I experienced what I can only imagine is an otherworldly
occurrence when I moved to the Sierra Nevadas about four years
ago. I've been living in the South
Lake Tahoe area of California for many years and spent a
decent amount of time in the outdoors, hiking, camping, and
generally enjoying the beautiful place I was lucky enough to call
home. Now I don't get scared quickly.
I'm used to being by myself and I carry weapons everywhere I go.
Being a 52 and 110 lbs female, I go out of my way to ensure I can
protect myself. Many people in the outdoor
community told me about being careful on the trails in the
forest. I usually do these things alone
save for my trustworthy, though somewhat cowardly dog, but I had
never felt as uncomfortable, confused, and downright afraid
as I did in my apartment one night when I finally relocated
away from Tahoe to Reno, NV. I had moved to Reno to escape
the isolation of living in Lake Tahoe, and though it is only
about 60 miles away, it felt like a whole different world.
Now, the city itself isn't necessarily huge, and I was
living in the North End of town, surrounded by high desert
foothills and somewhat sparsely populated compared to more of
the urban city center. Still, I never felt like I was
out in the boonies or anything. I lived alone with my dog, and
we liked our little apartment. So to set the scene here, it was
early fall and the sun was beginning to set at a much
earlier time of day, which was exemplified by the fact that the
city sits in a valley, so Sunset seems to approach much faster
than in other places. In Northern Nevada, my apartment
sat just above St. level with a window in the kitchen next to my
stacked washer and dryer that looked out into an alley maybe
about 10 feet above the small St. beside the small Fourplex
building. It was dark outside and I was
alone with my dog doing laundry. My apartment layout was an open
concept, and the living room kitchen area was separated by a
wall that had a vast space cut out into it so you could walk
through and see each other with the washer and dryer tucked
around and the aforementioned window to the left of that.
With the openness of the space, the darkness outside, and the
number of overall windows the apartment had, it almost felt
like you were in a spotlight. If it was dark out and I had the
lights on, it looked like I was living in a fishbowl or a
terrarium anyone or anything could see right in.
I made it a point to permanently close my blinds, save for the
small window looking out to the alley.
I didn't mind keeping those blinds open because I liked the
fresh air and someone would need a ladder to reach me if they
were determined enough. As I was removing the clothing
from the dryer and turning to plop it on my couch to begin
folding, I realized my dog was acting incredibly strange.
He didn't want to cross the line, so to speak.
From my living room to the kitchen, marked by a change from
the carpet to tile. Though it was only a few steps,
he seemed incredibly hesitant and began whining and burping
out small, concerned wines. At first I just thought he was
anxious. For whatever reason he is known
to be a bit of a weenie. But then out of nowhere, I
sensed this immense and insurmountable feeling of dread
and displacement. I turned my back to the washer,
dryer, and small alley facing window.
My dog sat facing me, almost looking past me, and his
apparent anxiety and frustration began to build as I was asking
him what was wrong. He started barking a whole alarm
bark at this point, and as soon as he did, the sense that
someone or something was observing me took over me and
caused my blood to run cold. My logical response was that
someone was just watching me through the window, the only
window that had open blinds and the only window that anyone
could see me through. So in one fell swoop, I reached
for the overhead drawstring for the light and turned it off,
facing the window, confronting whoever or whatever was
intruding on my life. As soon as the light clicked off
and the room was dark, I saw what I could only describe as a
perfectly round light, about the size of a small cantaloupe,
directly across from me on the other side of the window.
It didn't glow like a lamp or a light, though.
Its edges were perfect and it didn't hover or vibrate or even
move. At this point, I was too stunned
to move. My fight or flight response had
engaged so quickly that I had no time to recognize or rationalize
what I was seeing. I was looking at this thing and
it was looking back. I felt cold and confused.
