Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 7 Hours of Scary Stories to Relax / Sleep to (Compilation)

Episode Date: July 27, 2024

These are 52 Scary Stories to Relax / Sleep to 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 #deepwoods #compilation 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

I spent a lot of time with one set of grandparents during my youth. They watched me while my parents worked all week and kept me all summer at a campground. I had been coming there and staying every summer from the ages of two to thirteen and have many fond memories. However, there is one memory that has stuck with me over the years. On this particular occasion, I was six years old, and my best friend, who was eight at the time, was spending a few days with us at the campground.

We only stayed there on weekdays since my grandmother worked double shifts all weekend. Therefore, the campground was sparsely populated from Monday through Friday, as many people only had time off work for weekends or holidays, so there were already eerie vibes there, especially in the darkness. Not to mention the ghost stories my dad had told us about the place. Our neighbors in the immediate area were perfect, despite barely seeing them. They had a complete outdoor kitchen that I loved playing. pretend chef in, and they left it open whenever I wanted, and allowed me to play in it.

My grandparents were always lovely and easygoing, and my nan was mainly incredibly nurturing to your needs, no matter who you were. But they also had their moments. Have you ever seen that movie The Visit? It's kind of reminiscent of that, where there would be a creepy moment and then it would go back to normal. My best friend's first day at the campground was when my pop told us to watch out for bears because he had seen one earlier that day. We brushed that off since we had heard things like this all the time, and we were having too much fun riding bikes and going into the creek to really care. Night soon came, and it got really dark, really fast. My best friend and I were playing in the outdoor kitchen I mentioned before when, out of nowhere,

we heard this low, growling and moaning sound, which got much louder as something began tearing at the tarp cover, acting as if it were a kitchen wall. We all know that reasoning shuts down the limbic system and is overridden during threats of survival. The fight or flight response takes over, if you will. It seemingly happened in an instant. We were running and immediately crying before we could even process what was happening. We ran a few feet to our camper to get to my nan.

I was expecting her to be comforting as she always was, but her reaction to us was somewhat horrifying. She laughed wildly and practically slapped her knee. Faffled and scared, I had no idea how to react to this. My pop emerged behind the camper next to ours and joined the mad laughter, eyes bugging out. So yeah, my pop pretended to be the bear, but he never really admitted to it, you know? It was kind of weird. So he made up that he had seen a bear earlier in the day to scare us.

And then, I guess when we didn't get scared by it, he came and physically pretended to be the bear. At least, that's my understanding all these years later. later. We weren't amused, and I don't remember the rest of that week, if I'm honest, but I recall still being terrified and finding no relief in their words. I was scared of them and didn't understand why they did that, and I still really don't. I'm all for pranks and kidding around, but I feel like this was a bit beyond, especially because they never said explicitly that they pranked us. They just acted like it didn't happen, but clearly laughed in our faces about it. I don't know. Everything scared me at that age,

well, so I'm not acting like this is some crazy traumatic thing, but they had never done anything like this before or after, and I just found it so weird. They did get a kick out of us two kids running away, crying, and screaming, I can tell you that. They were definitely holding back tears from laughing so hard. Looking back, I felt like it was alarming. They never really apologized, or even paid much mind to the rest of my friends' stay. But they would laugh heartily whenever we brought this up.

know, I'll likely never get any further elaboration from them, but I thought this would be a cool story to share. As all of you know, life can be a struggle sometimes. Making ends meet isn't always as easy as just getting a job. Several years back I couldn't find a job. It was rejection after rejection, and at the time, nobody was really hiring. The few places that were hiring were ultra-competitive. I was barely making over minimum wage as a deli employee at a grocery store. I remember one night, while working online for ways to make extra money, I stumbled upon Craigslist. I'd heard of Craigslist, but had never really explored it myself. I found an ad on Craigslist for a freelance job, where I would be what's called a secret shopper. For those of you who may not

be familiar with what a secret shopper is, it's basically an anonymous customer who comes into a store and asks the employees a series of questions. The employee is then graded on certain criteria. For example, does the employee make eye contact, greet you, give a suggestion, offer to escort the customer, and give a parting comment, etc. It seems simple, but a lot of companies, specifically the store I worked for, will reprimand the employee for a bad secret shopper score, and even fire the employee if they receive more than one bad score. Since I had experienced in the store and knew exactly what they were looking for. I thought this would be an easy way to make some money on the side.

The first store I visited was a local chain of grocery stores in my hometown. Oddly enough, it was the same company I worked for, but not the same store. I started making my rounds and noticed a man, probably in his 20s, stocking the shelves. He looked at me and immediately put his head back down. He didn't greet me, so he lost points right away. I had to greet him and ask him where the canned tuna was. He never lifted his head from stocking the shelves and just sort of angrily said, Isle 2, halfway down.

Again, this guy lost points for not making eye contact and offering to show me where it was located. Also, just for the record, I know how ridiculous all of this is. But these companies take this seriously. They don't care if you're waiting on another customer or what the excuse is. If you get a bad score, you're kind of screwed. I was trying to pause and give the guy a chance to redeem himself by telling me to have a good day, but he never did. I eventually had to initiate the parting remark, and that's when he finally looked up and said,

Yeah, you too. I finally saw his name tag which read Patrick, and I smiled and walked away. I noticed that Patrick kept his eye on me. I felt his stare as I walked away. I started to figure that he was on to me, that I was maybe a secret shopper. I was going to ask a few more employees' questions, but I started to feel uncomfortable. Every time I looked up, I could see Patrick at the end of the aisles. It almost seemed like he was following me.

I wasn't sure what the end game was for this guy, but I didn't want to find out. I cashed out and the cashier passed her secret shop with flying colors. After I cashed out, I briskly made my way to my car. and just wanted to get out of the store so badly and be done with this. Once I was in the car, I started writing down the full report before I drove off. I just wanted to get all the information down while it was still fresh. But while I was writing, I looked up and saw my buddy from the aisle intensely walking through the parking lot.

Patrick. I ducked down a little, but thankfully, it didn't appear like he had noticed me. He just kept walking until he got to his car, which was a dark four-door sedan of some kind. and he sped off. I waited a few minutes before I departed. I don't know why, but this guy just gave me the creeps. Though I kept thinking to myself why he was following me around the store like that, it truly did feel like he was, and it just felt so weird. I'm a textbook overthinker, so I tried telling myself that maybe I was overthinking, but something about him was definitely

off that night. I went home and emailed my supervisor the report, and life went on. It only took a day or two for me to completely forget about that interaction. A few nights after I turned in the report, I was having a late-night dinner with my boyfriend. We were just hanging out, enjoying each other's company. The relaxing evening was interrupted by a loud and consistent banging on the front door. It wasn't just an aggressive knock either. It sounded like someone was throwing their entire body weight at the door. You have no idea how horrifying it is to hear a knock at the door at that hour.

let alone a banging knock like this one. We looked out the window, and I was at a loss for words. It was Patrick, the guy from the grocery store, and he looked horrible. His eyes looked like they were sunken in, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. I called out telling him to leave right now that I was calling the police, and he didn't even flinch. He just kept banging and demanding that I let him enter the home, repeatedly saying that I ruined his life and that I needed to pay

that there would be an eye for an eye I remember him saying I didn't even want to think about what he meant by that while this interaction was happening my boyfriend had called the police though they must have been in the area because the first squad car showed up in less than two minutes and it's a good thing too

because I don't know how much longer my door was going to hold up Patrick was really throwing himself into the door and this whole sight was nuts. A cop tackled Patrick right on my front steps and handcuffed him, and while they were apprehending him, they ended up finding a knife concealed in his waistband, which, for me, was the most terrifying information about this entire ordeal. I still can't stop thinking about what he intended to do with that knife if he had broken down the door.

After he was arrested, I did get some closure on this whole nightmare. It turns out it was just a situation of being in the wrong place, place at the wrong time. Apparently, Patrick was at the end of his rope, and my visit to the store that day was what forced him to fall completely off. He was struggling to pay his bills, and from what I was told, his girlfriend had just broken up with him the day of that secret shopping event, and when I approached him in the store that day, he was only minutes away from the end of his shift and was just mentally, completely done at that point. I get it. We've all been there. Well, to a degree, and I happened to catch him on a bad day.

and asking for a can of tuna was the last thing on his mind. He ended up losing his job because he had failed another secret shopper report, a report that I sent in. The part that I can't still figure out about this is, I have no idea how he found out where I lived. I don't think he followed me that day after the store, but there's no other way that he would know where I lived. I stayed at my boyfriend's house after that at night,

and rarely stayed at my old house alone. I don't know what happened to this guy, but I genuinely hope that he figured it out, and more importantly, I hope these stores get rid of the secret shopper program, because it's just horrible. When I turned 13 years old a few years back, I invited about eight friends to go camping with me. The campsite was near a large forest with giant trees and many bushes. As you can probably guess, the campsite was located by the water, so we spent the two days there swimming, biking, and exploring the near-esquoise. nearby woods. On our first day, we were biking around the other campsites when we encountered

a group of kids our age. There were about three of them. Instead of getting along, we got into a big argument, which escalated into a war between our two groups. At one point, one of the kids in their group threatened to hurt us with his dad's knife. This deeply disturbed us and made us uncomfortable, prompting us to head back to our own camp. That night was pretty typical. We We forgot all about those kids and roasted some s'mores. My mom and dad, who were the only supervisors on this trip, went to bed at about 10 p.m. They told us not to stay up too late, make too much noise, or leave the campground. As we were messing around, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

It kind of looked like the shape of a human at the tree line near our campsite. I pointed it out to my friends, and we decided to take a closer look. As we approached, we could see it was indeed a person, but they weren't moving and were standing dead still. My friend, whom I'll call Matt for this story, said he was getting uncomfortable. He wanted to get closer to the figure because he was sure it was a man. We were all perplexed and a bit scared, so we didn't want him to confront the figure. My first thought was honestly, why would anyone put a mannequin out here?

I tried to find some sort of rational explanation for why this figure would be seen. standing so still, without making a single noise or movement. As we tried to figure it out, we began to hear movement from the nearby bushes. We decided to dash back to camp, and once we all made it, we got into our tent and kept watching to see if anyone was coming. At one point, my friend Brody saw a figure moving in the tree line. I caught a glimpse of it too, but I was unsure if it was a person. We kept taking shifts sleeping and watching throughout the night. The following day we were tired and decided to check out the dummy. When we approached the area, it was gone without a trace, and it was only about 5 o'clock in the morning, meaning someone must have come and taken it very

early. We went back to check on the kids we had argued with, and saw that they were still there. When they saw us coming, they quickly went into their camper and hid. We tried to wait for them, but they wouldn't come out, no matter what. Eventually, we gave up and headed back to our site. It was still relatively early, so we decided to be. decided to keep exploring where Brody might have seen a person. What we found next made us all want to leave and never return. In a bush right next to where Brody saw the figure, there was a hunting knife, a pair of binoculars, and a hunting rifle. We assumed it was those kids, but how did they get those items if the oldest kid was maybe 11 years old? The night was pretty

normal again until about midnight. We saw more movement in the trees and knew we had to be careful. We all stayed up and watched as multiple figures made their way through the trees. Eventually, assuming that Matt got mad, he decided to open the tent, shine his flashlight, and start yelling at whoever was out there. We followed him as he moved closer to the trees and saw that there were two kids booking it deeper into the woods, carrying the items we had found in the bush. After we saw, we saw that we saw. We saw that there were two kids booking it deeper into the woods, carrying the After we scared them off, we returned to the tent, and the rest of the night was uneventful, although none of us could sleep.

Nothing more happened, and by the time we checked on the kids the next Metapix, they had already left the campsite with their family. That experience still haunts me, and I often wonder what would have happened if we had been vulnerable in those woods that night. I mean they had a gun, and we had a tent. At the end of the day, if they really wanted to do something they could have, and I think that's what bothers me sometimes. Not long ago, I decided to listen to a friend of mine

about picking up some babysitting jobs from Craigslist. I know that seems weird, but I was surprised at how many postings for that type of work were there. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have needed the job, but at the time, I had just broken up with my boyfriend, and I didn't think I would be able to pay my rent. This seemed like the easiest way to make some money. It helps that I used to babysit when I was a teenager,

and my brother has two small kids, so I felt like an expert in the field. After all, how hard could looking after some children for a few hours be? I set up a job for early Saturday evening and started messaging a woman named Chloe. She said that she and her husband would be leaving the house around 5.15 p.m., and they would be back sometime after 10 o'clock. She gave me the address and all the information about the children I would be watching. Two boys, one seven, and the other nine. I figured, this was going to be easy money. In my opinion, boys that age are easy to entertain, and because they weren't babies, they wouldn't need my undivided attention. After I talked to the lady, I told my friend about the job, who was jealous of the money I was about to make. She had been

doing Craigslist babysitting jobs for a few months now, and had never come close to the money I was about to make, or at least that's what I was told. On Saturday evening, I made my way to the address given to me by Chloe, and right away I had some regrets. The house was in a very sketchy neighborhood, not necessarily crime-ridden, but it was a poor rundown area. When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I waited for several minutes and attempted several more knocks. Finally, a strange and very rough-looking man answered the door. He was tall and skinny, with a massive gray beard. I would say he was at least in his 50s, unless he just looked rough for his age. In a very low and gruff voice, he said, come on in, sweetheart, sorry, I didn't hear

the knock because my ears ain't what they used to be. I walked inside, and the first thing I noticed was how not child-friendly the house was. A lot of trash and general clutter was lying about. I was just standing in front of the door when the man said, my wife should be back any minute with the kids. Go and sit down and make yourself at home. Sorry, I know the place ain't the cleanest. I was trying not to be judgmental. I know it sounds like I should be running for the hills, but I didn't want to unfairly judge this guy or his family. The man pointed down the hall and told me that the living room was at the back of the house.

I made my way back there and sat on a bluish couch. The amount of anxiety I felt at that moment was absolutely crushing. I saw no pictures of children, no toys, and no indication whatsoever that children even lived there. While I was waiting on the couch, I could hear the man walking back and forth in the other room, and I think he was mumbling to himself. Every few minutes he would begin to shout, Hey, sorry about this, ma'am.

My wife can be forgetful with the time. I promise she'll be back soon. A few minutes later, he ran into the room, scratching his head with a big smile. He said, You know what? I'm an idiot. I bet my wife came inside with the kid through the basement entrance. She's probably waiting for you down there. Nobody uses the front door that you came in.

The basement's right over there. Why don't you go check it out, and I'll meet you all down there in a minute. He stood there like some scarecrow, pointing to a door on the far side of the room. I didn't know what to do, and just nodded and told him I would go check. Truthfully, I had had enough at this point. Though he smiled in a very unsettling voice, he said, Well, that's great. I'll see you in a second, sweetie.

Then he walked back into the front room. I opened the door to the basement out of curiosity, and it was obvious that nobody was down there. The lights were off, and the smell was just horrific when it hit my nose. There was no chance I was going to go down there. While staring into the dark basement, I heard that he was still bumping around in the front room, and without thinking, I ran as fast as I could toward the front door that I came from.

Once I hit it, the door was locked. I quickly unlocked it and ran to my car. As I opened the car door, I could hear him yelling from inside the house, but I didn't look back. I started backing down the driveway, and I could see him running out of the house, waving his hands back and forth. Thankfully, by the time he reached the driveway, I was already flying down the road. I almost didn't call the police because technically, I was physically fine and maybe even overreacting.

but after calling my friend, she convinced me to call the authorities, just in case. After the phone call, I had no idea what had happened. The dispatcher on the phone told me that they would take it from here, and that was the end of it, at least on my end. Maybe there was a wife and kids. Maybe this was just a poor family that I had very unfairly judged. Maybe there really was an entrance to the basement that his wife used instead of that front door. but honestly, I'd rather look like some crazy jerk who judged the family than potentially be the victim of something much worse.

The unnerving nature of the new situation told me to run, and I stand by that gut feeling, which very well could have been the best decision of my life. To provide a bit of backstory, I generally keep to myself, but I feel compelled to share this story because something out of the ordinary is happening to me. I live in an area where it is uncommon to see wanderers, or any sort of. of travelers. I barely see anyone except for the occasional funeral of an old friend. I consider it a safe and peaceful area to rest. However, some occurrences over the past few weeks have made me think otherwise. It all started about a week ago on a warm evening as I was relaxing at home,

watching the day go by and listening to the creatures sing their song of nature in the beautiful wooded country I inhabit. Suddenly, all went quiet. There was not a single bird chirping or a frog croaking. Something felt wrong. I strained my ears to see if I could hear or see anything out of the ordinary. But everything looked and sounded normal. It was just quiet. This might not sound off to some, but for where I live,

there were always noises of nature, always something, whether it be the wind, the bugs, the dirt, or even the grass. A few days passed, and all was normal until I had just finished cooking. dinner and went up to rest for the evening. I was looking out and listening to the song of nature again when, suddenly, everything went dead silent. I almost brushed it off at that time again, but I started considering the possibility of a predator, since there can be bears and such in the area from time to time. Once again, as I listened closely, trying to tune into the nature around me, it was eerily silent, almost unbearable. That was until I heard it.

a distant chattering sound. I sat and focused for a minute, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. Honestly, it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. After a few more seconds of silence, I began to hear leaves crunching, as if something massive was moving. Living in the country,

you can tell the difference between humans, animals, and anything else walking in the woods. This was definitely some sort of human, or at least a bipedal creature. Fear struck me as I nestled down and tried to get out of sight. My house is not very conspicuous. It's built into the woods and can't really be noticed unless you stumble upon it.

After some time, I noticed that someone approached my house wearing a strange outfit. It honestly looked like a homemade gilly suit, as if he was trying not to be heard. The chattering stopped, and I noticed that whatever this person was doing, he was making the noise with his teeth by chattering them. The sounds were honestly awful. I then began to hear a banging sound and wasn't really sure what they were doing, but it looked like whatever they had in their hands they were banging against a tree. I began to squeal in slight fear.

As I've said, I'm pretty introverted. I'm not really a tough guy. I can take care of myself and survive off the land. But confrontation with people is not something I've ever been good at. Eventually, they got closer, and I noticed what was in their hand was actually some sort of, or spear-like tool. It looked like he had a PVC pipe that he had spray painted and somehow mounted a machete on it. It was pretty janky-looking, if I'm honest. This guy noticed me and started

shouting at me while doing more of those loud chatters with his teeth. At this point, I began to black out, absolutely terrified. I thought of all the funerals I've attended, all the fallen friends and acquaintances that I have unfortunately had to see over the years. The ones who didn't get to live the life that I got to live. In that moment, I decided that this was not going to be my fate, and today was not going to be my funeral. This guy started charging at me, chattering his teeth, sounding like some sort of alien from a movie. He swung his spear machete at me, and it grazed my leg slightly as I moved out of the way. I was in shock. I had no idea why this person would be charging at me or trying to take my life like this. All I had was a small 22

caliber rifle. I had a three, 80 caliber gun somewhere else in the house, but I believe it was broken or jammed. There was something wrong with it, and I couldn't figure it out, but my 22 worked just fine. It wasn't ideal. It wasn't going to pack the most powerful punch, but if it bleeds, it dies. So, I picked up my 22, which I had laying next to my chair outside, and I just unloaded. Luckily, it seemed like I scared him more than I may have hurt him because the moment he saw me aiming a gun at him, he began to run. I'm not the type of person that's just going to scatter them with a bunch of bullets. I let off a couple of shots, intentionally missing him, watching him run in terror, making a more alarming and distressed, chattering sound. I'm sure we've all made some foolish mistakes in high school.

Sometimes it's not even you who makes the mistake. Simply by joining in with your peers, you can find yourself in a very bad situation. When I was in high school, my friends and I would visit Craigslist to mock the odd characters we found there. Trust me when I say there are a lot of weirdos on Craigslist. One night, my friend group let things go too far. We found an ad from a guy who was looking for a woman to come over and massage his feet. Yes, weird right from the start. We all pretended to be a woman named Molly and began men.

messaging this guy from a fake email account we had created. This was before the whole catfish phenomenon was talked about, but we were essentially doing the same thing. It just didn't have a mainstream name yet. Even though this guy was creepy, we were still in the wrong for leading him on and pretending to be something we were not. My friend Dan was pushing the envelope,

flirting and saying things he shouldn't have. It was only a matter of time before this man sent us his address. Everyone started laughing, and I also laughed, not really finding it funny, but wanting to fit in. I just wanted this practical joke to end, to be honest. Dan wasn't ready to let the joke end just yet. He wanted to visit the creeps house and actually try to get a glimpse of the man. I very much voted against this, but Dan peer-pressured the group, and before I knew it, we were in the car and on our way to this weirdo's house.

The car ride was mostly quiet, other than Dan trying to get us fired up for the occasion. It took us about 15 minutes to get to the neighborhood of the man looking for his foot therapy, as he put it, and it was a pretty rough part of town, the kind you don't want to be wandering around in after dark. It was clear that everyone was now regretting this decision, except for Dan. We all thought that we were just going to drive by the house and then head back, but he had other plans. We stopped in front of the house, and while we were stopped, Dan opened the door and started making his way to the guy's front door. We all started freaking out, trying to get him to come back into the car. Everyone except my friend who was driving got out of the car and tried pleading with Dan.

I remember even forcibly trying to hold him back, but he just pushed through. We were arguing, really whisper arguing, trying not to bring attention to ourselves. Dan looked at us and said, Listen, guys, I need to see what this freak looks like. I promise, once I get a quick glimpse, I'll just leave. What's the worst that can happen? I was still against the idea, but I could tell that he had won my friends over. Not wanting to be the coward that I always was, I joined in.

As we snuck toward the house, I thought maybe Dan would just peer through the window or something, but this absolute maniac went right to the front door. Without giving us any notice or any time to prepare or hide, he rang the doorbell. My heart was beating so fast I was convinced I was going to have a heart attack. Seconds later, a very short but very overweight man wearing a bathrobe answered the door, and we all froze. In a squeaky, and I admit pretty comical voice, this guy asked, What's the meaning of this? Where's Molly?

Dan made a very inappropriate joke or comment, called the man a freak, and we all just started laughing and briskly walking to the car. I was incredibly anxious, but I was trying to fit in, hence why I was laughing with the group. We couldn't have been more than ten feet away from the front of the house when this creepy man grabbed a rifle that he must have had right next to the door and began pointing it in our direction. His face was all red, and he looked like he was shaking. At that moment, we were all freaking out. Finally, Dan realized that we may have crossed a line. Obviously, the creepy man did say something, but through all the paranoia, none of us could hear what he said. We all ran as fast as we could, dove into the car, and I looked behind me as I closed the car door.

I could see the man starting to give chase with that rifle still aiming in our direction. We drove off as fast as we could, and when I looked behind, he was now sorry. standing in the middle of the road, still staring down the barrel of the rifle. I ducked down, expecting to hear the rear window glass shatter at any second, but thank God, it never did. We eventually made it back to the house, and we panicked for the entire night. We actually ended up receiving an email from him not long after we got home that said, I will find you. I saw your car and your license plate. I will find where you live. At that moment, we were beside our We didn't know what to do. We turned off all the lights, and I'm not kidding. We stared out that

window the entire night, holding our breath every time a car drove by. I suggested maybe calling the police, but my friends talked me out of it. They made me believe that we were the ones who would get in trouble if we called them, so we didn't. And that was the longest night of my entire life. The creep never showed up, though, and we never heard from him again. I I tried convincing myself that his threat was just some bluff, but I still never felt safe. It took months of not hearing from him for me to finally feel like I was safe. All these years later, I still haven't been down that street since that night, and even though I'm older, I still have an irrational fear that he'll be outside waiting for me.

For that reason, I'll continue to avoid that area of town as long as I can. I've always had a knack for finding things people left behind. Sometimes it's just old furniture or forgotten books, but today it was a GoPro tucked in a dusty corner of a rented storage unit. That's how I found myself hold up in my office, watching the small screen as it flickered to life, casting shadows across the stacks of case files on my desk. The video began abruptly. The camera was shaky at first, pointing at the ground, then lifted to strap onto someone's head,

Marx, I assumed, since he was the one narrating the introduction, his voice uneasy but eager. How does it look? he asked, his voice capturing a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. You look stupid, came a response, followed by a collective chuckling from the group gathered around. That was Frank, a man with a gruff voice that matched his no-nonsense demeanor. Mark's retort was cut short by Margaret, who jumped in with a voice smooth and as riverstones, but firm enough to quiet the laughter. Frank, please try your best to be nice. Margaret then took the lead, her maternal tone gathering everyone's attention like sheep to a shepherd. Now that we are all settled in, and the fire is going, how about we all give our names and why we are

here? Mark, how about you go first, and we go right from you, she suggested, sitting cross-legged and looking up at Mark expectantly. The introductions that follow up. painted a vivid picture of a group as varied as the landscape of Wyoming, rugged, raw, and real. There was Daniel, a young man with a warm smile, known to Margaret from past support groups. His look was sincere, his eyes scanning the circle, a nod of his head as he took in every face. Then Emma, a frail figure who barely lifted her gaze from her worn out boots, her voice a mere whisper, I'm here to move on from the last two years. I couldn't help but feel but feel a twinge of curiosity about what had brought each of them to this remote patch of wilderness.

Each story was a thread, weaving a tapestry of recovery and redemption, or so it seemed. As the camera panned around the circle, the light from the campfire flickered across anxious and hopeful faces. All right, Frank, your turn. Margaret coaxed, her tone soft yet firm. I'm here to deal with my anger, Frank muttered, almost to himself, staring into the fire as trying to scorch his troubles in the flames. The video captured more than just faces. It caught the underlying tension, the weight of unspoken stories and unresolved struggles. It was when Jacob,

an ex-alcoholic who had found solace through Margaret's previous interventions, introduced himself that the mood briefly lifted. Everyone clapped, including Frank, though his applause seemed reluctant, his scoff a sharp note in the night air. Margaret suggested mingling, but Mark's GoPro caught none of that. The camera went dark, and for a moment there was nothing but the crackling of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. When the screen lit up again, the calm had been shattered. The introductions were over, and survival was about to begin.

The shadows in the trees seemed deeper, more sinister, as Margaret stood up, announcing she'd be right back. Little did we know the darkness was watching, and it was hungry. sitting there in the dim light of my office, I knew I was only scratching the surface of what had happened. I was drawn in, unable to look away, a part of me dreading what I knew was to come. The forest had a different feel after dark, as if the trees themselves absorbed the day's warmth and now exhaled a chilling presence. It had only been a few minutes since Margaret vanished into the darkness towards the van, but her absence felt much longer. Mark's voice broke the

A half-hearted attempt to keep spirits light. Anyone got any good scary stories to tell? But before Daniel could spin his yarn, a palpable tension seized the air, a feeling of being watched. That's when the real horror began. The laughter and camaraderie were swiftly cut off by the appearance of five figures. Cloth sheathed over their bodies like sinister shadows, faces obscured by blank white masks.

It wasn't just their substance. sudden appearance that froze the blood in my veins. It was the stark, menacing contrast of their expensive-looking black suits against the ragged wilderness. Frank's voice shattered the silence, his tone a mixture of disbelief and challenge. What the hell do you all want, huh? But no one was prepared for the swift brutality that followed. The tall figure in the center, a beast of a man, answered not with words, but with a vicious swipe of a machete. Margaret didn't even have time to before her head tumbled to the ground, her body crumpling as her head smoldered by the fire. Panic erupted.

Commands were shouted. People scrambled. The forest around us became a labyrinth, the trees morphing into menacing figures as everyone fled into the dark. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a loud echo in my ears. We regrouped, out of breath and shaken to our cores. Accusations flew wildly as the initial shock faded into a cold. creeping dread. This has to be some sick setup, Liam gasped, his voice tinged with paranoia.

Margaret's intention for a therapeutic escape seemed now a grotesque farce, and mistrust quickly wormed its way through the shaken group. I felt it too, a gnawing suspicion. Was this a planned massacre? A Psycho's game? The video didn't flinch as it captured every flicker of fear, every whispered conspiracy. The forest was a no longer just a backdrop. It had become an active participant in our nightmare, whispering secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. Our attempts to escape were futile. The masked figures were not just sinister apparitions, they were hunters, and we were the prey, stumbling through the underbrush, tripping over roots that seemed to claw at our feet. Emma, the girl who had barely spoken a word

since the fire, suddenly cried out, I can't do this. As a branch said, snapped ominously close behind us. The video captured it all, the fear, the fights, the fleeting moments of courage. Frank, usually so imposing and sure, his voice now trembled as he tried to rally us. We have to keep moving, but every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, tightened the noose of terror around our necks. Then a thought struck me as cold as the creek water running through these woods. If we were the prey, then this night was our trap, and someone had lured us here into the dark heart of the forest, where the shadows danced with our fears.

As the camera lens fogged slightly with the evening mist, so too did the lines between victim and villain blur into a harrowing tableau of survival. As the first light of dawn threatened the horizon, it did little to lift the shadows that clung to the forest floor or the dread that settled in my stomach. We were fewer now. The night had claimed more than just our sense of security,

It had taken members of our group, their screams now just echoes among the trees. Frank's breathing was ragged beside me as we paused, leaning against a gnarled pine that seemed as weary as we were. We got to keep moving, he muttered, but his eyes were haunted, flickering back to the dark we had just run from. Each of us carried the weight of the night's horrors, our faces gaunt, our eyes hollow with the things we'd seen. It was then, amid the whispered planning,

and quick, frightened glances, that we realized we had become part of something far beyond a simple retreat gone wrong. The remaining survivors, myself included, were ragged edges of ourselves, suspicion gnawing at our frayed bonds. Mia, always the tough one, had become a pillar of cold fury, her arms crossed as she stared down the dim trail. We're not just running from them, she said, her voice low and steady. We're running from whatever sick game this is supposed to be. The conversation turned to Margaret. Could she really have been behind this? Her gentle demeanor, the encouraging words around the campfire, now seemed like a cruel mask. Daniel, his face pale with grief and loss, shook his head slowly. She wanted to help, he insisted, but his voice cracked,

betraying his doubt. I proposed a final stand, not out of heroism, but out of sheer desperation. If we keep running, they'll just pick us off one by one. We need to face them, I declared, my voice stronger than I felt. It was a gamble, but fear had sharpened into resolve, a hard-cutting thing that left no room for hesitation. We set up an ambush at a narrow pass between two rocky outcrops, a choke point that offered no real advantage other than necessity. As the sky lightened, the forest seemed to hold its breath. and for a moment the only sounds were the distant calls of waking birds and our own labored breathing. The attackers appeared with the sun, silhouetted against the new light, their masks still in place,

their movements deliberate and unhurried. Now, I whispered, and the air exploded into chaos. Mia charged first, her anger a palpable force that seemed to startle even our assailants. We fought with the desperation of cornered animals, and for a moment I, I believed we might prevail. But the forest had other ideas. An arrow whistled past, narrowly missing Emma but finding its mark in Jacob. He fell with a grunt, his body thudding against the damp earth. The fight drained out of us then, replaced by a raw, aching grief that spread like wildfire.

In the end, it was not our plan that saved the remaining few. It was the sheer unpredictability of human desperation. Frank, ever the fighter, made a last. reckless charge, buying us precious seconds. Run, he bellowed, and we did, scattering into the woods, leaving behind the bodies of friends and foes alike. The camera, still recording, captured my last glance back, a tableau of violence and loss, the ground muddy with red liquid and trampled leaves. I ran until the forest gave way to a clearing, the morning light harsh and unforgiving, and as I finally stopped, my breath ragged and my body ached.

I knew the wilderness wasn't what we had to fear. It was what it brought out in us, what it always had. Growing up on a farm isn't like the adventures in storybooks. It's not all about riding horses through open fields or finding secret treasure in the barn. It's hard work, and for me, it was mostly just lonely. Our farm was huge, with acres of fields stretching out as far as the eye could see, all the way to where the dense forest marked the edge of our land. I used to stand there on the brink, looking into the tangle of trees and shadows, wondering what secrets it held. My parents had one rule, stay out of the woods, but rules like that are made for curious boys with too much imagination and not enough company. I was eight years old the first time I decided

to step beyond the edge. It was early morning, just after I'd finished my chores, and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. The dew was still fresh on the grass, making my boots wet and cold as I made my way to the forbidden line of trees. At first, I kept close to the farm, darting in and out of the tree line, my heart pounding with the thrill of disobedience. The forest felt alive, like it was watching me, testing me. With each step deeper, the sounds of the farm faded until all I could hear was the rustle of leaves and distant calls of wild birds. One morning, feeling braver than usual, I ventured farther than I ever had. I counted my steps marking the time, and after about 15 minutes, I stumbled upon a clearing.

It wasn't just any clearing. It was perfectly round, as if someone had drawn a giant circle in the middle of the woods. The trees around it were different, too, taller, darker, almost guarding it. In the center of the clearing stood a figure. My heart skipped a beat. It was a man, or so I thought, standing perfectly still and facing right at me. I ducked behind a tree, my breath shallow, watching him. But he didn't move, not an inch.

Curiosity got the better of my fear. I edged closer, hiding behind another tree, then another, until I could see him clearly. He wasn't a man, he was a scarecrow. Relief washed over me, followed by a burst of laughter at a little. my own fright. But this scarecrow was different from any I'd seen before. He was dressed in a red-checked shirt with a straw hat perched jauntily on his head, and he had a wide smile stitched across his face from one ear to the other. He looked so real, so lifelike standing there. I wondered why someone would put so much effort into making a scarecrow look that good, and then hide him away in a

clearing where no one could see him. Drawn by a mix of admiration and curiosity, I stepped into the clearing. The ground felt softer here, almost sacred. As I approached, I tried to convince myself that it was just a scarecrow, but something about the way his eyes seemed to follow me made my skin crawl. I reached out a hesitant hand and touched his arm. It was solid, but strangely warm, not like straw should be. I pulled back quickly, my mind racing with questions. Who made him, and why? What was he guarding in this secret circle? The forest seemed to lean in, listening to my thoughts, the leaves whispering secrets I couldn't quite catch. I knew I should head back, that I'd been gone too long already,

but the mystery of the scarecrow called to me, promising answers and adventures. As I turned to leave, I promised myself I'd return, if only to prove that it was just a scarecrow, nothing more. But deep down, I wasn't so sure. Every chance I got I sneaked back to the clearing, The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into a month, and every visit made the scarecrow, Peter I had named him, seemed more like a friend than just a bunch of straw and old clothes.

The clearing became my secret place, my escape from the loneliness that draped over the farm like the endless skies. I'd sit with Peter for hours, talking about everything and nothing. I told him about school, the books I was reading, and even the little adventures I had on the farm, It sounds silly, talking to a scarecrow, but Peter was a great listener. He never interrupted, never judged, just stood there with his stitched smile, as if encouraging me to continue.

Peter, I'd often start, as if he could respond. Do you think it's weird I don't have real friends? I'd wait, half expecting him to nod or give some sign. Of course he never did, but in my head I imagined him understanding, offering silent solidarity. As summer faded into autumn, the magic of the clearing seemed to fade too. The leaves turned golden and fell, carpeting the ground in a crunchy, colorful mosaic that muted our footsteps. Peter began to change as well. His once vibrant shirt faded, the colors dulling with the season. His smile seemed less welcoming, more a grimace stitched

in place. And sometimes, I could swear his once lively eyes looked a bit emptier. Despite these changes, I continued my visits. Each day, I noticed something new about Peter that seemed different. The realistic look of his skin seemed to sag, losing its life-like luster, and the illusion of his breathing, which I once swore I saw, had stopped altogether. It was as if Peter was slowly turning back into what he really was, a scarecrow. One particularly chilly afternoon, as I sat sketching Peter's fading form of I couldn't shake off a feeling of sadness.

You're not the same anymore, I murmured, more to myself than to him. I guess nothing stays magical forever, huh? It felt like our time together was a kind of summer that had passed, leaving behind only memories and a longing for something that could never be recaptured. I started visiting less often, driven away by the cold and the creeping realization that Peter was just an object. My trips to the clearing became weekly, then monthly. Eventually the ground froze over, and snow covered the paths I once walked so eagerly.

The barrier of winter made the woods seem impenetrable, a world away from the warmth of my room and the crackling fire at home. Winter turned into spring, and with the melt came a new beginning. I decided to visit Peter again, propelled by a mix of nostalgia and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the magic had returned with the new blooms. But as I approached the clearing, my heart sank. It wasn't just that Peter looked more worn than ever. It was that he didn't give off the same sense of companionship. He was truly just a scarecrow now. In that moment, I realized I had outgrown the clearing in Peter.

The loneliness I felt wasn't about not having friends. It was about not letting myself be part of the world beyond the farm. I needed more than a silent friend. I needed to find a place where I belonged, with people who could answer back when I spoke to them. As I left the clearing that day, I knew it was probably for the last time. Peter had been a good friend in his way, but some friends, I realized, are just meant for a season. It was surreal being back on the farm after all these years.

University had changed me. I had friends now, real ones who laughed and talked back, who didn't have straw for brains or smiles stitched into their faces. But there I was, back in my old room. the walls echoing the silence I had left behind. The lockdown had driven everyone to their safe places, and ironically, this was supposed to be mine. One evening, as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the fields,

my mom and I sat on the porch, sipping tea. The conversation turned to the neighbors, and she mentioned Linda, the new lady living next to Mr. Hitchcliff's place. My heart skipped a beat at his name. I hadn't thought about the clearing or the scarecrow's for years. What happened to Mr. Hinchcliff? I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice trembled slightly. Mom sighed, looking down into her tea.

Oh, Charlie, it was awful, she began her voice low. He died last year. They found him in the woods, not far from here. She paused, her eyes meeting mine, filled with sadness. And he wasn't alone. A chill ran down my spine. Not alone? My thoughts raced to dark places, to possibilities I hadn't let myself consider before. They found a woman with him. Mom continued. Her voice barely a whisper now. Strapped to a pole, dressed up like one of his scarecrows, the police said,

She choked up, unable to finish. My mind reeled. The scarecrows, the visits, the talking. It all came crashing back, a tidal wave of horror and disbelief. What did they do to her? I managed to ask. My voice strained. She survived, barely. They had to hospitalize her immediately. Mom explained, tears in her eyes. The police. They found more, Charlie. Dozens of bodies buried on his land. Mr. Hinchcliff had been using people for his scarecrows. I felt sick. The ground beneath me seeming to shift.

All those years, talking to what? A person? My silent companions weren't just scarecrows. They were victims. Their realities far more gruesome than I could have imagined. The nights that followed were restless. I was haunted by memories of the clearing, of Peter and the others that came after him. Each visit, each conversation, now painted with a macabre brush. How could I not have known?

Was there ever a moment when the truth nearly revealed itself to me, but I was too caught up in my own loneliness to see it? Weeks passed, and the green lushness of summer enveloped the farm. I decided to visit the clearing once more, compelled by a need for closure. The walk was familiar, yet everything felt different. The trees, the path, the very air seemed to hold a somber note. The clearing was just as I remembered, but it was empty now. No scarecrow's, no peter, just a circle of grass and a sense of loss.

standing there I realized how much I had changed. The farm, the woods, the clearing, they no longer felt like home. They were just places, tinged with memories too painful to hold on to. As I turned to leave, a small, hopeful part of me wished to remember the good, the innocence, the solace. But some stories don't get the endings we write for them in our heads. They end with the harsh truth, a reminder of the world. complexities and the shadows that linger just beyond the tree line. I used to be that guy who would do anything just for a buck.

