I first heard about Kai Yazzie's ordeal from a friend at NAU who
told me you've got to talk to this guy.
He saw something beyond bizarre one night on the Navajo
reservation. Naturally, I was curious.
People whisper about strange events out here all the time,
but Kai's story had extra weight to it.
So one evening we grabbed coffee in a quiet corner of a cafe near
campus. He hesitated before sharing,
almost like he was still trying to convince himself it had
really happened. Kai explained he'd been around
10 when it went down. He and his father were driving
late at night toward Window Rock, heading home from some
family gathering. They'd taken a lonely back Rd.
with hardly a street light for miles.
Kai remembered he was chatting about trivial things, maybe
something about a movie he wanted to see, when his dad
abruptly stopped responding. He said.
His father's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel and the
older man scanned the night as if searching for a threat.
That tension seeped into the truck's cab.
Kai sensed every muscle in his father's body was on high alert,
so he asked. Dad, is something wrong?
The reply was nothing more than a muttered Don't look outside.
That warning was so quiet Kai almost didn't catch it.
He leaned forward to ask again, but then his dad pressed the
gas, urging the old truck to go faster than it ever had.
The fear on his father's face was more alarming than any words
could have been. Kai couldn't help himself.
He glanced out the passenger window.
Shadows flickered across the desert, but he didn't notice
anything unusual at first. He continued searching, feeling
more uneasy by the 2nd, until his eyes slid to the side
mirror. He froze at the sight, twin red
glows, almost like embers in the darkness.
Pacing the truck, he tried to rationalize it.
Could it be a reflection? Maybe brake lights from another
vehicle? But they move too fluidly, too
fast, drifting in and out of view as if they possessed some
intelligence. They drew closer, and the truck
lurched forward even more. Kai's father repeated his
warning. Don't make eye contact with it.
By then, any urge to look away had vanished, replaced by a
dread that pressed on Kai's chest.
He felt compelled to keep watching, unable to tear himself
away. Suddenly, those red eyes whipped
around to the right side of the truck, disappearing into the
gloom. Kai's father was pressing the
pedal so hard the engine wind, but something dashed across the
headlights, a shape that didn't make sense.
It was built like a coyote, but larger, with scraggly fur that
looked matted and unclean. What made it impossible to
dismiss as a normal animal was the ragged clothing tangled
around its body. Torn jeans clung awkwardly to
its hind legs, and a shredded T-shirt flapped as it moved.
The truck swerved. Kai remembered bracing himself
against the door, feeling the tires skid over loose gravel.
The front end of the truck nearly veered off the road,
heading straight for a drainage ditch at the last second.
His father wrestled the wheel back, cursing under his breath.
Adrenaline sword. Kai's pulse hammered, and the
world narrowed to just that terrifying, deformed creature,
The roar of the engine and the rattle of the truck's chassis.
When the path finally straightened, his dad didn't
stop. He drove even faster.
The creature remained out of sight, but Kai sensed it wasn't
gone. Just watching.
Every time his father glanced in the rear view mirror, Kai
wondered if the red eyes would flare back to life.
Part of him wanted to bury his face in the seat to avoid
whatever he might see. Another part felt oddly
compelled to stare, though the possibility of spotting it again
turned his stomach. It felt like hours before they
reached their small house near Window Rock.
Realistically, it may have been just a few minutes, but time
doesn't behave normally when panic sets in.
As soon as they rumbled into the driveway, Kai's dad flung the
door open and motioned him to get inside.
No words, just an urgent gesture.
They sprinted across the yard and hurried through the front
door, locking it behind them. Neither spoke, barely even
looked at each other. In the living room.
They shut off the lights and peered out the window, half
expecting to see something lurking in the darkness, but all
they saw was the silent desert. Kai's dad never brought it up
again. In the following days, he acted
like it had all been a weird, hazy nightmare.
Kai, though, couldn't let it go. He'd replay it in his head,
those red eyes keeping pace. The moment that thing vaulted in
front of their truck, wearing clothes like it had once been
human. The whole episode made him
wonder if the reservation's vast, unlit roads were the
perfect environment for unspeakable things to appear.
He told me that even now, whenever he has to drive at
night, his stomach twists into knots if he spots movement at
the edge of his headlights. He used to love those scenic
drives home, gazing at the moon in the open sky.
After that evening, he only felt safe doing it in daylight, when
you can see everything around you.
I left the Cafe that night knowing this wasn't just another
spooky rumor. Kai's haunted expression said
more than words ever could. He'd experienced something out
there on that reservation Rd. something that prowls the
fringes of human understanding. Whatever it was, it shattered
his notion that nothing unusual happens after dark.
That was the first account I collected, and it sparked my
desire to learn more about the eerie side of life on the Navajo
reservation. Unfortunately, I discovered that
Kai's run in was just the beginning of a longer, far more
unsettling chain of stories. But his recollection gave me
enough reason to keep digging, even if a part of me already
wished I'd remained blissfully in the dark.
I first met Tessa Beatty outside a campus lounge when word spread
that she had her own unbelievable account from the
Navajo reservation. After hearing about Kai Yazzie's
late night run in, I was already on edge, But Tessa's ordeal
added a whole new layer of dread.
She offered to tell me everything after class, so we
grabbed an empty table and talked until the staff started
cleaning up around us. Don't judge me.
She began fidgeting with her sleeve.
But I never thought a garage sale could lead to something
awful. Her voice wavered as though she
was reliving the moment right there.
Tessa lived in Church Rock, where her family set up a simple
yard sale once a year to clear out whatever they didn't need.
Old clothes, shoes, that kind of thing.
It was a warm, lazy afternoon. Neighbors drifted by, chatting
about the weather. Glancing at the racks and boxes,
Tessa recalled that everything felt normal until a man showed
up. Tall and wiry with a drawn face.
She said he wore an odd, faded jacket that looked like it might
have been from a thrift shop, and he kept his eyes down,
almost like he was ashamed or hiding something.
She shrugged at first, thinking maybe he was just shy, but once
he reached her father's clothing section, he seemed transfixed,
like he discovered gold in a pile of junk.
Tessa's dad kept glancing over at him, puzzled, because the
sizes were definitely not going to fit.
Still, the man plucked every shirt, jacket, and pair of jeans
off the table, not bothering to try them on.
He paid with crumpled bills that smelled faintly of tobacco or
something musty. Then he shuffled away without a
word. The strangeness didn't fully
sink in until a couple of days later.
That was when Tessa's father began waking up at all hours,
covered in sweat, mumbling about horrifying dreams.
Tessa didn't pry at first, assuming it was just stress or
maybe something he ate, But then itchy sores erupted on his arms
and chest. Day by day, they multiplied, and
the scratching kept him awake at night.
