My name's Wes Calder, and up until about a year ago, I spent
nearly half my life leading hunting groups through the
Backcountry around Aztec, NM. After a divorce that took more
out of me than I care to admit, I traded guiding elk hunts and
mule deer expeditions for selling hardware to weekend
warriors at the local supply store.
It wasn't exactly thrilling work, but it beat staring at
walls, drinking alone and waiting for life to turn around.
That's why when Doctor Eileen Graves called from the
University of Illinois asking for a guide into the Badlands
near Navajo Dam, I said yes faster than I probably should
have. It had been months since I set
foot off trail, and her offer was generous enough that turning
it down would have felt like throwing cash into the San Juan
River. Eileen was straightforward.
She was chasing fossils exposed by seasonal runoff.
I didn't much care about bones older than dirt, but I knew the
area. She had her eyes on a twisted
stretch of sandstone ridges and washes locals called Hogback, a
place quiet enough to let your imagination run wild if you
weren't careful. She showed up early on a Friday
morning with her research assistant, Jonah Mathers.
Jonah had wide eyes and a nervous way of laughing at
things that weren't really funny.
We shook hands and loaded gear into my truck, then made the
hour drive toward the BLM access Rd.
West of the dam. It was springtime, which meant
rain had carved new patterns into the land, leaving ribbons
of exposed rock and freshly scoured Creek beds in its wake.
Beautiful but brutal country. If you made a mistake out here,
nobody would find you until coyotes and vultures made sure
you were beyond recognition. We parked by the start of 1/2, a
race trail. I could tell no one had been out
here in a long time. The official BLM marker was
nearly hidden by sagebrush, sun bleached and unreadable.
Is this really the trail? Jonah asked, looking around
uneasily. It used to be, I replied.
Probably washed out years ago. I felt their hesitation, but
didn't give it any voice. Instead, we loaded our packs
with water and essentials, checked our compasses, and
started walking. The land rolled out before us in
eerie silence, scrubby junipers hunched over cracked earth, rock
fins jutting from the ground like ribs of some massive buried
beast. Every step felt alien.
By the time we found a suitable campsite under an overhanging
ledge, shadows were long enough to cloak the hills.
We gathered dried branches and scraps of juniper bark to make a
fire, and as Jonah and Eileen took notes, I studied the ground
around us. Scattered cattle bones, bleached
white by sun, lay partially buried near the edge of camp,
picked clean but unbroken. There were no signs of claw
marks or tooth scrapes. It struck me as odd, though I
chose not to alarm the others. Strange things happened out here
sometimes, and there was rarely a simple explanation.
Darkness came swiftly, dropping a deep silence over us like a
heavy blanket. The fire crackled as we talked
briefly about plans for the next day.
Eileen explained geological formations excitedly, while
Jonah nodded along. But my attention kept drifting
toward a distant Ridge. Twice I caught myself staring
into shadows, each time certain I'd seen a shape against the dim
glow of evening sky, something upright and still.
I convinced myself it was my eyes playing tricks.
Sleep came hard and shallow. I lay awake, staring up at the
canopy of stars visible through the branches, listening to Jonah
and Eileen's quiet breathing. Just as I began to drift off, I
heard something. A soft step on dirt and stone.
It was careful, slow, rhythmic. My hand tightened around the
grip of the revolver beneath my sleeping bag.
I listened closer, heart thumping.
The steps circled our camp methodically.
Whoever or whatever it was moved with a smoothness that bothered
me, a steadiness unnatural in this rocky terrain.
I sat up slowly and flicked on my headlamp.
The beam swept through shadows, catching only empty desert.
The sound stopped immediately. I sat in tense silence for a
long moment, waiting, listening. Nothing moved, nothing breathed,
only the faint whisper of wind in the junipers.
Eventually, exhaustion forced me back into my sleeping bag, but
my fingers remained curled around the cold metal of my
revolver until dawn, unwilling to trust the darkness fully.
When dawn finally broke, I sat up slowly, my muscles stiff and
aching from the tense, sleepless hours across the fire pit.
Eileen rubbed her eyes, stretching silently as she took
in the first hints of daylight creeping over the Ridge.
Jonah. She called softly, glancing
toward his sleeping spot. My stomach nodded instantly.
Jonah's sleeping bag lay empty, it's nylon fabric rumpled and
twisted as if he'd left in a hurry.
His boots, backpack, and jacket still sat neatly beside it,
untouched. Eileen stood, stepping closer.
Jonah, you out here? Her voice had an edge barely
hidden by forced calm. I rose slowly, scanning the
surrounding area, forcing myself to stay steady.
Maybe he stepped away. I offered quietly, but my gut
said otherwise. I crouched by his gear,
inspecting it closer. Jonah wouldn't have gone far
barefoot in this terrain. We spread out, calling his name
louder each time. Each unanswered shout echoed
through the canyons, bouncing back mockingly until it died
away. I carefully studied the ground,
looking for tracks or scuffs, anything that might give us a
direction, but found only faint disturbances, too vague to
follow reliably. Finally, after nearly an hour of
fruitless searching, I caught sight of something through my
binoculars. Just a smudge at first,
something upright among the juniper bushes down in a narrow
ravine below. I hesitated, adjusted the focus,
and felt my blood chill instantly.
Eileen. I called, voice dry Down here
she came quickly following my pointing hand.
We scrambled down a rocky embankment, slipping on loose
gravel until we reached the bottom.
Ahead of us stood Jonah, or rather, Jonah's body positioned
stiffly against the twisted trunk of a juniper tree.
His shoulders squared awkwardly, head tilted to an unnatural
angle. The posture was impossible.
Bones couldn't bend like that without breaking.
And yet Jonah stood upright, rigid, propped like a grotesque
mannequin. Eileen gasped sharply, pressing
a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and fixed in horror.
I stepped closer, fighting nausea.
His eyes had been removed, the sockets empty, dry and clean,
staring blindly toward the sky. But worse was the absolute lack
of blood, wounds, or tracks. Nothing disturbed the dust
around him. It was as though he'd simply
appeared here. Oh God.
Eileen whispered, voice barely audible.
What? What could have done this?
I shook my head slowly, unwilling to guess aloud.
I'd seen animal kills plenty. Mountain lions, Bears, but
nothing like this. Nothing that placed bodies like
statues, stripped clean without any trace of violence.