Well, actually, I still am that guy. I'm also someone who is lucky enough to be able to fix just about anything. You might refer to me as a handyman of sorts. So, any time I could pick up some sidework for cash, I was totally in. I'm not really sure exactly how long ago this happened, but I was in my early 20s for sure. I'm 33 now, for a point of reference. At the time, I was struggling a bit to make ends meet.

My girlfriend at the time told me about Craigslist and mentioned that there was a chance to make some money there. I'd heard about Craigslist, but never really gave it a shot. I didn't know that work was posted there, though. Once I started exploring Craigslist, I found a lot of job offers, people looking for painting, yard work, and even plumbing. I was weighing my options and trying to try to do that. trying to find the best posting for me, and I ended up answering this post from a guy named Steve.

He was really weird. Just my straight-up first impression of the guy was not great. He was middle-aged, short, and a little round. He had these huge eyes that bulged out of his head and was rocking that sort of horseshoe haircut, you know, the one on the top and hair on the sides. But weird appearances aside, he was going to pay me some pretty good money to basically build him a little room in his basement. Specifically, he wanted to finish a small chunk of his basement and make it into a sort of man cave. We set up times where I could go and work for several hours

at a time, and he would pay me after each session. The house itself was weird. It was a big house in a nice neighborhood, but the inside of the house was kind of gross and basically empty. It looked like a frat house, even though the guy was middle-aged. In the basement, Steve had already bought a ton of supplies, everything I needed for the job, and then some. He explained in detail exactly how he wanted everything. This guy had intricate blueprints and everything, and I made sure that I constantly checked with him before I did any more work, just because I wanted to make sure that we were always on the same page. Other than being weird, Steve wasn't a bad guy. We talked about the project a bit, and then he disappeared, and I wouldn't see him again until I left.

After the first session, I started bringing my brother with me from time to time. The job was more ambitious than I had intended. Whenever my brother came with me, Steve would never come into the basement. I'd only see him when I was alone. For the next few weeks, we worked on the basement whenever we could find the time. We thought it was weird that Steve only wanted to finish a small portion of the basement and not the whole room. He clearly had more than enough supplies, so it just seemed weird to want to renovate a small, little room. My brother and I would constantly talk about how he could ever even turn this into a

man cave. It was going to be so small that you could barely fit a love seat in the room, but ultimately, the conversation always led to us not caring, because we were getting paid. One late afternoon, while we were there, I was finishing putting up a door for the small room, and I was proud of the little room that I had built. The door was nearing the finishing touches. My brother was out in the truck, just grabbing some tools and probably having a cigarette. Steve must have thought that I was alone because he joined me in the basement. He looked eager and excited as I was finishing putting up the door. I made some comments about the door being ready, and without notice, Steve kicked me in the knee and pushed me into the room, slamming the door behind me. While I was getting to my feet,

I could hear him putting some type of lock on the door. At this point, trying to process what was happening. I tried to open the door, but just as I expected, Steve had locked it. Somehow, I remember, he starts yelling something like, you're mine now, you're staying here, and you're not leaving. He just kept repeating versions of that same sentence repeatedly. I tried banging on the door, but it wasn't doing anything. I tried pleading with the guy, but he just kept screaming at me. After only a few minutes of this nonsense, I heard a loud thud, loud enough that I could feel the vibration through the door. In my confusion and panic state, I had totally forgotten that my brother was still outside. He started making his way downstairs and witnessed everything that had just

happened. My brother wasted no time and hit Steve in the head with a wrench, and that apparently was the loud thud that I had heard seconds prior. While Steve was unconscious on the ground, my brother was able to find the key to the padlock in his pocket, and also found two different pocket knives on him. My brother got me out of that room, and we immediately called the police. While we were waiting, my brother pretty much stood over Steve and made sure that he stayed unconscious. When the police finally showed up, Steve was arrested for attempting to keep me as a prisoner, or something like that. I'm so thankful that my brother was there that day, though I still get freaked out thinking about this Steve character and whatever his intentions were that day.

If my brother wasn't there, who knows how long I could have been stuck there. I'm not sure what happened to Steve after this ordeal. I tried to move on and forget about it, and this is the first time I'm even revisiting this memory since it happened. It was probably the stupidest thing that guy could have done, but also the scariest. I'm a geologist by training, but my heart led me to become a ranger in the southeast United States, the serenity of the wilderness, the whispering pines,

and the untouched beauty of nature. It was all I ever wanted. but as time passed, the isolation grew on me. My only company was the occasional visitor and the memories of my college days. Of course, we all have the typical Ranger riff-raff, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't make at least a few friends. I'm a bit of an introvert, so a majority of the Ranger types I met reminded me a little bit of frat boys.

However, I did find some folks I like to hike and fish with, but for the most part, I did my duties and spent a lot of time alone. I worked in the fields for about 20 years in total. One day, about a decade ago, an elderly couple caught my eye. They were not your typical tourists. There was a certain familiarity in their eyes, a kind of longing. They were from out west, visiting the park they had gotten engaged in many moons ago. They were searching for a particular spot, a fragment of their past encapsulated in a photograph, but age and time had reshaped the landscape.

Moved by their story, I offered to help them. We poured over the photographs, their wrinkled hands pointing out landmarks, their voices trembling with anticipation. I escorted them in my vehicle, the silence punctuated by their soft whispers and the crunching of gravel underneath the tires. We hiked the last stretch, the forest echoing with the rustle of leaves underneath our feet. When I say I escorted them, I mean they followed along in their Toyota forerunner. There was no way I was going to help these city slickers way out into the wilderness, only for them to have no way of getting back. They had boots in a 4x4, enough to tell me they took off-road travel seriously, but I was still pretty cautious about how far I would take them. It was still early in the afternoon, and my duties were finished for the day, so I spent an hour or so bumping around the backside of a basin along the river, as I knew their location had to be near this area.

the rock, the trees, the way the earth dipped away in the photo, this area had all the stuff it needed, it was a dead ringer. Sure as sunrise, I ended up being right. We parked our rigs and hiked down the short ravine that took us very near the water's edge, and right down there, in this earthy little pocket, looked exactly like what they showed me in the photographs. I got down first, helped out the wife next, and then the husband. They were over the moon, we found the spot. A picturesque bend along the river bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. I left them there, two silhouettes against the dying light,

a picture of timeless love. It's beautiful to me that they made such a trip, not just the miles over the land, but through the very envelope of time itself. They were out here to satisfy their younger devotions of love. I know it all sounds silly, but this was the kind of affection that swore. me to be a ranger, affection for the land, for mankind, for every fleeting moment in between,

all that, it's bleeding heart-drivel, but it's how I feel. As I returned to my station, a strange unease gripped me. I couldn't tell you why, but something was just off. They explained it clear as day. They wanted to share an afternoon in that old area, retake some photos, and all that good stuff. For the most part, pretty typical visitor activity. However, the vibe of that old couple just carried a different energy. By the time I got back to my post, I had convinced myself that I had messed up. As a park ranger, you can imagine that's a poor feeling to have, like you failed to do your job. I decided to wait for them to ensure that they would leave safely.

Night fell, and the park was bathed in eerie silence. The other day-trippers trickled out like sand through an hourglass, but as the closing hour approached, all the time. the traffic choked off into nothing, not even a straggler's headlight bumping along in the distance. I called to the other check stations in the area and got vague reports, but nobody could confirm that the elderly couple had exited in a Toyota four-runner. The couple hadn't left. I could feel it in my damn bones. Never since that day have I had such a gut feeling like that, anxiety gnawing at me. I left my assistant at the entrance station and retraced the drive I took back into the canyon,

There wasn't a soul, save for a couple of overnight campers that we already knew about, as they had the proper permits and paperwork. I bumped along until I got to the drop-down, and there I saw the forerunner just sitting there in the dark. It was eerie and made me start to sweat. I actually remember my mouth getting oversalivated like my glands were about to go haywire, and I was about to throw up. Fingers shaking beyond belief, I shifted into park and killed the engine but left the headlights on. It was dark out there, and I knew I was going to need all the help I could get finding them.

I hiked down to the ravine, lost my nerve, and just kind of waited there for a minute. Their car was here, so I knew what I was about to find. Probably something bad. I called out a few times, hoping maybe I'd be wrong, that they just got a little off course, or maybe couldn't make the short climb back up to the car. Only silence answered me, though, so I manned up and finished the descent down to the shore of the river. The sight that greeted me was as beautiful as it was horrifying. Moonlight helped me out a bit. I could see some form sprawled out in the dirt below a tree, legs pointed toward the water.

It looked like I maybe even disturbed them, as if they were just bundled up, cuddling beneath the endless stars overhead. Hey, Ranger District here, I called out softly. They didn't move. I took a quaking breath and lit the scene up with my flashlight. There they lay, spooning on the riverbank motionless. Their faces were serene, a sense of finality hung in the air. They were both dead, but they didn't look scary or miserable. It was the weirdest thing, coming up on them like that and having that premonition earlier, like this would be their fate. They clearly weren't murdered. This was some kind of planned suicide by the look of it. I seriously doubted they both dropped dead of strokes or heart attacks at the exact same time.

I called the cops my mind in a whirlwind of confusion and sorrow. The following hours were a blur of flashlights, hushed conversations, and deep overwhelming sadness. The police disclosed their identities, but little else. It was only later on that I learned the heartbreaking truth of the matter. The wife was terminally ill, her life slowly being claimed by cancer. They had chosen to end their lives together in the place where their journey had begun. That news hit me hard, but I found solace in the thought that they were at peace together in death as they had been in life.

They hadn't asked for help because they didn't want to implicate anyone else. Their final act was a testament to their love, a love so profound that they chose to embrace death at a place etched in their memory under the vast, indifferent sky. Their story, though tragic, touched me deeply and was a stark reminder of the transience of life and the enduring power of love. As I walk the trails of the park, under the towering trees and along the winding river, I'll always remember them,

two souls who found their final resting place in the corner of the world that they loved, leaving behind a story that echoes in the silence of that wilderness. I've spent years working as a ranger in a desert park, growing accustomed to the harsh conditions and eerie silence that comes with patrolling this unforgiving landscape. The park is a remote, Moat gem, offering breathtaking views that few other places can match, but it's not for the faint

of heart. Temperatures soar during the summer months, and the isolation can be overwhelming. That's why, during the off-season, we only allow day visitors. It's just too dangerous for anyone to venture in alone, especially when the mercury rises. As a non-peace officer for the Ranger District, my days are usually filled with routine tasks, Maintaining trails, monitoring wildlife, and assisting the occasional lost hiker. But one particular summer a few years ago was very different. The heat was oppressive, even for a seasoned ranger like myself.

It beat down relentlessly, making every step feel like a chore. My colleagues and I were restless, searching for anything to break the monotony. That's when we received the reports. Multiple cars had been spotted entering and exiting the south side of the park, and some visitors claimed to be seeing masked individuals running along the roads. At first, we thought it was just some college kids filming a project or a group of thrill seekers looking for some kind of rush. But as those sightings continued, we couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Our supervisor, a grizzled old ranger named Alan, called a meeting to discuss the situation. We gathered around the map table, sipping coffee and swapping theories. Some thought it might be a group of poachers. others believed it was just a prank gone wrong. But Allen had a hunch that it was something more sinister. He proposed that we break into patrols and conduct a full survey of the park,

covering every trail and road to get to the bottom of this mystery. There were a lot of us that off-season, so we had the manpower to conduct a thorough, top-to-bottom investigation of the park. We couldn't check every little back road, but we covered all the main drags, intersections, parking lots, and campgrounds. the places that would be able to house a lot of traffic, cars, and people.

I was paired with my colleague Rachel, a new ranger with a keen eye for detail. We set out in our truck, armed with water, snacks, and a healthy dose of skepticism. The sun beat down on us as we drove, the radio crackling with static as we ventured deeper into the park. Rachel and I had our own theories. I was convinced it was some kind of poaching scenario. The masks that were reported were just an image in my head. Guys in trucks, tailgates down, ready to load up their kill. As we patrolled, the silence was eerie.

No birds seemed to be chirping, no insects were buzzing, just the hum of our engine and the soft crunch of gravel beneath our tires. We saw no other signs of life, no indication of what we were searching for, just the endless expanse of the desert stretching out like an oven-baked canvas. We stopped at each trailhead, scanning the horizon for any sign of activity. Rachel checked the maps, keeping an eye out for anything that might attract the riffraff. I searched for any sign of recent human activity, footprints, tire tracks, anything that might give us a lead.

Between the map and landscape, we were coming up dry. That being said, there were 20 teams looking over the lowlands. We were only searching one little part. because we didn't find anything didn't mean the same for the others. The hours ticked by, the sun climbing higher in the sky. We still found nothing, no signs of life, no signs of trouble, just the desert waiting patiently for us to uncover whatever was going on out there. After a while, though, Rachel and I ran out of things to do. We were looping through the same trailheads, checking the same backways. There wasn't a sign of anything out there. We were starting to get hungry and

low on fuel. We decided to buzz back to base, refuel ourselves in the truck, and then maybe get orders for a different area. As we drove back to the station, the radio crackled alive. Allen's voice came through, his tone very serious. All patrols be advised, we received another report of a masked individual, this time near the old mine shaft, proceed with caution. Rachel and I exchanged a look. This was getting serious. We hit the gas, our truck now speeding towards the mine shaft, ready to face whatever lay ahead. Alan sounded dreadful over the radio, so we really didn't know what to expect or what to think as we arrived at the mine shaft. The other rangers were already scouring the area, their trucks parked haphazardly around the entrance. We joined the

search, our eyes scanning the dusty terrain for any sign of these masked individuals. There was nothing. No sign of them, no sign of any recent human activity, just the remnants of past visitors, cigarette butts, spent shell casings, and all kinds of various litter. Still, it was creepy. The mine was this old derelict thing, dropped right into the top of the hillside. There was a wooden frame and a portion of a ladder that fed you straight into darkness. But beyond that, it was just collapsed.

There might be little offshoots a person could hide in, but there was no way we were going down there to look for anybody that didn't need help. Rachel and I exchanged a look, our initial excitement dwindling. Now it seemed our theory about college kids was correct, some artistic project or prank, whatever the kids do. We were about to pack up and head back to the station when Alan called out. Hold up, folks. Let's leave a pair of rangers behind to keep an eye on the place, just for a few hours, just in case.

Two rangers volunteered to stay behind. The rest of us loaded into our trucks and headed back to the main base. As we came around a bend, a voice crackled over the radio. We got a vehicle parked behind some rocks at the dog campground. Look suspicious. We were coming down from the steep slope hill that the mine was on. We had a great vantage point of the area on the south side of the park, including a couple of the outlying campgrounds. One of the rear rangers, while looking down off the cliff, just happened to spot a vehicle hiding at one of these campgrounds. Our convoy quickly reoriented, beginning the long, slow descent down the hillside towards

that campsite. This area was notorious for attracting undesirables, riffraff and troublemakers who thought they could escape the law by venturing into the park's furthest reaches. The campground was a hotspot for illegal activity. We approached it with caution. It's why we dubbed it the dog campground. There was always something dodgy going on out there. It was usually harmless, but still, you can never be too sure.

There were stories of tweakers and all manner of whack jobs squatting on those fringes. As we entered the campsite, our eyes scanned the area, taking in the scattered trash and abandoned gear. The car was parked behind a cluster of rock. partially hidden from view. We spread out, our boots crunching on the gravel as we began to investigate. The first thing that we noticed, the car was inoperable. It was white and black, burned out so bad that nothing remained. None of us wanted to approach. Obviously something seriously illegal was going on. Alan immediately called in the local sheriff's department requesting deputies on the scene right away.

Then he sent a pair of us back to the district building so they could live. lead the lawmen back to the scene of whatever crime that we just discovered. The air was heavy with its ominous silence, the only sound of creaking trees and the distant hum of a fly buzzing around our heads. Rachel and I walked the perimeter, our eyes scanning the ground for any sign of activity. The sun continued to beat down on us, casting long shadows across the dusty terrain. Again, nobody wanted to approach that car, so we just milled around, looking for any other clues. There were more casings and a big chopping log that had some cuts in it, as well as some dark staining. We really didn't know what to make of that.

Every step just seemed like a slow-motion nightmare, as if we were being watched by unseen eyes. The trees loomed over us, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to snatch us. I just couldn't shake that feeling that we were walking into some kind of trap, that something or someone was waiting for us just out of sight. As we approached the car, I noticed it was old, rusted, and covered with a thick layer of dust. The windows were blown out, leaving long, jagged shards like teeth in the frame. I tried the door handle, melted in place. Rachel and I exchanged another look, our instincts screaming at each other that something was off.

We began to circle the car, searching for any signs of forced entry or exit. And that's when I saw it. What looked like a head resting in the front seat. seat. I froze in place, just kind of hollered for everyone to freeze. Everyone did, and Alan slowly crept up to my side. My heart began to race as I called out to the others. We got something here. What is it, man? Quit screaming, Alan instructed me. I pointed down to what I was looking at. Alan peeked over my shoulder and sucked in a breath, then took a few steps back. He could see a little more than I could. Just one more step was all it took.

I could see the corpse for what it was. Not just burned to a crisp, but methodically dissected, like a frog on a sixth grade science lab table. It was hard to tell what was what, but it looked like someone had chopped the guy apart. We all retreated from the car and tried to calm ourselves down, but at this point we were desperate for the sheriff to arrive. That was at least an hour out.

I wish I could say that we got the answers and relief that we desired when the log got there. They taped it off and started taking photos. But when we explained the body and when they saw it, their entire demeanor seemed to change. They dismissed us, said they would reach out if they had any further questions. When we came back to check on the scene the next day, that vehicle was gone, as well as all the trash from the area. We got the official report a few weeks later. All of us were stunned. The conclusion was suicide. The man had been seatbelted into the vehicle, and then set it on fire. But before that, someone had laid him out and removed his arms and

legs with a wood chopping axe, probably the chopping log that we saw with those dark stains on top. So how did he cut his own limbs off? Climb into the car, put a seatbelt on, then lighted on fire. Allen, the lead for the district, said there was a lot of illegal drug trafficking in the area. It had to be related. No other scenario made sense. It also made sense why the sheriffs weren't too keen to investigate. There wasn't going to be any leads or breakthroughs in a case like this. This was a make-or-break experience for our department that year. A lot of people moved on to different parks, different occupations altogether.

Murder at the edge of the world wasn't in the job description, and a lot of us felt like we were moments away from walking into our own deaths that day. Not me, though. I stuck with the district and still work in that unforgiving desert to this day. I have a lot of cool, weird stories, but this is definitely the darkest thing to ever happen on the job. I thought I had hit the lottery when I met my boyfriend's family. His mother was so nice and welcoming from day one. She immediately wanted to include me in family traditions. Even though I was just a girlfriend back then, my boyfriend's father was a little quiet and a typically manly man, but he was not nice enough to everyone. It felt beautiful, and things only got better when my boyfriend proposed.

I invited my mother-in-law, along with my mother and sisters, to almost every event that I was having as the bride. She cried when she saw me in my dress at the fitting, and I can't describe the kind of speech that she made at the wedding. Those were some of the most beautiful words anyone has ever said to me in my entire life. My own mother told me that I was the luckiest girl alive to find such wonderful in-laws, because my paternal grandmother was, I guess, a raging lunatic. In short, she was never our grandma because she hated my mother so much. But as it stood, my future children, if, and when I decided to have them, would have both sets of grandparents. So my mother was excited for me. I should probably give everyone some fake names to make things a little clearer here

and keep things relatively anonymous. I'll call my mother-in-law Laura and my husband, on. You should also understand that we're a Caucasian American family, and this happened this century. Obviously, no one was really religious. My husband's family were Protestant Catholics, but not really churchgoers, and my family only attended church for weddings. Really, in short, there were no special clashes, or really any signs of what would come next. I can't say that there was any evident flip of the switch because it all happened so gradually. I was the literal frog in a pot of slowly boiling water, as I like to say. Ron and I went on our honeymoon to the Bahamas and had a wonderful time. We talked about nothing and everything at the same time. One thing I made clear is that I was

considering graduate school, so I wanted to wait a few years before we started having any children. We had only discussed these things in general terms, but after marriage, you have to set a few ground rules to really let each other know which direction you're going in. Ron was completely supportive. He said it was a wonderful idea to wait and we could save money for the future, get a better house, etc. Amazing, I thought. When we got back from our trip, we settled into our daily routines as a married couple. I should have noticed at that point what I didn't when we were dating. Or you could say that it started at that time, but I began cooking all the meals, and Ron got sloppier than ever. We only lived together for a year before we were married,

and he was never really that sloppy. He liked cooking for me, but in this sort of new normal, he was leaving things around, not washing dishes, telling me when he needed laundry done, and what I needed to make him for dinner. I know that was a red flag right away, but you don't notice this stuff when you're still riding the high of a wedding and honeymoon. I was working too and researching how and where to apply to graduate school, how much money we would have to spend, and if I could juggle it with my job. By the end of that first week back, I was completely exhausted. On Sunday I was looking forward to sleeping and just sort of rotting in bed all day. Instead, Ron dropped the bomb on me that his parents were coming for lunch, so I needed to get the house ready. I asked him why he didn't tell me sooner, and he replied that he thought he did, and anyway,

this would be our weekly routine now, he said. Excuse me? I asked what he meant by that, and he said that his mother had to be. had decided that we needed to have a weekly lunch or dinner because she didn't want us to lose touch with daily life. I told him I would have been fine with that if only he had discussed it with me earlier, and I'm tired from that crazy week previously. Ron said that if I didn't want to do it, I should be the one to call his mother and tell her. I was so angry, and honestly, I loved Laura so much that I wouldn't dare do such a thing. I got up from bed and told

Ron that if we were working so hard on a Sunday, he had to help, and he agreed. Laura and her husband, whom we'll call Anthony, arrived after I spent the entire morning making a nice lunch. And what did Ron do? He mowed the lawn. I guess that was something. But anyway, we sat down to lunch. Laura wanted to know all about our honeymoon, and we laughed, telling her stories and such. After lunch, Ron and his father went to the back patio to drink and talk. I didn't like that because it left me with all the dishes. Luckily, I had Laura, who volunteered to help, and I thanked her gladly. I felt comfortable enough to talk to her about the few things that I was currently dealing with.

I told her that her son was becoming sloppier than he'd ever been, and she just sort of laughed and said something along the lines of, That always happens to men when they get married. I asked her what she did to change that, and she looked at me funny. She didn't understand why I wanted to change that. She told me I simply had to follow along because I was married, and becoming a wife meant taking care of my husband. I laughed.

I honestly and truly thought that she was kidding in that moment, and there was no way this amazing woman was telling me something so 1950s. She had to be joking. When I looked at her again, she wasn't laughing with me. Laura was staring me dead in the face, and I kind of lost my breath for a second from how creepy it was. I'm not kidding, she said, and showed only a little annoyance as she continued. She said it was her job for years to take care of her husband, and she also asked if I was

looking down on her. I immediately shook my head. I couldn't believe that she would interpret my laughter that way, but I also explained that I was working just as hard as him, and that we should be sharing the household responsibilities and everything that entails. Laura grabbed my arm and squeezed a little too hard for comfort, but not enough for me to complain in the moment. And she says, This marriage, and when you have kids, it'll be harder, and you have to prepare for that. I want my grandkids to grow up in a good home. I tried to loosen her fingers and said that was fine,

but Ron and I had discussed kids and we wouldn't be happy. having them any time soon. The arm squeezing got painful this time. She asked what I was talking about, and I told her that Ron and I had agreed to wait because I was going to grad school. Finally, she let my arm go and threw the dishplate that she had been helping me dry onto the sink. I actually jumped at the noise. She told me I couldn't wait to have children. I was getting too old, I guess. Twenty-eight is old, and I needed to start having children immediately, or they would come out. And I would. won't write this, but she used the R word and other not so nice terms. Then she went into a lecture

about women prioritizing the wrong things. According to her, a career wasn't important for a woman. What mattered was family only. Besides, I already had a college degree and a good job. Why would I need anything else? I had accomplished everything, and it was time to focus on the future. Now, don't get me wrong, I wasn't being persuaded by this very antiquated. rant, but I was in such shock that she would say these kinds of things to me. One reason I mentioned our country, race, and religion, and more, is that I understand people in other places still have these sorts of expectations in their society, but not in modern America, I thought. Not the one I grew up in, or the one I thought I was marrying into. Yet I was so stunned that I just sort of took it.

When Laura finished her rant, she went to grab the dishplate again, but I lowered my voice to something very soothing and asked her to sit down. I served her some tea and got back to work to finish the dishes. When I picked up her empty cup, she gently took my arm again and said, Don't tell Ron any of this. These are wife worries. He doesn't need to know. Screw that, I thought. I sat Ron down that night as soon as his parents left, which took way longer than I expected, and lunch almost turned into a nightmare. I was worried about having to make them dinner, but I also told my husband that I wasn't going to put up with any of this attitude, and I didn't sign up to be a housewife.

I was going to advance my career, and he was going to be my partner, not a child that I had to take care of. If he couldn't do that, I thought that we might have to get divorced. And he panicked, and he apologized, and said that he hadn't noticed what he was doing, and he was sorry. Well, good, I thought, but I needed more than just apologies. I wanted a real change in him. And this did work.

Following that conversation, Ron went back to being the partner that he had been before marriage. The problem was, of course, Laura, my mother-in-law, whom I really couldn't talk to like I did with my husband. I agreed to Sunday lunch every week just to keep the peace. But Laura began to show up more often. It was always after I had arrived from work on the first surprise visit. She knocked, and I opened and let her in. Not so gladly, but what could I really do? She came to show me something under the guise of welcoming me more into the family.

It was a cookbook, a copy of the one all the women in their family had at home. It was very nice, but she made me cook one of the recipes that night, and she stayed, and she didn't help at all. Laura said that I had to learn on my own because she wouldn't be there forever. Ron arrived, and we sat down, and she left without helping to clean up. Another day, she showed up with my father-in-law's shirts to teach me how to sew buttons. Another time, her lesson was a special way to do laundry that left things softer and better. And I was kind of losing my patience with her.

I told Ron, and he said he would have a talk with her. Later she wanted me to come over, and at first it was different because she was buttering me up. She fed me cookies and showed me old photo albums of Ron as a child. I knew this was a sort of persuade me to have kids type of day, and I just sort of nodded and smiled. But one night was terrible for me. I don't remember if I had a bad day at work, or if I was just feeling awful. But when I saw that Laura was waiting for me, I just knew that something would happen. I tried to hold it in and led her inside the house, listening to her happy chatter about some friend of hers who had just become a grandma.

She looked at my house and told me that I needed to start vacuuming more often, because it was getting too dusty, and I said that I would soon. She started making sniffing noises and said that I needed to do more cleaning too, because the house smelled musty. I stepped into the kitchen for some water, and she followed. There were honestly like two dishes in the sink that I hadn't cleaned that morning because I was running a little late, and Laura started clicking her tongue and shaking her head. She said something like,

Dear, it's your responsibility to keep the house in shape. I'm coming here more often. I need to train you. And that was it. I spit out the gulp of water that I had just taken, and coughed for a while before I could start speaking, or really shouting, but I did. And I told her there was no training me. I wasn't a dog. I wasn't a maid. Two dishes and a little dust doesn't matter. And her son didn't marry me to get live-in help that he could sleep with. I admit that I was very rude and kind of hysterical. and to be honest, I expected a little push back. Laura should have gotten just as crazy with me, and I thought that she would scold me for raising my voice and go into another 1950s rant. But she didn't.

I saw her face become completely stoic, and her mouth was tightly shut, and her nostrils were flaring only a little. Then she left the kitchen and got out of my house. I would have followed and apologized, but I was too tired. I was sure that I would see her later, obviously, and we could just have that conversation. I considered that Ron probably never spoke to her about our agreement.

Perhaps Laura would call him crying about the way that I spoke to her. I look forward to that, to this open communication, you know. But my husband got home, kissed me, and we went about our night as normal as ever. He was tired, but he helped me with the dishes, was affectionate, and we went to bed on great terms. All right, I thought. Laura wanted to keep these things between us, and maybe that's why she had asked me not to tell Ron about these wife worries. But the next morning, I decided to apologize when she came over, and we could sit down and talk. Laura didn't come, and she didn't answer any of my calls. I asked Ron if everything was all right with her, and he said that he talked

to her, and everything seemed fine. I gave her a few days before I decided to be. I decided to to go to her house. My father-in-law answered the door and said Laura wasn't feeling too well, so I left. And then, I have to admit that I didn't try harder. I got busier at work and with the upcoming deadline for grad school. Ron and I were happy at home, so Laura kind of just slipped into the back of my mind. Also, my boss was supervising everything I did more than usual for some reason. Months passed, and things were a little sad for me because none of the schools that I had applied to accepted me, and I was pretty bummed out. Around that time Ron got busy at work too, life, you know, and before I knew it, it was now Thanksgiving, and we were going to Laura's house.

She was hosting the extended family, and I hadn't seen most of them since the wedding. And so, to be nice and a little kiss-ass, I cooked an apple pie from the recipe book that Laura gave me. I brought it in, and she wrinkled her nose and said something snarky, like she didn't think that I wanted to be a maid and a cook. I let it go because she obviously was still angry at me. The issue later was that almost everyone at the party avoided me. At first I thought that I was just imagining things, but people stealthily left rooms whenever I was around. A few conversations stopped when I stepped out of the kitchen onto the back porch. Throughout the evening, Ron didn't even notice, but I was getting more concerned. After dinner, while everyone was still outside,

I managed to corner Laura in the kitchen. I apologized for yelling at her and went through my list of excuses and justifications, and I blame myself entirely, just to get on her good side. Laura put down a tray of empty drinking glasses on her kitchen counter and turned to me, and she started thanking me for the apology, but it was too late. I had shown her that I wasn't good enough for her son, but she was going to make sure that I changed that soon, she said. I asked her what she was talking about. Laura crossed her arms and insisted that I would be arranging my attitude soon. Laura was never a scary person, but the way she looked at me,

she wasn't the woman who had cried at seeing my wedding dress. I held my ground, though. I said that I wasn't going to change, and what's more, Ron loved me the way I was. She smiled and chuckled, all very condescendingly. Laura said that he didn't love me fully right now because he needed a real wife, just like his mother. I had a chance to become that type of wife with her help, but I had squandered it, which gave her no other choice but to intervene. What? Intervene how? And Laura came out with the entire truth. She said that she had called all my schools because my husband told her

which ones I had applied to and made sure to speak very badly about me. She also found out my boss was married to her aunt's friend, called him too. She said soon I won't have school or work, so you only will focus on Ron. That's your purpose. And I really couldn't believe it. Our thing happened months ago, and never in my wildest dreams would I have suspected anything like this. I asked her why she was telling me, because I could easily expose her wrongdoings to the family, and she laughed at me again, the sort of little huff sound, and asked who would believe me. and I knew this was the reason people were avoiding me that day. She had said something to turn the family against me,

and they were only being polite for Ron's sake. Except it was obviously more than that, as she smugly started telling me. Laura told everyone that I was alienating her from her son. She told me that Ron barely visited her because I didn't allow it, and that I wanted to make him have a vasectomy so we would never have kids. It was insane. It was diabolical, really. and nothing like the woman I had known.

I think Laura had been waiting to tell me her plans, like a villain in a movie who details his entire plot right before killing the hero, because she just sighed happily after she was done. It was insane, though. I was barely breathing, thinking what would be her final blow, and would I even survive all of this. But I guess I did. But Ron and I didn't.

As soon as we got home, I just broke down. I was sobbing and snot was. was coming out of my nose in a disgusting display, and after a while I realized that Ron wasn't very comforting to me. He had sat on our couch and crossed his arms and he looked so much like Laura, and his next words were an echo of what she said, and I didn't want to hear it, but I did. Ron told me that I should have listened to his mother, and he thought that I'd be a great housewife, just like her, and that it was my duty to become what I was meant to be, and that meant that he had wanted all of this, although he hadn't said a thing and had supported me before.

When he was done, practically scolding me, I asked why he had taken my side the times that I had talked to him, and Ron thought that I would come around to what really mattered, he said. Also, he hoped that getting me pregnant might help, but he shut up and just stood. I don't think he meant to tell me that part, though. But he did, and I don't know precisely what he was doing about my birth control, but I believed him capable of anything at this point. Either way, I knew things at that moment were over, but I had one final question for him. Did you and Laura plan for all of this together? And Ron didn't answer, but he got that same stoic look, just like his mothers. I can't describe it very well, but his silence just made me violent. I lunged at him,

slapped him as hard as I could. Now I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn't have laid hands on him, but I told him to get that look off of his face immediately. I was repeating myself, but I told him, more like screamed at him, in no uncertain terms, that I was not some perfect housewife to be bullied around, and that's not what we had planned. And out of nowhere, a slap came back at me. Logically, I knew it was payback because I had done it first, but the pain that radiated from my cheekbone all the way down to my toes was nothing like I had ever felt before. I wanted to fall back down on my butt and sob some more, but the look of hatred in Ron's eyes

stopped me in my place. I wondered if he would hit me more, but he shook his head and just left for the night. I don't know whether I had been stupid not to leave earlier, as soon as his mother started acting weird, but I wasn't going to be an idiot any longer. I came from a family full of strong women who would tell me to walk away, but it was just so bittersweet. The entire last year of my life, the dream wedding, honeymoon, and family that I had started to make was over. I packed my bags and was ready to go in less than an hour. Ron returned as I was readying my car and I braced for something, but we only stared at each other before he gave me a parting shot saying, you'll never find anyone like me. And of course he was right. I found someone even better. As time went on, ironically,

I am a stay-at-home mom, but I have a real partner who wants me to be a real parent, and husband once he gets off of work. I did go to graduate Dell, and I hope to get back to my career once the kids are older. Oh, and I quit that job almost immediately, and I am sad to report that I do believe Ron and Laura found themselves a little Cinderella to exploit. But to make a long story short, they're not my circus, not my monkeys anymore. This story happened in the early 2000s at my grandparents' place in Ohio. It was early summer, July.

Every summer my sister Emily and I spent two weeks at our grandparents' old farmhouse, nestled deep in the woods. It was a cherished tradition, filled with laughter, games, and the comforting scent of grandma's homemade pies. The sprawling fields and dense forest were our playground, a stark contrast to our suburban life. This was where our fondest childhood memories were made. The days were idyllic. We'd help grandpa tend to the cows, milking them in the early morning milling them. mist, and feeding the chickens as the sun rose. Grandma's garden was a colorful patchwork of flowers and vegetables,

and we spent hours weeding, watering, and picking the ripest produce for dinner. The evenings were spent around a bonfire, roasting marshmallows, and listening to Grandpa's stories about the old days. We would fall asleep to the sound of crickets, feeling safe and loved. But as we grew older, subtle oddities began to surface. The first time we noticed something strange was during the summer when I was 14 and Emily was 10. It started with sounds, soft rustling outside our room at night. At first we dismissed it as the creaking of an old house or the natural sounds of the woods,

but as the nights wore on, the noises became impossible to ignore. One evening, after an especially joyful day spent playing hide-and-seek in the forest, Emily and I lay in bed, whispering about the curious sounds. Do you think it's just the house settling? Emily asked, her voice trembling slightly. I don't know, I replied, trying to sound braver than I felt. Maybe it's just the wind. But deep down we both knew something wasn't right.

The next night, as the house grew quiet and the familiar rustling began, we heard something new, hurried footsteps echoing through the halls. At first they seemed to stop outside our room, but soon they traveled throughout the entire house. We clung to each other, our hearts pounding. The sound was too deliberate, too human to be the wind or settling wood. One night, the footsteps grew louder, sounding almost like someone was sprinting through the house. Terrified but curious, Emily and I decided to investigate. We crept out of our room, the floorboards creaking under our weight.

As we moved down the hallway, the sounds grew more intense. echoing off the walls. Maybe we should ask grandma and grandpa, Emily whispered, clutching my arm. They'll know what's going on. We hesitated outside our grandparents' bedroom door, the footsteps seeming to come from all around us. Gathering my courage, I knocked softly. There was no response.

I turned the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open a crack. Suddenly, a voice behind us made us jump. What are you two doing up so late? Grandpa's voice was gentle, but it startled us. We spun around to see our grandparents standing behind us in the dim hallway. Their faces were shadowed, making their expressions hard to read. We heard noises, I stammered. It sounded like someone running through the house.

Grandma smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. You shouldn't worry about that. It's just the house settling. You too should be asleep. They ushered us back to our room. their presence both comforting and unsettling. As they tucked us in, we tried to shake off the fear, but the look in their eyes lingered in my mind.

The next morning everything seemed normal again. Our grandparents were their usual loving selves, but Emily and I couldn't forget the events of the night before. Determined to uncover the truth, we decided to stay up late again and see if we could figure out what was causing the noises. That night, Emily and I crept into our grandkids, grandparents' room while they were still in the garden. We hid in their cupboard, leaving the door

open just a crack to peek out. We waited, hearts pounding in our chests, as night fell, and the house grew silent. The footsteps started again, the sound of hurried, almost frantic movements through the house. Then, with an unnerving suddenness, our grandparents stood up from their bed and sprinted out of the room. Their movements were so rapid and unnatural that Emily and I could hardly believe our eyes. We sat in the cupboard, barely daring to breathe. After what felt like an eternity, they returned to the room, their faces blank and expressionless. They moved around the room with eerie speed, and then, to our horror, Grandma stopped directly in front of the cupboard. She bent down, peeking through the small gap in the door, her eyes locking onto ours. She began to

laugh. It started as a low chuckle, but soon grew louder, more manic, and it went on for hours. Her eyes never left the small opening where we hid. She didn't move, didn't blink, just laughed that terrible, endless laugh. We were paralyzed with fear, unable to move or make a sound. As dawn broke, Grandma suddenly stopped laughing. She straightened up and walked to the kitchen as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later, we heard her calling us down for breakfast. Kids, come on. down, pancakes are ready. Emily and I stumbled out of the cupboard, our legs numb from crouching all night. We glanced at each other, fear etched into our faces. How could she act so normal after what we had just witnessed? The day after our chilling encounter with Grandma's

laughter, Emily and I were on edge. The events of the previous night played over and over in our minds. Determined to find answers, we decided to search their room while they were in the garden. We scoured every inch until Emily found something strange, a slight draft coming from behind the cupboard. We pushed it aside, revealing a hidden door. Our hearts raced as we opened it and saw a dark staircase leading down to an underground room. That night, the house was eerily quiet. The usual sounds of hurried footsteps and rustling were absent. It was as if the house was holding its breath. Emily and I crept out of our room, drawn to the unsettling silence. We tiptoed to our grandparents' room, finding the cupboard moved to the side and the secret door

ajar. We descended the narrow staircase, our steps slow and deliberate. The air grew colder with each step, and a faint, acrid smell filled our nostrils. At the bottom, we found ourselves in a dimly lit room, candles flickering on the walls, casting eerie shadows. In the same, center of the room, our grandparents were performing a grotesque ritual. They were making cuts on each other's arms with rusty knives, then licking the blood off each other's wounds. The sight was horrifying. We stood frozen in the doorway, unable to comprehend what we were seeing. Suddenly, our grandparents stopped and turned their heads towards us, their eyes locking onto ours. The shock and confusion on their faces quickly shifted to an unsettling calmness. I quickly closed

the door and locked it with a rusty key hanging on the wall. Kids, Grandpa said in a voice that sent chills down my spine. It's just us, your grandparents. You should be asleep. Run, I whispered to Emily, and we sprinted up the stairs and through the house. We could hear rapid footsteps behind us, but we didn't dare look back. We burst out of the front door and kept running until we reached the edge of the property. When we finally turned around, we saw our grandparents standing in the doorway, waving their hands in a grotesque parody of a cheerful goodbye. We didn't stop running until we reached the nearest bus stop. Emily was in tears, and I did my best to comfort her.

