It was the kind of night that made you believe in ghosts.
Stars barely twinkled in the dark sky, and the moon was just
a thin Crescent, hardly shedding any light on the road ahead.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of a state troopers SUV, my
heart thumping with excitement and a bit of fear.
The trooper beside me was Mr. Joe, a tall man with deep
wrinkles etched across his face, telling the tales of his many
years on the job. He was close to retirement and
had plenty of stories to chill your bones.
Mr. Joe was Navajo and had spent the first part of his career
working on the reservation. He knew the land like the back
of his hand and had an eerie calmness about him that made
everything seem more intense. Tonight, he decided to show me a
place that wasn't on the usual patrol route, a deserted gas
station miles away from the nearest town.
Places like these, he said, his voice deep and gravelly, keep
some secrets hidden in the shadows.
As we drove into the Canyon, the only sounds were the gravel
crunching under the tires and the occasional howl of the wind.
The road was narrow and twisted through the dark like a snake.
My imagination started to run wild, filling the darkness with
all kinds of spooky creatures. We're here to make sure no one's
using the old station as a hideout, Mr. Joe explained.
The dashboard lights cast eerie shadows across his face as he
spoke. Sometimes people think they can
escape notice out here, but they forget that the desert sees
everything. When we reached the top of a
hill overlooking the gas station, Mr. Joe stopped the
car. He pointed down at the small,
shadowy building. It looked spooky, like the kind
of place you'd see in a horror movie.
Just then I noticed something, or someone standing behind the
station. It was a figure, dressed all in
black. Look there, I whispered, nudging
Mr. Joe. He saw it too.
Let's see what that's about, he said, his voice calm but
curious. He called it into dispatch, then
steered the SUV down the steep Rd. leading to the station.
As we got closer, the figure started walking away.
It was tall and moved smoothly, almost gliding.
Mr. Joe parked the car and we both got out.
Stay behind me, he instructed firmly.
He called out to the figure. Police stop right there.
But the figure kept moving. Mr. Joe started to follow and I
trailed a few steps behind him, my heart racing.
Suddenly the figure stopped. It turned around slowly and I
could hardly breathe. Its head spun right around like
an owl's, but its body didn't move.
The face was hidden in the darkness, but I could see a grin
stretching from ear to ear, and eyes that were white and
shining. It was terrifying.
Mr. Joe stumbled back, and I heard him gasp.
I was frozen in place, my shoes glued to the dusty ground.
Then, just like that, the figure was gone.
It vanished into the night, leaving nothing but a chilling
silence and a story that I knew I'd never forget.
We stood there for a moment, the cold desert air whipping around
us. Let's head back.
Mr. Joe finally said, his voice a little shaky as we climbed
back into the SUVI knew this was just the beginning of the
night's mysteries. Mr. Joe had more tales to tell,
and I was both scared and eager to hear them.
But nothing could compare to what we had just seen at that
lonely gas station in the Canyon.
That night, as Mr. Joe and I were driving back from the gas
station, his radio crackled to life.
We've got a report of trouble at a small village about four hours
E. The dispatchers voice echoed
through the SUV. Mr. Joe looked at me with a
serious gaze. Ready for another adventure?
He asked. I nodded, even though my heart
was still racing from our last encounter.
We drove through the night, the landscape around us bathed in
the light of a nearly full moon. The stars seem to watch over us.
As we made our way to the village, Mr. Joe told me stories
about the area, about the people who live there and how sometimes
the old ways in the New World didn't always agree.
As we approach the village, Mr. Joe slowed the car over there.
He pointed to a red rock Cliff about 100 yards from the
village. That's where our troublemaker
was last seen. According to the locals, a man
dressed in traditional clothing had been riding a horse along
the Ridge, firing shots at random, but by the time we
arrived, he had vanished. We need to track him.
Mr. Joe said as he grabbed his backpack and rifle.
I followed him, trying to keep up as he expertly followed the
faint hoof prints in the moonlit dirt.
The trail LED us away from the village towards a large Joshua
tree standing alone in the distance.
It's too quiet. Mr. Joe whispered, and I felt a
shiver run down my spine. We continued in silence.
The only sounds are footsteps and the occasional distant howl
of a coyote. Finally, we reached the Joshua
tree. From a distance, Mr. Joe used
his binoculars. There's someone there, he said,
his voice tense. I tried to see, but it was too
dark. As we got closer, the figure
under the tree became clearer. It was a man standing still as
stone. Mr. Joe signaled for me to stay
back as he approached the figure.
You're surrounded. It's time to give up.
He called out. There was no response.
Minutes stretched like hours as we waited in the moonlight.
Finally, Mr. Joe moved closer. What happened next seemed like
something out of a ghost story. The man under the tree didn't
run or shout. He didn't do anything because he
couldn't. As Mr. Joe reached him, it
became clear that the man was not a threat.
He was a mystery. He had been dead for days,
propped up against the tree as if he was still watching over
the desert. Mr. Joe checked the area, but
the horse was nowhere to be seen.
This doesn't make any sense, he muttered, puzzled and a bit
disturbed. As we walked back to the
village, Mr. Joe was quiet, lost in thought.
He wondered aloud if what we were chasing was ever really
there, or if some spirit of the desert was leading us to find
this forgotten soul. That night, under the bright
moon and the watchful eyes of the Joshua tree, I learned that
some mysteries weren't meant to be solved.
They were just part of the vast whispered legends of the desert
where the past never truly leaves.
After leaving the mysterious village, Mr. Joe and I didn't
talk much. The sight of the dead man under
the Joshua tree had left us both with more questions than
answers. But the night wasn't over yet.
As the moon climbed higher in the sky, another call came
through on the radio. This time it was closer, a gas
station robbery on the reservation.
Mr. Joe looked at me, his eyes tired but determined.
Let's see what this is about, he said, steering the SUV toward
our new destination. The drive felt shorter this
time, maybe because I was beginning to get used to the
unexpected turns of the night. When we arrived at the gas
station, the scene was chaotic. Police lights flashed, casting
long shadows across the ground. People were gathered around
their faces anxious and scared. Mr. Joe parked the SUV and we
quickly got out. He led the way.
As we approached a small crowd in the parking lot.
