Just Creepy: Scary Stories - True Skinwalker Encounter: 5 Campers vs Something Terrifying in a Utah Canyon

Episode Date: December 5, 2025

True Skinwalker Encounter: 5 Campers vs Something Terrifying in a Utah CanyonLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auBusiness inquiries: ►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories #skinwalker 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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storage discount, legacy. How many discounts will you stack up? Tap the banner or visit usa.com slash auto discounts. Restrictions apply. I went camping in Utah with four friends. Something out there kept calling us by name. I don't care who believes me anymore. I'm not trying to turn this into a campfire story or pitch a movie idea. I just need to get it out somewhere that isn't in my own head, Because the more time passes, the more I realize that weak in Utah was the point where my life split into a before and an after. If you've ever had the sense that the woods are looking back at you, not in some poetic way but like there's a specific pair of eyes tracking you, this might ring a bell in a way

you wish it wouldn't. This happened in the summer of 2013, in southern Utah, somewhere between the San Rafael swell and the edge of Navajo land. I'm not going to give exact coordinates because one, I don't want some of you going out there to debunk this, and two, I think whatever we walked into wasn't meant for us. We were five people, all in our early 20s and full of that idiot confidence that comes from having lived just long enough to think you're invincible. There was me, my roommate Dylan, his girlfriend Becca, my cousin Matt, and our friend Aaron, who we always joked was the

responsible one, even though she was only a year older than me. The plan was a week-long loop. We'd park my truck at a dusty pull-off off a frontage road, hike into a series of canyons that Dylan had been obsessing over on Topo maps, follow a dry wash, climb up onto a plateau, then drop back down a different canyon, and come out near where we started. Seven days, six nights. We weren't total idiots about it. We had water filters, a PLB that never ended up mattering, way too many cliff bars, and enough lightweight gear to think we knew what we were doing. The drive out there already felt like entering a different planet. The further south we went, the more the mountains flattened into mesas, and then into those rolling red cliffs that look like they've been

peeled back with a giant knife. The sky got bigger, the air got hotter, drier, emptier. By the time we pulled off onto the washboard dirt road that Dylan had marked on the map, my phone had been dead for hours, and it felt like we dropped off the edge of anything civilized. which at the time was the appeal. We weren't completely alone, though. About 15 miles before the pull-off, there was this little gas station slash store. You know the kind, one pump,

faded sign, a few dusty soda fridges inside, shelves with old canned chili and sun-bleached beef jerky. We stopped there to top off on gas and grab extra water jugs because Dylan had started second-guessing his calculations in that way where he pretended he wasn't worried, but his knee bounced twice as fast. Inside, it was dim and blessedly cool.

A swamp cooler hummed half-heartedly from the ceiling. Behind the counter was this older guy, native, probably in his 60s, with a long gray braid and a face that looked like it had been carved out of the same rock as the cliffs outside. He watched us with this calm, heavy stare as we loaded up on whatever we thought we needed. You all heading out to camp? he asked when I set a couple of gallon jugs on the counter. Yeah, Dylan answered, always the self-appointed leader.

Just a loop out past. He rattled off the name of the wash and a couple of landmarks, like he was trying to prove we weren't completely clueless. The old guy's eyes flicked up at that, not surprised exactly, more like, annoyed or resigned. Those canyons are long, he said. Heat'll get you if you're not careful. You got plenty of water?

We're good, Dylan said, grinning. We're from Colorado. We hike all the time. The man didn't smile back. He looked at each of us in turn. Me, then Becca with her long braid and big sunglasses, Matt with his baseball cap, Aaron with her careful, quiet eyes.

He lingered on Aaron for a second longer, like he recognized something in her face, then shifted his gaze back to me. You stay on the main drainages, he said. Don't go climbing up every little side canyon you see. People get turned around out there. Lose the sun. Lose themselves.

He paused. And you don't go calling each other at night, not out there. You understand? We all kind of exchanged a look like, okay, creepy old man vibe. Calling each other? I asked. Like yelling for each other?

He nodded once. After dark, you don't say nobody's name. If you hear your name and you can't see who said it, you stay put. You don't answer. You don't go looking. It's not for you. I chuckled because that's what you do when somebody says something that lands just left of normal. Like coyotes luring people out?

I said, trying to make it a joke. I've heard stories. He looked at me for a long moment without blinking. Coyotes you can see, he said. Coyotes you can shoot. some things just borrow their voices. Then he pushed the jugs toward me. You kids be respectful.

Don't go poking around in things that don't belong to you. Don't whistle at night. Don't call each other. That land remembers. On the way back to the truck, we made fun of it, because of course we did. Dylan mimicked the guy's voice. Don't say nobody's name. And Becca smacked him on the arm and told him to knock it off.

But even as I laughed, There was this small, cool knot in my stomach that hadn't been there before. The way the man's eyes had gone flat when he said some things borrow their voices stuck in my head like a splinter. We reached the pull-off in late afternoon. It was just a wide patch of compacted sand and rock, with a faint pair of tire ruts trailing off toward the horizon. No other cars, no signs, nothing but shimmering heat in the constant buzz of invisible insects. We shrugged on our packs, locked the truck,

started walking, five little moving dots under a white-hot sky. That first day was honestly kind of perfect. The land rolled around us in layers of red and orange, streaked with bands of white sandstone and dotted with stubborn little juniper trees. Heat pressed down like a hand on the back of my neck. But there was a dry breeze and we made good time, following the shallow, sandy bed of a wash that only filled with water when monsoon storms rolled through. We stopped occasionally to take pictures, to point out lizards doing push-ups on rocks, to admire the way the canyon walls slowly rose up on either side of us. We made camp on a broad flat bench above the wash, where the sand was packed down, and there were a couple of large boulders that offered shade.

