I honestly don't know where to start or if I'm ready to post
this story of mine, but hopefully it'll help.
I know you won't believe me, and honestly I wouldn't blame you.
It still doesn't make sense in my own head.
I've heard stories about unknown creatures in the woods, but I
never thought I'd encounter 1 myself.
You know, I posted another story about some creepy old people I
ran into in the woods, but that's nothing compared to this.
It might sound like a good Horror Story to some people, but
it haunts me every day. Anyway, here we go.
I love hiking. I usually go with my three-year
old German Shepherd, Kyrie. And let her roam off leash since
we prefer secluded places. I've hiked all over the
mountains in Utah but wanted to find a new trail not too far
from home. I have a nap All Trails that
tells me about nearby hikes, whether they're challenging, if
there are any reviews, and if they're dog friendly.
I was scrolling through it hoping to find something new,
and to my surprise, there was a listing I hadn't seen before.
I don't remember the name, but it was at the bottom of the list
with just one review that said good.
I thought it was odd because people usually leave detailed
reviews, but I figured maybe it just wasn't popular.
The next day, Kyrie and I packed our gear and set out.
I always carry a first aid kit, extra food, a knife, and other
emergency items in case I get lost.
It's important to note that Kyrie eats raw meat, so I
brought some along in her little blue backpack, planning to feed
her later when it got warmer. Where I live, you drive through
a long Canyon with many roads branching off toward different
trails. This one was farther than I'm
used to, but I was excited to try something new and Kyrie
always whines until we arrive. I followed the directions on my
phone and ended up on a narrow, hidden Rd.
No wonder I've never heard of this place.
I thought because it was so tucked away in the mountain.
The road only fit one car, so I was nervous about meeting
another car head on. Luckily, none ever came.
When I reached the parking lot, if you could even call it that,
I saw space for maybe three cars total, all crammed together.
It was tiny, so I parked with my car facing out just in case.
I worried it might be private property, but the app didn't say
anything so I shrugged it off, got Kyrie out and we headed for
the trail. Although I didn't see any other
cars, I initially kept Kyrie on her leash in case there were
bikers around. After about 30 minutes without
seeing a soul, I let her off leash.
The first half was steep, but it was a beautiful hike.
We were deep in the woods and I felt at peace.
I used to wear headphones while hiking but stopped so I could
listen to the forest. It was still early and I wore a
light jacket, planning to feed Kyrie her breakfast when it got
warmer. Now before anyone points it out,
I know carrying raw meat was absolutely stupid and ignorant.
I'd never seen a bear, wolf, or anything else scary, so I got
cocky and figured it would be fine.
I learned my lesson that day. No need to tell me I was dumb, I
already know. Anyway, here's where the bad
part begins. The trail levelled out into an
easier path. At the top, through the trees, I
could see a beautiful open Meadow.
Beyond it, I could hear a river and a waterfall.
The trail circled the Meadow and it was all stunning.
The mountains in the background, the sound of rushing water.
It was one of the most gorgeous places I'd ever hiked.
Kyrie and I were near the center of the Meadow when she stopped
in front of me and stared straight ahead.
She usually walked a bit ahead of me, so when she stopped like
that, I trusted her instincts and stopped too.
Before I even looked, the smell hit me, a strong rotting odor
that burned my nose and made my eyes water.
I lifted my shirt over my nose, feeling sick, and turned to see
what Kyrie was staring at. In the middle of the Meadow
stood a deer. I've seen doze before, but never
a buck, and its antlers were enormous.
Think the deer spirit and Princess Mononoke.
It was breathtaking, but that smell was unbelievable.
The deer was facing away from us, looking toward the
mountains. I thought maybe Kyrie's food had
spoiled, but when I checked it seemed OK.
Then when I glanced back up, the deer was looking directly at us.
Kyrie's hackles went up and she whimpered nervously.
I'm Native American, so I grew up hearing about wendigos and
skinwalkers. Plus, I've listened to plenty of
scary stories on YouTube. When Kyrie reacted that way, I
got a bad feeling in my gut. Despite already feeling sick, I
realized it had to be a Wendigo. These creatures were only
supposed to be in the stories my grandmother told me, not in real
life. She was the one who really knew
about them, but she's gone now. No one else in my family has her
knowledge. I looked at Kyrie again when she
whined. Then back at the creature, it
started to stand on its hind legs.
Holy hell, it was tall and turned to face me.
It began walking toward me and I was about to run when I heard
something in my head. I am the one of this land.
Suddenly it charged at me full speed.
I screamed, called Kyrie and took off running.
She was right behind me. I was crying as I ran because I
heard it crashing closer, smashing through everything in
its way. My adrenaline was so high that I
just kept moving, not even thinking about a direction.
The trail narrowed and thorny bushes appeared.
They scratched and cut my arms, but I barely felt it.
Just as I thought it was about to catch me, it swerved off to
the left. While I kept going straight, I
dared to look back. Both it and Kyrie were gone.
Kyrie. I shouted.
Right then, the trail dropped about a foot onto some rocks.
I stumbled off the drop, hit my head, and started bleeding a
little, though I barely noticed. I stood up, looking around
frantically, when I heard Kyrie cry out to my right.
Kyrie. I yelled.
I was sobbing and had no idea what to do.
I saw a river leading up to the waterfall I'd heard earlier.
Suddenly, something heavy slammed into me and we both
fell. I hit my head again and then saw
Kyrie, her neck covered in blood.
Kyrie. I cried.
She was whimpering and breathing heavily.
Her backpack was ripped in places.
Before I could do anything, a scream echoed from the woods.
I looked toward the waterfall and somehow I managed to pick up
my 85 LB dog and run. I don't know what my plan was,
just that the waterfall seemed like safety.
I almost reached it when I heard the creature land on the same
rocks I had. I tripped and looked back to see
it staring right at me. Its eyes were black, or maybe
there was nothing there at all. I tore off Kyrie's backpack and
threw it at the monster, hoping it would go for the raw meat
instead of us. I scrambled backward toward the
waterfall, crying as I dragged Kyrie with me.
Being near that thing made me literally weak in the knees.
It walked toward us in huge steps.
It looked so different from before.
What had seemed like a deer now looked like a full blown
monster. I don't know how else to
describe it. Water hit my head hard as we
reached the waterfall. I kept going until I was pressed
against the Rockwall in a spot where the water didn't
completely drench Kyrie in me. Kyrie was limp by then.
I could see the creature through the waterfall.
It stood on its hind legs, watching me.
The smell was beyond words, and I almost threw up.
