Just Creepy: Scary Stories - Best Scary Stories for Halloween | Trick or Treating, Deep Woods, Forest, Cryptid, Creepy Encounters

Episode Date: October 30, 2023

These are 11 Best Scary Stories for Halloween | Trick or Treating, Deep Woods, Forest, Cryptid, Creepy Encounters Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/thegeneralg/ ► https://www.reddit.com/user/ThisFieroIsOnFire/ ► https://www.reddit.com/user/Alone-Bullfrog7773/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Evening-Most2914/►https://www.reddit.com/user/SomeGuyCalledBexex/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Saint_Lopez/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Lycian-Sarpedon/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:15:08 Story 2 00:50:23 Story 3 00:54:52 Story 4 00:58:17 Story 5 01:09:38 Story 6 01:32:02 Story 7 01:42:57 Story 8 01:55:35 Story 9 02:25:14 Story 10 02:38:09 Story 11 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #halloween #forest #trickortreating 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

I'm the kind of person who starts counting down to Halloween on November 1st, always have been. I could never get enough of the holiday when I was younger, and that stayed with me as I've gotten older. So you better believe every October, I make it a point to have that house on the block, the one that you can barely see the lawn from how many Halloween decorations there are. Once the leaves start turning, that's my cue to put out the decorations. And considering how people are always stopping by to take pictures or drive past my house, I wouldn't have it any other way. However, the one thing I can't put out until shortly before Halloween itself

are the jack-a-lanterns. Of course, that moment is always a bit bittersweet for me, because on one hand, carving the pumpkins means Halloween is almost here. But on the other hand, before we know it, Halloween will be over. But I recently got an idea, why don't I carve some pumpkins early? It could be a fun little quirky tradition. Christmas and July is a thing,

so why not jack-o-lanterns when summer is in full swing? I saw no reason not to try it, so I went off to get some pumpkins. Finding them in the summer isn't as easy as other times of the year, but in the modern era, finding stuff out of season has never been easier. So once I was able to find some pumpkins, it was just a question of how many I wanted. I decided on five. Then I paid for the pumpkins, bought some candles to go with them,

and brought the stuff home. All that was left was to decide when to carve them. and then get down to work. I decided to do it that weekend, because we were due for a nasty storm. Sure enough, the weekend came, and the storm arrived right on schedule, and it was intense. This was no quick summer downpour that lasts ten minutes, and then it's over. It rained all day, and it didn't take long for there to be flooding in the area. The sky was an overcast gray, and I didn't feel like going anywhere.

So that was my cue to start carving pumpkins. By now I've done it a million times, so I'm well practiced at it, which means it wasn't long before I had hollowed out the first one and was working on etching a face into the pumpkin's surface. This part was definitely way harder than hollowing out a pumpkin, but I've practiced this enough as well, to the point where I'm not horrible at carving a face, but I'm still nowhere near the amazing artist that some people are at this.

That's the one Halloween thing I haven't mastered. Yet. So my first one turned into a generic spooky face with a twisted grin. It's simple, but a classic. So then I got started on the second one. This one, I turned into a happy face with a genuine smile. The other three I tried different things with, but they just ended up being variations of the first two.

But that didn't bother me a bit. I always enjoyed the process, and they all truly become something special once you light the candles, which is exactly what I did after that. Then I placed them inside the pumpkins, turned off the light in my kitchen, and stood back to admire the effect. It made me smile, as it always does. So now, all that was left was for me to take them outside one by one and arrange them. My house is a small two-story building, but it comes with a comfortable front porch.

That's where I put some of the pumpkins once I've turned them into jack-a-lanterns, along with on the three stone steps leading up to my porch. So I arranged them and stood back to admire my handiwork as the rain thuddyed. it on the roof and filled the streets. It was a nice effect because the pumpkins and the candles within them stood out starkly amongst the gray wet atmosphere. And thanks to my porch roof, which extended all the way to the first stone step, it kept me dry and gave me a great view of the entire street. With that done, I went inside to enjoy the rest of my evening. I had some ravioli with tomato sauce and salad for dinner and treated myself to some red velvet cake for

dessert. Then I watched a movie on TV. Just before I went to bed, I stepped back outside to blow out the candles inside the pumpkins. The clouds in the sky made it seem extra dark outside, and after the intense rain, the air was muggy and humid. As a result, the candles and the jack-a-lanterns seemed to shimmer in the intense humidity, and the orange glow seemed incredibly pronounced. For just a moment, I was briefly transported to a crisp October night. But just as I was about to extinguish, the candles, I noticed something. My porch light and the candles revealed what looked like footprints leading to and away from my front door. The heavy rain and the water it left standing everywhere meant that if you went walking tonight, you'd be leaving wet footprints everywhere,

and thanks to the intense humidity, those footprints wouldn't immediately dry. So there I was, staring at a set of footprints that arrived at my door, then went away. I just shrugged it off and chuckled. No doubt someone wanted to come for a closer look at my jack-a-lanterns, probably to take a picture or two. Well, they got a look just in time because I extinguished the candles, went back inside, and headed to bed without a moment's hesitation. I got up the next morning, had some breakfast, then went about my day. After spending time with my family, I came home, put away the leftovers from our meal together, and read a book on the couch. After a while, I had a snack. and since it was dark enough out, I went out on my front porch and lit the candles in the jack-a-lanterns.

Then I stood back to admire the sight for a moment until I went back inside and returned to my book. The intense humidity had lessened a bit, but was still high, so I stayed indoors to read instead of sitting on the porch like I often did. When it was time for me to head to bed, I went back out to extinguish the candles. The sight of candles inside the jack-a-lanterns flickering away against the thick-night-night. sky was striking. I took it in for a moment before one by one, the candles were out, and all that was left was a tiny wave of smoke billowing from each one. I was just about to turn around and go back inside when I looked down the street and saw someone. Despite all the bright street lamps positioned at every interval, I couldn't see quite as clearly as usual, as the

person was standing far away, and the humidity still lingered in the air and gave everything a haze. but even from that distance I could have sworn that whoever was there was watching me and I couldn't be sure but I thought the person was wearing some kind of costume but then a car drove down the street and when the car passed the spot where the person had been standing there was no one there so I went back into the house turned off the lights and went to sleep the next day went by without incident and I arrived home from work at my usual time. It was a bright, sunny day, but not quite as humid as it was, so that was nice. After I lit all the candles and the jack-a-lanterns, I ordered some pizza for dinner.

Then I watched some TV until it arrived. Right on schedule, my doorbell rang. My pizza had been delivered by a guy in his mid-20s. When he told me the price, I handed him the money with a nice tip, told him to keep the change, and he gave me my pizza. Love the jack-a-lanterns, by the way, He told me just as I was about to close the door. Thanks. And I don't think I'm the only one who likes them. I saw a few people running by just as I was about to pull up. They were in costume too, so I think you started a trend.

I laughed. Maybe. We'll see if it lasts. Thanks again for the pizza. Sure, you have a good night. Then I went inside, put on a movie, and had my pizza and some ice cream for dessert. I didn't feel tired, but at some point I nodded off and woke up to the sound of knocking at my front door. I quickly checked my phone and saw it was 10.15. Then I headed to my front door.

Whoever was at my door knocked again just as I was about to answer it. But just before I did, I looked through the peephole and saw someone dressed as a vampire standing on the other side of the door. The sight made me chuckle. I was still chuckling when I unlocked the door and opened it. I have a screen door that also locks, so it provided another barrier between me and the guy in a vampire costume. Now I could see it was a guy in his early 20s, and his costume looked more elaborate than the typical one you get in a bag at the costume store, and his makeup looked carefully done, and he was holding a candy bag in front of him. Trick or treat? He called out enthusiastically a moment after I opened the door. I didn't answer at first, but I laughed. I love it, I said, as I took in the

sight of the costume. I had to laugh at the initiative. If I could carve pumpkins and put them outside this time of year, I couldn't help but admire someone doing this. The guy in the vampire costume hadn't said anything else, but he looked at me expectantly. The bag held out in front of him. Please give me one minute. I'll be right back, I promise. I said sincerely before I closed the main door and went to the kitchen. I always had plenty of candy, so it wasn't hard for me to get some miniature chocolate bars, some individually wrapped mints, and some peanut butter chocolates, and get back to the door in a minute. when I opened the door again, the guy in the vampire costume hadn't moved an inch, but he held his bag up expectantly as he saw me with the candy in hand.

He stood back as I opened the screen door and placed all the candy in his bag. I thought he deserved a lot of candy for effort. Here you are, I said, as I placed the candy in the plastic bag. You look great. Thank you. He nodded respectfully as the last piece of candy fell into the bag. Happy Halloween. You too.

Then he turned around, while. walked off my porch and headed down the block and out of sight without saying a word. I took the opportunity to blow out the jack-a-lantern candles before I went back inside. I was still laughing at the guy asking for candy. In all honesty, I was surprised more people hadn't done that. The rest of the week passed without anything noteworthy happening. In fact, I was so busy at work I didn't have time to think about much of anything. I had been staying late, and I hadn't had time to light the jack-o-lanterns by the time I got home. It was Friday afternoon by the time I could think about something other than work, and I immediately kicked myself mentally

when I looked at my house and saw the pumpkins. Thanks to the summer heat, the pumpkins, which never lasted that long when carved, to begin with, were not doing well at all, and this would probably be the last night before I had to throw them out. But it was fun while it lasted, so I went inside to get the lighter to light the candles and just managed to get them all lit. Then I went back inside and made myself some dinner. Exhausted from my long week, I fell asleep on the couch and woke up later to knocking on my door. I briefly checked the time, saw it was past nine, and went to see who it was. A look-out the peephole told me it was more people in Halloween costumes, but this time the sight gave me a shiver. There were five of them, and when I opened the door, I immediately felt uneasy. They were

They were dressed as a clown, a witch, a skeleton, a doctor, and a ghost. They looked to be about the same age as the guy in the vampire costume, but that was where the similarities stopped. The entire mood was different from last time. There was a feeling of tenseness in the air that I could sense the moment I saw them through the locked screen door. The guy in the vampire costume was quiet, but I could tell he had a sense of fun. I could feel the five of them intently studying me.

I had no idea what they were looking for, but I didn't like it. The clown had his face painted in a wide, eerie grin that looked right at me as I looked at them through the screen door. I stood there silently for a moment, watching them watching me. Trick or treat! They all called out in unison from my front porch. Hi, I smiled at them with what I hoped was a convincing smile. I'll be right back with some candy for you all. Then I immediately closed the door again. I could still feel their presence on the other side, their gaze still looking at me.

Despite my best efforts, I could feel myself start to panic. The vampire costume had been good, but these costumes were creepy good. Too good to have gotten on a whim from a store or put together at the last minute as a simple joke on me. I tried to convince myself it was all in good fun, but it all felt off. I knew something was up. I just didn't know what to do about it. I was halfway to the kitchen when I looked out the window overlooking the street and saw the clown and the ghost had moved off the porch and were watching me from the kitchen window. I almost shouted out loud in shock, but immediately tried to play it off with a smile like I knew they were just joking and pointed for them to go back to the porch so I could give them their candy.

After what felt like an eternity, I watched them go back around to the front of the house. That made me feel a bit better, but just a bit. because inside I was now in full-blown panic mode. What were the other three doing? Were they lurking in my backyard waiting for me? Or were they trying to sneak into the back of my house? My stomach lurched as I thought this might all be a diversion, and that while the five of them distracted me,

someone might be trying to break into my house another way. What was I supposed to do? What would I tell people if I called for help? Despite the fear, I felt myself take a bull from the cabinet and stuff it with plenty of candy. Then, I went to the counter and took a knife out of the drawer. I was just about to start walking back to the front door when I heard two dull thuds come from the porch in quick succession.

I willed myself to go to the front door, and after I took a deep breath, I looked out the peephole. There was nothing there. I slowly opened the door, still holding the knife, and braced myself. Everything was quiet, and the five people in costume were gone, and the entire mood felt different. so I took another deep breath, unlocked the screen door, and slowly set foot on my porch. After a moment, I noticed something.

Two of my jack-o-lanterns had finally reached the end and had crumpled to the ground. The candles inside had been extinguished, and the smell of smoke lingered in the air. Meanwhile, the candles in two of the others had finally burnt out, so only one candle remained illuminated. Or at least it did until I extinguished it a moment later. Then, after I checked my whole house and yard to make sure there was no one in a costume waiting to surprise me, I scooped up the remains of the pumpkins and tossed them in the garbage. I slept horribly, but nothing happened. And the people in costume didn't come back.

I still love Halloween, but I'll definitely hold off on carving pumpkins until fall gets here. It was almost Halloween. Leafless tree branches swayed in the crisp breeze. The gray overcast sky hinted at yet another day of rain, yellow-gray cornstalks flitted past and dead leaves scattered as the big brown Buick carried us down the empty country road. I looked forward to seeing Granny, even if she would be working most of the time I was staying with her. Grandpa agreed to watch me during the daytime. He received a stipend from a back injury he received in the Army. It wasn't much, but between the monthly check and Granny working, it was enough.

He always enjoyed the company. He would tell me stories about his time in the Army, and he knew the funniest jokes I ever heard. When he did his daily chores like cleaning the house, he let me explore the empty fields and small woods near their house. I looked forward to trying to find arrowheads, playing on hay bales, climbing trees. Maybe not that last one. The only downside to my visit was I had to spend it with my cousin Casey. My grandparents became her legal guardians after her mom left. Mom and dad never explained where she went. I always worried she might have gone to jail. or ended up like those people on unsolved mysteries. I might have felt sorry for Casey if she didn't bully me whenever the adults weren't around.

We're only going to be gone three days for this business retreat, so I expect you to behave yourself. Dad looked at me in the rearview mirror. I don't want you in the hospital again. Don't worry. I'll be good. Mom turned in her seat to face me. If you're a good boy, maybe we'll bring you back a present for good behavior. You'll make sure he's good, won't you, Teddy?

She held my stuffed bear and made him nod his head like a puppet. I was old enough to know Teddy wasn't doing it himself, but I played along. Teddy gets a present too, right? For good bear, haviour? Mom smiled before turning around. Of course, sweetie. The once smooth, quiet ride suddenly became rough and loud as Dad's car transitioned from pavement to the dirt and gravel leading the rest of the way to my grandparents' house.

Granny would take me on long walks down this stretch of road, I would look for little round rocks she called Indian beads. I showed some to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Smith, and she told me they were actually fossils from a prehistoric plant. As we came to a stop at a four-way intersection, I noticed the abandoned house on the corner. It was the only neighboring house to my grandparents for miles. Most of the year it was completely hidden from view by the trees and overgrown vines covering the chain link fence. Even now, after many of the leaves, had fallen, I couldn't distinguish much other than the chipping paint and wrap around porch. A few windows on the upper floor peered over the trees. Their screens torn and shutters unsecured.

Somebody really ought to fix that place up, Mom said. Too late for that, Dad said. The roof is caved in, it's not safe. That's a shame. It must be over a hundred years old. After the fence row to the abandoned house, an empty field came into view. It probably was. belonged to whoever owned the house, but the only thing that grew in it were clusters of Indian grass, cat tails, and most notably, a massive oak tree in the center of the field. It was so big two grown-ups couldn't reach all the way around it. Several of the limbs were low enough I could reach them without any help. I nearly forgot all the fun we had playing in this field when I realized my grandparents' house was coming into view. Grandpa was smoking a cigarette on the front porch as we pulled up. He was

jolted from some reverie as Maggie, the black lab shot up and barked wagging her tail. The car wasn't even parked before I bolted out the door. Grandpa, I ran to hug him. I nearly knocked him over. He laughed as he steadied himself on the porch railing. A tube of gray cinders fell from the tip of his cigarette as he laughed. What are they feeding you, Bucco? You get bigger every time I see you. I shrugged, and he let out another loud laugh. You know what? I got some cartoon. recorded for you. Really? We only got local channels at my house. The only cartoons were the ones on PBS, and that was only when they weren't broadcasting boring home repair shows. He smiled.

Your grandma left the videotapes next to the TV for you. Mom and dad came up to the porch, dad with the suitcase, mom with Teddy. Grandpa bent down to whisper something to me. I hid something for you under your pillow. Really? What is it? Don't you spoil the boy, dad. Mom handed me, Teddy. Spoil him? It's Halloween, isn't it, Johnny? Uh-huh. Well, we hate to drop him off and run, but we do need to get going. My dad looked at his watch. Johnny, you behave now. I will. I hugged my parents goodbye. They waved as they backed out of the driveway and pulled onto the road. The big brown car slowly vanished in a cloud of dust. I picked up my luggage and went inside. I'll be in there in a few minutes, Grandpa said, settling in.

into the lawn chair and sipping his coffee. I just want to finish this newspaper article. I walked through the living room and saw the VHS tapes just like Grandpa said, one of the labels read Speed Racer. I couldn't wait to watch them. When I got to the guest bedroom, I set my suitcase on the floor next to the bunk bed. Casey always slept in the top bunk which left me on the bottom. I set Teddy down and reached under the pillow. To my surprise, there was nothing. confused I moved the pillow and found the spot underneath was bare. I looked under the bed thinking maybe whatever grandpa left for me had fallen on the floor. Looking for this? Casey was hanging upside down from the top bunk.