It's going to be okay, I whispered, even though I wasn't sure I believed it myself. When the bus finally arrived, I let her fall asleep in my arms while I stayed awake, watching the road, my mind racing with unanswered questions. 20 years have passed since that terrifying summer. Emily, who was only 10 at the time, has struggled with trauma ever since. She refuses to speak about it and avoids any contact with our grandparents. As for me, I meet them occasionally, but only in broad daylight and never at their house. The fear and confusion from that night still linger, and I often wonder what dark secrets our grandparents were hiding.

Sometimes I lie awake at night. replaying the events in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. But no matter how much time passes, one thing remains clear. That summer changed everything. The memory of that sinister ritual will forever haunt our dreams. If you're local, I'm sure you've noticed the old yellow gas station has been closed for a long while. They say it was because of low revenue and vandalism, but that's a I was there the last night it was open. I know what happened. I know why the doors are chained shut. If you have driven the mountain loop highway, then without a doubt you've seen the run-down little station on the corner of 20 and 530. And if you stopped by on a weekday between 5 o'clock and

midnight, you would have been served by either myself or Iris. I was 16 at the time. Technically, I couldn't work the hours that I was, but the owners were pretty relaxed when it came to certain things. Iris was two years older, and in my teenage opinion, simply beautiful. She stood equal to my five-foot-eight, had long, dark brown hair that she kept in a ponytail while working, and the most mesmerizing blue eyes imaginable. It was the winter season. The pass over the mountain was closed due to snow. This meant we went from being nearly overrun by customers to seeing one or two people an hour. The later hours were even slower. Sometimes we would go the entire shift only getting a single customer. During these times, I would wander around bored out of my mind or watch

movies that I had downloaded at home. There was no cell service or Wi-Fi, so scrolling social media wasn't an option. Iris preferred to lean back in her chair behind the register and read books. I would try and make conversation occasionally, but it would always die quickly. The night of the incident was like all the rest. The sun had set depressingly early. We hadn't seen a soul in hours. I pulled my phone out of my pocket out of habit, realizing there still wasn't any service I put it away. What time is it? I nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. What? I asked in confusion. She took her feet off the register and placed her book on it instead, raising an eyebrow she repeated. What time is it? Oh, it's... I had to pull my phone out again. It's 9.45. She sighed.

We still got another two hours until closing. I just nodded, dumbly. An awkward silence hung in the air for a minute. Iris picked up her book and continued reading. Feeling the moment slipping away, I blurted out, Hey, you want to do something? Like what? She asked without looking up from her book. I don't know, something to help pass the time. As in, I just shrugged. She sighed and put her book down. Listen, Clyde, we're paid to keep an eye on things and help people buy stuff, not to goof off or socialize.

Her rebuke stung a bit, and it must have shown somewhat because she quickly followed with, Tell you what, go take the trash out and I'll check once again if the bathrooms are clean. Then we can inventory the beer cave together. I hated taking out the trash, but if it meant we could do something together afterwards, it was worth it. Carrying the large black bag over my shoulder, I used my free hand to fumble with the bolt on the rear door. The doorknob never properly latched, so the owners had installed a large gate-style locking bolt.

It usually required two hands, one to pull the door closer, and the other to rotate, then slide the bolt back. Finally working it free, I pushed the heavy metal door open. In front of me stretched a gravel driveway that led to the highway. At the end of the driveway was a worn green dumpster. Iris hated taking the trash out for the same reason I did. At night there was a single light above the door. The rest of the walk was in near blackness.

One night I had stupidly bragged about how I didn't mind taking the trash out, how I kind of liked the fresh air. From then on, Iris had let me take it out every night. Willing myself forward, I walked out into the all-absorbing darkness. I felt eyes on me. Despite knowing it was just my imagination, I couldn't hold back a shiver. I lifted the dumpster lid and swung the bag inside. The lid slammed shut, echoing through the night. I almost didn't notice the rustling bushes just off the path. I froze. The sound grew closer. I nearly screamed as a figure stood from the blackberry bushes, leaves and twigs sticking out of their hair and

clothes they took a step closer. I let out the breath I was holding. I knew that face. Jeez, Iris, you nearly scared me to death. Why are you in the bushes? She stared at me without blinking. Her eyes were completely void of emotion. She slowly opened her mouth. To death, she whispered in a voice that was not her own. Instinctively, I took a step back. She matched it with a step forward. Iris? She took another step closer. Irice? She whispered, despite her mouth being open too wide to be whispering anything. Fear coursed through my veins. Her enunciation was wrong. But even worse, it wasn't her voice. It was mine. My legs were beginning to shake. There was something wrong with her. Not only was it the way she sounded that freaked me out,

but she looked incorrect. The color of her hair and skin was just a little off. Her dimensions weren't quite right. It hadn't been enough to notice at first, but the more I looked, the more off she felt. She spoke again, drawing closer with each word, Iris, to death, Iris, why to death, Iris? The words were flat and emotionless. Each time she spoke, she sounded more and more like me. A car happened to drive down the highway. Her right eye jerked to the side watching it pass as her left stayed focused on me. I snapped. I turned tail and sprinted for the building. Bursting through the back door, I slammed it shut behind myself and barred it. I slid to the floor with my back planted firmly against the door. I waited for something to happen,

but the only sound was my ragged breath. Regaining my composure, I started to doubt what I had just seen. I don't know how she did it, but Iris had pulled one hell of a prank. I started to started to get pissed off. She had made a total fool of me. I could just imagine her out there doubled over in laughter. She probably even had a camera set up. I stood up ready to throw open the door and give her a piece of my mind when I heard her in the main room. About time you finished, what we're doing out there this whole time, she asked. Confused, I stood up. She couldn't see me in the back room. How did she know I was back inside? She spoke again. Are you going to come in or just stand outside. It was then that I heard my voice come from the room she was in. Iris,

stand outside Iris. Are you okay, Clyde? She asked with obvious concern. I heard her walk towards the front door. The voice that sounded like me encouraged her, come outside Iris. The inflection was still wrong, but it sounded so much like me. Realizing what was happening, I ran out of the back room. Iris, wait, I yelled. She jumped in surprise, spinning around. She looked at me in confusion, then back to the empty front door. How did you? She trailed off. There's something outside. I don't know what it is, but there's something out there. She looked quite annoyed with me. Clydwork isn't the place for pranks. You got me. Now stop goofing off before we get in trouble. I glared right back. Listen, Iris, I'm not doing anything. And unless you were crawling

around in the bushes a few minutes ago, there's someone out there messing with both of us. She didn't look entirely convinced but apologized anyways. Sorry, I just assumed since it sounded and looked like you that you were behind it. You saw it? I asked. Yeah, well, you know as best as I could. These windows are so old they distort everything. We agreed to hang out together. So long as we could see each other, nobody could pull any more pranks.

I was actually starting to enjoy the evening. For the first time Iris and I were having actual conversations. I leaned she was paying her way through community college and was an only child. I told her about myself and my plans for after I graduated. We talked about dream vacations and what plans we had for next summer. It wasn't long before we had both forgotten about the night's previous incidents. Iris stood. I got to use the bathroom. I'll be right back.

While she was gone, I went over to the soft drink fountain and filled up a cup. Iris walked behind the register, picking up her book she began to read. You want something? I asked, holding up my cup. Before she could reply, something metallic clattered in the back room. Iris jumped to her feet. We both looked at the door marked employees only with apprehension. Stay here, she commanded. Before I could protest, Iris ran through the door into the dark room.

A panicked cry came from the dark. Clyde, just as I was about to rush through the doorway a turn. toilet flushed. I froze. Behind me, the bathroom door opened, and Iris walked out. I felt sick. In the darkness of the back room, I could make out a figure standing just a few feet away. Iris noticed something was up. What's wrong, Clyde? I didn't take my eyes off the figure in front of me. There's someone in the back room. She ran up to me. What? She demanded. Who? Looking through the doorway, she gasped. You better leave. We're calling the. We're calling me. We're calling the cops, she yelled. The figure stepped farther into the dark, disappearing from sight.

To death, Iris, came my voice, followed by Iris's voice. Come here, Clyde. There was a pounding of footsteps as the figure charged us. I slammed the door shut just in time. An inhuman scream rang out as the creature slammed into the door. Iris and I held it closed as the door was assaulted over and over again. We didn't relax until we heard the back door slam shut. What the hell was that? Iris asked. I didn't know what to say. This was too much. Iris jumped to her feet. I'm calling the police. I don't care who or what is out there. It just tried to attack us. I nodded. Yeah, that's a good idea. Iris went to the payphone behind the counter. She punched in 9-1-1, then held the phone to her ear.

She hung up and tried again. Damn it, she muttered, trying a third time, without luck. She slammed the phone back into the receiver. Clenching her fists, Iris groaned in frustration, the phone's dead Clyde. I felt a knot form in my stomach. This wasn't uncommon. The phone was just as often broken as it was working, but it was really bad timing. Now what?

I asked stupidly. Iris threw her hands up. How should I know Clyde? This isn't exactly in the employee handbook. She slumped down in defeat. Hey, Iris? Yes, Clyde? We don't have an employee handbook.

A small smirk played across her lips. I know we don't smart ass. With the mood successfully lifted, we went back to our original plan. We would stick together until sunrise. Then we would drive to town and report what happened. That was until a tattered soft-top fox-body Mustang pulled up to the pump. Oh, crap, muttered Iris. We both cautiously peeked out the window.

Do you think they're part of the car? The prank, I asked. Iris bitter-lipped nervously. I don't know. I'm not even sure it is a prank. An old man slowly climbed out of the car. He was balding and wore thin-rimmed glasses. He reminded me of a short, portly teacher I had in middle school. The man fumbled with his wallet completely unaware of us. After swiping his card, the man stiffened. He looked over his shoulder at something we couldn't see. Iris's doppelganger came striding into the light. Behind me the real Iris let out a soft gasp. I was frozen in place. I stood there as that thing approached the man. Suddenly, the doppelganger jumped impossibly high and landed on the man's shoulders.

He collapsed to the ground under its weight. Iris rushed from behind me to the automatic doors. Her movement snapped me out of my days and I chased after her. With the opening of the doors, we could hear the man yelling out in pain. The doppelganger had long black fingernails that it was using to try and gouge out the man's eyes. Before we had even made it out the door, the second doppelganger rushed from the dark. It still looked like me, but more battered and dirty. It held a large rock above its head as it ran towards the man. Raising the rock higher, it brought it down on the man's skull. Iris turned and blocked my view, but I still heard the crunch. It sounded like a watermelon landing on a sidewalk from a great height. Iris shoved me back inside. Once the doors closed,

she locked them. I chanced a peek outside. The car stood abandoned in the yellow light. All that remained of its owner was a thick red puddle leading into the dark surrounding bushes. Iris looked at me with tear-filled eyes. Clyde, I don't know if we're getting out of here. I didn't know what to say. We just watched someone die. My thoughts were a mess. I hugged her. We stood there holding each other scared to death. Iris angrily wiped her tears. Come on, Clyde, we need to lock this place down. We pulled down the security gate and locked it in place, hopefully sealing off the front door. Not that it would do much good if something really wanted to get in.

The windows on either side of the door were plenty big enough for someone to crawl through. The back door was locked, but for good measure, we pushed the baked goods display in front of it. We both froze at the sounds of footsteps above us. Iris covered her mouth to hold in a gasp. They're on the roof! She whispered, We both looked to access hatch that led to the roof. It was locked, but how sturdy was it?

My heart lurched and a scream slipped out of me. At the front window was my face. Blackened and grinning with its eyes open far too wide. No, it wasn't black. From the nose down the face was stained with blood. It had been feasting. Iris jumped when I screamed, seeing the face she turned me and pulled me into a hug.

wrapping her arms around my head she pulled it against her chest blocking out my view of the thing outside just don't look at it she whispered don't acknowledge its existence that didn't last the creature wearing my image started tapping the glass at first lightly but with each tap the force increased soon the old glass pane was flexing under the force i looked up at iris i saw in her eyes that she knew as well as i that the glass wouldn't hold. The second creature dropped from above to join the first. Cracks began to appear. I was frozen in place, but Iris sprang into action. She managed to move the display blocking the rear exit all by herself. The window shattered. The creatures stood there seemingly surprised by the sudden destruction. Iris came from the supply closet. In her hand was the broom we

used to sweep the floors at the end of the shift. She snapped the head off, leaving a sharp point. Iris had a look to her. It was as if time itself slowed in respect. She took my numb hand and put her car keys in it. She shoved me towards the back door. I stumbled into the back room. I looked over my shoulder to see her charging across the store, improvised spear held out in front of her. The creatures were coming through the window, their faces twisted with hatred, and hunger in their eyes. I made it out the back door. I made it to her car.

I made it home that night. As soon as I had service, I called 911. I bawled my eyes out as I tried to tell the operator what happened. They heard enough. Someone had died at the gas station and someone else was in danger. The next morning the police came to my door. They cuffed me and drugged me out of the house. I spent hours getting brutally interrogated.

Finally, I was able to go. From what I picked up, the officers arrived to the scene. The body of the Mustang owner was mostly consumed and laying next to the store. Inside there was bloodied hand and footprints everywhere. Iris was nowhere to be found. If it wasn't for the fact that there was no DNA evidence pointing towards me, I would probably have taken the blame. We moved within a week, despite the charges being dropped within a 48 hours

the court of public opinion had determined I was guilty of murder. and probably worse when it came to Iris. It's been seven years now since they closed that station. I drove past it yesterday. I had to take that route for my job. The windows are boarded up and the blackberries have taken over half the building. But it didn't feel empty as I drove past. Thank you, Iris.

You were braver than I could ever hope to be. I hope you can see what I did with my life and are proud. I miss you. I'll be taking the long way home. The extra four hours of driving is worth not having to go past that station again. I'm part of a volunteer search and rescue organization, and every year our group takes part in a late summer retreat filled with team building and bonding exercises. One of these exercises involves night training, which, as you can probably imagine, involves

practicing our search and rescue skills after dark. My specific job title is SNRK-9 handler, which sort of encompasses why I joined in the first place. I always wanted to work with animals, but never had the grades to study to be a vet. Joining as a dog handler meant the best of both worlds. I could do something constructive and contributive with my spare time while playing with dogs. I use the word play very loosely here, but you get the idea. Anyway, we were out on night exercises when my dog, trained to find human remains, started to alert us to assent.

I was partnered with a more senior member of the team at the time, but when I looked to them for some guidance, she basically said, let's just go with it. Now, I'm sure a lot of you are thinking, your dog picked up the scent of human remains. Why weren't you freaking out? Well, the answer to that is simple. Even the most highly trained cadaver dogs get things wrong sometimes. In a place like Washington, where we get California's annual rainfall on a Tuesday, damp scents can often confuse HRD or human remain detection dogs.

So when my dog started to alert, our policy was basically just to let him do his thing, because the best-case scenario is a false positive. And the very worst-case scenario, we find some previously unearthed human remains, which, as horrifying as that may be, was obviously a major part of our job. So the senior team member and I agreed to part ways temporarily. She'd wait on the trail while my dog and I went off to follow the scent he'd picked up, Since we both figured it was just a false positive, it would only be a matter of minutes before my dog lost the scent, and then we'd be back on the trail and on our planned route before we knew it.

But then, a few minutes turned into like ten minutes of walking through the dark woods, and after my dog started to lead me down a fairly steep slope, I lost my footing and took a really nasty fall. The next thing I know, my chest is on fire, probably from the two broken ribs I'd just sustained. and I could feel blood oozing from where I'd bashed my head on a rock on the way down. The first thing I did was press the emergency alert on my GPS, which signals the base camp that one of the team needs assistance. The second thing I did was start calling out for my dog because I'd lost control of his leash during the fall,

which I think scared him so badly that he ran off, or he just mindlessly followed the scent trail thinking that I was still following close behind. Now, as you can probably figure, I was not feeling like my best self. I was in agony, confused, and having dropped my flashlight as well as the leash during the fall down the slope, I couldn't see very well either. I just lay there, calling out for Brody, hoping that base camp had someone closing in on my position so I could get to the damn hospital already.

I don't know exactly how long I was lying there before someone showed up, but when I heard footsteps getting closer and closer, I felt this way to be. of relief washing over me. I started to call out something like, I'm here, I think I broke something, assuming it was a fellow SNR volunteer. But the second I heard their voice, I knew that they weren't with our group. Like I said, we do all kinds of icebreakers and bonding exercises every year. There tends to be a couple of new volunteers, but the voice I heard that night didn't belong to a long-term team member, and it didn't belong to the new girl,

or new guy, either, as we only had two new faces. on the team that year. It was a man's voice, and when they started talking instead of directly helping me, I swear it sent this chill of fright running right through me. The voice most definitely belonged to a man, and they started talking about how I was in a dry creek bed, one that dozens of people fall into every year. He went on to say that at least one person dies there every year, thanks to the flash floods the place sees during the rainy season. Someone falls, they get stuck, and then they drown. I went from asking for help to literally begging for it,

but the guy just completely ignored my requests and carried on giving his little speech about how often folks go missing or lose their lives out in that area of the woods. I remember losing my temper and asking, What the hell is wrong with you? When he replied with something like, You're not in the position to talk to me like that, I started to scream.

Not wild screams of fright, but help. Somebody help, over and over, while I tried and failed to reach for my flashlight. I also cannot overstate how goddamn painful that was. Having to scream when doing so made the burning pain in my chest feel so much worse. And around about that time I started to hear my dog, Brody, calling out for me. He's part Australian Shepherd and a very vocal dog, so I started to hear a series of AOOs and trills and rolled barks, all of which tended to mean hurry or butt up human. As soon as Brody started making those noises,

the shadowy figure stopped talking. And then as we both started to hear the sound of Brody getting closer and closer, I heard that guy's footsteps as he made a hasty retreat. I think maybe a minute or two later, I started hearing more footsteps, only they were from multiple people this time, and they came with flashlights. I called out for help one more time,

and the next thing I know, two of my fellow volunteers are walking up the creek bed, and one shines their flashlight right on me. My first thought was to tell them about the guy that had just been talking to me, the one that had talked about the accidental deaths in a way that made me think that they weren't so accidental. I know that might sound kind of crazy, but the way he talked about them, like those deaths made him happy, was one of the creepiest encounters of my entire life. So yeah, I told my two rescuers about the stranger, and one of the first things they did before administering first aid was to make sure that he was actually gone. One guy shown his flashlight

all around while the other started asking me, were you pushed? And both later said that they were scared that that creepy guy had been the cause of my injuries. Hence one asked if I was pushed or not, and then asked if I was sure about that when I said no. Don't get me wrong. I was terrified that he was about to do something, especially since I was basically incapable of getting away from him. but he didn't cause me to slip. He was just there to see it or maybe hear it, but that obviously raises the question of what the hell he was doing out there in the first place. My two teammates then kept me company until the medic showed up with an ATV and a backboard

that they could attach a stretch or to. I was then slowly driven back to base camp, given a quick look over, and then we headed over to a very rural medical clinic. Once we figured out my ribs were broken, once I'd been given some pain medication, and the doctors told my team leaders I was stable. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and a bunch of my fellow volunteers came to visit me in the morning to see how I was doing. And that's when I finally got a chance to tell everyone about the guy that had showed up in the minutes after my fall,

and how his warnings sounded an awful lot like thinly veiled threats. About a week later, after I'd been discharged from the hospital when I was safely back at home, I got a call from that same senior team member I'd been with before my fall, She asked how I was doing, how my recovery was progressing, and stuff like that, and she then told me that the team leaders were discussing a change of locations for the following year's retreat. A couple of other team members had reported someone walking around in the dark, someone who definitely wasn't a volunteer, and that after talking it over, they decided that safety was paramount, and that they'd be looking at alternative locations. In the words of one team leader, a second run-in with that creepy shableness. shadowy stranger, was not something they were willing to risk. For winter break one year, we packed up and headed to my hometown, a small island in West Asia that is not very well known.

There, I met my uncle. In fact, this is his encounter, not mine. He'd been at sea ever since he was about 18 and was 35 when he first told me this. He's seen many things out there, and please keep in mind that these are his words translated into English. The story is told from his perspective. Winter might be the worst time to be at sea, even though it is much warmer here than in other places. It still gets quite bad, especially for first-time fishermen, but the worst part is that it was squid season, and the deck smells terrible no matter how much you clean it. Unlike Chinese vessels, we only stay at sea for 45 days, but that doesn't make it any better. Your position changes each time you sign up with the fishing company,

but if you're new, you're most likely to work as a cook or just cut squid. Regardless of all that, there was always one unsolicited rule. If you see anything, say nothing. That goes for anything out of the ordinary, because legend has it, there are things in the sea that love to be talked about. Of course, when I was new, I didn't know that, but I wish I did. beyond the deck being stinky as usual, when you get homesick as a newbie, trying to spot land makes you feel better somewhat.

At least that was my case. It was near sunset that day, as I recall, but it was already very dark. The sun was completely gone, and it was a little misty. I was kind of frustrated with it all, to be honest. I just wanted to make some cash. At the start, I thought it would be easy, just cook some food and cut some squid. Can't be that hard. That's what I always told myself before signing up. But there I was.

I could only sigh and turn away to keep myself from puking from the smell. Then I heard something. I paused for a second, not sure of what I actually heard. It was like some kind of knocking, the kind of knock you'd hear when someone's in a hurry. I brushed it off as a crewman knocking on the door, even though I knew that knocking on metal doors sounded way different. It clearly sounded like hurried wooden knocks. The knocks made me feel a little scrupulous because each time I would hear five knocks,

and when it finished, I thought it would be leaving or gone, only to start again. Five distinct knocks, the last one always being the strongest. I was curious at the time to see what caused this strange noise. I feared it might be an issue with the vessel, but I wasn't really familiar with the mechanism and structure of it. I was careful not to get too close to the railing, just in case. I inched closer, trying to peek over the edge carefully. Then I saw something in my peripheral vision.

It didn't look exactly like a fish, but it did look fishy at the same time, if that makes sense. It had no scales, but somehow it looked like it reflected light. It was visible in the barely lit water, a distinct silver color, and its body was about eight feet long. I thought it might have been a big fish of some sort, maybe a shark, but I was proven wrong when I what was supposed to be its head. Its head was like a fox's, with no fur, and its limbs. They weren't tentacles or anything like that. They were human-like. Four of them. The thing gave off a smell like rusty iron, somehow worse than the smell of the deck itself, and I wanted

to puke again, and this time there was no holding it back. I grabbed the iron railing as tightly as I could, and let it all out. The heaving made the walls of my stomach burn. I then heard a ringing in my ear. I don't remember what happened after that, but I do remember that the thing was gone next I looked. Now I wasn't aware of the unspoken rules of these vessels, so as soon as I saw another crewman, I knew I had to pull him to the side and say something.

He was an old man, and had plenty of years of experience out at sea. I'll call him Ivan. Ivan was usually the captain during the squid fishing season, but he had recently had a head injury and could no longer do that anymore, but he still insisted that he accompanied the vessel this season as well. The fishing company knew him well,

and out of respect, they fulfilled his request. Hey man, I think I saw something, I said. He must have seen how pale I looked. He looked even more concerned. What's up? You look like you're going to wet your sheets tonight. Yvonne was the kind to always joke, even in the most serious of moments, even if his jokes weren't funny at all.

Well, I saw something in the water. It was silvery and was huge, at least eight feet, I told him, and he stopped laughing. I saw Ivan's expression harden. He was no longer smiling, no longer revealing his few missing teeth. He looked serious. It's probably because you're new. Young ones especially tend to imagine things the first time. Just say your prayers and sleep for the night.

But before that, find someone who's... willing to do cooking duty instead of you. I wasn't imagining things, Ivan, and I've already said a prayer. I'm sure that I saw something in the water, something that wasn't normal. I tried to defend my claims against Ivan. I felt irritable for some reason. My stomach was hurting and growling now that it was empty, which made me even more annoyed. Listen, I'm not saying you're lying. It's just, you look tired as heck. Ivan's usually friendly tone took a more deep turn, then his expression looked as if he was scolding me. That night, I didn't feel like myself. All I could think about was that weird silvery thing in the water. No matter how much I tossed and turned in the bed, it didn't

work. I just kept thinking about it over and over, and I was irritated at Ivan, a feeling of betrayal of sorts, even though Ivan didn't really do anything wrong. Now, in that vessel, we had no actual beds, just a couple of sheets under our bags, a sheet over us, and an old pillow. Each room was filled with six to eight people, and to my bad luck, most of them were on duty that night and had come back smelling like squids, which basically smells like urine. The feeling of unease combined with that stench in the room made me get up from my sheets at last, and walk towards the door, careful not to step on someone's arms or legs by accident, and wake them up. I successfully made my way to the deck. There, I found Ivan standing by the railing of the vessel, mumbling

something that I could not hear. I didn't get too close to him, but he did stop, and he looked at me. He continued to mumble as he did so. I could hear it better now. It was some sort of prayer, I think. Ivan looked fairly tired. His eyes were red as if he hadn't slept for days. I checked the water myself for the strange thing I saw earlier, as if it was a little bit of if I was eager or longing to see it again. Are you looking for it? Ivan stopped praying and looked at me, but his eyes were unexplainable, as if he were looking for something behind me, not looking at me.

It felt as if I was dreaming. Ivan's bloodshot eyes snapped me awake. Then I didn't say anything. I remember feeling a bit embarrassed, actually. I quickly ran back to the squid-smelling room. Something didn't feel right. It was as if everyone knew something and kept me in the dark. Hopefully, it was the last days of the squid season,

so I wouldn't have to spend too much time with Ivan on the same vessel, even during cooking duty or any duty at all. I figured that I would no longer talk to Ivan, at least until we got back to land. But when we did, I was far too tired to do that. I tried not to think about the incident for a week or so. However, the day I needed to confront him and ask him about that night, was the day my mom shook me awake and said that old Ivan had died of a heart attack. Now, our island isn't too big. It doesn't have too many towns. It was only natural for people

to know each other quite well. The old man Ivan was the first person to introduce me to the fishing vessel company, telling me it was the best way to get started with making money, and now he was dead before he could ever teach me much about the sea. On occasion, I think about the thing I saw back in the sea, but that wasn't the last time I saw it. Sometimes I still need money here and there, and I sign up for the same company, and every now and then, I do see that thing in the land again. Even if you see things that are unexplainable, it's important that you act like you never did and continue on with your duties. I finally then knew the spoken rule of the vessel. If you see anything, say nothing. It was early October when Dad decided that a train of the vessel. I finally then knew the

trip into the wilderness might finally get us back on the same page. Fresh air will do us both some good, he'd said, a hopeful glint in his eye that I hadn't seen in years. Mom had been the architect of this plan, her worry lines deepening every time dad and I clashed over dinner, or a passing comment that neither of us could let slide. I packed my gear into the back of Dad's old Chevy, the truck still holding remnants of our past trips, fishing hooks, a stained map of the the Bighorn Mountains and a dog-eared wildlife guide that I remembered pouring over as a kid. The drive was supposed to take five hours, but with Dad, it always took longer. He liked to take the scenic roots, claiming that the highways robbed a man of good views and

better reflections. The road snaked through rising foothills and expansive plains that stretched out like a canvas. Dad didn't talk much during the drive, his eyes fixed on the road, only breaking silence to point out a hawk circling above or a herd of deer that watched us from a safe distance. I tried to appreciate the peace, the way the golden autumn light filtered through the Aspins, turning their leaves into flames against the crisp blue sky. But there was a tension between us, palpable and heavy, like the clouds that rolled over the mountains ahead, promising storms. When we finally turned off the main road onto a gravel track that crunched under the Chevy's tires, the scenery shifted.

The trees crowded closer, their branches arching over us like a welcome or a warning. Dad's expression softened as he rolled down his window, letting in the cool, pine-scented air. Smell that, Nate? That's the smell of no cell service and no distractions, just us and nature. We reached the lake just past noon, the water a perfect mirror reflecting the rugged peaks that surrounded us. It was breathtaking, untouched, and wild, just like the postcards that used to make me dream of adventures. We unloaded our gear and set up camp in a clearing, the grass soft and thick underfoot, a perfect cushion for our tent. Fishing was up first.

We grabbed our rods and headed to the lake's edge. The calmness of the water was a stark contrast to the usual turbulence between us. Dad showed me how to tie the fly, his hands steady and sure. Remember, it's all in the wrist, he instructed, his voice more patient than I'd heard in years. We didn't talk much as we cast our lines, the silence between us now comfortable, filled only with the rhythmic sounds of our reels and the occasional call of a loon in the distance. When I finally felt a strong tug, Dad was beside me in an instant, guiding, advising, and when I reeled in a hefty thrashing bass,

his laughter echoed around the lake, genuine and joyful. We'll eat well tonight, he said, clapping me on the back as we walked to our campsite with our prize. We set the fish aside and got a fire going, the crackle and pop of the flames a soundtrack to our quiet camaraderie. As the shadows grew longer and merged into dusk, Dad started to talk about his childhood, stories I had heard fragments of but never fully pieced together.

There was a softness to him that evening, a nostalgia that made him seem less like the stern father I battled daily, and more like a man who had dreams and disappointments, just like anyone else. As the first stars appeared, I realized that maybe this trip wasn't just about fishing, or escaping mom's worried glances. It was about understanding, maybe forgiving. And as we sat by the fire, the wilderness not just around us but somehow between us. It felt like we might actually get there. The morning sun filtered through the dense canopy

as Dad and I packed up our rifles in gear for a day of deer hunting. The forest seemed to wake up with us, a chorus of birds singing from the trees, a stark contrast to the eerie silence of the night before. Dad seemed more relaxed, almost cheerful, as we trekked deeper into the woods to a spot he'd scouted on our last trip. Deer liked to graze along the ridge in the morning. We'll have a good chance if we're quiet, he whispered, his voice blending with the rustle of leaves

underfoot. I nodded, following his lead, appreciating the expertise he brought to these moments. It was a skill honed before I was born, a connection to the land that he was passing down to me, despite our usual discord. The ridge gave us a perfect vantage point, and soon enough, a group of deer appeared, cautiously stepping into the clearing below. We watch. breaths held, as Dad lined up a shot, his rifle steady and practiced hands. The crack of the rifle split the morning stillness, and one of the deer fell. We tracked a second one for a few hours before Dad took another clean shot, adding to our provisions. By the time we returned to camp, loaded down with our bounty, the woods were alive with sounds, an orchestra of nature

that seemed to play just for us. We were tired but exhilarated, sharing a sense of accomplishment, as we prepared the deer, the camp filled with the rich earthy scent of cooking meat. As dusk approached, the forest's ambiance shifted. The lively chatter of daytime creatures gave way to an unsettling quiet, and a prickling sense of being watched crawled up my spine. Dad noticed it too. His eyes narrowed, scanning the tree line as we ate. This is different, he muttered, his voice low.

I could only nod, feeling the wood. weight of the silence that settled over us, dense and foreboding. The darkness deepened, and we retreated to our tent, the day's fatigue pulling us towards sleep. Yet, just as I began to drift off, the crunch of footsteps near our tent jerked me awake. Dad was already up, his hand on his rifle, eyes wide in the dim light. Something's out there, he whispered. We moved quietly, cautiously unzipping the tent to peer into the night. The beam of our flashlights cut through the blackness, revealing nothing at first. Then, something massive shifted in the shadows. It was a creature I couldn't have imagined in my wildest fears, a beast covered in

patchy fur, its eyes reflecting our lights with a menacing red and yellow glow. It stood, improbably on two legs, towering over the underbrush. Its howl ripped through the silence, a sound so alien and terrifying it froze my blood. Without thinking, Dad and I fired. The shots echoed, deafening in the enclosed space of the forest. The creature staggered but didn't fall, instead howling again, a sound that made every instinct scream to flee. Dad grabbed my arm, pulling me back as the creature charged. We ran, stumbling through the dark to the truck, the beast's heavy steps thundering behind us.

Dad shoved me into the passenger seat, slamming the door just as a massive rock crashed against the truck, nearly shattering the window. He started the engine, and we tore out of there, the truck's headlights bobbing wildly as we bounced over the rough track. We didn't stop until we reached the safety of a hotel miles away, where we collapsed into a room, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from our veins. That night, neither of us spoke of what we saw, the unspoken agreement heavy between us as we lay awake, listening to the sounds of a normal world outside, a world that now felt infinitely safer than the one we had escaped. My name is Chris. I'm a longtime fan from Melbourne, Australia, and the story I've got for you actually involves your YouTube channel, just creepy, in a sort of roundabout way. I met my girlfriend in May of 2019, and it was she who introduced me to your videos. I'm not going to lie. At first,

I did think it was a bit weird that scary stories seemed to help her fall asleep. But after a while, I started to see the appeal, and we'd often put on a video while doing the dishes after dinner. This became something of a long-time ritual for us. Then, sometime in late February the following year, we were listening to some of your camping stories when my girlfriend suggested that we pay a visit to the one in Gada Valley. Gada Valley is about a four-hour drive out of Melbourne, and it's a fairly popular destination for hikers and campers. I know it probably makes us sound a bit mental to listen to a load of scary camping,

stories and then be like, well, that sounds like a good time, sign me up. But we're actually aware of how rare any kind of rural crime is. We didn't feel like we would be in any danger, and we weren't, in all fairness. But then, at the same time, that makes what I'm about to tell you pretty bloody ironic. So, we drove out to Wanda Dada, and I remember the exact date being the 21st of March 2020. We bought a load of camping gear online, and we're looking for a good spot to pitch our tents when we came across a couple of other campers. They were standing just off the trail, and about 10 to 15 meters away was a burned out utility vehicle, and what looked like the charred remains of a tent. There was a man and a woman there, fairly young looking,

and the man was pacing back and forth with his phone to his ear, looking majorly concerned. My first thought was that these guys had accidentally set their tent or Ute on fire, which had then caused the other to catch fire. God knows how they might have managed that, but figuring out exactly what had happened wasn't the first thing on our minds. We just wanted to make sure that the couple was all right. As we were walking up the trail, the guy thanked whoever he was talking to on his phone, and then just hung up, just in time to greet us as we got closer. It turns. It wasn't their campsite. They had just come across it at the same time as we did, and figured they'd report it since it was obviously fresh. We could smell that charred kind of burn smell from all the way over on the trail,

so he was right when he said that it must have been fresh. But the guy said that there was some untouched food lying around too, recently purchased stuff, which made him think that it wasn't just some teenagers looking to destroy the evidence of their last night's joyride. The bloke had actually been on the phone to the coppers right as we turned up, which was obviously the right thing to do. But since someone was already dealing with it, my girl and I just kept on walking after wishing the other couple good luck. It sounds crazy looking back on it, but at the time, we didn't think there was anything sinister going on. What it looked like was that there had been some kind of horrible accident, and someone was potentially hurt. There were no signs of a struggle,

no blood, or any other sort of human remains. It didn't look like what it was. Not long after we got back, My girlfriend sent me a link on Facebook to a local news story. The burned-out Ute and Tent that we'd come across belonged to an elderly couple who had been out camping just like we had. But instead of getting the help they needed, they hadn't shown up anywhere at all, and they were still considered missing people. There was a big appeal for information, so obviously my girlfriend and I got in touch to offer our services.

But to be honest, I'm not sure that we were of much help at all. We'd been in the valley for two nights. But aside from the run-in with the couple and the burned tents, we hadn't heard or seen anything even remotely suspicious. For a while, we started to worry that the couple that we'd seen might have been involved in some way. I mean, we just rocked up and asked if they needed any help, and then walked off after a quick chat.

The bloke told me that he'd been on the phone with the emergency services, but I had no way of knowing that for certain. We'd mentioned them to the police when we called them, and they told us they'd already talked extensively to the person who made the call, but they didn't tell us exactly when the call was made, nor did they give us any details about the person who had made it. Spoilers, but we really were just being a bit overly paranoid because the couple we bumped into had nothing to do with the missing people,

and we found that out for certain about 18 months later when the bodies of the missing couple finally showed up. It was sad, and I hate to sound harsh here or whatever, but it wasn't really a surprise to me or my girlfriend. This poor old couple had gone missing after some kind of accidental fire had inflicted God knows what kind of injuries to them. It seemed like they'd gotten lost, gotten hurt, or even worse. Then sadly, they'd succumbed to the elements and passed away.

I remember my girlfriend saying that, like, say they'd been in the tent whilst it was on fire, they could have inhaled all kinds of nasty smoke on the way out, not to mention getting burned. and then those burns getting infected or something. It was just an all-around horrible, tragic way to go out, and we really felt for the couple. But then the news broke that it hadn't been any kind of accident at all.

The elderly couple had been murdered, and their youth intent had been burned to get rid of any physical evidence their killer might have left behind. Knowing we'd come across the scene of a murder like that, and in complete ignorance too, was chilling. According to things we read online, the murder had taken place not even 24 hours before we arrived. If we'd left the day before, we might have even seen them hanging around their little campsite. We might have even swapped a good day or two going past.

Or, at the very best, maybe the trail being a bit busier might have saved their lives. We felt terrible for their families, for their friends. But at the same time, we couldn't help but wonder about the gorye details. call it morbid curiosity, but my girl and I were pretty desperate to know what had happened to that poor old couple. I mean, we spent two nights in the valley after they were killed. So were we in any danger at all? Was someone just hunting people at random? Or had it been some kind of personal thing?

As it turns out, it was neither of those things. It wasn't some psycho-serial killer stalking the valley for victims, nor had the killer and his victims ever laid eyes on each other before the murders happened because of an argument that started over a bloody drone. The whole thing is going through the courts now, or at least it was when I had the idea to write this all up and send it over to you. I tell you to look it up for yourself, but it's as confusing as it is depressing. The killer's defense lawyers are saying that his victim pointed a gun at him,

and that he somehow managed to rush the guy, grab the gun, and then killed the elderly couple, both man and wife, before he burned all the evidence. He even burned their bodies, too, and there's court testimony of him saying how he felt terrible for doing it, how he vomited from the smell, all this stuff trying to make him seem like a victim of the whole thing too. It's just gross, man.

But anyways, all the best with your channel and all that, and best of luck in the future. I don't know when this bloke's going to be sentenced or whatever, but I hope it's for a bloody long time. fancy killing someone over a drone. It hardly bears thinking about. It was another scorching summer day in northeast Pennsylvania, the kind of heat that clung to you like a second skin,

making every task feel like a marathon. I sat slumped in my chair, a fan buzzing uselessly in the corner of the room, and tried to muster the energy to do something, anything, other than wilt. But as the sunlight poured in, relentless and unyielding, I knew the outdoors beckoned. After all, today was my day off, and despite the heat, the lake was calling. I live about an hour and a half's drive from Narrowsburg, New York, where my favorite fishing

spot awaited me. On any normal day, I'd be out there by dawn, rod in hand, ready to wrestle with the day's catch. But today had been different. Today the air was so thick and hot, it felt like moving through soup. I waited, hoping for a reprieve. As the sun began to dip slightly in the sky, a plan formed in my mind. Maybe it'll cool off by evening, I mused aloud, speaking to no one in particular. My fishing gear was already packed and ready, a constant in the trunk of my car. Decision made, I felt a spark of excitement. Fishing in the evening wasn't my usual routine, but perhaps the change would do me good. I dressed quickly, grabbing my kayak's keys in a cooler. The drive to the lake was quiet and contemplative. The roads were familiar,

each turn bringing me closer to my sanctuary. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, a beautiful backdrop to my growing anticipation. Arriving at the lake, I unloaded my kayak with practiced ease. The air was cooler now, a gentle breeze replacing the stifling heat of the day. It was perfect. Pushing off from the shore, I paddled out into the calm waters, the surface reflecting the twilight like a mirror. For the first hour, I was in my element, casting my line with hopeful precision. But as the sky darkened further, a creeping disappointment settled over me. The fish were proving elusive, likely hiding deeper where the water remained cool and undisturbed. Cast after cast came back empty, no tug on the line, no battle

to be had. With a sigh, I considered calling it quits. Maybe it's just not my day, I thought, feeling the weight of the day's heat and the evening's fruitless efforts. But as I prepared to reel in my line for the last time, a sudden movement caught the corner of my eye. Something was out there, disturbing the peaceful waters. Curiosity peaked, I paused, straining to see through the dimming light. Was it just a log, or perhaps one of the lake's giant snapping turtles?