It was one of those spots that looks like people have camped there for a hundred years, little blackened circles of rock from old fires, faint outlines where tents had flattened the soil. We didn't plan on doing a fire, too hot and dry, but we gathered around the old fire ring anyway while we cooked with our little backpacking stoves. As the sun dropped, the colors in the canyon cooled from red to bruised purple, and the shadows stretched out like they were trying to escape something. The temperature finally dipped into the 70s, and a stillness settled over everything that was somehow louder than any noise. I remember lying on my back after dinner, watching the first stars appear in a sky so dark it almost hurt to look at, and thinking,

this, this is why we came. Then the coyotes started. It started as a couple of lone yips in the distance, the way coyotes always sound, a little goofy, a little wild, like someone laughing too loudly at a joke. The chorus built quickly, voices layering over each other until it sounded like there were a dozen of them, yipping and howling and barking back and forth. I've camped plenty of places with coyotes around. Their calls can be eerie, especially if you're not used to them. But there was something about this chorus that made the hair on my arms stand up. They sound close, Becca said, hugging her knees to her chest.

It's just the echo, Matt said, but I noticed he checked to make sure our food was hung in the scrubby tree we'd tied it to. The calls rose and fell for a while, then dropped. dropped off suddenly all at once, like someone had hit a mute button. The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. No insects. No wind. Even the little burner flame sounded too loud. I hate that, Aaron muttered, when they just, stop.

Means they heard us talking trash, Dylan said, grinning. Old guy at the gas station sent his coyote army to check on us. Shut up, Becca said, but she was smiling too. We stayed up a little longer, playing cards by headlamp, telling dumb stories. When we finally climbed into our tents, me and Matt in one, Dylan and Becca in another, Aaron in her little solo tent tucked between two rocks. I was tired, sunburned, and content. I fell asleep to the sound of Matt's breathing and the faint rustle of nylon. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I snapped awake. I didn't sit up or gas,

or anything dramatic. One second I was asleep, the next I was fully aware, staring at the sloped ceiling of the tent glowing faintly with starlight. My heart was already pounding like it had been doing it for a while without me noticing. The air felt colder and thinner. For a moment I couldn't figure out what had woken me. Then I realized what I wasn't hearing. No insects. No wind. No distant cars. Nothing. The same kind of deep pressurized silence that had fallen after the coyotes quit, but heavier, like the world was holding its breath. I held mine too, without meaning to. I listened so hard my ears hurt. For a long time there was nothing but Matt's soft whistling snore beside me, and then I heard footsteps.

They were soft, but in that silence they might as well have been gunshots. A careful, deliberate crunch of sand and grit outside the tent, moving slowly around the camp. Not the skittering of a lizard, not the shuffle of a small animal. These sounded big, two-legged, heavy enough to leave a print. They came closer, passing behind our tent, then pausing near where Dylan and Becca were. I could picture them lying the same way I was, flat and tense, and suddenly very, very awake. The footsteps lingered near their tent, then moved again, circling. There was something about the rhythm that made my skin crawl, too slow, too thoughtful, like whatever it was enjoyed taking its time.

I thought about the old man's warning. Don't call each other, don't say names. I almost said Matt's name anyway. The urge to break the silence with another human's voice was strong enough to make my throatache. But something about that urge felt wrong. Like it was something pushing from outside, not a real impulse of mine. So I stayed quiet. I stared at the zipper and tried to count my own breaths.

The footsteps stopped right outside our tent. The nylon sagged inward an inch, like something was leaning on it from the outside. I could see a faint shadow through the material, tall, narrow, more upright than anything on four legs. It stayed there for what felt like a full minute, just... There. Listening maybe. Smelling. Choosing. Then it moved on. The rest of the night was a blur of shallow, fitful sleep and long stretches of staring at the dark. When gray light finally started seeping into the tent, it felt like someone had lifted a weight off my chest. We all did that thing where you pretend everything's normal, but you check each other's faces to make sure you

weren't the only one. As we stepped out into the morning, I saw Aaron standing by the edge of camp with her arms wrapped around herself, looking at the ground. You guys hear that last night? I asked, trying to sound casual as I shook sand out of my boots. Dylan snorted. Those coyotes? Dude, they were going nuts. No, I said, like footsteps. There was a small pause. Aaron glanced at me, then away. Becca frowned, stirring oatmeal in her pot. I thought I dreamed that, she said quietly, like something walking, around. I heard it too, Aaron said. Her voice was flat. It walked right by my tent, twice. We all kind of drifted together then, looking down at the sand around camp. At first I thought it was just the normal

mess of prints from us walking around, but then I noticed the size of some of them, a line of prints circling the tents just outside where our guy lines reached. They were half scuffed, but you could still make out the shape. Coyote? Matt guessed, dropping into a crouch. No, Aaron said, coyotes don't walk like that, and they don't walk on two legs. The prints weren't perfect, but they were long. Too long. Like someone with a narrow foot had stepped in soft sand and then dragged their toes, elongating the impression. In a couple of spots, the print looked almost like a human bare foot. But the spacing was all wrong, too far apart, like whatever made them had legs just a little

too long for its body. Dylan shrugged it off because that was his role. Could have been someone else camping, he said. Rancher maybe, or some hunter, we probably just didn't see their car, not a big deal. Okay, Aaron said, but she didn't sound convinced. She kept looking at the prince while she ate. Like if she stared hard enough, they'd rearrange into something that made more sense. After breakfast, she smoothed them over with her boot until the ground looked untouched. Day two was longer and hotter. The canyon walls rose higher, closing us in, and the wash twisted more, turning every corner into a small surprise. Some stretches were genuinely beautiful, narrow side canyons with hanging gardens of bright green

where water seeped through the rock. Big alcoves eroded into the cliff face where swallows had built their nests. But there was this undercurrent now, a tension that made all of us a little snappier than usual. We stopped for lunch under a shallow overhang that offered a band of shade. While the others dug around in their packs, I walked a little way down the wash to pee. As I was heading back, I heard Becca call my name. Jason, come look at this. Her voice came from around a bend in the wash, just ahead. It sounded normal, a little excited, like she'd found some cool rock formation. I rounded the corner, looking up, expecting to see her. There was no one there.