A man lay on the ground, not moving, surrounded by a few
locals trying to help him. I heard someone say the gas
station attendant had shot the man after he tried to rob the
place. The attendant stood nearby, his
hands shaking, a look of shock frozen on his face.
As we got closer, something strange happened.
Just as we reached the crowd, I saw it, something dark and
shadowy rising from the body on the ground.
It looked like a person getting up, but it was all black and
misty, like smoke. Before I could even blink, the
shadow darted away, moving impossibly fast.
It ran along the wall of the gas station, then disappeared into
the night. Mr. Joe saw it too.
He stopped in his tracks, his mouth open in a mix of surprise
and recognition. Did you see that?
He asked me quietly. I nodded, unable to take my eyes
off the spot where the shadow had vanished.
The crowd was too busy with the injured man to notice what Mr.
Joe and I had seen. Medical responders arrived,
pushing through to take over. They pronounced the man dead and
started asking questions. Meanwhile, Mr. Joe pulled me
aside. That was a spirit, an evil one,
I'd bet, he said, his voice low. Sometimes when someone does bad
things, their spirit gets twisted.
When they die, it leaves their body like that, looking for
somewhere else to go. I looked back at the crowd, then
at the dark corners of the parking lot, half expecting to
see the shadow again. But there was nothing, just the
flickering lights and the murmur of voices.
As we drove back, Mr. Joe talked more about what we had seen.
He believed that not all spirits were bad, but the ones that
haunted places of violence, like that gas station often were.
It's part of the job, seeing things most people never do, he
said, glancing at me to see how I was taking it all in.
By the time he dropped me off at home, the sky was starting to
lighten, the first hints of dawn peeking over the horizon.
I thanked him for the ride along, my mind racing with
everything I'd witnessed that night.
I learned that the world was bigger and more mysterious than
I'd ever imagined, filled with shadows and spirits that most
people only ever heard about in stories.
And as I crawled into bed, I wondered about the dark shadow,
where it might have gone, and what other secrets the night
might hold. When I was younger, around 12
years old, my parents booked a four night stay at a log cabin
somewhere in California with my grandma.
The events that occurred scarred me for life.
I felt the crisp air on my face as I opened the car door, looked
at the woods around me, and started towards the cabin door.
My mother called after me. Ed, sweetie, why don't you go up
to your room and unpack? When I opened the cabin door, I
was surprised at the sudden Creek it made.
Just inside was a large space with a sofa parked in front of a
flat screen TV and a kitchen attached to the living room with
a counter lined with bar stools. I walked up the stairs, past the
bathroom, down the hallway and entered the room I was supposed
to be staying in. I screamed because there, right
in the middle of the floor, was a dead rat.
It looked like something had been gnawing on it.
Its insides had been smeared all over.
I bolted down the stairs, seeing my dad Wheeling my grandma's
wheelchair into the cabin. Dad, there's a dead rat in my
room. I practically screamed.
You're old enough, why don't you just go clean it up?
He replied. I did just that.
I ended up using an entire paper towel roll and a can of Lysol to
clean that thing up. It was around 6:00 PM when my
mom made some Mac and cheese with cut up hot dogs, my
favorite at the time. I was walking to the couch where
grandma was sitting with my bowl when I noticed something.
There was a trap door in the middle of the room.
Mom, what's this door doing here?
I asked. Probably access to the crawl
space they used to keep floods from coming into the cabin.
She explained. I sat down on the couch and
turned on the TV, satisfied with that answer.
I vividly remember how much I liked the food that night.
It was great. Before long it was time for bed.
My dad had told me in the car how much fishing and kayaking we
were going to do, and I was super excited.
I got into my bed and fell asleep fast, the warm covers
made it that much easier. Around midnight, I think I woke
up to the sound of shuffling. I stepped out of my room,
leaving the door slightly ajar. As I peered into the dusty hall,
I noticed nothing but the moonlit shadows dancing on the
wall. The shuffling sound continued as
I crept down the stairs leading to the living room.
I placed my ear to the floor and just as I suspected, these
sounds were coming from under the floorboards.
Dread washed over me as the fear of something scurrying around
under there hit me. Being the idiot I was, I thought
I could take whatever was down there, so I grabbed my
flashlight and decided to go find it.
I opened up the trap door. Maybe a dozen rats scattered as
I climbed down into the cold, damp space.
It was huge, reminding me, disturbingly of a maze.
I crawled deeper. I can't tell if I was being
really brave or really stupid, but I crawled until I reached a
dimly lit corner about 10 feet in front of me.
Suddenly there was movement, and I shown my flashlight at the
source. There was a figure, a silhouette
with long arms and pale skin, hunched down in the corner.
Its eyes reflected white off my flashlight.
I was completely stunned as the thing started to screech.
Looking back, I noticed the flashlight probably hurt its
eyes and startled it. You better believe.
I turned myself right around and began to speed crawl as fast as
I could. I glanced back at one point only
once to see that thing following me and quickly wrapping long
fingers around these support beams to help it along.
I could only assume that this thing had been feeding off the
rats and that I had found its leftovers in my room.
If it could do something like that to a rat, I was terrified
at the thought of what it could do to me.
I was beginning to think I was lost with how long it was taking
me to get back to the trapdoor, and with every foot I moved,
that thing was gaining on me. I thought all hope was lost
until I finally saw the trapdoor coming up.
As soon as I reached it, I tackled it open and scrambled
out. I felt something beginning to
grab at me and I swear I felt hot breath.
I kicked and slammed the trap door closed.
Something began to claw and push at it on the other side so I
threw my body on top of the door.
After a while the thrashing and struggling stopped.
I then bolted upstairs to my parents room and began to bang
on the door screaming. My father groggy opened the door
asking what in the world I was doing.
I tried to explain. Dad, we have to go, there's
something trying to get in the house, but he didn't believe me.
I tried to explain that it wasn't a nightmare, but my
efforts were pointless. I was sent to my bedroom where I
did not sleep a wink. I was too scared.
The following morning I ate my breakfast and went out onto the
lake with my dad. He got the fishing rod set up
and we got on this little boat. I didn't catch any fish, but I
was still able to enjoy spending time with my father.