She wanted him to see a doctor, but he dismissed the idea,
insisting no modern medicine could fix what this was.
As we talked, Tessa gripped her mug so tight her knuckles
whitened. She said that after another
night of miserable rest, her father confided that the
nightmares were too grim to voice, like they weren't just
bad dreams, but invasive, tormenting visions.
He'd wake up convinced. Something dark lingered outside,
just beyond the windows. That was when the family decided
to call in a local medicine man, the kind who knows what to do
when ordinary measures fail. Tessa walked me through that
harrowing evening. The medicine man arrived at
dusk, carrying a bag of ceremonial items and a quiet
determination. He instructed Tessa and her
father to help him search the perimeter of the house.
At first, it felt like a wild goose chase.
They peered under shrubs, poked through loose soil, shining
flashlights into every hollow. Tessa said she wanted to believe
nothing would turn up, that her dad's sudden illness was just a
coincidence. But then the medicine man paused
near a scraggly patch of land on the far side of their yard.
He knelt down and carefully dug into the dirt.
Tessa's breath caught when he pulled up a small bundle.
It reeked of copper and decay. Unfolding the cloth revealed her
father's old shirts, drenched in something dark and sticky.
Blood Tangled within the bundle was a stone carved with
unsettling symbols. Tessa almost backed away,
overwhelmed by a surge of revulsion.
The man who bought your dad's clothes left this, the medicine
man said, his tone grave. Someone is jealous or angry.
They want to do harm. Tessa recalled the moment
vividly. She tried to form a question,
but felt consumed by a numb, paralyzing shock.
Her father reached for her hand, but she was shaking too badly to
be of any comfort. Without missing a beat, the
medicine man pulled out sage and other herbs, lit them, and
recited prayers she didn't fully understand.
His voice rose and fell, echoing in the twilight.
The smoke curled around the bundle, swirling as if guided by
an unseen force. Whatever ceremony he performed
seemed to chase away the crawling dread that had taken
hold. He then wrapped the cursed
objects in another cloth, sealing them tight.
Tessa saw a hint of relief cross her father's face for the first
time in weeks. Before the medicine man
departed, he gave a final warning.
Barry. Grudges and distrust that might
have led to this malevolence, because envy festers in hidden
corners of the heart. A curious calm settled after he
left. Tessa's father finally slept
that night, uninterrupted by nightmares or itching.
Over the next few days, the sores began to fade, replaced by
fresh skin. He told Tessa the heaviness in
his chest lifted as well, like a giant weight had been rolled
away. When Tessa finished her story, I
noticed the cafe's lights were half dimmed and the staff was
giving us that polite it's time to go look.
We stood to leave and she admitted she still can't host a
yard sale without replaying that memory in her head.
Every time a stranger picks through their family's clothes,
she wonders if they might be hiding a dark purpose.
I left the building that night, realizing there was more at
stake here than mere superstition.
Kai Yazi had nearly been run off the road by something wearing
torn clothes. Tessa's father was nearly
destroyed by what might have been a curse.
The deeper I dug, the more I felt a silent, gnawing tension
in my gut. Because if these stories were
true, if the land out here allowed such things to happen,
it wouldn't be the last time I heard about it.
I tried shaking it off, assuring myself that maybe these were
just isolated events. But a voice in the back of my
mind wondered what else was lurking in the desert twilight,
and how many people out there had their own horror stories
hidden under layers of dust. And so I prepared myself to
listen to one more tale, the account of a late night drive
under a full moon that some said turned downright sinister.
I met Ayana Nez on a chilly evening at a local student
hangout. Word had gotten around that she
had her own brush with the paranormal on the Navajo
reservation, something she was at first reluctant to talk
about. But after hearing what happened
to Kai Yazzie and Tessa Betae, I was determined to see if her
story fit the same eerie pattern.
Ayana was a senior, cheerful on the surface, but her eyes
flickered with something I could only call unease.
We settled into a corner booth and as the chatter of other
students died down, she finally spoke in a quiet, serious tone.
Let me guess. She said, smirking wryly.
You want to know if there's anything actually out there
running around in the dark, right?
She guessed right, but I couldn't help noticing she
hesitated. Like giving voice to her
memories might bring them to life again.
Eventually she launched into her tail and I felt an involuntary
chill creep down my spine. Ayana's cousins had swung by to
pick her up. After a small get together in
Window Rock, they were headed back home, down a rural Rd.
jokes flying, music blasting from the outdated radio.
But it was a single cab truck with only three seats up front,
so Ayanna volunteered to ride in the bed under a stunning full
moon that cast silver across the desert.
She remembered leaning back, arms folded, watching the rocky
landscape pass by in that ghostly light.
She'd never put much stock in ghost stories or anything that
seemed to out there. The rest of her family joked she
was too city minded, too rational.
Not for long. Her cousins decided, in the
spirit of mischief, to take an unlit dirt Rd. no St. lights,
not another soul for miles. She rolled her eyes, thinking
they were just trying to freak her out.
Then the truck slowed for a moment, tires crunching on
gravel as they turned off the main highway.
The sky felt bigger all of a sudden, the blackness too vast.
For the first few minutes, it was the same casual silence
pierced by the truck's engine and the occasional bump in the
road. Then Ayanna heard something
else, a soft, rhythmic thump that drifted over the breeze.
At first she thought it was just the wheels on the uneven ground,
but it grew louder and more distinct, and there was no doubt
it was a drum beat. A steady, haunting, pulsing beat
that set her nerves on edge. Ayana pushed herself upright,
scanning the moonlit ridges for any sign of where the sound
might be coming from. It was disorienting.
Out there in the open bed of the truck, there was nowhere to hide
if something decided to show itself.
That's when she noticed a flicker of movement in her
peripheral vision. A shape unnaturally slender and
almost luminescent in the pale moonlight, emerged from the
brush at a dead run. She recalls how her heart
pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears.
The figure wasn't merely moving, it was charging, closing in fast
on the side of the road. That relentless drum beat
continued faster and louder, as if chasing them both.
She slapped the back window of the cab, screaming for her
cousins to look. Panic fueled her voice, and they
must have heard it clearly even over the roar of the engine,
because the truck lurched forward.
But the figure, a man, or at least shaped like 1, accelerated
to impossibly matching their speed.
Ayanna's eyes widened as she realized it was laughing.
She couldn't make out the words, if there even were any.
It was more like a giddy, malevolent giggle echoing over
the desert floor. Her cousins speed up, the engine
rattling from the sudden strain. The dirt Rd. turned to washboard
ripples under the wheels, shaking the truck violently.
Ayanna fought to keep steady as she peered around, desperately
trying to track the man's position.
At one point she spotted him nearly level with the tailgate,
arms pumping, grin stretched impossibly wide.