The wash stretched ahead in a gentle curve, empty. I could still see our packs and the others behind me when I turned. But this stretch was completely bare. No footprints except mine. Becca? I called confused. Where are you? Her voice floated back, faint and muffled. Down here, hurry up.

It didn't sound like it came from in front of me this time. It sounded like it came from both directions at once, like the canyon was throwing it around. in strange ways. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Then, from behind me, closer and absolutely clear. Dude, who are you talking to? I turned so fast I almost fell. Becca was standing next to Dylan and Aaron, back where we dropped our packs, half a bend behind me. She had a tortilla in one hand and looked completely normal. I... You just called me, I said, my voice sounding thin to my own ears. You said to come look at something.

She frowned. No, I didn't. We were talking about how much your feet smell. Matt laughed. You hallucinating already, man? My mouth went dry. I wanted to say, I heard you. It was your voice.

But I remembered the old man's warning, the way he'd said, if you hear your name and you can't see who said it. And I swallowed the urge to make a joke about it. Echoes are weird here, I said instead. Must have been that. Aaron's eyes met mine for a second. There was a question in them, but she didn't say anything.

She just bit into her energy bar and looked down the canyon like she was trying to see something only she knew was there. That afternoon we started seeing it. At first it was just glimpses, a flash of movement on a ridge above us, too quick and far away to be anything definite, a shape cutting across the skyline thin and wrong, like a coyote stretched upright. Once, when we crested a low rise in the wall, wash, I caught sight of something standing on a distant outcrop, a lanky, dog-shaped silhouette with a

too long neck, head cocked at an angle that spoke of curiosity, more than aggression. It was gone when I blinked, but the impression stayed burned into my brain. Did you see that? I asked Matt, who was hiking just behind me. See what? he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. Never mind, I muttered. By the time the sun started slanting low, the canyon had narrowed into one those tall, straight-walled corridors where the sky is just a strip of blue between vertical rock. It was gorgeous in that cathedral kind of way, but it also meant that night was going to come faster. Shadows were already pooling along the bottom when we finally found a spot wide enough to pitch our tents, a sandy shelf a few feet above the main wash.

Three more days to the high point, then it's all downhill, Dylan said, checking the map as we cook dinner. We're killing it. Can we maybe not hike until almost dark tomorrow? Becca asked. I want to have at least one evening where I'm not setting up the tent by headlamp. We'll see, he said, which everyone knew meant no. The coyotes started up again shortly after the last light faded. This time, they sounded closer. The chorus moved around us in an invisible ring, bouncing off the canyon walls.

Sometimes it sounded like they were right above us, about to lean over the rim and look down into our tiny, pool of lamplight. Sometimes the calls stretched away, thin and distant, only to come back twice as loud. We all ended up sitting closer together without really acknowledging it, our circle gradually tightening. Aaron had her headlamp around her neck but kept it turned off, saying it, ruined the stars. I think she just didn't want to draw attention to ourselves. I'm going to go P, Matt said finally, standing up and brushing sand off his pants. Take your headlamp, Aaron said. Yes, Mom, he said, rolling his eyes.

He snagged his light off a rock and walked a short distance down the wash, just far enough to be polite. We could see his silhouette against the faint glow of the sky. A minute later, from behind a boulder not 20 feet away, we heard his voice. Guys, come look at this. It was Matt's voice. Same tone he always used when he found. some weird bug or rock he wanted to show off. It was so normal that I started to push myself up

without even thinking about it. Dylan did the same. Becca was halfway to standing when Aaron grabbed her wrist. Don't, she said, her voice sharp in a way I hadn't heard before. Becca frowned. It's just Matt. Aaron shook her head once. Matt's over there. She pointed down the wash. We all turned. Matt's headlamp clicked on at that exact moment, a cone of white light sweeping across the sand as he zipped his pants. What? he called. You guys talking crap? My stomach dropped, because if Matt was over there, then the voice that had just come from behind the nearby boulder. Guys, it said again from behind us this time. Come here, you got to see this. Still Matt's voice. Closer now. No echo. No distortion.

like he was standing just out of sight, around the bend of the canyon, smiling that stupid half-smile he always wore when he was up to something. Dylan's face went pale under his sunburn. Becca sat back down slowly. Aaron's grip on her wrist tightened until I saw the tendons stand out. Nobody move, Aaron said quietly. Nobody answer. Just sit. We did. We sat very still, five little animals pretending to be rocks. The scraping sound of Matt's footsteps coming back toward camp mingled with the faint scrape of something else moving on the other side of the boulder. Two sets of steps, one human, one not. Matt's headlamp swung over us as he walked back into the circle of camp. He looked confused at our faces, then at how close together we

were sitting. What? he said. What's wrong with you guys? Behind the boulder maybe 10 feet away, we heard a soft chuckle in his voice. Then everything went quiet again. I need everyone. to shut up and listen, Aaron whispered, when she was sure the silence had settled. Old man at the gas station told me something while you guys were in the bathroom. He said not to answer if we heard our names at night. Said something out here likes to borrow voices, just keep that in mind. Jesus, Matt muttered, you serious? Did you or did you not hear your own voice just now? She shot back. He opened his mouth, shut it again, then sat slowly down, closer to the rest of us.