We need to get out of here. I said firmly, pulling gently on
her arm, guiding her away now. Eileen stumbled numbly beside
me, silent as we climbed back toward camp.
The bright daylight did little to ease the dread sitting in my
chest, heavy and suffocating. When we reached our sight, I
immediately started packing, jamming gear hastily into bags.
I avoided looking at Jonah's untouched belongings, the empty
sleeping bag that now seemed sickeningly ominous.
Eileen stood quietly, shaking, staring at the ground as if
reality was too difficult to process.
I'd nearly finished packing when she let out a low, breathless
gasp. Wes, look across the dry wash,
silhouetted against the distant sandstone Ridge.
Someone was walking toward us, naked, slowly moving step by
step through the brush. My pulse quickened.
The shape was familiar, too familiar.
It's Jonah. Eileen murmured, barely
breathing. No, I said, trying to sound
calm, voice betraying my disbelief.
It can't be. But the figure moved closer,
slow and deliberate, revealing a tall frame and gangly limbs,
matching Jonah exactly. It paused at the edge of
visibility, the failing daylight blurring its features, and then
the face tilted up slightly into view, causing a surge of pure
revulsion to twist my insides. It wasn't Jonah, not truly.
The features were stretched too long, The smile twisted into
something impossible, inhuman. The eyes dark.
Empty pits seem to fix directly on me.
My hand moved instinctively to the revolver on my belt.
As if recognizing this action, the figure stepped silently back
into the junipers, disappearing without another sound.
Neither of us spoke. There was no sleeping after
that. We sat by the fire, hearts
pounding, eyes wide open, waiting desperately for dawn.
We didn't wait for full sunrise before breaking camp.
My hands trembled as I stuffed gear into packs, abandoning
anything unnecessary. Eileen barely moved, her face
pale, eyes hollow and glassy as she silently watched me work.
The revolver felt reassuringly heavy on my hip, but my mind
kept flashing back to the impossible shape we'd seen in
the darkness. Jonah, or whatever, had taken
his form, it had vanished without sound or trace.
My grip tightened involuntarily on the pack straps.
Stay close, I told Eileen firmly, my voice rough from
sleepless tension. Don't stop for anything.
She nodded once, eyes still vacant, following me numbly as I
LED us back along the faint remnants of our entry trail.
We moved quickly, the morning sun rising hot, turning rock
into ovens and baking away the nights chill.
Hours passed in an exhausting blur, but the terrain wasn't
right. Familiar landmarks seemed
distorted, washes had shifted and ridges blurred together.
Sweat stung my eyes. We had overshot our trailhead
badly, forced deeper into the Badlands by the maze of twisting
sandstone fins and sheer cliffs. Eileen stumbled behind me,
slipping frequently as dehydration took its toll.
She was fading quickly, and panic started gnawing at the
edge of my resolve. Just as I prepared myself to
stop, to figure out some way to find water or shade, the distant
rumble of an engine echoed faintly through the Canyon.
We froze, listening. An old dust covered ranch truck
crested a Ridge and came bumping along an unmarked service Rd.
toward us, it's faded paint and battered fenders unmistakably
local. I waved frantically, relief
flooding through my chest as the vehicle rolled to a stop beside
us. The driver's window lowered
slowly, revealing the weathered face of an older Dine man.
His eyes briefly flicked toward the revolver on my hip.
Then he silently gestured for us to get in.
We climbed inside. I lean, collapsing onto the
cracked leather seat, breathing raggedly.
He said nothing, his lined face expressionless, eyes fixed
straight ahead. As we drove, I opened my mouth
several times, questions bubbling in my throat, but the
set of his jaw kept me quiet. We drove in silence, miles
passing beneath us until we were far beyond the shadowed ridges
of hogback. Finally, the old man cleared his
throat softly, breaking the silence.
His voice was low, each word carefully chosen.
That wash doesn't get used anymore, not since the last
cattle were torn up down there. He turned slightly, his dark
eyes meeting mine briefly. That thing walks in daylight
now. I swallowed hard, fighting a
rising nausea. He continued slowly, almost
reluctantly. You didn't shoot at it, did you?
No, I whispered hoarsely, my throat dry as sand.
Good. He nodded once, eyes back on the
road ahead. Never aim at something that
doesn't leave tracks. He didn't speak again until we
pulled into a gas station near Blanco.
The truck idled noisily as we climbed out, my legs unsteady
beneath me. Before I could thank him, he
drove off, leaving a cloud of dust swirling in his wake.
Eileen left town that night. We didn't exchange numbers or
speak again, as if each blame the other for what we'd seen,
for what had happened to Jonah. A week later, I piled every
piece of gear I owned into a rusted metal drum behind the
hardware store and lit it all on fire.
Maps, compass, sleeping bags, all of it burned until nothing
remained but ash and metal buckles, glowing dull red and
fading twilight. I never guided again and I never
went back to the Hogback. When you spend enough time alone
in the wilderness, you learn the difference between ordinary
silence and the kind of quiet that warns you something's
wrong. It's a silence that settles over
you slowly, the kind you don't notice until you realize you've
stopped breathing. Just to hear better.
My name's Jason Weller, and two years ago I resigned as a
Backcountry Ranger at Zion National Park after an accident
that I still don't talk about. These days, I earn a living
writing about solitude in wild places.
Authentic, unfiltered, and completely analog.
No GPS, no cameras, no electronics.
Just maps, journals and intuition.
This time my assignment was to tackle the Grandview Trail on
the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.
It was late November, well past the tourist season, and the
Canyon was nearly deserted, perfect for the kind of article
I had in mind. Raw, isolated, real.
On my first day down from the rim, I remembered why few hikers
venture onto the Grandview Trail.
It drops fast, too fast for comfort, switchbacking sharply
through crumbling rock and loose gravel.
The wooden trailhead sign, weathered and splintered, had
warned unmaintained path. Proceed with caution.
I'd been warned about worse. My boots slid and skidded,
kicking up dust and sending loose stones bouncing away into
nothingness. I paused briefly to look back up
at the rim above a sheer wall rising into the sky.
Already I felt small. By sunset, I'd made it down to
Horseshoe Mesa. I picked a spot close to a rust
colored Rockwall shelter, just enough to block the cold wind
blowing up from below. My camp came together quickly,
tents staked out, stove and fuel canister set carefully to one
side, map folded neatly by my sleeping bag.
I ate without thinking, distracted by the canyons
shifting shadows. Exhaustion set in fast, pulling
me under before I'd even finished my journal entry.