Anything to get my mind off of last night's events.
Eventually dawn turned to dusk and we roasted up some
marshmallows, an activity both grandma and mom loved.
They used to go camping when my mother was younger.
The s'mores I made were delicious, perfectly gooey.
It was finally bedtime again, but I was terrified of the
thought of that creature trying to hurt my family.
I didn't think I could sleep that night, but somehow, some
way, I was able to doze off. I awoke at some point hearing
the unmistakable sound of the trapdoor creaking open.
My heart sank into my chest as a sense of dread like no other hit
me. Right then I heard the sound of
cupboards in the kitchen slamming open and shut.
I wondered if it was that thing looking for me.
I started to hyperventilate as I heard the steps creaking.
Was my door locked? Could it even open doors?
Then again, it had opened the trap door.
Hundreds of questions went through my mind, but to no
avail. I had 0 answers.
I heard scratching sounds coming from the hallway, then the
doorknob jiggled and I held my breath.
Suddenly everything stopped as I heard another door opening.
My dad then shouted Get on out of here.
Then there was this awful ear splitting screech and shattering
glass. I bolted to my door and saw my
dad standing just outside his doorway with his fishing knife.
I looked to my right. There was a trail of blood
leading to a broken window. That same night we packed our
things and left the cabin without a word.
My family has not been anywhere near the woods since.
Keep safe as best you can, everyone.
If you hear strange noises at a new place, don't hesitate to run
or to call the police. You never know what lies near
you, or rather, beneath you. The day had a certain clarity to
it, the kind you only get in the mountains of Wyoming, where the
sky stretches unimpeded and the air bites with the clean, sharp
Tang of pine. I was practically vibrating in
the passenger seat of Mom's boyfriend's old Chevy pickup,
the suspension groaning under the weight of our weekend gear.
My best friend Nick was next to me, both of us chattering about
the latest Call of Duty levels we'd conquered and the epic
weekend that lay ahead. Gary, Mom's boyfriend, was at
the wheel, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, and
Mom hummed along to some old country tune on the radio.
The cabin we were headed to was one of those old time family
heirlooms passed down through Gary's family for generations,
nestled deep in the Bighorn Mountains.
As the truck climbed the winding mountain roads, the dense
forests of Aspen and spruce gave way occasionally to breathtaking
vistas, vast valleys and rugged peaks that look like they'd been
ripped straight out of a western.
When we finally rattled up the gravel drive to the cabin, it
stood there like a steadfast Sentinel against the wilderness.
It's log walls were weathered a soft Gray, and smoke curled
lazily from the chimney. It was the first real chill of
early fall, and the promise of a roaring fire and s'mores was
just about the best thing I could imagine.
After unloading, Nick and I wasted no time.
We grabbed our four Wheelers from the back of the truck.
Old, battered things, but they ran well enough after Gary gave
them a cursory once over. We tore through the trails
surrounding the cabin, the engines growling beneath us as
we kicked up clouds of dust and leaves in our wake.
The air was a mix of earthy decay and cold and invigorating
rush that only served to amplify our excitement.
Later, as dusk began to settle, the four of us gathered around
the fire pit near the cabin. Gary proved a master at getting
a fire going, and soon enough we were roasting hot dogs on
sticks, the flames dancing reflections in our wide eyes.
The S'mores were messy affairs, chocolate and marshmallow
sticking to our fingers, the laughter and stories flowing as
freely as the Creek nearby. The evening wound down quietly.
Nick and I lay back in the grass, watching the stars emerge
like shy sparks against the darkening blue.
The Milky Way was a dusty trail across the sky.
And I tried to point out constellations, making up half
of them as I went. Nick laughed, calling my bluff,
but he played along, suggesting even more outrageous shapes and
tales of mythical beasts. As the night drew in, the
temperature dropped and the adults called us inside.
The cabin was warm and inviting, the fire in the large stone
fireplace casting flickering shadows across the wooden
floors. Upstairs the open sleeping loft
housed several beds, all lined up under a roof of rough hewn
beams. Nick and I claimed beds by the
window, the better to hear the whisper of the wind through the
trees as we drifted off. I remember thinking as I lay
there wrapped in the warmth of a heavy quilt, how perfect
everything felt. The troubles of school and the
usual dramas seemed 1,000,000 miles away.
Little did I know, as sleep crept over me and the fire died
to embers, that the peace of this first day was just the calm
before a storm, a storm that would shake the foundations of
what I thought I knew about the wild and about fear itself.
The sun was already tipping behind the jagged teeth of the
big horns by the time we set out the next day.
Mom, always protective, had shooed us outside after lunch,
her hands shooing us away as if we were pesky crows at a picnic.
Go on, get some fresh air, she insisted, smiling, but stern.
Gary was busy with some minor repairs around the cabin, the
clink of his tools a steady rhythm in the background.
Nick and I wandered without real aim, sticks in our hands,
carving paths through the underbrush and deep into the
woods. We played our usual games, re
enacting our favorite video game scenarios, dodging imaginary
grenades and diving for cover behind boulders and trees.
It might have looked silly to an outsider, but for us it was the
kind of freedom only wide open spaces could offer.
As the light began to wane, I remembered the old treehouse.
It wasn't much, just a triangular platform nestled
among the arms of three stout trees about 10 feet off the
ground. It had been there since Gary was
a kid, he told us, built by his father as a lookout and a place
to dream about futures as boundless as the Wyoming skies.
Hey, check out the treehouse. I said to Nick, a grin spreading
across my face. He nodded, excitement lighting
up his eyes as we made our way through the thickening shadows
to the old structure. The makeshift ladder creaked
under our weight as we climbed, but it held firm.
We settled onto the platform, our legs swinging freely, the
rough bark of the trees a solid presence at our backs.
We talked about everything and nothing.
Girls, we liked movies we wanted to see the kind of idle chat
that filled the air with the easy comfort of friendship.
But then the woods fell eerily silent.
The usual chirps and whispers of the forest ceased, as if someone
had turned down the volume on the world.
Nick's face tensed, his eyes scanning the dense foliage.
Did you hear that? He whispered, his voice barely a
breath. I strained my ears, catching
only the faintest rustling, like the soft tread of something
large moving stealthily through the underbrush.