Sleep that night was not really sleep. It was a series of shallow doses punctuated by moments of sharp, heart-hammering awareness. If night one had felt like something was circling us, night two felt like something had decided exactly where we were and was trying to figure out what we were. Sometime after midnight, I woke up to the sound of someone unzipping a tent,

that distinctive zrip of nylon teeth, quiet but unmistakable. For a second, I thought it was Matt getting up to pee, but when I turned my head I could see his shape in the dim light, still curled in his sleeping bag. Becca? I heard Dylan whisper faintly, like he was trying not to wake us. Beck, where are you going? I'm right here. Becca whispered back from their tent. I could hear the drowsy confusion in her

voice. I didn't get up. The zipper sound came again, right next to my head this time, on the outside wall of our tent. It was so close I could see the fabric twitch, but our zipper didn't move. It was coming from less than a foot away, but not from any actual opening. Then, from right outside, in Aaron's voice, Guys, can someone help me?

I think I hurt my ankle. Matt sat bolt upright. I could see his eyes reflect a faint glimmer of starlight. Aaron was in her tent. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow. Don't, she whispered hoarsely, barely audible. That's not me. The voice outside laughed.

It was almost perfect, Aaron's cadence, her little upward lilt at the end of sentences. But there was a wetness to the laugh, a burbling undertone like someone trying to gargle while they giggled. You're no fun, it said in a low, stretched out way, the syllables pulling longer than a normal human voice should be able to. Then the zipper sound came one last time, long and slow, like something was running a claw very carefully down the side of the tent, imitating the noise. I'm not ashamed to say I cried a little, quietly, into my sleeping bag. I don't think I was the only one. Morning came like a judgment.

We stepped out of our tents looking like hell, dark circles under our eyes, sharp edges to our movements. Aaron's hands were shaking as she made coffee. Dylan's usual cocky smile was gone. We're turning around, Aaron said, before anyone else could speak. We're only two days in. We can still go back the way we came and be at the truck in, what, three, four days. I'm not spending another night moving deeper into, whatever this is. Dylan bristled.

We've already done most of the elevation, he said. We go back. It's going to be more uphill. If we keep going, it's mostly flat and then downhill. We're almost halfway." Almost halfway is not halfway, she shot back. And halfway means it's the same distance either way. I say we head for the truck.

Becca looked between them, torn. Matt stared at the ground. I felt that same tug of war inside my own chest. Pride versus fear. The map in Dylan's hand versus the old man's warning in my memory. While they argued, I noticed something new in the sand a few yards from camp. At first I thought it was just another weird print, but as I got closer, my skin prickled. In a small bare patch of sand, maybe three feet across, there were tracks.

They started as the same too long prints we'd seen circling our tents the night before, spaced far apart like something with long legs had been pacing. Then halfway across the patch they changed. No smudging, no overlapping. One print was elongated and wrong, and the next was, Human. Not a perfect human foot, but close. Wider at the top, narrower at the heel, five clear-toe impressions. The stride shortened a little, like whatever it was had to adjust how it walked in its new shape. The tracks walked over to a small, flat rock near a juniper bush and stopped. On top of the rock,

sitting perfectly centered was a little clump of hair tied in a knot with a strip of dirty cloth. The hair was a mix of brown and blonde, tangled like it had been cut or yanked from more than one person. There was a dark stain on the cloth that could have been old blood. It looked like an offering or a trophy. Uh, guys? I said, my voice coming out higher than I meant it to. You might want to see this. The argument cut off. They walked over. Becca put a hand over her mouth when she saw the hair. Aaron swore under her breath.

What the actual hell, Matt whispered. Is that? Is that ours? I reached up to my own head automatically. The hair on the rock looked short, some strands about my length, some longer. I glanced at Becca's frayed ends at the way Dylan's shaggy cut unevenly brushed his collar. It could have been from any of us, or none of us. That almost made it worse.

We have to go, Aaron said. Her voice was oddly calm now, like she'd moved past. fear into something more solid. I don't care which direction, but we are not staying another night in this spot. In the end, Math decided it. Dylan reluctantly admitted that, yes, if we pushed hard and didn't stop for a long lunch, we could reach a point on the map where the canyon widened and a side trail cut up toward a gravel road in two days instead of four.

It would mean bailing on the loop, but we'd be out of the deep part of the canyon sooner. Fine, he said tightly. We'll cut up early, hit the road and hitch back to the truck, but we're moving fast, no bull crap today. We broke camp with a speed born of terror and stuffed any thought of leave-no-trace aesthetics into the back of our brains. I watched the little clump of hair on the rock as we walked away

until a bend in the canyon hit it from view. I had the sudden, vivid image of a long, grayish hand reaching down from above to pick it up. bringing it to a mouth filled with too many teeth. The day turned brutal. The sun felt closer, like somebody had dialed it up a notch. The heat came not just from above, but from the red walls around us, radiating back in waves.

Sweat glued my shirt to my back. My brain felt like it was trying to cook itself inside my skull. We drank more water than we'd planned, which tickled the little lizard brain part of me that kept track of survival math in the background. Every time we rounded a curve in the canyon, I told myself we were a little farther from that campsite, from that rock with the hair and the prince that changed midstep. But the feeling of being watched didn't fade.