I woke hours later. My watch read 2:15 AM.
I blinked, unsure at first what had startled me awake.
Then it came again. The sound of something breathing
just beyond the thin nylon fabric of my tent.
Not the quick, animal like breath I'd come to recognize.
No, it was slow, calm, measured, almost human.
I sat upright, every muscle tightening, ears straining
against the darkness. The breathing continued for
another 20 or 30 seconds. Then, as abruptly as it had
started, it ceased. I reached for my headlamp, my
fingers fumbling with the zipper.
The tent flap opened, revealing the stark emptiness of the
night. I shone my light around the
camp. Sleeping bag, pack, stove.
Everything seemed exactly as I'd left it, except my right glove
lay near the fire ring, 20 feet from where I remembered setting
it down. Cold anxiety settled in my
stomach, but I forced logic back into my mind.
Maybe a gust of wind had moved it, or maybe I dropped it
without noticing. My brain spun excuses as I
zipped up the tent, pulling my sleeping bag tighter around my
body. Sleep returned uneasily when
dawn arrived. Pale and reluctant, I stepped
from the tent and froze. The camp had changed.
My fuel canister had been disconnected from the stove and
now lay neatly atop a rock 3 feet away.
The map I distinctly remembered leaving folded inside my tent
was now tucked under my sleeping pad, edges perfectly aligned,
and on top of my pack, folded neatly, were my extra socks.
Side by side, I scanned the dust around my campsite, desperate
for tracks. There was nothing clear, nothing
identifiable, just loose dirt and scattered stones.
The Canyon walls loomed silently above me, indifferent and
unmoving. Heart pounding, I grabbed my
journal and wrote quickly, my fingers trembling slightly.
This doesn't feel like my camp. The words stared back at me from
the page, heavy and dark. I underlined them twice, then
closed the journal with a tight snap.
Already I felt the Canyon changing around me, pulling at
the edges of my mind. It was subtle, A tug, a whisper
of uncertainty, but unmistakably present.
I packed up quickly and quietly, glancing around too often.
There were no signs of life, no evidence of visitors, yet I felt
eyes somewhere, watching me. It was no longer just a
wilderness trip for an article. It had become something else
entirely, though I didn't yet understand what.
And it was only the first morning.
The deeper I moved into the Canyon, the more I felt eyes on
me. It wasn't constant, more like
flickers at the edges of my awareness, brief moments that
made me glance back over my shoulder.
Nothing was ever there, just silent stretches of rock and
shadowed crevices. Still, I couldn't shake the
feeling of being observed. By midday, the switchbacks
tightened into steep zigzags along the Cliff side.
My thighs burned as I climbed, lungs tight from the thin, dry
air. I reached an exposed ledge,
deciding to stop for water and check my map again.
The sun hammered down and I shielded my eyes, squinting
across the vast emptiness to the Cliff face opposite mine.
Then I saw it. On a narrow shelf about 400 feet
away stood a figure. I squinted harder, hoping it was
just a trick of sunlight on rock.
But as my eyes adjusted, I recognized the unmistakable
shape of a person, tall and slender, standing rigidly still,
arms relaxed at their sides. I raised a hand in a hesitant
wave. No response.
Unease tightened in my chest. I shifted position slightly, and
in that exact moment, the figure mirrored my movement precisely.
Delayed by perhaps 2 seconds. A cold chill crept down my
spine. I tilted my head to the left,
waiting breathlessly. The figure tilted its head too.
Again, delayed, unnatural. My throat went dry.
Without taking my eyes off it, I slowly stepped back until the
Cliff edge obscured the figure from view.
For several long minutes I leaned against the Stonewall,
breathing hard, fighting panic. Eventually I mustered the
courage to look again. The shelf was empty, but when I
reached the spot where I thought the figure had been, fresh boot
prints clearly marked the dust, large, oddly elongated, pointing
toward my trail. That night, I chose my campsite.
Carefully, I pitched my tent in a shallow ravine, the walls
close enough to feel somewhat secure.
Anxiety made me work methodically, rocks arranged
protectively around the perimeter, bear bag hoisted
extra high on a strong tree limb.
Darkness descended fast, cold air settling sharply, making my
bones ache. Sleep seemed impossible, and I
lay awake listening to the faint hiss of wind through dry scrub.
My body was exhausted, yet I was alert, waiting, listening.
At exactly 12:40 AM, footsteps crunched through the gravel
nearby. Slow, deliberate steps.
Human steps. I lay perfectly still, gripping
my knife so hard my knuckles throbbed.
My heart pounded violently. The footsteps halted only a few
yards from my tent. Silence.
Then a voice. Low, quiet, and perfectly calm.
My voice. Stay awake, it said.
Stay awake. A wave of nausea surged through
me. Sweat pooled along my spine.
I fought the urge to open the tent.
I knew, somehow, that seeing what stood outside would break
me completely. Instead, I fumble in the dark
for my journal, forcing my shaking fingers to grip a pen.
Eyes wide, I scribbled blindly onto the paper, repeating the
only words I could think of. It's not me, it's not me, it's
not me. The voice didn't speak again.
The footsteps moved no closer, nor did they retreat.
They simply lingered, motionless, just beyond the
canvas of my shelter. Dawn took forever to arrive,
weak sunlight finally spilling over the horizon and seeping
through my tent. Trembling, I pushed the flap
open and stepped outside, knife still clutched in my hand.
My boots were gone, vanished entirely.
My bear bag hung untouched, swaying gently.
But beneath it, in the dirt, was something new, a perfect circle
of ash and rocks placed exactly where I'd left my journal bag
the night before. I knelt slowly, heart racing.
My journal lay inside, the bag, carefully closed.
I opened it slowly, my breath catching sharply in my chest.
The page it opened to was blank. I was certain I had written last
night, frantic, desperate words, but the pages showed nothing,
Just pristine, unmarked paper staring back at me.
I sat frozen, breathing shallowly, staring at the empty
journal around me, the Canyon walls pressed in silently,
offering no explanations or comfort.
Whatever watched me wasn't done yet, and I knew deep in my bones
that the Canyon wouldn't let me leave easily.
At first light, I packed what little courage I had left along
with my gear. Without boots, I duct taped
slabs of foam from my sleeping pad to my feet.
They provided almost no protection, and the rocks and
sharp gravel tore through with every step.
