Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work as a Park Ranger in Ohio. I Just Found Something TERRIFYING | Scary Stories

Episode Date: June 18, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioartsOriginal YouTube link: I Work as a Park Ranger in Ohio. I Just Found Something TERRIFYING.   Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonSocial MediaINSTAGRAM - @lighthousehorror FACEBOOK -  Lighthouse HorrorTIKTOK - Lighthouse HorrorMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I don't know if anyone's ever going to read this. Hell, I don't even know I'm writing it. Habit, maybe. Maybe guilt. Maybe I think writing it down will keep it from clawing in my brain all day. Whatever the reason. This notebook's the last thing I am leaving behind. The rest is already gone.

My name's Samson, or Ranger Samson, if you ever call me in uniform. I've been working the Northern Ridge National Park for about six. 16 years. Long time, I know. Long enough that the newer guys used to joke, I came with the trees. Most of those kids didn't last a full season. Either too soft or too bored. You'd be amazed how many people want to get away from it all, but then cry about spotty cell reception. But me? No, no, I always belonged here. I grew up on tents and firewood, cold canned beans, and waking out to the sound of something large moving in the dark, probably a raccoon or a bear,

or a dad trying to relight the fire before mom noticed he let it die. We didn't have much grown up. A lot of families spent summer flying to Disney or taking cruises. We, well, we had a tent that leaped in the corners and an old gas stove that whined like a dying goat. But we had the woods, and that was plenty. When I was about 10, I saw a ranger for the first time. Big guy, full beard, sunglasses, walking tall with that green and brown uniform like he ran the whole world.

He let me hold his flashlight for a bit while my sister got her foot looked at, stepped on a rusted nail, nothing too deep. I asked him a thousand questions, and he answered everyone. And while I guess that stuck with me. Didn't go to college. Didn't need to. Went straight into conservation work and took night classes when the station had power and I had the energy. Got my license, got my patch, and I have been here ever since. Most of the team changed over the years.

They came and went like the seasons. But I stayed. And Bailey, of course. Bailey's my dog, Australian Shepherd. Smart as hell. little too curious for her own good, and just about the best partner I have ever had. Got her from a shelter down in Oak Hill 12 years ago. She was skinny, nervous, had been left behind by some family that moved out of state.

The first time I saw her, she sat down by my boots and didn't move. That was it. She picked me. We have been inseparable since. She's not just a dog. She's crew. The kids who came through on school tours used to swarm her, trying to get her to roll over and do tricks. She always played coy at first, then gave in and stole their hearts.

And they're snacks. She's got a six cents for granola bars. We had a rhythm, her and me. Morning started early before the sun was up. I'd get the coffee and going on the old stove while Bailey sat at the door of the Ranger station. Years perked, watching the tree line. Breakfast was usually toast, or something microwaved at the generator was working. If not, cold cereal and warm milk from the cooler.

Then we'd start rounds. Now rounds meant hiking the main paths, checking for any fallen trees, clearing debris, making sure the signpost hadn't been vandalized or the cabins broken into. Occasionally, we'd find beer cans or the remains of a vanquence of a few of a few bit of an illegal fire pit, city kids thinking their survival experts. We'd write reports, take photos, leave warnings. Bailey loved the smell of ash, always sniffed it like it told her a story. We'd break mid-morning, usually down by the lake. She'd chase frogs and I'd sit on the dock, watching the fog lift off the water. Sometimes I wondered if there was more I could have done with my

life, something bigger. But I always came back to the quiet. You don't get quiet like this in the real world. People think being a ranger is just babysitting trees, but it's more than that. It's fixing broken fences, pulling people out of creeks, teaching kids how not to get eaten by bears. It's paperwork that never ends, and tourists who don't listen and search parties that stretch long, in the night. It's carrying bodies back sometimes too. Not often, but enough. Still, I loved it. I loved all of it. Even the hard days. We used to have a full team up here. Six of us. Jake, Amanda, Torres, Pete, and Ellie. Every single one of them used to be scouts. Eagle badges, merit ribbons, survival camps. They came in fresh-faced with clipboards and whistles full of plans. I watched them

grow into the job some faster than others. We became a kind of family. Pete even carved a plaque for our station wall. The Green Watch. Corny, sure, but we wore it with pride. Over time, people left. Got better jobs, had babies. moved out west. Amanda was the last ago before May. She left in the spring, said she wanted to try something closer to civilization. I think the woods started getting to her. She never said so. Just smiled too big and patted Bailey's head one last time. I didn't ask questions. I didn't want to know. And now it's just me. Or it was. And I guess that's the real reason I'm writing this. See, I'm not a hero.