My hair was standing on end, my heart was racing, and my dog had
gone into complete freak out mode, jumping and barking and
generally causing a stir in the living room as he could see all
of this as well. The light seemed to now realize
that I could see it and it looked as if it backed away or
at least grew more diminutive in size.
It had moved to the right of the window.
Now it flickered twice and then disappeared.
It didn't buzz away or fly away and it didn't zoom out of
vision. It was visible, not visible and
then just gone. As soon as I realized the light
was not there anymore, I opened the window and poked my head out
to see what was going on. Maybe someone was at my window
with a flashlight. Perhaps someone in the
neighboring buildings had seen something and would be checking
for themselves to try and solve this odd mystery.
Nothing. Not a soul.
And what felt like deafening quiet was all I heard.
I closed the window. As soon as I shut the window, I
heard a solid 3 knocks on the larger window out front by the
living room. As I mentioned before, those
blinds were closed and though from the outside looking in it
was entirely clear someone was home because the lights were on
in that room, no one could know it was me alone in my apartment,
right? I wasn't expecting anyone over
and it was too late for solicitors.
No one had any reason to be at my house then and I was not
going to open that door. My dog had rushed to the kitchen
as soon as the light outside the window had disappeared, and then
he was in what I can only describe as full on defense
mode. Now, my dog is an absolute wuss.
I've seen him run from cats and get spooked by bags blowing in
the street, and he generally stays by my side on hikes while
we're camping because normally he expects me to protect him.
This pup seemed ready for war though.
Hackles up, eyes alert, growling at the front window.
Now I stepped into the living room, grabbed my gun with one
hand and keys with the other, and slinked back into the
kitchen and out the back door to where my car was parked.
I threw my dog in, started it up, and raced off to a
restaurant across town where I ordered to go food and ate in
the front of my Subaru. We car camped in a Walmart
parking lot that night. I returned to the apartment the
following day, my laundry still on the couch, with no apparent
signs of anyone trying to enter the place.
Everything seemed normal. I never experienced any
disruption in that place ever again for the year and a half
that I lived there afterward. I have no idea to this day what
I experienced. It wasn't until I shared the
story with some friends that I heard that knocking and the
sense of being watched was somewhat common of a phenomenon
to people who encounter skinwalkers.
The Wyoming wind has a way of making everything feel more
alive, or perhaps more haunted. My little homestead just outside
of saddle string isn't much, but it's mine, and the views of the
big horns make up for the isolation.
Or they used to before November 20th, 22, when the nights grew
longer and something out there started to stir the silence into
whispers. My cat Missy, a tiny thing with
too much intelligence in her eyes, has always been a bit of
an oddity. Local joke is that she's a
skinwalker, what with her habit of standing upright and
mimicking human speech At just 4 lbs, she can throw a shadow that
fills a room, metaphorically speaking.
I've had her since she was a kitten, found abandoned near a
trailhead. Took her in, fed her and maybe I
spoiled her too much, but she's mine just as much as this slice
of land. It was just before dawn, a time
when even the hardiest critters keep close to their dens.
I lay in bed, the remnants of a dream fading fast, replaced by
the reality of a sound disturbing the pre dawn
stillness. It was a screaming from the
fields, high pitched and unsettling, like a fox caught in
a trap. At first I chalked it up to the
wildlife we share the land with. Foxes, maybe a coyote.
But as the minutes ticked by, the sound twisted, ending with a
gurgling warble not unlike the calls of the elk, the ones I'd
heard echoing through Skyrim on my nephew's game console.
The town started whispering about it at Bud's Diner the next
morning. Speculation over coffee ranged
from poachers to the supernatural.
I mostly kept my peace, listening more than talking.
Judy Henshaw, who ran a small farm down by Clear Creek, got
the worst of it with folks suspecting her of harboring
illegal wildlife. The game warden paid her a
visit, came back saying she was clean.
No foxes, just the usual assortment of livestock.
That night the noises were closer, sharper.