But the physical pain was welcome.
It kept me grounded, kept me moving.
I'd long abandoned the original plan.
My only goal now was simple and urgent climb out.
The trail was relentless. With each switch back, I felt
weaker, my pulse hammering relentlessly behind my eyes.
Every so often a shadow would flicker at the edge of my
vision, forcing my head around each time there was nothing
there. The Canyon walls remained blank
and unforgiving. My breathing grew ragged, harsh
against the empty silence. To stay focused, I muttered
quietly to myself. Just keep moving, Jason.
One step, then another, Then a voice echoed back clearly from
above, a familiar, unsettling mimicry of my own.
One step, then another. I froze.
A cold sweat prickled my skin. My stomach twisted violently.
I looked up to the Ridge above me, seeing nothing but rocks and
dry scrub. Who's there?
My voice broke as I spoke, sounding thin and afraid.
The reply was immediate, eerily exact, and chillingly casual.
Who's there? It was my voice, but hollow,
flat. There was no life in the
imitation, no human warmth. It mocked me, stole my words and
twisted them into something sinister.
My pulse surged painfully, panic flaring into pure terror.
I sprinted uphill, ignoring the agony in my feet.
The duct tape tore, exposing raw skin to sharp stones.
Blood smeared the rocks beneath me as I stumbled and clawed
upward. I crested one of the final
switchbacks, almost delirious, when something caught my eye
just off the trail. A small flash of movement.
Turning sharply, I glimpsed a shape crouched low beside a
juniper tree. It rose slowly, emerging into
clearer view. My throat closed tightly, breath
catching in my chest. It was a person, impossibly thin
and draped in tattered clothing, and on its feet, my boots.
I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
The figure took a single step forward, leaning slightly toward
me. No words, no sounds, just an
unbearable silence as its head tilted slowly, mimicking the
angle of my own. Instinct took over.
I ran blindly, staggering forward, crawling on all fours,
at times desperate just to reach the rim.
Gravel cut deeply into my palms and knees.
My makeshift shoes had shredded completely, leaving my feet raw
and numb. The final 100 yards stretched
forever. When I finally reached the
trailhead parking lot, I fell to my knees, chest heaving, vision
spinning violently. Everything blurred together, the
dust, the sky, the trees at the edge of the Canyon.
Slowly, a shape came into focus. A green SUV, the unmistakable
Insignia of the National Park Service.
On its side. A Ranger stood, leaning calmly
against it, watching me carefully.
He took slow steps toward me, his movements steady, cautious.
Easy now, he said quietly. You're all right.
I tried to speak, throat painfully dry, lips cracked.
It wore my voice. I managed to whisper, words
trembling out of me. He hesitated only briefly,
recognition crossing his eyes. Without another word, he opened
the vehicle's rear door and gently helped me inside.
As I sank onto the seat, shaking uncontrollably, the Ranger
looked out toward the empty Canyon before turning back to
me. His voice was quiet, resigned as
he spoke. You're not the first.
Growing up, my brother Jesse and I spent almost every summer
camping near Big Lake in the Apache Sitgreaves National
Forest. It was Dad's favorite spot,
somewhere quiet enough to lose yourself but familiar enough to
feel safe. Even now, years after Dad had
passed, I could still recall the faint scent of pine and trout,
the feeling of cold lake water on sunburned skin, and nights
spent counting stars. But things change.
Life has a way of twisting even the good memories into something
else. Jesse's recent divorce had
turned him bitter, restless, and desperate for something
familiar. It's time we went back, Jesse
insisted. 1 cold November morning, clear our heads like
the old days. I didn't want to go, not really,
but he needed this trip, and deep down, maybe I did too.
We loaded Dad's old Tacoma, the paint faded and chipped with
camping gear, and headed out, leaving Phoenix's warmth behind
for the high elevation chill near Big Lake.
At 9000 feet in November, everything felt emptier,
quieter. It was late autumn, the leaves
long gone from the aspens and frost, glittered like tiny
blades of glass in the morning sun.
The lake itself was barely recognizable now, mostly dry,
nothing but cracked mud and Gray dirt spreading out like an empty
crater. Only a small, stagnant pool
remained at the northern edge, a sad reminder of what had been.
Jesse parked above the lake bed on a rough dirt trail, and we
set up camp beneath a cluster of tall aspens that rattled dryly
in the wind. This isn't exactly what I
remembered. Jesse muttered, kicking a chunk
of dried mud. Seasons change.
I said, watching him carefully. He ignored me, gazing toward the
Ridge beyond the lake bed. We should go up there tomorrow.
Bet the view is still the same. We built a small fire as evening
approached and the sky shifted from pale blue to deep purple.
It was brutally cold. Once the sun dropped and our
breath turned to fog between us. The crackling fire did little to
ease the bitter chill in my bones.
After a quiet meal, we retreated to our tents.
Sleep was slow to come, but eventually exhaustion pulled me
under. The next morning I woke to frost
coating the tent flaps. Jesse was already moving around
outside, impatiently urging me to hurry up.
By mid morning we started toward the Ridge he'd mentioned, each
step crunching through half frozen earth and scattered pine
needles. I fell behind Jesse, slightly
lost in thought, when my foot hit something hard, almost
twisting my ankle. I looked down, expecting to see
a rock or tree root, but instead saw bleached white bones
partially covered by fallen leaves.
Deer bones. My stomach tightened as I looked
closer. They were stacked neatly,
deliberately arranged in a pattern that no animal could
manage. Ribs laid out like a small cage,
a skull resting neatly at its center.
Jesse. I called, stepping back from the
bones. Come see this?
He jogged back, examining the bones with an uneasy expression.
Probably some hunter with too much time, or bored kids.
I nodded slowly, trying to accept the simple explanation.
Yeah, probably. We moved forward again, but the
sight lingered in the back of my mind, a silent question nagging
me. Who would take the time to stack
bones like that, miles away from anywhere?
Back at camp that evening, as the sky turned dark, we busied
ourselves making dinner, sharing strained small talk.
Jesse was staring off into the forest when a sudden scream
pierced the air, distant yet undeniably human.
We both froze, eyes locked, listening intently.
It came again, clearer this time, a woman's voice, raw and
terrified. Jesse stood, grabbing his
flashlight. Someone's out there.
We should go help. Wait, I said, holding him back.
There's no one else up here. We haven't seen anyone.
The scream echoed again, fading deeper into the trees.