Then, as abruptly as he appeared, he vanished back into
the gloom. The drum beat lingered, an echo
that seemed to cling to the air even after the man was gone.
Her cousins cut the wheel, finally returning to a main
road. They didn't let off the gas
until they saw the faint glow of a porch light in the distance,
marking their house. The truck screeched to a halt in
the driveway and they piled out in a frenzy, every single one of
them on edge. Once inside, they locked all the
doors and windows, some of them twice, and turned off every
light. They clustered in the living
room, hardly speaking, each listening for the slightest
noise outside. For a moment, everything seems
still. Ayana noticed how drenched in
sweat she was, despite the cold night air.
Then came the footsteps, slow, purposeful, right above them on
the roof. One cousin wanted to believe it
was just a stray cat or raccoon, but the footfalls were too
heavy, too deliberate. They circled the house from one
end to the other, each Creek punctuated by silence so thick
you could almost taste the fear. Ayanna admitted that a few times
she felt like her lungs just seized, refusing to let her
breathe. Every step overhead sounded like
it was trying to find a weak spot to breakthrough.
They huddled, uncertain if calling the police would even
help. Who'd believe a story about a
pale figure chasing them in the night?
Besides, it'd take at least an hour for any official help to
arrive, if not more. The footsteps persisted until
just before dawn. In the early morning light, the
roof went quiet, leaving a vacuum of dread in its absence.
Nobody dared go outside until the sun was fully up, shining
bright against the dusty yard. They ventured out, searching for
footprints or any sign of an intruder.
Nothing. It was like the night itself had
swallowed every trace. When Ayanna wrapped up her
recollection, she exhaled shakily, as if letting go of an
invisible wait. She told me that while part of
her wants to dismiss the event as a trick of the mind or a
prankster with impeccable timing, she can't erase how real
it felt. Ever since that night, she
refuses to ride in the bed of a truck, no matter how short the
distance. Hearing her story left me more
convinced than ever that something intangible weaves
through the Navajo reservation, whether it's curses, twisted
creatures, or figures that delight in scaring unsuspecting
travellers. We finished talking, and as we
rose to leave, the campus lounge felt too bright, too safe.
I wondered what might be lurking out there right now, beyond the
reach of streetlights and far from any help.
But with these three tales, Kai Yazzie's childhood terror on a
dark highway, Tessa Beta's cursed clothing fiasco, and now
Ayana Nez's moonlit chase, the puzzle pieces lined up in my
head. It seemed these experiences were
not random. If you're on the reservation at
night, you're never truly alone. And strangely enough, that night
I slept easier knowing at least people were talking about it.
Because sometimes just having a warning might be your best armor
against whatever roams those lonely roads when the sun goes
down. I grew up watching my dad run
his tiny delivery business out of Farmington, NM.
We handled all those remote drop offs the bigger companies
avoided, long stretches of cracked highway in the middle of
nowhere, scattered with tumbleweeds and dusty fences.
It was a normal thing for me to ride shotgun while my dad
trekked out into the desert to hand over some package nobody
else wanted to bother with whenever summer rolled around.
If he had a job, I tagged along. One day he got a call for a
delivery bound for Window Rock, Arizona, smack on the Navajo
reservation. It's only a couple hours from
Farmington, so it sounded like an easy run.
Our friend Travis, who's Navajo, happened to be hanging around
when the call came in. He perked up as soon as he heard
the destination, said he had family there he hadn't seen in
forever, and suggested we all go together.
My dad was excited about making it a group trip, and I was
thrilled at the thought of an outing beyond the usual package
drop and go. We agreed I'd ride with Dad in
the old pickup loaded with freight, and Travis would follow
with his girlfriend in another truck so we wouldn't be cramped.
We set out mid morning, the sky a pale blue streaked with a few
wispy clouds. Dad handed me a walkie-talkie
and Travis took another. I thought it was the coolest
thing, like we were on some secret mission.
By noon we pulled into Window Rock and I realized how the
place got its name. There's this huge Cliff
formation with a circular hole carved by nature, big enough to
see right through. The wind makes a faint, ghostly
moan when it passes through that opening.
For a kid, it was mesmerizing, like stepping into some ancient
story. While Dad dropped off the
packages, Travis swung by to visit his relatives.
I snuck glances at the local vendors selling handmade
jewelry, bright blankets and spicy snacks.
I remember the smells, Fry bread roasting, chilies lingering in
the air. Everything felt warm, inviting,
until late afternoon came. That's when we piled back into
our trucks and started heading home.
We plan to stick to the old highway that runs between Window
Rock and Gallop, since it was less crowded, though the
pavement was beaten up and pitted with potholes.
It had rained earlier that day, leaving the road slick.
The desert was quiet, too quiet, somehow.
Usually you see a rabbit or two scurrying across the asphalt or
catch sight of a hawk perched on a telephone pole.
But it was just empty land on both sides of the highway,
sandstone cliffs looming on the left and a sprawling field on
the right separated by a barbed wire fence.
My dad kept the truck at a steady pace.
He was never one to speed if there was any risk of losing
control on wet roads. We were talking on and off with
Travis through the walkie talkies, joking about the heat
and how the day had gone. Then we crested this small hill.
At the bottom. In the middle of the road sat
something that looked like a massive dog, bigger than any
mutt I'd ever seen. It was just squatting there,
facing the Cliff side. My dad grabbed the radio and
casually said, Hey, Trav, do you see that huge dog up ahead?
And Travis's voice crackled back.
Only this time there was no joking edge.
He was yelling. That is not a dog.
You have to hit it. Don't slow down, hit it now.
A spark of panic jolted through me.
I'd never heard that tone from Travis before.
He's usually laid back, always telling corny jokes or teasing
me about my video games. But he kept shouting hit it,
please like his life depended on it.
I saw my dad's hands tighten on the steering wheel.
The tires screeched a bit on the wet pavement as he stepped on
the gas. My stomach churned with dread,
but the reason why didn't fully register until our headlights
flooded over the creature. It turned its head toward us in
this jerky, unnatural motion. The face was the shape of
something that might have once been part human and part bare,
but twisted beyond reason. Patches of matted brownish fur
clung to its skin, and the fur seemed to be caked in dried
blood. Even sitting its shoulders lined
up with the hood of our truck, it stared right into the glow of
our headlights, blinking with eyes that shouldn't have existed
in a normal skull. I froze, couldn't speak,
couldn't think. My dad didn't let up on the
accelerator. The engine roared and we surged
forward, determined to ram this thing like Travis insisted.
But just before we slammed into it, the creature flung its mouth
wide in a guttural scream, like a person howling underwater.