She dangled a bag of assorted candy while biting off a piece of taffy. Hey, Grandpa said that was supposed to be for me. Not anymore. She chomped the sticky mess in her mouth between words. A few tootsie rolls fell out of the bag as she rummaged for something else. Oh, you can have those, she grimaced. I don't like those anyway. I picked up the pieces of candy from the floor and put them on the bottom bunk. They're better than nothing, I thought, as I set Teddy on top of the pillow. Why couldn't you just go with your parents? Casey was scowling, still upside down. They're going on a business trip, I said. Kids aren't allowed. Whatever, Casey said,

disappearing over the edge of the bed. I wondered if Casey was going to be this way the entirety of my stay. No, she couldn't be, not with the grown-ups around. Even when they weren't, she could be all right sometimes. Maggie's barking from the porch interrupted the thought. From the window next to the bunk bed, I saw Granny's car pulling up the driveway and into the lean-to carport behind the house. I ran through the kitchen and out the back door to meet her. Casey shoved me aside as she rushed past me into the carport. Granny, Granny, you'll never guess what I did at school today. I'm sure it was wonderful, sweetheart. Granny fumbled an unlit cigarette to her lips. Hi, Granny. Well, hi there, Johnny, Granny hugged me. Are you hungry for some cheeseburgers? You make the best cheeseburgers in the

world, Granny. She smiled as I said this and slammed the back door shut behind us. It was an old door, possibly part of the house's original construction. The latch didn't work most of the time, and there was about an inch between the bottom of the door and the threshold. I remembered how scared I was last summer when I spent the night. I could see coyotes feet under the door as they walked through the carport. Occasionally one would bump the door and it would open slightly, only to be stopped by the chain holding it shut. It was terrifying to see one of the wild dog's muzzles through the small gap as they howled. Damn this old door! Granny slammed it again two more times before kicking a wooden wedge under it to keep it shut. The chain jangled as she fastened it shut. Turning around, I could see her

look of exhaustion give way to anger as she looked over the messy kitchen. Daniel Lee! Grandpa hurried to his feet and ambled inside, the screen door slamming behind him. Why didn't you do anything while I was gone today? This place is a wreck. I did plenty while you were gone, woman. Oh, like the dishes? She gestured to the overflowing sink of dirty cups and plates. I had to pace myself. So I took out the trash, emptied the ashtray, checked the mail, made some coffee, and then sat around listening to music and watching the weather channel. Don't be mad, Granny, I said. He has a bad back.

I know, sweetie, Granny sighed. Why don't you and Casey go outside and play? After dinner, Granny took us to the field with the oak tree. Casey and I used sticks we found like swords, slashing through the occasional cluster of tall grass. You couldn't tell from the road, but trash looked. littered the field, smashed beer cans, worn out clothes, and who knew what else. Casey and I prodded at a large black bag, ripping at the seams. Stay out of that, kids, you don't know where it came from or what it is,

Granny said as she lit another cigarette. Casey and I bolted off ahead, fighting other imaginary pirates until we came to the oak tree. We ran around it, played tag under it, and swung from the low-hanging branches. Casey even helped me reach some stray acorns from a branch I couldn't reach. I was a bit nervous, climbing. When I broke my arm last summer, Casey and I were trying to get her kite out of the spruce tree in the front yard. This felt eerily similar, but I got down with no trouble. We divided the acorns between ourselves and pretended they were doubloons.

Casey could be all right at times like this. Neither of us had siblings, and it was fun having someone to play with. I had to admit, even if she was terrible sometimes, Casey could still be a lot of fun. You, Casey said, pointing between a couple of the trees. exposed roots. What's that? What is it, Casey? Granny looked down from the cloud she was looking at. It's moving, Casey said, pointing. A clump of ladybugs the size of a football crawled around and over top of each other. I couldn't believe we missed it when we were playing our game of tag. I had no idea why these ladybugs were doing this. I wondered if Mrs. Smith would know.

She knew about lots of things. They must be huddling together to stay warm, Granny said. turned her head upward to the darkening sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. Come on, you two. It sounds like rain is on the way. Ah, Granny, can't we stay a little longer? We're still trying to find the X where the treasure is. Casey pouted as she said this. Casey, Granny said with a stern look on her face. Come on, Johnny, let's race back to the house. Okay, I ran as fast as I could after her, but it was no use.

Casey was taller than me and a faster runner. I could barely see her magenta jacket between the sporadic growths of grass and the odd bush. Finally, she was out of sight. I gave up and tried to catch my breath. The distant rumble of thunder became louder as I walked the rest of the way back to the house. Granny made us take baths before we went to the living room to watch TV. I forgot to pack my pajamas, so Granny gave me one of Casey's old ones to wear. They were red flannel with a zipper and built-in feet. Kai's pajamas were almost identical, just bigger. Granny thought us wearing matching outfits would make a great picture. She snapped one of us on the couch with her Polaroid. Granny had to get up early so she couldn't stay up with us long.

Don't stay up too late, she said, hugging us good night. Casey got up and left the room. I decided to get one of the VHS tapes ready. I checked the cartoon channels, but nothing good seemed to be on. I just started the Speed Racer tape when Casey plopped down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. I reached for a hand. when she jerked the bowl out of my reach. Don't wipe your hands on my pajamas. She gestured to my borrowed outfit. I wasn't going to. Good, because they're mine. I could already hear my grandparents snoring in the small house. I tried to enjoy the cartoon, despite realizing Casey now had free rain to torment me as much as she liked. She made fun of how the people's lips didn't match what they were saying. She mocked the characters and made me wish I had just gone to bed. Between her

comments and the howling wind outside, I could barely focus. We only finished one episode when I decided to go to bed. I could always take the tapes home and enjoy them there. At least she won't be able to bother me while I sleep, I thought. I was wrong. The overcast rumbling skies from earlier had given way to a thunderstorm. Lightning flashed against the skeletal tree branches out the window, and I held Teddy tight. Casey's long black hair hung from her upside down head as she peeped appeared down from the top bunk. Her pale face looked at me in the dark. I bet you don't know about the witch that lives in those woods. She pointed at the woods behind the house. There aren't any witches around here. Are so. Kathy Connors showed me a book all about them at school. Goose bumps are

just made up stories. It wasn't a goosebumps book, stupid. It was about a town nearby with a bunch of witches. They were caught casting spells and making sacrifices in the woods. The townspeople found them after hearing the cries of children they were taking. I didn't say anything. I just shuddered at the thought. Then, Casey continued, a bunch of angry villagers chased them through the woods until they caught and executed every witch but one. She escaped and was seen flying on her broomstick in the night sky. She hovered over the gallows and said she would avenge the death of the other witches in her coven. Stop making things up. None of that's true, I shuddered. It is true. It would in that book. It said bad things happened to the people who tried capturing her. Their crops

didn't grow, their animals died, and their children vanished without a trace. They never found her, and she still haunts the woods to this very day. I held Teddy tight as thunder clapped and wind raged outside. I couldn't wait for this visit to my grandparents to end. Birds scattered from behind a bush as we ran through the empty field. The thunderstorm of the previous evening had given way to a crisp, foggy morning. We found stick swords and decided to pick up our game of pirates from the night before. Once we got through the overgrown fence row, however, our attention was immediately diverted to the oak tree. It had fallen. We looked at each other before throwing down our sticks and

running to see what happened. Granny told us the tree was over 200 years old. I couldn't believe it had collapsed. I gasped for air as I tried keeping up with Casey. Without the tree sticking up in the center of the field, I realized how easily I could get lost. Most of the tufts of grass were taller than I was. Besides a few trees in the fence row, nothing else was visible. Casey was no help. She ran so far ahead that I could barely catch a glimpse of her magenta jacket as I rounded a cluster of grass before she disappeared behind the thick fog and foliage. My lungs burned, and my throat was hoarse from breathing the cold air when we both stopped at the terrible sight. The once great tree lay on the ground. Its massive trunk splintered a couple of feet above the ground.

Most of the branches were crushed or broken off as they fell. Casey and I looked at each other before getting closer. The cluster of ladybugs was nowhere to be found. The limbs I swung from just yesterday lie shattered beneath the weight of the wrecked tree. Worse still, inside the jagged stump, I could see the wood in the center was dead. Frowning, I grabbed a handful of waterlogged, decomposing wood. Only the outer few inches of the tree beneath the bark was actually alive. I realized it was probably on the verge of collapse since I first saw it. You see, Casey said as I wiped the rotten wood from my hands, it's the witch. Casey jumped up on the collapsed tree trunk and walked its length like a balance beam. She's still haunting those woods. All these years later, she's still making bad things

happen. I felt a chill, but couldn't tell if it came from Casey's story or the strong breeze. which seemed to come from nowhere. A witch couldn't have done this, I said. She'd be a hundred years old by now. Doesn't matter, Casey jumped from the trunk. Witches live hundreds of years on the blood of children just like us. I desperately wanted this to be false. I tried to think of a way to prove Casey was lying. The witch couldn't live all year in the woods. What about winter? She would have frozen to death. That's why she killed the farmer who used to plant this field. Why don't you think anyone lives in the house at the crossroads. Casey gestured to the derelict house at the opposite end of the field. A window from the house's turret peeked ominously through empty tree branches and rising fog.

My dad said nobody lives there because it isn't safe. He said the roof is caving in. Has he ever been there before? Casey wore a terrible smirk on her face. I don't. Of course he hasn't, because he knew the witch was living inside. The wind was picking up again, and I felt cold standing. next to the old oak tree. I'll bet none of the grown-ups have gone to that house. They're probably all scared, just like you. Am not, I felt my brow furrowing. Scaredy cat, scaredy cat, scaredy cat. I am not. Then come with me. Where? To the witch's house, stupid. Before I could say anything, Casey took off through the fog. Her bright jacket almost completely vanished before I tried catching up with her. I didn't want to go to the house,

but I definitely didn't want to stay by myself in the fog. At this point, I had no idea where Casey was. I just knew the direction she went. The occasional crow erupted from a hiding place around the clumps of grass as I struggled to keep up. Their loud cause were the only sound I could hear besides the squishing of wet grass and my strained breathing as I ran. The fog seemed to thicken at the far end of the field.

In some places I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of me. I finally reached the tree line before the house's yard, when I saw Casey's magenta jacket. She was moving slowly toward the back porch of the house. I ran the short distance to catch up with her. She must have heard my footsteps because she turned to face me with a finger to her lips. She gestured for me to come closer.

Somebody is inside, she whispered. Stop telling lies. I shuddered at the thought. I felt exposed in the relatively empty, albeit overgrown yard. I'm telling the truth. Casey's eyes were wide. I saw a shadow move behind the upstairs window. I looked at the dilapidated house and realized it was an even worse shape than I thought.

Wooden siding hung loosely from the sides of the house. Several of the windows were shattered. Vines from some wild plant grew through the collapsed portion of the roof. The porch was riddled with termite holes. The door on the back porch stood halfway open, giving us a view of the hallway. Wallpaper hung, peeling from chalky plaster. The wooden floor was covered with moss, scraps of paper, and broken ceiling tiles. The staircase had several broken steps.

We stopped in our tracks at the bottom of the porch steps. Come on, aren't you going to come inside? Casey looked much less sure of herself. Nobody could live in this place, not even a witch. So, you say. Casey took the first step onto the porch. I followed close behind, keeping a watchful eye to the trees around the house. I felt like we weren't alone.

we advanced on the back door. I tried thinking of some way to get Casey to leave this place as the porch creaked under our combined weight. We avoided the broken boards until we were at the threshold of the ruined house. With an uncertain foot, Casey stepped into the house. Stray pieces of glass crunched underfoot as I followed on the filthy carpet. I looked through a doorframe to my right and could see light streaming in from the holes in the roof. The vines I saw outside disappeared into a large sink filled with decaying leaves and blackened water. Debris under my feet made more noise as I walked into the tiled floor of what I now recognized as a kitchen. The plaster from the walls left coarse white dust over most of the counters and floors.

I was about to turn and find Casey when I stopped in my tracks. There was a muddy footprint on the floor. I looked down at the wet mud around its edges and felt suddenly sick. It was at least twice the size of my own foot. I followed the muddy outlines and really, they went up the stairs. My eyes followed the stairs up to the landing and fixed themselves on a weathered door on the top step. A door creaking echoed through the house. It came from upstairs. Casey ran past me in the hallway and out the back door. I heard noises like a cat hissing loudly as I bolted from the kitchen after Casey. I felt my world spin as I slipped on some of the trash and hit the wooden hallway floor with a loud thump. I gasped and clutched my chest as I felt the wind

knocked out of my lungs. Large clumps of plaster ground loudly against the wood, and forgotten leaves of paper crumbled as I scrambled out the front door. A door somewhere in the house slammed as I jumped from the porch. Casey was standing at the fence row waving for me to run. Her eyes looked back in horror. I turned to see a shadowy figure behind the curtain at the top of the turret move. We avoided the field the rest of the day. We didn't even leave the house. We just stayed on the couch and away from the windows until bedtime. That night, Casey left her blanket hanging over the edge of the top bunk to cover the window looking into our room and got into the bottom bunk with me. I'll bet the witch saw us, Casey said. Maybe she didn't. I knew how foolhardy the suggestion was before I said it. Didn't you

see her moving behind the upstairs curtain? She had to have seen us. Then why didn't she come after us? Surely she wouldn't let us get away. Casey thought for a minute. I could hear the flap, slap, flapping of the worn-out screen door in the carport. I reassured myself. I checked the back door before I came to bed. The chain was in place. Nobody could open the door from the outside, not even with a key.

Maybe the witch only comes out at night, like a vampire. Maybe. I lay there holding teddy tight. That morning I hadn't believed anything about witches. now I was having a serious conversation about the possibility one could be just across the barren field next to my grandparents' house. What are we going to do? I don't know.

The wind billowed past the window near the bunk bed. I cringed as a low branch scraped against the glass. I'll ignore it, I thought to myself. I wasn't about to let a little wind bother me, not when I had a real problem. That's when I heard the doorknob to the back door rattle. I could hear the loud thumps as something slammed into the back door. We screamed in our beds as the chain rattled with each attempt to shove the door open. Maggie, the black lab barked and started growling at the back door.

Someone is trying to get in. Tears ran down Casey's face. I could hear the mattress in my grandparents' room groan as they got out of bed. With speed I wasn't used to seeing, Grandpa rushed past the open door to the guest room with his shotgun. The glow of the floodlights in the carport shining. through the blanket covering our window. Granny ran into our room and tried her best to comfort us. Shh, it's all right, she said, hugging us.

It's just coyotes. In all the commotion, the blanket fell from the window. Now the once-familiar yard and fence row looked menacing in the bluish light. Granny, it's not coyotes. The witch is trying to get in, Casey cried again. That old wives' tale? Sweetie, there's nothing out there but those wild dogs. Grandpa is locking the door, don't you worry. By lock, she means shoving the wooden wedge under the

bottom to keep it closed, I thought as I looked outside. I stared into the darkened tree line and field beyond. It was impossible to tell if anything was out there, but my eyes kept playing tricks on me. Shoots of grass looked like a crouching witch. Empty tree branches looked like emaciated hands. Every rustling leaf and swaying tree left me more uncertain about whether something lurked just beyond the reach of the floodlights outside. We gathered enough courage to venture outside the next day. The blue spruce swayed in the breeze. I could still see the yellow splinters where I broke a branch off trying to get my cousin's kite last summer. I remembered her telling me to go out on the limb alone because it was too small for us both. We need to come up with a plan for what to do about the witch,

Casey said as she climbed on top of the platform of the old well. Grandpa said not to play up there. The platform isn't safe to stand on. Casey grabbed the long pump handle on the well and rocked on the balls of her feet. It creaked as she pumped rusty water from the spout. But Granny said it was just coyotes. She just wanted to keep us from getting scared. Would you want two little kids to know a witch was trying to get into the house? I shook my head.

No. Exactly. She probably had no idea how to get rid of a witch in the first place. I looked up at Casey. Do you? Um, Casey looked down as she jumped from the platform. Salt. That's it. Witches can't cross a trail of salt. How do you know that?

My cousin Jeremy told me so. He's the one who let me borrow the book about witches. I thought you said Kathy Co. Casey looked angry. Shut up. I told you I read it, didn't I? Yes, I looked down at my feet. But how are we going to put salt all the way around the house? We'd need a huge bag. not if we just do the doors and windows here's what we'll do we can wait till grandpa and granny are asleep then we'll get into the cupboard and get their can't salt then we can spread the salt it's that easy but what if the witch gets us while we're outside she won't get us not if we finish before the witching hour the what Midnight? That's when witches come out. Suddenly Grandpa appeared on the porch.

Kids, lunch is ready. Casey and I trudged through the yard and back to the house. Climbing the steps to the house, I noticed something odd. The radio was off. Grandpa might have turned down the volume during the day while he watched the weather forecast and local news, but he almost always kept it on until Granny got home. The TV was also off as we walked through the living room. It felt wrong for there not to be some ambient noise in the house. I pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and started crushing crackers into my chicken noodle soup. Grandpa was quiet as he sat down to eat. His usual, laid-back demeanor was replaced with alert eyes and silence. He was wearing the olive drab jacket from his army days, and I could see brass and waxed paper cylinders in his pocket.