A chill raced up my spine, instinctively understanding the
silence meant danger. Predator.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
And then we saw it. A figure, massive and
indistinct, hidden partly behind a tree not 50 feet from where we
sat. Its eyes seemed to catch the
last dying rays of the sun, reflecting them back at us with
an eerie glow. It was covered in fur, dark and
matted, and stood unnaturally still.
We have to go, I muttered, my mouth dry, my voice cracking
with the onset of real fear. Nick nodded and we scrambled
down from the tree house, our movements hurried and clumsy
with terror. The creature followed.
I could hear it now, a heavy, deliberate crunching as it moved
through the dry leaves. We broke into a run, the cabin
our only sanctuary. As we neared the clearing, I
dare to glance back. It was closer now, too close.
I could see the details of its face, wild, almost human, but
twisted, malevolent. We burst into the cabin,
slamming the door behind us, our breaths ragged sobs.
Mom and Gary rushed over, their faces etched with concern.
We tried to explain, tripping over our words, our eyes wild
with fear. That night, after the adults had
dismissed our story and returned to their card game, the
scratching started. Soft at first, then insistent.
I peered out from under my blanket, and by the faint light
of the outside lamp, I saw it. A hand, human yet not, scraping
slowly along the wooden railing of the deck.
Sleep was impossible. The night was long and every
sound was a reminder of what lurked just beyond the walls of
our supposed refuge. This is my only experience, and
it happened during my freshman year of high school in 1983.
This story includes my friends Jay and Dez.
I'm using their initials to protect their real names.
It was Halloween night and I was with my friends just finishing
up our freshman football practice.
The three of us were 13 or 14 at the time.
Typical North New Jersey suburban kids.
That Halloween we were a little old to dress up and trick or
treat, but we still wanted the free candy, so we went up to
some houses with our football jerseys on for candy.
Jay lived with little adult supervision, had long hair, and
girls loved him. He acted like he didn't care
about anything in the world. Dez and I came from more typical
suburban homes with rules and homework.
Not that I did very well in school, though.
Jay seemed much cooler than the two of us with his leather
jacket and the fact that he was allowed to smoke in his house.
I would say he was our leader. We all started getting into
heavy metal around that time. Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden,
Ozzie and Dio and eight up the satanic references thinking that
made us hardcore. We'd even spin Led Zeppelin
albums backwards looking for satanic messages. 80s kids will
understand this. Jay had made a metal cross in
shop class and sometimes would wear it upside down calling
himself Johnny Blade after a Black Sabbath song.
That night after getting candy we ended up at Dez's house in
his parents room. For some reason, and I can only
say this because it was the only and last time I was ever in that
room, the room was on the entry level of the house off the
living room of the Cape style home.
We were going through our candy when the radio on the night
stand just turned on. We all laughed it off and went
on with our business. Then all of a sudden the lights
began to flicker. Jay took this as a sign and with
it being Halloween, he decided to bless the items with his
crude shop class cross. Now Dez and I were on the bed
and Jay went over to the clock with the cross upside down.
I bless you in the name of you know I don't even want to say
his name. 40 years later, over to the light, the same thing.
Then he noticed a crucifix over the bedroom door and headed that
way. He raised the cross and as the
word started to come out of his mouth, I swear I watched him
lift off the ground three feet and be hurled onto the bed a
distance of over 5 feet onto me and Dez.
I was so scared I ran out into the hallway.
The lights and radio were going crazy and then I noticed it
looked like Jay was swallowing his own tongue.
Dez was on top of him immediately with his fingers in
his mouth trying to prevent that from happening, but Jay
continued to gag. I was petrified, inching my way
back into the room. Dez's eyes were rolling over the
lights and radio still going insane.
Then it all stopped. A minute later.
Dez was trying to get Jay to explain what had just happened,
and I was nervously going in and out of the room.
We all ran out of the house, then onto the front lawn.
Jay didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
From the lawn at the bedroom window, we could see the lights
inside still going crazy and the radio going mad.
Dez was freaking out as this was his parents room and he was
probably worried about getting into trouble.
After about 10 minutes, everything seemed to settle down
at last. Jay was shaken up of course and
still mute. Maybe he was just shocked.
I mean all of us were scared out of our minds.
Dez ended up having to call Jay's mom for him to pick him
up. I always remember how frightened
he looked getting into that car. He couldn't even make eye
contact with us that night. I remember crying in my bed
because I was too scared to fall asleep.
Every little noise was terrifying.
The next morning I waited for Jay outside school.
I could tell he didn't want to talk about it, so being the
funny guy in our group, I asked him if he could light our
football coach's car on fire or perform some other deed.
He laughed and that made us all feel better.
Jay was thrown off the team a couple of weeks later for
something I can't recall, and the three of us drifted apart,
as kids do, though Dez and I did remain friendly, still ending up
in different crowds by the end of high school.
We never had a full debrief of that night.
Dez and I did tell some people the story, but most simply
thought it was unbelievable, and since Jay pretended to be the
Johnny Blade character, it sounded contrived.
So I stopped sharing the story with people I've told my wife
and a few others over the years, and since then nothing
paranormal has happened to me. Not that I know of.
I'm not sure this is even paranormal.
Maybe it was more of a spiritual experience.
I never thought inheriting Grammy's old house would feel so
strange and spooky. It had been weeks since Grammy
passed away and everything still felt so fresh and painful.
I missed her a lot. She used to tell the best
stories about growing up in the mountains and the mysteries of
the deep woods surrounding her home.
My parents decided that since they already had their own
place, I would be the one to inherit the family home in
Appalachia. It was an old creaky house that
seemed to groan with every gust of wind, hidden away from the
nearest town by a thick forest that always seemed to be
whispering secrets. My sister Ellie and I went there
last weekend to start sorting through Grammy stuff.
It was a big task, but we thought it might help us feel
closer to her, like she was still with us in some way.
We laughed and cried as we went through her old photos and
clothes, remembering all the times we had spent with her.
On Sunday, as we were about to finish up for the day, I noticed
a small door that led to the attic.
I couldn't remember ever going up there.