No, this seemed different, bigger, and with a purposeful glide that sent a shiver down my spine. The realization that it might not be something so benign dawned slowly, chillingly. With a mix of fear and fascination, I watched the mysterious shape move closer, my heart starting to race. What was lurking in my peaceful lake? Could the evening's adventure take a turn towards the truly unexpected? As the shadow drew nearer, my initial thrill of curiosity turned to alarm. Whatever was out there it wasn't supposed to be.

The water, usually my ally and escape, now felt like unknown territory, vast and possibly dangerous. What had I gotten myself into? As I sat in my kayak, floating on the glassy surface of the lake, the last light of day fading into twilight, my initial curiosity about the mysterious shape in the water turned into a cold knot of fear. What I had hoped was just a trick of the shadows now seemed far more ominous.

The creature moved with a purpose, its form sleek and powerful under the water's surface. My heart pounded as I realized this was no log or turtle. It was something much bigger. The creature's presence turned the peaceful evening into a scene straight out of a horror movie. As it drew closer, I could make out more details. Its body was long and covered in scales that gleamed faintly in the dying light. It can't be, I whispered to myself.

But a distant part of my brain was putting the pieces together, remembering images from nature documentaries. An alligator, here? The very thought seemed absurd, yet there it was, undeniable and approaching. Panic surged through me. All thoughts of fishing forgotten, I grabbed my paddle with trembling hands. My first instinct was to get away as fast as I could. The safety of the shore, which had seemed so close moments ago, now felt miles away.

I paddled furiously, the splash of my paddle loud in the silent evening. Every stroke was frantic, fueled by adrenaline. The kayak cut through the water. It speed a testament to my desperation. Behind me, the water stirred ominously. I dared not look back, afraid that seeing the alligator would only heighten my panic. I imagined it gaining on me, its powerful body propelling it effortlessly. My mind raced with horrifying possibilities.

What if it attacked? What if it overturned the kayak? The water around me suddenly felt hostile. a hidden world of danger lurking below the surface. As the shoreline approached, never had I felt so relieved to feel the scrape of sand beneath my kayak. I leaped out, my legs unsteady and weak from fear, and dragged the kayak up onto the bank. Only then did I dare to glance back at the water. The surface was calm again, as if nothing had disturbed it.

Had I imagined it all? No. The terror was too real, too visceral to be a figment of my imagination. Breathing heavily, I made my way to my car, throwing the kayak and my gear inside more hastily than I ever had before. The drive home was a blur of streetlights and shadowy trees, my mind replaying the night's events over and over. When I finally reached home, I was still shaking.

I recounted the encounter to my ex-wife over the phone, who was less than thrilled to hear of my brush with danger. Promise me you won't go back there, she pleaded. I could only agree. The fear still too fresh, too raw. The next day, I called an old friend who worked in the Fish and Game Department. He confirmed my fears weren't unfounded. Two alligators had been removed from that lake and another nearby over the past summers.

They were likely illegal pets released into the wild. The news was both a relief and a worry. It was an explanation, yes, but it meant the danger was real. That night changed my view of the lake forever. What had once been a refuge now seemed like a hidden pool of threats. My love for fishing would continue, but perhaps, I thought, it was time to find a new spot, a place without such chilling surprises lurking beneath its serene surface. Patapsco State Park used to be one of my favorite places in the entire world.

I grew up just outside of Baltimore in a place called Woodlawn. Some of you might recognize that name, but probably not for the best of reasons. I went to Woodlawn High School, the same one that Adnan Syed and Heyman Lee attended, and the same one made infamous by the podcast Serial. For those of you not in the know, Serial was probably the first big true crime podcast, and it told the story of how Adnan supposedly murdered Hymin, who was his girlfriend at the time she was killed. It cast a long shadow over Woodlawn,

and Baltimore's reputation had been in the toilet ever since The Wire came out during my final year of middle school. I used to love both places and I spent what's probably an embarrassing amount of time defending both in various online game lobbies. But then came the day when I was no longer able to defend Baltimore or the wider county, and that just so happened to be the day that I decided never to visit Patapsco State Park ever again. My girlfriend and I decided to visit during the summer of 2014, as Patapsco has a ton of different places to camp that came with their own table and fire ring. I'd spent almost my entire life hiking and camping around that park, hence why it was one of my favorite places,

and that also meant that I knew the place like the back of my hand. I knew one of the most secluded and picturesque places to hike was between the river and the train tracks. It had a stretch of barely-trodden trail right there next to the Ah River, and provided a train didn't roll past every so often. You might think it was a scene from a fairy story or something, which is obviously why I was so excited to show my girlfriend at the time. time, because I figured if I thought it was pretty, she would go absolutely nuts over it.

Anyway, we drove out to Patapsco, found ourselves a free campsite, then once we were all set up, we crossed the train tracks and started heading for the river. We were about 10 to 15 minutes into the hike. My girlfriend was absolutely loving the river and was taking all kinds of pictures on our phone, when suddenly we heard voices from somewhere on the other side of the water. The river isn't all that wide, but since it was a little bit of the river. was summer and all the trees and bushes were in bloom. We couldn't see who it was, until someone suddenly burst out from the bushes and ran into the river. They looked scared, and as they were running, their foot must have caught on a rock or something because they suddenly just

splashed down into the water in what looked like a pretty nasty fall. I was about ready to jog up the bank a little to see if the guy was okay, and if he wanted any help. But then right as I was about to take off, he stood up, turned around, and yelled out, No, please, no. The next thing we heard was, bang, bang, bang, three gunshots. Then the guy fell backwards into the river again. It was all over in a matter of seconds. We heard the voices, saw the guy fall, then he stood up and he was dead.

But I swear, I don't think his back had even touched the water before my girlfriend and I took off running. It was just a complete 180, not in terms of the direction we ran either. Everything was turned on its head. One minute, I was the happiest I'd been for many months, and the next we were quite literally running for our lives. I mean, I know it wasn't us getting shot at, but I figured if someone was willing to do that, they probably didn't want any witnesses either.

I think the thing that really sticks with me was how I didn't run as fast as I could have. The whole time my girlfriend and I were running, I was trying to keep my body between her and the shooter, thinking something like, if anyone was going to get hit, I wanted it to be me and not her. I'm not saying that to sound heroic. It was purely out of instinct. I just remember the skin-crawling sensation that came with it, though, slowing myself down when I wanted to sprint off through the trees, all while hoping that I didn't get shot, and then hoping that if I did get shot, the bullet

wouldn't go through me and hit my girlfriend too. She was amazing, by the way. She ran like the wind and stayed as quiet as possible and didn't even start to slow down until we were safely back across the tracks. Without a shadow of a doubt, those were the most terrifying few minutes of my entire life. If it was just me on my own, or maybe me with like a guy friend, it would have been scary all the same, but with it being my girlfriend with me, for some reason that made it all the more terrifying. I guess there was just that natural instinct to protect her, but at the same time, I knew that if push came to shove, I wouldn't be able to protect her from a guy with a gun, especially if that person wanted to do us harm. The best I could do was try to shield her, and I'm proud of myself for

doing that, but it's still made for a terrifying few minutes. We ended up getting out of there safely, and we called the cops as soon as we were able, but I don't know anything about the person who got shot, and as far as I know, their killer has never been caught. It was just another regular day in our little Florida neighborhood, except my best friend and I had planned an exciting evening. We were going to the creek behind our neighborhood to catch some fish. The creek was hidden in the woods, which had a pretty creepy reputation. People said it was a spot for devil-worshipping and mysterious happenings a long time ago, but we weren't scared. We had played and fished there since we were little kids. We knew those woods like the back of our hands. We grabbed our

fishing poles and pack some snacks. My friend brought his machete just in case we needed to cut through thick bushes or, you know, defend ourselves against something. I laughed off the idea, though the woods had always given me the chills when it started getting dark. As we walked towards the creek, the sun was just beginning to dip below the treetops, casting long shadows that made our familiar path look a bit strange. You ever wonder if the stories are true? My friend asked, swinging his machete casually by his side. Nah, I replied, trying to sound braver than I felt. It's just stuff the older kids say to scare us. We reached our favorite fishing spot and settled down. The water was calm and the sounds of nature were all around us, birds chirping, leaves rustling,

and the occasional fish jumping. It was peaceful and for a while we forgot all about the spooky stories. But as it got darker, the woods seemed to close in around us. The noises of the day gave way to the eerier sounds of the night. Crickets chirped loudly and an owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Then, something else joined the nighttime symphony, sounds that didn't belong. A rustling not caused by the wind, a faint whispering that seemed to come from all around us. Did you hear that? I whispered to my friend. He nodded, gripping his machete tighter. We listened, and the whispering grew louder, but we could.

couldn't make out any words. It was like the trees themselves were talking. Suddenly, a loud crash from the treetops nearly made me jump out of my skin. We looked up and saw something that made our hearts stop, a dark, human-like shape swinging from branch to branch, heading right towards us. It wasn't any animal we knew. The thing was big and moved too fast. The next sound we heard was like nothing I'd ever heard before. A mix between pig squealing and women. and screaming. It was the most bone-chilling thing I had ever heard. Without thinking, we grabbed our stuff and ran as fast as our legs could carry us. Behind us, the crashing and the horrible screams followed. I didn't dare look back. My friend was ahead of me, slicing at the bushes that

blocked our path. My chest burned with each breath, and my legs felt like jelly, but fear pushed me forward. We were about halfway through the field of tall grass when the creature hit the ground with a heavy thud. It was now chasing us on foot. I could see the grass parting behind us as if something invisible was moving through it. Just when I thought it would grab us, the creature vanished. But we didn't stop running until we reached the safety of the hole in the fence. Crawling through, I felt a mix of relief and terror. We had escaped, but what was that thing? And would it come after us again? As we ran all the way back to my house, all I was. All I knew was that those woods were no longer just our playground. They were something else,

something sinister. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. My friend and I had just squeezed through the hole in the tall chain-link fence, and I could hear that thing crashing towards us from behind. It slammed into the fence with such force that the whole section shook. Thankfully, we were already on the other side, running as fast as our legs could carry us. We didn't stop running until we didn't stop running until we. we reached my backyard. Once inside, we slammed the door shut and leaned against it, trying to catch our breath. My mom came rushing into the room, a worried look on her face. What's wrong? You boys look like you've seen a ghost, she said, her voice full of concern. I tried to explain, the words

tumbling out in a rush. There's something in the woods, Mom. It chased us. It was screaming like nothing I've ever heard before. I expected her to say she believed us, to comfort us like she always did when we were scared. But this time, she didn't. Boys, you're just letting your imaginations run wild. It was probably just an animal. You know, your minds can play tricks on you when it gets dark, she said, brushing it off. My friend and I exchanged glances. We knew what we heard. We knew what we saw, it wasn't our imaginations. That night neither of us could sleep. Every little sound made me jump, and I kept staring at my window, half expecting to see that shadowy figure peering in. The next night, the entire neighborhood was awakened by the same terrifying screams we had heard in

the woods. Lights flicked on in houses up and down our street, and soon people were gathering outside, talking in hushed, frightened voices. What is that sound? Someone asked. It sounds like it's coming from the woods, another neighbor replied. The next morning, a group of adults, including my dad and some neighbors, decided to go into the woods to see if they could figure out what was going on. My friend and I insisted on going with them. We led them to the spot where we had been fishing. As we walked, I noticed something new, something terrifying.

On the path to our usual fishing spot, someone had drawn pentagrams on six trees. each symbol was part of a bigger pentagram that had been drawn on the ground. We had walked right through it the previous day and hadn't even noticed. The adults muttered to each other, looking worried. The atmosphere was tense, and nobody ventured too far from the group. After a thorough look around, we found nothing else out of the ordinary, but the symbols were enough to make everyone uneasy. Words spread quickly through our neighborhood about what we had found.

The stories about the woods grew darker, and soon nobody dared to go near them after sunset. The house nearest to the woods, which always had a creepy vibe, now stood completely empty. People said it was haunted, and after what we experienced, I believed them. Those woods had changed. They weren't our playground anymore. They were a place of mystery and danger, and whatever lived there was best left alone. We never went fishing there again, and I always were a place of mystery and danger. always felt a chill when I passed by the path that led into those dark whispering trees.

Back in 2011, I tried to organize a camping trip for myself and a few friends. They had been talking all spring about how awesome it would be if we all went camping together. Just a bunch of dudes, no phones, just living in the moment, and all that kind of stuff. However, as the date approached, each of the four dudes dropped out one by one, citing various reasons for their inability to attend. Obviously it sucked. I was super stoked for some kind of crazy adventure, and I had also invested a significant amount of money in all the clothing and gear I thought I needed. I was heartbroken that the trip was basically set to be cancelled, but then it occurred to me, why not just go on

my own? We had planned the trip for mid-July, which is easily the best time to camp in the far northeast, meaning it was very much a case of sticking to the date or possibly waiting a whole year for the opportunity to resurface. So I packed my stuff, and on the day we were due to depart, off I went on my lonesome for a few days camping in Acadia National Park. For the three days that I was there, I had the time of my life. I actually figured that I might regret going solo, that I'd be bored out of my skull for the duration,

but I couldn't have been more wrong. First off, I barely had a moment to myself between making camp, collecting enough firewood, setting up the barrel arms, and getting the fire going. I literally did not have a spare moment until sundown. Then, when it finally did go down, I was in no mood to relax. Nighttime in the woods is freaking scary, dude. And since it was my first night in the woods in probably ten years,

and I was on my own, it was just a lot to get used to in a very short space of time, at least if I wanted any sleep anyway. I got used to the night sounds in the end. And there's only so many times that you can, play that scene from the Blair Witch Project in your head before it just gets kind of old, you know. After that, the second and third nights were way easier, and I managed to actually get some decent bouts of sleep. Then, on the third and final night of my trip, I woke up in the middle of the night in some serious discomfort. There's no delicate way to put this, so I'll just be blunt

about it. I didn't poop for three whole days while I was out there. Every time I even thought about it, I'd picture a snake slithering up to me, having to abort, and either getting poop all over me or getting my butt bitten by a garter snake or something. There aren't any venomous snakes up here in Maine, but they'll still bite you if the mood takes them. So the idea of dropping trow and squatting somewhere wasn't in the least bit appealing to me. But I could only put it off for so long. I was almost constantly busy, or on the move, at least during daylight hours, and that meant that I needed to eat a lot. But then, the more I ate, the more I needed to take a dump,

until I finally reached the point where I couldn't hold it in anymore. I got up, put my headlamp on the tactical settings, so that it emitted just a little blue light. It's harder to spot, and then walked off into the woods with my wet wipes. I didn't walk far, but I didn't exactly want to poop right next to where I was planning on eating breakfast the next morning either. so I must have walked for at least a minute or two, trying to find the perfect spot before finally leaning up against a tree and dropping my pants.

I promise that is enough poop talk for the remainder of the story. Just know that everything went smoothly, maybe not the best choice of words, and I managed to wipe and pull my pants up before starting on the walk back to my camp. But literally, just as I'm about, I don't know, 80 to 90 feet away, I see another person's flashlight shining up near my camp. The sudden appearance of this other person in the middle of the night obviously sent major alarm bells ringing in my head. And obviously there were a handful of innocent explanations. But there were way more not-so-innocent ones too.

So instead of just walking back up to my camp to see what this mysterious stranger wanted, I switched off my headlamp real quick and then crept over to a tree trunk in the darkness and watched from behind it. Some of you might be thinking, why the dim blue light? Well, if you've given yourself night blindness by using a big bright flashlight like my visitor was, it's almost impossible to detect that real dim shade of blue, and that's why I was able to turn my headlamp off real quick without being seen. Anyway, so I duck behind a tree, watching as this guy's flashlight beam is just sort of moving around my camp. I can't see the guy holding it, not in any sort of great detail anyway,

but I could see that he was shining his flashlight on different stuff, like he was inspecting my camp or looking for something. Seconds later, I see a second flashlight appear, meaning two people were now walking around my campsite. The second flashlight seemed to follow the same pattern as the first for a minute, before the two strangers stopped inspecting my camp and started talking to each other. Now, I couldn't hear every word, but I heard enough to know that they were looking for me specifically. One guy asked the other a question, and his reply was just a little louder when he said,

He was just here now. Hearing those words made for one of the creepiest moments of my entire life. I get that two guys might just randomly stumble across the campsite after dark. That's not entirely out of the question. But then to know that at least one of them had been watching me somehow made me feel sick to my stomach. I felt perfectly capable of defending myself, but only against things I could see and things that didn't creep up on me in the middle of the night when I should have been sleeping. You also got to remember that I put down a bunch of little bear alarms, which are basically

trip wires with a noise maker on the end. And those guys made it up to my camp without triggering a single one. Sure, they had flashlights, but those things aren't easy to see if you don't know they're there, even in broad daylight. I watched the two flashlights for a few minutes longer, trying to figure out what the two men were saying. I could barely make out a word, but then I heard one of them say something like, we'll just come back tomorrow.

A few more words were exchanged, and then the two guys turned and walked away from my campsite. I stayed put for maybe 10 to 15 minutes, internally debating on what I should do. In my head, I was almost certain that the two guys, or at least one of them, would go back to wherever they were watching me from and then return the second I showed up at my camp again.

I wanted nothing more than to just run back to camp, pack my stuff away, and then get the hell out of there before dawn. but that first thought stopped me. Packing up camp would make way more noise than I was comfortable making. And there was also no way that I'd be able to do that without cranking my headlamp up, which in turn would make it much easier to see me. And this was also assuming that the two strangers didn't have some kind of night vision capability.

Now I know that sounds like I was overthinking the whole thing, but I literally had nothing else to do. I was just stuck there in the darkness, barely breathing, not moving. All I had were my thoughts and my fears, nothing else. I stayed exactly where I was for what seemed like forever, and then I finally started to see dawn approaching, and I felt safe enough to creep back up to my camp and start to dismantle it. I did it as quickly and quietly as possible. Then, instead of having some breakfast like I had planned to before departure, I walked all

the way back to where I'd left my car. This took me way longer than it would have done under any other circumstances. too, because I made a huge effort not to stick to any regular trails. I also made a point of stopping at the information center on the way off the island, where I asked if any of the Rangers had come across a campground in the middle of the night. They didn't have a clue what I was talking about. No Rangers had been patrolling the park after dark, and if they had been, there's no way they'd have just walked up on some sleeping campers like that.

Since the Rangers also handle law enforcement in the parks, I was invited to file a report and give as much detail as possible. If folks were creeping up on campers in the middle of the night, the Rangers damn sure wanted to know about it. But as much as I appreciated their concern, I wasn't exactly filled with the kind of confidence that made me want to revisit Acadia anytime soon. I would say the most life-threatening experience I ever faced occurred during a solo camping trip in late June of 2012. For those of you who don't remember, or weren't in West Virginia at the time, the region experiences intense summer storms every few years, known locally as Direchos. I'm not great at explaining these things, so here's a definition from weather.gov. A Direcho is a widespread, long-lived windstorm associated with a band of rapidly moving showers or thunderstorms. Although a

derecho can produce destruction similar to that of tornadoes, the damage is typically directed in one direction along a relatively straight swath. By definition, if the wind includes gusts of at least 58 miles per hour along most of its length, then the event may be classified as a derecho. Considering that the mildest hurricanes have wind speeds of about 70 miles per hour, a derecho is somewhat akin to a baby hurricane. While they can be dangerous, most people view them as more of an annoyance. However, imagine solo camping in the middle of West Virginia. watching the skies darken and realizing the wind is strong enough to uproot dead or dying trees. You can start to understand why I was so frightened.

Luckily, as I searched for a safe place to camp that night, I stumbled upon a man-made shelter. It was really no more than a single-walled concrete pavilion, which did little to shield me from the wind and rain. However, in the event of a falling tree, it could mean the difference between life and death. Unfortunately, and very unfortunately for me, I wasn't the only creature in the forest seeking refuge. About an hour before sundown, with the wind still howling through the trees, I heard the heavy thumping of something running towards the shelter. Initially, I couldn't see what it was, nor could I hear it clearly due to the wind and the shelter's position. A moment later, I was barely on my feet when a black bear came hurtling around the corner of the shelter.

The storm had terrified it. which was very bad news for me. My initial reaction was to roar and wave my arms around, trying to appear more intimidating than the storm, easier said than done. The bear saw me, jumped back in fright, and appeared to continue in the direction it was initially heading. However, it merely looped around the blind side of the shelter

and came tearing back around the same side it had first seen. Essentially, it ran in a rough circle. I repeated my previous actions, jumping up and down and screaming like a madman until it ran off again. Yet it looped back around, each time getting closer. After several more loops, I could hear its claws clacking on the concrete just a few feet in front of me, and the huffs and puffs of anger and confusion it made were equally terrifying. It was getting closer with each loop.

Eventually I had to back off to avoid coming within clawing distance. The more I backed off, the more ground I gave it, until suddenly it darted into the shelter and took a swipe at me before backing off for another loop. At that point, I grabbed my backpack to use as an improvised shield for the next time it attacked, holding it by the straps. It was still pretty heavy with most of my gear in it. I planned to use it like a battering ram. My heart was pounding as it came around for another pass. When it did, it seemed poised to dash into the shelter again. But the sight of me holding my pack in a defensive posture gave it enough of escape.

to back off altogether. It roared a little, did a kind of 360, as if wondering what the hell was happening, and then ran off in the direction from which it had come. The sensible thing to do then would have been to leave the shelter, since the bear was likely to return. But where was I to go? Every second I was out in those woods without any sort of shelter, I risked being crushed by a falling tree. Yet, every minute I stayed in the shelter, I risked a bear attack. If something happened to me in the woods that prevented me from walking or running, the bear might catch up and inflict serious damage. However, if I stayed in the shelter and used the same tactic of using my backpack as a shield,

I might withstand another bear attack. It might seem crazy to some, but I was fairly confident the bear wouldn't come back. I was absolutely certain, however, that at least a handful of trees would be uprooted by the wind and crash down on the forest floor, and there was no way to scare one of those off by waving my pack around. That's why I opted to stay in the shelter, even though it meant a sleepless and thoroughly terrifying night in the storm. One summer, my family and I decided that camping would help us bond, since my dad worked alone and couldn't spend much time with me and my siblings. We chose Tennessee for our destination. It was a crisp fall day when we rented an old campsite next to a river,

complete with pedal boats docked at a small pier and plentiful fishing, my dad's favorite pastime. This spot was particularly important to him. On the other hand, my siblings disliked the outdoors and were constantly glued to their phones and tablets. Unlike them, I relished exploring the woods, sketching animals that were still long enough for me to draw. I planned to paint these sketches later when I returned home. We set up several tents.

My youngest sibling would share with my brother while my parents had their own. At 17 and already working, I could afford my own. tent. That night we all slept soundly in the tents and woke up early the next morning. My dad went fishing and my mom and I decided to hike. My siblings chose a different trail so it was just the two of us. About a mile in, we stopped to eat lunch, just two sandwiches, and finished in about 12 minutes before hiking again. The birds chirped and various insects buzzed around us. However, at a certain point, the forest grew ominously quiet, even though it was still early. My mom raised an eyebrow in concern and checked her phone, which was dead, not a surprise since she often forgot to charge it.

Oddly, my phone was also dead. Despite this, we continued on the trail, but an eerie feeling of being watched or followed crept over us. My mom was spooked and wanted to return to camp, but I convinced her it was probably just a storm brewing, so we hiked for another two hours. until we reached a breathtaking waterfall. Even in the dim light, the sight was stunning. A few deer drinking from the river below the falls briefly lifted our spirits until the air turned chilly, prompting our departure. On our way back, about two hours down the trail, my mom stopped suddenly. Did you hear that? She asked. It sounded like a dog. As animal lovers, we couldn't bear the thought of leaving it out there. So we began calling, here, doggy.

My mom yelled, and I joined in. All we found was a collar on the ground. As I called out again, a large, imposing dog burst from the bushes. I stumbled backwards, praying not to frighten it into aggression. Fortunately, it just sat there, looking at us blankly. My mom approached and gently reached out to it. It sniffed her hand and wagged its tail. Looking at the torn collar, she asked,

Is this yours boy? The dog appeared sick. and skinny, so we did what any sensible person would do. We took it back with us, and it stayed for the remainder of our trip. Dad even agreed to keep it. At the vet, we learned it was a mix of Great Dane and Husky. Besides being underweight, it was healthy, with no parasites, a relief to us all. We took it home, and for a few days everything was fine, but I noticed it becoming overly attached to me, following me like a lost puppy, which I suppose it was. It soon began to snap at people, becoming aggressively protective of me.

It got so bad that we had to enroll it in a training program, but it eventually improved. While still very protective, I didn't mind. It made me feel safe. However, leaving it for school was hard. My mom said it would become territorial over my room, not letting anyone in and refusing to leave. What was odd was that even after four months, it never left my side. It hardly ate or went to the bathroom on its own and would often just stare at me, as if trying to communicate the emotional trauma it had endured. It pained me because I loved him, but it was heartbreaking. One night there was a break-in while I was home alone. My parents were away. That night, I discovered the name I would call

him, Killer. His eyes had a deep, menacing look as he protected me like a German Shepherd would its handler. The intruder ended up in the hospital. We later found out he was a single father working two jobs to support four kids, so we chose not to call the police. Killer would have attacked the man if I hadn't ordered him to stop. When he released the man, his eyes almost appeared red. If he weren't my dog, I might have thought he was something else entirely. But But I know he loves me, even if I suspect he might be a hellhound of sorts. At least he's chosen to protect me. We'd been in Arkansas for three days when it happened.

Ellie and I had picked a remote spot by the lake, figuring the seclusion would be good for us. She was flipping burgers on the grill, and I was stoking the fire, enjoying the calm before the mosquitoes decided to join us. The evening was shaping up nicely with a warm breeze stirring the air, the kind of summer night that made you wish you could freeze time. Then came the yelling. At first it was faint, like a bad memory trying to surface. But it got louder, more desperate. I looked at Ellie, and without saying a word, we knew we had to check it out. We followed the sound, hearts hammering in our chests as we rounded a bend and saw him. A guy in his 40s by the

looks of it, slumped against a picnic table, his face ashen. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood and a gutting knife lay by his side. From the looks of the wound across his belly, he'd had a real bad accident. Help me, please, he gasped as we approached. His voice was weak, strained through the pain. Ellie stayed calm, more composed than I'd ever seen her. Lay him down, she instructed. I did as she said, gently easing him onto the ground. She grabbed a towel from our pack and pressed it hard against his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood. I need to call for help, I said, pulling out my phone only to see no service. Panic set in for a moment, but Ellie was already thinking a step ahead.

Ask him where his keys are. We need to drive him to the hospital. His hand trembled as he pointed towards a nearby bush. In my jacket. Pocket. He stammered. I sprinted over, grabbed the keys, and we managed to haul him into the back of his truck. Ellie insisted I drive. Normally she'd take the wheel. She loved driving more than I did. But tonight was different. Blood made her queasy. She'd fainted once just from cutting her finger while chopping vegetables. As I turned the ignition, I glanced back at Ellie. She was pale. Her lips pressed tightly together. She was scared, sure, but there was a determination in her eyes I hadn't seen before.

You okay? I asked as we started down the dirt road. just drive she said keeping her gaze fixed on the man applying pressure to his wound if i look away i'll think about it too much the drive was a blur trees and shadows melded into the darkness as i pushed the truck as fast as it would go on the winding forest roads every bump made my heart skip worrying it might jostle the makeshift bandage loose ellie didn't say much just gave directions and kept her hands steady the fear of what might happen if we didn't make it in time hung in the air, thick and unspoken. But beneath that fear was something else, a threat of strength that connected us, pulled taut by the crisis. When we finally saw the lights of the hospital, relief washed over me like rain. We'd done everything we could, and now it was up to the doctors. As we pulled up, Ellie finally looked at me, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. We made it, she whispered.

and I knew she wasn't just talking about the hospital. The wheels of the truck crunched against the gravel of the emergency room drop-off as I slammed the vehicle to a stop. The hospital doors burst open with medical staff ready with a stretcher. We'd made it, but just barely. Hang on, helps here, I said to the man, though I wasn't sure he could hear me anymore. His breathing was shallow, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Ellie didn't wait for the nurses. She helped lift him, Her hands firm and sure, guiding his limp body onto the stretcher. He's lost a lot of blood. She explained quickly to the nurse who had started firing questions at us. As they wheeled him inside, Ellie followed, her steps faltering just a bit as she crossed the threshold into the bright fluorescent light of the hospital.

I caught up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You did good, I murmured, though it felt like an understatement. She'd done more than good. She'd held it together when every instinct she had must have been screaming for her to get away from the blood, the risk, the responsibility. She nodded, her eyes tracking the stretcher until it disappeared behind a set of swinging doors.

Let's hope it was enough, she said quietly. We walked back to the truck, neither of us ready to leave just yet, not until we knew he was going to make it. The adrenaline that had fueled us on the drive here was ebbing now, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion, and a stark realization of just how badly things could have ended. Sitting on the hood of the truck, we watched the sun rise,

painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. It was beautiful, but the serenity of the dawn felt at odds with the night we just lived through. Ellie's hand found mine, her grip tight. I was so scared, she admitted, not just of the blood, of making a mistake, of crashing the car, of not doing enough. You were amazing, I said. squeezing her hand. You saved his life, Ellie. You did everything right. She leaned her head on my shoulder. We did it together. It was a while later when a doctor finally came out to speak with us.

The man was stable, expected to recover. Relief washed over me, and I could feel Ellie relax beside me. We drove back to the campsite in silence, the earlier panic replaced by a deep, satisfying exhaustion. When we arrived, the man's dog, a big, friendly Labrador, came bounding up to us. We'd almost forgotten about him. He nudged Ellie with his nose and she laughed. A sound so light and free it made my heart ache a little. We spent the rest of the day trying to find normal again. We went for a walk, played fetch with the dog, and talked about everything but what had happened. It wasn't until the man's brother arrived to pick up his things and his dog that the reality of the night came crashing back. He hugged us both, his eyes wet with tears. Thank you, he kept saying,

you save my brother's life. It was a moment of pure, raw humanity, gratitude, relief, the bond of shared crisis. It marked us, changed us in ways I'm still trying to understand. As he drove away, Ellie looked at me, a new resolve in her gaze. We did good, didn't we? Yeah, I replied. feeling the weight of the night lift just a bit. We did good. I've always felt at home in the wild, the sounds of distant wildlife, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the crisp fresh air, it's where I feel most alive. I live in Colonna, British Columbia, just a stone's throw from the mountains that have become like a second home to me. Today, like many days before, I was prepping for a solo trip into those familiar woods. Winter had laid a thick blanket of snow over the

landscape, turning the rugged terrain into a white paradise. I plan to do some fishing and camping, a perfect way to spend the weekend away from the bustle of everyday life. Before heading out, I packed my old trusty truck with the essentials, fishing gear, a tent, sleeping bag, and enough food to last me a couple of days. I've always had this habit of leaving my keys in the ignition. My truck was more than just a vehicle. It was a part of my wilderness adventures, and up Here, I never worried about anyone taking it. There's a sort of unspoken trust among those few who venture out this far. The drive to my favorite spot wasn't long, about 30 minutes or so. As I drove, I watched the city slowly disappear behind me, replaced by towering trees and

untouched snow. Pulling off the main road, I followed a narrow snow-covered trail that led to a familiar clearing. It had the best view, a sweeping vista overlooking the city below. now just a cluster of tiny lights. I stepped out into the cold, taking a deep breath of the icy air, feeling it sting my lungs in a strangely comforting way. Setting up camp was second nature to me. I unfolded my tent and set it up with practiced ease. The ground was hard and frozen, but I managed to secure it firmly.

Next, I gathered some wood for a fire. Even with gloves on, my fingers felt numb as I arranged the logs in a neat pile and struck a mat. The fire crackled to life, its warm glow a stark contrast against the encroaching darkness. I turned off my bright flashlight, letting the firelight cast dancing shadows around the clearing. With the city lights twinkling in the distance, and the stars beginning to peek out from the sky, the scene was almost magical. I pulled out my old radio, a companion on many such trips, and tuned into a station playing classic country music. The familiar tunes floated through the air, mixing with the sound of the

crackling fire. I found myself humming along, lost in the tranquility of it all. It was these moments I cherished the most, away from the noise and rush of daily life where I could just be. Here in the wilderness, I was free from worries and schedules. Time seemed to slow down, and for a while I could forget the world beyond the mountains. As the night deep, deepened, I lay back in my chair, staring up at the vast, star-filled sky, feeling a profound peace settle over me. This was more than just a getaway. It was a return to something ancient and elemental within me. Here, surrounded by the vastness of nature, I felt small yet infinitely connected to the world around me. Little did I know the night was about to take a turn that

would challenge everything I thought I knew about these woods I called home. The fire had dwindled to glowing embers, and the chill of the night began to seep through my jacket. I added a few more logs to the fire, coaxing the flames back to life. The crackle of the fire and the soft music from the radio were the only sounds in the quiet of the mountain. I felt completely at ease, my mind wandering freely. As I sat there, lost in the rhythm of the music and the mesmerizing dance of the flames, a sudden chill that wasn't from the cold night air swept over me. me. My neck hair is prickled, and an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. I paused, turning

down the music, straining my ears against the silence of the night. The usual night sounds seemed to have hushed, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. I tried to shake off the feeling, telling myself it was nothing. Maybe the isolation was finally getting to me. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but when I turned my head, there was no denying what was in front of me. Two glowing, blood-red eyes peered at me from about a hundred yards away in the darkness. They were unlike anything I had ever seen in these woods.

My heart pounded in my chest as a wave of dread washed over me. This wasn't a bear, a cougar, or any of the usual suspects. This was something different, something wrong. I fumbled for my flashlight, my head. hands shaking. When the beam of light cut through the darkness, the eyes disappeared, leaving me to wonder if I had imagined them. But the heavy feeling of being watched persisted. Instinct kicked in. I grabbed my keys, pressing the panic button to trigger the alarm on my truck. The loud beeping echoed through the stillness, and I used the sound to guide me as I

hastily packed up my essentials. I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever those eyes belonged to was still out there, watching. With my axe in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I made a break for my truck. The beam of my flashlight swept from side to side piercing the darkness. Every little sound made me jump, every shadow a potential hiding spot for whatever had been watching me. The forest, once a place of peace, now felt like a maze of threats. I reached my truck, the panic alarm still blaring.

I threw my gear into the back and jumped into the driver's seat. locking the doors behind me. My hands trembled as I turned the key in the ignition, the engine coming to life with a roar. I didn't look back as I drove down the mountain, the sense of dread clinging to me like a cold shadow. When I finally got home, the safety of four solid walls around me

did little to ease my rattled nerves. I lay in bed replaying the night over in my mind, trying to make sense of what I had seen. The image of those haunting, red eyes burned into my memory. The next morning my curiosity got the better of my fear. I drove back to the mountain, to the spot where I had seen the eyes. I searched the area for any sign of what I had encountered, tracks, broken branches, anything. But there was nothing.

The forest offered no clues, only the echoing silence of unanswered questions. As I stood there, I knew one thing for sure. I wouldn't be coming back here at night again. Whatever mystery those red eyes held, it was one I was content to leave unsolved. Jack sat at his small kitchen table, the dim light from the bulb above casting long shadows across the room. The bright light from his laptop screen hurt his tired eyes as he scrolled through the endless pages of the essay he was struggling to finish before the deadline. The cursor blinked persistently, a stark reminder of his lack of punctuality. Jack's hand moved through his disheveled hair,

suppressing a yawn, concurrently pursuing two master's degrees while managing a demanding workload and maintaining a semblance of personal life had left him feeling frayed and exhausted. The daily routine was taking its toll, and he longed for something to rekindle the enthusiasm he once held for his academic pursuits. Sying, Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. He glanced around the cluttered kitchen, littered with coffee mugs and half-eaten meals piled high in the sink. As he refocused on his laptop screen, an unexpected pop-up ad caught his attention. Vibrant images of lush forests and rugged mountains filled the small window, accompanied by bold text,

explore the untouched wilderness of Oregon, guided hikes through state parks available now. Jack's heart skipped a beat. The thought of escaping his monotonous routine for the serene beauty of Oregon's wilderness. seemed too good to be true. He could practically smell the fresh pine air, feel the crunch of leaves under his boots, and hear the calls of wildlife echoing through the trees. It was a chance for him to take the day to slow down, to unwind and enjoy the beauty of Mother Nature. The following morning, Jack awoke with a renewed sense of determination, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds of his apartment, illuminating the cluttered kitchen, he reflected on the previous

night's research. Although guided by enthusiasm rather than comprehensive knowledge, he diligently packed the necessary supplies for his upcoming hiking expedition. A couple of changes of clothes, a flashlight with almost dead batteries, a Swiss army knife his dad had given him years ago, and a large bag of trail mix he hoped would suffice for sustenance. He threw in a water bottle and a first aid kit he found buried in a drawer. Its contents mostly expired. All right, Max, Jack called out to his little Jack Russell Terrier, who had been watching him with curious eyes from the comfort of his dog bed.

Time for an adventure. Max bounded up eagerly, his tail wagging furiously as Jack attached his leash. We're going hiking, buddy, Jack said with a grin, scratching behind Max's ears. You're going to love it. With the backpack slung over one shoulder and Max happily trotting beside him, Jack locked the door to his apartment behind him, and headed towards the parking lot where his beat-up old sedan was waiting.

Loading his gear into the trunk, Jack couldn't suppress the surge of excitement bubbling inside him. This spontaneous decision felt like a breath of fresh air compared to the suffocating routine he had grown accustomed to. As he drove, Jack couldn't help but feel a mix of nervousness and exhilaration. He glanced over at Max, who was sitting proudly in the passenger seat with his head out the window, tongue lolling happily in the breeze. The road stretched out before them, winding through rolling hills and dense forests. Jack's mind raced with thoughts of the adventure ahead, the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in Oregon's untouched wilderness. Jack and Max arrived at the trailhead just after noon, the sun hanging high in the sky,

and casting waves of heat down onto the lush green forest below. Jack parked his car in the crowded lot, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation. He glanced at Max, who was already eager to explore, bouncing on his paws as Jack opened the car door. All right, Max, let's go see what we can find, Jack said, grabbing his backpack and making sure Max's leash was secure. The parking lot buzzed with activity,

hikers and families preparing for their own adventures, but Jack was focused on the tree line ahead, eager to escape into the solitude of the woods. As they approached the edge of the woodland, a large wooden sign displaying a detailed map of the available trails came into view. The sign used a color-coded system with each trail designated by a different color. Jack meticulously studied the map, trying to understand the intricacies of the various routes. Although the specific meaning of the colors escaped him, he guessed that they probably indicated varying degrees of difficulty. Jack traced his finger along a black trail,

which seemed to loop deep into the forest before circling back. This one looks interesting, he said to Max, who barked in agreement. Without giving it much more thought, Jack set off down the trail, eager for the adventure. The trail started out wide and well-trodden, winding gently through the trees. The sounds of the parking lot quickly faded away, replaced by the road. rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird. Jack took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, pine-scented air. This was exactly what he had been craving, a break from the suffocating routine of his daily life. As they ventured deeper, the trail began to narrow, the terrain

becoming more rugged. Rocks and roots jutted out from the ground, making the path uneven and difficult to navigate. Jack stumbled a few times, cursing under his breath, but his determination didn't waver. Max, on the other hand, seemed to thrive in the challenging environment, darting ahead and sniffing at everything with boundless energy. A few hours had passed since Jack and Max had set off on the trail. The once wide and well-trodden path had completely disappeared, swallowed by a tangled mess of roots, rocks, and dense shrubs. Jack's initial enthusiasm had given way to a growing sense of unease. His water bottle was almost empty, and his muscles ached from the relentless hiking.