I realized they were shotgun shells. Casey and I looked at each other as we ate our soup. I wondered if she noticed this when the police scanner screeched to life in the living room. Grandpa got up and turned the volume down after the dispatcher said something about a suspect being at large. I wondered what that meant. Why aren't you listening to music, Grandpa? He made a small smile. I have a bit of a headache. It'll go away with a little quiet.

We finished eating and Grandpa asked us to stay inside while he made a phone call. I thought it was unusual for him to take the call outside, but he said we could watch TV while he was talking. He spoke in hushed tones as he paced the phone call. porch, occasionally looking over his shoulder. I wondered what had him acting this way as I turned on the TV. Grandpa left it on the news, and there was a hand-drawn picture of a man with long, scraggly hair and strange-looking eyes. I didn't give it much thought before changing to a cartoon channel. Scooby-Doo was on, and I always loved watching them solve mysteries. I hoped another episode would be on next, because Fred was pulling a mask off a supposed wolfman. It was always just a man. It was always just a

man in a mask. There were no real monsters, no matter how real they seemed. Casey plopped down on the couch. Just checked. There's plenty of salt in the cupboard. Why can't we put the salt out now? In the daytime? Do you remember how mad Granny was when you used all her spices on experiments that one time? Besides, Granny might see the salt and try to clean it up. I felt embarrassed thinking back to the time I dumped the whole spice cupboard into a mixing bowl. I thought I was doing a chemistry experiment, but in reality I was just making a mess of nutmeg, cinnamon, and garlic powder. Are you sure it's safe? Of course.

I read that book. I even did a show and tell about it. We were interrupted by the rattling of the screen door. Well, Johnny, Grandpa said. Your parents are coming back a day early. The retreat ended so they'll be here late tonight, or early in the morning to pick you up. They're on the way to the airport right now.

He ruffled my hair as he walked through the living room, lighting another cigarette. Your granny is coming home early from work today too. Maybe we'll have some more cheeseburgers for supper. Grandpa smiled as he said these things, but I could tell something was off. Casey and I kept watching TV until Granny got home. Even with her back, the house was quiet.

She didn't get on to Grandpa for not doing the dishes or cleaning up around the house. My grandparents stayed barely even spoke, except for a few whispered words. My parents called while I, was in the bath to let my grandparents know they were on the way, but it would be a few hours before they showed up. We're going to head to bed, Granny said as she rubbed her eyes. Johnny, your parents are going to be here late tonight. She glanced at the clock. You and Casey can watch

cartoons until they get here. Just promise me you'll wake me up when they get here, okay? Okay, Granny, I said, giving her hugs before Casey and I settled back onto the couch. One more thing, Granny said from behind her bedroom door. Keep the doors locked. I thought this was a weird request, but Kai and I both agreed. Granny went to bed. I looked at the clock near the TV. It was almost 11 o'clock.

I wondered if I could get out of Casey's crazy idea. It didn't take long before I could hear my grandparents snoring in their room. I pretended to be interested in the movie on TV. It was a kid's movie about witches trying to capture a small girl about my age. She had a big brother who was trying to keep her safe. I wished my cousin was more like him, I thought as I watched Casey disappear into the kitchen. I thought she was making popcorn until I heard the faint sound of a chair dragging across the floor to the cupboards. I thought about what she was doing when the movie suddenly had my full attention.

One of the kids in this movie shook salt all around her just as the witches were closing in on her. Casey hadn't read about salt keeping witches away. she must have watched this movie and assumed I had never seen it. I felt betrayed. The same feeling I had as the branch of the spruce tree cracked under my weight while I tried to get Casey's kite. This was just another one of Casey's tricks. She returned to the living room with a can, picturing a girl holding an umbrella. Here, you take this.

She held out the salt shaker from the table. Now, it's simple. We go out the front door. I'll go around the left side. You go around the right side. then, no, I said. Casey looked taken aback. I think it was one of the few times I ever confronted her. What? I'm not going to that side of the house. It's closest to the empty field where the witch's house is. Yes, you will. If you try to make me go to the right side of the house, I'll wake up Granny and tell her what you're up to.

Casey's lip quivered with frustration. Fine, she said. You take the left side since you're such a frady cat. you cover the windows on your side of the house and I'll cover mine. She threw the salt shaker at me and waited next to the door. I looked at the clock before I joined her. We still had almost an hour, I thought, although I was considerably less confident in this solution. I realized Casey was just trying to use me again. As I put my sneakers on, I had an idea. Why not simply act like I was putting salt around the windows until she was out of sight and then sneak back inside? The door to the carport had that large gap under it, I could spread salt under it from inside the house. The front door of the house opened silently, and Casey gingerly closed the screen door after us.

Meet back here, she said. I nodded as I climbed down the left side of the porch and salted around the window on the front of the house. The cold night air made my breath fog up as I kept an eye on Casey. She already finished her window and disappeared around the corner of the house. Once I was sure she wasn't coming back, I tiptoed up the porch and carefully slipped inside the screen door. I kicked off my shoes and walked to the back door to spread the salt onto the threshold. I felt somewhat proud for standing up to Casey. I tried to think of another time I had done this, but couldn't. The shaker was almost empty as I took the top off. I knelt to the ground to pour the last of my salt along the threshold. The white salt shone in the light of the clear night.

I admired the job I had done, even if I thought it wasn't effective. and I knew Granny wouldn't be happy when she found it in the morning. I was about to stand up when I froze. Beneath the door were two muddy boots. I was so shocked I didn't say anything until the door creaked open slightly, and I saw the sharp blade of a knife hook into the links of the chain holding the door closed. I yelled for my grandpa as I realized what was happening. I scrambled away from the door and under the kitchen table as I heard grandpa jump out of bed.

through the crack of the door I could make out vague features of the man outside as he shook the door violently trying to get in with the long hair the thin face the wild deranged eyes I realized it was the man on the news station

grandpa ran into the kitchen with nothing but his boxers and the shotgun get the hell out he pumped the shotgun and the arm with the knife disappeared through the battered door grandpa knelt down what happened

Are you hurt? Where's Casey? We heard Casey's high-pitched scream. From the kitchen floor I could see through the window in the guest bedroom. The crazed man had run into Casey trying to get away and grabbed her. Grandpa ran out the back door with the shotgun after them, but he couldn't move fast enough, not with his bad back. The last I saw of my cousin was her pale face screaming in horror, and her outstretched hand reaching for Grandpa as she disappeared into the overgrown field of Indian grass, beyond the reach. of the floodlights. Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel is California's number one entertainment

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It matters where you stay. Hilton, for the stay. It was Halloween night and I was home alone. The trick or treaters came and left with bags full of candy, but it was getting late. So I took a pumpkin-shaped bowl, filled it with candy, and put it on a chair outside of my front door for the late bloomer's. Some parents don't get off work early enough, you know. It's a shame for those kids not to get some candy on Halloween. When I was a kid, my mother would take me out for trick or treating because she didn't have to work.

My dad would usually be home by the time we got back. He always brought us some Halloween-themed candy. I could sense that he felt sorry for not being able to come with us. A couple of times, he spent one of his off days to come with us on Halloween. Although I could see he felt guilty about it, the family could not afford to have him take a rest. He never took a vacation. He preferred to cash in the unused time off at the end of the year to buy us gifts for Christmas.

I wanted to have a family of my own, but I lost the ability to have kids entirely at 27. I thought I had time for a family, but nature had other plans. If only I started earlier, I would not have to pass all my Halloweens alone. That said, things were tough on my father back then. Although I am just an old woman now, I can see that it's incredibly tough to get the life I had as a child, even with both parents working full time now.

So I do this every year for the kids that have to be raised in this day and age. A little candy on the porch of the house, with a Halloween-themed floodlight, at the bowl, some spider webs on the chair, and a plastic skeleton behind it holding a sign saying, Take as much as you want, have a spooktacular Halloween. Usually after 8 p.m., I sit down and start watching my movies. I usually refill the bowl just before I go to bed. If I don't fall asleep on the couch, I have a marathon of horror flicks that I have been preparing all year. But this year, the kids keep ringing my bell even after 8 p.m. Some of them didn't.

know when to give it a rest. I had planned to spend the evening watching scary movies and eating candy, but I started to feel uneasy as the night went on. I tried to rationalize it away, telling myself that it was just the spooky atmosphere of the holiday, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I was about to check all the locks and go upstairs to check the windows when I heard a noise coming from the basement. I froze, listening intently. There it was again, a faint scuffling sound. Someone was definitely down there. Without thinking any further, I grabbed a fireplace poker and crept quietly down the stairs. I peered around the corner, poker at the ready, but there was nothing there. The basement was empty. I slowly made my way

over to the other side, my heart pounding hard in my chest. Again, there was nothing there. I was starting to feel like a fool. Maybe it was just the wind or something. I was about to go upstairs when I heard the noise again, only this time it was coming from right behind me. I froze, my breath not wanting to leave my chest. I turned around slowly. Poker held out in front of me, but there was still nothing there. I was starting to freak out. I turned to go back upstairs and that's when I saw it. There was a figure clocked in black all the way to the ankles, standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs watching me. I couldn't see its face. The head was hooded with a deer skull draped in front of it, antlers poking through the hood. Sam Hain is upon us. Hale, Sir Nunoz,

guardian of the ways. I heard a feminine voice cry out loud without any concern about being discovered. And then, all the lights of the house turned off all at once, and I was plunged into thick darkness. From the depths of the void spanning in front of me, I could hear chanting. It sounded like there were hundreds of people speaking in unison, accompanied by the sounds of nature. I could hear owls, crickets, and mockingbirds, along with the sound of the wind passing through the branches of trees in the forest. Am I still in my basement? Suddenly I felt multiple pairs of arms coming from the darkness, grabbing my shoulders, my head, my arms, and my legs. My feet left the ground. I felt as though I was floating. And then I felt pain as darkness gave away to red. I guess I'm

not going to be alone this Halloween after all. This is a true story, and it haunts me every single night. It all started on a Tuesday night around two in the morning. I'm lying alone in bed in the dark, and my window is cracked open. I prefer having a breeze at night to stay cool. I open my window every single night. It doesn't matter if it's hot or cold or windy or rainy I will open my window. Anyways, I had to make this post because it is really haunting me. To explain, all of a sudden, the noise started.

I remember my eyes rapidly opening and the shivers being brought down my spine. It was very paralyzing and it made my whole body jolt like a shockwave running through my nerves. This sensation is especially intense at night when you are startled by a noise like your old house resting. But this was unlike anything I've ever experienced. To start, the noise that scared me seemed to be a man shouting from a quarter of a mile away. I thought to myself that this was extremely unusual. I live in a desolate area and I don't have many neighbors around, so it couldn't have been them. I live in a woodsy area in a humble neighborhood.

Most people who live here are hermits, and don't leave their homes unless it's for bi-weekly grocery shopping or leaving in the morning to go to work. But the screams were very specific, and were arranged in a pattern. They almost sounded inhuman. A loud but faint yell would sound about every two seconds, and the yells were unintelligible words,

and lasted for about one to two syllables. It was almost perfect sounding like a recording of a shout played again and again and again but for hours. The dreadful sounds stayed in place for three hours of non-stop yelling, and the man never seemed to move locations, except for when the noises slowly got farther away, and that's when it seemed to stop. The sounds lasted from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. I assume the man making the disturbances in his early 30s. It haunts me to think of someone just standing in the forest blatantly yelling words for three hours straight in the middle of the night. The sounds didn't appear like they were desperate as if they were in need of any help.

The only drastic thing would be if a bear mauled you to death, but no one's stupid enough to go out at night like this. The shouts sounded emotionless, and of course very terrifying. I eventually was able to catch my breath and peek out the window. It wasn't the wind causing the noise and most definitely wasn't a branch scraping my window like someone would try claiming in order to debunk me. But I was too afraid to go outside and investigate. I had to debate whether calling the police would be the right thing to do or not.

I'm a short woman, and I'm not the absolute strongest, and I know if I investigated on my own, I would be the avid kidnapping victim. From watching and reading horror stories, I know the person who investigates always dies in the end. I kept my ear close to the window for a few minutes, and I was starting to decrypt what he was saying. It sounded like it was in a different language or a gibberish word being spoken, but it was very strange. I know I'm not crazy, and I know I'm not crazy. what I heard. I will probably never open my window ever again since I don't want to find out who or what was making those sounds, and I definitely do not want them to come back. Does anyone know

what this could be? I asked my neighbors if they heard, and only one out of four claimed they did. We both don't know what it was. It was a day like any other, the Wyoming sun piercing down on us, when Victor and I set out to add another member to our family. His hand, warm in mine, matched the heat of our shared enthusiasm. We didn't need much. We already had our three dogs, a lively bunch composed of my Welsh terriers Goldie and Teddy, and Victor's miniature poodle Fifi. But there was an unspoken agreement between us, room for one more. We drove to the local shelter. The drive was scenic, open planes stretched out on either side, interrupted occasionally by scrubby pines. Buster, Ace, Milo, Victor mused, his eyes twinkling in amusement. I smiled.

back at him, a sense of shared comfort lacing the silence that ensued. The shelter was bustling with activity. Yips and barks filled the air, a symphony of canine voices that were both desperate and hopeful. It was in this cacophony that we first saw Joey. He was hunched in the corner of his cage, a one-year-old English Mastiff mix. He was a mountain of a dog, his frame significantly bigger than the rest. His previous owners hadn't expected him to grow so big and couldn't keep him. Joey, despite his eyes, looked at us with tender brown eyes, a gentle giant. I felt a slight twinge of apprehension as we approached him. Joey towered over me, a contrast to our smaller, playful dogs back at home, but one look at Victor's enamored expression, and I knew there was no turning back. As I reached out

tentatively to pet Joey, I noticed his eyes flicker. From the brown, they turned a deep, mesmerizing blue. I blinked, disoriented, but when I looked again, they were brown as before. On our way home, Joey sat in the back seat, his head resting against the window. His size was commanding, but he seemed docile, content even. I told myself the changing eye colors had been a trick of the light, a momentary illusion. Yet a small part of me continued to harbor doubts. We introduced Joey to Goldie, Teddy, and Fifi as soon as we got home. Fifi, a normally spunky dog, growled low in her throat and slunk behind the couch. Joey seemed taken aback by her hostility, his expression one of perplexed confusion.

The other dogs didn't seem to mind him. I brushed it off as Fifi needing time to adjust. That night, Victor and I sat on the porch, staring out into the open Wyoming night. We raised our beers in a silent toast to our new addition, while my mind kept returning to the scene at the shelter. to Joey's eyes, shifting from brown to blue. I told myself it was nothing, just the stress of the day playing tricks on me. I should have known then that there's always more to it when it comes to dogs,

especially one like Joey. In the days that followed Joey's adoption, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of our expanded family. The morning sun shone through our windows, our home bustled with activity, and the days were as lively as ever. But something about Joey set me on edge. There was an underlying current of weirdness.

At first it was Fifi. Poor girl couldn't seem to catch a break. She hid in the oddest places, under the bed, behind the couch, even once in the laundry hamper. She was a trembling bundle of nerves every time Joey was around. The strange part was Joey's reaction, pure bewilderment. It was as if he couldn't understand why she was so terrified. Then there were the knights. They say you're never truly alone when you have dogs,

and boy, I couldn't agree more. It started with me waking up to Fifi's low wimpers and finding Joey standing near her hiding places. There was an unsettling rhythm to these occurrences that disrupted the serenity of our Wyoming nights. One evening, as I brushed past a hallway mirror, I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine. Joey, standing behind me, bared his teeth at Fifi,

his eyes gleaming menacingly in the mirror. I spun around, my heart. pounding, but found Joey sitting calmly on the floor, his tail wagging gently. Victor thought I was overreacting when I brought up my concerns. Joey's a big teddy bear, he'd say. You're just being paranoid. I wanted to believe him. I truly did. But I couldn't ignore the dread that lingered whenever Joey was around. The unease in the house prompted me to move Joey to the kitchen during the night. That's when the strangest thing happened. Every morning we'd wake up to find our food spoiled as if left out overnight. It was as if someone, or something, had rummaged through our fridge.

As I held the rotten food, Joey would stare back at me, his eyes full of a challenge that made my skin crawl. I thought moving Joey to the backyard would end these occurrences. But the bizarre incidents took a darker turn. Every morning, I'd find dead animals scattered across our lawn. Their bodies were mangled, organs missing, as if expertly removed. Victor was oblivious, always at work before dawn, but I was there, cleaning up the grotesque mess left behind. When I confronted Joey about it, he snarled at me, a low, threatening sound that had my heart pounding in my chest. I'd never seen him so aggressive, not even with Fifi. My fears were escalating, and Victor, caught in his world of denial, refused to see what was happening. The Wyoming sun

continued to shine, the open plains continued to stretch out, but my world was slowly closing in. I felt trapped in my own home. My fears punctuated by Joey's increasing hostility and the unnerving incidents. My mind kept going back to that day at the shelter when Joey's eyes shifted from brown to blue. I had a feeling that something terrible was about to happen, and it had everything to do with Joey. In the shadowy quiet of Wyoming nights, a sense of dread took root within me. I felt myself being pulled into a horror I could neither comprehend nor ignore. Our home, once a sanctuary, now teemed with unseen fears, their form given substance by Joey. I tried talking to Victor about Joey, about the things I'd noticed.