It was dusty and filled with cobwebs, and we had to use our
phone lights to see anything because the bulb in the attic
was burnt out. Ellie and I coughed as the dust
flew around, making us sneeze repeatedly.
In the corner, under a dusty tarp, I spotted something
interesting. An old wooden chest.
It looked really ancient, with carvings on the sides that were
faded and a rusty lock that was broken a long time ago.
We dragged it out into the middle of the attic, our
curiosity growing by the 2nd. Opening the chest was like
opening a treasure box. Inside were stacks of leather
bound journals, each one meticulously dated from 1960 to
just before the turn of the century.
The handwriting was elegant and careful, clearly Grammys.
I flipped through one, seeing dates and tiny drawings here and
there. Look at this, Ellie.
I said, my voice a mix of excitement and a bit of fear.
Grammy never told us about these.
Ellie peered over my shoulder. Wow, she wrote a lot.
What do you think is in them? I don't know, but I bet it's
filled with stories just like the ones she used to tell us.
I replied. But as I began to read, I
realized these weren't just any stories.
They were more like diary entries talking about her life
here. And they weren't all happy.
As the sun began to set outside, the wind picked up and the old
house started to make those creepy creaking noises.
Reading Grammy's words in that setting made it all feel so
eerie. She wrote about the people she
met when they first moved here, how the land seems steeped in
stories and mysteries, and how the locals warned her about the
woods. Never whistle after dark, one
entry read. It invites attention from things
best left alone. Chills ran down my spine as a
gust of wind seemed to whistle past the window.
Ellie and I exchanged nervous glances.
Maybe we should continue this downstairs?
I suggested, suddenly eager to be out of the dusty, dim attic.
Yeah, let's go. Ellie agreed quickly, looking as
spooked as I felt. As we left the attic, I couldn't
shake the feeling that Grammy's house was hiding more secrets
than we knew. Secrets that might be waiting to
reach out from the pages of those journals.
That night, after Ellie had gone home, I was alone in Grammy's
house, with only the old journals for company.
I had decided to stay a few days to sort through more stuff, but
now I wasn't so sure it was a good idea.
The house felt different at night, more alive, and not in a
good way. Every Creek and groan seemed
louder, and the wind whistling through the trees sounded almost
like whispers. I curled up in an armchair with
a blanket and a flashlight, opening another one of Grammy's
journals. The entries I read earlier had
made me nervous, but now, in the quiet of the night, my curiosity
was tinged with real fear. I couldn't help myself.
I needed to know what Grammy had experienced in this old house.
As I turned the pages, the stories grew stranger and
scarier. Grammy wrote about seeing
shadows in the forest that didn't belong to any animal she
knew, and about the eerie glow of eyes watching from the
darkness. She mentioned the local legends
of spirits and creatures that roamed the woods.
Legends I had always thought were just stories to scare kids.
One entry particularly stood out.
It was from a cold October night in 1961.
Grammy had heard a haunting whistle from the direction of
the woods just as dusk fell. She wrote about feeling a chill
run down her spine and rushing inside to lock the door.
From her window, she had seen a figure standing at the forest's
edge. It looked like a man, but its
limbs were too long and its eyes glowed with a strange light.
Grammy wrote that it stood there watching the house for hours
before it finally vanished into the shadows.
Reading this, I glanced up nervously at the windows, half
expecting to see glowing eyes staring back at me.
I shivered and read on. Grammy had felt something evil
that night, something that didn't belong in our world.
After that, she never looked at the forest the same way again.
I heard a noise and jumped, my heart pounding.
It was just the house settling, or so I told myself.
But Grammy's words made it hard to shake the feeling that maybe,
just maybe, she had been telling the truth.
The more I read, the more I felt the weight of Grammy's fear.
She wrote about whispers in the wind that sounded almost like
words, about how the forest grew silent when it should have been
filled with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.
It was as if the woods themselves were holding their
breath, waiting for something bad to happen.
As I read the last entry for the night, Grammy described a
feeling of being watched, of an unseen presence lingering just
out of sight. That night, she had barely
slept, listening to the sounds of something circling the house,
its footsteps barely audible over the howling wind.
I closed the journal, my hands trembling.
The wind outside picked up, and somewhere in the distance, I
thought I heard a faint whistle. I froze, listening hard, but it
was gone as quickly as it had come.
I told myself it was just the wind.
It had to be. But as I lay in bed later,
wrapped tightly in my blanket, I couldn't shake the feeling that
Grammy's stories were more than just old tales.
They were warnings, And I was beginning to think I should have
listened. I barely slept that night.
Every little sound made me jump and the wind's whistle sounded
like a haunting call, just like Grammy described in her
journals. By morning I was exhausted but
determined. I had to understand what was
happening, if these stories were real or just the wild
imaginations of an old woman who loved to tell tales.
After a quick breakfast, I went back to the journals.
I was drawn to the last ones, Grammy wrote.
They were filled with entries from around the time she stopped
writing. The dates were close to the new
Millennium, and Grammy's handwriting seem shakier.
Rushed in these journals, Grammy talked about the night Uncle
Bill disappeared. He'd heard Ma's voice calling
him into the woods, a voice he followed despite knowing she had
passed away years ago. The search party found only his
hat, torn and stained, but Uncle Bill was never seen again.
Grammy wrote that the woods lured him away with a voice that
mimicked their mother, a tactic used by whatever spirits haunted
their land. Reading this, my heart ached for
Grammy. She'd lost so much, and here I
was in her house, possibly facing the same dangers.
She wrote that after Uncle Bill's disappearance, the air
felt charged heavy with a sense of impending doom.
The night seemed to press against the windows, trying to
get inside. I couldn't stay inside any
longer, I needed to see the woods for myself.
Maybe it was foolish, but I had to know.
I put on my coat and stepped outside, the cold air biting at
my cheeks. The forest was eerily quiet as I
approached, the trees standing like silent Sentinels.
I walked to the edge of the woods, where Grammy had seen the
figure with the glowing eyes. The ground was covered in a thin
layer of snow, and my footsteps were the only sound.
I stood there, listening, waiting.
Suddenly, a chill went down my spine.
I thought I heard a whisper, a faint call in my grandmother's
voice. My heart raced.
Was I imagining it, or was the forest really calling to me?