The sound hit me in the gut, made everything in me twist with
horror. Then it leaped backwards in a
single bound that carried it past the fence.
It soared so high it almost seemed to hang in the air.
When it landed, the fence shook and another jump took it
completely out of sight. Travis was screaming over the
walkie-talkie for us to keep going, to speed up even more.
My dad stomped the gas and I gripped the door, trying to make
sense of what I'd just witnessed.
We barreled down that highway, every nerve in my body braced
for the idea that the creature might come charging out from
behind us. My mind conjured all sorts of
images. Claws scraping the truck bed,
wet snarls right by my ear, that face pressing against the
window. Each second felt stretched out,
thick with the possibility of that horrifying thing
reappearing. We raced onward until the lights
of gallop finally popped into view.
Relief was so intense it made me feel a little shaky.
But that feeling vanished the instant I saw blue and red
flashing in the rear view mirror.
A cop was pulling us over. Dad slowed the truck, and Travis
halted right behind us. The Navajo officer stepped out,
looking wary about why both trucks had pulled over together.
Travis jumped from his cab and hurried toward us, blurting.
We just saw a skinwalker on the highway.
It's following us. The officer's face turned ashen.
He looked at Travis like he wanted to argue, but no words
came. All he managed was a few
stuttered sentences about letting us off with a warning.
Then he practically sprinted back to his patrol car and tore
away, tires squealing on the wet asphalt.
We didn't stick around, either. Dad fired up the truck and we
bolted, leaving Gallup behind as quickly as we could.
Nobody said much on the drive back to Farmington.
When we finally got home, Travis refused to leave until he gave
us some sort of Navajo protection charm.
He pulled it out of a small leather pouch he always carried,
explaining that it was meant to ward off evil spirits,
especially ones that could shape shift.
I think I was still in too much shock to speak up, but I saw
Dad's face and knew he was beyond rattled.
He carefully placed that totem near our door, muttering a few
quiet words of thanks. For days after, I had nightmares
about that creature's face, about the moment it turned its
gaze on us. I'd catch myself staring out
windows at night, convinced I'd spot those unholy eyes gleaming
in the distance. Even Travis, who'd grown up
hearing all kinds of Navajo legends, seemed haunted,
reluctant to talk about it. It took a while before I
understood just how deep these stories ran in his culture, how
real they were to the people who had grown up surrounded by them.
I still remember the hush in Travis's voice when he finally
explained that skinwalker is a word almost never spoken among
the Navajo, a term for an entity that can wear the shape of an
animal or something. Half animal, half human to stalk
unwary travellers, he said. Once you encounter 1, you never
look at the open desert the same way again.
That's the part that got under my skin.
The knowledge that out on those lonely roads there might be
things watching from the shadows of the cliffs or lingering by
the wire fences, waiting for a chance to reveal themselves.
Though years have passed, I'll never forget the fear that
crawled across the back of my neck whenever I thought about
that night. Every time I drive those
highways now, I keep my gaze flicking left and right,
scanning for any sign of movement that doesn't belong.
I know my dad does the same, no matter how much we try to
rationalize it. Maybe it was some rabid animal.
Maybe our eyes played tricks. The memory lingers, whispering
that there are forces out there beyond our everyday world.
Forces that can wear false faces looming just out of sight,
especially after the rain soaked darkness settles in.
And once you've seen what I saw, you learn to take every odd
shape in the road a whole lot more seriously.
I was barely old enough to help my uncle gather firewood for my
grandmother that evening, but he insisted I tag along.
We spent hours chopping logs under a darkening sky, the
horizon turning a murky purple as we stacked the last pieces in
the truck. Even then, the atmosphere felt
thick, like the land itself was harboring secrets.
By the time we finally headed down that winding dirt Rd.
I was exhausted. My uncle's face was all focus,
eyes flicking across the landscape as though he expected
to spot movement in every shadow.
We drove at a steady pace of roughly 30 mph, the headlights
just barely cutting through the dense night.
There were no St. lights, no sign of life apart from the
gravel shifting beneath our tires.
A creeping awareness started to build inside me, making me want
to peer into the darkness beyond my window.
Right when I turned to see if there was something there, my
uncle barked. Don't look.
The tone in his voice was more alarming than anything I'd ever
heard from him. I froze mid turn.
Then came a gentle knock on the passenger window.
Tap, tap. Like a deliberate greeting, my
uncle slammed his foot on the gas, and words I only partly
understood spilled out of him in our native language, prayers
meant to guard us from whatever lurked beyond.
My pulse raced and every muscle felt locked in place.
Suddenly, the entire vehicle tilted, as though something
heavy had climbed into the bed of the truck.
My uncle kept chanting, refusing to let me turn around.
Another tap reached our ears, this time from the window right
behind my head. Each sound felt like a
challenge, testing the limits of our resolve.
After a few agonizing moments, the weight in the truck bed
vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, causing the back end
to rise again. My uncle exhaled a shaky breath,
mentioning that first thing the next morning, my father would
perform a special prayer so this presence would forget our faces.
The rest of the ride was pure tension.
I stayed curled up, eyes locked on the glowing digits of the
radio clock while my uncle chanted under his breath until
we finally pulled up to my grandmother's house.
Despite my best efforts, I couldn't drift off to sleep.
My grandmother's place sat quiet except for the occasional creak
of old boards. At some point past midnight, I
noticed a faint scuffling along the window on the far side of
the room. My grandmother's house didn't
have curtains thick enough to block the silhouette I glimpsed
outside, something tall and crooked almost bending to peek
in. I lay still, swallowing back
panic as it rustled around out there.
The doorknob rattled briefly, like a testing hand tried to
slip inside. That was when my uncle appeared
in the doorway, Lantern in hand. He'd heard it, too.
He mouthed for me to stay put and closed his eyes, whispering
a low song that had been passed down for generations.
I buried myself under the covers, trembling, while the
shadow outside drifted from one window to another, as though
searching for an opening. Only after my uncle's prayer
grew louder did the presence vanish.
I remember hearing a final scrape along the wall and a
distant crunch of twigs. When he was certain it was gone.
My uncle quietly reassured me it couldn't breakthrough those
prayers as long as we kept up our guard.
Early the next morning, my father arrived to offer a proper
blessing on the truck, the woodpile and everyone under that
roof. He lit some sage and asked us to
form a small circle. I was still rattled, but being
with my family gave me a sense of safety until I spotted
something by the far edge of the yard.
Through the rising smoke, a pair of shapes flickered in and out
among the trees, dark figures that didn't look entirely human.
My father paused mid chant and glanced over as though he could
feel them too. With a stern expression, he
continued his prayer at a quicker pace, sprinkling sacred
corn pollen along the perimeter of the yard.