Victor's bond with Fifi was special. She belonged to his sister, who, along with her other dog, had died in a car crash weeks before we met. Victor had a soft spot for the poodle, and I hope my concerns would make him reconsider Joey. But he shot me down, his face hardened with anger. He couldn't bear to think his below. Loved Joey could hurt Fifi, and I didn't have the heart to push it any further. One night, I awoke to a blood-curdling scream. It was Fifi. Heart pounding, I rushed downstairs to find Joey in the living room. The sight that met my eyes was something out of a nightmare.

Joey was tearing Fifi apart. I screamed for Victor, tears blurring my vision as I took in the horror unfolding before me. Victor came rushing in, his face pale. He switched on the lights, and it wasn't real. Fifi was safe, hiding under the couch, her body shaking with terror. The remains on the floor were that of a stuffed toy, not Fifi. But I couldn't shake the image from my mind.

Joey, his mouth smeared with blood. Victor berated me for my panic, for my accusations against Joey. But all I could focus on were Joey's eyes, soulless, gleaming with a sinister satisfaction that had my blood running cold. My fears escalated to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. My once peaceful home was now a battlefield, my dreams haunted by visions of Fifi's death

and Joey's monstrous form. I was trapped in my own nightmare. Then, one night, the unthinkable happened. I awoke to a grotesque figure looming over me. Its limbs were twisted, its body distorted, its eyes a piercing blue. It was a creature straight out of hell, and I knew it was Joey. I woke Victor up, fear clawing at my throat. But by the time Victor blinked his eyes, he was a little bit of eyes open, Joey was back in his dog form, looking as innocent as ever. Victor dismissed my fears with a shake of his head and fell back asleep, but I knew better. I'd seen Joey for what he truly was. The next morning, I woke up to an unexpected surprise. Victor had planned a weekend getaway. We hurriedly packed our bags, leaving Joey behind with a friend of ours. As we drove off,

I felt a sense of relief wash over me. For the first time since we'd brought Joey home, I felt safe. But as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw Joey standing in our driveway, his eyes gleaming a sinister blue. My heart pounded in my chest. Something told me this was far from over. As we drove further away from home, the verdant plains of Wyoming seemed to lighten my mood. We were heading towards a destination where the echoing growls of a beast were no longer part of my nightmares. But the lingering dread in the back of my mind persisted. About 50 miles away from home, Victor broke the silence. His voice was low, his words delivered with a heaviness that made my heart sink.

He'd seen Joey too, that night, standing over us in his grotesque form. He'd played down his reaction, but the sight had shaken him as much as it had me. I was silent, processing his confession. Victor had called an animal rescue team instead of our friend. He'd lied about Joey being aggressive and uncontrollable. They were going to put Joey down. The guilt etched on Victor's face was clear. He'd seen what I'd seen, felt what I'd felt.

He'd just been too afraid to admit it. We took refuge at my parents' house, our home now tainted by an inexplicable fear. We were safe, but the haunting image of Joey, in his true form, lingered in my mind. I wasn't sure we'd ever feel comfortable in our house again. One evening, while Victor was outside talking to my dad, I decided to check on Goldie and Teddy. As I walked towards the room where they were resting, a familiar fear clutched my heart. I heard a growl, low and menacing, sending a shiver down my spine. I pushed open the door, my breath hitching as I took in the scene before me.

Goldie and Teddy were huddled in a corner, their eyes wide with fear. Fifi was nowhere to be seen, and in the middle of the room, a large, twisted figure stood. Its eyes met mine, gleaming a chilling blue. Joey. A wave of terror swept over me, my blood running cold. Joey was supposed to be gone. He was supposed to be dead. But there he was, standing in front of me in his grotesque, monstrous form. A growl echoed through the room, a sound so terrifying it froze me in my tracks. And then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone.

The room was empty, save for Goldie and Teddy. There was no sign of Joey or Fifi. It was as if he'd never been there. But the terror in the dog's eyes told me otherwise. Joey was back, and he was far from done. The Wyoming Knights had taken on a new form of terror, the looming threat of Joey hanging over us like a dark cloud. We thought we had escaped, thought we were safe, but we were wrong. I looked out the window, the moonlight casting long shadows across the yard.

I could almost see him there. Joey, his eyes glowing with an unnatural blue. We had only just begun to understand the nightmare we'd invited into our home. From when I was born up until four months ago, my family of four lived in Nowhersville, Indiana. The town consisted of exactly 37 streets, one school covering kindergarten to 12th grade, one three-story hospital, exactly two pizza places, and fewer than 6,000 people. We were well off, owning a large three-story house right next to the school, but I always got the sense that my parents were uneasy, specifically my father.

He would go on month-long business trips to who knows where three or four times a year, and he always seemed the happiest a few days before leaving. At around the age of nine, I came to the conclusion that if his family wasn't here, he would be living in some metropolis at least five states away. He always seemed partial to New York. We'd been there a few times, and he was always more energetic than I'd ever seen him, dragging us from the Statue of Liberty to the One World Trade Center to the top of the Empire State. Then after at most a week, we would return to the land of everybody knowing everybody

and a plethora of old white men sitting on their porches in their rocking chairs, sipping Arnold Palmer's and waving as you pass. For some people, a paradise, a retirement village if there ever was one, but for my father, purgatory. The first incident happened at exactly 2.32 a.m. I was hunkered down in my room, blanket draped over my back, illuminated by the glow of some horror movie. I can't recall precisely what it was, perhaps the exorcist, or maybe omen,

I've loved horror movies since I was old enough to get my hands on them, and I've seen all the classics. I know the legend of Jason Voorhees, which scared me into quitting sleepaway camp. I fear the dream demon Freddy Kruger, which made me pull two consecutive all-nighters until I collapsed in the middle of history from pure exhaustion. Michael Myers stopped me from trick-or-treating one Halloween, and Pennywise keeps me at least five feet from a storm drain to this day. Yet for all their downsides, I couldn't tear my eyes away. something about the monsters, be they human, ghost, zombie, or killer clown, always drew me back. So I was up late into the night when I heard the whistling first.

It jarred me when it started, and I paused the movie for a moment before forgetting about it. It was a jaunty tune, cheerful, yet erratic. It never repeated itself, and despite its upbeat nature, something about it was off-putting. Yet someone whistling, albeit late at night, was no cause for alarm. However, as the movie progressed and I drew the covers tighter around my skinny frame, the sound persisted. After five minutes I paused the movie again to listen. It was coming from the same general location, yet the direction of the sound shifted ever

so slightly as if the whistler was pacing. It couldn't have been more than 20 feet from my house, but when I checked my second floor window, it instantly ceased. There was nothing except a spindly sapling sitting blocking my view, yet I saw no one. I sat at the window for a minute or two, but nothing. I didn't think much of it and finished my movie, then collapsed into a nightmare-filled sleep. The next evening was much of the same.

The movie playing out on the screen this time was a personal favorite of mine, paranormal activity, and during a quiet, tense scene about two-thirds of the way in, the clock struck 232, and the whistling began again. I instantly shut off the TV and grabbed my phone, clicking on its flashlight. The tune was the same, but not perfectly. Again, it never repeated itself, but it was the same pace, the same energy, the same set of notes. Something about it piqued my curiosity. I needed to know what it was. Realistically, I was sure it was only someone

who couldn't sleep, waking up and whistling their tune that they came up with themselves. But something about it drew me in, something sparking my curiosity. I crept to the window, careful not to make myself visible or look out myself. I waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing changed. The tune never shifted significantly. The whistler never moved. I checked my phone repeatedly, watching the minutes go by. By the 15-minute mark, a growing sense of unease had settled in.

I waited until exactly three in the morning, and then sprang up, scanning the area outside my window. Yet only the tree sat there, surrounded by a field of yellow-brown grass, stretching into infinity. The whistling immediately ceased, and my heart pounded in my chest. I raced to my bed and sat against the corner, my covers around everything but my head. My phone flashlight pointed at the window and door to my room. At some point I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is my father shaking me awake at noon. He looked mildly annoyed that I had stayed up late again, but he didn't make a big deal out of it.

after I had breakfast I settled down near him on the living room couch something weird happened last night an eldritch horror forced you to stay up until sunrise i rolled my eyes in exasperation i heard some guy whistling outside for like half an hour i immediately knew something was wrong my father's entire body tensed up and his eyes snapped up from his newspaper to meet mine what i was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone but i continued to explain yeah It was weird. I heard whistling outside my window, maybe 20 feet away. I listened for a while, but as soon as I looked out the window, it stopped. He leaned towards me. When did it start? A little past 2.30? His face had gone pale. It was the most serious I'd ever seen him, and I was terrified.

I had no idea what was happening, but he continued to interrogate me. Exactly when, Thomas. How long past 2.30? Two minutes, I think. Yeah, 2.32. Dad, what? Why are you acting like this? He paused, sat back and slumped forward, head in his hands. I was frozen. I had no idea what this meant. Why did some whistling mean so much to him? He picked up his head and asked me a few more questions until I had relayed every detail of that night. He paused for a long moment, then got up and started to climb the stairs. Halfway up he turned to me. Stay inside for today. I'm going somewhere with Mom. Watch Sal. The next day was Monday, and school resumed for the last time that summer.

The week passed in a blur, and I said by to all my friends who were going away to camps, which was almost all of them. Finally, on Saturday, the inevitable announcement finally arrived. We gathered around the dinner table, and the mood was already uncomfortable before I'd had a bite of my spaghetti and meatballs. My mother started the conversation. So I know you guys love this town. My sister immediately interrupted.

I like New York better. But your father and I had to make some financial decisions and, well, we're moving. Somehow I wasn't surprised. I had known for years it wasn't a matter of if, but when. My six-year-old sister was less than pleased when she realized our destination wasn't New York, but a suburb adjacent to Boston. I quickly finished my meal and retreated to my room. Around ten that night I heard my parents put my sister to bed.

and walked down to the living room. I followed after a few minutes, and as soon as I entered the room, their quiet conversation immediately ceased. What are you guys talking about? Nothing, honey, just the move. Bull crap. I didn't call them out on it, though, as I sat down across from them. Dad, he looked to me, yes? Is this because of the whistling? He didn't react immediately. Deep down, I knew. I knew that the answer was yes, but I waited for his response. Thomas, I promise you when you are older, I will explain everything, but I can't right now, so please, just go to bed, pack, say goodbye to your friends, whatever, but know that I'm doing this for us. He paused again, locking eyes with me for this family. Finally, I exploded.

I don't remember what I said, but it wasn't pretty. After all, at the time, it seemed to me like they were tearing my life apart because of a sound I heard a couple of nights in a row. That night, I stormed upstairs in a fit of rage, eventually crying myself to sleep. I didn't hear the whistling again for a month and a half. In reality, I hadn't stayed up late enough to hear it at that time. With all the time in the world on my hands, I hadn't found a reason to stay up past midnight. After all, I had no friends in the state, much less nearby. However, my parents seemed much happier.

My mother had already made some friends at some Pilates group, and my father was acting like he did in New York every day. Even my little sister had found some friends in the next-door neighbors, but I spent my days in my room, dying of boredom. So in late July, I decided to try to hear the whistle again. I didn't believe I would hear it. After all, we had moved states. It would be completely illogical to think I would.

And yet when 2.32 a.m. arrived, it started again. I was frozen in fear. For some reason I couldn't put my finger on it, but I listened. The tune was the same. It even sounded like the same distance and direction from my bedroom window as it had been in Indiana. After a few minutes I sprang up. This time outside my window there was a long, dark alleyway. But still, as soon as I looked, nothing. The whistling came to a halt, and nobody was there. I didn't tell my father about the whistling. I don't know why. I wish I had. But at that moment, it felt like some little mystery for me to puzzle out.

some special secret only I had. How stupid of me. The next day my three best friends paid us a surprise visit. As soon as camp had ended, their parents arranged a surprise trip to see me at the request of my parents. So for the next two days, they would be sleeping over. I was ecstatic, and it immediately took my mind off everything else. The night passed much the same as it would back in Indiana, horror movies, video games, and an ungodly amount of snacks. At around one, I started to keep an eye on the clock as it inched forward. I felt as though I needed to show someone, just to prove I wasn't hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn't pushed me over the edge.

I had made the decision to reveal the phenomenon to my friends. Once again, I wish I hadn't. I told them about 15 minutes ahead of time, and at first, they didn't believe me. After all, we had spent the past six hours binging horror movies, and past midnight was the perfect time for a scary story, or a prank if you're ambitious enough. But despite their complaining, I could tell they were intrigued, and I managed to convince them to hide under the window with me.

Sure enough, the whistling began right on schedule. They didn't have the patience to listen long. Josh sprang to his feet after two minutes, despite my repeated whispered protest, and the whistling stopped. Huh, that's odd. Why did you look? I was curious. I told you not to.

So? Not having enough energy to get mad over it, I surrendered, frustrated, and we resumed our nightly activities, eventually falling asleep at around four. The next evening my friends had a plan. David started to explain. So we just hide behind the dumpsters in the alley, then we all spring out. One of us stays in the house. If we get the whistler in between us and the window, there's no way to miss it. I pleaded with them, begging them not to, but they ignored me. I didn't even know. why they were so set on catching the whistler, but they were. For some reason I knew this was a terrible idea. I felt something deep in my stomach, screaming at me to stop them. But they wouldn't give up, funding humor in my terror and ignoring me until I stopped trying to convince them. You always yell at the horror movies on TV, but a group of 15-year-olds can't be convinced they've had a bad idea. No one was going to be the coward that took my side. I eventually followed them out at 225 that night, carefully sneaking out so as not to wake my parents. I wish I hadn't. We all ducked behind the five dumpsters lining one side of the alley. None of us looked at our phones,

or even at each other outside of quick, furtive glances. I could tell they were getting impatient, pressed up against the freezing metal backside of a full-to-the-brim dumpster, with rats scurrying around nearby, despite the fact that the wait couldn't have been more than five minutes. I finally risked a glance at my phone. 2.31. I snapped my eyes back to the alleyway. As my heart pounded against my rib cage, the whistling started. It was working.

The whistling was coming from between us and the house. I was petrified. I knew I had to stop them from jumping out. I had to get my friend at the window to look, to get it to stop, before they exposed themselves. I don't know why I felt such a strong urge to stop them, but my gut was telling me I couldn't let them look. My phone buzzed, as did theirs. We all look down in sync, a text from our friend in the

window. Jump as soon as the clock hits 233. I frantically texted back, telling him to look, while shaking my head wildly. I gazed pleadingly at the two with me, begging them to stop. They simply smirked and texted back, ignore Tom. Then they jumped. I shut my eyes and held my breath, my heart skipping a beat. I curled tighter into a ball, and I waited. After a few seconds, of silence I emerged from my hiding place. My friends were standing in the middle of the alley, dumbfounded. So, I asked, what? They slowly looked at me, shaking their heads. Nothing. I took that in for a second, shocked. I thought they had to be lying, but I could see on their faces that they were just as confused as I was. I paused, considering what this meant, and came to the conclusion that

it meant we should get back inside Ace AP, and I should never stay up past two again. All right, you had your fun. Now can we pl- Before I could finish my sentence, a shrill, ear-piercing sound tore through our ears. I snapped my hands to my ears and locked eyes with my friends, seeing them do much the same. I sprinted back into the house,

my friends instantly following suit. We slammed the back door shut behind us, and after a second it stopped. One long, angry note. What the hell was that, Tom? One of them shouted. I realized my legs were shaking, and I slid back against the wall.

I don't know. I don't know what you did. But can we please go to bed? We all stayed there in shock, until Max raced down from his position at the window. Are you guys all right? What the hell was that? The next day passed in a blur until after dinner. I was sitting on the living room couch on my phone,

my father taking in a newspaper on the chair opposite me. He had been acting off the whole day. I knew he could tell something was wrong, but he seemed to be purposely ignoring it. So I began to tell him what happened. By the time I reached the end of my story, he was staring at me, stone-faced. But instead of shock in his eyes, there was anger. This isn't funny, Thomas.

You don't understand what you're joking about. Now go to your room and do not ever say something like that again. I sprang to my feet, now angry as well. Dad, I'm not joking. Ask David or Max or Josh, they'll back me up. I swear to God, I'm not kidding. My father stood up, towering five inches over. me, staring down into my eyes. It's not possible, Thomas. We left that thing in Indiana.

Now go to your room. Why won't you tell me what this thing is? I retorted. If there's some goddamn monster you know about, why won't you believe me when I say I hear it? He paused for a moment, then returned softly. Because when I moved to Indiana, it stayed in Washington. And when my father moved to Washington, it stayed in Montana. And you will not tell me that you have broken the chain. You will not hear the whistling again until you have a child of your own. Before I could respond, he walked briskly back to his room, shutting and locking the door behind him. I ran to catch up and hammered my fists against his door, but no response. He didn't emerge for the rest of the evening. That night, I was terrified. I tried desperately to fall asleep, but I knew I

wouldn't, and sure enough, I couldn't. When the time drew near, I threw my blanket over my whole body and shoved my fingers in my ears. I'm an atheist, but that night I prayed. The whistling took a different tune for the first time. It was erratic and never repeating, but it was different in tune. Compared to its former jovial sound, it was angry, terrifying. I don't know how to describe it. It was as if all of a sudden I had interrupted its nightly routine. And it wasn't happy. It's not him or her. Whatever this is, it isn't human. It can't be. I waited for over ten minutes before it began to get louder. At first it was a negligible increase, nigh unnoticeable.