It reached out an arm and I screamed so loudly that I lost
my voice. Then, out of nowhere, another
scream came from deep in the forest.
The creature snapped its head around, almost a full 180° and
looked toward that sound, which was similar to its own screech.
I was still clinging to Kyrie, crying and screaming because its
arm was so close. It turned back to me, pulled its
arm away, and I heard again in my mind.
I am the one of this land. With that, it backed away from
me and moved down the riverbank on all fours.
It paused where I'd thrown Kyrie's backpack, ripped it
apart and devoured the meat bag and all.
Then it screeched again and ran off in the direction of that
other scream. The moment I felt it was gone, I
shakily got to my feet and carried Kyrie back to the trail.
Along the way, I found my own backpack torn to shreds.
I took off my jacket and wrapped it around Kyrie's neck to slow
the bleeding. After that, I remember very
little. Just getting back to my car,
driving like crazy and screaming all the way to the emergency
vet. At the vet they asked what
happened, I said it was a bear. They called an ambulance because
I was covered in blood and they couldn't tell whose it was.
Kyrie survived surgery, needed stitches and had a pad for her
wounds. She developed a big bump that
got infected but eventually healed.
She also had a bite mark above her left eye that healed better.
They pulled out a four inch tooth which I refused to look
at. But they decided it had to be
from a bear, even though they said it looked odd.
While waiting for Carrie, I tried to look up the trail on
the app, but it was gone. I have no idea why or how, and I
can't remember exactly where it was.
It's all a haze. I do have pictures of Kyrie 1 is
of her with my niece on a hike my mom took them on a few weeks
later. Carrie looks nervous in it and
you can see the huge bump on the left side of her neck.
There's another picture of her with bandages around her neck
and a recent one showing the black area where her stitches
came out. The last picture is of the top
of her head, also black but now healed.
I'll figure out how to post them.
I haven't been hiking since and I refuse to let Kyrie out of my
sight. My mom once took her hiking
while I was at work but regretted it when Kyrie got so
scared they had to turn back. My mom knows about my
nightmares. I screamed in my sleep for a
couple of weeks. She placed white candles in my
room to ward off negative spirits attracted to my trauma.
So that's my story. I've heard of people seeing a
Wendigo and walking away unscathed.
I wish that was my experience. I hate hiking now.
My therapist thinks I have PTSD but I only told him it was a
bear. I'm working through it and so is
Kyrie. Maybe one day I'll go back, but
not anytime soon. If you're going to head into the
mountains, please, please prepare yourselves.
Mother Nature is unpredictable and there are things out there
that don't make sense to us. Stay safe.
Seriously, if there's another subreddit where I could share
this and possibly help someone else, please let me know.
Thanks for listening. I drove into Mendocino National
Forest feeling both eager and oddly restless.
Usually I get a burst of energy the moment I hit winding roads
and thick woods, but something was off this time.
The forest just seemed too quiet.
Not the peaceful, sleepy silence you might expect on a late
afternoon, but a heavier stillness that lingered in the
air, daring me to press on. Yuri, my dog, was panting in the
back, head resting on the window ledge.
She's been my companion on countless Backcountry trips
before, so I rely on her to sense if anything's wrong.
Up until now, she'd seem perfectly content.
I kept glancing at the rear view mirror, half hoping she'd offer
some reassuring sign that everything was normal.
Each time I looked, though, she was just watching.
Her ears flicked back and forth. As if she was listening for
something I couldn't hear, the Dirt Rd. climbed higher,
becoming bumpier with each turn. My tires crunched over loose
gravel and I caught myself easing off the gas.
Not wanting to go too deep into a place that had my nerves
jumping, I tried to brush it off.
Maybe I was just spooked by how isolated this route was.
Usually, I crave solitude. I'd planned this trip precisely
because I was tired of crowded campsites and wanted somewhere.
Remote where Yuri could run free.
Yet every foot forward stirred a growing unease in my gut.
I decided to pull over when I saw a small clearing on the edge
of a bluff. It was a decent spot to stretch
my legs and give Yuri a chance to sniff around.
The view should have been stunning, a sprawling valley
with dark green treetops stretching out like an endless
sea, but I felt unsettled enough that I couldn't properly
appreciate it. My phone had just enough
reception to send one last text to my boyfriend, something along
the lines of I feel strange out here.
Might head back, he joked, as he does, saying maybe something
mythical was lurking in the woods.
Under normal circumstances, I'd have laughed it off, but his
words hung in my mind longer than they should have.
I climbed out of the car and Yuri hopped after me.
The breeze was light, but it carried a stale undercurrent
that seemed out of place for this kind of forest.
Then I noticed a squirrel's body near the dirt.
At first I figured it must have been run over by some passing
vehicle, but the road was empty and barely more than a narrow
path. The sight of broken glass
glittering around it was also jarring.
The shards poked through the dirt, reflecting the sun in
tiny, blinding pinpricks. It had me wondering who would
bother hauling bottles this far into the woods only to smash
them and leave the mess behind. Yuri let out a low rumble. 1 I'd
almost call a growl. She usually reserves that for
encounters with strange dogs or wild animals, never for random
debris by the roadside. My chest clenched at the sound.
I knelt down, ran a hand along her back to calm her.
And her ears flattened against her skull, she made direct eye
contact with me, as if to say, We don't belong here.
Determined not to overreact, I exhaled slowly and got back into
the driver's seat. With every bump of the road, as
I continued uphill, I kept telling myself that weird vibes
happen. Sometimes.
Solitude can play tricks on people's minds.
The stillness of the forest, the lack of traffic, the abandoned
glass. Maybe it was nothing more than
unfortunate coincidences. That's when more unsettling
details came into focus. I saw other animal remains,
small creatures like birds and rodents, splayed out in ways
that made my stomach tighten. Granted, wildlife perishes out
here naturally, but never quite so frequently along a single,
seldom used Rd. The deeper I went, the heavier
everything seemed. Each stretch of the journey felt
like crossing into terrain that wasn't meant for casual
visitors. Yuri stirred in the back seat,
panting quietly, ears pinned forward as if expecting
something. I glanced at her, then forced
myself to keep my eyes on the narrow track.
The scenery whirled by tall trunks, dense canopies of green,
patches of sunlight fighting through the leaves.
But the silence was the most oppressive aspect of all.
No birds, no rustling underbrush.
Just the scraping sound of my tires and my own uneasy
breathing. I couldn't help remembering
other trips I'd taken by myself, times I'd welcomed the hush and
the isolation. Why was this different?