I'm not some movie star ranger with a square jaw and a tragic past. I'm just a guy who loves the woods. A guy who thought, if you respected the land, it'd respect you back. But that's not how it works. Not always. The forest doesn't care who you are. And something changed out here. I'm not ready to write about that.

part yet. Not yet. I just wanted to start at the beginning with the good stuff. The part where Bailey still rolled in pine needles and the team still made dumb jokes over the radio, where the worst thing I had to worry about was a busted fuel tank or a hiker who refused to follow the trail markers. That part was real. It mattered. And maybe if I write it all down piece by piece, I can remember what it felt like before it all went wrong. It started this summer, June maybe. Hard to say the exact day, but I remember how it felt. Hot as hell.

But there was this buzz in the air, like the whole park was stretching its arms out after a long sleep. That's always how summer feels around here. Families rolling in with minivans, packed full of gear, Kids hanging their heads at the window like dogs, shouting about marshmallows and fishing poles. Dad's backing up trailers like they've never reversed a vehicle before in their lives. Moms clutching campground printouts like their maps to buried treasure. Busy season means all hands on deck.

You've got people trying to grill on the hiking trails, little kids chasing raccoons, and teenagers thinking their bare grills out past curfew. We'd joke that we needed more rangers just to keep the humans from hurting themselves. Bailey was in heaven. She trot from campside to campsite, like she was mayor of the place. Everybody knew her. People started bringing dog biscuits just in case they ran into her on the trails. She had a whole rotation of stops.

Old couples and cabin six always gave her jerky. The Thompsons near the west entrance gave her half their scrambled. eggs every morning. She was working the crowd better than any of us. The woods were loud with life. Bugs, birds, chipmunks squeaking through underbrush, and laughter too. You hear that a lot in the early weeks of summer before people get sunburned and mosquito bitten. Before they realize nature doesn't always play fair. I thought it was going to be a good season, one of our busiest. I was even even train in a new recruit. This quiet college kid named Ralph, nervous but smart. Liked rules. He kept a pocket notebook, wrote everything down like the trees might quiz him later.

Good kid. He asked a lot of questions, especially about the old mining trails on the east side. That area has been off limits for years now. Mines closed down sometime in the late 60s. To unstable. There's warning signs and barricades all over. Doesn't stop the more adventurous types from sneaking out there, of course, especially kids. We got the first report early July. A call came through the station line around 5 p.m. A boy and his parents had come in to report something weird he'd seen out in the eastern woods, said it was near one of the collapsed shafts, maybe a quarter mile past the boundary signs.

I met them down at Station 2, the one near the gravel lot. The parents looked embarrassed. The boy, not so much. He was maybe 14, said his name was Jimmy. He was a skinny kid. Wore one of those oversized black band teas, all the kids wear now, said he'd wandered a little past the hiking path while his folks were grilling. Just wanted to take a few photos for a school project.

on, I don't know, erosion or something like that. He pulled out this old iPhone, really beat up, screen all cracked, and showed me two photos. Both were grainy, zoomed in too far, mostly just trees. But in the second one, near the center of the frame, there was something. Tall, way too tall. and thin, like stretched out skin over bones. It stood between two trees that were each about 12 feet tall. It had arms, or at least long shapes that looked like arms.

But what hit me first was the shape of its head. Not a head, really. More like a metal speaker or horn, like one of those old air raid sirens. It gave me a weird feeling, but I laughed it off. Could be anything. Old mining equipment, maybe. Tricks of the light. Phone camera adds a lot of noise in the dark, I said.

The parents were relieved. They just wanted to get back to their campsite. But the kid stared at me. Not mad, exactly. Just quiet. Like he knew I didn't believe him. After they left, I thought about the photo again. I still had it in my head when I walked Bailey along the Northern Ridge that evening.