Even after a couple of minutes of it slowly getting louder, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. But after ten more minutes, I couldn't deny it. It was getting louder, and the speed at which its volume was increasing was accelerating. It overrode every other sound I could hear, growing louder and louder, until I was sure my eardrums would burst.

As it crescendoed, I couldn't take it anymore. jolted up and craned my neck, peering out the window. As per usual, it immediately stopped. At some point that night I fell into a fitful sleep, not waking up until 11 the next morning. Once again, my father ignored my pleas for help. My mother seemed worried, but she inevitably took my father's side, and they forced me back to my room that night. I spent the next few hours coming up with a plan. I waited until one in the morning when I was sure they'd be asleep and snuck into my mother's bathroom, careful to avoid creaky floorboards and squeaking doors. I opened the medicine cabinet, and sure enough, there it was. Xanax. My mother was prescribed it

some seven years ago, and continued to use them well after her prescription ended. I scanned the back of the container, decided on one pill, and returned the container, carefully making my way to the kitchen. I filled a glass of water and looked at the pill. I wasn't sure. if this was too much. The internet had recommended half a milligram, but I couldn't continue to stay awake. I swallowed it without further thought and returned to my room. It only took about 15 minutes before the effects began to kick in. I fell asleep not long after. The whistling started right on schedule. For the first time, it jolted me awake. My heart was pounding. I felt like I should be knocked out, but I was awake. The whistling wasn't even that loud, but as I checked my phone, I realized

it had awoken me right as it started. The only silver lining was that it seemed to have resumed its jovial tune, and despite the negatives of the situation, this comforted me. At first, when it began to move, my heart skipped a beat. It had shifted a bit before, but all of a sudden it quickly shot underneath my window. I froze up, terrified. It continued to move, traveling over to where my back door is. It paused for no more than a few seconds, and then I heard the click of a lock and the door swinging open. My heart pounded wildly as I heard the whistling pass under my room to the other side of the house. It traveled up my stairs without a sound other than its jubilant tune, and I began to tense my muscles and hold my breath as it approached my closed door. It sat at the entrance to my room for over five

minutes. I knew no one else in my family could hear it now, as it was too loud for them to possibly sleep through. My face was turned to the wall, away from the door and window, but I was ready to turn. Then my door swung open, banging against my wall. I whirled around, ready to face the monster. I wasn't sure what my plan was, but I was ready to fight whatever was coming for me. But the whistling stopped instantly, and there in my doorway was my six-year-old sister. Sally, I said, I didn't realize how much I had tensed up, and as I relaxed, I realized my words were slightly slurred. The Xanax was still in effect, yet I was awake.

Were you whistling? She looked confused. No, Tommy, I don't even know how to whistle. Then why the hell are you in here? It's like three in the morning. I think I left bear in here. As I retrieved her teddy bear for her, I considered telling my parents what had happened,

but the Xanax was calling me back to my bed, and the whistling had stopped for the night. I would tell them the next morning, beg them to take us to a hotel or something. As Sally left the room, I collapsed back into my bed, facing the wall, and began to drift back into dreams, I only wish I had faced the other way. What happened next chilled me to my core.

Right before I slipped back into sleep, the whistling started again. It was right behind me. It was angry once again, and it was looming over me, inches from my bed. I resisted the urge to scream, curling into a ball, trembling and sucking in shaky breaths. It moved closer by an inch than another. It stopped there, probably touching my bed for what felt like an eternity. The terror I felt was incomparable to any I had felt before. No horror movie could prepare me for this. Then I felt pressure on my bed, as if it had moved on to it, and I rolled over, swinging my fist. I connected solidly with my bed frame, letting out an involuntary gasp of pain.

I scanned my room as I shook. Nothing. Since then I haven't moved. It's around six, and the sun is rising as I write this, and I've been furtively scanning my room between every sentence. Tomorrow I'll make my parents do something. Take us to a hotel maybe. But just in case, I need my story out there.

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Only on Netflix May 8th. It seemed like since the moment I was born that the supernatural seemed drawn to me. Though I wouldn't have my first real experience with it until after my second or third year of school. I must have been seven or eight at the time. I can't be sure anymore how old I was. The older you get, the more the years all seemed to blend together. It was during late summer, late July most likely. Back in those days, I spent a good part of the summer with my grandparents.

It was okay, though, because that meant I got to spend time with my uncle, Leo. He was my favorite of all my dad's siblings. He was still a young man in his late 20s. He had fought in the war and lived at home to help my grandparents out. Everybody has their favorite aunt or uncle, and Leo was mine. Sometimes when he was off from his job at the meatpacking plant, he would take me swimming and fishing. We had this little spot about an hour's drive out of town that we would frequent.

It was on one of those adventures that this fateful day would occur. We got to the fishing spot a little after 8 in the morning, made an entire day of it. I got about 30 fish that day, a record for me at the time, but that's not why I remember that day. That's not why I remember it at all. The day had been perfect up to that point, but as all days must they eventually have to end. It was starting to get late, the sun was already starting to set when we decided to call an end to our fishing expedition. We were packing up the truck when I first noticed it. Silence.

I don't mean it was quiet. No, I mean there was no sound, no nothing. No birds. No insects. Heck, even the wind had stopped blowing. It was eerie. The sun fading in the back and the void of sound around us. Suddenly there was this growl, almost a roar, actually.

I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from. The way it echoed through the air, it could have been coming from any direction. But one thing was clear. It sounded to be getting closer to us as the seconds ticked away. It sounded like it was maybe half a football field away. That was when I heard the rustling from the trees just to the left, almost directly above us. Something was up there. Something large.

You could hear the leaves rustling, branches snapping as whatever it was jumped from tree to tree. I looked over at my uncle. If he heard it, then I'll never know. He was paying it no mind, just packing up all of our stuff, never once looking up or picking up the pace. To this day I still believe he knew it was there at that time, but he was paying at no heed as not to panic me. Fear of whatever this was started to overtake me. I stopped what I had been doing almost completely. Helping load up our gear was the farthest thing from my mind. I started to become frozen with fear. My uncle had to practically yell at me to snap my attention

back to him. We're almost packed up, Rekko. Let's get going. It's late already and your grandmother is going to be worried if we aren't home soon. Hurriedly, I helped him pack up the remainder of our gear into the truck. Whatever had made that sound, I wanted no part of meeting it or finding out what it was. We got the truck packed, and I took one last look around to see if I saw anything, before hopping in the passenger side of my uncle's truck. It was still dusk, not yet completely dark. As we drove down the road, the light was quickly fading overhead.

My uncle flipped on the radio. I don't even remember what was playing at the time, probably some jazz song. My uncle loved that type of music. We had been on the road about ten minutes, when things began to feel not all right. You know that feeling you get deep inside your gut when you know something was wrong? I was feeling something fierce. Suddenly the headlights began to dim and the radio began to fade in and out, and from above us that rustling sound had returned.

Uncle Leo played with the dial some, but once again he ignored the noise. His focus remained on the quickly darkening road. It was then that it happened. I'll never forget it. The horror, the fear, the uncertainty. We had just taken a curve on the road. The rustling sound had gotten louder, closer, when unexpectedly. Bam.

Something big and heavy landed in the back of the truck. It had leaped down from the trees above. It landed with such force that the front wheels of the truck temporarily lifted off the road. My uncle almost lost control of the truck. as it skidded across the road. Leo looked briefly in the mirror, then moved his eyes back to the road. He briefly touched the crucifix he kept on the dash,

then tightly gripped the wheel with both hands. His knuckles turned white with how hard he gripped it. I just sat there staring ahead, frozen in fear. Whatever it was, it was moving around in the bed of the truck. I could hear it going through our stuff, tossing things around, rummaging through our cooler. I started to get up in my seat so I could look back and see what was back there. Uncle Leo grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back down into my seat.

No, Mijo, just look ahead. Don't look in the back. Whatever you do, trust me. There was fear in his voice. Not a lot, but a hint of it. This was a man that had lived through the horrors of war, and he was scared. I can tell you I did exactly as he said without question. I could hear a small growl from the back, and whatever was back there was moving around. around the tailgate. Whatever it was, it was heavy. The truck leaned towards the back because of the weight. For the next five minutes, I sat there frozen in fear. I looked at Leo. He just stared ahead, occasionally glancing at his rearview mirror. Unsure of what to do, I sat there. Fear had completely overtaken me. I didn't know if the thin layer of glass between us and the

bed was enough to keep us separated, as my mind ran through every possibility of what was back there that my biggest fear came to be. Whatever was in the bed of the truck was moving. Not like before when it had stayed in the rear of the bed. No, this time it was moving forward towards the cab of the truck. I was petrified. I couldn't move. The creature had begun a slow, methodical move towards us.

The nails of the beast scrapped against the metal of the truck. The truck shifted with its weight as it moved slowly closer to us. Don't look. I will explain later. Trust me. I trusted my uncle. but I was scared. We were still miles out of town. All that separated us from whatever was in the back was a sheet of glass. No one lived near where we were for miles, meaning no help if somehow that thing

decided to come into the bed. The creature kept getting closer, the scrapping louder. I could hear its heavy breathing now. My uncle kept looking ahead at the road. I saw in their left hand, though he had slowly unclipped the strap holding his sidearm he kept on his belt. Then there was the tapping. You could hear the nails of the creature gently tapping the glass directly behind my head. Tap, tap, tap. The tears of fear begin to well up in my eyes. Tap, tap, tap. The creature was just begging us to turn around.

What were we going to do? What was it? Why did my uncle seem to know what it was? What if it gets inside? I was beyond scared. Nothing in my short life came close to the fear I felt at that moment. Just look ahead. No matter what.

never look back i'll never forget those words my uncle spoke or the sound of fear in his voice but that wasn't the worst of it no not even close what happened next i still dream about at night sometimes what is brun un little one just up in the window ow let me in an eerie raspy voice spoke from behind me a gasp escaped my lips and tears begin to flow freely down my cheeks my uncle Leo gave the voice no notice and fiddled with the radio more. Do not ignore me. Let me in. Face your fate. Angrier and louder the voice boomed. Then the banging started. The creature or whatever it was began banging on the roof of the cab with such force that the truck began to rock with each blow. Bang, boom, bang. The blows rained down on my poor uncle's truck. But still, I refuse to look back. This continued for the next 30 minutes or so. Just to be. when I thought the roof would cave in from the blows being rained down upon us. I saw the lights

of the city as we neared the edge of the forest. A roar erupted from behind us, and the creature muttered these final words. This is not the end, no little one. One day we meet our fates. That protection won't be there for you forever, till then. And with that, the truck rocked as whatever was in the bed leaped in the air and away from the truck. We sped forward in complete silence. My uncle said nothing. When we were about two blocks from my grandparents, my uncle pulled over and finally turned to me. Rico, we must talk.

You can never tell your grandparents what happened here. There is much you do not know and not enough time for me to tell you everything. The world is filled with great evils. Our family, some of our family are chosen. We have a gift to see the other world. Not all of us are as strong. Some just see glimpses. Others like me and you, well, we can interact with that world.

but there are creatures that live within that world that don't appreciate our gift. They prefer to remain hidden from view as they do their work, but there are rules they must follow in ways we can protect ourselves. I'm going to give you something. My grandfather gave it to me when I was about your age. Now it's yours. With that, my uncle grabbed the crucifix around his mirror and put it around my neck. I had never noticed before the uniqueness of it.

There was a large black rock in the middle, obsidian, and the outside of it was glass, with a thick red liquid inside. I have never taken it off since my uncle gave it to me. It's still around my neck to this very day. My uncle made me promise to never tell outsiders about what happened. They wouldn't believe it anyways, he said. After that night he said we could never talk about it again. Talking about it gives them strength.

We talked for about an hour more on that side of the road. He told me about where they come from and of the evil and corruption that they wished to spread. Afterward, we continued our drive home. True to his word, my uncle never again spoke of that evening with me, and I, well, I wasn't going to bring it up. About ten years later, just outside of those woods, Uncle Leo, crashed his truck and was killed. I've often wondered if whatever had jumped on our truck, that long ago night, had somehow caught up to him finally. The world is a beautiful place. No one can argue that. But there are evils out there, some that stay hidden just beneath the light. Never forget that. Some things can't be explained, and perhaps it's for the best that they aren't. All it took was a heavy rainstorm to break my spirit. When the thunder rumbled and the raindrops started their relentless drumming, I felt that old terror sees me, the one that echoed the screams of the past. The guilt inside me reacted like a beast to the

lightning growing restless and gnawing at my consciousness. It's been this way since the accident. Eight lives taken because I couldn't see the damn road. I became an expert at drowning out storms. When the storm approached, I pulled the curtains tight, sealed the windows, and buried my ears under my old noise-canceling headphones, their worn-out pads of familiar comfort. But tonight, as the storm raged outside, the power in my house cut out. I was plunged into a suffocating silence,

broken only by the terrifying symphony of thunder and rain. For some reason it wasn't the darkness that frightened me but the whispers. They called my name, floating towards me on the gusts of wind that threatened to shake the house apart. I brushed it off as my mind playing tricks, a desperate ploy to keep itself busy in the face of the terror outside, until I heard the knocking, a soft rhythmic knocking that echoed the frantic beats of my heart. I held my breath, listening, hoping I'd imagined it. The knock came again, more insistent. I found myself drawn towards the sound like a moth to a flame, against every instinct in me to

cower and hide. I grabbed the old baseball bat from the closet, its worn wood reassuringly solid under my clammy palms. My mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Who could be out there in the middle of this maelstrom? I flung open the door, stealing myself for a confrontation but found nothing but the storm. Rain and wind lashed at my face, drenching me in an instant. The whispers grew louder. a taunting chorus carried on the gale. I stepped outside hoping to catch sight of whoever was playing this cruel prank. The door slammed shut behind me, carried by the force of the wind. The click of the lock resonated in the storm, echoing my growing sense of dread. Through the curtain of rain, I saw her, a woman sitting on my porch, her dress whipping around her in the wind. She was holding

something, my spare key. I squinted, trying to make out her face, but what I was, I saw sent my heart plummeting. The face was pale, almost luminescent in the storm's gloom, split by a jagged sewn-up gash from forehead to chin. It was her, one of the victims of the accident. A bolt of raw fear shot through me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it would burst from my chest. But the woman, ghost, whatever she was, didn't move. She just sat there, clutching my key, watching me. A cold shiver ran down my spine as she lifted a finger to her lips. Was she telling me to be quiet, or was she asking me to listen? The storm roared around me, and for the first time since the accident, I stopped trying to block it out.

I stood there, drenched and terrified, listening to the whispers on the wind. Their message was clear. This was just the beginning. No amount of wishful thinking could wipe the slate clean. You can bury your past, bury your guilt, but it seeps into the soil and taints the groundwater. It was a truth I knew all too well. That day started off just like any other. As the county sheriff, I had a duty to protect and serve. I woke early, had a strong cup of coffee, and started the long drive to the station.

It was a route I knew like the back of my hand, my car snaking its way through the twisting, turning mountain roads. The storm was unprecedented. It descended on us without warning, a roaring tempest that swallowed up the day. I drove through the downpour, windshield wipers struggling to keep up. every droplet on the glass, a bullet of distraction. But I kept driving. I was the sheriff. People were counting on me. Then a flash of light, a patch of wet asphalt. I lost control. The car skidded, spinning out on the wet road. Then the terrifying crunch of metal, the shattering of glass. In that split second, I saw them, a minivan full of kids, their faces pale in the lightning.

And then, darkness. When I came to, the storm had passed, leaving, in its wake a silence that was louder than any thunder. The air reeked of gasoline and burnt rubber. The minivan was a wreck, crumpled against a tree. Inside were eight young lives, extinguished, snuffed out like candles in the storm. I lived, they didn't. It was a burden I had to carry, an anchor that dragged me down every waking moment. My career, my reputation all lay in shambles. I retreated from the world, my home in the outskirts of the town becoming. my fortress of solitude. The guilt was my constant companion, as loyal as a shadow. And now, years later, the past had found its way to my door, bringing with it a chilling reckoning.

The woman, the victim, the ghost, she was a reminder of my deepest guilt, my greatest fear, the stitched up face, the silent accusation in her eyes, they were etched into my memory. That night, as I lay wide awake, the storm raging outside, my guilt took on. My guilt took a new form. The past was not something I could outrun. The whispers in the storm, the spectral woman on my porch, they were all parts of a puzzle, a grim riddle that I had to solve. I could no longer ignore the guilt, the fear, the whispers. I couldn't hide behind my old noise-canceling headphones, couldn't retreat into my fortress. This was a storm I had to face, a ghost I had to confront. As dawn broke, piercing the gloom with weak rays of sunshine, I made a decision.

I would go back to the crash site, back to where it all began. The journey would not be easy. The wounds it would reopen would be raw and painful. But I had to do it. I had to confront my past. For the eight lives lost. For the ghost on my porch. And for me.

The whispers on the wind were a call to action, a message from the storm. I had to listen. I had to face my past. because this was just the beginning. See, the thing about the past is, I muttered to myself, driving through the desolate mountain pass. You can't erase it.