If anything, it got more focused, like whatever was out there didn't have to search anymore. Once, in the shimmery distance ahead, I could have sworn I saw a person walking along the rim of the canyon, silhouetted against the blazing sky, tall and thin, wearing something that flapped in the wind, a coat or a robe. They kept pace with us for a while. When the canyon curved and then straightened again, they were gone. Late afternoon, clouds started to build over the plateau. Thick, dark, monsoon clouds, the kind you don't want to see when you're in a narrow canyon. Thunder grumbled far off like some enormous stomach. Dylan kept glancing up, calculating the risk. We got to make the side trail before that hits, he said. Flash

flood in here would screw us. My legs felt like rubber. Aaron's face was red and tight. Becca was limping slightly, hot spot turning into a blister, but none of us wanted to be the one to ask for a break. The feeling of being herded along, pushed by something we couldn't see, and something we very much could, those clouds, kept us moving. We reached the turnoff for the side canyon, just as the first fat, cold drops of rain started to spatter the sand. The main wash continued straight, deeper, narrower. The side canyon angled up to the left, its walls lower, its bed rockier, it looked like salvation. That way, Dylan said, pointing. We book it up there, camp high, and we're golden. We turned into the side canyon. The temperature dropped 10 degrees in as many

minutes as the storm rolled overhead. Rain went from scattered drops to a sheet. The sandstone darkened, sucking in the moisture. The smell of wet dust rose around us, sharp and metallic. It would have been beautiful if I wasn't so scared. We scrambled up over a series of little dry falls, hands and boots slipping on suddenly slick rock. Water started to trickle down the bed, then flow, then rush, turning the flat bottom into a series of shallow, fast streams. Thunder cracked overhead, echoing between the walls like the sky was splitting open. Move! Aaron shouted. Her voice almost lost in the roar. We got to get above the runoff. I don't know how long we climbed. Time folded into a series of wet, lung-burning moments. Hand, foot, hand, foot, don't fall,

don't look down. At some point, the canyon narrowed into a short slot section. The walls closing in so tight I could touch both sides at once. Water funneled through here faster, sloshing around our ankles. We were halfway through the slot when I heard it. Jason, clear as a bell, my name shouted from behind us in Matt's voice. I half turned automatically, because that's what you do when your cousin calls your name in a thunderstorm. Dylan shoved me forward, hard. Keep moving, he yelled. He's right there.

I looked ahead. Matt was five feet in front of me, scrambling up a slick step, soaked to the bone. His head snapped around at the sound of his own voice. voice. What? he yelled back. I didn't say anything. Aaron came next from up ahead. It sounded like Becca this time. Aaron, wait. Aaron's jaw clenched. That's not me. Becca screamed hoarse from behind us. She sounded scared enough that her voice broke. The canyon turned into a hellish funhouse of voices. My name shouted from above, from below, right in my ear. Matt's voice calling for Dylan from Somewhere to my left, where there was only solid stone.

My mother's voice, I swear to God, saying, Jay, honey, where are you? In the tone she used when she lost me in the grocery store as a kid. Aaron's voice saying, come back, low and pleading. Becca's hysterical laughter bouncing off the walls. Dylan's pissed off bark of hurry the hell up from six places at once. Eyes forward, Aaron screamed. And the sound of her real voice was like a rope. thrown to a drowning person. Don't stop. Don't answer. Just go. I don't remember the next 10 minutes

in any coherent way. I remember slipping and jamming my knee into rock so hard I tasted blood. I remember looking down and seeing handprints in the wet sand beside my boots that were longer than mine. The fingers too thin. I remember something cold and dry brushing the back of my neck, like a hand that had forgotten how to be flesh. I remember looking up and seeing a face peering down at us from the slot's rim, 20 feet above. A dog's face stretched into something almost human, eyes too bright, teeth too many, skin hanging wrong on bone. It smiled when it saw me see it. We finally burst out of the slot into a wider section where the canyon opened enough that we weren't a single flash flood away from dying. The rain eased to a drizzle. My lungs burned.

My legs shook. We stumbled to a halt on a slightly raised shelf of rock, too exhausted to go another step. The voices stopped, just cut off. Like someone had been playing them on speakers hidden in the canyon walls and yanked the plug. For a long time, the only sound was the panting of five people and the hiss of rain on stone. Is everyone here?

Erin said finally, her voice rough. She held up a hand like a teacher taking roll. I don't care how stupid this sounds. Say your name out loud, one at a time. Dylan, Dylan gasped. Becca? Matt. Jason, I said my voice sounded wrong in my own ears.

Smaller. Erin, she said last. She looked around at us, counting, making sure the number matched the names. She nodded once. Okay, we're fine, we're fine. We were not fine, but the lie was comforting. We found a flattish spot a few feet higher up and made camp there, more from necessity than choice.

No one wanted to walk any farther in the rain and failing light. We pitched the tents fast, hands clumsy, movements jerky. No one suggested cooking. We chewed protein bars in silence while the storm moved away, grumbling to itself. That night something changed. Up until then, whatever was out there had felt, curious, malicious, sure, but like it was poking at us, figuring us out. That night, it felt like it had decided on something. It started early before we'd even zipped our tents. We were sitting in a tight circle, each with our backs to a rock or a pack,

like five points of a star. No one wanted their back exposed. The sky was a low lid of clouds, reflecting a faint, sickly light back down into the canyon. The air smelled like wet stone and something else, something sweet and rotten, like meat left too long in the sun. From somewhere up canyon we heard whistling.

Just three notes, over and over, low, then high, then low again. The kind of tune you'd used to call a dog. It echoed off the walls in a way that made it hard to pinpoint direction. It wasn't any of us. We were all staring at each other's mouths. Don't whistle back, Aaron said, her jaw clenched. Who would whistle back right now?