I didn't report it officially. Just wrote it down in the logbook and figured it'd be a one-off. People see weird things in the woods all the time. Trees fall in funny ways. Animal tracks get misread. Add teenage imagination, and you've got yourself a campfire story. But it wasn't a one-off. A week later, another report.

This time from a couple of college kids, hiking near the Firewatch Trail, said they spotted something in the distance. Tall, unmoving, pale gray, thought it might be a moose at first, until they realized it didn't have legs like one, didn't move like anything they'd seen before either. They didn't have photos, just said it stood there while they watched, then sort of disappeared when they looked away for a second. Again, I brushed it off. Heat fatigue. You hiked six miles uphill in August. Your eyes played tricks, I told them.

But I wrote it down anyway. Then it kept happening. Every few days, different people, different areas. all with the same kind of description. Something too tall, shaped wrong, spotted in the distance, always out in or near the woods surrounding the old mine lands. Some had photos, most didn't. But the ones that did all had that same blurry shape.

You couldn't prove anything from the pictures, but you couldn't completely deny it either. The story started hitting the internet, of course. Forms, Reddit threads, conspiracy blogs. One of the posts even called it Sirenhead, said it was some kind of old urban legend. But not from around here. From up north, maybe Canada. No idea how it crossed into our woods, if it even did.

Probably just kids connecting dots that didn't exist. Still, it got attention. More hikers started asking weird questions. We had to put up more signs near the mines. But people just ignored them. You tell someone not to look for a monster, and that is the only thing they'll do. And that's when I started to worry.

Not about monsters, not yet. I just knew how dangerous these woods could be. Old shafts that could swallow you whole. Rusted out machinery. rocks that crumbled when you step too hard. We've always had our fair share of injuries, sprained ankles, twisted knees, sometimes worse. But this felt different. This felt like trouble coming through the trees in boots too big for its feet.

I didn't know it then, but that first photo, that blurry shape standing tall in the shadows of the mine trail, That was the start, like the first domino falling in a row a mile long. And we were just starting to hear it. Well, for a little while, things were all right. The whole Sirenhead story made the rounds fast. We didn't start it, but we didn't exactly fight it either. People started calling it Sirenhead Park online, and words spread like wildfire. Some of the younger rangers even leaned into it, snapping photos of old rusty sirens along the trails,

posting vague captions like, We heard something weird today, alongside a ghost emoji. I didn't love it, but I understood it. More attention meant more visitors, and more visitors meant more money. The station finally got new batteries for the trail radios, and Bailey got a proper hearty. with her name stitched into the side. She looked official.

She liked that. We had record numbers that month. Whole campgrounds packed with people. Full parking lots, waiting lists for waterfall tours. I had never seen the place so alive. Kids laughing, teenagers daring each other to go monster hunting after sundown. Families roasting marshmallows like nothing. bad could ever happen out here. The new recruits loved it. Most of them were still in their

20s fresh out of college. They probably expected long, boring days and endless paperwork, but now they had stories. Action. A little danger, just enough to keep their boots moving. They smiled more, talked faster. But that didn't last. The first accident didn't seem like much. A man twisted his ankle on the old cliffside trail near the upper basin. The rocks up there are loose, no surprise, really. We chalked it up to carelessness, told ourselves it could have happened to anyone. The second was harder to explain. A woman came running into Station 3 in the middle of the night.

She looked like she hadn't slept for days, said her tent had been slashed. Not by a bear. She was certain of that. Something clean, straight. Like it was done with a knife, but too high off the ground to make sense. Still, we didn't panic. Sometimes campers drink too much and hear things.

Sometimes raccoons dig in strange ways. But then came the missing pets. First it was a cat, left leased outside a camper overnight. Then a beagle, known to wander, but always come back. Then two dogs, gone at the same time from the opposite ends of the park. We found the leash from one still tied to a tree, chewed clean through. And that's when I started keeping Bailey closer.

She didn't like that. She was used to running ahead, checking clearings, circling back to nudge me like she was in charge. Now I kept her leashed, even on the open trails. She didn't fight it, but she looked at me like she didn't quite understand. And then people started going missing. At first, just for a few hours, families returning from hikes, short a member. Then a whole group vanished.