Come on, Max, Jack muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. We have to find a marker or something. We can't be that far off track. Max, sensing Jack's anxiety, stayed closer than usual. His ears perked and eyes darting around nervously. The forest, which had seemed so inviting and serene earlier, now felt oppressive in alien. The shadows lengthened as the afternoon wore on, and the air grew cooler. bringing with it an eerie silence.

Jack pushed forward, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign of the trail. Every direction looked the same, and the forest seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. He stumbled again, this time catching his foot on an exposed route and crashing to the ground. Max barked, rushing over to his side. Damn it, Jack cursed, pulling himself up and brushing dirt off his clothes. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic. building in his chest. He tried to remember the map he had seen at the trailhead, but it was a blur in his mind. Jack pressed on, his steps growing slower and more cautious. The underbrush was thick,

and he had to push branches aside to forge a path. The deeper they went, the darker and more claustrophobic the forest became. Jack glanced at the sky through the dense canopy, noting the sun's rapid descent. The threat of darkness was closing in, and with it came a growing sense of dread. Damn it. The voice came, warped and distorted, as if the forest itself was trying to mimic him. Jack's blood ran cold. He stopped dead in his tracks, straining to listen. Damn it! The voice echoed again, warbled and wrong, sending chills down his spine. Max, sensing the danger suddenly bolted, disappearing into the thick underbrush with a frightened yelp. Max! Max! Come back! Jack shouted.

But his voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence. Panic surged through him as he realized he was now completely alone. He stumbled forward, trying to follow the sound of Max's frantic barking, but it quickly faded into the distance. Max, come back! The voice mocked, closer and more insistent. Jack's heart pounded in his chest as he spun around, desperately trying to pinpoint its source.

The forest seemed to twist and contort around him, every tree looking the same, every shadow hiding potential threats. Stay calm, Jack muttered to himself, his voice trembling. Just stay calm. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. He had to find Max and get out of these woods before nightfall. Jack's flashlight flickered weakly as he trudged forward, casting eerie dancing shadows on the trees.

Max! Jack called, his voice swallowed by the forest. The nod of anxiety that had formed in Jack's stomach tightened as the battery to his flashlight flickered several times before giving out, plunging him into darkness. Max! The voice echoed, unnervingly close. Jack's breath hitched. He turned in circles, trying to catch any sign of movement, any hint of where the voice

was coming from. The forest was now a maze of shadows, each one hiding potential danger. Who's there? Jack shouted, his voice breaking with fear. What do you want? Silence. Then, a low. low guttural laugh echoed through the trees, sending shivers down Jack's spine.

He backed away, his eyes wide, straining to see anything in the encroaching darkness. The laughter chased him deeper into the forest. Jack turned and ran, ignoring the branches that whipped at his face and the roots that tried to trip him. He had to find Max. He had to get out of these woods. But as he ran, the forest grew darker, the trail more indistinguishable. Jack's footsteps echoed in the silence, each one a reminder of how alone he was. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath coming in desperate gasps. Suddenly he stumbled into a small clearing, the last light of the setting sun casting a dim glow over the area.

Jack collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. He looked around, hoping to see Max, but the clearing was empty. Max, he whispered, his voice breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized the full extent of his situation. He was lost, alone, and being hunted by something that could mimic his own voice. Jack! The voice came again, softer now, almost a whisper. Jack looked up, his vision blurred with tears, and saw a figure standing at the edge of the clearing.

It was tall and emaciated, its pale flesh almost glowing in the fading light. Hollow black eyes stared back at him, and a twisted smile played on its lips. Jack backed away, his mind racing for a plan, any plan. But the forest had turned into a labyrinth, and every path seemed to lead deeper into darkness. He knew he couldn't outrun the creature, but he had to try. Gathering the last of his strength, Jack turned and bolted into the woods, the creature's laughter echoing behind him. He ran blindly, branches slashing at his face, roots tangling his feet. The forest seemed to close in around him, and Jack knew he was.

running out of time. Jack stumbled, falling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The creature loomed over him, its hollow eyes boring into his soul. Jack's scream echoed through the forest, but there was no one to hear it. A few years back, I decided to go camping with about ten other friends at Snivly Hot Springs in eastern Oregon on Friday the 13th, which also just so happened to be a full moon. The drive out there took a little over an hour, and since I had work the next day, I decided I wasn't going to drink much, so I wouldn't be hung over in the morning. We arrived, set up camp in a nice spot away from the majority of other campers, and then started cracking open the beers. After that, we took a dip in the nearby springs, and then, after sundown, we went on a night walk to enjoy the mountains illuminated by the full moon and the stars.

It was really dark at this point, and people dipped out, so only the night. a few of us ended up actually going on this night walk. Side note, the three of us that went had all been micro-dosing mushrooms pretty much the majority of the night. Things were slightly trippy, but I don't like to get super gunky and unaware of my surroundings. So, it's the four of us, myself, two friends, and one of my friend's dogs. We were walking uphill for about ten minutes, flashlights lighting the way before us, when we suddenly took a right onto a trail, We didn't even make it three minutes before hearing some very loud and very close rustling in front of us. We stopped in our tracks, and my friend in the front of the line started scanning the area with his flashlight.

Have you ever seen a big cat's eyes in the dark? The way they glow is chilling, especially when the cat is bigger than you. So when I tell you I have never been so scared in my life, I mean it with all my heart and soul. We were face to face with a big old mountain lion. It was not more than a few yards in front of us, an instinct kicked in for all of us, as we just backed away slowly. My friend's dog, on the other hand, had an instinct of its own and ran off to the right of us into the woods.

But the mountain lion didn't cash in on her. It kept those glowing eyes glued directly on us. We continued to back away until we couldn't back away anymore, and sure enough, we saw the dog right next to us. In which case, what had we heard running up behind us? We shined the flashlight, and holy crap, another freaking mountain lion. Only this one, we figured, was her baby. On the other side of the fence was someone else's campsite,

and we had no choice but to turn around and jump it. We got the dog over first and then jumped it, ripping all of our clothing in the process, with my friend cutting his leg pretty badly. So, we're in someone else's campsite on Friday the 13th under a full moon in the mountains, tripping on some shrooms, completely lost. We didn't know where the people were, but we didn't care. We got into their unlocked car and honked the horn for about a minute to scare off the cougars.

We made sure to clearly yell and let anybody around us know that we weren't robbers and that there were cougars close by. We got out after a couple of minutes and were pretty weirded out that nobody came out to check on their campsite. My friend swore that she could hear someone screaming or trying to scream, but her boyfriend insisted that we needed to leave the campsite. Part of me believed her, though I didn't hear any noises, but I was also ready to just GTFO away from that area. We found the exit of their campsite, and on the way back to ours,

I said my final prayers, and I'm not even religious. We got back to camp, and every rustling noise around me had me convinced that we were being stalked by these cougars. I had a full-fledged panic attack in the car for about an hour, and was absolutely covered in knots because of the sunroof being cracked. Everyone else was having fun around the campfire, even the other two who had just gone through the same experience I had. I was hung over as all hell the next morning, no-showed my job, and got fired when I got back into town, which sucked, but I didn't give a single F. I was just happy to be alive. The drive to Lake Umbagog was a silent agreement between me and Rob that we needed this trip more than we cared to admit.

The past few months had been a grind, the kind that wears you down to a nub. Rob had his struggles at the office, and I, well, I had my own battles with the new management at the plant. This trip, a retreat into the wilderness of Maine and New Hampshire, was not just about fishing, it was about breathing again, without the chokehold of daily life. life. We arrived late in the afternoon, our truck growling softly as we pulled up to the cabin we'd rented for the weekend. It was a sturdy little thing, hugged on all sides by trees that were just starting to turn, a riot of oranges and yellows against the deep greens of the pines. Rob hopped out and stretched, his face splitting into a grin. This is perfect, he declared, and I couldn't have agreed more. The cabin was simple, one room, two beds,

a wood stove for heat, and a front porch that faced the lake, the water was a mirror reflecting the changing leaves, and the air was crisp, carrying the promise of a cold night. We unpacked, settled in, and decided to spend the rest of the evening fishing off the dock. As we cast our lines into the cooling water, the troubles of the city seemed to melt away. The lake was calm, its surface barely disturbed by our bobbers. Rob caught the first fish, a decent size of the lake. brook trout and I followed soon after. By the time the sun dipped below the tree line,

we had a stringer full enough to feel proud of. The night called for a celebration. We built a fire in the pit by the cabin, the flames flickering against the growing darkness. Rob pulled out a bottle of bourbon, a good one, and we toasted to the simple pleasures of fire, whiskey, and friendship. As the bourbon warmed our bellies, we swapped stories, the taller the tail, the louder our laughter. It wasn't just the alcohol that loosened our tongues. It was the wilderness, the isolation. Out here, you could speak your fears into the night,

and the darkness would swallow them up. Rob talked about his kid, about how fast he was growing up and how little he saw him because of the job. I listened, nodding, throwing in my bits about the factory, the layoffs looming like storm clouds. Later, as the fire died down to embers,

a local who'd been fishing further down the shore wandered over. He was a wiry guy, with a face carved from the harsh New England winters. You folks should try the north end of the lake, he said, pointing to a spot that was hidden from view by a bend in the shoreline. There's a honeyhole up there, big lake trout. His eyes twinkled with the knowingness of a seasoned fisherman. Rob and I exchanged a look. We'll give it a shot, I replied,

the prospect of tomorrow's adventure already kindling a spark of excitement in my chest. That night, as I lay in my bunk, the last of the bourbon humming through my veins, I felt a piece I hadn't known in months. Outside, the lake whispered in the dark, lapping gently at the shore, and I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of what lay beneath those waters. The giant lake trout, the secret spots, tomorrow held the promise of something big, and I was ready for it. morning at lake umbog broke with a mist hovering above the water the sun struggling to assert itself against the stubborn remnants of night rob was already up coffee in hand staring out at the lake with that quiet anticipation that fishing breeds

after a quick breakfast of eggs and last night's leftover trout we loaded our gear into the canoe the locals tip about the honey-hole in the north playing on repeat in our minds the paddle up the lake was tougher than expected The water was calm, sure, but there was a resistance about it, as if the lake knew we were intruding on something sacred and wasn't eager to let us pass. The trees loomed tall and tight around us, their reflections in the dark water doubling their guard. The farther we paddled, the quieter it became. The only sounds are paddles stirring the water and our breaths, growing heavier with each stroke. By the time we reached the spot, the eerie quiet had settled deep in my bones. We cast our lines into the lake, the plop of our lures breaking the surface sounding unnaturally loud in the hush. Fishing started slow, and the sense of isolation grew with each

passing minute, the hills around us like the walls of some ancient fortress. Then the fog began to roll in. It came softly at first, a gentle whisper across the water, then thickened until it swallowed up the far shore. It was then, in that shrouded world, that my line went tight with a ferocity that startled me. The fish on the other end fought like the devil, pulling with a wild, desperate strength that was almost personal. Got a monster here, I grunted, struggling to keep my balance in the rocking canoe.

Rob, net in hand, watched with wide eyes as the battle dragged on, minutes stretching like hours. When the fish finally surfaced, it was indeed a monster, a lake trout that had to weigh at least 20 pounds, But it wasn't just its size that took our breath away. Tangled in its mouth was an amulet, silver tarnished to nearly black, etched with symbols that neither of us recognized. I reached for it, my fingers brushing the cold metal, when the trout gave a sudden, violent thrash. The line snapped, sending the creature in its mysterious cargo back into the depths, leaving us staring at each other,

our hearts pounding. We should head back, Rob said after a moment. moment, his voice low, almost shaken. But neither of us moved, the weight of what had just happened anchoring us there. It was the sight of the other canoe that finally spurred us into action. Materializing from the fog, it was an old weathered thing, floating eerily still about 30 yards off. A lone figure sat in it, facing away from us, unmoving, unresponsive to our calls. The air grew colder. The back of my neck prickling as we paddled closer. That's not possible, Rob whispered, his voice hoarse with fear. I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't need to.

The figure in the canoe was ghostly, translucent, its presence an impossible thing in the daylight world. Panic raw and powerful, gripped me then. We paddled hard for the shore, not daring to look back, the fog closing in like a curtain behind us. By the time we reached the safety of our cabin, the figure and its canoe had vanished, swallowed by the mist. That night we spoke little, each lost in our own thoughts about the apparition and the amulet lost to the lake. When dawn broke, we packed up without a word, the thrill of fishing forgotten, replaced by an urgent need to leave the mysteries of Lake Umbagog behind us. As we drove away, the lake disappeared into the rearview mirror, a shiver running down my spine as I wondered if,

perhaps, some places are better left unexplored. We always thought we knew everything about the bayou near our hometown in some of the same. southern Louisiana. My cousin Jed and I grew up here, spending most of our days, and even some nights out on the water, fishing and exploring. But one night, about five years ago, something happened that made me swear off nighttime fishing forever. It was a warm, muggy July evening when Jed and I decided to go gigging for frogs. We had done this a thousand times before. We loaded up our old Johnboat with all the necessary gear, gigs, headlamps, and some snacks. I remember tying the boat to the back of Jed's truck, the metal clinking softly as we secured it.

As we headed out to Bayou Marmot, the sun had just set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. By the time we reached our usual spot, darkness had settled over the swamp. We launched the boat into the water with a gentle splash and climbed in, ready for another night of adventure. The bayou was alive with sounds. Crickets chirped loudly from the the banks, and every so often, a frog would croak, breaking the steady hum of nature. We turned on our headlamps, the beams of light cutting through the darkness as we started scanning the banks for the telltale glint of frog eyes. We had been at it for about an hour when suddenly Jed grabbed my arm. Luke cut the engine, he whispered, his voice tense. I immediately

turned off the motor, and the sudden silence seemed louder than all the noises just a moment before. You see that? Jed pointed towards a narrow side channel we had never explored. About 50 yards ahead, there was a dim light. It looked like an old kerosene lantern, just floating there in the dark. Now, we knew there shouldn't be anyone else out here this late, and we were pretty sure lanterns couldn't float by themselves. It's probably just some reflection, maybe from someone's campsite, I suggested,

trying to make sense of it. But Jed shook his head. No campsites out here, Luke, and that ain't no reflection. He was always the brave one, or maybe just foolhardy. Let's check it out, he said with that mischievous grin I knew too well. Against my better judgment, I agreed. As we slowly approached the light, I noticed something really strange. The air was getting colder.

That didn't make any sense, not in July in Louisiana. And the sounds of the bayou, the crickets and frogs, had all gone silent too. It was like everything was holding its breath. When we got about 20 feet from the lantern, I could see it clearly. It was one of those old-timey lanterns, the kind you see in old movies, hanging there as if held by an invisible hand. Its flame cast eerie shadows on the cypress trees around us. Jed reached out to grab it, and I swear that thing moved. It drifted just out of his reach and started to bob slowly down the channel, like it was leading us somewhere.

Jed, of course, started to follow it. I hissed at him to come back, but he was transfixed. I had no choice but to trail after him, my heart pounding in my chest. Whatever this light was, it was leading us deeper into the bayou, into parts unknown. And as we followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were not supposed to be there. As Jed and I followed the mysterious lantern deeper into the swamp, the trees seemed to close in around us. The light from our headlamps barely pierced the darkness that swallowed up the path ahead. Everything was quiet, too quiet. It felt like we were stepping into another world, one that didn't quite welcome us. The lantern continued to float just out of reach, bobbing gently as if it was being carried by a soft breeze,

though the air around us was still and heavy. I tried to keep my voice steady, but it shook as I whispered, Jed, maybe we should go back. He didn't respond, just can't. Just can't. He didn't respond, just kept his eyes fixed on that eerie light leading us onward. After what felt like forever, the lantern stopped at a small clearing. There, right in the middle of this circle of space, stood an old shack. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie, rotten wood, sagging roof, and all surrounded by dense, dark trees that seemed to lean in curiously. The lantern floated right up to the shack's door and then flicked out,

as if someone had blown out the flame. Jed stood frozen for a moment, staring at the dark doorway. Then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he began walking towards it. Jed, wait, I called out, but he didn't seem to hear me. My stomach churned with fear, but I couldn't let him go into that creepy place alone. We reached the door and Jed pushed it open without hesitation. The hinges groaned, sending a shiver down my spine. inside it was pitch black except for a single candle burning on a table in the center of the room.

That tiny light threw grotesque shadows onto the walls. Then I saw it. A figure was hunched over the table, dressed all in black with a wide-brimmed hat. It slowly lifted its head and my heart nearly stopped. Where its face should have been, there was nothing. Just a smooth, blank stretch of skin. Jed gasped, a sound of terror I'd never heard from him before. That seemed to break the spell.

He turned and ran, almost knocking me over as he bolted for the door. I followed close behind, my legs trembling so badly I could barely run. We rushed through the swamp, tripping over roots and splashing through muddy water. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made me jump, thinking that faceless figure was right behind us. We didn't stop running until we reached our boat. Panting and sweating, we pushed off from the bank and didn't look back until we were far away from that haunted place. Back at the landing, as we loaded the boat onto the trailer,

Jed finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper. Luke, what the heck was that? I shook my head, unable to find the words to explain the horror we'd just escaped. Even now, years later, I still think about that night. What was that faceless figure? And what would have happened if jet had taken one step further into that shack. I don't know, and I don't want to know. That night taught me some places are best left unexplored. It's why I only fish during the day now. The swamp has its secrets, and some are too dark to ever bring into the light. Living in the middle of the Siaslaw National Forest sounds like a dream, doesn't it? Well, for me, it's real life. My name's Sam, and I've got a small cabin near a place called Tokatie Falls.

This spot, with all its trees and the waterfall nearby, is my slice of paradise. Just me, my dog Buck, and the great outdoors. It doesn't get much better than that. Each morning, I wake up to the chirping of birds and the gentle whisper of the wind through the pines. The air is always fresh and cool, and the smell of the forest after a rain is my favorite scent in the world. Buck usually wakes up before I do, wagging his tail and ready to start the day. He's not just a pet. He's my fishing buddy and the best friend I could ask for out here.

Our cabin is simple, nothing fancy, but it's cozy. There's a fireplace that keeps us warm during the chilly nights, and a small porch where I like to sit and watch the sunset. I spend my days doing what I love most, hiking through the forest and fishing in the North Umpqua River, I learned how to fish from my dad. He used to take me fishing when I was just a little kid, and I've loved it ever since. He taught me everything, from tying hooks to knowing the best times to catch fish.

Even though he's not around anymore, I feel like he's with me every time I cast my line. Fishing here is amazing. The river is full of life, especially during the fall when the Chinook salmon run starts. These fish are huge and strong, and catching them is a really. adventure. They swim up river to the same spot they were born to lay their eggs, and let me tell you, they put up quite a fight when you hook one. Today, like most days, Buck and I headed out early. The sky was just starting to light up with colors of pink and orange as the sun peaked over the mountains. I grabbed my fishing gear, a couple of sandwiches for lunch, and we were off.

Our favorite spot is right at the base of Tokati Falls. The water crashes down into a big pool before flowing down the river. It's the perfect spot for salmon because they rest there before moving upstream. And for me, standing in the middle of the rushing water, surrounded by towering trees and the sound of the falls, it's exhilarating. I waded into the river, the cold water rushing around my legs. Buck stayed on the shore, watching closely as I prepared my rod and cast the line into the swirling waters. Fishing requires patience, something I've gotten better at over the years.

You have to wait for the right moment, feel the slightest tug, and then react fast. As the sun climbed higher, I lost track of time. It was just me, the river, and the peacefulness of nature.

Every so often, a fish would bite and my heart would race as I reeled it in. Buck would bark excitedly every time I caught one. his tail wagging as if he was just as proud of the catch as I was. Days like this, I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. Sure, life out here can be lonely sometimes,

but I've got buck, the river, and a whole forest to keep me company. This is my paradise, my perfect escape from the world. That evening was one I'll never forget. I had already caught a few good-sized salmon and was thinking about heading back when I decided to make just a few more casts. The sun was setting, painting the sky with strokes of orange and purple, and the river seemed extra calm. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, or so I thought. I cast my line into the deepest part of the pool below the falls, where the water swirled mysteriously. The air was cool,

and the river sounded like it was whispering secrets. Buck sat next to me, his ears perked up as if he sensed something unusual. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my line. It wasn't like the usual pull of a salmon. This was something much stronger. Before I could even brace myself, it yanked so hard I nearly lost my footing. Whoa, Buck!

I shouted, gripping the rod with both hands as Buck barked loudly, sensing the excitement. The creature on the other end of the line was powerful. My reel screamed as the line peeled off, and my rod bent so much I thought it might snap in half. I dug my heels into the riverbed, fighting to stay upright. Come on, I muttered, my arms straining against the weight.

Whatever was on the other end was unlike anything I'd ever hooked before. The battle went on for what felt like hours. The creature would swim furiously, dragging me along, and then I'd reel it back in slowly, gaining inch by inch. My arms ached and my back was sore, but I couldn't give up. This was the fight of a lifetime. Finally, as the last light of day lingered in the sky, I started to see something in the water. At first, I thought it was just a big log or a shadow.

But then I saw it clearly. A tail fin, massive and powerful, thrashing back and forth. My heart raced. What in the world? I gasped. The creature came closer into the shallow water, and I could finally see it clearly. It was long, easily the length of a small car, and as thick as a tree trunk. its scales weren't the shiny silver of a salmon, but a weird, modelled gray-green

that blended with the river rocks. But the eyes, those were the scariest part. They were huge, black, and shiny like polished stones, and they looked right at me, like they knew me. I stood there, frozen, staring back at those eyes. There was something about them, something almost human, or like they'd been here long before any of us.

A chill ran down my spine, line. This wasn't just some fish. It was something ancient, something mysterious. Then with a sudden thrash that sent water splashing all over, the line snapped. The creature gave one last look at me and Buck, and then it slipped back into the deep, dark water, disappearing from sight. I stood by the river for a long time after that, too shocked to move. Buck nudged me gently, whining a little, as if telling me it was time to go home. We walked by the river. back in silence, the excitement of the day replaced by a haunting feeling of wonder and a bit of fear. I knew one thing for sure. I would never look at this river the same way again. That night,

I didn't just lose a fish. I encountered a mystery that would stay with me forever. Many years ago, my nephew and I embarked on a camping and fishing trip to Cumberland, Maryland, known for its serene landscapes and natural beauty. We decided to stay at a state campground on the Potomac River, anticipating a tranquil and enjoyable experience away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. The campground was somewhat expensive, with campsites spread far apart, offering comfort and a bit of eerie seclusion. We chose the last campsite at the end of the campground, far away from the other campers, seeking a little bit of extra privacy. With its gentle flow, the Potomac River provided a soothing backdrop, and the forest surrounding us was alive with the sounds of nature. We spent the day

setting up camp, enjoying the simplicity of pitching the tent, arranging our gear, and gathering firewood. The weather was perfect, with a light breeze rustling the leaves and the sun casting dappled shadows through the canopy. We fished along the riverbank, chatting casually and enjoying the companionship such trips offer. As dusk settled in, we lit a campfire. Its flickering flames cast a warm glow in a comforting circle of light in the encroaching darkness. The forest around us began to transition into night mode, with the sounds of birds gradually giving way to the calls of nocturnal creatures. Everything seemed normal, just the typical symphony of forest sounds.

Then, around 10 or 11 at night, something unexpected happened. We heard the sound of a woman singing in the woods. It was not a song with recognizable lyrics, but a hauntingly beautiful melody without words. The voice was clear, resonant, and carried through the trees, creating a mesmerizing and unsettling atmosphere. I glanced at my nephew, sitting across the fire from me, and saw that he was wide-eyed and tense.

My dog, lying peacefully by the fire, suddenly sprang to his feet, ears perked up, and staring intently into the darkness, from where the sound seemed to emanate. His usual alertness to intruders or unusual activity made his reaction all the more concerning. Did you hear that? I asked my nephew, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at me pale in the firelight and responded, I don't hear anything. I'm going to bed. His denial was unconvincing, given that he was only about ten feet away from me and the singing was quite loud. He was clearly frightened, perhaps hoping it would disappear by ignoring it.

The melody continued, weaving through the trees. While it sounded like it was coming from one direction, it had an eerie quality that made pinpointing its source very difficult. It was as if the voice was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Despite the unsettling nature of the sound, it did not feel threatening. There was no sense of malice, just a haunting beauty that was hard to describe. I suggested to my nephew that we take a flashlight and walk around to see a if we could find the source of the singing, but he was adamant about staying put. The fear in his

eyes was evident, and he quickly retreated into the tent, leaving me and the dog alone by the fire. For several minutes the melody continued. I just stood there, listening intently. My dog by my side, both of us staring into the inky blackness of the woods. The fire crackled softly, a comforting but fragile barrier between us and the unknown. Then, As suddenly as it started, the singing just stopped. The forest was incredibly silent again, except for the occasional leaves rustling in the breeze. I felt a mixture of relief and curiosity.

There was no way someone could have been hiding in the woods without my dog detecting them earlier. His calm yet alert demeanor suggested that whatever it was, it did not pose an imminent threat, but it was definitely out of the ordinary. The following day my nephew and I discussed it a little more, He finally admitted to hearing the singing but was too scared to acknowledge it. We tried to rationalize what we had experienced, considering the possibility of an echo, animals,

or even just other campers. But nothing really seemed to fit the situation perfectly. In the following days, I searched for similar experiences online in the Cumberland area, but never really found anything conclusive. Our encounter has remained a mystery, a peculiar and unforgettable chapter. in our camping adventures. The memory of that night lingered as a reminder of the many unexplained phenomena that occur in the depths of nature. I'd like to preface this by saying that, at the time, I didn't find this story spooky at all. My dad, on the other hand, certainly did. When I was

around nine, my dad used to take me fishing quite often, especially in good weather. I'll admit I was never that interested in fishing, but I did like being outdoors and hanging out with my dad, so I was happy to go with him. Tired of our usual catch of teeny tiny sunfish and the occasional equally teeny tiny perch. My dad picked a different fishing spot that day. Unlike the ponds I was used to, this was a river, and the fast-moving current splashed us both as my dad cast his line. We hadn't even been there an hour when I got bored with the fishing. Setting down my fishing rod, I began to climb around on the rocks on the riverbank, pretending to be a superhero or maybe a marine biologist. I was an odd little kid, so it could have gone either way. I was checking to see if there

was anything alive hiding underneath the rocks at the water's edge when I first saw the man. He seemed ordinary enough to me, just a short, dark-haired man in what looked to me like normal fishing gear. It would be years later before it occurred to me that I'd only ever seen fishermen on television and movies dressed like that, and the clothes he wore were actually decades out of style. As a kid, it made perfect sense to me. He was a fisherman. He was wearing what fisherman wore. The only thing that seemed off to me at the time was that he was standing a few feet behind my dad, but they weren't talking to each other. My dad hadn't even turned around. He'd always been pretty friendly and loved to talk, so it was strange to me that. It was strange to me

that he hadn't at least said hello to this newcomer. I was wondering why he was being so rude suddenly when the man noticed me. Without so much as a word to my father, he quickly walked to the riverbank and waved me over. We were still only a few feet away from my dad then, so I figured I was safe to go see what he wanted. When I reached him, he crouched down to my level, and I found myself looking into the saddest pair of eyes I'd ever seen. This man looked like he was having the absolute worst day of his life. He didn't sound any happier than he looked. You really shouldn't be playing so close to the edge, honey, he said somberly.

Those rocks are slippery. You could fall in, and it's awfully hard to swim in a current that strong. You could drown. I remember being a bit put out that a random stranger was telling me what to do, and that he had implied that my doggy paddle wouldn't be enough in the event that I fell into the river. Nevertheless, he was staring at me so intensely that I assured him I would stay away from the rocks and went to pick flowers instead. My dad came to find me a little while later, confused as to why I'd given up jumping around on the rocks. When I explained that the man

had told me not to play there, he frowned. What man are you talking about? he asked. The man who was standing behind you, I answered, obviously. Suddenly dad didn't feel like fishing anymore. He abruptly picked up all of our gear and led me back to the car. As he was loaded, everything into the trunk. He told me we had been the only two people by the river all morning. I tried to argue that there had been another man there, that I had even spoken to him, but he shook his head. It's just been me and you, kiddo. Look, ours is the only car in the parking lot. He was right, of course, and whether he believed what I said or not, he quickly decided we could spend the rest of our morning together at the closest Tim Hortons instead.

We never went back to that river. I don't know whether it was because of it was because, my dad was spooked or because he just didn't catch anything there, but all of our subsequent fishing trips involved familiar ponds and little fish. I do know, however, that I never forgot the man by the river. Knowing now that children are more likely to experience the supernatural, I wonder if he had drowned in that river, or maybe he lost a loved one to the current, and he was spending his afterlife preventing others from making the same mistake. regardless, I hope he has moved on by now or at least found some peace. No one ought to be that sad for eternity.

The cold had settled deep into my bones by the time we hit the icy patch on Rutherford Lane. I could almost hear the brittle crackle of frost under the tires, an eerie symphony against the distant whisper of winter wind. Lucy, my sister, was humming along to some forgotten Christmas tune playing softly on the radio, her breath fogging up the passenger window as she traced lazy patterns on the glass. I think it's going to snow tonight, she murmured, more to herself than to me. I just nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead. The headlights carved out a tunnel of dim yellow light through the thick darkness,

barely illuminating the gnarled branches of the trees lining the narrow lane. That's when the car hit the ice. One moment, everything was as it should be. quiet, calm, the steady hum of the engine, and the next, the world spun wildly out of control. The steering wheel jerked in my hands as the back end of the car slid out, and I fought desperately to regain control. But it was too late. The car skidded around the bend, tires losing their grip on the slick surface, and we were tumbling sideways into the ditch. The sound was deafening, metal crunching, glass shattering, Our screams lost amidst the chaos.

When we finally came to a stop, the car was on its side in a farmer's field, the night eerily silent except for the hiss of the engine cooling, and Lucy's ragged breathing. Are you okay? I managed, my voice sounding strangely detached. Lucy nodded, her face pale in the dim light filtering through the cracked windshield. I think so. You? Yeah, I'm fine. But I wasn't really sure. My heart was racing, adrenaline pumping so loudly in my ears it was hard to think.

We scrambled out of the car, the cold air hitting us like a wall. The ground was hard and frozen beneath our feet as we surveyed the damage. The front bumper was gone, torn off in our descent, and one of the wheels had sheared away, disappearing into the darkness. I'll call Dan, I said, pulling out my phone with numb fingers. Lucy huddled close, her arms wrapped around herself as she shivered. The call went straight to voicemail. Dan was still at work, probably hadn't even checked his phone. I tried again, the sense of isolation deepening with each unanswered ring. We should find somewhere warm, Lucy suggested after a few

minutes, her voice small against the vastness of the night. Just then, headlights pierced the darkness, a car slowing as it approached our wreck. Relief washed over me, until I saw the driver. A woman middle-aged and smiling kindly rolled down her window. You girls need help? I explained our situation quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. Drive to the village, she advised. Ask for my husband, Tom. He'll come back with a tow rope. It sounded like a plan, a lifeline, and as she drove off, promising quick help, I felt the weight of the night lighten slightly. But as the minutes stretched into hours with no sign of her or Tom, that fleeting sense of security evaporated like mist in the morning sun, leaving us cold, alone,

and beginning to despair. Time seemed to stretch out into eternity as we waited in the frozen field. The occasional hoot of an owl, or the distant rustle of wind through the branches, was the only break in the silence that enveloped us. My phone was rapidly losing battery, and with each passing minute, the likelihood of Tom's arrival seemed to dwindle into nothingness. Lucy paced back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around herself against the biting cold. What if she forgot about us? she asked, her voice carrying a tremor of real fear. I don't know, I replied, trying to mask my own concern, but we can't stay out here all night. Just then, the beam of headlights cut through the darkness once more, and a truck pulled up

alongside our broken car. Two men stepped out, their faces shadowed, and voices carrying thick accents that I couldn't place. Need help? One of them called out, a smile playing on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. Something about the situation felt off. I hesitated, taking in their well-equipped truck and the rope already in hand. We're waiting for someone, I said finally, my voice firmer than I felt. They seemed to consider this. exchanging a look that I couldn't read in the dim light, we can't leave you here. The same man insisted, stepping closer.

The smell of oil and earth clung to them, a stark reminder of the wilderness that surrounded us. No thank you, I said again, this time more forcefully. They paused, the atmosphere charged with an unspoken tension, before finally getting back into their truck and driving away. Relief washed over me briefly, until I saw their headlights pause and turn back towards. towards us. My heart sank. They returned, parking their truck with the engine still running.

It's not safe for you here. Let us help, the man repeated, stepping out again, this time not waiting for an answer. Fear gripped me, icy and sharp as the wind. I stood my ground, though my body screamed at me to flee. Please just leave us alone, I shouted, my voice echoing in the stillness. It was then, at that moment of peak desperation, that another, other vehicle approached, a regular sedan, not a truck. A man jumped out, moving with purpose and authority. He didn't speak much, only working quickly to attach a tow rope to our car and affixing a spare tire. As he worked, I asked, did you see anyone else when you pulled up? No, just you girls, he answered without looking up. Confusion and relief swirled through me. This was Tom, the husband

of the woman who had stopped earlier. His arrival was so timely. it felt almost miraculous, considering the unnerving encounter we had just endured. As he drove us to my boyfriend's workplace, my shoulder began to throb painfully, a delayed reaction to the adrenaline that had fueled me through the night. Tom's wife had sent him immediately, he explained, which puzzled me further about the passage of time that night. The last thing he said stuck with me, chilling in its simplicity. Sometimes help comes from where you least expect it, sometimes not at all. But tonight, it seems you needed a bit of both.

My brother Steve and I were bursting with excitement as our car rolled into the entrance of Quo Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada. This is going to be epic, I thought, glancing at Steve who was grinning as wide as I was. We had planned this trip for months, dreaming of the huge fish we'd catch in the untouched wilderness. The park ranger at the gate handed us a map and pointed us towards the lakes where we could find the best fishing spots. Be careful out there, boys. It's easy to get lost, he warned, giving us a serious look. We nodded, eager to get going, and drove down a narrow dirt road that disappeared into thick forests of towering pines and birch trees. We parked near a small dock where we rented a sturdy canoe. It was our vessel for the week, and we packed it with all our camping gear, tents, sleeping bags, fishing rods, and a cooler full of food.

Let's catch some monsters, Steve said, referring to the northern pike and lake trout we hoped to encounter. Paddling out from the shore, we felt like true adventurers. The water was so clear we could see the sandy bottom several feet below. Every lake we passed seemed more beautiful than the last, with crystal clear waters and perfect spots along the shore where we could camp at night. Each evening, we set up camp on a new lake's edge. The routine was simple, build a fire, cook the fish we caught, and talk about everything and nothing under the stars. I loved these moments, away from the buzz of city life, just Steve and me and the sounds of the wilderness.

But on the fourth night, something changed. We had found a particularly secluded spot to camp, a recommendation from the park ranger who mentioned it didn't get many visitors. It was breathtaking, with a view of the lake that mirrored the sky, making it hard to tell where the water ended and the heavens began. After a successful day of fishing, we sat by the fire, our bellies full, and our spirits high. The fire crackled, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore was like music. Just as we started to relax, a strange sound sliced through the peaceful night air. It began as a low rumble, like distant thunder, but then it grew into a high-pitched

screech that seemed almost metallic. The noise echoed off the surrounding trees, making it hard to tell where it was coming from. Steve and I locked eyes, each of us frozen in place. What the heck was that? Steve whispered, his voice barely above the crackle of the fire. I don't know, I replied, my heart racing. We sat in silence, listening intently, but the sound didn't come again. After a while, we tried to laugh at it. it off. Maybe it's just some weird acoustics, or a plane in the distance, I suggested, not quite believing my own words. Yeah, maybe, Steve agreed, though I could tell he was as spooked as I was. We went to bed uneasy that night, the mysterious sound still echoing in our minds.

Little did we know, that was just the beginning of our eerie adventures in Quo Provincial Park. The next morning, Steve and I woke up with the sun barely peeking through the thick canopy of pine trees. We were both a bit quiet, thinking about the strange noise from last night, but we were also excited to explore a new part of the lake. We had heard from the park ranger that the fishing was particularly good, where a small river flowed into the lake, and we were eager to see if we could catch some really big fish there. As we paddled through the mist that hovered over the lake like a soft blanket, I couldn't shake off the eerie feeling from last night's noise. The lake was calm and quiet, too quiet, and it made me feel like we were the only two people in the whole world. When we reached the mouth of the river, I noticed something weird in the water ahead of us. At first, I thought it was just a log floating, but as we got closer, it started to move.

It wasn't a log at all. It was something big, really big. What is that? Steve asked, his voice trembling a bit. I didn't have an answer for him. The thing, whatever it was, suddenly dipped below the surface, leaving behind a trail of bubbles. We looked at each other, unsure of what to do next, but the thought of catching big fish lured us forward, despite our nerves. We paddled more cautiously now, our eyes scanning the water. We reached the river mouth and cast our lines, but something felt off. There were no signs of fish at all, no splashes, no ripples, nothing. It was as if the river was, as if the river was

was dead. Just when we were about to give up and paddle back, I felt a sudden tug on my line. I got something, I yelled, excited at first. But then, I realized it wasn't acting like any fish I'd ever caught. It was too heavy and wasn't fighting back the way fish do. It felt like I had hooked onto something solid, something big. Cut the line! Steve shouted. He must have sensed something was wrong too. But before I could react, whatever was on the line started pulling hard, dragging our canoe towards the middle of the river. Steve grabbed his paddle and tried to row us away from it, but it was no use. Suddenly the creature burst out of the water right next to our canoe. I'll never forget what I saw. It was like a giant eel but with a crocodile's head,

dark green, almost black skin, and the most terrifying part, the eyes, yellow and glowing, with slit pupils that seemed to look right into my soul. It lunged at our canoe, its jaws snapping close to Steve's arm. He yelped and swung his paddle at it, but it was like hitting a wall. The creature barely flinched. In a moment of panic, I remembered the knife attached to my belt. I grabbed it and cut the fishing line. The creature disappeared into the water, taking my rod and reel with it. Steve and I were left in the rocking canoe, hearts pounding and hands shaking. We didn't say a word as we paddled back to camp as fast as we could. We packed up everything in a hurry, not even stopping to eat. We just needed to get away from the water, away from the creature. We didn't

stop until we reached the ranger station. We told the ranger we'd had an accident and lost some gear. But the real story, the one about the creature in the lake, we kept that to ourselves. Who would believe such a thing? It was one of those Fridays where everything seemed to take forever. I kept glancing at the clock at the diner where I work, watching the minutes tick by so slowly they might as well have been hours. But today was different from the usual grind. My boyfriend, Alex and I, were heading out on a hiking trip on the Appalachian Trail as soon as my shift ended. Alex had been an Eagle Scout and was always super prepared for these kinds of adventures, which made me feel a bit better about setting off so late in the day. Are we still good to go? I texted Alex during my last

break. He replied instantly, everything's packed, just waiting on you. By the time I untied my apron and clocked out, it was already past 4 p.m. Alex was waiting for me in the parking lot. Our gear neatly stacked in the back of his old Jeep. The moment I saw him, all the stress of the day began to melt away. We were really doing this, a whole weekend away from everything. We should hurry up. We've got quite a hike before sunset, he said, helping me low. my bag into the car. The drive to the trailhead was a blur of green as we passed through the outskirts of town and into more secluded areas.