Matt snapped, but his voice shook. The whistling stopped. There was a pause, a shifting kind of silence, like something outside our circle was thinking. Then, from directly behind me, in my voice, this is stupid, it's just echoes. I felt my guts drop like I'd stepped off a cliff. The others all stared at me in horror because I hadn't opened my mouth. The words had been mine, down to the exact annoyed tone I'd used earlier that day, but I hadn't

said them. I didn't, I started, shut up, Aaron hissed. The thing that sounded like me laughed. It was a perfect copy of my laugh, the little snored at the end. except for the part where it went on a fraction of a second too long, stretching into a dry, crackling wheeze. Then it began to circle us. Invisible, my voice moving from behind Dylan to above Becca

to somewhere out in the dark. You guys are such babies, it said, still using my voice. Old guy at the gas station tells one spooky story and you all freak out. It's just the canyon. It's just the wind. Relax. Come see what I found. Stop, I whispered, but it wasn't listening to me. Why would it? Come on, Aaron. It cooed now in this fake-friendly

version of my voice. You're tough, right? You're not scared. Then, in Dylan's voice, Beck, come on, just around the corner. You got to see this. The worst part was the way it mixed us. One sentence in my voice, the next in Dillans, the next in my mother's, who was hundreds of miles away, nowhere near this canyon. It jumped from person to person like it was flipping stations on a radio, testing out which one would get a reaction. At some point, while it shifted and borrowed and whispered, I realized it was doing something very specific. It was trying to get us to use each other's names. Every voice that called from the dark used a name. Every fake plea for help, every, hey Jason, check this out, every Aaron I need you, was bait. We sat there in a tight knot and

didn't say a word. I dug my nails into my palms so hard I left little half-moon cuts. I fixed my eyes on one point in the middle of our circle, a small pebble, and told myself that if I just kept looking at that pebble, dawn would come. I could feel it moving around us. Sometimes, when it passed between us and the canyon wall, I would see the faintest flicker of something, a suggestion of height, of wrong angles. Once, when it paused just outside our circle, I could, caught the barest outline of a shape taller than any of us, leaning forward, head-cocked in a way that was almost comically curious if it hadn't been so horrifying. Then it stepped closer. I didn't see it move. One moment it was out there, in the not-quite visible ring around us. The next,

I could feel it right behind me, close enough that if I had leaned back even an inch, I would have touched it. The air temperature dropped, the smell of rot and something burned, my nose. Jason, it whispered, not in my voice this time, not in anyone's voice I recognized. This was a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel. You saw me. I hadn't said a word, but it was right. I had seen it on the canyon rim earlier. I had looked it in the face. I see you now, it rasped. I felt something brushed the back of my neck just above my collar, light, almost gentle, like a fingertip. My whole body locked up. Tears poured down my face, hot and silent. Then, in my own voice right in my ear, I'll see you later. Something in me

broke then. My vision went white around the edges. I think I might have passed out for a second because the next thing I remember clearly is the sky being lighter, the clouds thin to a dull gray, and birds, actual birds, chirping somewhere far above us. We'd made it to another dawn. We didn't talk about what happened that night, not really. Not beyond a few muttered, did you hear? And, yeah, what was there to say? Hey guys, isn't it fun how the canyon is haunted by something that likes to wear our voices like masks? We packed up, we put one foot in front of the other, we climbed out of that side canyon by mid-afternoon. scrambling up a steep, crumbly slope until we finally spilled onto a flat, scrub-dotted plateau.

The road was faint, a pair of tire tracks through low sagebrush, but it was there, scratched into the land like a promise. I could kiss this stupid road, Becca said breathless, laughing in a way that sounded more like sobbing. We camped one last night on that plateau, a few hundred yards from the road, because we were too exhausted to keep walking, and there was no guarantee of a car coming by, even if we did. The sky was bigger here, the canyon walls far behind us. I told myself that meant we were safe. I told myself that whatever lived in those narrow stone corridors wouldn't follow us into open country. I was wrong. The last night was almost normal at first. We made a small fire out of dead juniper twigs, more for the psychological comfort than any warmth.

We actually ate a hot meal. Someone cracked a joke that made us all laugh too loud. The world felt less sharp, like we'd stepped a few inches away from the edge of something. We went to bed early, the kind of early that comes from bone-level exhaustion. I fell asleep almost immediately, my body finally overriding my brain screaming. I woke up to the sound of someone walking around the tent. At that point, it was almost familiar. The crunch of sand, the soft brush of something against nylon. My heart slammed into wakefulness, like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. Then I heard my own voice humming. Just outside the tent, less than a foot from my ear, someone was humming a song, three notes, over and over, the same little tuneless tune I always

hummed mindlessly when I was anxious or bored. I didn't even realize I had a thing like that until I heard it coming from somewhere that wasn't my own throat. The humming shifted into words, soft at first, nonsense syllables, then clearer. Jay, it sang softly. My mother's nickname for me, the one no one on this trip knew. Jay, come out and see. Matt snored softly beside me. I couldn't tell if anyone else was awake. I couldn't tell if anyone else could. hear it. The urge to unzip the tent and look was almost unbearable. Not because I wanted to see it exactly, but because not seeing it felt worse. Please, it whispered, my voice now, not my moms. Just a peek. I came all this way. Don't you want to see what I look like in your skin?

Something about that phrasing snapped me back. I clenched my eyes shut and started counting backwards from 100 in my head, focusing on the numbers, on the numbers. the shape of them, the way I used to do when I had panic attacks in high school. 99, 98, 97. It kept up the humming for a while. It tried more voices, errands pleading, Becca's crying, Dylan's, angry, my dad's, which I hadn't heard in person in years. It said my name in all of them.