A family of four. Their tent still zipped. Their food untouched. Radio's silent. We found them later that day, a mile from where they should have been, all sitting under a tree not speaking. Two of them couldn't remember how they got there. One kept asking for her brother, even though he was right beside her. The last just sat there, blank-faced, like he'd been unplugged.

That night I couldn't sleep. calls started coming in more often. People saying they saw something moving just beyond the trees. Something tall and always silent, never chasing, just watching, or standing. We started keeping better records, maps with pins, marking the sightings. They all circle the same area, the abandoned mines and the woods nearby. We expanded the restrified. We expanded the restroupes. restricted zone, posted more warnings. It didn't help. Then the voices started.

Not from the trees. Not anything we heard ourselves. But people kept saying they'd followed sounds. A baby crying. Someone calling their name. A voice they recognized, sometimes a mother, sometimes a brother. Sometimes someone they hadn't seen in years. They said they thought someone was in trouble.

We found one woman waist deep in a bramble thicket, clothes torn, legs bleeding. She sensed she'd followed her husband's voice. He'd been dead for five years. Another man walked five miles off trail trying to find a child he thought was lost. When we got to him, he didn't say a word, just stared into the, the woods, breathing like he'd run a marathon. And then the boy fell. It was one of the tour groups. We were walking them along the ridge, where you can see the waterfall from above. There's a spot where the trees clear, and the land drops sharply down to a rushing stream. I turned my back

for ten seconds. Next thing I knew, Bailey was barking, and half the group was screaming. The boy had stepped over the edge. No hesitation. Like he hadn't even seen it. Like he wasn't even trying to stop. He went straight down into the water. I ran. Bailey ran faster. She went in after him into that freezing current, teeth locked into the collar of his jacket. She dragged him out somehow. Her paws scrabbling over the rocks, the boy choking, coughing, gasping.

When he calmed down, he told me he heard someone crying for help, said it sounded like his sister. But his sister was back at the cabin two miles back. While that one made the news, local papers ran the story,

Hero dog saves boy from River Fall. Bailey got a metal from the town. I hung it on her collar. She tried to chew it off. After that we shut down tours, at least for a while. But that didn't stop the kids. They kept sneaking in after hours, slipping through fences, hopping signs. They came with cameras and flashlots and friends egging them on, hoping to catch the monster, go viral, get famous. It got harder to find them each time. We'd spend hours calming the grounds. Sometimes they'd pop back up on their own, sometimes not. One night, we found three of them crouched near the old mine shaft, backs to a

crumbling wall, eyes wide like dinner plants. None of them spoke for the rest of the night. They didn't need you. I knew what they'd seen. The monster. After the kids saw it, everything got worse. There wasn't a day that went by without someone filing a report about something strange. We tried to stay calm, tried to keep things running like usual, but you could feel it in the team. People weren't talking as much over the radios. They walked faster on patrol. They avoided the East Woods, even though we never officially said to.

and then the bodies started showing up. Not people. At first it was animals. Deer mostly. We'd find it been places they shouldn't be laying in the middle of a trail or right next to the ranger cabins. Whole carcasses

torn open in ways that didn't make sense. No teeth marks. No signs of struggle. Just opened up, ribs like broken sticks, everything inside scooped out. At first, I thought it might be a bear or a pack of coyotes. But the bodies were too clean, no blood trails, no drag marks. It was like something had done it fast and careful, and just left the rest. Bailey would not go to near him. Every time we found one, she'd lower her ears and back away, wouldn't even sniff,

just stared at the trees like something was waiting. We closed the park not long after that. They didn't say it was because of the sightings or the accidents. Officially it was budget cuts. Said attendance was dropping, though we couldn't afford to keep all the stations open. They called it a seasonal reallocation, said we'd all be moved to other parks by the fall. But I knew what it was. They needed this place cleared. Fast. Whatever lived in those woods, whatever we'd stirred up with our dumb stories and half-jokes,

it was real. And nobody wanted to stick around and figure out what it wanted. Most of the team left within days. I don't blame him. I stayed. Not because I thought I could fix anything. I just couldn't leave it like that. This place had been my home for 16 years.