Missy was out, likely prowling the barns or teasing the coyotes
who ventured too near. I tried to sleep, but the cries
from outside clawed at the edges of my sanity.
When Missy began clawing at my door, I nearly jumped out of my
skin. Her meows were desperate,
slicing through the wood of the door with panic.
Damn it, Missy, I muttered, the cold seeping through my blanket
as I sat up. She kept at it, her voice a
bizarre amalgam of cries and what sounded disturbingly like a
child's wail. Despite my irritation, concern
flickered through me. This wasn't like her.
Dragging myself out of bed. I stumbled to the door,
expecting her to barrel in the moment.
It cracked open, but there was silence.
Puzzled, I turned on the light. There she was, sitting calmly on
the rug, watching me with those wide knowing eyes.
I froze, the chill in the room suddenly coming from more than
just the night air. How'd you get in here, Missy?
I whispered, my voice barely a thread.
She blinked slowly, the only answer I'd get.
I turned back to the door, a shiver running down my spine as
I thought of the door still being closed when I turned the
light on. That's when the cries came again
from outside my door, louder, meaner and all too human.
Something wasn't right. This wasn't just another night
on the Wyoming plains. As I stared at the door, Missy
beside me. The rural silence felt like the
calm before a storm, and I knew deep down that the whispering
wind was carrying something far more sinister than a November
chill. Nothing stirs a man from sleep
quite like fear, raw, unfiltered and primal.
It was that very fear that gripped me as the noises outside
escalated into a crescendo of terror.
Missy's screams had waned, and in their place a silence fell,
thick and suffocating. But it was the kind of silence
that screams loud and harrowing. I lay in bed.
The sheets tangled around me, a sweat breaking despite the
chills seeping through the walls of my old house.
My mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening
outside those walls, under the same moon that lit the vast
Wyoming skies. The digital glow from the alarm
clock painted a faint, ghostly light across the room, marking
the early hours of another restless morning.
The sudden sound of Missy's claws against the wooden door
jolted me upright. The urgency in her scratching
was unmistakable. Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong. Her meows pierced the air, Not
just cries, but the articulation of human like distress, turning
more guttural, as if something or someone was mimicking a
child's wails to a disturbingly accurate degree.
All right, all right. I grumbled as I threw the
blankets off my resolve hardening with each desperate
scratch. I could almost feel her fear as
tangible as the cold that wrapped around my bare feet when
they hit the floor. As I reached for the door,
expecting to see her frightened little form on the other side, I
stopped dead. The room was silent again, but
there was a wait to it, a presence that hadn't been there
before. I scanned the shadows, half
expecting to see eyes peering back at me, but there was
nothing, Nothing but the faint outline of Missy already inside,
staring at the door with wide, terrified eyes.
How in the hell? I whispered to myself, my heart
pounding against my ribs like it wanted out.
I hadn't opened the door yet. She couldn't have been in here,
not without me knowing. Her squeak broke the silence, a
soft, trembling sound that was more a whimper than anything.
She was as scared as I was, maybe more.
And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the cries started
up again from the hallway, louder, longer, and filled with
a menacing tone that chilled me to the bone.
Without thinking, I scooped Missy up and dove back into bed,
pulling the covers over us like a child hiding from the
boogeyman. But I knew no blanket could
shield us from whatever was on the other side of that door.
Then the noises changed. They morphed from the meows of a
cat to the whimpering of a dog, my old dog, Luke, who'd been
dead over five years. The sound of his claws tapping
against the wood floor was unmistakable, and it was coming
from right outside my bedroom. Panic surged through me, raw and
fierce. I rolled out of bed, my feet
hitting the floor with a thud and face the door.
My voice, barely more than a raspy whisper, carried more
determination than I felt. You are not welcome here.
Leave now. The response was immediate, A
growl, low and threatening, followed by silence.
Then the front door slammed shut with such force the house seemed
to shudder, Draped only in my house coat.