Alex talked about the route we'd take and what I could expect from the hike. Despite his reassurances and the excitement bubbling inside me, a nervous flutter remained in my stomach. It wasn't just the daunting physical challenge. It was spending a whole weekend so far from the comforts of civilization. We started our hike at about 5.30 p.m. The trail welcomed us with a steep incline that seemed to mock our heavy metal-framed backpacks. Each step was a reminder of how unaccustomed my body was to this kind of exertion.

Alex, on the other hand, moved with a steady confidence that only years of scouting could give. Remember, it's about the journey, not just the destination. Alex would say every time he noticed me struggling. His encouragement helped, but so did the breaks we took to admire the view. About an hour into the hike, the weather decided we were having it too easy. Dark clouds rolled in, and soon enough rain started pelting us relentlessly. Within minutes, we were soaked through, our packs growing heavier with every drop that clung to them. The trail turned slippery, the mud grasping at our boots with every step.

As the sky turned a darker shade of gray, the surrounding forest took on an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of rain hitting the leaves and our labored breathing. The fog was thickening, swallowing the path ahead in a white mist. Our pace slowed even more, not just because of the slippery mud, but also because the visibility was getting worse by the minute. We need to find a shelter, I shouted over the noise of the storm. My voice edged with a hint of panic. Alex nodded, pulling out a map from his waterproof bag.

There's one not too far from here. We can make it if we keep going. The promise of a dry place to rest gave me a new burst of energy. We trudged on, the weight of our packs forgotten in our urgency to escape the downpour. Every part of me was drenched, cold and aching, and I started to doubt if this trip was such a good idea after all. But just as I thought I couldn't take another step, Alex grabbed my hand and pointed through the fog. There it is. Ahead, barely visible, was the outline of a small, three-walled log cabin, a beacon of hope in the relentless storm.

Relief washed over me, mixed with a sense of accomplishment. We had made it to the shelter. Little did I know the real adventure was just about to begin. As we approached the shelter, a gust of wind whipped through the trees, making the branches creak ominously above us. I shivered, not just from the cold, but also from the sudden realization that we weren't alone. Light spilled from the open side of the cabin,

and I could hear voices mingling with the crackle of a small fire. Relief mixed with a twinge of disappointment. I had secretly hoped Alex and I would have the place to ourselves. Stepping into the shelter, we were greeted by an older couple who looked like they had settled in quite comfortably. The woman, with her scraggly gray hair and thick circular glasses, gave us a broad, albeit toothy and somewhat unsettling smile. The man, a bit overweight with a friendly demeanor,

waved us over. Don't just stand there getting wetter. Come in, come in. He boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. Thanks, I muttered, glancing at Alex who seemed as relieved as I was to get out of the rain. We set down our heavy backpacks with a thud and began peeling off our soaked jackets. The woman handed us a towel, which I gratefully accepted, drying off my face and arms. I'm Maya, the woman said.

Her voice raspy, possibly from years of smoking. And this is Joe. We decided on a spur of the moment getaway, just like you, I presume. Yeah, something like that, Alex replied, smiling politely. I'm Alex, and this is my girlfriend, Emma. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, the kind you do when you're just trying to be nice, because you have to share a space.

Joe offered us some of their warmed-up canned soup, which we hesitated but eventually accepted, not wanting to be rude. The warmth of the soup was comforting, even if the company was a bit odd. As the night progressed, the storm outside grew wilder. Maya and Joe seemed unfazed,

occasionally taking swigs from a flask that Joe jokingly referred to as their water bottle. The conversation flowed from one topic to another, mostly driven by Joe's cheerful banter. Maya, however, had a more unsettling presence. Her laughter was too loud, her stares a bit too long, and her anecdotes drifted towards bizarre. At one point, Maya leaned closer to me, her breath smelling of alcohol.

So Emma, tell me a story. I love stories, she said, her eyes piercing into mine. I glanced at Alex, who was busy discussing something about hiking trails with Joe. Deciding to keep things light, I began recounting how Alex and I met during our first year in college. But as I spoke, Maya's expression changed. Her previous giddiness shifted to agitation. Why would you say that? She interrupted sharply. Confused, I paused.

Say what? You said we met online. Why would you say we met online? She snapped, her tone accusing. I was taken aback, not understanding her reaction. I was talking about Alex and me, not. Before I could finish, she cut me off again. What are you implying?

Her voice was rising, and jowgli, glanced over, his expression suddenly serious. Realizing the situation was spiraling, I tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters. I meant no offense. Let's talk about something else. Maybe you could share one of your favorite stories, Maya. Maya's demeanor shifted as quickly as it had soured. She giggled a bit too loudly. Oh, I have stories, dear. But they're only for the brave. The rest of the evening passed in a haze of awkward exchanges and uneasy laughter. I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something very wrong with Maya. As the fire crackled and the shadows danced on the walls of the shelter,

I felt a growing sense of dread. What had started as a simple escape into nature was quickly turning into a night I'd rather forget. The night deepened, wrapping the shelter in a cloak of darkness, punctuated only by the erratic flicker of our dying fire. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, a different kind of tempest was brewing, one that had my heart pounding and my palms sweating. Maya's behavior had shifted from merely odd to downright terrifying. As the hours ticked by, Maya's mood swung wildly. One moment she was laughing at a joke Joe made, and the next, she was staring into space, her face twisted in confusion. The most of the most

unnerving part was when she suddenly turned to me, her eyes wide and intense. What did you give me? she hissed. Her voice a sharp whisper that cut through the noise of the storm. I froze, my mind racing. Alex and I hadn't given her anything. Joe, who had been trying to calm her throughout her mood swings, looked equally alarmed. It's just the beer, Maya. You're not used to it. Joe said in a soothing tone, trying to placate her. But Maya wasn't listening. She rose unsteadily to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at us. What did he give me? She demanded, her voice escalating into a shout. It echoed off the wooden walls of the shelter, making me flinch. Alex moved closer to me, his hand finding mine in the

darkness, squeezing it reassuringly. But his touch did little to ease my fear. We were were stuck in a remote shelter with a woman who seemed on the brink of a breakdown, or something worse. I need to get out, Maya muttered, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Her movements were erratic, her shadow monstrous against the flickering light of the fire. Joe tried to guide her back to her sleeping bag, but she shrugged him off violently. Then, as suddenly as her outburst had begun, Maya collapsed onto her sleeping bag, her energy seemingly drained. Joe covered her with a blanket, his expression one of deep concern mixed with embarrassment. He mouthed an apology to us, his eyes weary. I think it's best if we all try to get some rest, Joe suggested quietly,

obviously trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere. Alex and I nodded, but sleep was the last thing on my mind. I lay back, listening to the sound of Maya's uneven breathing and the relentless patter of rain on the cabin's roof. Every creek and whisper of the wind, and whisper of the wind sent shivers down my spine. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Time passed slowly, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours. Then, in the darkness, Maya began to talk in her sleep. Her words were muffled at first, then grew louder and more frantic. She was repeating something over and over, but I couldn't make it out. It sounded like a plea or a warning. Unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere any longer,

Alex whispered to me, We should go, now. We quietly gathered our belongings, our movement swift but silent. As we tiptoed past Maya and Joe, Maya suddenly sat up. Her eyes found mine in the darkness, her gaze piercing and unsettling.

But we didn't stop. We pushed through the shelter's entrance into the storm outside, the cold rain a welcome relief from the stifling tension inside. We hiked away from the shelter, putting as much distance as we could between us and whatever darkness had descended upon Maya. We set up our tent in a clearing far from the shelter, the sound of the rain a constant companion.

I lay awake for the rest of the night, listening, waiting, wondering if we had really escaped, or if the night's terror would find us even here. It was the kind of August night where the air felt just a little too still and the stars a little too dim. I lay in my hammock, bundled up in my sleeping bag, listening to the soft rustles of the forest around our campsite. My uncle, his friend D, and two other friends were all sleeping in their tents. We were camped about 20 minutes from the trailhead of Half Dome, a giant granite dome in Yosemite National Park that we plan to hike up the next morning. Earlier that evening we had set up our camp quickly. My uncle, who's 32 and always in charge of these adventures, made sure everyone knew what to do.

D, who's about the same age as my uncle and just as outdoorsy, helped get the fire going. We roasted some marshmallows and told a few jokes, the kind that made everyone laugh until they forgot about the hike's early start. But here I was, suddenly wide awake at 3.30 a.m. I wasn't sure what had woken me up, but once I was awake, I couldn't go back to sleep. I lay there, looking up at the moon through the trees. It was unusually bright. casting eerie shadows on the ground and making the leaves glisten like silver. It almost felt like I was in a dream, everything bathed in a ghostly white light. Curiosity got the better of me, and I quietly slipped out of my hammock. I didn't want to wake anyone up, so I tiptoed around, feeling the cool air against my face.

That's when I realized how silent it was, no crickets chirping, no rustles of small animals. It was like the forest was holding its breath. Deciding it was too spooky to stay out alone, I went back to my hammock. Just as I was about to try and sleep again, I heard it. Footsteps. Not the light scampering ones of a raccoon or a squirrel, but heavy, deliberate human footsteps. I froze, listening as they moved around our campsite. My heart raced.

We were supposed to be the only ones here. Unable to stay still any longer, I shook my uncle's tent. Uncle Mike, I whispered urgently. He grumbled, annoyed at being woken up, but then I saw his face change as he listened to the footsteps too. He grabbed his flashlight and peeked outside. Stay here, he murmured, zipping up the tent behind him. I waited, every sound making me jump. After what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, my uncle returned. He looked puzzled. There's no one out there, he said, but his voice was uneasy. Were you walking around just now? I shook my head. No, I woke up because I heard it too. He frowned, thinking it over. Well, let's try to get some sleep.

We need to be up soon anyway. But as he settled back into his tent, I knew neither of us would sleep well. Whatever was out there, or maybe wasn't, had already stirred the night air into something strange. And so, with a mixture of fear and excitement, I lay back in my hammock staring at the moonlit sky. wondering what adventures tomorrow would bring, and hoping the mysteries of tonight were just tricks of the light and shadow.

As the clock struck 4.30 a.m., our alarms buzzed loudly in the still dark morning. Everyone grogily climbed out of their tents and sleeping bags, rubbing sleep from their eyes. The air was cool and crisp, perfect for hiking. We quickly munched on some granola bars and strapped on our backpacks, eager to start our adventure up half dome. Uncle Mike checked his watch and nodded. All right, let's head to the trailhead.

We piled into the car and drove the short distance in near silence, the only sound being the gravel crunching under the tires. When we arrived, it was still dark, the only light coming from our headlamps and the dim glow of dawn on the horizon. Dee announced he needed to use the restroom before we started hiking. I'll catch up with you guys in a bit, he said, walking towards the bathrooms across the field at the intersection near the trailhead. I started to follow him, thinking I might as well go too,

but then I remembered I had left my water bottle in the car. Go ahead, I'll catch up, I called after him. I jogged back to the car, grabbed my water bottle, and then hurried to the trailhead to wait for Uncle Mike and the rest of the group. We all gathered, adjusting our gear, but Dee was taking longer than expected. He's probably just taking his time, Uncle Mike said, trying to sound unconcerned. But as minutes turned into ten minutes, then fifteen, we all began to look at each other with worried expressions.

Maybe I should go check on him, I suggested, feeling a bit nervous. Uncle Mike nodded, and I sprinted back to the bathrooms. I pushed open the door to each stall. No D. He wasn't anywhere around. My heart started to beat faster. Where could he have gone? I ran back to the group out of breath.

He's not there, I exclaimed. Uncle Mike's brow furrowed with worry. That's odd. Maybe he went back to the car. We decided to split up. I would stay at the trailhead in case Dee showed up, and Uncle Mike would go back to the car. As I waited alone, the sky began to brighten,

but my worry darkened. Every minute felt like an hour. I paced back and forth, peering into the dim light, hoping to see Dee walking towards me. Finally, Uncle Mike returned, shaking his head. He's not at the car either. Just then, as panic was about to set in, I saw a figure approaching from the direction of the car.

It was D, looking disheveled with sweat on his forehead, and a strange look in his eyes. Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion at his appearance. Where have you been? I asked, my voice a mix of relief and frustration. I just went to the bathroom, and when I came out nobody was. was here, Dee replied, sounding confused. But we've been here waiting for you this whole time. We even checked the bathroom, I said, puzzled. D just shook his head looking as baffled as I felt. I don't know. I went to the bathroom. Where's Mike? he asked, repeating the question even after I

answered. Something was off. His repeated questions and disoriented look made me uneasy. As we walked back to join the others, I couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was going on. What exactly happened to Dee while he was gone? And why did he seem so different now? With Dee finally back, though seeming a bit off, we all started our hike up the steep trails of Half Dome. The early morning light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the path.

Everyone was quiet, maybe thinking about Dee's weird disappearance in sudden return, or maybe just focusing on the challenging climb ahead. As we hiked, the weirdness of the morning seemed to follow us. us. It started with small things. First, Uncle Mike couldn't find his small red flashlight in his backpack. I swear I packed it right on top, he muttered, searching through his bag. We all waited as he checked again, but it was nowhere to be found. Then one of the girls noticed she was missing a glove. We all stopped and helped her look around the trail where we had just walked, but there was

no sign of it. I just had it a minute ago, she said, sounding confused. fused and a bit frustrated. Next, my water bottle, which I had clipped to my belt, was gone. I felt the clip. It was still closed, which made no sense. How could my water bottle just vanish? We must be more tired than we thought, Uncle Mike tried to joke, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. The mood had shifted, and a faint, unsettling feeling hung in the air. As we pushed deeper into our hike, the forest seemed to close in around us. The trees look taller, darker, dark and the path less familiar. Uncle Mike, who had hiked this trail many times before, suddenly stopped. Doesn't it seem like we should have reached the halfway point by now? He asked,

looking back at us. Yeah, it feels like we've been walking for hours, I agreed, my voice a little shaky. The path seemed to stretch on endlessly. Every turn looked the same. Every tree seemed to repeat. Were we walking in circles? The atmosphere felt heavier, almost as if the air was thicker. It was hard to shake the feeling that something was watching us, something not quite friendly. It feels like the woods are alive, I whispered to no one in particular. We kept walking, but progress felt slow, almost dreamlike. Time stretched and bent. Uncle Mike stopped several more times, scratching his head and looking around. This is ridiculous. He laughed nervously. It's like we're stuck in some sort of loop. Eventually, after what seemed

like in eternity, the trail began to look familiar again. Landmarks that should have passed hours ago suddenly appeared. Relief washed over us, but it was mixed with confusion and a touch of fear. How had we gotten so lost on a well-marked trail? When we finally saw the parking lot through the trees, it felt like we had emerged from another world. The car was just as we left it, quiet and unassuming, yet it felt like a lifeline back to reality. As we drove back to camp, nobody talked much. Each of us was lost in thought, trying to make sense of the day's mysterious events. It wasn't just the physical items we had lost on the trail. It felt like we had lost a piece of our normal reality out there. That night, as I lay in my hammock looking up at the stars,

the forest didn't seem so friendly anymore. I wondered if we'd ever really understand. what happened on the trail that day, or if some mysteries were meant to stay hidden in the shadows of Halfdome. I always thought adventures were supposed to be fun, but sitting in the passenger seat next to Trevor as he drove us deeper into the wilds of Alabama, I wasn't so sure anymore. Trevor is my friend, well, more like a brother, really. He's the kind of guy who's too proud to admit when he's wrong, especially about directions. He refused to use a map, claiming he remembered the way from last year when we went to the Great Smoky Mountains. I should have remembered that trip as a warning.

It was just after sunset when we found ourselves winding down a narrow road surrounded by thick trees. The deeper we went, the more I felt like we were being swallowed by the darkness of the woods. My headphones were on, and I tried to lose myself in the music, trying to ignore the eerie feeling creeping up my spine. Did we just drive in a circle? I asked Trevor. voice barely above the music blaring from the radio. Trevor just shook his head and said, No, everything just looks the same out here, just trees and mud. I wasn't convinced. The same crooked tree seemed to pass by our window more than once. Trevor noticed my uneasy glances

and tried to lighten the mood. Hey, don't worry, it's an adventure, remember? But his chuckle didn't hide the slight worry in his eyes. The road was bumpy, and each of the Each jolt felt like a warning to turn back. It must have been around 11.40 p.m. when Trevor finally slowed the truck down. We hadn't seen another soul for hours, not even a gas station. The only light came from our headlights, casting long shadows between the trees. Suddenly Trevor's hands tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles turned white.

Trev, you good? See a ghost? I tried to joke, but my own voice sounded tense. The road, Trevor muttered. There's bottles on the road. I squinted ahead, and sure enough, there was a row of empty beer bottles lined up across the one-lane road. My stomach twisted. This didn't feel right. I've seen stuff like this before, Trevor whispered almost to himself. You get out. They take the car, rob you. Just turn around, I urged him, my voice shaking. We're going the wrong way anyway. Just loop back to you. Just loop back.

to whatever exit we took. Nodding, Trevor started to back the truck up, but as he turned the truck around and stepped on the gas, a loud pop echoed through the night. One of our tires was blown, and before we knew it, the truck slid off the road and into a ditch. We were stuck, angled downwards with the back tires lifted up in the air. Damn it! Trevor shouted, banging his fist on the steering wheel.

Neither of us knew what to do. Trevor pulled out a small handgun from under the driver's seat, along with a flashlight. Watch me, he said as we both stepped outside into the chilly night. The flashlight and our headlights were the only things piercing the darkness. I could only see about 20 feet around us before everything melted into the pitch black forest. Trevor shined the flashlight on the flat tire. It was lined with nails and screws.

He cursed under his breath, kicking the deflated rubber. There's a spare in the back, take it out, he instructed. Even as I climbed into the back of the truck, I doubted we could get out of this ditch easily. I was about to grab the spare when a spine-chilling howl tore through the silence of the night. What the hell? Was that? Trevor asked softly, his voice trembling. I didn't answer. I couldn't.

My heart was pounding in my chest, fear taking over as the dark woods seemed to close in around us. Whatever was out there, it was getting closer, and this adventure had turned into a a nightmare. After hearing that terrifying howl, Trevor and I stood frozen for what felt like forever. The only thing lighting up the dark forest was Trevor's flashlight and our truck's headlights. I held my breath, listening to the eerie silence that followed. Stay close, Trevor whispered, as he held the flashlight steady. His other hand gripped the handgun tightly. We heard the sound again, a dragging noise that sent shivers down my spine. It was like, like something was being pulled across the gravel road towards us.

We couldn't see anything yet, but the noise was getting louder, closer. Maybe it's just an animal, I hoped out loud, but my voice betrayed my fear. Trevor didn't respond. He just squinted into the darkness, trying to spot whatever was making those sounds. The dragging stopped, replaced by a terrifying silence. Then out of nowhere, the forest erupted with the sound of fast-moving footsteps. I jumped back, bumping into the truck. My heart raced as I peeked around Trevor. The beam from his flashlight finally caught something, a figure stumbling towards us. It was a man, or at least it

looked like one. But he moved in a way that didn't seem human. He dragged one leg as if it was too heavy for him, and his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. Hey! Trevor yelled, his voice echoing in the stillness. The figure quickened its pace, its movements becoming frantic. I will shoot you, Trevor warned, aiming the gun at the approaching figure. But it didn't stop. It just kept coming faster. Stop!

Trevor shouted. He began to back up slowly and I followed. My eyes fixed on the figure. It was now close enough that I could see its face under the faint light. It was twisted and covered with what looked like scars and boils. It was horrifying. Trevor fired a warning shot into the air. but the figure didn't even flinch.

It was like it didn't care, or maybe it couldn't understand. Then, in a panic, Trevor fired directly at it. The figure staggered but kept moving towards us. Get in the truck, Trevor ordered, his voice shaking. I didn't hesitate. I ran to the passenger side and scrambled inside.

Trevor was right behind me, but as he climbed in, he slipped and fell into the muddy ditch. Dropping his flashlight, he quickly picked himself up and dove, into the truck, slamming the door shut behind him. What is going on? he gasped, trying to catch his breath. We both watched in horror as the figure slammed its head against the window.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. The window started to crack, and Trevor scooted towards me, trying to put as much distance between him and the glass as possible. The man outside never stopped. He hit the window over and over, chunks of flesh flying off with every impact. his face was starting to cave in from the force he was using. Finally, Trevor took aim at the figure's head and fired. The noise stopped.

The man slumped down, no longer moving. Everything was silent again, except for our heavy breathing. Trevor and I looked at each other, too shocked to speak. I tried to say something, but words wouldn't come out. We just sat there, staring at the twisted, bloody figure outside. After a moment, Trevor whispered, we need to change the tire and get out of here. I nodded, still too scared to speak.

Whatever that was, I knew I never wanted to see anything like it ever again. But as we sat there catching our breath, I couldn't shake the feeling that the night wasn't over yet. We still had to get out of this nightmare. We thought we were safe, at least for a little while, after Trevor managed to stop that terrifying man. But safety seemed like a joke now. We quickly changed the tire.

The silence around us feeling heavier than before. Neither of us spoke much. What was there to say after something like that? We just wanted to get as far away as possible. Driving away, the trees seemed to close in on us. Every shadow made my heart jump, thinking something else might be out there watching us. But what we found next made everything else seem mild.

We spotted an old camper off the side of the road. It looked abandoned, the kind of place you'd expect ghost stories to be about. Trevor and I exchanged a glance. Maybe we can find help, or at least a place to call from, he suggested hesitantly. I wasn't sure about it, but there weren't many options. As we approached the camper, a rotten smell hit us.

It was overpowering, making me want to gag. Trevor, covering his nose, pushed open the crumbling door. The inside was worse than the outside. It was covered in mushrooms that glowed faintly, giving the place an eerie, otherworldly light. There's mushrooms everywhere, Trevor said, his voice muffled by his hand. I peeked inside and the sight was horrifying. The mushrooms weren't just growing on the walls. They were everywhere, covering everything in sight.

The air felt thick and heavy, hard to breathe. In the corner of the camper, something even more ghastly caught my eye, a body overwhelmed by the same fungus that took over the place. Suddenly, a loud thud made us jump. We hadn't escaped our pursuer like we thought. The creature, or whatever it was, had followed us. It slammed Trevor against the camper wall, its face not even resembling a human anymore.

It was all rage and madness. Trevor struggled trying to reach for his gun. He managed to fire three shots, and the creature fell, motionless. But the damage was done. Trevor looked at his arms now scratched and bleeding. I'm dead, I'm dead, he kept saying, staring at his wounds in terror. Whatever it has, I've got it now.

I tried to calm him, but my own heart was racing. The thought of becoming like that creature was too much. Trevor looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. What if I... He couldn't finish. I didn't know what to say. The air in the camper, the spores we might have breathed in, it was all too risky. We had to get out.

We left the camper and started running through the woods, not caring about the direction, just needing to get away. We ran until we couldn't anymore. Trevor stopped, out of breath, and leaned against a tree. I looked at him, seeing his pale face and scared eyes. That's when I noticed something odd about his skin, some bumps starting to form. What? Trevor noticed my stare. What is it? I shook my head, backing away. I couldn't tell him, couldn't make it real. Instead, I turned and ran, ran as fast as I could towards the highway,

towards any sign of other people. It's been a week now. I can't stop thinking about that night, about Trevor. I hope wherever he is, he's okay. But deep down, I know he's not. And now, Now, waking up with hives and coughing blood, I fear I won't be okay either. What happened in those woods changed us, and I'm scared of what's to come. I'd been gearing up for this trip for weeks. Hell, maybe even months. Ever since Plaid Bandana announced their tour dates, I had this date circled in red on my calendar, hanging just above my cluttered desk at work.

The night before I was to drive from Calgary to Vancouver, I couldn't sleep a wink. My head was buzzing with the melodies of Vin Stricklet's last album, the lyrics etching into my mind like sacred words. The morning air was crisp, the kind that bites at your cheeks until they're flushed with a cold pink. I loaded up my old Japanese import, a reliable beast from the 80s with more miles on it than I cared to admit. Maps sprawled across the passenger seat. In 2003, those were your lifelines, your only guard against getting utterly lost in the rocky mountain. I grabbed a couple of burgers and a flask full of black coffee for the road. GPS hadn't found its way into everyone's pockets yet, so it was just me, my maps, and the open road.

I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as I set off, the city lights of Calgary shrinking in my rearview mirror. As I hit the highway, the first notes of Plaid Bandana's debut album blasted through the speakers, shaking off the last vestiges of city life. I pushed the pedal a bit harder, the engine humming a tune in sync with my rising spirits. I was young, maybe too young to heed the well-meant warnings from folks on message boards talking about the treacherous paths and the sparse gas stations. The roads unfurled before me like ribbons in the vastness of the Canadian wilderness,

curving around mountains, and stretching under the vast expanse of the blue sky. I relished the freedom, the sheer thrill of barreling down these roads, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, replaced by a blanket of stars, a sliver of anxiety crept in. It was just me out here, miles from anywhere or anyone. My tranquility was abruptly shattered when the dashboard flickered. Once, twice. Then the headlights stuttered and darkness enveloped me. The engine cut out and panic gripped my throat.

I coasted to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under tires that had suddenly lost their life. I cursed, loud and futile, into the mountain air that threw my own fears back at me with a mocking echo. I got out, the night cold biting through my jacket as I popped the hood. The engine was as inscrutable as a stone idol, giving away nothing of its malady. I slammed the hood in frustration, a sense of defeat washing over me. I was alone, in the dark, surrounded by an unending forest that harbored sounds too sinister for my city-tuned ears. Suddenly, a massive 18-wheeler thundered past, the gust nearly knocking me off my feet. I yelled after it, a useless venting of fear and frustration. The truck was gone as quickly as it had

appeared, its tail lights disappearing over the crest of a hill. I slumped against my car, my heart racing. Then, as if by some miracle, the dashboard flickered back to life. The engine sputtered, then roared defiantly, as if refusing to let the night end our journey. A wave of relief washed over me, mixed with an adrenaline-fueled resolve. I jumped back in. The music kicked in where it had left off, and I was moving again, speeding into the night, driven by the twin fuels of urgency and fear. Please detour sign was like a slap in the face, unexpected, and stinging in its suddenness.

Road closed due to construction, please use Forest Service Road Detour in 100 meters for next, one kilometers for reroute. My hands tightened on the wheel as I squinted at the sign, the stark white letters ghostly in the moonlight. As I turned off the main road, the undercarriage of my old car scraped against the uneven surface of the dirt track. The flagging tape fluttered eerily on the branches, the only sign that I wasn't the first to pass. this way. The forest closed in around me, a dark, oppressive tunnel that seemed to absorb both light and sound. My headlights barely cut through the darkness, and every small noise was magnified in the suffocating silence. I tried to keep count of the distance, my eyes

flicking between the road and the odometer, but as the minutes stretched on, the certainty that I had driven more than a kilometer gnawed at me. No more flagging tape appeared, and the comforting rattle of my engine was the only proof I wasn't yet swallowed by the mountain's shadow. That's when I saw him, or thought I did, a man, dressed like he'd walked out of a century-long past, holding a lantern that flickered as if caught in a breeze I couldn't feel. The sight was so fleeting, so surreal, that I slammed on the brakes, heart-hammering. My car skidded on loose gravel, stopping just as quickly as the apparition vanished. Was I losing my mind?

I shook my head trying to clear it, convincing myself it was just the strain of the drive, the isolation. But as I pressed on, the road worsened, narrowing until the trees brushed against my mirrors with an ominous hiss. Fog rolled in, thick and disorienting, and when I realized the guardrail was gone, my breath caught in my throat. This wasn't right. This couldn't be right.

The edge of the mountain loomed unseen but palpably near, a sheer drop just beyond. the reach of my headlights. My progress slowed to a crawl. Every turn of the wheel felt like a gamble with stakes too high to comprehend. Then the rocks came. First, a few small ones that clattered down the slope, a forewarning. I flinched, but pressed on, my resolve hardening into something frantic and sharp. Larger boulders followed, thundering across the road and disappearing into the void. Their crashes echoing up like the roars of some great beast. My car lurched as it hit a rock I couldn't avoid, the jolt sending a spike of fear through me as the vehicle skewed dangerously close to the edge. No, I screamed, a raw, desperate sound that seemed to pull the night tighter around me.

I felt the front tires lift, the stomach-dropping sensation of falling, then a brutal thud as the tires found ground again. I was panting, tears streaming, not from relief but from raw, unfilful. I set the emergency brake, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I grabbed the map. It showed a main road, safe and wide. This path of dirt and fog was a mistake, a deadly error in my desperate rush. I inched forward, every meter of victory over the mountain that seemed eager to claim me. And then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, I emerged. The road widened, the fog cleared, and the night seemed almost generous.

but the relief was short-lived. The road I rejoined was too familiar, too similar to the one I had left. My mind raced, had it been a loop, a trick of the terrain, or something else, something as inexplicable as the figure with the lantern. As I drove on, the previous hours felt both distant and oppressively close. A nightmare lived wide awake. I knew then that some roads once traveled leave tracks that aren't easily erased, not on the land and not in the soul. Late-night security is no different from any other late-night gig. It's pretty simple, really. I work as an unarmed security guard at a gas station next to a casino by the border, overnight. Usually the shift is pretty uneventful. Honestly, there's more to do, and more to look for during the odd times I was put on days. Nights, though, were once my safe haven to get away from

the hustle of the tedious every day. Soon found me questioning whether or not my particular site was something I should abandon. I'm not a weak man by any means. I've seen my fair share of gruesome, grotesque, and even brutal things. I've found myself in some pretty unfavorable situations, down the business end of a few, shall we say, cordless hole punchers. Being smack dab by the border of New York and Canada, my shifts usually included the occasional visit from the Border Patrol or DEA. Then again, also being on reservation land constitutes a whole new host of rules altogether, not that these guys are coming in and monitoring my little bitty gas station for the next kingpin or anything. They're in and out, filling their gas tanks or grabbing a few snacks before continuing on with their own shifts.

My shifts tend to be boring. In my line of work, boring is the best thing you could wish for. No paperwork, no reports, no cops, and no Yahoo with a hole puncher looking to turn the place into the northern version of the O.K. The drunks are easy. these guys or gals would hobble in after a long night of drinking and bedding at the casino. They would use the restroom and buy themselves something to snack on before taking off. Not often does one cause too much of a ruckus, though there was that one party bus, about 25 people, all hammered beyond belief, puke and urine all over the place. I pitied the poor soul that had to clean it all up.

But hey, as long as no one was stealing or getting violent, I was more than entertained by the slack-jawed circus that played out in front of me. Now the tweakers, they're not as easy to deal with. I'd even take it a step further and say they're a downright pain in my butt. They're the most prone to trying to make off with something without paying for it, or the most likely to do their best impression of being possessed by the devil himself. They're even likely to try some underhanded deal right in front of me, as if I'm oblivious to the very clear baggie that just changed hands for a couple of twenties and maybe a 50. But what are you going to do? The best I can do in that situation is take off my house shoe and chase them off. One night, I stood at my small podium,

watching the last lingering souls drain out of the parking lot. I was mentally preparing myself for yet another eventless night. Technically, I'm always supposed to stand up straight and alert. It makes the client feel safe. One of my supervisors had told me before I was ever assigned to this location. I took to leaning on a small podium-shaped display for lottery tickets. It keeps the pressure off my back and the aches off my feet. You'd think having memory foam insoles would help, but you'd be amazed at how quickly they wear out. The cashiers usually mingle about, or float around aimlessly behind the registers around this time. There's not much for them to do outside of tidying up and counting their drawers.

I've caught them in their little rebellious routines, sneaking naps in the back room or on breaks. The last guy they had doing security was none too keen on that, but I figured, as long as the active register had an attendee, then all fine by me. There is a guy, though, one guy, that my hand-off supervisors gave me a bit of a heads up on. He's not exactly playing with a full deck if you catch my drift,

not sure if he ever was. This guy looks harmless. confused even, usually sporting gray sweatpants, slippers, and a black t-shirt. He has a low buzz cut and something of a stumbling beard. He never really made frequent appearances at my bitty station, but when he did, the man brought with him the heibi-jeebies. He would just stare right past the sliding automatic doors and straight into the station, not at anyone or anything in particular.

Phil, I think his name was, or at least that's what the girls at the station called him. His presence never bothered me during the swing day shifts, but at night I kept an eye on him. You ever get that feeling that something was watching you, but you can't quite figure out from where? Yeah, that's Phil, with his dead-eye gaze. One night, Phil decided to ramp things up a notch. The night was already pretty quiet for a Friday, but the all-too-familiar sound of squad car sirens could be heard just up the street. The girls seemed a little off that night, too. They kept looking at the sliding doors of the station, with a type of anxious anticipation that

was unusual for them. The manager on duty had asked me to bump up my foot patrols from once every hour to once every half hour. I obliged and marked it down in the sight log before grabbing my walkie-talkie and starting the stroll through the lot and around the building. Once outside, I got a better look at all the commotion down the street. Come to find out it wasn't just one squad car, but four of them and an ambulance. The officer's body language didn't exactly fill me with confidence that whatever they were responding to had a happy ending.

What's going on out there? The manager, Sarah, asked over the radio. At first, I didn't say anything as I was still trying to wrap my head around what I was seeing, and if I had to worry about locking down the station. Uh, four cop cars and an EMT it looks like. None of them look happy. I finally responded. I kept my eyes on the scene before me. I felt a cold chill run up my spine like someone just walked over my grave. Without moving too fast, I raised my walkie.

Has anyone seen our favorite tweaker tonight? I'm worried about him. I tried to joke, but my voice held apprehension. I thought I might know the answer, but I hoped I was wrong. He hasn't been around for at least a day or so. You think he's involved? Sarah chimed in. I didn't respond straight away.

But instead, I turned my attention just off to the left of the scene. I caught a glimpse of someone slinking off toward the alley. Hold on, I said, finally answering. I'd moved to get closer to the scene, but I knew in the back of my mind if I ventured too far from my post, road patrol management would have my badge inside of an hour. At the corner, I stood, eyes squinted, attempting to see through the flashing red and blue lights

and the decently bright street lights. nothing moved. With a step back, I glanced at the station to check, and again, nothing. What's wrong, Sarah crackled, scaring the bejesus out of me. I thought I saw something, I answered back. Sarah, being as beloved and sarcastic as she could ever be, responded with a simple, Don't do that, with a chuckle. I rolled my eyes. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. I knew my area was known for occasionally being sketchy, but this couldn't have been more than a wellness check gone astray. All right, I'm coming back, no sense in me sticking my nose where it wasn't invited. I told Sarah on the radio as I turned to start heading back.

I walked head first into none other than Phil, but Phil was in quite a state. His black t-shirt was tattered, his sweatpants were stained in a deep shade of red, that to the untrained eye, looked black in the dim light. Phil greeted me with a wide, wide smile, rare of malice and wicked anticipation. For the first time in months, I kept an eye on him. There was a clarity in his eyes that set off every alarm bell a human mind could possibly have. He didn't look confused and dazed or glossy-eyed like he usually did. Sizing him up, I knew that if there were no surprises, I could take him. I could toss him right over my shoulder if I wanted to.

However, some little voice in the back of my mind screamed, that was a very bad idea. Without a word, I raised my hand as if showing him I had nothing on me that I could use to hurt him or pose too much of a threat. His wide smile faltered as he eyed the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt, and for a split second I swore I saw the makings of a scowl. I prayed to whatever God would be listening tonight. I slowly lowered my right hand down to my belt, then brought the table. device up to clear eye level. That flicker of a scowl told me all I needed to know about the boat that I found myself in, and the last thing I needed was the situation going from hazardous

to fatal. With the same slow, careful pace, I brought my left hand down to the volume knob and turned it all the way down. Thankfully, the radio was an old off-brand Radio Shack model, so the display light was hard to see even in pitch black conditions. But to stay on the safe side, I kept the display palmed in my hand, just in case my gambit was a little too obvious to spot, as if showing him, that I indeed turned it off, I clicked the talk button four distinct times and four more times after that. By then, I had to rely on hope that Sarah paid attention to the nonverbal signals I've shown her over the last few months and what to do if I ever used one. Phil seemed satisfied with the silence of my radio, but gestured again to the bushes he had hidden in earlier. Toss it, he said calmly. I didn't bother arguing. I gave the radio a half throw, just shy of where he wanted it. That scowl flickered on his face again,

and with one quick motion he brought his foot down on the thing hard enough for it to crack. When he brought his heel down on the radio again, I'd taken what I thought was an unnoticed step back, but the reaction that spurred from Phil told me how wrong I was. In an instant, he snapped his attention back to me, then brandished a hammer he had hidden in his sweatpants. I quickly tried to guess, but also dismissed the thought, as my mind began to wonder if I was going to be granted the gift of a rather harsh headache.

His eyes lit up as he watched me freeze. What, scared of a silly little thing like this? He taunted, waving the hammer as if it were nothing more than a kid's toy. His jovial sarcasm irked me, but I'd figured if I tried to rush him, the back of my head would be mimicking a split melon in an instant. So, instead, I shook my head slightly. Just wondering what other rabbits you're about to pull from that hat, I responded, trying to create a bit of levity.

Phil smirked enough to make my night easy and yours especially difficult. My night is always rough when you show up, I grumbled. Can't ever tell if you're off your meds or just a flat-out whack job. Phil tilted his head as if thinking, you're stalling, he said plainly, as his expression became unreadable. And just like that, flight or fight had kicked itself into full alert. With no warning whatsoever, he wildly swung the sharp side of his hammer. On instinct, from the many previous tangles I've been in over the years, I raised my left arm to block it, but that was a mistake I very quickly paid for.

The clawhead of the hammer bit into my forearm and dug in. I let out a pained shout, attempting to pull it out with my other hand. However, Phil yanked it out and went for another swing. this time i ducked and rammed my shoulder into his gut attempting to tackle him to hold him down to my surprise i succeeded in my half-cocked counter when we hit the ground phil let out a surprised yelp but very quickly swung that hammer again this time it connected with my side thankfully though it hurt like heck nothing broke having rolled on top of him i reared back and gave him a right to the temple that would have made mike tyson himself proud this seemed to anger him pretty bad Instead of swinging at me with the hammer again, he went to press his thumbs into my eyes. My answer to the attempt at my eyesight was another vicious right hook, and another. Then one more for good measure.