I knew every trail, every tree, every bend in the river. It didn't feel right to leave without a good buy. I offered to do the final cleanup. Two more weeks, that's all I asked. I tried leaving Bailey with my sister three times. She lives two miles outside the park. I told Bailey to stay put that I had something to do and I wanted her safe. But every single time she escaped that house and found her way back to me.

It was like she knew. We did the last rounds ourselves. Pulled down the signs, locked up the supply sheds, made sure no campers. were left behind. It was quiet by then. Too quiet. The trails felt different. Lighter somehow?

Like the park had let go. The forest wasn't buzzing anymore. Not with bugs, not with birds. Not with anything. Even Bailey didn't run ahead. She stuck close to my legs, her tail down. She was watching.

Goal always. watching. One afternoon, we found another deer. This one wasn't fresh. Flies were everywhere. Its legs were missing, not torn off, just gone, like they'd been removed, not eaten. Its head was twisted backward, tongue hanging out like a dry rag. That night, I buried. I buried I've eradicated the cabin doors for the first time in years. I still remember the last day, like it happened a few minutes ago. I'd just finished sweeping the last of the bunkhouse. No one had stayed there in weeks, but I wanted to be thorough.

Dust clung to everything. Bunks, windows, the coffee pods, someone forgot to clean. It felt like a place waiting to be erased. I got back to the ranger station just before dark. The sun was low, lighting the trees gold like they were on fire. I fed Bailey, poured myself what was left of the instant coffee, and sat at the desk, looking out over the ridge. I thought I'd feel something, peace maybe, closure. But all I felt was tired.

I stepped out of the ranger station with Bailey. at my side and scan the trees behind the ridge. The park was quiet. The kind of quiet that should have meant everything was over. Then I noticed it. A flicker of orange light low on the horizon near the forest edge beyond the service road. It wasn't the sun.

The sun had dropped behind the hills already. This light was fire. I stood still for a moment. hoping it was a trick of the last daylight, but it held steady. The park was supposed to be closed. Gates were locked, signs were up. No one should have been out there, let alone building a fire. I turned back, grabbed the keys and flashlight, and got into the truck.

Bailey hopped up into the passenger seat without needing a ward. She was already watching the glow through the windshield as we were. pulled out. The fire wasn't far. I followed the service road along the ridge, moving slowly to keep the truck quiet on the gravel. As we came around the bend past the old quarry junction, the glow sharpened into flames rising from a small campfire tucked just off the path. Hey, you're not supposed to be here, I said. He jumped and spun around. For a second, Second, he looked like he might bolt. Don't run, I said.

You're not in trouble. I just need to know what you're doing here. He looked at bailing, then back at me. You, your ranger? Last one left, I said. Name Samson. He looked unsure, but nodded. I'm Jimmy.

I stepped closer and looked at the camera. you filming a school project or something? He shook his head. No, no, I posted the first pictures of the thing six months ago. I nodded. I remember. People online dared me to come back. They said I was full of it, that I faked it.

I wanted to prove him wrong, he said. Okay. So you lit a fire in a dry forest, pitched a tent near an abandoned mine, and started filming in secret. Jimmy looked down. I didn't think it mattered. You know, the park's empty. It matters, I said. You could have gotten hurt or worse. He didn't argue.

He looked tired. I thought maybe if I found something, it'd all stop. Like if I caught it on video, maybe they'd believe me and leave it alone. I looked down toward the mine road. The trail sloped down past the clearing, into the brush and thick trees. It was always darker there, even in daylight. So you find anything? I asked. He hesitated.

I, um, I thought I had. had something last night, but I stayed put. Yeah, good choice. Bailey sniffed the ground near the fire and sat down beside him. Jimmy scratched behind her ears. Well, you got a ride? I walked in for the main road, he began, ditched my bike behind the Ranger Gate. I convinced him that it was time to leave, and he packed up without much of a fuss. Even stubborn teenagers knew when the jig was up. He doused the fire with a bottle of water and kicked dirt over the coals.

I waited while he zipped the tent, then let him back to the truck. The sun was almost gone now. Long strips of gold fell across the road. The sky over the mine was starting to darken fast. Jimmy sat in the back seat with base, She leaned against him like she'd already decided to forgive him. I turned the key, and the engine rumbled alive.