Jesse hesitated, conflicted, then shook off my hand.
What if she's hurt? We can't just sit here.
I watched helplessly as he disappeared into the woods, his
flashlight beam swallowed by darkness.
Minutes dragged into an hour. I paced the perimeter of camp,
ears straining for any sound. When Jesse finally reappeared,
he was pale and out of breath. Couldn't find anything.
He said quietly, avoiding my eyes.
Nothing at all. He dropped into his tent without
another word. I followed suit, heart racing,
unable to shake the sense that something about him had changed.
Sleep eluded me. Every rustle, every snapping
twig jolted my nerves. I knew animals, knew their
sounds, their calls. Whatever screamed out there
wasn't wildlife. It was something else entirely.
I woke early, my breath visible inside the tent, crystallized by
the freezing air. A creeping dread settled into my
bones even before I realized Jesse was missing.
His sleeping bag lay empty, twisted open, the zipper wide
apart as if he'd gotten out quickly.
His boots sat untouched beside the tent flap, and his heavy
jacket was still hanging from a low branch, frost clinging to
the sleeves. Jesse.
I called out, softly at first, then louder.
Jess, where are you? The only reply was silence.
Absolute, smothering silence. Stepping outside barefoot, I
winced at the chill biting into my toes.
The morning sun barely reached our campsite, leaving a Gray
twilight across the frozen lake bed.
Something wasn't right. Jesse wouldn't leave without
boots or a coat, not in this weather.
My heart speed up, adrenaline overcoming the cold.
I quickly dressed, pulling on extra layers and started
searching around camp for footprints.
There were none, just a thin, undisturbed layer of frost and
snow dusting the ground. That didn't make sense.
Even a squirrel would leave tracks here for hours.
I circled the campsite, calling Jesse's name until my throat
burned. The more I searched, the more
desperate I became. The eerie quiet only heightened
the growing anxiety in my chest. By mid afternoon, I had covered
every possible path twice, each sweep ending with no sign of
Jesse. The forest felt oppressive
around me, looming trees casting dark shadows that crept slowly
across the ground. Just as panic began overwhelming
reason, a faint rustling broke through the silence.
I spun around, heart hammering, and there stood Jesse, pale,
expressionless, walking stiffly from the direction of the Ridge.
He wore only his thermal pants and long sleeve undershirt.
His hands were stained dark red with dried blood.
Jesus, Jesse, where were you? I rushed toward him, stopping
short at the sight of the blood. What happened?
He stared at me blankly, as if I was a stranger.
He looked down at his hands slowly, confusion clouding his
face. I don't know, he murmured.
Are you hurt? I reached out cautiously,
grabbing his wrist to inspect him, but there were no injuries,
no wounds at all. Just blood, dried and flaking.
I don't know. He repeated softly, eyes
unfocused. I woke up near the rock pile,
that's all I remember. The bones.
My voice trembled. The deer bones.
He nodded slightly, then his gaze sharpened, focusing
somewhere behind me. Into the woods, maybe?
He whispered. Let's get you warmed up, I said
urgently, guiding him toward the fire pit.
He stumbled slightly, unsteady on his feet, but said nothing
else. I managed to build a fire,
watching Jesse closely. His silence disturbed me more
than his disappearance. Jesse was never quiet.
He joked, talked endlessly, tried filling any gap with
noise. This Jesse felt wrong.
I sat across from him, the fire crackling between us.
You really don't remember anything?
No. He kept his gaze fixed on the
flames, his voice distant. You've got blood on your hands,
Jesse. That's not nothing.
You had to have done something out there.
My patience frayed, fear sharpening my words.
He looked up sharply, sudden anger flaring in his eyes.
I told you, Mike. I don't know.
Later, as darkness seeped into the sky, Jesse retreated to the
tent, collapsing into sleep almost instantly.
I stayed awake, feeding the fire and listening carefully to every
rustle and snap of branches around us.
Jesse began muttering in his sleep, low, fragmented words I
couldn't quite catch, almost like another language.
Harsh syllables twisted together.
It didn't sound like my brother. The fire light flickered and
shadows stretched across the ground.
My hand stayed wrapped tight around the hatchet handle all
night. I didn't dare sleep.
Something had happened to Jesse out there, something he couldn't
or wouldn't share. The blood, the missing hours,
the unnatural quiet around camp, it all felt connected.
As dawn approached, exhaustion tugged at me, but I jolted awake
at the crunch of frozen earth. Jesse was outside the tent
again, standing barefoot and shirtless in the freezing dawn,
staring silently toward the Ridge.
I scrambled up, heart racing. Jesse, get back inside.
But he didn't move. He just stood there, muscles
tense, eyes fixed on something beyond the trees.
I followed his gaze, my breath hitching when I saw a shape, a
dark, hunched figure, crouched low on a distant boulder,
watching us. Jesse, do you see that?
I hissed urgently, fear nodding my throat.
He didn't reply, didn't even blink.
Then the figure was gone, slipping quietly into the
shadows beneath the trees. Anger overtook my fear,
frustration bubbling up from somewhere deep and desperate.
I grabbed Jesse roughly by the shoulder, spinning him toward
me. What the hell happened to you?
He shoved me violently, stumbling back.
Don't touch me, he growled. His voice was low and guttural,
unrecognizable. Panic surged through me,
instinct overpowering hesitation.
We're leaving now, no? Jesse shouted, voice cracking in
panic. You can't.
It watches when you speak its name.
What watches? I demanded, grabbing his
shoulders. He twisted in my grip, his eyes
wild and terrified. You don't understand.
He shoved me again, harder. I stumbled back, rage over,
taking reason. My hand found a thick, fallen
branch, gripping it tightly. Jesse lunged toward me again,
fury distorting his features. I swung instinctively.
The branch cracked against his knee and he dropped instantly,
snarling in pain. My stomach churned, guilt
colliding with survival instinct.
Sorry, Jesse. I'm sorry.
My voice broke. He lay there, gripping his leg,
glaring at me with a fury that felt foreign and chilling.
I bound his legs tightly with paracord, lifted him into the
truck bed, and threw our gear in haphazardly.
His eyes never left me, filled with hatred and something else,
something darker I couldn't name.
I drove fast, headlights cutting sharply through the trees,
desperate to reach civilization. Jesse remained silent, unmoving,
but I knew the thing from the Ridge was still with us,
lingering at the edge of my vision, just beyond the tree
line. I didn't look back.