I tried to rationalize. Maybe the area got hit by
drought. Maybe some sickness had spread
among the small animals. But that same creeping tension
wouldn't let go. A wave of relief washed over me
when I spotted a pull out wide enough to stop again.
I needed a moment to gather myself.
This time I didn't even bother getting out of the car.
I just sat with the engine off, the silence wrapping around me.
That was when I heard faint murmurs, distinctly male voices,
though I couldn't tell if it was one person or more.
They weren't shouting. The tone sounded conversational,
but I couldn't make out any real words.
My heart started to pound so fiercely it felt like it might
echo in the confined space of the car.
Yuri perked up, ears drawn tall. A twinge of alarm raced through
me. I hesitated, debating whether to
answer with a quick shout or maybe honk the horn, but
something, some internal alarm, made me stay quiet.
Instead, I peered out the window, scanning for any glimpse
of movement through the trees. Nothing.
The voices faded as soon as they'd arrived.
Replaced by that grating stillness again, I sat there,
torn between forging ahead and turning back.
The plan had been to find a clearing to set up camp.
I loved the idea of being alone in nature, getting away from the
stress of daily routines. Yet my gut kept urging me to
rethink everything. In that moment, stubbornness won
out. I started up the engine telling
myself I just needed to push. On a bit further, maybe the
ideal campsite was just around the bend.
As I drove, the murmur of voices popped up again, then vanished
like a distant radio station flickering in and out of range.
My pulse throbbed at every twist in the road, half expecting to
see someone or something. But every turn out I passed was
vacant. No tents, no cars, not even a
stray piece of trash. Finally, I paused on a narrow
stretch of gravel overlooking the steep slope below.
The setting sun pressed in on me, throwing long shadows across
the dusty path. I needed a decision, either
commit to staying the night or get off this mountain while I
still had enough light. My hand clenched around the
steering wheel, knuckles gone white with tension.
Movement in the tree line caught my eye, just a flicker, a shape
I couldn't fully make out. It disappeared quickly, leaving
me with a rush of dread that turned my stomach.
Yuri let out a short, sharp bark, which made me jump.
That sealed my choice. Enough was enough.
I wanted to show I was brave, that I could handle remote
camping, but some intangible danger clung to these woods.
I turned the car around as quickly as I could, feeling a
mixture of relief and disappointment in myself.
The voices went quiet again, the oppressive hush settling over
the forest like a cloak. Yet I swore I could feel unseen
eyes tracking my departure. Nerves buzzing, I maneuvered
back down the mountain at a careful but urgent pace.
Part of me hated feeling spooked, but every mile away
from that eerie stretch of forest lifted a weight off my
chest. Even if I ended up second
guessing my decision later, I knew I was making the safer call
for me and my dog. I wasn't sure what, if anything,
was hidden up there beyond the twisting trees, but the leftover
tension told me it was nothing good.
I came back down that mountain Rd. with Yuri at my side, but
even as we were leaving, I couldn't shake the nagging sense
that I should have stuck around to investigate more.
Part of me felt like a coward, like maybe I was turning my back
on something I needed to understand.
In the end, my curiosity got the best of me.
I checked into a cheap motel for the night, slept fitfully, then
made a rash decision at first light.
I'd head back up there, I told myself.
I'd just do a quick scouting trip, figure out what had me so
rattled, then leave for good. The next morning, I followed the
same winding Rd. My stomach nodded up every time
I recognized a stretch of it from the previous day.
Yuri stayed quiet in the passenger seat this time, her
eyes fixed on the passing scenery.
She'd occasionally sniff at the air in short bursts, as though
trying to pick up a scent I couldn't detect.
We covered the same ground in about half the time.
I seemed more determined, more prepared for what I'd find.
When I pulled on to that first clearing, I noticed the broken
glass and the little squirrel carcass were still there,
untouched. The forest floor looked about
the same, still covered in thick layers of debris and pine
needles. There was no wind, no rustle of
wildlife, nothing that distinct hush pressed in on me, and once
again it made the place feel vaguely guarded, like it had
secrets it wasn't in a hurry to share.
As I moved deeper along the dirt track, I spotted more dead
animals. Birds, smaller rodents, just
like before. This time, though, I dared to
stop and inspect one. It was a small rabbit, its fur
matted and its body strangely intact.
No sign of predation or typical scavenging.
It creeped me out to the point that I practically sprinted back
to the car. Yuri whined as I slid into the
driver's seat, and I caught myself mumbling that I was OK,
even though my hands were shaking.
Farther up, the road curled around a thick stand of trees,
branches so dense that sunlight barely reached the ground.
I slowed almost to a crawl, scanning the woods on both
sides. The voices I'd heard the day
before were nowhere to be found, just a crackling silence.
Yet the more I advanced, the more certain I became that
something was lurking in those shadows, following me in that
subtle, menacing way you sense before you actually see it.
Yuri perked up and started a low, throaty sound.
Not a full growl, but more like a warning.
My pulse jumped. I didn't see anything at first,
but then came a flicker of movement through the cluster of
trunks. I made out what looked like a
hunched shape skirting behind a fallen log.
It was quick, gone almost before I registered.
It could have been a bear, maybe a large deer that was spooked by
my presence, except the movement felt off, swift and upright in a
way most forest animals aren't. I fought the urge to call out,
telling myself it was a bad idea.
No need to announce my presence to something I wasn't prepared
to deal with. My main concern was Yuri.
If whatever that was decided to come closer, I didn't want her
dashing into the trees after it. Edging the car forward again, I
noticed the air had this stale heaviness to it, like the forest
was holding its breath. I made a point of checking my
phone, hoping for even a single bar of reception, but the screen
just showed no service. Typical for these Backcountry
areas. But that helpless feeling of
isolation only amplified the sense of being cornered by
unseen watchers. The next turn opened onto a
narrow plateau, a clearing with a partial view of the valley
below. It looked like an ideal spot to
set up camp if anyone were insane enough to do so in these
conditions. I parked and tried to see if
there were footprints or any sign that other people had been
around. That's when I discovered a pile
of bones off to one side, half hidden under a tangle of
branches. They appeared bleached, stripped
of flesh, and left in a disturbingly neat stack.
I could make out a small skull, likely a deer.
The weirdest part was how deliberate it looked.
Like it was placed rather than left by scavengers.
I backed away, feeling a surge of dread.
Yuri must have sensed it, because she started pacing in
and out of the car, muzzle low, tail rigid.
In that moment, it felt like the entire forest was a trap, that
I'd driven right back into something that didn't want me
there. Suddenly, I heard voices.
This time, they were clearer. At least two men, maybe 3.