I remembered Grammys warnings in the journals.
With every fiber of my being screaming to run, I took a step
back toward the house. As I turned, I thought I saw a
shadow move between the trees. I didn't wait to see more.
I ran back to the house, locking the door behind me.
Back inside, I was shaking. The stories were real, or at
least they felt real. I couldn't stay here, not with
the history this place carried. But as I packed my things, I
realized something. These stories, these warnings,
they were part of my family's legacy.
Running away wouldn't change that.
I made a decision. I would leave, but I would come
back. I needed to learn more, to
understand what haunted this place and how to protect myself
and my family. Grammy had faced these spirits
alone, but I wouldn't have to. I could seek help, maybe find
others who knew about these things.
As I drove away from the house, I looked back at the forest.
It no longer seemed just a part of the landscape.
It was a part of my history, a chapter of my life I was just
beginning to understand. I wasn't running away forever, I
was going to find answers and one day I'd return ready to face
whatever waited in the shadows. I am a 32 year old woman living
in a beach town in Southern California.
I share A2 bedroom apartment with a roommate and her cat.
Our town has a beach on one side and small mountains on the
other, along with several river bottoms.
We are located in the middle of town, just off a busy St. behind
a seedy motel. This motel is rumored to have
been a stopping point for a serial killer in the 80s who
apparently like to keep cut up body parts in the bathtub.
Between the motel and our apartment there is an abandoned
chained up lot which we affectionately refer to as
murder lot. It is overgrown with large
bushes and a few small trees, providing a perfect hiding spot
for many critters and even the occasional Vagabond without
anyone knowing. There is also a narrow walkway
leading from the lot winding between our building and the one
behind us, passing by our bathroom window, which is about
6 1/2 feet off the ground. Although it's too high for
anyone to see into from one side or the other.
I always get an extremely uneasy feeling every time I pass by
murder lot, especially at night. I'm not much of A cannabis user,
but I once accepted a gummy from my roommate when my body was
extremely sore after a long weekend.
That night I dreamed of a skinwalker stalking me.
I woke up the next day with my heart pounding, but I told
myself it had to have been a result of the THC in my system.
After that, I didn't dream about skinwalkers again.
One night when my roommate was out of town, her cat slept in my
room with me. We were both startled awake
around 4:00 AM by a loud beep, beep beep, which sounded like a
smoke detector. As I sat up, hot and sweaty, the
sound led me to believe that our building was on fire.
However, by then the smoke detector had stopped going off.
I got up to check things out, expecting to see flames or smell
smoke, but when I walked into the living room and looked out
the window, I saw nothing. Well, nothing except a pure
white cat statue still gazing directly into murder lot.
Something about it made me freeze.
I stared at that cat for a while, neither of us moving.
Eventually, my roommate's cat approached me, exposing his
belly at my feet. I looked down briefly to pet
him, and when I looked back up, the white cat was gone.
I stared out the window a little while longer, waiting for the
cat to return, but it didn't. After I determined that our
building was not on fire, I went back to bed.
I had woken up hot and sweaty before, right?
But now I could not seem to get warm enough the rest of the
night. That didn't really make sense to
me. The whole next day I had a weird
uneasy feeling. I haven't heard any phantom
smoke alarms or seen any strange cats again, but I have since
noticed the fence being bent towards the ground enough for a
cat or a very skinny person to crawl under.
About a month later, around 8:30 PMI let my roommate know I would
be taking a shower in case she needed to use the bathroom
before I occupied it. I did, however, leave the
bathroom door unlocked in case the cat needed to use his litter
box in there. I was washing my hair when I
heard a knock that I thought was coming from the bathroom door.
I pulled the shower curtain back and called out.
What's up, it's me. I heard an odd version of my
roommate's voice, but didn't think much of it.
We often use silly voices when communicating.
Thinking the cat must have needed to come in, I opened the
bathroom door, expecting to see the cat, but instead I saw
nothing. I stood there for a moment in
the steamy bathroom, wondering what had just happened.
I closed the bathroom door, my mind and heart still racing.
What in the world was that? When I came out, I asked my
roommate if she had knocked. She said no.
I believed her. She was sitting exactly as she
was before I left the room. I went to sleep that night
feeling weird and woke up the next day feeling horrified,
realizing the knock very well could have come from the
bathroom window, not the door. The next and final incident
happened some weeks after that, which was only about two weeks
ago. Just as I was lying down to go
to sleep one night, I heard distressed shouting coming from
an indiscernible distance from my window.
Help me, someone please help me. The voice sounded not quite
right. I listened for a while and the
words played on repeat until it sounded like he was right at my
street corner. I looked out the window and saw
nothing, but the noise continued.
Neighbors even came out of their houses to investigate the sound.
I called 911 to report a man in distress and I waited.
Eventually the neighbors went back inside, but I kept
watching. After a while, I did see
something or someone. Whatever it was, it crossed
under a street lamp in the far distance.
I don't know if they were limping or not, but the
movements were quite strange. They were too far away for me to
make out any features, including their height.
That was it for me. I decided I had done my civic
duty enough for one night, so I turned out my light and did my
best to go to sleep while still keeping my ears open for
anything strange. Ever since then I haven't seen
or heard anything, but the thought of those 3 incidents
still causes anxiety and a pit in my stomach.
I keep telling myself there's no way there's anything like a
skinwalker in my sleepy beach town, but there's a small part
of me that wonders if there could be.
I never put much stock in the old sayings about things hiding
in plain sight until the night I started my new job at the local
museum. The ad in the local paper was
succinct, almost stark. Wanted.
Night time security guard, nothing more than that, and a
phone number. For a town barely noticeable on
a map, having a museum always seemed a bit out of place, a
quirk in the landscape of our otherwise unremarkable
existence. I driven past that museum
countless times, never giving it much more than a curious glance.
It was an impressive structure, out of sync with the small town
vibe, grand old and as I was soon to find out, filled with
secrets as dark as its unlit hallways at night.
The man on the phone had a voice that crackled with too much
enthusiasm for a simple security job.