You can only confront it. The storm that had been raging in my head had now manifested itself in the sky, echoing my torment, my guilt, my fear. It felt as though the universe was in sync with my inner turmoil. The roads were familiar yet foreign. Years had passed since I'd last traveled these routes, and time had left its indelible marks, just as it had on me.

The thunderous roars and the rain pelting against the windshield served as a constant reminder of that fateful night. The once bustling town was now nothing more than a ghost town. Nature had reclaimed the town, the dilapidated houses standing like silent witnesses to a bygone era. The faint echo of children's laughter, the residual warmth of a community, all were now replaced by the cold gusts of wind and the eerie silence.

My destination was the sight of my worst nightmare, the scar that had never healed. The crash site. I parked the car at a safe distance, my heart pounding in my chest. The rain had reduced to a drizzle, nature pausing to witness my confrontation with my past. The sight was haunting. The crumpled tree, the shattered glass still scattered on the ground, the faint traces of tire marks, all silent witnesses of that horrifying night. My knees buckled as the weight of my guilt down on me. I fell to the ground, my eyes welling up with tears. A flicker of movement caught my eye. I looked up, my heart in my mouth. There she was, the spectral woman, standing a few feet away, her eyes empty, her face a mirror to my guilt. The silence between us was deafening. I stood up, my legs shaking, my eyes not leaving her. I walked towards her, each step of battle against my fear. But I had to do it. I owed it to her. I owed it to them. As I reached her, I looked into her eyes. My guilt reflected in them. My voice choked. My words a mere whisper carried away by the wind. I'm sorry, I said, my voice barely audible. She didn't say anything, just kept staring at me.

And then, as if on cue, a gust of wind blew, and she vanished, leaving behind only the chilling emptiness. The whispers on the wind seemed to subside replaced by a haunting silence. I was left standing alone, my guilt still gnawing at my soul. The rain had stopped. replaced by a gloomy silence. I had confronted my past, apologized for my guilt, but was it enough? The only answer was the cold wind whispering in my ear,

and in that moment I realized that this journey was far from over. This was just the beginning. The whispers in the wind, the ghostly woman, they were all a part of a mystery I had to unravel, and I was ready to face it all, ready to chase the whispers. The musty smell of damp earth and age-old secrets hung heavily in the cryptic woodland. Trees stood like ancient sentinels, their leaves whispering secrets

that were as old as time itself. The air was thick with an eerie stillness that weighed on my shoulders, amplifying my apprehension. A mournful howl echoed through the night, sending a chill down my spine. The spectral woman's presence seemed to permeate the forest, wrapping around the trees and sinking into the soil. The ghostly cold of her touch seemed to reach me, even though she wasn't the there physically. I started the trek towards the cabin. Each crunching step on the leaf-littered ground seemed to echo my pounding heart. The cabin, once a beacon of warmth and family, now stood ominously in the heart of the woods, darkened windows seeming like gaping blind eyes. The memories of laughter and camaraderie now seemed like whispers on the wind. I unlocked the

door with a shaky hand. The old wood creaked open, revealing a dusty room, the air heavy with years of solitude. The moonlight filtered through the broken window, casting long, haunting shadows. My boots echoed in the silent room as I stepped inside, the echoes serving as a chilling reminder of the life this cabin once held. A chill ran down my spine as a sudden gust of wind blew the door shut. The silence was disrupted by the soft rustle of papers. I turned around to see an old photo album lying open on the dusty table. The faces of my family smiled back at me, oblivious of the tragedy that was to befall them. My fingers traced their faces, my heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. A soft whisper echoed in the room, making me jolt up. I looked around, my eyes

scanning the room, but saw no one. The room felt colder, the air denser. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony in the silence, echoing my guilt, my fear. The spectral woman appeared in the moonlit room, her presence casting a cold pallor. Her empty eyes bore into mine, reflecting my guilt. You could have saved them, she whispered. Her voice the embodiment of my deepest fears. I fell to my knees, the guilt overwhelming me. The room began to spin, the whispers growing louder, echoing the horrifying truth. I could have saved them. Suddenly everything went silent. The spectral woman disappeared, leaving behind the chilling emptiness. The moonlight had dimmed, casting long, foreboding shadows. The silence was broken by a distant wail, a sorrowful cry of a creature in pain.

The whispering wind carried a horrifying realization. The spectral woman was not just an embodiment of my guilt, but a manifestation of my fear, my regret. This was my hell, my eternal torment. I was alone in the cabin, my guilt my only company. Outside the woods echoed with sorrowful cries, a grim symphony that would haunt me forever. The spectral woman, the whispers, the guilt, they were all a part of me, etched into my soul. I was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and fear, bound to relive my worst nightmare. The whispers in the wind were a constant reminder of my sin, my failure, and as I sank into the darkness, the last whisper I heard was a chilling promise, a promise of eternal torment. The summer of 2022 was a warm one as far as summers and

Alberta go. During COVID, I had taken up hiking as a means of both passing the time and keeping myself in some semblance of good shape. Now that the pandemic and its related restrictions had largely abated, I had grown so fond of my hiking expeditions that I began to retain it as part of my regular activities. I won't claim to be any sort of professional hiker, but I had learned my fair share via trial and error to the extent that I always packed well, and took all the necessary precautions for wherever I was heading. If you've never been to Alberta before, I would highly recommend it. We're not well known as far as Canadian provinces go,

but we have some of the best wilderness in the world for campers and hikers, looking to enjoy the serenity of nature. The northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains form our western border and provide an abundance of trails, campsites, and provincial parks that can be enjoyed for free, sparing the expense of getting there. It was to the Rocky Mountains that I had planned my latest hiking excursion. The Heritage Day long weekend was fast approaching, and I had decided to abscond to the mountains for a good four-day hike to get a break from the bustle of city life. I had recently found a trail that I had never hiked before, called Crestwood Trail, which, from the pictures online, promised to be a beautiful trip, dotted with suitable campsites for a three-day journey.

I had managed to rope a couple of friends into coming with me on this hike. Two were well-seasoned in mountain hikes, Evan and Evangeline. The other two, Emma and Aaron, not so much. The plan was for all of us to arrive separately on Friday afternoon, make camp at the trailhead, then begin on Saturday morning to return sometime on Monday. Having the Monday off due to the holiday, I booked that Friday off work so that I could make my way to the mountains at a leisurely pace. Departing Edmonton, as the sun reached its zenith, I made Hinton just after three o'clock, and pulled into the parking lot of a local diner to put something in my stomach and to check on the status of my fellow hikers. I settled into a booth, ordered a cup of coffee along with a greasy plate of meat, eggs, and hash browns, and took out my phone. The rest of the company was still some ways away, so I had plenty of time to eat, reach the campsite, and pitch my tent before expecting the presence of anyone else. I finished my meal and leaned back satisfied. I always used hiking trips as an excuse to binge on my favorite unhealthy breakfast food. I got a refill on my coffee and asked for the bill the next time the waitress happened by,

and sat at the booth, gazing out the window, watching the cars zip by on the highway. The coffee was strong and bitter, but there's something about a crappy cup of diner coffee that scratches a particular itch like nothing else. Need the machine? Came a voice from my right, and I pulled my attention away from the highway to focus on the waitress standing next to me. Smile on her face and debit machine in her hand. yes I will thank you I said as I set down my cup of coffee and tilted to the side to fish my wallet out of my back pocket heading to the mountains for the weekend the waitress asked as I punched my pin into the machine yeah three-day hike actually I replied with a smile as I returned the machine to her and drained my cup of coffee

ooh fun whereabouts you headed she asked tearing a receipt off the machine and handing me a copy crestwood trail a bit northwest of here Never been, I said with a smile that quickly evaporated as I watched the face of the waitress darken as I mentioned the trail. They say that's an evil trail, you know, she said. Evil? Like, it's haunted? I asked, raising an eyebrow. Well, no, it's not a ghost. Folks say it's a monster, she said, with a sly tilt of her head. What kind of monster? I asked. The waitress glanced around the diner. It was in between the lunch and the dinner rushes.

so the whole place was pretty much empty aside from me and two other tables. After satisfying herself that it wasn't too busy, she sat down across from me in the booth and leaned forward. I always enjoy a good folk legend, so my attention was fixed on her. So, way back in the early days, she began. When settlers first showed up here at the foot of the mountains, there was a preacher who came from the east with his daughter

and set up one of the first churches around these parts. Now this preacher was one of those old-school men, the Puritans or whatever, super strict. He and his daughter would be working all day, never laughing and never smiling. But the one thing this preacher would allow his daughter was that he got her a pet dog, after her mama died, a big, beautiful dog, who loved that girl and was always by her side. The problem was, as the preacher got older, well, he got even stricter and harsher in the house. Before long the preacher was saying that his daughter loved the dog more than she loved God. He might have been losing his marbles a bit by that point too,

because he was saying that the dog was possessed by a demon that was making his daughter stray away from the Lord. A text pinged on my phone, which I ignored, and the waitress poured me another cup of coffee, which I sipped at absent-mindedly as I listened to the story. So this preacher, thinking that there's a demon in his daughter's dog, gets up from his prayers one day and grabs his musket to go put an end to the mutt,

which was out playing in the field with his daughter. Now as you might guess, the daughter is screaming and crying and begging her dad not to do it, but the preacher won't listen. Now, the preacher goes to shoot the dog, and the daughter, she pulls out her pocket knife and stabs her dad right in the arm, before her and the dog.

They book it off into the woods, right up where Crestwood Trail is nowadays. So, the girl haunts the trail or something then? I asked, taking a sip from my coffee. Nope. The thing is, that preacher might have been right about there being a demon in that dog because she paused to look around. They never saw the girl or the dog ever again,

but they say that when you go up that trail, sometimes you find these things with the heads of dogs and the bodies of people. So, like a dog minotaur, I asked with a smile. Pretty much, the waitress said, laughing and standing up from my table. Well, that's a good story. Where'd you hear it? I asked. Family, it's a story that makes the rounds. In all seriousness, that trail does get some bears and wolves now and then, along with a couple of rock slides.

You be careful up there. May not be no monsters, but it is a dangerous trail, she said as she took my plate. Oh, don't worry, I know what I'm doing, I said. standing up with a smile after finishing my coffee. I strode out of the diner, taking a mint from the bowl by the front door on the way out. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the driver's side door of my car. I gazed up at the handful of clouds that were drifting lazily across the sky, and sighed out a cloud of smoke into the pleasantly warm summer air. I chuckled as I thought over the folktale that the waitress had told me and crushed my smoke out underfoot. I gave my back and

legs a final stretch, sat down in the car, and hopped back onto the highway, heading west into the mountains. It only took another hour to reach to the trailhead of Crestwood, and most of that delay was due to having trouble finding the spot. I parked in the lot, packed up my things, notified the gang that I was there, and set off for the campsite we were all planning to meet at. It was a brief walk, quite close to the trailhead, which we planned merely to use as our staging ground for the first day. The trailhead was nearly deserted. with only one or two other cars in the lot, and not a soul in sight. I had snapped a picture of the trail map at the lot just in case I needed it later. It was the height of summer, but a cool

breeze was blowing off the mountains from the west. The world felt fresh, crisp, and alive. Birds were singing, squirrels chased one another back and forth, and a few rabbits were nibbling on patches of grass aside the trail. I reached the clearing that we had decided on for our first campsite, tossed my bag on the ground, and took a deep breath of fresh air. A small creek was gurgling past the clearing, and ancient pines ringed the space around. The crestwood trail was just visible past the underbrush, which would make it easy to call out to my friends as they passed by. I gathered a pile of stones from the creek and created a small spot for a fire in the center of the clearing, and after gathering up enough dead wood and kindling, had a respectable blaze going shortly after.

I pitched my tent and sat down by the fire to bask in the peaceful serenity of unadulterated nature. When I'm in nature, the closest I get to keeping track of the time is knowing where the sun is, so I can't tell you how long it took for Evan and Evangeline to show up, but it couldn't have been that long. I said hello and asked all the standard questions like how they were and how their trip was, and then helped them set their tents up. We were halfway through the setup when Emma and Aaron came plotting up the trail, causing the whole process of questions and set up to begin anew.

Barring a few hiccups by the two inexperienced hikers, we quickly had our campsite set up and a small dinner cooked over the fire. Stomocks full, we settled down and passed a few drinks around the circle. As the sun began to sink below the horizon, I heard the howling of something deep off in the wilderness, either a wolf or a coyote, and it sent a quick chill up my spine, reminding me of the story the waitress in Hinton had told me. I piped up, told the group I had a story and related the tale that I had heard that afternoon, to the general approval of my friends.

They thought it was at least a unique local folk tale, albeit not a particularly scary campfire story. This devolved into us telling scary stories around the fire for another hour or so, though it was nothing beyond your very stereotypical ghost stories or serial killers with hookhand stories. With a slight buzz and a full stomach, we all retired to bed after spending a good half hour gazing at the beauty of the mountain stars, which were shining in full, unobstructed beauty, unimpeded by the light pollution of a city. As I slipped into my cool sleeping bag, my head filled with thoughts of trees gently swaying in the wind and crystal clear glacial creek snaking silently along the floors of ancient valleys. We woke early to the gentle tittering

of the mountain birds, and I stepped out of the tent, shivering as I yawned. Sunbeams were shattering themselves against the dewdrops that coated both the trees and the grass, causing the whole clearing to glitter like crystal. A few ribbons of fog were hung about the creek, distant and dismal cousins to the rolling banks of fog that embraced the upper reaches of the mountain peaks about us. I relieved myself and dug through the ashes of last night's fire, where I found a few red coals desperately clinging to life and heat in their ashen tomb. With some kindling in a series of deep breaths, the crackling of a fire soon joined the chorus of sounds on the morning mountain. I sat for a while as I let the warmth flood over me.

Summer though it is, a night in the mountains is almost always cold, regardless of the time of year. A lesson I learned the hard way when I almost froze on a mountain one summer night. I boiled a pot of coffee on the fire and began to fry up breakfast, the smell of which served well in waking up my still sleeping friends. We gathered around the fire, eating and drinking in silence, until everyone's mood seemed to perk up once they had some coffee in them. We broke camp and kicked out our fire, chatting all the while about what had been going on in our lives. At 8 o'clock that morning, we returned to the path and began our hike up Crestwood Trail. The hike that day was largely uneventful. Don't get me wrong, it was an absolutely beautiful trail, snaking through the hearts of a number of valleys.

we were passing by groves of trees, fields of flowers, and pure blue ponds and rivers. We sat on the side of a shale outcropping for a quick lunch and a break from the walking, and camped that night on the banks of a glacial pond. It was another great night of stars and good company, and we all went to bed early to rest our aching legs. Emma and Aaron not being avid hikers had slowed us down somewhat, but we were still on track to reach the trail end by tomorrow and be back to the trailhead on Monday. I had my morning coffee while laying on the bank of an ice-cold pond and watching dawn break over the peaks of a mountain range. It was absolutely beautiful.

Like the day before, we broke camp quickly and were off again on the trail. This day promised to be harder than the ones before, as it was largely uphill, with terrain far rockier and more treacherous. The end of the trail was supposedly one of the most captivating glacial waterfalls in the world, however. So I found sore feet, a small price to pay. The five of us were crossing a portion of the trail that was buried under a shale slide when I heard a yelp from behind me and the sound of rocks being tumbled down the side of the hill. I spun around to see that Aaron had slipped on some of the loose stones and tumbled a few feet off the trail. You all right? Evan called as he picked his way down to her to help her back to her feet.

Yeah, I think so. Aaron winced as she was lifted back to her feet. She let out a little yelp and had to lean on Evan for a moment who lowered her back down. We had gathered around, and Aaron had pulled her boot off to reveal that her ankle looked in somewhat of a bad state. Could be sprained, Evangeline said worriedly. It's hurting when I put pressure on it, Aaron said. I don't think you should keep walking on that, I added. Well, not much of a choice at this point, Emma said, gesturing to the broad wilderness all around us. I can head back and you guys can keep going without me.

I don't want to spoil the weekend, Aaron said with a smile. Not alone you won't, Evan said. We sat there on the shale and debated for a bit. We found a walking stick for Aaron and managed to bind her ankle up so it stayed in place better. It was decided that Evan would take her as far back as they could go that day and camp somewhere, meeting up with us as we made our way back the next day. We sat on the shale slide, taking a break, and passing some whiskey around, which seemed to put everyone, including Aaron, in a better mood.

We bid goodbye to one another as Emma, Evangeline and I carried on up the trail, while Aaron and Evan hobbled slowly away in the distance. After about half an hour of walking, they were out of sight. With just the three of us, and now feeling like we were in something of a hurry, we reached the end of the trail not long after the sun had peaked in the sky. It was as beautiful as promised, a stream of ice-white water cascaded down the stones above us to spill out into the riverhead that bounded down the mountain into the valleys below. Pine trees and shrubbery filled the entire mountain cove where the waterfall began, and we spent some time exploring and taking pictures. Hey, come check this out. I heard the voice of Emma cut through the sounds of the afternoon. I pushed through some underbrush

before I found her, standing at the mouth of a yawning black cave. Whoa, Evangeline said, as she emerged from the undergrowth to stand next to us. The mouth of the cave opened up the face of the mountain rock, and before the cave was strewn a random collection of bones, blood, feathers, and fur. Some sort of totem? Was constructed just outside the mouth of the cave. A pile of rocks stacked one on top of the other, with strange symbols and patterns drawn on them in what looked like it was blood.