I flung open the bedroom door, adrenaline coursing through my
veins. The hallway was empty, the
silence now complete. But as I turned towards the
kitchen, my father stood there, bleary eyed and bewildered.
Did you slam that door? He asked.
I couldn't have, and he knew it. Something had been here,
something neither of us wanted to admit.
The kitchen light was harsh, too bright for the early hours.
We found ourselves gathered under it.
My father's face was drawn, shadows playing under his eyes,
a stark testament to the night's disturbances.
My mother stood beside him, her robe pulled tight against the
chill that seemed to have found its way inside our walls.
Did you slam that door? Dad repeated, his voice edged
with a tension that mirrored the tightness in his shoulders.
No, I said, shaking my head, feeling the last remnants of
adrenaline pulsing through my veins.
I thought it was you. We stood there.
A family paused, on the brink of unraveling, a mystery neither of
us wanted to touch. It was then my mother spoke, her
voice softer but every bit as fraught with worry.
What happened, honey? She asked, turning to me with
that maternal concern that seemed to see right through the
bravado. I glanced down at Missy, now
safely tucked in my arms, her small body pressed against mine,
as if she could Burrow away from the world.
I I don't know, Mom. Something was outside my room,
making noises like Missy and then like Luke.
My voice broke a bit at the mention of our late dog.
I told it to leave. Dad rubbed his chin, his
skepticism of familiar armor against the unknown.
Sounds like you were dreaming, Son, but his eyes betrayed his
certainty. They flicked to the door, to the
windows, searching for an excuse to dismiss what we all felt.
It wasn't a dream, I insisted. My gaze shifted between them,
pleading for belief over reason. Something was here.
As we stood in the uncomfortable silence, my brother shuffled
into the kitchen, his hair tousled from sleep, his eyes
squinting against the light. What's all the racket?
He mumbled, clearly oblivious to the night's events.
Dad turned on him sharply. Were you out last night?
The accusation was clear in his tone.
No, been here since Jimmy dropped me off.
He left a note. My brother replied, confusion
wrinkling his brow as he noticed the tension in the room.
I moved to his room and picked up the crumpled piece of paper
from the night stand, smoothing it out to read Jimmy's scribbled
words. My eyes caught on the last lines
and I felt my blood run cold. I left your brother in his room
and left right away. I couldn't find his keys to lock
up behind me. I also let your cat into the
house. The room went silent, each of us
digesting the implications. The front door had been unlocked
all night. Anything could have walked in
after that. No one spoke much.
Actions took over words. I spent the next few days
smudging sage around every possible entry into the house,
murmuring prayers I wasn't sure I believed in, hoping to cleanse
whatever darkness had crept into our home.
But the truth of it stayed with me, haunting the corners of my
mind. Every Creek of the house, every
rustle outside became a signal, a warning.
I found myself watching Missy, always checking, double checking
that it was really her in the room with me and not some echo
of something else, something that had once dared to enter our
home and mimic the sounds of the past.
As the days stretched into weeks, the disturbances faded
into uneasy memories, leaving us with a fragile peace.
But the land around us, vast and wild, held secrets in its
silence, and I knew better than to think they would stay quiet
forever. I've always felt a deep
connection to Omaha, NE, the city where I was born and
raised. It's a place steeped in history,
with neighborhoods that tell stories of the past through
their very architecture and the whispers of the old timers who
still remember the good old days.
South Omaha in particular, has always held a certain allure for
me. This part of town, once bustling
with activity from its numerous meatpacking plants, has
transformed over the years, leaving behind remnants of its
once thriving industry. Growing up, I heard countless
stories about the old South Omaha from my grandparents.