Arguing in hushed tones that rose and fell too quickly for me
to catch their words. My heart was practically
thudding out of my chest as I tried to locate the source.
It sounded so close, but there was nobody visible in the
clearing. Just those bizarre bones.
The thick tree line and the breeze that had begun stirring
the branches ever so slightly. I climbed halfway back into the
driver's seat, door still open, trying to decide whether to
shout a greeting. Before I could work up the
courage, the voices cut off as if someone had flipped a switch.
That abrupt silence had me trembling.
No normal conversation ends that abruptly, especially in the
middle of an argument. It felt like they'd noticed.
Me. A shape flashed between two tall
Pines at the edge of the clearing.
For a moment I saw a pale face, or maybe just the suggestion of
one peering from behind the bark.
It vanished the second my gaze landed on it.
My breath caught in my throat. Yuri fixed her stare on the same
spot, emitting a guttural snarl that I'd never heard from her
before. It was enough.
I jumped into the car, slammed the door, and gripped the wheel
tight. My tires spun in the loose dirt
as I whipped around, practically fishtailing as I aimed back the
way I came. I didn't even bother with the
brake at the washboard turns, which made the descent feel
reckless and dangerous, but I had to get out of there.
The forest itself felt hostile, like it was compressing,
funnelling me out. I glanced at my rear view mirror
more often than the road, convinced any second I'd see
something, someone barrelling after me.
The voices didn't return, but I could still sense them, as if
the forest had swallowed them up.
Every dip and bump nearly rattled my car apart, but I
powered on, ignoring the dust billowing behind.
Eventually I hit a stretch of better Rd. still enveloped by
the thick trees on either side. It was lighter out though, and
the sense of immediate danger started to fade.
If anything was chasing me, it had given up, or it was just
waiting. I couldn't decide which was
worse. When I reached a paved section
near the edge of the park, relief flooded me.
The tension in my neck and shoulders felt enormous.
I accelerated until I saw the sign for a nearby gas station
and pulled in, my hand still quivering.
I got out, took a breath, and realized my clothes were damp
with sweat, clinging to me in the chill air.
Yuri hopped out and stuck close to my side.
Tail between her legs, I bought a bottle of water and tried to
compose myself, flipping through my phone in search of an
explanation. Any explanation for what I'd
just witnessed? Local news articles?
Missing persons notices, crypted lore.
Even my mind darted to the strange bits of legend I'd read
before about creatures in the deep woods that can mimic human
voices. Suddenly, all of it felt a bit
too plausible. I ended that day locked up in
another motel room, curtains drawn, unable to fall asleep.
My thoughts looped over the images, the stacked bones, the
blurred figure behind the Pines, those disembodied arguments that
ended the moment I arrived. It wasn't just standard
isolation. This place had a darkness that
cut through whatever logic or bravery I thought I possessed.
Whatever had been in those woods, I was certain it was
aware of me in ways I didn't understand.
Even recalling the memory now, I get the same knot in my gut.
Maybe I'm just another spooked traveller who let the primal
quiet of the forest stir up old legends.
Or maybe there really is something out there that likes
to watch, wait, and toy with people foolish enough to come
looking for it. All I know is, if you ever find
yourself alone on those back roads in Mendocino, pay
attention to every gut instinct you've got.
Maybe you'll get out unscathed. Or maybe you'll find yourself
listening to voices you can't see in a place that feels as
though it never wanted you there in the first place.
The air felt cool against my cheeks as I followed the narrow
footpath. My dog, a stocky mix with bright
eyes, padded alongside me, occasionally glancing up like
she wanted reassurance. It was early, sunbeams were
still stretching across the leaf littered ground.
I'd chosen this public stretch of woods for the quiet, mostly
to enjoy a morning free from the rush of everyday life.
I remember noticing how still everything seemed.
Sure, there were bird calls in the distance, but the
undergrowth felt oddly void of movement.
My dog paused every so often, nose working overtime like she
sensed something I hadn't. I felt that twinge of caution,
the same jolt you get when you realize the world around you
might be watching more than you realize.
The trail meandered through dense scrub, eventually dipping
toward a shallow Creek bed. A cluster of leafless branches
overhead looked like they'd host a roosting flock or two, but I
didn't spot any right away. My dog's ears flicked, and she
let out a low, uncertain growl. Instinct nudged me to slow.
I stopped, letting my gaze wander across the Creek,
noticing how the sun sparkled on the shallow water.
In that moment, a subtle impulse tugged at me.
It's difficult to explain. An instinct, maybe.
Without a single conscious thought, I reached for my dog's
collar, shortened the leash, and crouched low.
A crack of anxiety moved through me.
It was as if every sense sharpened simultaneously,
telling me to wait. I scanned the tree line.
At first I noticed a group of turkeys perched in the branches,
nearly invisible in the morning glare.
They were big, bulky silhouettes, rustling quietly in
the canopy. Relief flickered in me, thinking
maybe that was the cause of my nerves.
Still, I stayed put, not wanting to disturb them or get a
surprise wing slap if one spooked.
A moment later, a rustle came from behind.
My dog flinched and I pivoted carefully, expecting a deer or
another hiker. What emerged from the brush was
a man dressed in top tier camouflage, cradling a bow in
one hand. I barely made out his outline
until he stepped fully into the light.
He wore a mask of irritation that I understood too well.
A hunter interrupted mid stalk. He froze when he spotted me,
probably guessing I'd been sitting there like some clueless
bystander. For a second I thought he might
say something or lay into me for messing up his morning, but
instead he just stood, shoulders tense, staring first at the
turkeys, then at me. I raised a hand in an uneasy
wave, not sure if words would help.
He glanced from me to my dog and then back to the Creek.
His mouth twitched, some mix of annoyance and resignation,
before he turned and cut an entirely new path through the
thicket. I watched as he melted into the
undergrowth, quiet as a shadow, leaving barely a snapped branch
in his wake. A swirl of conflicting emotions
churned in my gut. I couldn't decide whether I was
more sorry for scaring off his quarry or relieved I'd spotted
him before he loosed an arrow in our direction.
There was no question something in me had registered his
presence moments before my eyes ever found him.
It made me look at these woods differently.
I'd always been confident in my outdoor sense, knew the habits
of local wildlife, knew the sweet spots where deer like to
bed, had a notion of how to tread without spooking half the
forest. But this felt personal.
I'd caught that man's glare before fully seeing him, like an
invisible alarm telling me you're not alone.
My dog whined softly, as if echoing my thoughts.
I gave her a scratch behind the ears and we continued on, though
it wasn't the same calm hike I'd planned.
