Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 8 Scary CRYPTID Horror Stories That Will Give You Chills

Episode Date: July 15, 2024

Get ready to be spooked with these 8 bone-chilling cryptid horror stories that will leave you with goosebumps. From mysterious creatures lurking in the shadows to terrifying encounters in the dead of night, these tales are sure to send shivers down your spine. Watch if you dare, but be warned - once you hear these stories, you may never look at the world in the same way again. Are you brave enough to uncover the truth behind these terrifying cryptids? Dive into the darkness and prepare for a frightful journey into the unknown. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:10:38 Story 2 00:17:40 Story 3 00:25:18 Story 4 00:30:21 Story 5 00:40:49 Story 6 00:46:39 Story 7 00:58:05 Story 8 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 #cryptids #deepwoods 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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only at Sephora. 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 gravely, 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 a bit. 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 a little bit of the night's mysteries. 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... 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 hoof prints 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, a 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 voice. 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 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,

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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, passed 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 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 arms 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 heard 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 scrambled 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 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. 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 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 look 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 late. 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 fifty 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 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. Exema is unpredictable. But you can flare less with ebbglis. A once-monthly treatment for moderate to severe eczema.

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Sephora to shop now. You tell yourself, no one wants your college-era band teas, but on Deepop, people are searching for exactly what you've got. You once paid a small fortune for them at merch stands. Now, a teenager who calls them vintage will offer that same small fortune back. Sell them easily on Deepop. Just snap a few photos and we'll take care of the rest. Who knew your questionable music taste will be a money-making machine? Your style can make you cash. Start selling on Deepop, where Taste recognizes Taste. 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 jacket 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 lights 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. Des's eyes were rolling over, the lights and radio still going insane. Then it all stopped a minute later. Des 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. Dez 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 him, people. I've told my wife and a few others over the years, and since then, nothing paranormal 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 dusty 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. I wasn't 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 Graham's 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 1961. Gramey 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 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 sentiment.

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 some.

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. This episode is

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I'm told it's super easy to do at mintmobile.com slash switch. Up front payment of $45 for three-month plan, equivalent to $15 per month required. Intro rate first three months only, then full price plan options available. Taxes and fees extra. Seeful terms at mintmobile.com. 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, 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 whelton i presume he greeted his smile warm but his 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 life-like 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 own 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 campfire 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 spill.

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, 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 again, 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 echoes 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 ask too much of us to ever be worth the crossing. This episode is brought to you by Perfect Bistro Cat Food.

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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, 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 camp sites. 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 miles. I went slowly, not trying to kick too many rocks up into my car. The road was honestly pretty ear, 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, 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. This episode is brought to you by Nespresso. Being the best version of yourself is an everyday journey,

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