The shapes lingered, pacing almost In Sync with his
movements, never coming too close, but never entirely
leaving either. Finally, as the last of the
blessing ended, they disappeared behind the brush.
My father reminded everyone not to wander alone, to keep to the
main roads and to let him or my uncle know if anything else
occurred. That midday sun offered no
comfort. It only made the yard feel
strangely exposed, as if unseen watchers could linger behind any
scrub or Bush. Time slipped by, I grew older,
and that childhood terror became a foggy recollection.
But on a return trip for a family gathering, I decided to
drive out to the same dirt Rd. alone, partly out of curiosity,
partly to prove to myself that it had all been a
misunderstanding. The sun dipped below the horizon
faster than I expected. By the time I was halfway there,
twilight had blurred every shape into a blur of shifting shadows.
That same oppressive hush pressed in, just as heavy as I
remembered. A breeze carried unfamiliar
whispers, or so I told myself. Then I noticed the rear of my
car sagging down like something had settled inside the trunk.
A spasm of dread shot through me, and I fought the urge to
crane my neck back for a look. Memories of my uncle's urgent
warnings came flooding back. Instead, I pressed the gas pedal
and chanted what little of that old prayer I could recall.
The tension mounted. A muffled bump echoed inside the
vehicle, close enough to rattle my nerves.
At last, the back rose again, and the car felt normal.
By the time I got to my grandmother's new place, she'd
moved a few miles closer to town in her old age.
I was shaking all the same. Fear from childhood slammed into
me the moment I cut the engine. Not long ago, a nightmare
dredged up every detail from that initial night.
In my half awake state, I thought I sensed tapping at my
bedroom window. I reached out to my uncle,
needing his calm voice to settle me.
He listened, then quietly admitted he never saw actual
faces back then, only fiery, watchful eyes glowing like
distant brake lights. He said those eyes were pinned
on my side of the truck, tracking me.
I tried joking about why he hadn't stopped the first time
the weight shifted in the truck bed.
There was a long pause before he answered, because it wasn't
alone. That single sentence told me all
I needed to know. He and my father had always
known there was more than one presence roaming that lonely
stretch of Rd. Whatever found us that evening
may have followed our scent back to the house, prowling around
the windows and edging close to the family.
To this day, my uncle's words stay lodged in my mind whenever
I remember that drive or the knocking on the glass.
I recall how his voice trembled as he chanted prayers to keep us
safe from more than one lurking entity.
Even now, whenever the wind rustles the trees at night, I
can't help but picture those eyes watching, remembering.
And every time I go back to that region of the reservation, I
refuse to wander anywhere near that dirt Rd. alone.
Something else might be waiting in the darkness, eager to see if
I still remember not to look. I grew up in a remote corner of
Northern Arizona, flanked by Paiute land to the north and the
vast Navajo Nation to the South. Our little high school, just a
few dozen students, was forced to travel through Navajo
territory for hours whenever we had away games.
Most of the time, we'd stay overnight, but on one particular
trip, the administration said the budget was too tight for a
hotel. So after a late basketball
matchup, we piled into our rickety old bus, Big Blue, and
set off at around 2:00 in the morning, aiming to get home by
sunrise. I remember sitting at the back
of the bus, restless and wide awake, while everyone else
drifted off. Moonlight drenched the desert
beyond the dusty windows, and the sky seemed endless.
Nobody thought it was strange at first, but I noticed our driver
pushing the accelerator much harder than usual.
Our speed reached around 90 mph, way over the limit.
We charged deeper into Navajo land and the miles of moonlit
sand were eerily silent, like the world had paused.
Out of the corner of my eye, a shape emerged in the distance.
It darted across the rocks and scrub, somehow matching the
bus's speed. My breathing turned shaky the
instant I realized it was a human like figure, with half of
its face painted black and the other half painted white, eyes
reflecting the headlights like some predatory creature.
It raced alongside us, leaping over sagebrush with alarming
ease. I stared in total shock, unable
to look away as the thing's mouth twisted into a wide grin,
revealing jagged, yellowed teeth.
Then its body began to contort, bones twisting and snapping
until it dropped onto all fours, fur sprouting everywhere,
becoming a coyote before my eyes.
It vanished back into the desert like it had never been there,
leaving me stumbling into the tiny bus bathroom to puke.
I'd heard whispers about skinwalkers, shape shifters that
Navajo elders often warned people about, but I never
thought I'd confront one. I was so rattled that I kept the
story to myself, telling only a Navajo friend.
The next day, she insisted I see the local chief for a blessing.
When I ran into him in our school parking lot, he uttered
words in Navajo under his breath and waved a feathered staff
around me. He didn't offer any explanation.
He just climbed into his truck and drove away.
I moved on, or at least I tried to, though I couldn't erase that
haunting image from my memory. A few weeks later, I was helping
a buddy move some stuff near the southern edge of the
reservation, and the sun dipped below the horizon faster than
expected. We were heading back in his
pickup, both of us antsy to leave the dark stretches of Hwy.
behind. Suddenly the engine hiccupped
and the truck sputtered to a stop right by an old barbed wire
fence. My friend fiddled under the
hood, cursing the dead battery while I fumble for a flashlight.
That's when I sensed something just beyond our feeble light
movement. Low to the ground, a coyote
stepped into the dim glow of the moon, but its posture was all
wrong. It stared directly at us,
unblinking, before standing up on its hind legs.
Body lengthening into that too familiar outline, my chest
tightened with dread. My friend and I scrambled to
slam ourselves back into the truck, frantically turning the
key. The engine roared to life.
On the second try, we speed off without speaking a word.
It took us hours to come down from that terror.
The third encounter happened during a late night store run.
I'd been craving snacks and decided to cut through a stretch
of reservation land to save time, even though I usually
avoided it. The moon wasn't out and the
desert was cloaked in shadows. Out of nowhere, the road seemed
to change. Strips of old asphalt vanished,
replaced by dirt and scattered rocks that rattled beneath my
tires. In my headlights, I glimpsed
something staggering onto the road.
At first it looked like an injured man waving for help, but
as I slowed and rolled down my window just a crack, I caught
sight of that same half painted face.
My heart pounded as the figure lurched closer, jaw opening
impossibly wide. The feeling of raw menace washed
over me. I floored the gas pedal in my
rearview mirror. The shape burst into a Sprint,
matching my acceleration for far too many seconds before dropping
out of sight. I didn't stop driving until I
was well past the reservation boundary.
The 4th and final time I crossed paths with that skinwalker, I'd
been cornered into a family obligation.
My cousin wanted to check out some property near Navajo land.
As evening fell, we took a shortcut.
Big mistake down a rugged Back Rd.
Storm clouds gathered overhead, turning the sky.