Every step forward felt loaded, my eyes scanning for any
movement in the brush. My mind kept returning to the
Hunter's cold, laser focused expression, a look that said you
just cost me a morning's work. I left that trail with fresh
respect for how quietly danger, or at least tension, can lurk in
the woods. Sometimes it announces itself
with snapping branches and fluttering wings.
Other times it hovers unseen, relying on your instincts to
register it. And occasionally, you get lucky.
You sense the observer before they have a chance to fade away,
like they were never there at all.
My second encounter happened a year later.
I chose the Suburban Edge Trail that day expecting a
straightforward stroll, something to clear my head
without the rugged challenge of Backcountry terrain.
The spot was known for its wide paths and scenic overlooks,
often buzzing with joggers and dog walkers.
My dog and I had a comfortable routine, walk in, enjoy the
sights, and head out before evening rolled in.
Yet as we started down the gravel stretch, I noticed
something was off. No chatter, no footsteps padding
behind us. Even the usual hum of traffic
from the nearby Rd. felt muted. It was the kind of hush that
clings to a place when people sense a reason to stay away.
I tried to brush aside my unease.
Maybe it was just an off hour, Maybe everyone else had better
places to be, but my dog's tense posture stopped me from pushing
that thought too far. She paused every few yards,
straining her nose toward the timberline.
Every leaf crunch under our feet rang loud enough to carry.
To calm my nerves, I focused on details.
The brilliant yellows and Reds in the foliage, the sunlight
slanting through half bare branches, the distant shape of
the hills. The area had a certain postcard
charm, the kind that draws families on weekends.
Except there were no families today, no casual hikers, not a
single face peering from around the next bend.
About halfway in, we reached a wooden footbridge spanning a
shallow trickle of water, usually a popular photo spot.
Empty. My dog whined and snaked her
head side to side. A sense of watchfulness ignited
in me, recalling the time we'd encountered that camouflaged bow
hunter. This time, however, I doubted it
was a legitimate sportsman. Hunting here was banned.
I crouched by the railing, trying to see if something down
by the stream was causing her alarm.
Nothing caught my eye. No sign of.
Movement in the bushes. No leftover trash or footprints
along the muddy bank. The silence pressed in, thick
and foreboding. Standing again, I scanned the
tree line. Beyond the water, my mind toyed
with different explanations. Maybe a wild predator had
slipped into these suburban woods.
I'd heard rumors of Cougars occasionally drifting into
places they shouldn't. Most folks wrote those stories
off as urban legends. Another possibility, less
comforting, was that someone sat hidden among those trees,
deliberately tracking me. I'd known people who thought
scoping out unsuspecting hikers was a thrill.
A faint breeze stirred the branches overhead, carrying a
stale scent reminiscent of damp soil and something else.
Not exactly decay, but not the crisp autumn smell I expected my
dog. Bristled, and a subtle wine
escaped her throat. I tried to steady myself with
logic. It could be an animal carcass
nearby, or a small scattering of leaves left to rot.
Yet the tension in my gut wouldn't let me chalk it up to
something benign. I kept an eye on the
undergrowth, searching for a glint of metal or the flash of
glass that might indicate binoculars.
I saw nothing still. The feeling of being evaluated
by an unseen presence persisted. Pressing on felt necessary, even
if every step tightened the knot in my stomach.
The next bend led to a narrow corridor of trees, their
branches arching overhead to form a tunnel of sorts.
Light filtered through, casting elongated shadows on the path.
My dog's pace slowed, her tail dropping.
She glanced back at me, almost pleading.
A branch snapped off to my left. I froze, ears straining another
crack, like someone trying to creep unnoticed through
underbrush but missing a step. My heart hammered against my rib
cage. My mind jumped back to that
camouflaged hunter months ago, only this situation was worse.
My dog was nervous, The park was empty, and nobody was around to
see if anything went wrong. I stood still, scanning the spot
where the noise came from. A moment passed and the forest
returned to its unnerving stillness.
I suppressed the urge to call out.
Something told me not to give away my exact location to
whoever or whatever might be lurking.
Without a solid plan, I moved forward.
Each footstep measured my dog crowded close, panting
shallowly. The trail felt endless, winding
through silent trees that seemed eager to hide secrets.
I did my best to keep calm, but every shift of the wind, every
shuffle of leaves, raised my tension higher.
Eventually the path opened near the edge of the woods, and I
glimpsed the parking area in a clearing through the final stand
of timber. Relief washed over me, but I
kept glancing back, half expecting someone to burst from
cover. Reaching the lot, I found it as
deserted as the trail. A single St. lamp hummed,
flickering weakly. Getting my dog into the car took
two tries because she was trembling, her paws slipping on
the seat. I fumble with the keys,
resisting the panicked urge to floor the accelerator the moment
the engine came alive. Pulling away, I glanced in the
rear view mirror. For an instant I thought I
caught movement among the trees, a lean shape or a silhouette,
but it faded when I blinked. It could have been my anxious
mind playing tricks safe behind the wheel.
I should have relaxed, but that tingle of being watched refused
to vanish. Questions swirled.
Was it a big cat, a reckless thrill seeker with a scope, or
simply my imagination amplifying every stray noise?
Truth be told, I had no real answers.
All I knew was that the uneasy hush in those woods felt
different from any ordinary day. I wasn't going back any time
soon. Even as I drove away, the sense
of invisible eyes lingered, a reminder that sometimes, in
places meant for peace and recreation, there are watchers
who don't belong. I remember the drive out to my
grandparents place being both nostalgic and strangely tense.
The asphalt seemed endless, winding through fields that felt
emptier than I remembered. When I finally pulled into the
long gravel driveway, the crunch of the tires set me on edge for
no real reason I could put into words.
My grandparents little farmhouse came into view and although it
looked the same, white paint peeling in places, a sagging
porch that needed new boards, I got the sense something about
the area had changed. Maybe it was just my imagination
acting up. Grandma and Grandpa greeted me
at the door, fussing over how much taller I'd gotten since my
last visit and asking if I was hungry.
The smell of fresh cornbread wafted through the open window,
which usually made me feel right at home.
It sort of did at first, but while Grandma rambled about
chores that needed doing and Grandpa talked about a recent
coyote problem, I found myself glancing over at the tree line
more often than I wanted to admit.
Nothing stood out as threatening.
Still, my gaze kept drifting over there.
Eventually, I decided to stretch my legs and wander out toward
the woods. That big yard used to be my
stomping ground when I was a kid, a place where I'd spin
around until I got dizzy and collapse on the grass, staring
up at the sky. Now the grass felt too tall,
prickly against my ankles, and the air tasted heavier.