It said it wrong once, stressing the wrong syllable, and for some reason that tiny imperfection gave me something to hold on to. It wasn't perfect. It didn't understand everything. At some point I fell asleep again because the next thing I knew, sunlight was turning the tent wall pale gold. Birds were singing. The air smelled like dry sagebrush and dust and something else, faint and sour, like the last

aftertaste of a bad dream. We didn't waste time. We packed up in record time, shouldered our packs, and started walking along the road. The silence between us was thick. No one whistled, no one sang, no one said anyone's name. Three hours later, a dust plume appeared on the horizon behind us. It resolved into an old pickup with peeling blue paint, crawling along the washboard road like it had all the time in the world.

We stepped off to the side and stuck out our thumbs. The truck pulled over. The driver was a middle-aged white guy in a ball cap and mirrored sunglasses. There was a little resin hula girl on his dashboard, shimmying in the heat. You kids broke down somewhere, he asked through the open window. Parking area back that way, Dylan said, pointing. His voice came out croaky. Any chance we could catch a lift?

The guy squinted at us, taking in the dust, the dried sweat, the way we all clung subtly closer together than most strangers. He nodded. Hop in the back. I'm heading that way. We climbed into the bed of the truck, packs rattling against the metal. As we bumped along the road, watching the plateau roll by, I started to feel the first thin trickle of real relief, physical distance.

That's all I wanted. Just miles between us and that canyon. We pulled up to the trailhead pull-off an hour later. My truck was there, sun-baked and lonely looking. The sight of it made my chest ache. We pounded on the cab to signal the driver to stop. He leaned out the window as we hopped down. You all sign the registry, he asked, nodding toward a faded metal box on a post I honestly

hadn't noticed on the way in. Dylan walked over and opened it. Inside was a spiral-bound notebook in a plastic bag, its pages filled with scrawled names and dates. We didn't, he said. Sorry, must have missed it. Just put your names and dates, the guy said. Help search and rescue know who's out if something goes wrong. We crowded around while Dylan dug out a pen. He flipped back a few pages, curiosity making him scan previous entries. There, on a page dated three days before we'd arrived, were several lines. A group of two, a solo hiker, and in neat block letters five names. My blood ran cold. The date next to that entry was ours. Our start date. The names were ours. Jason, Dylan, Becca, Matt, Aaron.

Same order we always rattled them off. Same handwriting I was watching Dylan use now. Dude, I said. My voice sounded very far away. Did you, did you come out here earlier to scout or something? He frowned. No, why, I pointed. He followed my finger.

His face went slack. I didn't write that, he whispered. The previous entry, the group of five, had been written in a darker ink, slightly smudged like the pen had been old. The handwriting looked like Dillon's, but tighter, more careful. The letters all exactly the same height, like someone had practiced copying them. Probably just a coincidence, Matt said weekly.

Same names. People have the same names sometimes. All five, Aaron said. On the same day? On this random road? The driver cleared his throat, cutting through the rising panic like a knife. You kids all right. He asked, You look like you've seen a ghost. Just tired, Dylan said quickly,

tearing out a clean page at the back of the notebook and writing our names again. Slower this time. His hand shook. Long week. We thanked the driver. We stuffed our packs in the truck. We drove. We didn't stop at the gas station on the way back.

None of us wanted to see the old man's face. To watch whatever he might say flicker across it, real life swallowed us again after that. Classes, jobs. bills. On the surface, things went back to normal, but the trip hung over us like a shadow at noon. We didn't talk about it in detail. If someone said, remember Utah, it was always followed by an awkward laugh and a quick subject change. The notebook entry, the double set of names, became one of those things we all remembered slightly differently, like a story heard in a dream.

About six months later, I was working a late shift at the outdoor gear shop where I'd gotten half stuff for that trip. A woman came in near closing, looking for a new sleeping pad. She was in her 40s, Navajo, wearing a faded t-shirt that said something about a local school. We got to talking, the way you do when the store is empty. She mentioned she did a lot of guiding in the desert. I mentioned, against my better judgment, that I'd gone on a week-long trip down south that had weird vibes. Her face shifted at that, not in a dramatic movie way, but her eyes sharpened. What kind of weird, she asked.

I hesitated. I didn't want to sound like an idiot, but something in her expression reminded me of the old man at the gas station, tired, patient, like she'd heard every version of this story before. Voices, I said finally. Stuff, walking around camp,

calling our names at night, using our voices back at us. I stopped short of saying the word that had been floating around my head ever since, Skinwalker. It felt wrong to say it out loud, like it wasn't mine. She was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed. You went somewhere you weren't supposed to go, she said. Or you didn't listen when someone told you how to be there. We tried, I said, thinking of the old man's warning, of how we'd laughed. We just, I don't know. We thought it was just a story. Her mouth twisted

briefly. That's the problem with stories, she said. You never know which ones are warnings and which ones are just there to scare kids. She shifted the sleeping pad under her arm. Did anyone answer it? She asked. When it called, I thought hard. There had been so many voices, so much chaos. But we'd been careful. Aaron had been careful. No, I said slowly. I don't think so. You're lucky, she said. sometimes that's all it takes. You answer once. It knows it has you. Knows your name, your shape, your smell, follows you home. A cold draft seemed to slip under the store's glass door, sliding right up my spine. What happens then? I asked. She looked at me for a long time, weighing something. Sometimes nothing, she said finally. Sometimes people just have bad dreams for a while.

hear things, see things. Sometimes they start to forget what their own voice sounds like. Like it leaves a door open, and something keeps sticking its hand through, seeing what it can grab. Her eyes flicked over my shoulder to the big wall of shiny camping gear, then back to my face. You said this place was steps from the water. We just haven't found the steps yet.