A sickly Gray. Wind whipped up the dust and
Thunder boomed in the distance. My cousin and I were talking,
trying to distract ourselves from the creeping sense of
unease, when a shape darted across our headlights.
We halted to avoid hitting it, and that familiar painted face
glared at us through the windshield, right there in the
open desert. It bent forward, limbs cracking
as they elongated, mouth parting to reveal rotted fangs.
It lunged at the hood with inhuman speed, leaving a dent
and a smear of something foul that smelled like decaying
flesh. My cousin shrieked and I nearly
lost control of the wheel, but we managed to swerve around.
The creatures shrill cry, like a wounded animal mixed with a
human whale echoed behind us for what felt like ages.
We drove off, hearts hammering, convinced that thing would
appear in the rear view mirror again at any second.
The next morning I contacted that same Navajo friend,
desperate for guidance. She reminded me of the blessing
the chief had done, but suggested I seek a more in depth
cleansing from another spiritual leader.
I jumped at the chance. Anything to rid myself of these
run insurance. The ceremony took half a day,
involving herbs, chanting, and an overwhelming sense of
spiritual gravity in the room. By the end, the elder assured me
that I should be safe as long as I showed respect for Navajo
lands and kept my distance if possible.
Even now, whenever I'm forced to head South, I plot an extra two
or three hours into my route to steer clear of that territory.
It might sound extreme, but I'd rather burn daylight and gas
than feel that icy dread again. Those four encounters left a
mark on me. It's not just some campfire
legend anymore. This is something I've lived
through and I don't want to ever experience that horrifying gaze
again. That bus ride was only the
beginning of a nightmare that still makes me double check
every dark stretch of highway I drive.
I arrived at my grandparents place thinking the biggest
excitement would be strolling home from the Navajo Nation Fair
after dark. I'd grown up away from the
reservation, so I never quite believed the tales about
skinwalkers, creatures said to shift shape and create mischief
or worse. My grandmother hated it when
anyone brought them up to her, just mentioning them could draw
their attention. But that night I got a crash
course in just how real and frightening they can be.
We returned from the fair around 9, stuffed from carnival food,
exhausted in that good, warm way.
My grandparents trailer was cozy but worn down, the kind of place
where every floorboard creaks no matter how careful you are.
We spent hours catching up, sharing stories and laughing
about family gossip until about 2:00 in the morning.
Tired or not, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked,
maybe too casually, are skinwalkers real?
My grandma went pale and said it was bad to speak of that sort of
thing, then vanished into the back bedroom with my
grandfather. My aunt, on the other hand,
decided to tell me about hearing horrific screams outside her
trailer in Farmington recently. She'd woken up her daughter, and
the poor kid was in tears the entire next morning.
The way she told it, those screams sounded almost human,
but layered with something else, a raspy, guttural undercurrent
that made her hair stand on end. My aunt tried to brush it off as
coyotes, but deep down she suspected something worse.
Hearing that left me unsettled, but I tried to play it cool.
Once everyone shuffled off to their rooms, I was too wired to
sleep. The windows were open for the
desert breeze, and the place was eerily still, except for the
occasional Creek of the trailer settling.
At first I told myself nothing unusual was going on.
Then I heard movement just outside, like footsteps trying
not to be heard. I poked my head into the
kitchen, peering out at the empty yard, lit faintly by a
single porch light. It all seemed normal, dust
swirling in the glow. Old trash cans near the road,
our cars parked in a line. That was it.
Right then I picked up on a strange hush in the air.
No crickets, no distant bark of dogs.
Everything felt heavier. Right on cue, a distorted cry
shattered the quiet. It was close, definitely in our
yard. My eyes locked on a shape
lurking behind the cars. The outline seemed canine, but
something was off, like it didn't fit right in its own
skin. Its fur looked matted, and even
from a distance I noticed its eyes reflecting that creepy
orange hue I'd heard about in stories.
I backed away, practically stumbling down the hallway, and
woke my mother. She thought I was panicking over
a stray dog until the noises got louder, more ragged.
She joined me at the window. We spotted the coyote like
figure limping across the yard, dragging a hind leg behind it.
An awful smell drifted in, something like old garbage and
rancid meat, and a low moaning echo seeped through the thin
walls. My parents yelled in Navajo for
it to leave, calling it an unwelcome presence.
The commotion got everyone out of bed, and my grandfather
grabbed a small handgun, coating some bullets in ashes.
He flung open the door and fired off a couple of shots, but the
thing vanished faster than anything that injured should be
able to move. We all gathered in the living
room, nerves fried. My grandfather mumbled about how
it knew we'd seen it, which could be a bad sign.
He tried to calm everyone by promising to deal with it in the
morning. We eventually drifted back to
our rooms, but I doubt anyone actually slept.
Around sunrise, a neighbor who was a medicine man came by to
bless the place. He prayed over each of us,
sprinkled sacred herbs in the yard and told us that for now,
we should be safe. I thought that was the end of
the drama, but I was wrong. The following afternoon I was on
edge, jumping at the slightest sound.
I decided to head outside and help my aunt clean some junk out
of her truck. We stood by the tailgate,
tossing trash into a bin, when I heard a low growl from behind
the trailer. It was broad daylight, so I
doubted the creature would return, but that growl vibrated
through the thin air. My aunt and I locked eyes, then
inched around the corner. Perched atop a stack of
discarded pallets, we saw the same twisted coyote shape, only
now it seemed bigger, more unkempt, like the encounter last
night had agitated it. Its eyes flicked toward us, that
same hateful glare. Before we could shout, it leapt
off the pallets with an awkward thud, disappearing into the
brush. We stood there, breaths ragged,
wondering if we'd actually seen it or if our nerves were just
playing tricks. But we knew it was real.
My aunt started chanting a few Navajo words under her breath,
praying it wouldn't come back. We told the family what
happened, and they grew even more anxious.
That evening we all huddled in the living room, lights off to
avoid drawing attention. My grandmother insisted it was
better to keep the trailer dim. If the thing returned, maybe it
wouldn't see us. At some point, my cousin
suggested we head out to the old shed a few 100 yards away to see
if something there was attracting the creature.
It was a dumb plan, but curiosity got to us.
We walked out together, my cousin, 2 uncles and me.
The desert was quiet, the moon casting weak light across the
sandy ground. We reached the shed, rummaging
through old boxes and broken chairs, when we heard a scraping
sound on the metal siding. It was slight, but unmistakable.
My uncle nudged the door open. Right outside, that thing was
crouched low, its breath labored, eyes glowing in the
moonlight. A trickle of drool or something
thick dripped from its maw. In a flash, it hurled itself at
the doorway. My cousin slammed the door and
we started barricading it with anything heavy.
That horrid moan returned, cycling between what sounded
like laughter and an animal's whine.