Two days later, Jesse opened his eyes in an urgent care clinic in
Springerville. He stared at me blankly,
confusion clouding his expression.
Outside the window, sunlight warmed the white walls of the
small town clinic, creating an unsettling contrast to the dark,
cold woods we left behind. What happened?
Jesse asked softly, shifting uncomfortably on the stiff
clinic bed. You don't remember?
My voice came out strained, raw from exhaustion and worry.
He shook his head, genuine bewilderment in his eyes.
We went camping, right? Why am I here?
I hesitated, words caught in my throat.
How could I explain the missing hours, The blood on his hands,
the look in his eyes when he'd come back from the Ridge?
How could I describe the twisted figure watching us from the
trees? You disappeared, I finally said,
choosing my words carefully. I found you hours later.
You were disoriented. He frowned deeply, glancing down
at his bandaged knee, then back at me.
Did I fall? I don't know, I lied.
You weren't yourself. A nurse stepped in quietly,
interrupting before Jesse could question further.
She checked his vitals, scribbled notes, and gave me a
look that implied I shouldn't push him too hard.
Jesse drifted back into restless sleep, leaving me alone in the
quiet room, haunted by questions.
Later, 2 forest Rangers arrived to speak with me in the waiting
room. They were polite, cautious, but
their questions probed deeply. Can you tell us exactly where
you camped? Asked the older one, his voice
steady but concerned. Above Big Lake?
I said, vaguely, uneasy under their scrutiny.
We grew up camping there, wanted to revisit old memories.
The younger Ranger studied me carefully.
His voice lowered. Did you notice anything unusual
out there? My throat tightened, the memory
of stacked deer bones vivid in my mind, Jesse's empty stare,
and the distorted figure on the Ridge.
I hesitated, then shook my head no, it was quiet.
The older Ranger exchanged a glance with his partner,
something unspoken passing between them.
After a few more formal questions, they left me alone.
I sat for a long time, hands shaking, unsure why I'd hidden
the truth. Perhaps I feared what
acknowledging it might mean. Days later, I drove Jesse back
to his apartment in Phoenix. He didn't say much, lost in
thought, staring vacantly out the passenger window.
We never returned to the topic of the woods, as if an unspoken
agreement had settled between US1 born of confusion and fear.
Over the next weeks, my sleep grew worse, riddled with
nightmares of those woods and that figure.
One night, after waking, drenched in cold sweat, I turned
on my computer and searched the Apache Sitgreaves Forest,
desperate to find some rational explanation for what we'd
experienced. Hours passed, my eyes aching,
until I stumbled upon old Navajo and Apache folklore.
The account spoke clearly of beings that walked in the
shadows, mimicking voices hiding in the skin of others.
One word appeared again and again.
Skinwalker. My pulse quickened as I read
further descriptions matching Jesse's strange behavior.
The unnatural sounds, the inexplicable disappearances.
A chill ran through me, deeper than anything I'd felt in those
cold woods. Closing the laptop sharply, I
stared into the darkness of my room, heart racing with a
terrible certainty. Something had found us at Big
Lake. Within days, I burned our
camping gear, unable to shake the feeling that something had
followed us back. The old Tacoma, the truck Dad
loved. I sold quickly, practically
giving it away at a scrap yard in Tucson, desperate to sever
all connections to that trip. Months passed, and Jesse stayed
clear of the wilderness entirely, refusing to discuss
our experience. He moved to San Diego,
exchanging Arizona's deserts and forests for a busy city,
distancing himself from everything familiar.
I relocated to Oregon, seeking cooler, greener landscapes,
hoping to replace the shadowed woods of Apache Sitgreaves with
something brighter, safer. We talked occasionally, but the
conversations felt hollow, cautious, each of us careful not
to trigger memories of those lost hours.
But one late winter afternoon, something broke the silence
between us. Jesse called, sounding shaken.
Mike, it's happening again. What do you mean I keep waking
up outside, He whispered, his voice ragged with exhaustion.
Barefoot. I don't remember getting there,
but I'm always facing east, toward Arizona, toward the lake.
Fear tightened my chest, memories flooding back.
Jesse, listen. Don't think about it, don't talk
about it. Just try to forget.
He laughed bitterly. I can't forget, Mike.
Something happened to me there, something still inside my head.
Then come here, I urged. Stay with me, we'll figure this
out. He didn't respond right away,
then, softly. I'm not sure it's safe for you.
I think it follows me. Days later, a small postcard
arrived at my new address. No return label, just a single
brightly colored image of Big Lake in summer.
My hands trembled as I flipped it over, reading a simple
message scribbled in familiar jagged handwriting.
Still watching, still listening, I called Jesse immediately,
angry and terrified. Why would you send this?
Send what? He sounded confused, anxious.
Mike. What postcard?
In that instant, a cold certainty settled in my stomach.
Jesse hadn't sent it. Whatever we'd found, or whatever
had found us, had never left. I'd always been drawn to
isolated places, the more remote the better.
That's probably why I chose landscape photography as a
profession. You can't find good shots by
following the crowd. So when March rolled around and
I saw a small window before Comb Ridge would be swarmed by
tourists, I jumped on it. My goal was simple.
Capture Black Rock Arch at sunrise, lit up by that
fleeting, perfect morning glow. To get that shot, I'd have to
camp miles from civilization, exactly the solitude I was
craving. Comb Ridge was spectacular, A
towering ripple of Navajo sandstone slicing through Utah's
southeastern landscape. It wasn't easy getting there,
but the Bureau of Land Management had primitive sights
scattered near the Ridge, accessible via a rough gravel
Rd. that was perfect for me. The last campsite, the one
furthest out, promised true isolation.
No neighbors, no traffic, nothing between me and the
stars. I turned off US Route 163 late
in the afternoon, my truck rocking gently as the tires
rolled over washboard ruts and loose stones, junipers blurred
by in dark green streaks, the Canyon walls painted orange by
the dropping sun. 40 minutes later, I reached the campsite,
my headlights cutting through the fading light.
The spot was just as I'd hoped, empty, quiet, and tucked in near
the mouth of a dry wash, with Comb Ridge looming just behind.
After setting up my tent, I sat by the small fire ring, heating
water for dinner. The night sky deepened, a spray
of stars blooming overhead. The world around me was silent
except for the soft crackle of firewood and somewhere far off,
a faint chorus of coyotes. I felt completely alone and
completely at peace. Around midnight, I crawled into
my sleeping bag and switched off my headlamp.