How much did we save? Enough. Enough to get lost! or you could book a stay with Hilton. Welcome to your ocean front room. Just steps from the water. The Hilton sale is on now. Book on Hilton.com or the Hilton app and save up to 20% to get the stay you expected.

When you want savings, not surprises. It matters where you stay. Hilton, for the stay. You should stay away from there, she added. Don't go back trying to prove something. That's how it gets people. I'm never going back, I said. ever. She nodded like that was the only right answer. As she turned to leave, she paused.

You said it used your voices, she said. Did you ever hear it use yours when you weren't there? I frowned. What do you mean? Sometimes it keeps what it likes, she said. A voice, a face, a name, just pay attention, okay? Then she left. The bell over the door, jingling cheerfully, completely at odds with the conversation we just had. For a while, nothing happened. I slept badly, sure. I'd wake up in the night convinced I could hear footsteps in the hallway, or whispering at the edge of hearing,

but I'd turn on the light and the apartment would be exactly as it had been. Just a messy living room, just a hallway, just a closed bedroom door across from mine where Matt snored. Then, one night, about a year after the trip, I got home late. Matt was out, his door open and dark. I was alone in the apartment. It was one of those winter nights where the air is so dry your skin feels like paper. I dropped my backpack by the couch, kicked off my shoes and stood in the kitchen, drinking water straight from the tap. From outside the front door in my mother's voice I heard, Jay, honey, you home? My heart did that

weird lurch it always does when I hear her voice unexpectedly. I swear, swallowed my mouthful of water and wiped my face. Yeah, mom, I started to say, turning toward the door. Then I remembered that my parents had moved out of state months ago. They were a thousand miles away. There was no possible way she was standing in the dim, flickering hallway outside our apartment. The voice came again, closer, right on the other side of the door. Jason, it said, my full name this time.

The syllables were perfect. The warmth was perfect, but there was a thin, dry rasp underneath, like someone had been practicing the sound on a throat that didn't quite know how to work. Open up. I want to see you. I stood there in the kitchen, two rooms away, my hands gripping the counter so hard my knuckles went white. Tears pricked my eyes, not from fear at first, but from this painful, stupid longing.

I missed my mom. I wanted to hug her, to step back into some simpler version of my eyes. myself that existed before long, red canyons and voices and things that knew my name. Jay, it said again, softer now. Come on, it's cold out here. Something in me unglued. My feet carried me down the hallway, almost of their own accord. I stopped when I could see the door, but not the doorknob. I could see its shadow on the floor, the faint line of light from the hall spilling in under the threshold. I reached out. My hand was inches from the knob when I heard another voice. My own this time from just behind my left ear.

Don't. No stretch. No gravel. No wrongness. Just my voice. The way it sounded in my head, not filtered through lungs and throat. The shock of it made me jerk my hand back like I'd been burned. The voice outside went silent.

The silence pressed in, thick and waiting. Then, very gently, right at the edge of hearing. I'll see you later. The sour, rotten smell of wet fur and burned meat seeped under the door for a moment, faint as a memory. Then it was gone. The hall light flickered once and steadied. A door down the hall opened and closed. Someone's footsteps echoing on the stairs.

I stood there for a long time shaking, staring at the door. Eventually I backed away, step by step until I hit the wall. I slept that night with every light in my room on, and a chair jammed under the door. the door knob, like that would mean anything if it really wanted in. That was years ago now. I haven't been camping since Utah. I still hike sometimes, on busy trails close to town, where you can always see another human within shouting distance.

I still love the desert, in the way you can love something that almost killed you, but I don't go deep anymore. I don't sleep on the ground between sandstone walls. I don't let the night close over me like water. We all drifted apart. The five of us, not dramatically, just the slow, natural unraveling of friendships when life pulls in different directions. I still talk to Aaron occasionally.

We never talk about Utah directly, but sometimes she'll say something like, do you ever feel like someone's listening when you're alone? And we'll both go quiet for a minute. Dylan and Becca got married, then divorced. Matt moved away. I don't know if any of them have had their own nights standing in front of a door, hand hovering over a doorknob while someone they love calls from the wrong side. Sometimes I think about that notebook at the trailhead, the double entry, our names written twice on

the same date, in slightly different hands. I think about the way the old man at the gas station had looked at us like he was adding up numbers and not liking the sum. I think about that woman in the gear shop, the way she said, sometimes it keeps what it likes. Most nights are fine. I go to work, I come home. I cook dinner. I watch dumb shows until too late. I fall asleep. Life's mundanity has its own weight, its own gravity that keeps most of the weird at bay. But every so often, once every few months, sometimes twice in a week, I'll be getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth with the bathroom door half open, and I'll hear it. My name, said just the way I say it, the exact same breathing pattern, the same little hitch in the middle I didn't know I had until I heard

it from somewhere else. Jason, it says softly, from the hallway, or the stairwell outside, or the thin space between my bedroom window and the dark, not angry, not even urgent, just patient, curious, like someone standing at the edge of camp, waiting to see if anyone will step out of the circle. I don't answer. I don't go look. I turn on another light. I remind myself that shadows can't open doors. And somewhere far away, in a canyon that bakes in the sun all day and breathes out cool air all night, I know there is a stretch of sand with five sets of footprints in it, four human, one long and wrong, that fade a little more each year. I know there is a rock where, once, something left a little nod of hair and cloth to see what we would do. I know the land

remembers. I also know this. When something out there learns your voice, really learns it down to the private ways you say your own name. The conversation isn't over just because you leave. Sometimes the wilderness follows you home. Spring just slid into your DMs. Grab that boho look for that rooftop dinner, those sandals that can keep up with you, and hang some string lights to give your patio a glow up.

Spring's calling. Ross, work your magic.