It banged against the shed a few more times, then silence.
By the time we mustered enough courage to peer out, it had
slipped away again. We trudged back to the trailer,
where my grandfather was waiting with more ashes and some fresh
bullets. He said a string of words in
Navajo that basically meant the creature was toying with us,
testing our defenses. Everyone agreed to stay indoors
for the rest of the night, but the tension was unbearable,
especially in such a cramped space.
Early the next morning, my mom insisted we all visit another
relative who lived about 20 minutes away, in hopes that
maybe a change of scenery would help.
We piled into two cars driving through dusty roads while
checking the rearview mirrors every few seconds.
We stopped at a small grocery store to pick up supplies.
As we were loading groceries into the trunk, my dad pointed
toward the edge of the parking lot.
There, skulking behind a row of desert shrubs, was that twisted
figure. Even under the relentless sun,
its fur still looked grimy and ragged.
A few other people in the lot noticed it too, and you could
tell by their expressions they knew it wasn't just a stray.
It stared at us for a long, painful moment before darting
off behind a nearby building. The sight of it right in town
made me realize how bold it had become.
By our third night, everyone seemed at their breaking point.
Lights stayed off, curtains shut, doors locked.
My grandparents kept chanting protection prayers, sprinkling
corn pollen near the windows and doorways.
My grandfather made sure his gun was loaded.
At around midnight, a violent scratching returned to the door.
We could hear the wood splintering.
This time my grandmother started shouting in Navajo, calling upon
protective spirits to drive it away.
Then a sudden, inhuman whale reverberated through the thin
walls, and the scratching stopped.
My grandfather opened the door just enough to peer outside, gun
at the ready. Nothing but fresh, deep gouges
mark the wood. None of us slept a wink after
that. By dawn, the medicine man
neighbor came back. He brought another elder and
they performed a more extensive blessing ritual, lighting cedar
and sage, chanting powerful prayers around the entire
property. They told us this creature was
malicious and strong, but if we followed the protective rights
and avoided feeding its energy with fear or reckless talk, it
would eventually move on. I'm not sure if it's truly gone
or if it's just hiding, waiting, but I do know I believe
everything my grandmother told me.
Skinwalkers aren't myths designed to spook kids.
They're real, and they prey on vulnerabilities the times you
let your guard down or taunt them with your doubt.
These past few nights, I came face to face with something that
shattered my skepticism forever. Even now, whenever I close my
eyes, I can still see its twisted form lurking at the
edges of my mind, and I pray that I never, ever experienced
that petrifying sense of being watched again.
I still recall how the quiet wrapped around that old house
like a heavy blanket. Back then, our little place on
the Navajo reservation didn't have electricity, so the only
light came from lanterns glowing in the living room.
My two brothers and I were left alone that night since our
parents had headed to a chapter house meeting.
It wasn't the first time they'd left us to watch over things,
but something about that evening felt off.
We'd gone through our usual routine, made a quick dinner
from whatever we could rustle up, then cleaned the few dishes
by lamplight. My brothers joked around while I
tried to relax, but I couldn't help peering at the windows.
The desert night was always dark, yet that particular night
felt like it was pressing against the walls.
Once we finished our chores, we set the lanterns on the kitchen
table and sat down. We had no television or
Internet, so we just chatted in low voices about the day.
The air smelled of warm dust and the faint smoke leftover from
our wood stove. We were tired, but not quite
ready to sleep. Outside, the wind whispered
across the empty land. Usually that lullaby would put
me at ease, but my instincts kept buzzing like an alarm.
Suddenly we heard something out by the truck, a shuffling noise
that wasn't the wind. It was like someone was shifting
around boxes or picking things up and dropping them.
My brothers and I stared at each other, realizing nobody should
be out there at that hour. The closest neighbors lived
miles away, and they'd never just drop by unannounced.
My oldest brother crept toward the window, letting the
lantern's glow guide him. He peered through a small gap in
the curtain. I watched his face go pale.
That's when he whispered that someone was digging around in
the truck. A tightness clenched my stomach.
Why would a stranger sneak onto our property so far from town,
let alone rifle through our vehicle?
It didn't take long for fear to settle in.
We glanced around the living room, trying to figure out a
plan. There wasn't exactly a phone to
call for help. No landline, no cell service out
here. My younger brother fumble for
the rifle we kept near the door, the one we almost never touched.
He handed it to me like he couldn't stand the thought of
holding it himself. I took it, feeling my hands
tremble. The idea of facing down someone
in the pitch black yard made my head spin.
But what choice did we have? We needed to protect our home.
We decided to step out onto the porch, see if we could scare
them off. My heart thumped against my
chest, each beat reminding me just how alone we were.
We eased open the front door. The night air rushed in, cold
and full of possibilities. Lantern lights spilled over the
porch steps, but it didn't reach the truck.
We strained our eyes, searching for any sign of movement.
For several seconds, we couldn't see anything, just the vague
outline of the vehicle and shadows stretching over the dirt
yard. But there was that sound again,
like metal scraping. Something was definitely out
there, and it wasn't some friendly neighbor.
I whispered to my brothers that we needed to stick together.
The rifle felt heavier than it ever had, like it knew trouble
was near. In the darkness, I thought I saw
a shape move near the truck's open door.
My pulse hammered. Part of me wanted to shout for
whoever it was to leave. Another part worried that
calling out might provoke them. We just stood there, silent,
hearts pounding, trying to catch a glimpse of this unwelcome
visitor who had appeared out of nowhere.
And I had the strangest sense that we were being watched in
return. I eased on to the porch with my
brothers huddled behind me, Lantern in one hand, rifle in
the other. The rattling sound we'd heard
before had stopped, but that only made me more anxious.
Even in the faint glow, I could spot the truck a few yards away.
The passenger door was open, wider than it had been just
minutes ago. Whoever was messing with it was
clearly not done. My older brother whispered for
the intruder to come out and explain themselves, voice
shaking despite his effort to sound tough.
Silence answered back and unsettling quiet, so deep it
seemed the entire desert paused to listen.
Then a shape rose by the truck's open door.
It turned toward the house, slow and deliberate.
My stomach tightened. Something about the way it moved
stole all sense of security. I raised the rifle, bracing it
against my shoulder, and said that we weren't afraid.
The shape didn't react beyond standing perfectly still for a
moment. The lantern's light barely
reached the edge of the yard, so I could only make out an
outline. Tall, maybe.
Hunched, definitely not normal. Its stillness unnerved me more
than any lunge or sudden motion could have.
My brother urged me to fire a warning shot just over its head
in hopes of scaring it off. I pulled the trigger and a dull
click echoed in my ears. Nothing.
I tried again. Still nothing.