Come down this evening for your interview, he'd said, as if
offering me a golden ticket. His eagerness should have been
my first warning, but with bills piling up and job options
scarce, I didn't dwell on it. Walking up to the museum for my
so-called interview felt like stepping onto the set of a film,
only the genre wasn't clear yet. Thriller.
Horror. The wide stone steps built for
crowds that never seemed to visit, LED up to towering double
doors flanked by stone gargoyles that watched me with silent,
judging eyes. The whole scene was eerily quiet
except for the wind whispering through the columns, carrying
with it a promise of the unusual.
The door swung open with a silence that was somehow louder
than any Creek could have been. Inside, the grandeur of the
museum struck me, a stark contrast to the ghost town vibe
outside. Vaulted ceilings, intricate
murals, and an air of neglected beauty.
It was breathtaking, and given the emptiness, a bit heart
rending. The curator was waiting for me
just beyond the foyer, a slight man with sharp features and an
air of authority that seemed disproportionate to his frame.
Mr. Welton, I presume? He greeted, his smile warm but
his eyes calculating. Yes, Sir.
I responded, extending my hand out of habit.
He looked at it as though it were an artifact from another
era, amusing yet obsolete. Right, then follow me and I'll
show you your duties. He said, turning briskly on his
heels. His movements were fluid, almost
unnaturally so. I followed, feeling the weight
of the silent exhibits around us as we passed a series of
hauntingly lifelike portraits. He led me to a small, sparsely
furnished office. You'll be in charge of checking
the doors so nothing gets in or out, he explained.
His use of the word nothing instead of no one sent a chill
down my spine. The job was starting to feel
less like a position and more like a posting.
You mean to prevent theft? I ventured, trying to find solid
ground in what was increasingly feeling like a narrative I
hadn't agreed to. Yes.
He said slowly, almost thoughtfully.
Theft, with a few more cryptic instructions and appointed.
Let's see how your first night goes.
He left me with a list of rules. The paper felt heavy in my
hands, the ink darker than necessary as I read through the
bizarre list. Rule #1 there are no rules.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I just stepped into a much
larger story, one that had been waiting for me all along.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the silence enveloped me.
The museum, with all its artifacts and shadows seemed to
lean in, watching as I stood alone at the threshold of the
unknown. The first few moments alone in
the museum were heavy with an eerie stillness, like the calm
before a storm. With only the echo of my
footsteps for company, I unfolded the paper with the
rules again. The words they're watching were
hidden among the odd capitalizations, casting an
unnerving pall over my start. I took a deep breath, trying to
steady my nerves, and decided to begin my rounds.
The first room was just off the main hall, a gallery of sorts
filled with sculptures that seemed almost too lifelike.
In the dim overhead lights, every shadow seemed to flicker,
suggesting movement where there was none.
Or so I hoped. Moving through the corridors,
the air grew inexplicably colder.
My breath fogged in front of me and I rubbed my arms for warmth,
regretting the thinness of my jacket.
It was then that I first felt it, a presence as tangible as
another person in the room. But when I turned, there was
nothing but the lingering echo of my own movements.
Pressing on, I entered what I'd later call the crypted room.
The door shut behind me with a soft click that sounded like a
gunshot. In the silence.
The room was filled with figures.
A Bigfoot, A Jersey Devil, a Wendigo, all the stuff of
campfire horror stories arranged like a twisted wax museum.
My flashlight beam danced across their two realistic faces, and
for a horrifying second, I saw the wendigo's head turn to
follow the light. A slip of paper was taped to the
door. The only way out is through.
Taking a shuddering breath, I moved forward, keeping my eyes
fixed on the ground. My heart pounded loud enough to
drown out the silent prayers spilling from my lips.
The room seemed endless, and the more I walked, the more I felt
eyes on me, watching, waiting. A low growl echoed behind me,
and I resisted the urge to run. The rules were clear, no noise,
no sudden movements. Eventually, I reached the door
on the other side, my hands shaking as I turned the knob.
The next challenge was a pitch black room, the darkness
absolute swallowing the weak beam of my flashlight as if it
were nothing. A rustle, the slight hint of
movement, and I knew I wasn't alone.
Something large moved in the shadows, its presence suggested
by a faint hissing sound and the displacement of air.
I dropped to the floor, remembering the rule.
Do not move. The snake, its presence now
unmistakable, slithered past, it's scales brushing against my
outstretched leg. I froze, barely breathing,
waiting for it to pass. The minutes stretched into
eternity until the room fell silent again.
Scrambling to my feet, I tossed the flashlight ahead of me,
using its light to guide my crawling escape.
The door at the end of the room seemed miles away, but I reached
it, my hands trembling as I pushed it open, expecting
another round of horrors. But the nightmare wasn't over.
The next room mimicked the sky. Walls, floor and ceiling painted
in brilliant Blues and whites, creating the illusion of walking
on clouds. It was disorienting, the beauty
of its stark against the terror I felt.
Then the scream shattered the illusion, a sound so primal and
terrifying it froze me in my tracks.
I didn't see it at first, but the shadow grew, a massive bird
of prey diving towards me with claws outstretched.
I threw myself to the ground, rolling to avoid its talons, my
heart hammering against the floor.
The room spun, the painted clouds swirling around me as I
crawled toward the door, the creatures screeches echoing in
my ears, bursting through the exit.
I slammed the door shut, my whole body shaking with
adrenaline and fear. The hall outside was quiet, too
quiet, as if the museum itself held its breath.
I leaned against the wall, trying to calm my racing heart,
knowing the night was far from over.
Each step felt heavier, each shadow deeper, and the unknown
horrors of the museum loomed larger with every passing
moment. As the first rays of dawn crept
through the museum's tall windows, they did little to warm
the chill that had settled deep in my bones.
I leaned against the cool marble of the hallway, every muscle in
my body aching from the tension of the night.
The silence of the morning was a stark contrast to the chaos that
had enveloped the darkness hours before.
I was alive. Somehow, despite everything, the
curator found me there, his slight figure emerging almost
soundlessly from the shadows as the building itself seemed to
exhale the night's terrors with the coming light.
I see you managed to make it through.
He said, a small knowing smile playing on his lips as if he'd
been Privy to my every frightful encounter.
Congratulations, you're the first one in some time.
He continued, handing me an envelope thick with bills, the
agreed upon amount for surviving the night.