I'd hoped to knock him out, but instead he simply submitted in our scuffle. I failed to see the two officers approaching with their weapons drawn. It dawned on me how the situation looked, and before either of the officers said a word, I got off of my seemingly subdued attacker and placed my hand. hands behind my head. After that, things went by in a blur, but I do recall seeing Sarah explained to the officers what had happened, and even urging them to the station's back room to review the security camera footage. Sarah even explained that it was I who signaled her to gather the authorities after the sequence of beeps I sent through the walkie-talkie. It was

unknown to me at the time that she had responded to my signal at all, but apparently she had clicked her talk button twice, a way of saying, I understand. Not surprising, though, was hearing that a couple of the other cashiers had recorded the ordeal from their phones. With a new understanding, the officers, instead of detaining me, urged me to seek medical attention for the weeping gash in my arm. I agreed, given that I'd started losing feeling in that arm altogether. I figured Phil caught a good cluster of nerves, and I didn't notice during the fray, or maybe I lost a little too much blood for comfort. Either way, I found myself in the back of an EMS vehicle being tended to and urged to take the next couple of days

off work to recover. I went for a checkup the following day, just to be sure. The good news was the damage was all fairly temporary. The wound on my left arm would heal normally, but the trade-off would be when it gets humid or stormy, I'd feel an ache again. Instead of cracked or fractured ribs, I made off with only a bruise that healed within a few days. I put in my two-weeks. I put in my two-week notice to the higher-ups about three months later, concluding my year-and-a-half-long service as an unarmed security officer. Through Sarah, though, I found out that Phil was indeed responsible for the initial police response that night, because four people had been bludgeoned to a pulp in their apartment, and then another three were found in the hallway leading out. According to Sarah,

I was pretty lucky I caught him off guard. Running into him the way I did was a surprise to us both. I always knew something was off about Phil, and I have a bad feeling I haven't seen the last of him. It was a typical summer evening in our little New Hampshire town, the kind where the sun takes forever to set, and the air starts to cool just a little. I was on my way to pick up my best friend, Jake. We had plans, like we did most nights, to play some video games and maybe watch a horror movie, our favorite kind. As I drove down the familiar roads, I couldn't help but feel a little excited, Even though we did pretty much the same thing every time we hung out, it was always the highlight of my day. Jake didn't have his driver's license yet, so I was the one who always drove to his place or picked him up.

Our town was small, surrounded by thick woods and old buildings that looked like they had tons of stories to tell. One of these buildings was the old textile mill, just down the hill from my house. It was a huge, creepy place that had been abandoned for as long as I could remember. My grandma used to tell us stories about how, way back in the day, people worked there under really bad conditions, and that some even died in accidents. Because of that, people said it was haunted. As we drove past the old mill, I slowed down a bit. The setting sun cast long shadows, making the broken windows of the mill look like dark,

watching eyes. Hey, did you ever hear about the ghost sightings here? I asked Jake, nodding toward the mill. Yeah, he replied, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. They say you can see the ghosts of the workers sometimes, still dressed in their old-timey clothes, super creepy. Right across from the mill was a dirt parking lot where the telephone company parked their work trucks overnight.

As we passed by the lot, something strange caught my eye. Dude, look, I whispered sharply, pointing. Under one of the trucks there were two pale legs and bare feet just standing. standing there motionless. They looked so out of place, so ghostly. The legs were small, like those of a child. My heart started to race as we got closer, and then, just like that, they were gone. No sign of anyone running away or hiding. They just vanished. Did you see that? I asked. My voice a mix of excitement and fear. The white legs? Yeah, I saw them. That was weird, Jake said, looking back as we drove on. We both fell silent for a moment. The wheels of my car

crunching on the gravel road being the only sound. You think it was a ghost? I finally muttered, not sure if I wanted it to be true. Maybe, Jake said, shrugging, or maybe our eyes were just playing tricks on us. You know, shadows and stuff. I nodded, but inside, I wasn't so sure. The image of those ghostly pale legs under the truck stuck with me as we were. we drove the rest of the way to my house. We tried to shake it off by diving into our video games and not talking about it anymore, but I could tell we were both a little spooked. Every now and then, I caught Jake glancing out the window, as if he expected to see those legs walking up the driveway. As the night grew darker and the sounds of our video games filled the room, I tried to convince

myself it was nothing, just a trick of the light or our imaginations. But deep down, I wondered if we had just seen one of the mill's ghosts, still lingering around, trapped in time. And that thought was enough to send shivers down my spine. After that night by the old mill, things felt a bit different. Jake and I tried to act like everything was normal, but the image of those ghostly legs didn't really leave our minds. To get our spirits up, we decided to go see a movie in town. It was a new action film, and we thought it would help us forget the creepy stuff for a while. The movie was great, full of explosions and car chases. It did the trick. For a few hours, we were just two friends having fun, not thinking about anything else. As we walked out of the theater, laughing and

discussing our favorite parts, the sky was dark, and the stars were out. It seemed like a perfect end to the evening, but we still had to drive home. The road back to Jake's house was narrow and wound through thick woods, trees towered on both sides, and it was so dark that even our headlights seemed to get swallowed up by the night. I drove slowly, the recent memory of the mill making me extra cautious. As we rounded a bend, I felt Jake tense up next to me. Do you ever think we'll see something weird again? He asked, his voice a little shaky. Like the legs, I replied, trying to keep my voice light. I hope not. Just then, something unbelievable. happened. Out of the dark woods, a huge shadow swooped right above the car. It flew so close

that I could almost feel the air move. I slammed on the brakes, and both of us stared up through the windshield. Hovering under a streetlight for just a second was a creature like nothing I had ever seen before. It was enormous, about the size of a large wolf, but it had wings, not bird wings, but big, bat-like wings that flapped heavily as it balanced in the air. Did you see that? I gasped. My hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. Yeah, Jake whispered. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. It had wings, and not just wings.

As the creature flew across the light, I could see it had legs and a tail too. It looked powerful and terrifying, something straight out of a nightmare. We both were too scared to move or even speak. The creature disappeared into the trees on the other side of the road, and everything was silent again. I slowly started driving, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. Neither of us said a word the whole way to Jake's house. The fun of the movie was long forgotten, replaced by the fear of what we had just seen.

When we finally got to his driveway, I turned off the engine, and we both just sat there for a moment. Then, all at once, we started talking, both of us speaking fast, trying to make sense of it. Jake's brother was home when we went inside. We told him what we had seen, but he just laughed. You guys must have imagined it, he said, shaking his head. But we knew what we saw, and it was no imagination. That night, we didn't talk much more. We both went to bed, but I lay awake, listening to the sounds of the night

and wondering about the creature with the wings. Was it watching us? Was it waiting in the woods? I didn't know, and that was the scariest part of all. I was 20 years old, attending basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia, in the summer of 2011. The process at MEPs, or the military entrance processing station for civilians, lasted about 17 days. During that time, I learned a lot about people and made connections with soldiers who would go on to basic training with me, friends who are still close to me today.

One story that all of us recall, one which holds a mythological place in my heart, is the story of Jonathan Oldberg. This story took place at MEPs, which brings me back to the point of bringing it up in the first place. Mepis is the first time you and all the other new U.S. Army recruits are together, sleeping in barracks, standing in formations, getting shots, and doing basic end-processing tasks. MEPs often serves as a toe-dipping into the military life of being told how to jump, how high to jump, when to jump, no, sir, yes, sir, all that. Needless to say, this is the first place where prospective soldiers might bail, raise their hands, refuse to go on, finding themselves out-processing before they've even started the in-processing. It's not beyond a new soldier to act mentally unfit to be classified as not fit for service,

but usually it's broken down to finally fessing up or straightening out and figuring your junk out. Throughout the days, though, whispering and rumors of Oldberg's strange behavior became more and more known. Bunkmates to the left and right of him would claim stories of the young 19-year-old rambling in the night, talking to himself in whispers. These whispers would last through the entire night as fire guards, two soldiers on guard in the night that rotate on shift hourly, would take note. This means that throughout the night, sometimes ten different soldiers would mention their strange encounter hearing Oldberg, or seeing him act differently. Bordom helped spur my interest in this encounter, and throughout the first few days, I delighted in hearing different weird run-ins, like Oldberg staring at a walking patrol guard walking past his bunk in the middle of the night, maybe around 2 a.m. or 4 a.m.

It didn't really matter what time. If he was faking, he was committed to the role. at all hours of the day. Something that really stood out early to me. By nighttime, we were all so tired we'd take any extra minutes of sleep gladly. I remember approaching Oldberg, saying hello during some free time at the barracks after lunch. I approached the small five-foot-six soldier who, soaking wet, could not have been over 130 pounds. His pale white skin gave him a ghostly appearance, talking to him. he seemed like a normal, soft-spoken kid.

He was well-mannered, polite, more shy than anything. I thought he was harmless. The stories must be bored soldiers ganging up on the new kid. A story as old as time, really. How could I get lost believing in gossip or even entertaining the thought? That thought would change drastically throughout the next few days. My first run-in with Oldberg's strangeness came with my second shift of fireguard. This took place on day four of MEPs.

My bunkmate Brian and I woke up at 155 a.m. Five minutes before my shift had to start. I got dressed, put on my shoes, and was at the fireguard desk in minutes. The shift went by, boring and quiet. Soft snores and rumbles of sleeping soldiers lined the wide spaces of the darkened barracks bay. Brian and I made small talk while we passed the time. The moonlight gave the corridor an eerie glow. Being around 60 bodies in one room gives you a sense of security.

though, at least if something does come up, there's enough of you and your fellow soldiers to deal with the threat. I walked and patrolled the darkened bay, making sure not to wake the sleeping soldiers with my steps. I felt it was practice for being a sneaky infantryman, a skill I would definitely need someday, I assured myself. I passed by bunk bed to bunk bed all the way to one end of the bay and into the bathrooms, which, unlike the darkened bay, were almost overwhelmingly bright. I took a leak, washed my hands, and grabbed my L-shaped flashlight, leaving on the opposite side of the bathroom,

which would put me on the last leg of my patrol on a racetrack-shaped bed bunk situation where the middle remains open, if that makes sense. When I got about a quarter of the way down, I heard a small scratching sound. I paused my walk and listened intently. The noise was coming from a few bunks up. I walked slowly, making sure not to be. to make a single noise. The closer I got to the target of what I perceived the sound to be coming from, I realized it

was coming from a bottom bunk. The moonlight perfectly bounced off the open bay windows, lighting up the white sheets that were covering a soldier. The sheet wrapped tightly over the small body, as if someone was pulling it downwards through the bed. When my eyes focused onto the lips of the featureless apparition, I realized the sound I was hearing wasn't scratching at all. It was whispering. Quiet but violent whispering, almost a chant. I stood there dumbfounded,

not knowing what to do. What was this noise? Is this kid okay? Should I wake him up? I simply just stood there for what seemed like minutes. My focus was broken by the bunkmate next to him rolling over and looking at me. The what the heck he mouthed to me seemed to match my exact same reaction. The other bunk on the other side rolled over as well, to acknowledge his nervousness or fear of the situation too. The fact that this was keeping people up in the middle of the night only angered me. So I smacked the side of the bed with my unlit light and said, Hey, shut up, people can't sleep. With the loud ding of the metal of my light and the harshness in my tone, the whispering stopped and the mouth stopped moving. These soldiers on both sides of me

gave me a nod of approval and a thumbs up. Best fire guard ever, I thought in my head as I strolled back to the fire guard desk, which was now lit up. I glanced back before breaking sight, though. I looked at the still illuminated Oldberg, whose face was covered by the sheet. I could swear he was smiling through the tightly pulled cloth. I shook my head, walking back to Brian, who was chatting up the next fireguard shift. When I told them about what I'd seen, Brian cut me off and told me the noise got louder and louder when I left, which is why he turned his light on. The other guard excitedly told me about some weird circumstances of his shift the other night.

Details I forgot. But it made me think. Maybe we're all just wired up and looking for excitement. Some of us created it. Some of us liked the show. Anyway, it wasn't enough to make me lose sleep yet, although I couldn't get the sight of that face profile, draped by the tight cloth, out of my mind. I mean, who slept like that? What game was he playing?

I bet to myself he'd break down and quit the next morning, dropping whatever facade he was playing. Into the next day came, and beyond my surprise, Oldberg had no clue at all that he had been acting strangely the previous night. He quickly became the topic of small-time gossip. Every soldier quickly had input on their favorite weird, creepy Oldberg moment. Despite the weirdness at night, Oldberg seemed normal. He talked shyly, never really divulged much about himself, and even seemed to try and make friends. I remember a soldier, Boyer, trying to befriend him, and even deciding to take up the top bunk of Oldberg, showing solidarity with someone who seemed to be lonely. Boyer would even defend Oldberg, hushing stories and tests from the rest of these soldiers, saying it's just people creating excitement

at the expense of poor Oldberg. This would not last. long, as day by day more stories came along. Even Boyer had his own run-in sleeping above the ghostly apparition, although he never added to the stories and would never update us on what he'd seen. But I know he experienced something strange or grave, as he would quickly change the subject or comment on how strange everything was, like a man fed up with finding information he no longer wanted to see. Boyer moved his bed and stuff far away from Oldberg, and pretty soon the beds to the left and right of Oldberg followed suit. My next run-in would occur about seven days into in-processing. By now, everyone knew each other roughly, and we all rushed to fill the empty

time with working out and talking about whatever we could to fill the long days. My next fireguard shift came up, and once again Brian and I sat at the desk, joking and talking about whatever. Coincidentally, we joked about ghost stories, spooky things we'd seen as kids. We chuckled and laughed in the dark bay. Our only light source being the moonlight in the windows and the green exit sign. Besides this, we had our L-shaped flashlights that at the time, we both had turned off. The room grew silent, even snoring seemed to cease. The darkness in the room seemed to grow, like the clouds had decided to block the moon, now only leaving the green exit light as our only light source in the now-growingly spooky room. Staring into the blackened bay, I heard

movement. I focused my eyes and couldn't see, so I moved to the front of the fire guard desk. Brian sat up in his chair suspiciously. A small dragging sound came from the middle of the bay floor in the kill zone, a portion of the floor reserved for drill sergeants, a spot where soldiers knew not to walk. Then, complete silence. Just as I was about to break the long silence, a figure sprints at me from the dark. A pale white Oldberg stops abruptly about five meters away from me. I met his incoming pace with the rays of my L-shaped light, like I was waiting for a fastball pitch. A violent smile beamed across the soldier's face as he stood strangely with his hands and limbs outstretched. Oldberg, I'm going to mess you up, man. I blasted out. There wasn't an ounce of

hesitation. I was afraid of getting kicked out for trouble or causing a fight, but this was another level of concern. It seemed like fear of death. One step closer, and I was going to tee off like Barry Bonds. The smile on Oldberg's face grew, and I now noticed his eyes were open. They'd been open the whole time, but I'd confused them for being closed. His pupils had turned back, and all that was visible were the whites of his eyes. He let out this weird giggle. Get back to your bed, or I'm going to mess you up, Oldberg. I'm not playing with you, man, I told him. Brian sat there petrified. Oldberg then backs up slowly into the darkness. Brian and I sat there, staring at ourselves, just bearing witness to this situation. What the heck was that? Brian mentioned. His face

pale white. He looked scared, cluing me in that if I had fought Oldberg then and there, it was probably going to be a 1v1 with a demon. We woke up the next fire guard and explained the situation. They nodded their heads in agreement, ready to investigate. Oldberg seemed to be the only thing anyone was guarding for at this point. We got up and went on down to where Oldberg slept. The darkness from the bay made the room seem incredibly long. We marched all four together to his bed. He lay facing away, with the blanket covering his head completely, not moving,

like nothing had ever happened. I remember making sure that the guard knew to wake me up if something crazy did happen. I no longer doubted any of the stories. Something was not right about Oldberg, and everyone at this point agreed. I wanted to be awake if anyone saw him moving strangely, almost like it was inevitable that something was going to happen. The next day was basic in processing, and at this point we were pretty much just hurrying up and waiting to transition to actual basic training.

Halfway through the day while I'm still sitting on my bed, I'm surprised by a familiar face. Oldberg, who seemed even more small and frail than normal, like his health had been deteriorating while he was here. He was standing there in front of me. Hey, Rowan, his soft Tim voice bellowed out. Uh, what's up, Oldberg? I replied. I heard I went up to the guard desk and pissed you off last night.

I'm so sorry. I don't even remember any of that or why I'd go up to the desk, Oldberg stated. He apologized profusely and seemed genuinely sorry for the event. I didn't know how to treat the situation. I remember shaking his hand, telling him it's all good, and even making a joke about it, something that I could tell relieved Oldberg. Despite his weirdness, he seemed like a genuine, sweet person, like an only child who was out of his element but just trying to make friends. There wasn't anything to dislike about Oldberg when he was himself, which is what made the whole thing even more strange.

Every time he'd be included in the group or shown he's one of us, he'd get turned around the following morning after a fire guard would catch him sleeping strangely, or wandering in the showers, which happened to one of my other friends. He kept hearing something from the latrine when he went to investigate. He found Oldberg propped against the shower wall, staring up with the biggest smile on his face. Eyes rolled back just the same as I'd seen him. It sucked seeing the battle of him trying to be normal paired with whatever illness or mental affliction that affected him. My last run-in with Oldberg would be the most significant, of any run-in. I would be the grand finale in the showdown with Oldberg, a story that many of my old brothers talk about even today. Day 13, a day that came as normal as any. Brian and I sat

on the desk once again, blabbing about random topics. Halfway through the shift, I heard some stirring around the dark zone, the area where three or so bunks had been emptied around Oldberg. Brian and I looked at each other as we kept hearing a bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. We both crept forward down the dark corridor, light off at first, but soon enough we set half that and turned them both on. We made it to Oldberg's bed area, but he wasn't there. I shined the light under the bed, then on the top, and suddenly bang. It came from the other side of his locker. I looked over and I saw his legs there. He had himself propped up under the bay window, with his head banging back against the locker, creating that loud thud noise. Oldberg, I whispered harshly.

No response was made other than another bang against the wall. I looked closer and sure enough, his eyes were rolled backwards again. Hey! I yelled out, not trying to get any closer. His mouth opened and whispers chant out just like the first day, but this time it was louder, more distinct. The sharpness and highness of his tone was inhuman and reminded me of the red rum moment in The Shining, when Danny keeps screaming the phrase.

This started to awake the other soldiers who began to dress and wander over. Get the next shift, I told Brian. He ran across the bay while I sat there staring at this entity. I listened closer. What was it he was chanting? Soon I heard some familiar words. He was speaking Latin, it seemed. Not that my Latin is decent.

I just remember the way it sounded, and this was by far not a normal language. When the next two soldiers showed up, they'd already made themselves prepared for the situation. Everyone was ready for some Oldberg confrontation, and this was it. Old Berg, I yelled. His chant grew louder. Me and three other soldiers moved in closer, surrounding him. His language grew more demonic and harsh. Then he makes a statement, and right as he says it, it all ends, and bam. The bay window, which was eight feet up,

indefinitely unreachable by any of us, especially Oldberg, bangs loudly three times. This noise makes all of us jump, and the other soldiers in the bay began to murmur in confusion. This was a paranormal situation, there was no way around it. No way in heck he could play this role so well, and the noise at the window cemented this. We were on the second floor, and that window lay at least twenty feet off the ground. Oldberg's Latin proceeds again, louder and louder. He's shouting to the point of uncontrollable yelling. I told Brian to get the drill sergeant on guard, as this was beyond us. While he's gone, the other soldiers began to panic. Was Oldberg stroking out? Was he possessed? I needed an answer. Pain is the best cleanser for any

act, I thought, paired with a surprise it could break anyone's act. I reached back and slapped Oldberg so hard in the face mid-chant. He stopped chanting and stared right at me, but his smile grew wider, more monstrous. Taken aback by my effort to get him to stop, my colleague's surprise grew. The fact I could hit him so well, and not one hesitation in the act, or even a moment of ow that hurt, cemented it even more. There was no helping this kid, I thought. We need an exorcist. Just then, an angry drill sergeant's voice broke through the the darkness. I pointed, and the drill breaks character by going, What the F. He orders all of us to get back in bed, while he and another drill pick Oldberg up and pull him to the medical center

outside the bay. What the F was right. I'm surprised how anyone could fall asleep after that event. I think most of us stayed up. Morning came and Oldberg wasn't to be seen again. From what I heard, he kept going at it like that until dawn. Rumors abound that they had to sedate him as he was unable to wake up from his trance. His locker was emptied out by the hospital staff, and that was the last we'd seen of old Jonathan Oldberg. We would only be there at in-processing for a few more days, but the stories of Oldberg would persist all the way through Basic and through deployments. And even when I linked back up with old friends from the service days, it would not be the last mention I'd heard of him. Though about two months into Basic,

we were scheduled to get our dress blues tailored at the MEPs End Processing Center. It was cool seeing the area again, especially after being this close to being done with Basic and getting ready to head into infantry AIT or advanced individual training. At a certain point, I had to use the latrine, so I go to the restroom. And while I'm taking a leak, I hear two soldiers talking. Yo, did you hear about Oldberg last night? They found him going through empty barracks screaming and crap. They can't figure out what to do with him while he out processes.

Yeah, that guy's a freak, the other says. It blew my mind that he was still here, still terrorizing soldiers and drill sergeants alike. My guess is they knew something was extremely wrong with him, and after all the mental trials and tribulations, they realized he had to be put somewhere, maybe an asylum or something. Despite his condition, Oldberg was nothing but friendly and deeply wanted to be a soldier. At least it seemed, in my eyes. This story is about 13 years old now. and I can recall the tone in his voice, the way it seemed almost alien,

the way his face lit up with a sheet draped over it the first time I saw him. I hope Oldberg found peace and is living a happy life around good people. I hope he doesn't suffer from whatever he was suffering through. That situation was far from normal, though, and it's one of the things that have cemented the supernatural in my own life. I hope I never have to find out if he escaped his affliction or if he's even alive now. He might be angry from the slap that night. At least I hope to never find out.

I've never been one to shy away from the unexplainable, not when you grow up sensing things that others can't. At 20, my life had been a carousel of eerie experiences, but nothing that I couldn't handle. Or so I thought. That December, moving into a new apartment with Nikki, felt like stepping into a clear, sunny day after a week of storms. For the first time, a home didn't press down on me with the weight of unseen eyes.

Nikki was as normal as they come, her biggest worry being her next exam, or what color to dye her hair. Our small apartment was on the third floor of a tired but friendly building, its red bricks worn smooth by years and weather. From the start, it seemed we were set for a fresh chapter, free from disturbances, both paranormal and mundane. That sense of peace lasted until May, when life decided to throw us a curveball named Morgan. She was 16, with more baggage than anyone her age deserved. Her dad, a self-styled Satanist, had a cruel streak wider than the Missouri River. The day she moved in, she sat on the faded blue couch, hugging her knees, and told us in a flat voice that her dad had cursed her, that something dark followed her, a shadow creature.

I believed her. You don't grow up like I did without knowing that some nightmares walk in daylight, but I chalked most of it up to the trauma of her upbringing, a screen her mind projected to deal with all the mess at home. I decided it was best not to stir the pot, to just keep an eye on things. But then, the apartment started to disagree with my nonchalance. It began with small, almost laughable things. Our coffee table moved a few inches from where it was.

the night before. Mail scattered like autumn leaves across the floor. The cats, I'd mutter, though the explanation hung flimsy in the air like a cobweb. Then, the pranks turned peculiar. Our laundry detergent once ended up a puddle under the dining room table, the empty bottle standing like a sentinel in the middle of the mess. Nikki laughed it off, but her laughter had a nervous edge I didn't like. Things escalated quietly, the way dread builds in the pit of your stomach. Both Morgan and Nikki, on separate occasions, woke up paralyzed, whispering tales of a child-sized shadow in their rooms, its head too big, hands too long, a silhouette etched in darkness. My skin would crawl at their descriptions, so eerily similar, though I hadn't seen the thing

myself. I should have been scared, perhaps, but fear is a luxury you can't afford when you're the only one who's supposed to hold it together. So I held for it. firm, even as an unspoken chill settled into our home, like frost on window glass. Then came that night in May, alone with only the hum of the refrigerator and my thoughts. I had never felt it so intensely before, that feeling of being watched. As the shadows deepened, so did my sense of unease. The apartment felt crowded, as if the walls themselves inhaled and exhaled, heavy with secrets. I was sitting on the couch, trying to lose myself in a book, when the air grew oppressively thick. It was like the world had tilted, reality skewed in a direction I couldn't follow.

My chest tightened, breaths coming short. I tried to stand, to move, but the darkness pressed in, tangible as the fabric of the couch under my fingers. Panic clawed up my throat, a primal screaming thing, but I swallowed it down. I wasn't alone in this. Couldn't afford to be, not just for my sake, but for Nickies, for Morgans. So I straightened, forced my lungs to work, and prepared to face whatever was encroaching on our fragile little life. It was just the beginning, and somehow I knew it was going to get worse.

The night I first felt truly threatened in my own home was a turning point. There's something about darkness that's thicker than shadow, something that swallows sound and makes the minutes stretch into lifetimes. That's what descended on our apartment one suffocating evening when I was alone. The heavy silence punctuated only by my own erratic heartbeat. I was curled up on the couch, the TV murmuring low in the background, an island of light in a sea of creeping shadows. The atmosphere had shifted, subtle but undeniable.

My chest felt like it was caught in a vice, each breath a labor, It was as if the apartment had exhaled a deep, dark breath and hadn't inhaled since. Sitting up, I pushed the blanket off with a jerk, the room unnaturally cold. The dim light from the hall seemed to hesitate at the edge of the living room, unwilling to penetrate the darkness that had thickened around me. I reached for my phone, thumb swiping for the flashlight app, but the device felt alien and unresponsive in my hands. When the sudden realization hit that I wasn't alone,

my skin prickled with a cold dread. There was a presence, a weight of something unseen that filled the room like smoke. I listened, barely breathing, and heard it. A slow, deliberate footfall in the kitchen behind me. Not the light tap of a cat's paw, but the solid, unmistakable sound of a human foot. Panic surged, sharp and metallic in my taste. I spun around, phone clutched like a lifeline, but saw nothing. The kitchen was empty, bathed in the weak glow from the streetlight outside the window.

But the feeling of being watched intensified, pressing down on me until I thought I might crumble under it. I couldn't stay there, frozen by fear, so I did what I had learned to do, fight back. Grabbing sage from the drawer, I lit it, the smoke curling into the air, a visible marker of my defiance. Nikki and I had smeared oil on the door frames last week, a barrier we hoped was more than symbolic. You're not welcome here, I muttered into the darkness, words less for it and more for me. But the knights that followed brought no peace. Nikki, normally so vibrant, grew paler each day, her nights tormented by that same shadow

figure that now haunted both her dreams and waking moments. We were fighting a losing battle, it seemed, against an enemy that thrived in the very fear it engendered. Desperation led us to Nikki's mother. mother, a woman of deep faith and conviction. She arrived with holy water and a calm certainty that was both a bomb and a blade. She moved through our home, blessing each room with a practiced hand, her prayers a soft but firm rebuke against the darkness. Slowly the apartment began to breathe again. The oppressive weight lifted, and the air cleared as if a storm had passed.

Morgan moved out shortly after, her departure coinciding with a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Her younger brother moved in, and mysteriously, the disturbances dwindled until they were just a memory, a dark chapter in our lives that we hoped was firmly closed. As I lay in bed that night, listening to the quiet sounds of a home at peace, I wondered about the power of belief, of curses and blessings. There was a lesson here about the shadows we carry and the light we seek, and while the peace might be fragile, it was peace nonetheless, hard one and precious. I drifted off to sleep, a sleep unmarred by shadows, with a heart lighter than it had been in months.

My dad worked as a taxi driver for ten years, transporting drunk university students back to their accommodation and taking elderly ladies to their bingo nights. He has taken many people on many journeys up and down the country. As such, he's gone through several supernatural experiences. I'll tell you a few of his stories told to me as a kid. Around two years into taxiing, he had a job. that paid quite well. It was a simple, straightforward job. He had to pick up a group of middle-aged women and drive them to a local restaurant. It was a dark Friday night, and they were celebrating their friends' 47th birthday. They were excited and a little tipsy. He told me that

these jobs are usually the easiest, the ones where you can talk to the customers, revel in their excitement, or hear their life stories. The journey was a long one, being around half an hour. The destination was set on the edge of a cliff, looking towards the sea. As they neared the restaurant, their surroundings became enveloped in heavy fog. The fog eclipsed nearby signs and blurred traffic lights. My dad needed to exercise caution, so he slowed down, relying more on his sat-nav for guidance. He looked around and found the usually busy roads empty. This was unusual, but he blamed it on the weather.

Nevertheless, he continued with the judge. journey, determined to complete it so he could pick up more customers before going home for the night. However, the more my dad drove, the thicker the fog became. While talking to one of the ladies in the passenger seat, he noticed that his sat-nav started to flash, seemingly turning off and on. It froze on the road they were on, so he turned it off and continued as he knew this area like the back of his hand. However, even being ripped out of the stand wouldn't stop the screen from flashing, the lumines. the windshield and almost blinding him. It was a dark night after all, and the flashes were

enough to cause little white spots that linger after blinking. Annoyed, he simply threw it in the cup holders and kept driving. As he got closer to the destination, he began to notice a bright white glow coming from the distance on the left side. As they were near the beach, he initially dismissed it, thinking he was coming up on a lighthouse or a nearby ship. He paid it no mind, as the light shone brighter and grew larger, taking over the left side of his windshield. Soon, the pleasant conversation between the ladies slowed and stopped altogether, with concerned mutters taking their place. What is that?

Some of them gasped, mouths agape. The extroverted and friendly woman in the passenger seat who had been talking to my dad the entire way there, turned into a statue, staring into the distance. She told my dad to slow down as she thought someone was walking. walking in the road. As they approached the alleged figure, they all saw where the bright light was coming from. A pale gray man in tattered Victorian clothes, holding a lantern, walked across the road mere meters away from the car. The scary part, my dad said, was that they were so shocked at someone walking on the road and how bright the light was. It took a few seconds to register that the man

had no legs. Instead, they saw him gliding across the road. My dad said he'd doesn't know how he got to the restaurant so quickly after that, but he knew that he probably broke a few traffic laws by speeding all the way there. The most notable part of that event, though, was how affected the customers were. Once a bubbly, excited, and tipsy bunch, they were now silent, shocked, and subdued. I do wonder what they told their friends upon arrival, if they told anyone at all. I'll tell you another story, one that I was partially at least, witnessed to. It was no one. It was no. November on a chilly night. My dad at this point was a seasoned taxi driver, having worked

half a decade in the profession. Despite a few shaky experiences, nothing really phased him anymore. It was close to the end of his shift, around 10 p.m., and the jobs available had dried up. He decided to go home, seeing as though my mother and I were waiting up for him so we could have dinner together. It was on his way home that a notification popped up on his meter for a job, and it wasn't too far from home, so he figured he would complete the short trip and come straight home. It was a relatively straightforward trip, a ten-minute journey from a club to a residential block of flats.

He quickly drove to the pickup location, which was quite populated. He messaged the passenger that he had arrived and waited. The passengers said that they were walking to the car. He scanned the crowd of partygoers lined up outside the club, and the stragglers waiting on the curb. He couldn't see anyone walking towards him. Then suddenly he saw her. A long-haired young woman dressed in a long black dress and healed boots.

Her hair partially covered her face, masking her eyes and part of her mouth. My dad felt uneasy, and she had not come from the club. Instead, she had come from an adjacent alleyway across from it. As far as he knew, that alleyway led nowhere. It was a dead end, so he couldn't figure out where she could have come from. There were various clubs lining the busy street, and she didn't come from any of them. Despite this, she waved at him and walked over to the taxi.

My dad said as soon as she opened the door, he felt a cold chill run up his spine. It just felt wrong to be in the presence of this woman. He tried to play it cool. After all, this was his last job, and he was going home right after. He began to drive to the destination, and she didn't say anything. Instead, she appeared to be picking at the skin of her palm. Halfway through the taxi ride, she spoke for the first time. She had this high-pitched, eerily childlike voice. Can you drop me off at a certain point, please? I couldn't get the location right on the app. My dad, still feeling uneasy, nodded and followed her

instructions, driving to a different part of town, more towards a set of shops. The closer they got to these shops, the more he felt dizzy, nausea gripping his body. He struggled to make it to the place she indicated. Once they arrived, he asked which shop she wanted to be dropped off at. The woman, still picking at her palm and avoiding eye contact, pointed to the furthest shop at the end of the street. He drove there slowly, trying not to throw up. The car, he told me later, he told me later, began to smell like burning the closer they got. Eventually he couldn't stand it anymore. He told her that he was dropping her off there and she could walk the rest of the way. Despite him being quite blunt, she was fine with it, thanking him and leaving the taxi. She did do one thing, however. When she said

thank you, she gripped his shoulder. Her hand was stone cold and her nails dug into his skin slightly. My dad felt the worst at this point. He described it as worse than simply feeling nauseous. It was more like something inside him was trying to claw itself out of his throat. His hackles were raised, but when the woman left the taxi at last, the feelings stopped altogether. His shoulders, previously raised to his ears, lowered, and his car began to smell normal again. He panicked, however, when he looked at the shop she wanted to go to. He realized something she said earlier, that she lived in a flat above the shop. My dad turned completely cold as he looked at the aforementioned shop,

and saw that there was no first floor. It was a ground floor shop. In fact, none of the shops on that street had a second floor. All of them were ground floors. He immediately drove home in a panic, shouting like mad as he entered the house. My mother and I tried to calm him, but he was convinced he had met something supernatural that night, something evil. Thankfully, he left the taxi trade.

He now works a less stressful job. To all the taxi drivers out there, I hope you're wary of the last customer you take, because they may not be human. It was the kind of night that made you believe in ghosts. Stars barely twinkled in the dark sky, and the moon was just a thin crescent, hardly shedding any light on the road ahead. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a state trooper's SUV,

my heart thumping with excitement and a bit of fear. The trooper beside me was Mr. Joe, a tall man with deep wrinkles etched across his face, telling the tales of his many years on the job. He was close to retirement and had plenty of stories to chill your bones. Mr. Joe was Navajo and had spent the first part of his career working on the reservation. He knew the land like the back of his hand and had an eerie calmness about him that made everything seem more intense. Tonight, he decided to show me a place that wasn't on the usual. patrol route, a deserted gas station miles away from the nearest town. Places like these,

he said, his voice deep and gravelly, keep some secrets hidden in the shadows. As we drove into the canyon, the only sounds were the gravel crunching under the tires and the occasional howl of the wind. The road was narrow and twisted through the dark like a snake. My imagination started to run wild, filling the darkness with all kinds of spooky creatures. We're here to make sure no one's using the old station as a hideout, Mr. Joe explained. The dashboard lights cast eerie shadows across his face as he spoke. Sometimes people think they can escape notice out here, but they forget that the desert sees everything.

When we reached the top of a hill overlooking the gas station, Mr. Joe stopped the car. He pointed down at the small, shadowy building. It looked spooky, like the kind of place you'd see in a horror movie. Just then, I noticed something or someone standing behind the station. It was a figure dressed all in black. Look there, I whispered, nudging Mr. Joe. He saw it too.

Let's see what that's about, he said, his voice calm but curious. He called it into dispatch, then steered the SUV down the steep road leading to the station. As we got closer, the figure started walking away. It was tall and moved smoothly, almost gliding. Mr. Joe parked the car, and we both got out. Stay behind me, he instructed firmly. He called out to the figure, police, stop right there. But the figure kept moving.

Mr. Joe started to follow, and I trailed a few steps behind him, my heart racing. Suddenly, the figure stopped. It turned around slowly, and I could hardly breathe. Its head spun right around like an owl's. but its body didn't move. The face was hidden in the darkness, but I could see a grin stretching from ear to ear, and eyes that were white and shining.

It was terrifying. Mr. Joe stumbled back and I heard him gasp. I was frozen in place, my shoes glued to the dusty ground. Then, just like that, the figure was gone. It vanished into the night, leaving nothing but a chilling silence and a story that I knew I'd never forget. We stood there for a moment.

the cold desert air whipping around us. Let's head back, Mr. Joe finally said, his voice a little shaky. As we climbed back into the SUV, I knew this was just the beginning of the night's mysteries. Mr. Joe had more tales to tell, and I was both scared and eager to hear them, but nothing could compare to what we had just seen at that lonely gas station in the canyon. That night, as Mr. Joe and I were driving back from the gas station, His radio crackled to life. We've got a report of trouble at a small village.

About four hours east, the dispatcher's voice echoed through the SUV. Mr. Joe looked at me with a serious gaze. Ready for another adventure? he asked. I nodded, even though my heart was still racing from our last encounter. We drove through the night. The landscape around us bathed in the light of a nearly full moon. The stars seemed to watch over us as we made our way to the village. Mr. Joe told me stories about the area, about the people who lived there,

and how sometimes the old ways in the new world didn't always agree. As we approached the village, Mr. Joe slowed the car. Over there, he pointed to a red rock cliff about a hundred yards from the village. That's where our troublemaker was last seen. According to the locals, a man dressed in traditional clothing had been riding a horse along the ridge, firing shots at random. But by the time we arrived, he had vanished. We need to track him, Mr. Joe said as he grabbed his backpack and rifle.

I followed him, trying to keep up as he expertly followed the faint hoofprints in the moonlit dirt. The trail led us away from the village, towards a large Joshua tree standing alone in the distance. It's too quiet, Mr. Joe whispered, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. We continued in silence. The only sounds are footsteps and the occasional distant howl of a coyote. Finally, we reached the Joshua tree. From a distance, Mr. Joe used his binoculars. There's someone there, he said, his voice tense.

I tried to see, but it was too dark. As we got closer, the figure under the tree became clearer. It was a man, standing still as stone. Mr. Joe signaled for me to stay back as he approached the figure. You're surrounded, it's time to give up, he called out. There was no response. Minutes stretched like hours as we waited in the moonlight. Finally, Mr. Joe moved closer.

What happened next seemed like something out of a ghost story. The man under the tree didn't run or shout. He didn't do anything. Because he couldn't. As Mr. Joe reached him, it became clear that the man was not a threat. He was a mystery. He had been dead for days, propped up against the tree as if he was still watching over the desert.

Mr. Joe checked the area, but the horse was nowhere to be seen. This doesn't make any sense, he muttered, puzzled and a bit disturbed. As we walked back to the village, Mr. Joe was quiet, lost in thought. He wondered aloud if what we were chasing was ever really there, or if some spirit of the desert was leading us to find this forgotten soul. That night, under the bright moon and the watchful eyes of the Joshua tree, I learned that some mysteries weren't meant to be solved. They were just part of the vast, whispered legends of the desert,

where the past never truly leaves. After leaving the mysterious village, Mr. Joe and I didn't talk much. The sight of the dead man under the Joshua tree had left us both with more questions than answers, but the night wasn't over yet. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, another call came through on the radio. This time it was closer,

gas station robbery on the reservation. Mr. Joe looked at me, his eyes tired but determined. Let's see what this is about, he said, steering the SUV toward our new destination. The drive felt shorter this time, maybe because I was beginning to get used to the unexpected turns of the night. When we arrived at the gas station, the scene was chaotic. Police lights flashed, casting long shadows across the ground. People were gathered around, their faces anxious and scared. Mr. Joe parked the SUV, and we quickly got out. He led the way as we approached a small crowd in the parking lot.