On top of the pile sat what looked to be the skull of a wolf, or huge dog that glared at us from empty black eye sockets. On the sides of the mountain, flanking the entrances of the cave were what looked like ancient cave paintings, scenes of animals being hunted. But unlike most cave paintings where it was humans hunting buffalo or whatever, this one seemed to show some sort of animal-headed man hunting things. It looked like some sort of ancient Egyptian god. The three of us stood in dumb silence gazing at the scene before us,

and my stomach started to turn as I thought of the story from the diner. I knew, or thought I knew, that monsters weren't real, they were just stories. But at this moment, all reason was out the window, and I was ready to get the hell off of that mountain. All right, that's enough for me, let's go, Emma said. Yep, I said. Okay, Evangeline said, and the three of us turned and nearly ran back down the trail away from the waterfall. I shuddered at the sound of a howl far off in the distance as the three of us descended in silent haste. I was taking up the rear, and though it was never vocalized, I could feel that the cave had

unsettled all of us. The unease was palpable. I cast a number of furtive glances back over my shoulder, and periodically I could swear I was seeing things in my peripheral vision. We moved so quickly down the trail that we soon had to stop and take a break. What do you think that was? Emma asked with a quake in her voice. Probably just some prank that has to do with the folk legend. That waitress was pretty excited to tell me that story, I said, between gulps of water. What if there's actually a dogman monster thing on the mountain? Evangeline said with an unconfident smile.

No such thing as monsters, I spoke. Either way, I'm not dying sober, Emma said, as she took a swig from the bottle of whiskey that she was carrying in her bag. She passed it around, and we all took a drink as well. We kept a quick pace going as we traced the trail back to its source. Each of us had picked up a stick to use for support while walking, and perhaps on some primal level we wanted them as weapons in the event there was a monster out there. Emma and I had each brought bearspray with us,

which we kept very close at hand as we walked. All of our heads were on a swivel as we passed back down the shale slide where Aaron had fallen earlier. We hit the floor of the valley quickly and were nearly jogging down the trail when we stopped again for a break. with Aaron's ankle, she and Evan can't have made it much further. I bet we overtake them soon, Evangeline said. Do we stop in camp, or do we make them keep moving? Emma asked. I say we set up our tents and wait for Evan and Aaron to come back. They probably didn't expect us for a few hours more and just wandered off.

And if they don't come back, Emma asked, sitting down and fishing her whiskey out of her pack. Then we deal with that when it happens, I said, shrugging my pack off. Evangeline remained silent. We set up our tents and heaped the campfire a bit higher. Everyone was moving and working in nearly complete silence, ears trained on the woods around us, starting at the slightest sound. As much as I was trying to ram the idea into my head that there was a perfectly rational explanation for what was going on, I couldn't help but be startled a few times at the sound of some of the sticks cracking and breaking in the fire. We sat silently as an hour past, and then a second one. Our shadows were beginning to lengthen, and the only thing on everyone's

mind was that Evan and Aaron should by all means have been back by now. It was almost as if we were all too paralyzed to broach the subject, that if none of us mentioned it, if we didn't speak the words, it wouldn't be real. They're not coming back, Emma said, slurring her words slightly at this point. Evangeline turned away and rubbed her face with her hands. I stared straight into the fire, fire. We'll find some park rangers when we get back and report them missing. They'll find them, I said. Find their bones more likely. Emma scoffed. Let's eat something and get some sleep. We can start back right at sunrise, I said, as I began to assemble a few things to cook over the fire. I'm not hungry, Evangeline said, as she quietly walked away from the fire back into her tent.

Emma followed her with her eyes and then shruged toward me. I cooked for Emma and me in silence, and we ate quickly as the sun began to set. We finished and packed our things up before I knocked on the front of Evangeline's tent. Yeah, what? came her voice from inside. Emma's going to bed. I'm going to stay up and keep watch, I said. Okay, Evangeline said quietly. Good night. Emma retreated to her tent, and I took up my walking stick and my bear spray, and planted myself next to the fire, which I heaped with a few extra branches.

My legs in back were sore and I was exhausted, so I boiled some coffee for myself and shakily smoked a cigarette. The nicotine calmed me down, and the coffee perked me up. The valley was silent, save for the hooting of some owls, and the skittering of some nocturnal animals along the forest floor. I paced around the campsite for a while to keep the blood flowing through my legs, and managed to smoke my way through about half the pack of cigarettes I had with me. Something howled far off in the distance, which sent a point of a point of. primordial shiver of fear through my body. What was normally the serene beauty of the countryside blanket of stars now seemed to mock me, displaying its beauty with cosmic indifference to what was

happening below. I turned at the sound of a tent being unzipped. Evangeline was emerging from her tent wrapped in a jacket and looked at me. I nodded to her. Want me to take over? She asked quietly. Sure. Give me one of those cigarettes first, she said with a weak smile. I handed her and held up my lighter for her. She breathed the acrid iron smoke out into the still night air and walked over to the fire. Good night, I said. There's coffee there that's still warm if you want some. Thanks, good night, she smiled.

I crawled into my tent and tucked myself into my sleeping bag without zipping it closed, preparing in case I had to suddenly leap to my feet. Sleep overcame me quickly, but it was a brief and fitful sleep choked with nightmares and visions of running through the forest. pursued by some unnatural anti-deluvian beast that snarled and snapped at my heels. I was dreaming that the beast had caught me and was sinking its teeth into my ankles. I let out a shrill scream, but the scream sounded like it was made with a voice that wasn't my own. I bolted awake. The scream wasn't a dream. I ripped out from my sleeping back and smashed

through the flap of my tent, walking stick in one hand and bermace in the other. The scream was coming from Evangeline, who was sprawled on the ground next to the fire. with some sort of hulking human form crouched over top of her. The beast had the body of a huge hairy man, something like seven feet tall. But the head, the head was that of some mangy wild dog, with blood on its teeth and a huge tongue lolling down from its snout. Its eyes were a deep blue and flashed violence by the light of the campfire. I raised the bear mace and released it at the monster.

A jet of aerosolized spray leaped towards the beast and coated it from the head to the waist. It reeled back off of Evangeline, howling and tearing at its eyes and face. It backed and bounded off into the tree line, crashing into the trunk of a huge pine as it went, howling and screeching all the way. What the hell was that? Emma yelled as she was fumbling out of her tent flap. No idea, I said breathlessly as I rushed over to where Evangeline was lying bloody on the ground. Whatever it was had got at her throat and opened up what I assumed was an artery by how much blood was coming out. She looked at me, her skin deathly pale in the firelight, and she grabbed my arm with her blood-soaked hand.

She tried to move, but grunted and fell back onto the ground. She looked as though she was trying to say something, but all that came from her mouth was a gurgling sound, followed by a trail of blood running out from her lips. She went limp on the ground and shut her eyes. Do something! Emma yelled. No use, I said, as I stood back up and readied my bear spray again. The sound of the beast's howling had faded to silence, and I couldn't make out the sound of underbrush being crashed through any longer.

What do we do now? Emma hissed. Grab only bare necessities, leave everything that would just be extra weight, we're going to make it back to the cars, I said, as I scanned the tree line for any signs of movement. Emma rushed back into her tent to pack things. I gazed up at the sky briefly, where the stars continued to twinkle, and the moon sat, shining down on the scene of horror unfolding in the wild. Emma was ready in a moment, and I left her to keep watch with her can of mace while I packed my things,

which amounted to almost nothing save some water, snacks, and a flashlight. I came back out and we left our tents there in the clearing next to the smoldering fire. We hit the trail and immediately started running, allowing the moon to light our path and saving the flashlights only if they were absolutely necessary. Emma was much shorter than me, so we made a slow pace, and before long, the sound of howling began to cut the silence of the night behind us. We're never going to outrun it, Emma said, panting and stopping on the side of the trail. Do you have a better idea? I said as I opened my water bottle and took a long drink. Nope, give me a cigarette, Emma said, extending her hand. I gave her one and lit one for myself.

Now doesn't seem like the time, I said, still catching my breath. It ran from the mace once, I think our only chance is to hit it again and keep running, she said. Or I leave you behind because you're not as fast. I smiled. Screw off. We moved off the trail and hid in a small ditch that was surrounded by bushes, deciding that we had to try and immobilize the thing one more time. The howling was quickly getting closer, and we wouldn't be able to run all night. We each had a final swig of the whiskey bottle as the howling started to get so close that the hair all over me was standing on end. We could both hear the thing prowling around just over the lip of the ditch, and we made eye contact and nodded. We both jumped from the ditch at the same time,

each of us discharging a shot of the mace at the thing. It was covered head to toe, but instead of immediately turning the monster, it merely howled and leaped toward us. It landed on Emma and sent her crashing down to the ground. The beast had obviously been blinded somewhat by the mace, as it tried to sink its teeth into her, but merely managed to bite into the ground next to her head. As I raised my walking stick to strike the monster, the last thing I saw was Emma's hand, which had managed to squirm its way into her pocket, flicking the lighter she had taken from me when she lit her cigarette. With a sudden whoosh, a blinding light, and a searing heat, The monster and Emma were immediately engulfed in a towering flame as the butane from the bear spray ignited in half a second.

The monster shrieked and screamed and howled with a terrible primal ferocity that made my blood run cold as it writhed on the ground. I heard a pitiful, choked scream escape from Emma's burning form as I turned in fear and began sprinting down the trail. Adrenaline is an unbelievable drug. I ran for what felt like hours, my legs screaming in pain and my mind a furious hurry. of thoughts that had only the goal of survival in mind. The screams of the dying and the smell of burning flesh and hair never left my consciousness for a second as I was running. As the sun began to make its presence known in the eastern sky, I reached the parking lot and collapsed on the gravel in front of my car. I began crying, heaving sobs that were both

gasps for breath, and attempts to expel the horror I had just witnessed. My limbs felt like jelly, and it took nearly ten minutes before I was breathing regularly enough to be able to swallow some water. I climbed into my car, a shattered husk of a person, and began to back out of the parking lot, with the goal of finding the nearest ranger station. Before I could floor the gas pedal away from the crestwood trailhead, I looked back to where I had come from, and far off through the tree line, I could make out a terrible black, loping shape. The hair had been burned off of it across its entire body,

body, and what wasn't covered in soot and dirt was a mess of bloody, ragged skin that was beginning to slough off from the flesh-consuming power of the butane. It merely stood in the tree line and stared at me with its hateful, icy blue eyes. I made it to a ranger station and spilled out this entire story. Unsurprisingly, they think I'm insane. There's a huge search currently underway for the four that I left behind, but nobody has been found yet. Safe to say, I've now become suspect number one in the disappearance of everyone. So I've been asked to put my story into writing, for the use of the police and whatnot. They might all think I'm insane, and who knows, maybe I am, maybe my mind got shattered on that mountain and I killed all my friends. Monsters

aren't supposed to be real. Either way, I've never been the same. I might as well have died on that mountain too. They say I'm crazy, but I know what I saw. From the moment I was born, I was tucked into the soft folds of darkness, a baby who entered the world without the gift of sight. Darkness was my cradle, my school, my sanctuary. Sightless, yes, but sightless in a world where I learned to appreciate textures, vibrations, and sounds, as a seer appreciates colors. Some folks, I suppose, might call it a tragedy, being shrouded in an eternal night. But me? I never understood the fuss. I've been blind from the get-go and you can't miss something you've never known. That's not to say I wasn't curious about this thing called sight, but I wasn't a mourner at a funeral. I was just someone

who couldn't appreciate the visual scenery. My life was a series of well-practiced motions, much like a dance you've learned by heart. I knew the terrain of my life, knew the pathways my feet had memorized, and the familiar corners that told me where I was. Every day was a composition of routines, a repetition of known landscapes. Home was an apartment about a mile away from a local steakhouse, a run-of-the-mill joint that did its stake just the way I liked, rare, with a side of baked potato that smelled like a dream. I knew the ten-block radius around my place like the back of my hand, every crack in the sidewalk, every rustle of the trees, every hum of the city I called home. It was a day like any other when I decided to take myself out for a spin, indulge in a

solo outing to my favorite haunt. The air was crisp, the noises of the city a familiar song. I navigated the familiar streets with the assistance of my white cane, its tap-tap against the pavement, a comforting sound in the symphony of urban life. There was a certain rhythm to it, a rhythm I had been dancing to since I was a kid. The rhythm of life, I guess you'd call it. There's a pleasure to independence, to making your own way in the world, despite what life throws at you. Sure I was blind, but I wasn't helpless. I had my routines, my spaces, my independence. That night was about a simple pleasure, a steak dinner on my own. Little did I know, it was the night my understanding of my world would change,

the night that darkness would take on a whole new meaning. In that moment, though, I was blissfully unaware, the tap of my white cane leading me towards a delicious evening, an evening that was just a preamble to a night that would redefine what I knew about the dark. The restaurant was a modest place, tucked in between the brick and mortar establishments that made up my city's fabric. There was nothing particularly special about it, but the steakhouse had been there for as long as I could remember. The smell of grilling meat was a landmark, a sensory signal that told me I was close. It was bustling that evening, the noises painting a vivid picture in my mind. I could hear the clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, punctuated by laughter,

and the occasional chime of the entrance bell. With my stick leading the way, I found my usual spot at the bar, right next to the window that overlooked the street. The texture of the weathered counter beneath my fingertips felt familiar, the worn-down edges a testament to countless hands that had sat here before.

The bartender, a man named Dale, recognized my voice. Evening, he greeted. The usual? His voice was warm, tinged with a bit of roughness that spoke volumes of the cigarettes he smoked during his breaks. Evening, Dale. Yes, the usual, please, I responded.

As I waited for my meal, I found myself drawn to the conversations around me, the ebb and flow of life unfolding in this little corner of the city. There was a certain beauty in the mundane, in the routine exchanges, the shared laughter, the clink of glassware, it was a symphony of normalcy that I cherished. The steak arrived, the tantalizing aroma hitting my senses before Dale's voice did, enjoy your meal and enjoy it I did the steak was juicy just the right side of rare and the baked potato was done to perfection it was a sensory feast the robust flavors igniting my taste buds the satisfying texture of the meat and the crunch of the potato skin grounding me in the moment in the cocoon of these familiar surroundings I was at ease content I was just another patron enjoying his meal

another thread woven into the fabric of the city's vibrant tapestry. It was the perfect end to a day, a humble celebration of independence and normalcy. As the hour grew late, I decided it was time to make my way back. I paid my bill, left a generous tip for Dale, and rose from my seat, white cane in hand. As I made my way to the entrance, I could hear the familiar sounds of the city outside, cars honking, people chatting, and the distant sound of a dog barking. Be safe out there, Dale called after me, a note of concern coloring his tone. We'll do, Dale, I called back, stepping out into the cool evening air.

Walking back home, the noises of the night were a comfort, a lullaby that was all too familiar. Little did I know that the melody was about to change, that my dance with the darkness was about to take a chilling turn. My journey home was a practiced routine, each step as familiar as the next. The night was draped around the city, a comforting darkness that was as much a part of me as the beats of my heart. About halfway home, my path crossed with an alleyway, a narrow strip of city that ran perpendicular to the sidewalk. It was usually quiet, nothing but the echo of distant city sounds reaching its depths. Tonight, though, something was different. A sound broke the monotony, a strange noise that didn't fit into the usual night music.

I halted, head tilted, trying to make sense of it. It was quiet but discernible, a wet, squelching noise followed by a suppressed whimper. I felt a chill raced down my spine. It was a sound I had encountered before, not in reality, but in the scores of movies and shows I had listened to, someone was being hurt. I felt a surge of fear rise within me, followed by the instinct to flee. As quietly as I could, I started to retreat, hoping to disappear into the night undetected. My attempt at escape, however, was cut short by a sickening thud, like the sound of a heavy bag of meat hitting the concrete. It was followed by a loud yell. Panicked footsteps echoed through the alleyway, growing louder as they neared.

I froze, backing up against the cold brick wall, heart pounding like a hammer against my ribs. Hey you! A voice thundered, filled with rage and panic. You weren't supposed to see that? The voice cut off abruptly. The soft clatter of my dropped cane followed. And an eerie silence filled the air. Oh, oh, ho, ho, ho, you're blind.

The man spoke again, his voice softer this time, but no less terrifying. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I felt the rush of wind against my face as he waved his hand before my eyes. My delayed flinch must have confirmed his suspicions. My, my, the man mused, his voice too close for comfort. What a unique opportunity I find myself with. Then, in a bizarre twist, I felt him grab my hands, pulling me to my feet. He placed my cane back in my grip.