His casual dismissal of what I just endured felt almost like an
insult, or worse, a warning. Would you be interested in
staying on and being my permanent night time guard?
He asked, doubling the offer. As if money could erase the
horrors etched into my mind. I weighed the envelope in my
hand, feeling the papers crispness, a stark reminder of
reality against the surreal terror of the museum's
challenges. The money was good, better than
anything I'd find in this forgotten town, but was it worth
the dread that now clawed at my insides?
I'd have to think about it, I managed to say, my voice hoarse
from the night. Silent screams, the mention of
the basement by the curator suggested as an even greater
challenge, did nothing to sway me.
It hung in the air between us, a veiled threat, or perhaps a
morbid invitation. He nodded, accepting my
hesitation with a grace that felt as rehearsed as everything
else in that museum. Very well, you can see yourself
out, I recommend getting that back tended to.
He added, his eyes flicking to the scratches that the eagle's
talons had left on me before he disappeared as mysteriously as
he had appeared. Standing in the now quiet
museum, the envelope of cash in hand, I felt a tug of war within
me. The money was a siren call, but
the night's echoes were a chilling deterrent.
With a deep, weary sigh, I made my way to the front doors, the
weight of decision heavy on my shoulders as I pushed the heavy
doors open. The morning air hit me with a
clarity that sharpened my resolve.
The museum behind me felt like a chapter I needed to close.
No matter how enticing the curators offer was, the daylight
robbed the building of its nocturnal menace, rendering it
almost ordinary. But I knew better.
I paused, glancing back once at the deceptive calm of the
museum's facade. For a fleeting moment, I thought
I saw a shadow move, a reminder, or perhaps a warning.
Shaking off the chill that raced up my spine, I turned away, my
decision firm. The walk home was a mix of
relief and introspection, the morning light slowly dispelling
the night's darker thoughts. As I pondered my next steps away
from the dangers of the museum, I realized that some doors, once
opened, ask too much of us to ever be worth the crossing.
A little background before we begin.
Everyone says the same thing. I'm an avid outdoorsman.
I hunt, fish, camp, hike and kayak.
My buddy is not an outdoorsman. He goes party camping with me
and that's about it. We have never experienced
anything like what I'm about to tell you.
This happened in 2018. The day before we were camping
at a lake in the Nicolet National Forest in northern
Wisconsin. The trees were changing color at
the time and the leaves were starting to fall.
It was freezing at night. Being October, my buddy got cold
quickly and drove around in the mornings to warm up.
We would go into town to get gas and supplies, mainly beer.
There needed to be more to do at our campground and with no
hiking or activities, day drinking was kind of what we
relied on, listening to music and talking about party camping.
The next day was going to be an overcast, rainy day, so we
decided to spend it by driving around looking at other
campgrounds and scouting them out for other trips.
We partied that night and went to bed late.
Everything was normal. We heard wolves, owls, loons,
and all the other good stuff, but after a while we heard
nothing, just pure quiet. It was peaceful.
It started raining early the next day, just a drizzle at
first, but enough to make camping a pain.
We got up late, hungover and cold.
We dressed in our hiking gear and jumped in the car to get
warm. We left the lake campsite a
little after noon to check out the other campgrounds.
It was about 5 miles to the next one and basically on the highway
without privacy. We would generally check them
out, but it started raining very hard.
We stayed in the car marking down the campsites we liked and
the ones we didn't. This one we didn't particularly
like. Now the thing about this
National Forest is there are campsites and campgrounds spread
out absolutely everywhere. They need to be connected in
some sort of way. So you have to get on the
highway, find a little sign that says campsites this way, and
then drive down a dirt Rd. for 10 to 15 minutes to find them.
We made it to about 8 before 5:00.
We were at the entrance of what was going to be our last one for
the day. It said the road was 15 miles.
I went slowly, not trying to kick too many rocks up into my
car. The road was honestly pretty
eerie. The trees made the street look
like we were going down a cave. A couple of minutes in and the
rain had stopped at the campsites.
There was no one there. It was beginning to get dark.
We had been in the car all day and we're ready to get out and
stretch our legs. We parked at the first campsite
and got out. The birds were singing their
lullabies and everything was still.
There were five campsites in a circular clearing with thick
trees all around. The sites were open to each
other and could have been better for my camping.
Only if you rented all the sites, honestly.
We walked around the circle and noticed a sign that said group
CAMP pointing up a trail. We started down the gravel path
full of wet leaves to the site. After walking for some time I
realized it wasn't even close. I raised this concern with my
buddy, but we wanted to see the site anyway.
It was almost dark out, but we could still see rather well.
I noticed the birds had stopped singing at this point.
There was a hushed tone in the forest.
All we heard was our own footsteps.
When we made it to the group site after walking for quite a
few minutes, it was still and nothing was moving.
We were at the end of the trail looking into the area.
The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up and my skin
crawled. Standing about 30 feet to our
left was a very massive dark haired creature.
I was frozen with fear. My buddy hadn't noticed it yet
and was still walking. I said his name quietly.
He must have known something was wrong because he stopped and
turned to his left immediately. We were both frozen standing
there what felt like minutes, but it couldn't have been more
than a few seconds. I knew what it was, but in my
head I was saying they weren't real.
I couldn't even speak. Then it started slowly moving
towards us, yelling some deep throaty gibberish.
Against all my instincts to hold my ground and fight back.
We ran for it. It ran with us and it was still
screaming. We kept running for our lives.
It was running parallel to us. It's scream was replaced by what
I can only describe as a deep throaty huffing noise.
It was crashing through the dead brush, keeping up with us
effortlessly. We were running, trying not to
slip on the leaves or just die. We saw the car and had hope.
As soon as we got to the clearing, it stopped.
It hit a tree. More like it punched through a
tree. We heard a huge crack and crash.
We were almost to the car when this massive tree hit the ground
next to us. We then listen to what can only
be described as a great ape beating its chest in triumph
while screaming. We jumped in the car and speed
away. The rest was a blur.
We got back to the campground, packed up and left at night.
We never spoke about it again and haven't talked about it
since. I'm almost entirely certain what
we experienced that day was a Bigfoot.