof of the car, making us both jump out of our skin. It was as if someone were banging on the car with their fist, the blows coming in rapid succession. Who's there? I shouted, trying to sound brave, but feeling anything but that. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, but having Beth there kept me grounded and focused. I couldn't let anyone in the car, or hurt her at any cost. Who's out there? I hollered out again. The thumping then stopped for a moment. It was just silence, except I could hear this weird breathing, hot and heavy, and I could see it was now fogging up the glass. It must have been from the running and beating

up on the car. Next, we heard the sound of someone running away into the darkness, those footsteps just fading into the distance. Beth and I looked at each other, our eyes wide with fear. Okay, we need to get out of here, I said, my voice firm this time. We've got to risk the gas tank, she agreed, no questions asked. Beth immediately started folding up all the bedding and organizing it as quickly as she could. I climbed into the driver's seat and undid the gear. I fired up the engine and just waited for Beth. After a minute, she climbed up next to me and put her seatbelt on. Without another word, we started the car and pulled away from the side of the road, driving as fast as we could without headlights. We didn't see anything as we drove, but we didn't need to.

We knew whatever had been messing with us was still out there, watching and waiting. The moon had lit up the area. We were already sporting pretty heavy solid night vision, as we've been looking through the windows without light for a couple of hours at that point. After a few miles, we pulled over again, this time in a small clearing surrounded by trees. We tried to sleep, but our minds were racing with the thoughts of what had just happened. We knew we couldn't stay here for very long. But for now, it was the best that we could do.

As we lay there in the darkness, I couldn't shake that feeling again. That feeling of being watched, that unblinking eyes were trained on us from somewhere up in the shadows. Again, I knew we had to keep moving. I had to keep driving until we found our way back to some semblance of civilization. But for now, we were trapped, alone, and vulnerable in the darkness of that forest. I figured driving four miles away without any headless. lights on was a pretty safe bet. It would be hard to follow on foot, as it were, but in the dark, no less, it might be impossible. Getting off the main road had given us a little confidence boost as well.

As we nestled in the car in that tree thicket, there was a road in each direction that we could use for an exit. We huddled up in the back and got the worst sleep imaginable, but ultimately, nothing else weird happened the rest of that night. As we woke up the following morning, the sunlight streaming through the windshield revealed a sight that made our blood run cold. Greasy handprints smeared the glass, a taunting reminder that someone had indeed been messing with us throughout the night. Oh my God, they were right there, Beth said, her voice still shaking. It's super weird to see. I couldn't tell if it was from when we parked on the road or if this weirdo had indeed found us out there behind the trees, I replied. I got out with a water bottle

and a rag from the trunk, did my best to just try to clean it off. but I can't express to you how grimy and greasy this person's hands had to be. It's absolutely disgusting. I could see every impression and imprint from their palm. I started the car, the engine sputtering a bit as we crept down that dirt road. The fuel light had been on for hours, and I knew we were running on fumes. Maybe 12 miles left to go, but we had to keep moving. As we drove, the landscape began to look familiar.

We could see the main road sneaking its way through the hills. A sign ahead beckoned promising a town just nine miles away. The gas station symbol seemed like a lifeline. No way, Beth said. How the heck did we miss this? I have no idea. I don't even think we passed through here, I said. I don't remember going through that clearing before.

It's okay. We're going to make it, she cheered. But as we passed the sign, a figure appeared on the shoulder of the road. A young man, dirty and unkempt, with a wild look in his eyes. He made this weird face as we passed, his lips curling up with a snarl. And then he started to chase us, no holds barred, sprinting down the road. He looked absolutely crazy, and I mean literally. I don't even think he had shoes on, but he was easily clearing up to 15 miles per hour.

Oh my God, he's following us, Beth screamed. I hit the gas and the car sprung forward as we sped away from that weirdo, but the low gas tank had us sputtering to accelerate. We didn't dare look back, our eyes fixed on the road ahead as we devoured the miles. Finally, we crested a hill, and a town came into view. We saw the gas station, a haven of normalcy inside the surreal nightmare. As we pulled into the station, we both let out a sigh of relief. We'd made it. We were safe.

But as we filled up the tank and grabbed some coffee, we couldn't shake that feeling that we just experienced something truly sinister. That guy back there, Beth said, her voice still shaking. He had to be the one that messed with us last night, right? I nodded, my mind reeling with the implications. He must have been watching us, waiting for us to leave. But why? Beth asked, her eyes wild with disbelief. Why would someone do that to us?

Does he live out there? I shook my head, feeling. feeling a sense of dread wash over me. I don't know, but I know one thing for sure, we're never driving through those woods again. We both laughed, got back into the car, and reoriented the GPS. I got a map just to be sure this time. Even then, we only drove a couple of hours that day before we got a motel in some quaint little town, so we could actually get some real sleep. I decided my grandma could wait a couple of hours longer, especially after that night we just had.