We rolled down the hill, gravel popping under the tires. And just as we reached the bend that passed the old mine entrance, I saw it. It stood motionless at the edge of the trees near the mine. its frame towering above the brush with unnatural stillness. Its limbs were long and narrow, hanging in a way that didn't suggest rest so much as waiting. And the shape of its head was unmistakable. An old rusted siren mounted where a face should be, angled slightly forward as if listening to something,

buried in the ground. The metal was dull and pitted, like it'd been there for decades. It didn't move, didn't shift, it only watched, rooted to the spot like it always belonged there. I didn't look back after that. There was nothing more to see, and nothing I could have done if I had. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road guiding the truck through the last bends of the trail as the trees pulled in tight around us. Bailey shifted in her seat once, but didn't make a sound. In the rearview mirror, the boy stayed small and still,

his face pale and the fading light. We passed the gates without stopping. The fire was behind us, the station, the mines, and the thing standing near them. Even now, I can still see it when I close my eyes. That shape doesn't leave you. It was too real, too wrong. Not a trick of the light or a blurry photograph. It was there, part of the landscape, but separate from it,

like something that had been buried too long and didn't belong above ground anymore. I never went back after that night. But I still think about it. What it was doing, what it might still be doing. Not every day, which is often enough to know I'll never really leave this place behind.

Not completely. They say, can take the boy out of the woods, but you can't take the woods out of the boy. I used to laugh at that, like it was something parents said when their kids came home tracking mud through the house. Now I understand what it really means. I left the park that night. I didn't go back the next day or the next week. I turned in my keys by mail and never put the uniform back on. The truck sat in the driveway for a long time before I sold it. Bailey still gets excited every time I put on boots. Part of her thinks we're heading out again. We're not. At least not back there.

The park did open again. A few months later, after the season cooled down and the heat on the online stories died down, they cleared the mines out of the brochures, put up better fencing. branded the place with a shiny new logo on a social media page. Now, it's just another forest with safe trails and gift shop magnets. But I still check in. The new head rangers sends me emails sometimes, photos of elk herds, weather updates. The occasional odd question, when something strange shows up on a trail camp, he knows what I see. He knows what I saw, or at least he believes I believe it. That's enough. I'm not a ranger anymore. That chapter's done. There's a sort of peace in saying that, but I never forgot what I saw, not just the shape in the

trees, not just the boy in the backseat. I never forgot what it meant to see something that wasn't supposed to exist standing still like it belonged to the land more than I ever did. Sirenhead. Sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, doesn't it? Like something out of a comic book or a campfire story. But I saw it with my own eyes. That's not something you just file away and forget. Well, after I left the job, I spent a lot of time. I spent a lot of time. I'm looking at maps, not just of the park, but a forest across the country. I started reading things I never would have looked twice at before. Old hunter forums, crypted threads, missing persons databases. The more I read, the more familiar the stories felt, different places,

different names, but the same fear just beneath the surface. Then an old friend reached out. He used to be a ranger himself, up north near the Cascades, said he'd heard about what happened. Something through someone, passed along in a quiet way these things do. He asked if I'd ever heard of a man named Sam Carver. I hadn't. Turns out Carver as an arranger.

He's something else entirely. I don't know what you'd call it. not a scientist, not a soldier, but he's made it his life's work to understand the things that don't fit in books. Monsters, if you want to use the word? Phenomena? He calls them anomalies.

My friend said Carver has been tracking patterns, disappearances, sightings, even strange frequencies picked up near old industrial sites. He's got five. miles going back decades, pinned maps that stretch across half the country. And more than once, something like Sirenhead shows up right at the edges of the picture. I haven't met Carver yet, but I've got a time and a place. It's not official, whatever he's part of. No uniforms,

no government patch on the sleeve. But the way my friend tells it, Carver has answers. Or at least, the questions are better than the ones I've been asking myself. So I'm going. I don't know where this leads. I'm not promising anything. I just want to understand what I saw. I want to know why something like that was standing in the woods near a mine and a park that kids still walk through with luncheables and cheap cameras.

And that's all I can say for now. I've got a backpacked, a dog ready by the door, and a long stretch of road ahead. Maybe someday I'll come back and write more stories. Maybe I won't. But one thing is for sure. There are more to these woods than meets the eye. And there are things out there that can't be explained.