Each step I took seemed to stir up old memories.
A pang of homesickness flashed through me.
Weird, considering I was actually at home.
I walked until I reached the first cluster of trees, letting
my hand brush the rough bark. Everything grew quiet.
No wind, no chirping birds, not even the usual rustle in the
underbrush. A strange hush settled around
me. I tried to shake it off and took
a few more steps under the canopy.
The farther I ventured, the darker it got, even though the
sun was still high overhead. Without meaning to, I started
thinking about old legends my family sometimes told during
late night gatherings. Stories passed down about things
best left alone. Creatures that show up when
you're by yourself and vulnerable.
I'd always laugh them off as spooky tales.
Now, not so much. This patch of land had never
seemed dangerous, but it definitely didn't feel inviting
anymore. A soft snap echoed somewhere to
my left. Might have been a branch, or
maybe just my imagination. I froze, straining to hear
anything else. Moments later, a breeze finally
swept through, carrying the slightest whiff of something
sour. It reminded me of damp leaves,
left too long in the sun. I tried to dismiss it, chalking
it up to the thick undergrowth. I thought about heading back,
but curiosity tugged at me. This was my childhood
playground, right? Nothing to be afraid of here.
Still, as I took a cautious step forward, my skin prickled.
That uneasy feeling crept up my spine, and I couldn't figure out
why. I glanced around once more, half
expecting something to jump out, but saw only gnarled trunks and
shifting shadows. I convinced myself it was all in
my head and turned around to head for the house.
Tomorrow, I thought I'd go deeper into the woods like I
used to. Whatever was bugging me had to
be nerves, or maybe an overactive imagination fueled by
old family stories. Deep down, though, I felt a
flicker of anxiety that I couldn't quite name.
Something was different here, and I really wasn't sure I
wanted to find out exactly what it was.
I woke up thinking that maybe I just overreacted.
The day before, sunlight filtered through the curtains
and everything seemed normal. Grandma in the kitchen,
clattering around with pots and pans.
Grandpa on the porch whistling an old tune.
The sense of safety that came with daylight gave me a little
confidence. I decided to head back into the
woods, convincing myself I needed to check if there was
anything out there worth investigating, like an animal
Burrow or a fallen tree. Probably nothing sinister.
The moment I stepped off the porch, though, I realized the
air felt oddly still again. The grass glistened with dew,
dampening my shoes, and every step sounded loud.
In that unnatural silence, my gaze drifted to the same patch
of trees I'd visited before. Part of me wanted to call it
quits right then, but I just kept walking like I was on
autopilot. Once I passed the first line of
trees, that uneasy hush descended once more.
No birds, no insects, nothing but my own breathing.
I reminded myself I'd spent entire summers out here without
a single scare. So I pressed on, crunching over
fallen leaves until I was surrounded by trunks and tangled
undergrowth. I was about to turn back when a
voice trickled through the stillness, calling my name.
It sounded like my mom, but off somehow, as if it were coming
through an old radio with poor reception.
My immediate instinct was to shout back, but a warning
flickered in my mind. She was supposed to be in the
house, not out here. I froze, scanning the area.
I tried to trace the direction of the sound, but it seemed to
dance around me, far away. 1 moment, close the next.
My pulse raced. I knew my mom wouldn't be
wandering aimlessly in these woods, not in that tone.
A second call echoed, and I realized it wasn't just me
imagining things. My eyes flickered over to a gap
between the trunks. That's where I spotted it.
An impossibly tall figure hugging the bark of a wide tree.
At first the details were hard to make out, but as it shifted
slightly, the pale color of its skin was unmistakable.
It wasn't the shade of anything alive and healthy, more like old
cracked leather stretched over a frame too large for it.
Its head angled to the side, revealing a mouth lined with
jagged teeth that glinted in the dim light.
Fear tightened every muscle, locking me in place.
For a split second I thought about calling out to it, asking
if it was hurt or needed help, but the longer I stared, the
more I realized how wrong it looked.
It peered back at me with eyes I can only describe as hungry, and
a foul smell drifted in the air like something rotting in the
sun. Without warning, it shifted away
from the tree in a sudden jerky motion, almost like it was
testing how quickly it could move.
My instincts overrode every other thought, and I stumbled
backward, nearly tripping over a tangle of roots.
That's when a bizarre crackling sound filled the silence, like
branches snapping in half. But it seemed to come from the
creature itself. My mind screamed to run, but my
legs felt stuck for a moment. The sight was so horrifying that
part of me refused to believe it was real.
Then the creature took another lurching step in my direction,
and I finally managed to turn around.
I bolted through the trees, not caring how many branches or
thorns scraped my arms. My breath came out in ragged
bursts, and every twig cracking behind me sounded like it could
be that thing right on my heels. I forced my way through the
undergrowth, practically diving over a fallen log.
That rancid smell seemed to follow, lodged in my nose.
My chest burned and I was convinced I was seconds from
being grabbed. By the time I reached the edge
of the woods, my legs were shaking so badly I nearly fell.
The yard opened up before me, bathed in the daylight that
suddenly felt like the only barrier between me and whatever
lurked in those trees. I sprinted to the house, heart
pounding. Grandma was in the kitchen
window, smiling at something on the counter, completely unaware.
I slowed down just enough to look back over my shoulder.
The tree line stood silent once again.
As if it had swallowed the thing whole, but I knew it was there,
watching, maybe even waiting for me to come back.
I slipped inside without a word. A surge of nausea hit me and I
had to take a minute to steady myself.
Neither grandma nor grandpa noticed how rattled I was, so I
pretended everything was normal. But inside, I couldn't calm
down. I kept replaying the moment
those eyes fixed on me, that twisted version of my mom's
voice drifting through the trees.
That night sleep was impossible. Every little sound, a settling
floorboard, the old clock chiming, felt like a potential
threat. I could practically feel the
darkness pressing against the windows.
There was a part of me that wanted to grab Grandma and
Grandpa, pile into the car and tear out of there for good.
Another part couldn't stop wondering if it would even
matter. Because once you've seen
something like that, something that knows your name and isn't
afraid to call it out, you start to fear it can find you
anywhere. I pulled onto that back Rd. with
just enough moonlight to silhouette the thick tree line
against the sky. The night air drifted in through
my window, left open from when I'd been smoking earlier, and I
remember glancing in the rear view for no real reason, a sense
tugging at my gut that maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought.