It took mere minutes before sleep pulled me under.
I don't know what woke me at first.
I lay perfectly still, listening.
Coyotes, maybe? Something in my subconscious
registering danger. I checked my watch. 2:08 AM.
Outside, the darkness was absolute, thick enough to
swallow everything beyond my nylon tent walls.
Then I heard it again. Gravel crunching, faint but
clear, like footsteps circling the perimeter of my campsite.
My pulse quickened. Maybe it was wildlife, a deer or
a stray cow wandering through, stepping cautiously on the loose
ground. That would explain the
hesitation, the careful steps. But the longer I listened, the
less certain I became. The steps didn't sound random.
They were purposeful, too steady to be an animal, too calculated.
I unzipped the tent flap as quietly as I could, peering out
into the night, blinking away sleep.
A light breeze rustled the junipers.
The world beyond my tent was still empty.
Nothing moved, no animals, no shadows.
And yet the silence felt forced somehow, as if the world was
holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Hello. I called softly, immediately
feeling foolish. My voice hung in the silence,
unanswered. I stepped out fully, my bare
feet sinking slightly into the cold sand.
Shining my headlamp around, I found no tracks, no sign of
anything disturbed. The fire ring was intact, my
gear undisturbed, but the feeling of being watched pressed
on me, prickling my spine. Returning to my tent, I zipped
the flap tight, reassured myself it was nothing, and settled back
into my sleeping bag. It took a long while for sleep
to come back, my ears straining to hear another sound.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook vigilance, and I drifted into
restless dreams. The next morning, stepping
outside, I froze. The campsite wasn't as untouched
as I'd thought. The firewood, which I had
stacked neatly, lay scattered about, pieces tossed several
feet from the fire ring. My tent flap, closed securely
when I went back inside, was now halfway open, fluttering
slightly in the morning breeze. Unease settled like a stone in
my chest, heavy and unmoving. Maybe it was wind, I
rationalized again. It had to be.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't, and I knew I wasn't alone.
I spent the day hiking, capturing the shifting light on
the sandstone and scouting potential locations around Black
Rock Arch. The unsettling events of the
night before lingered, though I kept telling myself it was
nothing, a combination of imagination and isolation
playing tricks on me. Still, a quiet unease clung to
the edge of my consciousness, whispering doubts no matter how
I tried to push them away. By late afternoon, I was high up
on a ledge overlooking the sweeping sandstone waves below,
shooting frames in rapid succession through the
viewfinder. The world narrowed down,
becoming manageable. It was easier behind the camera,
less real, maybe. But as the sun began its descent
behind Comb Ridge, I lowered the camera, stretching my shoulders,
and reality flooded back in. I was miles from anyone else,
utterly alone in a place older than human memory, and it felt
suddenly overwhelming. Then a sharp crack rang out from
somewhere below the ledge, echoing through the empty
Canyon. I leaned forward, peering
cautiously down into the steep ravine beneath me.
Nothing moved, but the sound had been unmistakable.
A stone dislodged, a step taken somewhere below.
I stood perfectly still, listening, heartbeat quickening.
Minutes passed, silence again. My pulse slowed reluctantly, and
I began packing up quickly. The fading sunlight urged me
back toward camp. I didn't want to navigate these
narrow paths after dark. As I descended the Ridge Trail,
I stopped suddenly, breath catching in my throat.
Ahead of me, clearly outlined in the sandy dirt, was a single
boot print. I knelt down, studying it, a
sickening feeling settling deep in my stomach.
The print was unmistakably mine, the distinctive zigzag tread of
my hiking boots, But it was facing backward, heading up the
trail toward me. My mind spun, desperate for an
explanation. Maybe.
I turned around earlier, stepped awkwardly, yet no other tracks
disturbed the path nearby, just the single print pointing
directly toward me. A chill crept down my spine, the
hairs on my neck rising. I quickly continued toward camp,
my pace quicker, senses on high alert.
By the time I reached my campsite, twilight had drained
the color from the landscape, leaving everything Gray and
shadowed. I built a small fire, forcing
myself to breathe steadily, the warm glow and crackling flames
providing some false sense of comfort.
As darkness settled in fully. I kept looking around the
campsite, eyes darting toward every small noise, a distant
twig snapping the rustle of dry brush.
My unease deepened into dread. Hours crawled by until, finally,
exhausted, I retreated to my tent, keeping my boots just
outside the flap. Sleep felt impossible, and I lay
there in the dark, eyes wide open, body tensed.
Just after 130, AMI heard it again, the unmistakable sound of
slow, deliberate steps crunching the gravel outside.
Each footstep approached my tent methodically, stopping directly
behind my head. Fear paralyzed me.
My heart pounded so loudly I worried whatever stood outside
might hear it. Hey.
I whispered hoarsely, surprised at how small my voice sounded.
No response, just silence. And then, clearly audible
through the thin nylon of my tent, came a long, deep exhale.
It sounded human, but off somehow, like someone imitating
breathing rather than actually needing to.
It lasted too long, ending in a wet rasp that made my blood run
cold. Terrified but needing answers, I
forced myself to sit up and yank open the tent flap, shining my
headlamp outward. Nothing was there, just empty
darkness stretching out beyond my small circle of light.
But as I scanned around, my stomach dropped again.
One of my boots was missing, leaving the other sitting alone
in the dirt. I stared into the silent desert
night, breathing shallowly, feeling trapped by the
realization that whatever was out there wasn't just watching
me, it was slowly taking pieces of me, one at a time.
Dawn brought no relief. The sleepless night had left me
drained, my nerves stretched thin.
I found myself questioning the wisdom of staying, but stubborn
pride kept me anchored. I wasn't leaving, not yet, not
without getting the shot I'd come here for All morning.
The desert felt oddly muted. The familiar rhythm of nature,
something I usually took for granted, seemed off somehow.
It felt as though the land itself had become cautious, wary
of something I couldn't quite define.
I trudged out toward Black Rock Arch around noon, moving slower
than usual, feeling heavy and unsettled.
My missing boot forced me to wear a pair of old trail runners
I kept behind the seat of my truck, thin soles that were
barely enough protection against the rough sandstone and prickly
brush beneath. The arch rose before me,
striking an ancient it's graceful sandstone curves worn
smooth by millennia. Normally I'd be inspired by a
scene like this, but today I couldn't shake the feeling of
being observed. I glanced over my shoulder every
few minutes, searching the Canyon behind me, eyes scanning
the ridgeline but finding nothing out of place.