Every desperate pull only produced more clicks.
The rifle felt dead in my hands. I remember panicking because
we'd used that gun a few times in the past and it never had
problems. Yet at that moment it behaved as
if it had no intention of defending us.
The figure took a step forward and a wave of rot wafted over
the porch. It smelled like something
decaying in the heat, so potent it made me want to gag.
My brothers backed away, alarm plane on their faces.
I held the rifle up again, refusing to drop it.
Even though it seemed useless, it was the only thing keeping me
from freezing with fear. Just then, a flicker of light
glimmered down the road. Through the sparse trees, I
could see a pair of headlights bouncing along the dirt path,
relief and dread ward inside me. My grandparents were home, which
was good, but what if this intruder decided to target them
too? The shape shifted its attention
to the approaching lights and slowly peeled away from the
truck. Before we could react, it slid
behind one of the large, gnarled trees that dotted our property.
I'd never felt such a potent mix of fury and terror.
Part of me wanted to chase after it, demanding answers.
The other half wanted to retreat inside, block every door, and
pray that the thing wouldn't return.
I heard my grandparents pull up and hop out of the car.
My oldest brother raced across the yard to meet them, rifle in
hand, telling them in frantic whispers about the intruder.
My grandfather eyed the open truck door, then focused on the
tree line. Without needing an explanation,
he dashed inside, rummaged around for ashes from the stove.
He coated the barrel and a single bullet, working quickly
and calmly like he'd practiced this before.
When he came back out, we clustered around him.
My grandmother stood protectively near me, and my
younger brother, my grandfather, strode to the edge of the porch
and aimed at the place where we'd last seen that shape
lurking. He fired without shouting, a
warning, one thunderous blast that broke the suffocating
stillness. For an instant I thought he'd
missed until a shrieking cry tore through the night.
A shadow ripped away from the tree and tore across the yard,
heading farther into the desert. We didn't stop to question what
it was or how it was still moving after that shot.
My grandfather and my older brother raced for the truck,
engine roaring as they gave chase.
I stood there, surrounded by Lantern glow, trying not to let
my mind wander too far into dark possibilities.
The stench lingered in the air, as if whatever that thing was
had left a piece of itself behind.
All I could do was cling to the thought that if anybody could
handle it, it was my grandfather.
He'd clearly known something about dusting the rifle in
ashes, a trick I'd never heard of before.
Still, that encounter had rattled us.
We weren't prepared for how close danger had come or how
little we could do about it. And even though the worst part
seemed over, I couldn't shake the notion that the fight was
only just beginning. Grandfather and my older brother
didn't hesitate after that shot rang out.
They jumped into the truck and tore off into the desert,
leaving me, my other brother, and grandmother huddled on the
porch. My thoughts kept spinning as the
tail lights blinked across the uneven ground.
Part of me wished I could have gone with them, though my legs
felt too unsteady to stand. I was stuck there, hoping they
wouldn't be lured somewhere even worse.
In that darkness, it felt like ages before we heard the engines
roar again, faint at first, then growing louder as it rolled back
toward the house. When the truck finally crested
the rise, Grandfather slammed on the brakes.
The tires kicked up a cloud of dust that lingered, and in the
shifting beams of the headlights, I saw my older
brother's stunned face. They both climbed out, eyes full
of the kind of urgency that meant no one was getting any
rest tonight. Grandfather told us how they'd
chase the figure beyond a steep ditch that dropped off at least
20 feet. He slammed on the brakes in time
to avoid tumbling over the edge, then leapt out to confront it.
My brother swore that each time the headlights caught the
runner, it flickered into the shape of a woman loping on all
fours, her limbs bending in ways that defied reason.
At the brink of that ditch, Grandfather shouted in Navajo,
naming a local woman he suspected was behind this evil.
He demanded she leave us in peace, warning she'd pay if she
persisted. They saw it pause like it
understood every syllable. Then it released a guttural hiss
and bolted deeper into the desert.
Even with the rifle loaded properly, hitting a figure so
fast in the dead of night was nearly impossible.
Not wanting to risk a rollover or get LED into unfamiliar
terrain, Grandfather made the call to turn back.
The realization that it was far too cunning to corner made
everything feel worse. We locked up the house as best
we could, blocking the doors and pulling the curtains.
My brothers and I sat around the Lantern, each of us jumping at
the slightest rustle. Grandmother said a prayer in a
trembling voice, hands pressed together.
Meanwhile, Grandfather kept that ash coated rifle at his side,
keeping watch at a window. I could see the weight of the
night in his posture, determined but exhausted.
No one slept until dawn. Every Creek set us on edge,
hearts pounding as we wondered if that thing had decided to
return. In the first grey light of
morning, we ventured out. The sickly sweet stench had
faded, but muddy footprints remained by the truck.
None of them looked like a neat pair of shoes.
The prints were splayed with deep indentations that reminded
me of paw marks more than anything human.
Over the next few days, our whole household operated like we
were on constant alert. A few neighbors dropped by,
hearing whispers that our family had crossed paths with something
foul. We tried to make light of it,
but people exchanged grave looks, each recalling stories of
their own strange encounters. Then we heard the news.
The same local woman Grandfather had named that night passed away
under mysterious circumstances. Nobody could explain exactly
what happened. Some said she fell I'll
suddenly. Others blamed old age.
But the timing left us uneasy. It was Grandfather's silence
that told me everything. He insisted we show respect,
keep our heads down, and remain cautious.
He refused to talk further about the woman's passing, but I
glimpsed the relief etched on his face.
From what I'd heard around the reservation, If you call out a
skinwalker, if you speak their name, you're essentially dooming
them. Maybe it was a coincidence, or
maybe Grandfather's act of naming her truly sealed her
fate. Whatever the explanation, the
stench and the footprints vanished.
Our dogs barked less, as if the territory had been reclaimed by
friendlier spirits. Knights felt a little safer,
though. The rifle still leaned by the
front door, ashes kept close at hand.
The memory of that figure's slow advance and the way the gun
wouldn't fire stuck with me longer than anything else.
Even now, whenever shadows move weirdly after dusk, I remember
that night. Some folks think these tales are
nothing but superstition, but I lived through one too many
coincidences to dismiss them. Maybe the woman was just a
person who knew dark tricks, or maybe she truly turned into
something not quite human. Either way, I learned that in
the isolation of our land, there are forces you don't challenge
unless you're ready to face the consequences.
By the time my parents returned to their routine of chapter
house visits, I'd grown used to being on guard.
The chills from that encounter never fully went away, but I
found a strange comfort in knowing we survived it.
We held our ground. That was enough.
And on those quiet nights when the moon's out and the wind
rustles the dry brush, I remind myself that evil's real.
But so is resilience. Our family proved that much.