A man lay on the ground, not moving, surrounded by a few locals trying to help him. I heard someone say the gas station attendant had shot the man after he tried to rob the place. The attendant stood nearby, his hands shaking, a look of shock frozen on his face. As we got closer, something strange happened. Just as we reached the crowd, I saw it, something dark and shadowy rising from the body on the ground. It looked like a person getting up, but it was all black and misty, like smoke. Before I could even blink, the shadow darted away, moving impossibly fast. It ran along the wall of the gas station, then disappeared into the night.

Mr. Joe saw it too. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth open in a mix of surprise and recognition. Did you see that? he asked me quietly. I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the spot where the shadow had vanished. The crowd was too busy with the injured man to notice what Mr. Joe and I had seen. Medical responders arrived, pushing through to take over. They pronounced the man dead and started asking questions. Meanwhile, Mr. Joe pulled me aside. That was a spirit, an evil one I'd bet, he said, his voice low. Sometimes, when someone does bad things, their spirit gets twisted.

When they die, it leaves their body like that, looking for somewhere else to go. I looked back at the crowd, then at the dark corners of the parking lot, half expecting to see the shadow again, but there was nothing. Just the flickering lights and the murmur of voices. As we drove back, Mr. Joe talked more about what we had seen. He believed that not all spirits were bad, but the ones that the ones that they were the ones that that haunted places of violence, like that gas station, often were. It's part of the job seeing things most people never do, he said,

glancing at me to see how I was taking it all in. By the time he dropped me off at home, the sky was starting to lighten, the first hints of dawn peeking over the horizon. I thanked him for the ride-along, my mind racing with everything I'd witnessed. That night, I learned that the world was bigger and more mysterious than I'd ever imagined. filled with shadows and spirits that most people only ever heard about in stories. And as I crawled into bed, I wondered about the dark shadow, where it might have gone, and what other secrets the night might hold.

When I was younger, around 12 years old, my parents booked a four-night stay at a log cabin somewhere in California with my grandma. The events that occurred scarred me for life. I felt the crisp air on my face as I opened the car door, looked at the woods around me, and started towards the cabin door. My mother called after me, Ed, sweetie, why don't you go up to your room and unpack? When I opened the cabin door,

I was surprised at the sudden creek it made. Just inside was a large space with a sofa parked in front of a flat screen TV and a kitchen attached to the living room with a counter lined with bar stools. I walked up the stairs, past the bathroom down the hallway, and entered the room I was supposed to be staying in.

I screamed because there, right in the middle of the floor was a dead rat. It looked like something had been gnawing on it. Its insides had been smeared all over. I bolted down the stairs, seeing my dad wheeling my grandma's wheelchair into the cabin. Dad, there's a dead rat in my room! I practically screamed. You're old enough, why don't you just go clean it up? He replied. I did just that. I ended up using an entire paper towel roll and a can of Lysol to clean that thing up. It was around 6 p.m. when my mom made some mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs, my favorite at the time. I was walking to the couch where grandma was sitting with my bowl when I noticed

something. There was a trap door in the middle of the room. Mom, what's this door doing here? I asked. Probably access to the crawl space. They used to keep floods from coming into the cabin, she explained. I sat down on the the couch and turned on the TV, satisfied with that answer. I vividly remember how much I liked the food that night. It was great. Before long, it was time for bed. My dad had told me in the car how much fishing and kayaking we were going to do, and I was super excited. I got into my bed and fell asleep fast. The warm covers made it that much easier. Around midnight, I think, I woke up to the sound of shuffling. I stepped out of my room, leaving the door.

slightly ajar, as I peered into the dusty hall, I noticed nothing but the moonlit shadows dancing on the wall. The shuffling sound continued as I crept down the stairs leading to the living room. I placed my ear to the floor, and just as I suspected, these sounds were coming from under the floorboards. Dread washed over me, as the fear of something scurrying around under there hit me. Being the idiot I was, I thought I could take whatever was down there, so I grabbed my flashlight, and decided to go find it. I opened up the trap door, maybe a dozen rats scattered

as I climbed down into the cold, damp space. It was huge, reminding me disturbingly of a maze. I crawled deeper. I can't tell if I was being really brave, or really stupid, but I crawled until I reached a dimly lit corner about ten feet in front of me.

Suddenly, there was movement, and I shone my flashlight at the source. There was a figure, a silhouette with long arm, and pale skin hunched down in the corner. Its eyes reflected white off my flashlight. I was completely stunned as the thing started to screech. Looking back, I noticed the flashlight probably hurt its eyes and startled it. You better believe I turned myself right around and began to speed crawl as fast as I could. I glanced back at one point, only once, to see that

thing following me and quickly wrapping long fingers around these support beams to help it along. I could only assume that this thing had been feeding off the rats, and that I had found its leftovers in my room. If it could do something like that to a rat, I was terrified at the thought of what it could do to me. I was beginning to think I was lost, with how long it was taking me to get back to the trap door, and with every foot I moved, that thing was gaining on me. I thought all hope was lost until I finally saw the trap door coming up.

As soon as I reached it, I tackled it open and scrambling. I stumbled out. I felt something beginning to grab at me, and I swear I felt hot breath. I kicked and slammed the trap door closed. Something began to claw and push at it on the other side, so I threw my body on top of the door. After a while, the thrashing and struggling stopped. I then bolted upstairs to my parents' room and began to bang on the door, screaming. My father, groggy, opened the door, asking what in the world I was doing. I tried to explain, Dad, we have to go.

There's something trying to get in the house, but he didn't believe me. I tried to explain that it wasn't a nightmare, but my efforts were pointless. I was sent to my bedroom, where I did not sleep a wink. I was too scared. The following morning,

I ate my breakfast and went out onto the lake with my dad. He got the fishing rod set up, and we got on this little boat. I didn't catch any fish, but I was still able to enjoy spending time with my father, anything to get my mind off of last night's events. Eventually, Dawn turned to dusk, and we roasted up some marshmallows, an activity both grandma and mom loved.

They used to go camping when my mother was younger. The s'mores I made were delicious, perfectly gooey. It was finally bedtime again, but I was terrified of the thought of that creature trying to hurt my family. I didn't think I could sleep that night, but somehow, some way, I was able to doze off. I awoke at some point hearing the unmistakable sound of the trap door creaking open. My heart sank into my chest as a sense of dread like no other hit me. Right then, I heard the sound of cupboards in the kitchen slamming open and shut. I wondered if it was that thing looking for me.

I started to hyperventilate as I heard the steps creaking. Was my door locked? Could it even open doors? Then again, it had opened the trap door. Hundreds of questions went through my mind, but to know, no avail. I had zero answers. I heard scratching sounds coming from the hallway. Then the doorknob jiggled, and I held my breath. Suddenly, everything stopped as I heard another door opening. My dad then shouted, get on out of here. Then there was this awful, ear-splitting screech and

shattering glass. I bolted to my door and saw my dad standing just outside his doorway with his fishing knife. I looked to my right. There was a trail of blood leading to a broken window. That same night, we packed our things and left the cabin without a word. My family has not been anywhere near the woods since. Keep safe as best you can, everyone. If you hear strange noises at a new place, don't hesitate to run or to call the police. You never know what lies near you, or rather, beneath you. The day had a certain clarity to it, the kind you only get in the mountains of Wyoming,

where the sky stretches unimpeded and the air bites with the clean, sharp tang of pine. I was practically vibrating in the passenger seat of Mom's boyfriend's old Chevy pickup, the suspension groaning under the weight of our weekend gear. My best friend Nick was next to me, both of us chattering about the latest call-of-duty levels we'd conquered and the epic weekend that lay ahead. Gary, Mom's boyfriend, was at the wheel, his eyes hidden behind Aviator sunglasses, and Mom hummed along to some old country tune on the radio. The cabin we were headed to was one of the men.

those old-time family heirlooms, passed down through Gary's family for generations, nestled deep in the Big Horn Mountains. As the truck climbed the winding mountain roads, the dense forests of Aspen and Spruce gave way occasionally to breathtaking vistas, vast valleys and rugged peaks that looked like they'd been ripped straight out of a western. When we finally rattled up the gravel drive to the cabin, it stood there like a steadfast sentinel against the wilderness. Its log walls were weathered a soft gray and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. It was the first real chill of early fall, and the promise of a roaring fire and smores was just about the best thing I could imagine. After unloading, Nick and I wasted no time.

We grabbed our four-wheelers from the back of the truck, old battered things, but they ran well enough after Gary gave them a cursory once over. We tore through the trails surrounding the cabin. the engines growling beneath us as we kicked up clouds of dust and leaves in our wake. The air was a mix of earthy decay and cold, an invigorating rush that only served to amplify our excitement. Later, as dusk began to settle, the four of us gathered around the fire pit near the cabin. Gary proved a master at getting a fire going, and soon enough we were roasting hot dogs on sticks, the flames dancing reflections in our wide eyes. The smores were messy affairs.

chocolate and marshmallow sticking to our fingers, the laughter and stories flowing as freely as the creek nearby. The evening wound down quietly. Nick and I lay back in the grass, watching the stars emerge like shy sparks against the darkening blue. The Milky Way was a dusty trail across the sky, and I tried to point out constellations, making up half of them as I went. Nick laughed, calling my bluff, but he played along, suggesting even more outrageous shapes and tales of mythical beasts. As the night drew in, the temperature dropped, and the adults called us inside. The cabin was warm and inviting, the fire in the large stone fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the wooden floors. Upstairs, the open sleeping loft housed several beds, all lined up

under a roof of rough-hewn beams. Nick and I claimed beds by the window, the better to hear the whisper of the wind through the trees as we drifted off. I remember thinking, as I lay there wrapped in the warmth of a heavy quilt, how perfect everything felt. The troubles of school, and the usual dramas, seemed a million miles away. Little did I know, as sleep crept over me and the fire died to embers, that the peace of this first day was just the calm before a storm, a storm that would shake the foundations of what I thought I knew about the wild, and about fear itself.

The sun was already tipping behind the jagged teeth of the big horns by the time, we set out the next day. Mom, always protective, had shoot us outside after lunch, her hands shewing us away as if we were pesky crows at a picnic. Go on, get some fresh air, she insisted, smiling but stern. Gary was busy with some minor repairs around the cabin, the clink of his tools a steady rhythm in the background. Nick and I wandered without real aim, sticks in our hands, carving paths through the underbrush and deep into the woods. We played our usual games, reenacting our favorite video game scenarios, dodging imaginary grenades, and diving for cover behind boulders and trees. It might have looked silly to an outsider, but for us, it was the kind of

freedom only wide-open spaces could offer. As the light began to wane, I remembered the old treehouse. It wasn't much, just a triangular platform nestled among the arms. of three stout trees, about ten feet off the ground. It had been there since Gary was a kid, he'd told us, built by his father as a lookout and a place to dream about futures as boundless as the Wyoming skies. Hey, check out the treehouse, I said to Nick, a grin spreading across my face. He nodded, excitement lighting up his eyes as we made our way through the thickening shadows to the old structure. The makeshift ladder creaked under our weight as we climbed. but it held firm. We settled onto the platform, our legs swinging freely, the rough bark of the trees

a solid presence at our backs. We talked about everything and nothing, girls we liked, movies we wanted to see, the kind of idle chat that filled the air with the easy comfort of friendship, but then the woods fell eerily silent. The usual chirps and whispers of the forest ceased, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world. Nick's face tensed, his eyes scanning, the dense foliage. Did you hear that? he whispered, his voice barely a breath. I strained my ears catching only the faintest rustling, like the soft tread of something large moving stealthily through the underbrush. A chill raced up my spine, instinctively understanding the silence meant danger, predator. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, and then we saw it, a figure,

massive and indistinct, hidden partly behind a tree not 50 feet from where we sat. Its eyes, seemed to catch the last dying rays of the sun, reflecting them back at us with an eerie glow. It was covered in fur, dark and matted, and stood unnaturally still. We have to go, I muttered, my mouth dry, my voice cracking with the onset of real fear. Nick nodded, and we scrambled down from the treehouse. Our movements hurried and clumsy with terror. The creature followed. I could hear it now, a heavy deliberate crunching as it moved through the dry leaves. We brought broke into a run, the cabin our only sanctuary. As we neared the clearing I dared a glance back. It was closer now, too close. I could see the details of its face, wild, almost human, but twisted,

malevolent. We burst into the cabin, slamming the door behind us, our breath's ragged sobs. Mom and Gary rushed over, their faces etched with concern. We tried to explain, tripping over our words, our eyes wild with fear. That night, after the adults had dismissed our story and returned to their card game, the scratching started. Soft at first, then insistent, I peered out from under my blanket, and by the faint light of the outside lamp, I saw it. A hand, human yet not, scraping slowly along the wooden railing of the deck. Sleep was impossible. The night was long, and every sound was a reminder of what lurked just beyond the walls of our supposed refuge. This is my only experience, and it happened during my freshman year of high school in 1983.

This story includes my friends, Jay and Des. I'm using their initials to protect their real names. It was Halloween night, and I was with my friends just finishing up our freshman football practice. The three of us were 13 or 14 at the time, typical North New Jersey suburban kids. That Halloween, we were a little old to dress up and trick or treat, but we still wanted the free candy, so we went up to some houses with our football jerseys on for candy. Jay lived with little adult supervision, had long hair, and girls loved him. He acted like he didn't care about anything in the world.

Des and I came from more typical suburban homes with rules and homework. Not that I did very well in school, though. Jay seemed much cooler than the two of us with his leather jacketons. and the fact that he was allowed to smoke in his house. I would say he was our leader. We all started getting into heavy metal around that time, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Ozzie, and Dio, and ate up the satanic references,

thinking that made us hardcore. We'd even spin Led Zeppelin albums backwards looking for satanic messages. 80s kids will understand this. Jay had made a metal cross in shop class and sometimes would wear it upside down, calling himself, Johnny Blade, after a Black Sabbath song. That night, after getting candy, we ended up at Dez's

house in his parents' room for some reason, and I can only say this because it was the only and last time I was ever in that room. The room was on the entry level of the house, off the living room of the Cape style home. We were going through our candy when the radio on the nightstand just turned on. We all laughed it off and went on with our business. Then, all of a sudden, the light of the light began to flicker. Jay took this as a sign, and with it being Halloween, he decided to bless the items with his crude shop-class cross. Now, Des and I were on the bed, and Jay went over to the clock with the cross upside down. I bless you in the name of, you know, I don't even want to say his name, 40 years later. Over to the light, the same thing. Then he noticed a crucifix over the

bedroom door and headed that way. He raised the cross, and as the word started to come out of his mouth, I swear I watched him lift off the ground three feet and be hurled onto the bed, a distance of over five feet onto me and Des. I was so scared I ran out into the hallway. The lights and radio were going crazy, and then I noticed it looked like Jay was swallowing his own tongue. Des was on top of him immediately with his fingers in his mouth, trying to prevent that from happening. But Jay continued to gag. I was petrified, inching my way back into the room. Dez's eyes were rolling over, the lights and radio still going insane. Then it all stopped a minute later.

Dez was trying to get Jay to explain what had just happened, and I was nervously going in and out of the room. We all ran out of the house then onto the front lawn. Jay didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. From the lawn, at the bedroom window, we could see the lights inside still going crazy and the radio going mad. Des was freaking out, as this was his parents' room, and he was probably worried about getting into trouble. After about ten minutes, everything seemed to settle down at last. Jay was shaken up, of course, and still mute. Maybe he was just shocked.

I mean, all of us were scared out of our minds. Des ended up having to call Jay's mom for him to pick him up. I always remember how frightened he looked getting into that car. He couldn't even make eye contact with us. That night I remember crying in my bed because I was too scared to fall asleep. Every little noise was terrifying. The next morning, I waited for Jay outside school. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it.

So, being the funny guy in our group, I asked him if he could light our football coach's car on fire or perform some other deed. He laughed, and that made us all feel better. Jay was thrown off the team a couple of weeks later for something I can't recall, and the three of us drifted apart as kids do, though Des and I did remain friendly, still ending up in different crowds by the end of high school. We never had a full debrief of that night. Des and I did tell some people the story, but most simply thought it was unbelievable, and since Jay pretended to be the Johnny Blade character, it sounded contrived.

So, I stopped sharing the story with people. I've told my wife and a few others over the years, and since then, nothing paranoid. has happened to me, not that I know of. I'm not sure this is even paranormal. Maybe it was more of a spiritual experience. I never thought inheriting Grammy's old house would feel so strange and spooky. It had been weeks since Grammy passed away, and everything still felt so fresh and painful. I missed her a lot. She used to tell the best stories about growing up in the mountains and the mysteries of the deep woods surrounding her home. My parents decided that since they already had their own place, I would be the one to inherit the family home in Appalachia.

It was an old creaky house that seemed to groan with every gust of wind, hidden away from the nearest town by a thick forest that always seemed to be whispering secrets. My sister, Ellie and I went there last weekend to start sorting through Grammy's stuff. It was a big task, but we thought it might help us feel closer to her, like she was still with us in some way. We laughed and cried as we went through her old photos and clothes, remembering all the times we had spent with her. On Sunday, as we were about to finish up for the day, I noticed a small door that led to the attic. I couldn't remember ever going up there.

It was dusty and filled with cobwebs, and we had to use our phone lights to see anything because the bulb in the attic was burnt out. Ellie and I coughed as the dust flew around, making us sneeze repeatedly. In the corner, under a dust, rusty tarp, I spotted something interesting, an old wooden chest. It looked really ancient, with carvings on the sides that were faded, and a rusty lock that was broken a long time ago.

We dragged it out into the middle of the attic, our curiosity growing by the second. Opening the chest was like opening a treasure box. Inside were stacks of leather-bound journals, each one meticulously dated from 1960 to just before the turn of the century. The handwriting was elegant and careful, clearly Grammys. I flipped through one, seeing dates and tiny drawings here and there. Look at this, Ellie, I said, my voice a mix of excitement and a bit of fear. Grammy never told us about these. Ellie peered over my shoulder.

Wow, she wrote a lot. What do you think is in them? I don't know, but I bet it's filled with stories. just like the ones she used to tell us, I replied. But as I began to read, I realized these weren't just any stories. They were more like diary entries, talking about her life here, and they weren't all happy. As the sun began to set outside, the wind picked up, and the old house started to make those creepy-creaking noises. Reading Grammy's words in that setting made it all feel so eerie.

She wrote about the people she met when they first moved here, how the land seemed steeped in stories and mysteries, and how the locals warned her about the woods. Never whistle after dark, one entry read, it invites attention from things best left alone. Chills ran down my spine as a gust of wind seemed to whistle past the window. Ellie and I exchanged nervous glances. Maybe we should continue this downstairs, I suggested, suddenly eager to be out of the dusty, dim attic. Yeah, let's go, Ellie agreed quickly, looking as spooked as I felt.

As we left the attic, I couldn't shake the feeling that Grammy's house was hiding more secrets than we knew, secrets that might be waiting to reach out from the pages of those journals. That night, after Ellie had gone home, I was alone in Grammy's house with only the old journals for company. I had decided to stay a few days to sort through more stuff, but now, I wasn't so sure it was a good idea. The house felt different at night, more alive and not in a good way. Every creek and groan seemed louder, and the wind whistling through the trees sounded almost like whispers. I curled up in an armchair with a blanket and a flashlight, opening another one of Grammy's journals.

The entries I read earlier had made me nervous, but now, in the quiet of the night, my curiosity was tinged with real fear. I couldn't help myself. I needed to know what Grammy had experienced in this old house. As I turned the pages, the stories grew stranger and scarier. Grammy wrote about seeing shadows in the forest that didn't belong to any animal she knew, and about the eerie glow of eyes watching from the darkness. She mentioned the local legends of spirits and creatures that roamed the woods. Legends I had always thought were just stories to scare kids.

One entry particularly stood out. It was from a cold October night in, In 1961, Grammy had heard a haunting whistle from the direction of the woods, just as dusk fell. She wrote about feeling a chill run down her spine and rushing inside to lock the door. From her window, she had seen a figure standing at the forest's edge. It looked like a man, but its limbs were too long, and its eyes glowed with a strange light. Grammy wrote that it stood there watching the house for hours before it finally vanished into the shadows. Reading this, I glanced up nervously at the windows, half expecting to see glowing

eyes staring back at me. I shivered and read on. Grammy had felt something evil that night, something that didn't belong in our world. After that, she never looked at the forest the same way again. I heard a noise and jumped, my heart pounding. It was just the house settling, or so I told myself. But Grammy's words made it hard to shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she had been telling the truth. The more I read, the more I felt the weight of Grammy's fear. She wrote about whispers in the wind that sounded almost like words, about how the forest grew silent when it should have been filled with the sounds of nocturnal creatures. It was as if the woods themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something bad to happen. As I read the last entry for the

night, Grammy described a feeling of being watched, of an unseen presence lingering just out of sight. That night, she had barely slept, listening to the sounds of something circling the house, its footsteps barely audible over the howling wind. I closed the journal, my hands trembling. The wind outside picked up, and somewhere in the distance I thought I heard a faint whistle. I froze, listening hard, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. I told myself it was just the wind. It had to be. But as I lay in bed later, wrapped tightly in my blanket, I couldn't shake the feeling that Grammy's stories were more than just old tales. They were warnings, and I was beginning to think I should have listened. I barely slept that night. Every little sound made me jump, and the wind's whistle sounded like a haunting call, just like Grammy described in her journals. By morning, I was exhausted, but determined. I had to understand what was happening, if these stories were real, or just the wild imaginations of an old woman who loved to tell tales.

After a quick breakfast, I went back to the journals. I was drawn to the last ones Grammy wrote. They were filled with entries from around the time she stopped writing. The dates were close to the new millennium, and Grammy's handwriting seemed shakier, rushed. In these journals, Grammy talked about the night Uncle Bill disappeared. He'd heard Ma's voice calling him into the woods, a voice he followed despite knowing she had passed away years ago. The search party found only his hat, torn and stained, but Uncle Bill was never seen again.

Grammy wrote that the woods lured him away with a voice that mimicked their mother, a tactic used by whatever spirits haunted their land. Reading this, my heart ached for Grammy. She'd lost so much, and here I was, in her house, possibly facing her. the same dangers. She wrote that after Uncle Bill's disappearance, the air felt charged, heavy with a sense of impending doom. The night seemed to press against the windows, trying to get inside. I couldn't stay inside any longer. I needed to see the woods for myself. Maybe it was foolish, but I had to know. I put on my coat and stepped outside, the cold air biting at my

cheeks. The forest was eerily quiet as I approached, the trees standing like silent sentinels. I walked to the edge of the woods, where Grammy had seen the figure with the glowing eyes. The ground was covered in a thin layer of snow, and my footsteps were the only sound. I stood there, listening, waiting. Suddenly a chill went down my spine. I thought I heard a whisper, a faint call in my grandmother's voice. My heart raced. Was I imagining it? Or was the forest really calling to me? I remembered Grammy's warnings in the journals. With every fiber of my being screaming to run, I took a step back toward the house. As I turned, I thought I saw a shadow move between the trees. I didn't wait to see more. I ran back to the house locking the door behind me. Back inside,

I was shaking. The stories were real, or at least they felt real. I couldn't stay here, not with the history this place carried. But as I packed my things, I realized something. These stories, these warnings, they were part of my family's legacy. Running away wouldn't change that. I made a decision. I would leave, but I would come back. I needed to learn more, to understand what haunted this place and how to protect myself and my family.

Grammy had faced these spirits alone, but I wouldn't have to. I could seek help, maybe find others who knew about these things. As I drove away from the house, I looked back at the forest. It no longer seemed just a part of the landscape. It was a part of my history, a chapter of my life I was just beginning to understand. I wasn't running away forever. I was going to find answers, and one day, I'd return, ready to face whatever waited in the shadows. I am a 32-year-old woman living in a beach town in Southern California.

I share a two-bedroom apartment with a roommate and her cat. Our town has a beach on one side and small mountains on the other, along with several river bottoms. We are located in the middle of town, just off a busy street, behind a seedy motel. This motel is rumored to have been a stopping point for a serial killer in the 80s, who apparently like to keep cut up body parts in the bathtub. Between the motel and our apartment, there is an abandoned, chained-up lot which we affectionately refer to as murder lot. It is overgrown with large bushes and a few small trees, providing a perfect hiding spot for many critters, and even the occasional vagabond, without anyone knowing.

There is also a narrow walkway leading from the lot, winding between our building and the one behind us, passing by our bathroom window, which is about six and a half feet off the ground. Although it's too high for anyone to see into from one side or the other, I always get an extremely uneasy feeling every time I pass by murder lot, especially at night. I'm not much of a cannabis user, but I once accepted a gummy from my roommate when my body was extremely sore after a long weekend. That night, I dreamed of a skin walker stalking me. I woke up the next day with my heart pounding, but I told myself it had to have been a result of the THC in my system. After that, I didn't dream about skin walkers again. One night, when my roommate,

was out of town, her cat slept in my room with me. We were both startled awake around 4 a.m. by a loud beep, beep, beep, which sounded like a smoke detector. As I sat up, hot and sweaty, the sound led me to believe that our building was on fire. However, by then the smoke detector had stopped going off. I got up to check things out, expecting to see flames or smell smoke, but when I walked into the living room and looked out the window, I saw nothing. Well, nothing except a pure white cat, statue still, gazing directly into murder lot. Something about it made me freeze. I stared at that cat for a while, neither of us moving. Eventually, my roommate's cat approached me, exposing his belly at my feet. I looked down briefly to pet him, and when I looked back up,

the white cat was gone. I stared out the window a little while longer. waiting for the cat to return, but it didn't. After I determined that our building was not on fire, I went back to bed. I had woken up hot and sweaty before, right? But now I could not seem to get warm enough. The rest of the night, that didn't really make sense to me. The whole next day, I had a weird, uneasy feeling. I haven't heard any phantom smoke alarms or seen any strange cats again, but I have since noticed the fence being bent towards the ground enough for a cat or a very skinny person to crawl under. About a month later, around 8.30 p.m., I let my roommate know I would be taking a shower in case she needed to use the bathroom before I occupied it. I did, however,

leave the bathroom door unlocked in case the cat needed to use his litter box in there. I was washing my hair when I heard a knock that I thought was coming from the bathroom door. I pulled the shower curtain back and called out, What's up? It's me. I heard an odd version of my roommate's voice but didn't think much of it. We often use silly voices when communicating. Thinking the cat must have needed to come in, I opened the bathroom door, expecting to see the cat, but instead, I saw nothing. I stood there for a moment in the steamy bathroom, wondering what had just happened. I closed the bathroom door, my mind and heart still racing. What in the world was that? When I came out, I asked my roommate

if she had knocked. She said no. I believed her. She was sitting exactly as she was before I left the room. I went to sleep that night feeling weird and woke up the next day feeling horrified, realizing the knock very well could have come from the bathroom window, not the door. The next and final incident happened some weeks after that, which was only about two weeks ago. Just as I was lying down to go to sleep one night, I heard distressed shouting coming from an indiscernible distance from my window. Help me. Someone. Please help me. The voice sounded not quite right. I listened for a while, and the words played on repeat until it sounded like he was right at my street corner. I looked out the window and saw nothing, but the noise continued. Neighbors even came out of their houses to investigate

the sound. I called 911 to report a man in distress, and I waited. Eventually, the neighbors went back inside, but I kept watching. After a while, I did see something, or someone, whatever it was. It crossed under a street lamp in the far distance. I don't know if they were limping or not, but the movements were quite strange. They were too far away for me to make out any features, including their height. That was it for me. I decided I had done my civic duty enough for one night, so I turned out my light and did my best to go to sleep while still keeping my ears open for anything strange. Ever since then, I haven't seen or heard anything,

but the thought of those three incidents still causes anxiety and a pit in my stomach. I keep telling myself there's no way there's anything like a skinwalker in my sleepy beach town, but there's a small part of me that wonders if there could be. I never put much stock in the old sayings about things hiding in plain sight until the night I started my new job at the local museum.

The ad in the local paper was succinct, almost stark, Wanted, nighttime security guard. Nothing more than that and a phone number. For a town barely noticeable on a map, having a museum always seemed a bit out of place, a quirk in the landscape of our otherwise unremarkable existence. I'd driven past that museum countless times, never giving it much more than a curious glance.

It was an impressive structure, out of sync with the small-town vibe, grand, old, and as I was soon to find out, filled with secrets as dark as its unlit hallways at night. The man on the phone had a voice that crackled with too much enthusiasm for a simple security job. Come down this evening for your interview, he'd said, as if offering me a golden ticket. His eagerness should have been my first warning, but with bills piling up and job options scarce, I didn't dwell on it. Walking up to the museum for my so-called interview felt like stepping onto the set of a film,

only the genre wasn't clear yet. Thriller, horror. The wide stone steps, built for crowds that never seemed to visit, led up to towering double doors flanked by stone gargoyles that watched me with silent judging eyes. The whole scene was eerily quiet, except for the wind whispering through the columns, carrying with it a promise of the unusual.

The door swung open with a silence that was somehow louder than any creek could have been. inside the grandeur of the museum struck me, a stark contrast to the ghost town vibe outside, vaulted ceilings, intricate murals, and an air of neglected beauty. It was breathtaking and given the emptiness, a bit heart-rending. The curator was waiting for me just beyond the foyer,

a slight man with sharp features and an air of authority that seemed disproportionate to his frame. Mr. Welton, I presume, he greeted, his smile warm but his eyes, eyes calculating. Yes, sir, I responded, extending my hand out of habit. He looked at it as though it were an artifact from another era, amusing yet obsolete. Right then, follow me, and I'll show you your duties, he said, turning briskly on his heels. His movements were fluid, almost unnaturally so. I followed, feeling the weight of the silent exhibits around us. As we passed a series of hauntingly

lifelike portraits, he led me to a small, sparsely furnished office. You'll be in charge of checking the doors so nothing gets in or out, he explained. His use of the word nothing, instead of no one, sent a chill down my spine. The job was starting to feel less like a position, and more like a posting. You mean to prevent theft? I ventured, trying to find solid ground in what was increasingly feeling like a narrative I hadn't agreed to. Yes, he said slowly, almost thoughtfully, theft. With a few more cryptic instructions and appointed, let's see how your first night goes. He left me with a list of rules. The paper felt heavy in my hands, the ink darker than necessary. As I read through the bizarre list, rule number one,

there are no rules. I couldn't shake the feeling that I just stepped into a much larger story, one that had been waiting for me all along. As the door clicked shut behind him, the silence enveloped me. The museum, with all its artifacts and shadows, seemed to lean in, watching, as I stood alone at the threshold of the unknown. The first few moments alone in the museum were heavy with an eerie stillness,

like the calm before a storm. With only the echo of my footsteps for company, I unfolded the paper with the rules again. The words, their watching, were hidden among the odd capitalizations, casting an unnerving paw over my start. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, and decided to begin my rounds. The first room was just off the main hall, a gallery of sorts,

filled with sculptures that seemed almost too lifelike in the dim overhead lights. Every shadow seemed to flicker, suggesting movement where there was none, or so I hoped. Moving through the corridors, the air grew inexplicably colder. My breath fogged in front of me, and I rubbed my arms for warmth, regretting the thinness of my jacket. It was then that I first felt it, a presence, as tangible as another person in the room. But when I turned, there was nothing but the lingering echo of my own movements.

Pressing on, I entered what I'd later call the cryptid room. The door shut behind me with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence. The room was filled with figures, a bigfoot, a Jersey devil, a Wendigo, all the stuff of Camp Fire Horror Stories, arranged like a twisted wax museum. My flashlight beam danced across their two realistic faces, and for a horrifying second, I saw the Wendigo's head turn to follow the light. A slip of paper was taped to the door.

The only way out is through. Taking a shuddering breath, I moved forward, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground. My heart pounded loud enough to drown out the silent prayers, filling from my lips. The room seemed endless, and the more I walked, the more I felt eyes on me, watching, waiting. A low growl echoed behind me, and I resisted the urge to run. The rules were clear, no noise, no sudden movements. Eventually, I reached the door on the other side, my hands shaking as I turned the knob. The next challenge was a pitch-black room, the darkness absolute, swallowing the weak beam of my flashlight as if it were nothing.

A rustle, the slight hint of movement, and I knew I wasn't alone. Something large moved in the shadows, its presence suggested by a faint hissing sound and the displacement of air. I dropped to the floor, remembering the rule, do not move. The snake, its presence now unmistakable, slithered past, its scales brushing against my outstretched leg. I froze, barely breathing. waiting for it to pass. The minutes stretched into eternity until the room fell silent again.

Scrambling to my feet, I tossed the flashlight ahead of me, using its light to guide my crawling escape. The door at the end of the room seemed miles away, but I reached it, my hands trembling as I pushed it open, expecting another round of horrors. But the nightmare wasn't over. The next room mimicked the sky, walls, floor and ceiling painted in brilliant blues and whites, creating the illusion of walking on clouds. It was disorienting, the beauty of it stark against the terror I felt. Then the scream shattered the illusion, a sound so primal and terrifying it froze me in my tracks. I didn't see it at first, but the shadow grew, a massive bird of prey, diving towards me with claws outstretched. I threw myself to the ground, rolling to avoid its talons, my heart hammering

against the floor. The room spun, the painted cloud swirling around me as I crawled toward the door, the creature's screeches echoing in my ears. Bursting through the exit, I slammed the door shut, my whole body shaking with adrenaline and fear. The hall outside was quiet, too quiet, as if the museum itself held its breath. I leaned against the wall. wall, trying to calm my racing heart, knowing the night was far from over. Each step felt heavier, each shadow deeper, and the unknown horrors of the museum loomed larger with every passing moment. As the first rays of dawn crept through the museum's tall windows, they did little to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I leaned against the cool marble of the hallway, every muscle

in my body aching from the tension of the night. The silence of the morning was a stark, contrast to the chaos that had enveloped the darkness hours before. I was alive somehow, despite everything. The curator found me there, his slight figure emerging almost soundlessly from the shadows, as the building itself seemed to exhale the night's terrors with the coming light. I see you managed to make it through, he said, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as if he'd been privy to my every frightful encounter. Congratulations, you're the first one in some time, he continued, handing me an envelope thick with bills, the agreed upon amount for surviving the night. His casual dismissal of what I just endured felt almost like an insult, or worse,

a warning. Would you be interested in staying on and being my permanent nighttime guard? he asked, doubling the offer as if money could erase the horrors etched into my mind. I weighed the envelope in my hand, feeling the paper's crispness, a stark reminder of reality against the surreal terror of the museum's challenges. The money was good, better than anything I'd find in this forgotten town, but was it worth the dread that now clawed at my insides? I'd have to think about it, I managed to say, my voice hoarse from the night's silent screams. The mention of the basement by the curator suggested as an even greater challenge, did nothing to sway me. It hung in the air between us, a veiled threat or perhaps a morbid invitation.

He nodded, accepting my hesitation with a grace that felt as rehearsed as everything else in that museum. Very well. You can see yourself out. I recommend getting that back tended to, he added, his eyes flicking to the scratches that the eagle's talons had left on me, before he disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Standing in the now-quiet museum, the envelope of cash in hand, I felt a tug of war within me. The money was a siren call, but the night's echo. were a chilling deterrent. With a deep, weary sigh, I made my way to the front doors, the weight of decision heavy on my shoulders. As I pushed the heavy doors open, the morning air hit me with a clarity that sharpened my resolve. The museum behind me felt like a chapter I needed

to close, no matter how enticing the curator's offer was. The daylight robbed the building of its nocturnal menace, rendering it almost ordinary, but I knew better. I paused, glancing back once at the deceptive calm of the museum's facade. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a shadow move, a reminder or perhaps a warning. Shaking off the chill that raced up my spine, I turned away, my decision firm. The walk home was a mix of relief and introspection, the morning light slowly dispelling the night's darker thoughts. As I pondered my next steps, away from the dangers of the museum, I realized that some doors once opened asked too much of us to ever. be worth the crossing. A little background before we begin, everyone says the same thing. I'm an avid

outdoorsman. I hunt, fish, camp, hike, and kayak. My buddy is not an outdoorsman. He goes party camping with me, and that's about it. We have never experienced anything like what I'm about to tell you. This happened in 2018, the day before we were camping at a lake in the Nicolet National Forest in northern Wisconsin. The trees were changing color at the time, and the leaves were starting to fall. It was freezing at night, being October. My buddy got cold quickly and drove around in the mornings to warm up. We would go into town to get gas and supplies, mainly beer. There needed to be more to do at our campground, and with no hiking or activities, day drinking was kind of what we relied on, listening to music and talking about party camping.

The next day was going to be an overcast rainy day, so we decided to spend it by driving around, looking at other campgrounds, and scouting them out for other trips. We partied that night and went to bed late. Everything was normal. We heard wolves, owls, loons, and all the other good stuff. But after a while we heard nothing. Just pure, quiet.

It was peaceful. It started raining early the next day. day, just a drizzle at first, but enough to make camping a pain. We got up late, hung over, and cold. We dressed in our hiking gear and jumped in the car to get warm. We left the lake campsite a little afternoon to check out the other campgrounds. It was about five miles to the next one, and basically on the highway without privacy. We would generally check them out, but it started raining very hard. We stayed in the car, marking down the campsites we liked, and the ones we didn't. This one we didn't particularly like. Now the thing about this national forest is there

are campsites and campgrounds spread out absolutely everywhere. They need to be connected in some sort of way, so you have to get on the highway, find a little sign that says campsites this way, and then drive down a dirt road for 10 to 15 minutes to find them. We made it to about 8 before 5 o'clock. We were at the entrance of what was going to be our last one for the day. It said the road was 15,000. It said the road was 15 miles. I went slowly, not trying to kick too many rocks up into my car. The road was honestly pretty eerie. The trees made the street look like we were going down a cave. A couple of minutes in, and the rain had stopped. At the campsites, there was no one there. It was beginning to get dark. We had been in the car all day, and were ready to get out and stretch our legs. We parked at the

first campsite and got out. The birds were singing their lullabies and everything was still. There were five campsites in a circular clearing with thick trees all around. The sites were open to each other, and could have been better for my camping only if you rented all the sites. Honestly, we walked around the circle and noticed a sign that said group camp, pointing up a trail. We started down the gravel path full of wet leaves to the site. After walking for some time, I realized it wasn't even close. I raised this concern with my buddy, but we wanted to see the site anyway. It was almost dark out, but we could still see rather well. I noticed the birds had stopped singing at this point. There was a hushed tone in the forest. All we heard was our own footsteps.

When we made it to the group site after walking for quite a few minutes, it was still, and nothing was moving. We were at the end of the trail looking into the area. The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up, and my skin crawled. Standing about 30 feet to our left was a very massive dark-haired creature. I was frozen with fear. My buddy hadn't noticed it yet and was still walking. I said his name quietly. He must have known something was wrong because he stopped and turned to his left immediately. We were both frozen, standing there what felt like minutes, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. I knew what it was, but in my head I was saying they weren't real. I couldn't even speak. Then it started slowly moving towards us.

yelling some deep throaty gibberish. Against all my instincts to hold my ground and fight back, we ran for it. It ran with us, and it was still screaming. We kept running for our lives. It was running parallel to us. Its scream was replaced by what I can only describe as a deep, throaty huffing noise. It was crashing through the dead brush, keeping up with us effortlessly. We were running, trying not to slip on the leaves or just die. We saw the car. We saw the car, and had hope. As soon as we got to the clearing, it stopped. It hit a tree, more like it punched through a tree. We heard a huge crack and crash. We were almost to the car when this massive tree hit the ground next to us. We then listened to what can only be described as a great ape

beating its chest in triumph while screaming. We jumped in the car and sped away. The rest was a blur. We got back to the campground, packed up, and left at night. We never spoke about it again, and haven't talked about it since. I'm almost entirely certain what we experienced that day was a Bigfoot.