The shadows lengthened faster than I'd realized.
By late afternoon, I hurried to finish up and started back
toward camp. The daylight faded too quickly,
turning the landscape bleak, colorless.
I walked as fast as I dared, heart pumping, my ears straining
to catch every sound. When I finally saw my tent,
silhouetted against the last dim streaks of daylight, relief
flooded through me. But as I approached, the sense
of unease return tenfold. Something was wrong.
My boots, both of them, were missing now.
I had left the remaining one sitting outside my tent flap,
and now it was gone. I spun around, suddenly aware of
movement at the edge of my vision.
My breath caught in my throat. Someone was there, emerging
slowly from the Canyon shadows. I squinted through the twilight,
blinking rapidly, certain my eyes were playing tricks.
The figure stepped forward steadily, with familiar boots on
its feet. My boots.
My pulse raced as it approached, moving closer into the dim
evening glow. I felt frozen, unable to move,
barely breathing because now I could see clearly.
It wasn't just my boots. The figure wore my pants, my
shirt, my gear. It was dressed exactly as I was.
It moved strangely, though. Limbs swung awkwardly, gait
stiff and uneven, as though each step required immense
concentration. And then I recognized the face,
and my chest went tight. It was mine, or at least a close
imitation. Thin and stretched features
slightly distorted cheekbones sharper.
Eyes sunk in deep, reflecting no light.
I took an involuntary step backward.
My mind struggled to understand what I was seeing, dread
clouding my thoughts. This imitation stopped abruptly
about 20 feet away, swaying slightly on legs that looked
stretched too long and angular. It didn't speak, didn't breathe,
just stood silently facing me. I whispered shakily.
What the hell? At the sound of my voice, the
figure jerked forward, a single, unnatural step.
Its head tilted slightly, its dark eyes studying me,
observing, calculating. It was like watching my
reflection come alive, twisted and wrong.
Every instinct screamed to run, but I was frozen in place,
paralyzed by a fear deeper and more primal than I'd ever known.
Then, as if it had seen enough, the imitation took another slow
step forward. That movement broke my
paralysis. Adrenaline surged and suddenly I
was running, sprinting barefoot into the gathering darkness,
leaving behind my tent, my truck, everything.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
The thought of seeing myself standing silently behind me,
watching, was more than my sanity could handle.
I ran blindly into the darkness, my bare feet striking the
gravel, sharp rocks slicing into my skin with every frantic step.
Pain shot through my legs, but terror propelled me forward,
drowning out everything else. Each breath came in ragged
gasps. Branches tore at my skin,
Juniper Thorn's catching my clothing, but I refused to slow
down. My thoughts raced wild and
scattered as I sprinted through the blackness.
Images of that twisted imitation flashed through my mind.
The vacant stare, the unnatural movements, and my own stolen
boots on its feet. What was it?
A hallucination? Some desert madness, or
something worse? Something real?
Time lost all meaning. I moved instinctively toward
where I thought the Washboard Rd. was, navigating only by the
dim silhouettes of Canyon walls against the stars.
Twice I stumbled, hitting the ground hard and scrambling back
up without pause. I kept running until my legs
trembled and my lungs burned. Finally, the darkness began to
fade into early grey dawn. Exhausted, trembling, I slowed
my pace to a staggering walk, glancing over my shoulder every
few steps, terrified I'd see the thing behind me.
But the landscape was empty, silent, bathed in the cold
morning glow. Then, faintly in the distance,
came the low rumble of an engine.
Hope surged painfully in my chest, and I limped forward,
stumbling toward the sound. A dusty red Jeep Wrangler
rounded the bend, its headlights cutting through the morning
mist. I raised my arms, waving wildly,
desperation clear on my scratched, bloodied face.
The driver, an older man with weathered skin, slowed
immediately and stopped a few yards from me, leaning out his
window, eyes wide with concern. My godson, what happened to you?
He asked urgently. Please.
I gasped, staggering forward. I need help.
He jumped out, steadying me by the shoulders and guiding me
carefully toward his Jeep. I collapsed into the passenger
seat, shaking uncontrollably as exhaustion and relief washed
over me. I told him everything in
fragmented bursts as we drove about.
The footsteps, the stolen boots, the thing that looked exactly
like me but wasn't. He listened quietly, his
expression troubled but not disbelieving, nodding slowly as
I spoke. We drove directly to the BLM
station just outside Bluff, where a Ranger listened
intently, eyes narrowing as I recounted what happened at Black
Rock. Despite my condition, I insisted
we return to the campsite immediately.
I needed answers, needed proof I wasn't losing my mind.
It was mid morning when we arrived back at my campsite.
The Ranger stepped out first, his hand hovering near his belt
as he scanned the area cautiously.
I followed, my heart pounding erratically as I saw what
remained, or rather, what didn't.
The campsite was stripped bare. My tent, sleeping bag, camera
gear, and even the fire pit were gone as though they had never
existed. No tracks, no drag marks,
nothing. Just empty ground, impossibly
clean and undisturbed. Then I saw them.
My boots sitting neatly side by side exactly where the fire pit
had once been, laces perfectly tied.
The Ranger glanced at me uneasily, clearly unnerved by
the unnatural sight. Come on, he finally said,
shaking his head slowly. We shouldn't stay here.
As we walked back to his truck, the Ranger paused, glancing once
more toward the empty campsite. His voice was low, hesitant.
Locals don't talk much about this place, but sometimes hikers
or campers come back shaken up. They mention things they can't
explain, figures that look human but aren't quite right.
He looked away briefly, clearly uncomfortable.
Folks around here call it a skinwalker, old Navajo legend.
We don't usually share it with outsiders.
I said nothing, absorbing his words as dread tightened its
grip on me. On the drive back to Bluff, I
stared silently out the window, knowing one thing for certain.
I'd never returned to Comb Ridge.
And later, when I sat alone in a hotel room, I deleted every
photo I'd taken from the trip, unable to bear the thought of
what might appear. The ranger's words stayed with
me, though, long after I'd left Utah.
Whatever had stalked me out there wasn't human, wasn't an
illusion. And the image burned into my
mind, my own boots carefully arranged in that empty desert,
was proof enough of the terrible truth.