I was too stunned to speak, too terrified to question. What, what are you doing? I stammered out, my mind racing to make sense of the situation. I want to walk you home, he said. His voice casual as if the idea wasn't horrifyingly insane. I shivered as his hand traced my brow ridge, a chilling touch that sent goosebumps spreading across my skin. I felt a push against my back, jolting me out of my terror.

terror-induced stupor. Now walk, he commanded, his tone icy. And so, I started walking, my heart hammering in my chest, the sounds of the city replaced by the terror-filled silence of my world turned upside down. We set off, my steps hesitant, and his confidently firm. I couldn't place his voice, couldn't gauge his size or age, or anything that might give me an advantage. All I knew was that he was the puppeteer now, pulling the strings of my fear. The city, so familiar a moment ago, felt like a labyrinth of uncertainty. A sudden metallic clatter jarred me, sharp against the silent backdrop of the cityscape. Oops, sorry, the man muttered, his tone almost jovial. Drop the knife. His words hit me like a punch in the stomach. The knife, the same

knife that had ended life in the alleyway. My skin turned cold, the grim reality of the situation settling in. Why are you doing this? Why don't you kill me? Why? My voice was barely a whisper, choked with fear and disbelief. He didn't answer. His silence was deafening, the only sound being the steady rhythm of our footsteps. The city seemed eerily still, the usual cacophony of night sounds replaced by a hollow quiet. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for the nightmare to end. After what felt like an eternity, the familiar contours of my apartment building came into focus under my touch. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. I could still feel his presence, a looming shadow that turned the familiar into the terrifying. I reached for my key,

hands trembling and unlocked the door. There was a brief moment of silence, then the feel of a hand on my back, a chilling breath against my ear. My heart pounded in my ears as he whispered something, his voice a haunting lullaby that drowned out everything else. I struggled to comprehend his words, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Have a good night, stranger, he finally said, his tone almost friendly. I stood there paralyzed as his footsteps faded into the night. The echo of his voice hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the horror I had just lived through. I stumbled into my apartment, the door shutting behind me with an echoing thud. I was safe for now, ensconced within the familiar walls of my home.

Yet I knew the fear would remain, a ghost that had taken permanent residence in my world. I was no longer the same man who had stepped out for a quiet dinner earlier that evening. the simple pleasures, the ordinary routine, everything was stained by the terror of the night. Alone in the dark, I realized that the nightmare was far from over. It had only just begun. I spent the night locked inside, every sound, every shift in the wind setting my heart racing. I was living in a world that had suddenly become a stranger, every familiarity now cloaked in a shroud of terror. Sleep was a far-off land, unreachable through the clamoring fear that had settled. into my bones. The morning came with a creeping dawn that I could not see but felt in the warmth

seeping into my apartment. I sat there, huddled on my couch, my cane lying lifelessly by my side. The world had shifted on its axis, and I was lost within its new, daunting topography. It was midday when there was a knock on my door. I froze, my heart pounding, the echo of the knock reverberating through my apartment. I remained silent, praying they'd leave, praying it wasn't him, A few minutes passed, then the knock came again, louder this time. With a deep breath, I rose and walked towards the door, my cane tapping nervously against the floor. Police, a woman's voice called from the other side. We're investigating an incident that occurred near here last night.

Can we ask you some questions? My hand shook as I unlocked the door and let the officers in. They questioned me about the night before and I told them everything. I could hear the sympathy in their voices, the underlying horror at what I had been through. The encounter ended with a promise to do everything they could to find the man who had tormented me. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. I tried to find normalcy again, to erase the nightmarish stain from my life. Yet, every echo in the alleyway, every unexpected sound sent me spiraling back into that night.

I was trapped in a never-ending cycle of fear, my world a prison of unseen terrors. It was on one of these terror-filled nights, as I lay huddled on my bed, that I heard it. A soft tap against my window like the wind teasing the glass. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. Then it came again, louder this time. I reached out, my trembling hand pressing against the cold glass. Hello, stranger, a voice whispered through the darkness, his voice unmistakably familiar.

You thought you could forget about me? His laughter echoed through the night, a chilling lullaby that sank into the depths of my soul. I was blind and alone, trapped in a world of unseen terrors. As his chilling words swirled around me, I knew with a sickening certainty, I would never walk alone again.

I'd never been one for the great outdoors, not like Jim. Jim was born with a compass in his hand and a trail map in his head, the kind of guy who could make a campfire sing. Me? I'm a city boy through and through. But Jim was my best friend, the kind you can't refuse,

the kind you stick with through thick and thin. And so, when he suggested we take a few days to trek some trail miles from civilization, I found myself saying yes. We were rumbling down the old highway, a two-lane road hemmed in by dense forest on either side, in Jim's beat-up truck that had seen better decades. Jim had a way of turning the mundane into an adventure. Remember, it's not the destination, but the journey, he'd say, a grin splitting his tanned face. His chiseled features, wild hair, and sparkling eyes were more at home.

in this wilderness than in any city and as much as I found it annoying I couldn't help but admire his spirit we packed the truck to the gills with supplies I kept asking if we needed all that stuff pointing to the extra boots the water filters the emergency blanket the bear spray Jim would laugh and slap me on the back you can never be too prepared buddy the ride was filled with tales of his upcoming marriage future in Zurich his excitement to make me his best man and his dreams of European wilderness. He planned to make the Alps his new backyard. We shared beers, laughs and songs, making the drive a memorable one. It was one of those moments where life felt whole. He was everything I wasn't, a free spirit, fearless, a man of the wilderness.

Me? I preferred my coffee brewed, my food cooked, and my Wi-Fi strong. But somehow the wilderness, the promise of an adventure and a bond of a decade made me tag along. As we crossed the county line, I felt a twinge of unease. I looked at Jim, who was humming along to a country song on the radio. His eyes focused on the road ahead. I could tell he was home, ready for the adventure ahead. Meanwhile, I was unsure, out of my comfort zone, wondering if my friend's sense of adventure would get the better of us. But there was no turning back now. We're here, buddy, he said, patting me on the shoulder as he parked the truck at the trailhead. The forest loomed over us, an untamed beast ready to swallow us whole.

Ready? Jim asked, looking at me with those twinkling eyes filled with excitement and a dash of madness. I took a deep breath, stepping out of the comfort of the truck. I guess we'll find out, I said, my voice trembling just slightly. As we started our descent into the wilderness, I had no idea what lay ahead. We started our hike into the wilderness, the sun warming our backs, our bags full of gear weighing us down. The trail was beautiful, untouched. the towering pine trees, the chirping birds, the crunch of gravel under our boots.

It was a different world from the city. I was beginning to see why Jim loved this so much. We had been walking for a couple of hours when Jim stopped abruptly. He stood, looking at something off the trail. His usually jovial face was drawn into a serious expression. I walked over to see what had caught his eye. Lying there in the underbrush was a body, a woman. Her body was a woman. Her body was a woman. Her body was crumpled up, face down, her blonde hair fanned out around her head like a golden halo. Her pale skin stood out starkly against the dark greens and browns of the forest floor. A chill ran down my spine as I took in the gruesome sight. Jim knelt down next to the body. He was quiet looking her over, his experienced eyes taking in details that I couldn't see. He was no stranger to death in the

wild. He'd hunted and fished all his life. But this was different. This was human. We need to call the police, I whispered. My voice choked. Jim looked at me, his eyes dark. We're miles away from any cell signal, buddy. Silence fell between us. I looked at the woman, my heart hammering in my chest. She was young, barely older than a teenager, I realized, my stomach churning. We need to do something, Jim. We will, he said, his voice quiet. First, we need to be sure there's no danger around. The person who did this might still be around. His words sent a cold chill down my spine. My city boy instincts were screaming at me to run, to get away from here. But we were in the middle of the wilderness, with a dead body and a potential murderer on the loose. I was way out of my comfort zone. We searched the area, our eyes straining for any signs of the killer. My heart pounded in my chest as every rustle in the underbrush seemed like a potential threat. But there was nothing. Jim insisted we continue with our hike, arguing that it was the quickest way to reach help. We left the body, marked the location on our map, and with heavy

hearts, we moved forward. I glanced back at the lifeless form, an icy hand gripping my heart. This was supposed to be a fun trip, a last adventure before Jim got married and moved away. It wasn't supposed to be a crime scene. As we trek deeper into the wilderness, I couldn't shake off the image of the girl. Her lifeless eyes, her pale skin. Who was she? Why was she here? And who could have done something so horrible? As the sun started to set, we set up camp. But there was no laughter tonight, no stories or beers. The forest was eerily quiet, and the darkness around us felt heavy with the weight of what we had found.

As I closed my eyes trying to sleep, all I could see was the dead girl's face. The next morning was grim. Neither of us had slept much. Our eyes were heavy with the lack of sleep and the weight of what we had done. discovered. We packed up camp quickly, barely speaking a word to each other. The usual camaraderie between Jim and me was missing. Our trek back to civilization was tense. We moved as fast as we could, but the dense forest and the rough terrain slowed us down. The chirping birds, the rustling leaves, the sounds of nature that usually brought me peace, only heightened my anxiety now. Each rustle

in the brush seemed like a threat. Each bird's call felt like a warning. After hours of of walking, we saw it, the faint glimmer of a cell tower, civilization. We quickened our pace. As soon as we had a strong enough signal, Jim called the police. He gave them our location, described the scene we had found. His voice was steady, but I could see the worry in his eyes. I sat down on a fallen tree, feeling exhausted and shaken. The wilderness, which had always been a place of peace and tranquility for Jim, and a newfound escape for me, had turned into something sinister and dangerous. Jim ended his call and came to sit next to me. They're sending a team right away, he said. We did what we could. Now it's up to them. But who was she, Jim? And who could

have done something like this? I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Jim didn't have an answer. He just patted my shoulder and gave me a grim smile. When the police finally arrived, we led them back to the body. They roped off the area, started their investigation. Forensic teams moved around, capturing pictures, collecting evidence. Jim and I stood off to the side, watching the grim scene unfold. One of the officers, a gruff man with a thick beard, came over to us. He asked us questions about the body, about our hike, about what we had seen. His questions were direct to the point. I could tell he was experienced, that he had seen scenes like this before. When he was done, he thanked us and told us we could leave.

As we walked away, I glanced back at the scene one last time. The woman's body, now covered by a police tarp, was a stark reminder of the tragedy we had stumbled upon. As we drove back to the city, I couldn't help but think about the woman. Who was she? What was her story? And who could have done something so monstrous? The question circled in my mind, building a nod of worry and fear. That night, as I lay in my bed,

the comfort of my own home did nothing to ease my anxiety. the image of the woman's body, the eerieness of the wilderness, the knowledge of the evil that existed, it all weighed on me heavily. Little did I know this was just the beginning. The wilderness had more secrets to unveil, and they were far darker than anything I had ever imagined. I sat at my kitchen table, nursing my morning coffee, when Jim called. His voice was heavy with urgency, pulling me from my thoughts. They've identified the woman, he said. My heart lurched in my chest. I found myself at the local police station sooner than I'd like, the bitter taste of the hurried coffee still lingering on my tongue. The officer who had questioned us at the scene,

Officer Wilson, led us to a small room. I recognized it immediately as an interrogation room. Too many crime shows, I guess. He motioned for us to take a seat. He began to speak, his voice grave. The woman's name was Sarah Miller. She was a local, lived in town with her husband and two children. The family had reported her missing a week ago. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as he relayed the information. She had a family. She had a life. She had people who loved her.

Wilson's face was stern as he told us about their preliminary findings. There were signs of struggle, defensive wounds. They were treating it as a homicide. It was everything we feared but hadn't dared to articulate. Sarah's picture was on the table. Her smile eerily disconnected from the gruel. grim discussion. Her bright eyes seemed to follow me, her joyful expression a stark contrast to the way we had found her. The officer went on, talking about their investigation, their leads,

or rather the lack of them. They didn't have any suspects yet. Sarah's husband had been cleared. He had a solid alibi. They had no idea who could have done this or why. I felt a pang of frustration. How could such a thing happen? And no one had any clue. The room grew silent. Wilson finished his briefing, thanked us for our cooperation, and excused himself. I stared at the photo of Sarah, her face forever frozen in a moment of happiness. I couldn't reconcile it with the image of her lifeless body in the woods. Jim and I left the station in a somber silence. As we walked to our cars, I couldn't help but glance back at the police station.

It was just a regular building in our small town, but it held so much weight now. I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. There was a killer in our midst, a predator hiding in the wilderness. The thought was chilling, and yet a part of me knew we couldn't sit idle. We couldn't let Sarah's death go unanswered. As I drove home, I couldn't help but think about Sarah's family. How would they cope with such a loss? And how could we, as a community, ensure that this never happened again?

Sarah's murder was more than a tragedy. It was a violation, a stark reminder of the evil that lurked in the corners of our peaceful town. As I parked in my driveway, I made a silent vow. We would find justice for Sarah. We would find the monster who had done this. That night, as the moon shone brightly in the clear sky, the peaceful wilderness felt more like a battlefield. And I knew we were at war.

The whole town was on edge. You could feel it in the air, a tense, quiet that seemed to have. hang heavy over our once peaceful town, whispers in the grocery store, hushed conversations at the diner, everyone was talking about Sarah, and the fear was palpable. I spent the next few days with a knot in my stomach, restlessly pacing around my house. The silence was deafening, the isolation of my cabin, which I usually found comforting, felt oppressive. The nights were the worst, the shadows in the woods seeming more ominous than ever. One afternoon as I was attempting to distract myself with some paperwork, Jim called. His voice was a mix of surprise and disbelief. It's Pete, he said. They took him in for questioning.

My heart pounded in my chest as I processed what he was saying. Pete Walker, our Pete, he was one of us, a well-liked and respected member of our community. Sure, he was a bit of a loner, living up in the hills, and he had a bit of a temper, but he was no murderer. I couldn't, wouldn't believe it. I found myself at the police station again, this time of my own accord. Officer Wilson looked surprised to see me, but he let me in to see Pete. The sight of him, sitting behind the glass, his face pale and drawn, was jarring. This wasn't right. Pete denied everything. He claimed he was innocent, and I wanted to believe him. The evidence, however, was damning. He had been seen arguing with Sarah a few days before her disappearance.

He couldn't provide an alibi for the night she was killed. He had a history of violence, bar fights, and domestic disputes. His rifle matched the one used to kill Sarah. The air in the room grew thick with tension as Pete pleaded his innocence. I didn't do it, he kept repeating, his voice shaking. His eyes usually so full of life were clouded with fear and desperation. My gut twisted. I left the police station with a heavy heart.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over our small town. Everything felt different, tainted. Sarah's murder had opened a Pandora's box of suspicion and fear, and there was no going back. I didn't sleep that night. The thought of Pete, alone in his cell, haunted me. The community was divided, some voicing their support for Pete, others condemning him. The peace we had taken for granted was shattered. I couldn't shake off the feeling of the.

dread? What if Pete was innocent? What if the real killer was still out there? As I stared out into the darkness, the woods seemed to whisper secrets. There was a killer among us, hiding in plain sight, and we were his prey. The thought was chilling. But one thing was clear. We wouldn't let fear paralyze us. We couldn't. We had to fight. We had to uncover the truth, for Sarah, for Pete, for our town. In the quiet stillness of the night, I made another vow. We would not rest. We would not rest until we had answers. We would not let fear rule us. We would stand together, united in our pursuit of justice, because that's who we were, that's who we are, a community, a family, and we would protect our own no matter what. Days turned into weeks, and the peace that our town

once enjoyed seemed like a distant memory. The community was torn apart. Suspicion hung over us like a dense fog. The look in people's eyes, once friendly and open, was now guard. and mistrusting, we had changed. The question on everyone's mind was, who did it? Conversations whispered in shadowed corners about motives, alibis, and past grudges. Despite our best efforts, Pete's trial had turned up more questions than answers. Jim and I poured over every scrap of evidence, every statement. Our search for the truth became an obsession. Each lead we followed ended in a dead end, leaving us back where we started, lost and frustrated. The weight of our collective failure hung heavy on our shoulders. Then, one night, everything changed. Jim called me late into

the evening. He had a lead, something we hadn't considered. A piece of information so significant, so shocking, it threatened to turn everything we knew upside down. He didn't share the details over the phone. All he said was, you need to see this. When I got to Jim's place, he was pacing the room, his face pale. He handed me a letter, his hands shaking. As I read the words, a cold, chill ran down my spine. It was a confession. The letter was written by Bill, the town's good-natured mechanic, a family man, a friend. His words were clear, his remorse palpable. He admitted to killing Sarah. He wrote about the guilt eating him from the inside, the torment of carrying such a dark secret. I felt a mix of emotions as I read the letter,

shock, disbelief, anger. Bill, it couldn't be. The thought of someone we had known for so long, someone we trusted being capable of such a heinous act was terrifying. We drove to Bill's house, the darkness of the night matching the darkness that had descended on our hearts. The front door was ajar. Inside, the house was deathly quiet, and then we found him. Bill was in the garage lying motionless on the floor, an empty pill bottle next to him. It seemed he had decided to escape the torment of his guilt in the most tragic way possible. The air was heavy with the stench of gasoline. and a single note lay on the workbench, the same confession word for word that we had read earlier.

Next to it, a matchbox. The realization hit us like a punch to the gut. Bill had planned to take his own life and burn everything down with him, leaving behind a pile of ashes and a terrified, shattered community. My heart pounded in my chest. The horror of it all was overwhelming. Our small town had been transformed into a scene straight out of a horror movie. The trust we had in each other,

in our community was shattered. As we walked out of the house, I glanced back one last time. The darkness of the garage seemed to engulf everything, a symbolic representation of the darkness that had descended on our lives. It was a terrifying end to a horrifying saga. We had found our killer, but at what cost? Our town would never be the same again. Our sense of security forever shattered.

We were left with a haunting question. How well do we truly know anyone? Thank you.