The road stretched out in front of me, empty, silent, and
unsettlingly dark. No St. lights, no farm houses
lit up in the distance, just a narrow route cracking beneath my
tires. I tried to shake off my nerves
by fiddling with the radio, but every station offered nothing
but static. My hands clenched the wheel
tighter than usual. It felt like the trees were
watching me, as if waiting to see if I'd keep going or turn
around. Still, I pressed forward,
telling myself everything was fine.
When I spotted a lone stop sign at a ragged four way
intersection. I exhaled in relief.
It was a small hint of civilization.
I slowed down, not quite stopping, thinking.
All right, just make a left and you'll be halfway to your
friend's place. That was when the tree line
erupted with motion. Some creature burst into view,
barreling straight toward my door.
I nearly slammed the brake before instinct made me gun the
gas. Instead.
My headlights caught a flash of something with elongated limbs
and teeth that glistened in a way teeth shouldn't.
The sheer ferocity in its eyes, or whatever they were, made my
stomach twist. It was so close I could sense
its aggression, like it had been waiting for me to roll by with
that open window. I pressed the accelerator until
the engine roared, my heart thudding in my ears.
The beast kept pace for a few unnerving seconds, snarling in
an almost human rage. My window was wide open, an
invitation if I screwed up for even a second.
The tires squealed in protest, and I wrestled with the steering
wheel to keep from flying off the road.
Gravel pinged against the undercarriage.
The creature lunged again, missing the window by inches.
A guttural noise rang out behind me, and I couldn't tell if it
was an animal's growl or something else.
Then it fell back, swallowed by the dark.
My pulse continued to pound as I tore away from that
intersection, desperate to outrun whatever had just tried
to reach me. Only once the road curved and
the creature vanished from the mirrors did I allow myself a
shaky breath. My mind raced with impossible
questions. Had I run into a rabid animal?
Or did something with genuine malevolence just choose me as
its target? Tonight, staring into the night,
I kept my foot on the gas, determined to leave that lonely
crossroads and the thing that lurked there far behind.
I pulled into my friend's driveway, still gripping the
steering wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world.
Every muscle in my arms fell tight and my pulse throbbed in
my temple. The moment I killed the engine,
I noticed how shallow my breathing had become.
My fingers shook with leftover adrenaline as I fumble with the
door handle. I could almost sense that thing
from the road hovering right behind me, ready to lunge again
if I let my guard down. Inside, the house was warm and
filled with laughter, so painfully normal that my brain
needed a second to adjust. The conversation dropped the
instant I walked in. I must have looked a complete
mess. Wide eyes, hair plastered to my
forehead. I tried to find my voice, but it
came out raw and broken. Once the shock wore off enough
for words, I rattled off a rambling account of something
huge with teeth, something that seemed more like a nightmare
than any animal I'd come across before.
Their faces reflected confusion. A couple friends asked if I was
messing with them or if I'd had too much to smoke.
Their dismissive reactions hit like a punch to the gut.
I kept insisting it was real, too real, but it felt impossible
to convey the intensity. My mind kept replaying how close
that thing had gotten, how it showed this unnatural hostility.
The more I tried to talk about it, the more I realized nobody
could truly understand without having been there.
I forced myself to sit down, but my nerves were thrumming too
fiercely to stay still. Even when I tried to breathe and
calm down. My gaze flicked toward the
windows, half expecting those eyes to appear behind the glass.
The walls felt stifling and I couldn't decide if I wanted to
be hidden away in my room or surrounded by people either way.
I couldn't banish the image of snapping jaws and the grating,
guttural sound still echoing in my head.
Night dragged on and everyone else drifted off to bed.
Sleep was the last thing on my mind.
There was a heavyweight in my chest, like dread that just
wouldn't dissipate. I flipped through my phone,
searching for anything. Urban legends, weird sightings,
Local warnings. My heart hammered as I stumbled
onto stories about shape shifters and cryptic creatures
said to stalk lonely roads. Some details were scarily
similar. Eerie canine forms, the sense of
an intelligence behind the brutality.
It made me question if I'd pushed my luck on a path I had
no business travelling alone the later it got.
The more my thoughts spun in circles, I wondered if it had
tracked me, if it knew exactly where I ended up.
Logic told me that was absurd, but a gnawing suspicion kept me
glancing at every window. Eventually, exhaustion forced me
to shut my eyes, though sleep brought no comfort.
I dreamed of glinting teeth and felt in the pit of my stomach
that the next time might not end so cleanly.
By morning, I was a jittery wreck, fueled by the same
obsessive questions. Had I really escaped something
no one else believed existed? Should I let it go or try to
learn more? Fear and curiosity clashed in my
thoughts, and I dreaded the idea that I might need to see that
place again just to prove it wasn't my imagination.
Even so, the mere notion of returning to that cursed
intersection twisted my insides with anxious anticipation.
Something told me my story and the creatures wasn't finished.
I was about 9. The Thanksgiving.
We arrived at Grandma's place. Nothing but trees surrounding
that old house, so thick you could hardly see the sky.
The driveway felt longer than usual, like it stretched deeper
into some secret place. Grandma's house always felt a
bit strange, with all those Native American masks hanging on
the walls and the faint smell of incense or something that hinted
at old ceremonies. Whenever I stepped inside, I
half expected those masks to whisper warnings I couldn't
quite catch. Thanksgiving meant cousins
everywhere, piling coats in the hallway and chatting so loud it
drowned out any sense of caution.
Aunt Sandy was setting the table, Uncle Jim rummaged around
in the fridge, and everyone else drifted in and out of
conversation. I remember glancing out the back
window, noticing how dark the woods looked even in daylight.
The branches gnarled like they'd been there for centuries.
My older cousin Sam caught my stare and raised an eyebrow like
he knew I was thinking about exploring.
Once we wolfed down some snacks, Sam nudged me to head outside.
Mom gave 1/2 hearted wave to go have fun.
Maybe expecting we'd just skip rocks in the Creek or pick up
arrowheads along the usual path. Instead, Sam wanted to push
deeper. He'd heard there was a massive
rockledge somewhere far behind the house, and he was determined
to find it. The air in those woods was
thicker than I remembered. Every footsteps sank in damp
leaves, and the silence pressed in around us until it felt like
we were tiptoeing through someone else's territory.
We passed the old sweat lodge structure with rotting hides
still clinging to a wooden frame.
I'd always been too nervous to peek inside.
Even now I speed up to get away from it.
Sam didn't say anything, but I saw him glance over his shoulder
like he expected someone to emerge from that sagging
doorway. After what felt like forever, we
saw a rocky ledge jutting out ahead.
It towered over a slope filled with broken branches and dead
foliage. Sam and I stood there, kind of
breathless, scanning the drop below.
That's where I noticed something that shouldn't have been there.
It looked like a person standing in ragged clothes, maybe 30 feet
down. I remember trying to blink it
away, maybe a scarecrow or some lost hiker who never made it
out. But then it moved.
I barely breathed. Sam's eyes went wide.
The figure turned, letting us see its face.
It was long and shaped like a moose's snout, with rough,
mottled fur in these eerie dark eye sockets.
It gazed straight at us, like it knew exactly who we were and
that we'd made a terrible mistake stepping this far into
its domain. My insides nearly locked up.
I had this wordless instinct screaming to run, but no part of
me wanted to make a sound. Sam grabbed my arm.
We bolted back the way we came, crashing through undergrowth.
Twigs sliced at my cheeks and damp leaves stuck to my clothes.
With every step, I felt a presence behind me, as though
the thing below the ledge had silently decided we weren't
allowed to leave. The light through the canopy
seemed to flicker, and the trees around us twisted into shapes I
barely recognized. We stumbled onto a clearing that
shouldn't have been there, an open circle of grass and
mushrooms arranged in rings. A weird green glow hung in the
air, and a sudden wave of warmth made my head swim.
It felt like the whole place was pulling me in, urging me to slow
down, to forget why I was running.
Sam shook my shoulder, his voice tense.
We needed to move, but I couldn't figure out where to go.
The brush we'd cut through had simply vanished.
Then a shout cut through everything.
My mother's voice echoed in the distance, calling my name.
It snapped me back to reality. We scrambled out of that
clearing, following her voice until we burst into our
backyard, panting and covered in scratches.
Everyone else was just setting the table for dinner, the same
old bustle of holiday chaos. No one believed the garbled
story Sam and I tried to spill about a moose faced figure and a
bizarre clearing that tried to trap us.
At that moment I almost wished I could block it all out too.
But as the sun sank lower, my mind refused to let go of the
image of that tall, ragged shape.
It was somewhere out there in those depths of the forest, and
I was certain it remembered us. Dinner that evening was supposed
to be the high point of our holiday.
Everyone crammed around Grandma's table swapping stories
and passing Turkey like it was a relay race, but I couldn't focus
on anything except what I had witnessed a few hours earlier
with Sam. While everyone else bantered
about football or joked about old family tales, my thoughts
kept wandering to the figure with the moose like head lurking
out there in the darkening woods.
The swirl of voices and the glow of candles couldn't blot out
that creeping sense of unease. I glanced at Sam.
He was barely touching his food. Every now and then he'd dart his
eyes toward the window, as if expecting a tall silhouette to
slip past. The grown-ups shot us odd looks
for being so quiet. I knew they chalked it up to
silly childhood fears, some rumored ghost story, or a
product of too much imagination. But I noticed a few uneasy
glances at the walls where Grandma's native masks seemed to
watch us, their carved eyes lit by flickering candlelight.
If they had known what we actually saw out there, maybe
they'd have believed us. Or maybe it was easier to
pretend nothing was wrong. After dessert, some of the older
cousins suggested a round of manhunt to break the tedium.
Normally, the idea of running around at night, flashlights
dancing in the dark, brought a spark of excitement.
This time, my stomach twisted. Still, it seemed safer to be
with a big group than wandering alone.
I figured I'd stick close to everyone else and not stray more
than a few yards from the back porch.
The cousins burst outside in a flurry of jackets and laughter.
The yard sat under a thick canopy of stars, and the line of
trees loomed like a fortress. And Sandy switched on a big
floodlight near the tool shed, which cast just enough glow for
us to see the game's boundary. At first it felt almost normal,
people sprinting between tree trunks, calling out in mock
bravado. I teamed up with Sam and we
prowled the perimeter with flashlights.
Leaves rustled as some cousins snuck by, trying to avoid being
tagged. Occasionally we found ourselves
scanning the darkness, searching for a shape that didn't belong.
Each time, a cousin would pop up instead, shrieking or laughing,
which felt like relief and disappointment at the same time.
Deep down, I worried I'd spot an antlers silhouette among the
branches. We were about to give up on the
last hidden cousin when someone shouted from across the yard.
Over here. We rushed toward the sound,
flashlights bobbing. A group of us converged on a
dense cluster of bushes close to the trees.
The beams swept over leaves, revealing a crouched figure,
that missing cousin trying not to breathe too loud.
But behind him stood something else, a shape so tall it nearly
blended with the shadows of the branches overhead.
My pulse hammered as the flashlight beams caught slivers
of torn fabric and what looked like fur along its neck.
The antlers, jagged, decaying in places, stretched above the
creature's head. It towered in silence, and the
part of me that had been trying to forget the earlier encounter
shattered in an instant. There was no mistaking the
slender twisted limbs or the elongated snout of a moose like
face. Its eyes reflected the
flashlight glow, forming 2 pinpoints of malevolence.
All of us froze. Not a single joke, not a single
breath wasted. The cousin in the Bush turned
around and a split second passed before he realized what loomed
just behind him. His face contorted into horror
and he scrambled out so fast he nearly collided with two others.
The entire group screamed at once.
Someone dropped their flashlight.
I stumbled in the rush to get back toward the house.
Every instinct holler that the creature could yank one of us
off our feet at any moment. Footsteps pounded across the
lawn. Breath ragged, hearts hammering
like frantic drums. We crashed through the back door
in a jumbled swarm, shrieking for the adults.
Aunt Sandy nearly dropped the stack of dishes she was washing
when she saw us, all sweaty, shaking and yelling about
something in the yard. The rest of the family quickly
gathered. At first they were skeptical.
Some asked if we were pulling a prank, but the collective panic
changed their minds. We all babbled over each other,
describing the antlers, the face, the towering silhouette.
That was when I realized nobody was laughing any more.
A hush fell, heavy with dread, as if acknowledging something
beyond our comprehension had taken root in these woods.
The house suddenly felt too small, windows too large, the
backyard a yawning black hole ready to devour any of us who
ventured out again. A few uncles locked the doors
and flipped off lights to reduce visibility from outside.
Grandma stood in the corner, her eyes shut like she was recalling
stories she'd heard long ago, maybe warnings from the same
people who once lived on this land.
I retreated to the living room with Sam, pressing myself to the
wall beneath those old masks. The hum of shaken voices and
muffled sobs filled the house. It was the first time we'd ever
considered not being safe in Grandma's home.
Part of me wanted to believe it was a nightmare, but I couldn't
deny the memory of those hollow eyes scanning us under the
flashlight's glare. We were no longer just telling
ghost stories. We were living one and outside
something monstrous knew exactly who we were.