They spoke of the vibrant community of Eastern Europeans,
Poles, Czechs, Germans and others who settled here and
built their lives around the demanding work that the
meatpacking industry offered. The tales were filled with a mix
of nostalgia and a hint of sadness for a time that is long
gone today. Many of those old factories and
slaughterhouses have been shut down, and the area has a quiet,
almost forgotten feel to it. There are plans to demolish
several of these old buildings, replacing them with modern
facilities. This news stirred something
within me, a desire to see and experience these historical
monuments before they disappeared forever.
One building in particular caught my attention.
It was an old slaughterhouse, nearly as long as 3 football
fields and made of brick and steel.
It stood majestically close to the train tracks that sliced
through South Omaha. A silent witness to decades of
change. I learned that it was scheduled
to be torn down soon, and knowing this, I felt a sense of
urgency, a compelling need to explore it before it was reduced
to rubble. With this in mind, I decided to
gear up for a little adventure I knew about urban exploration,
Urbex for short, from online forums and videos.
I always wanted to try it, but the fear of trespassing held me
back. Now with the slaughterhouses
days numbered, it seemed like a now or never kind of situation.
On a crisp fall evening, I prepared for my visit.
I dressed in light hiking gear, making sure not to look too
conspicuous, and grabbed my heavy LED flashlight, the kind
that can light up a cave. I felt a mix of excitement and
nervousness as I drove my truck towards the site.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows and bathing the
city in a golden hue that made everything look a bit like an
old photograph parking a little distance away.
I approached the massive structure on foot.
The neighborhood was quiet, with few people around, and the
silence seemed to amplify my every step.
As I walked closer, the sheer size of the slaughterhouse
became more apparent. It loomed like a giant, its
windows dark and inscrutable, keeping its secrets hidden
behind years of grime. Climbing over the chain link
fence surrounding the property wasn't as difficult as I had
anticipated, thanks to there being no barbed wire on top.
Once I landed on the other side, I felt a rush of adrenaline.
This was it. I was actually doing this.
Every story I had heard about this place ran through my mind,
and a part of me wondered if the spirits of the past were
watching me, curious about my intrusion into their long
abandoned domain. With a deep breath, I stepped
forward, flashlight in hand, ready to uncover what lay within
the walls of the old South Omaha Slaughterhouse.
The heavy metal door creaked ominously as I pushed it open.
Stepping into the shadowy interior of the slaughterhouse,
my flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing a vast room
strewn with old machinery. The air was stale, filled with
the dust of decades, and every surface was covered in a fine
layer that swirled into little dust devils.
As I moved, the place felt like a tomb, silent except for the
echoing of my own footsteps. As I ventured further, my eyes
adjusted to the dim light, and the eerie details of the place
began to unfold. Conveyor belts, which once
carried countless cuts of meat, now lay idle, draped with
cobwebs like grotesque decorations.
Desks and control stations were scattered around, their surfaces
littered with debris and forgotten paperwork.
It was as though the workers had simply vanished, leaving behind
a snapshot of a busy day turned into years of neglect.
The deeper I walked into the slaughterhouse, the more the
atmosphere began to change. A sudden drop in temperature
made me shiver. It was a coldness that didn't
belong. Despite the mild evening
outside, it felt like I had stepped into winter.
With every breath, I could see my breath fogging up in the air.
The shift was unnerving, and an inexplicable sense of dread
began to grow inside me. I tried to shake off the fear,
telling myself it was just the natural chill of an unheated
building made of brick and steel.
But then the smells hit me. It was nothing like the usual
odors of old buildings, which were musty but harmless.
This was different. It was a pungent smell of decay
and death, a scent so overpowering that it made me
gag. My mind raced with horrific
possibilities of what could be causing such a stench.
Pushing through my rising panic, I continue to explore.
My flashlight illuminated a pair of double doors ahead.
With a hesitant push, I opened them slightly, only to be
greeted by an even colder blast of air.
The room beyond seemed to swallow the light, and the
temperature drop was so severe that frost seemed to form on the
inside of the door. Gathering every ounce of
courage, I stepped into what I soon realized was the heart of
the slaughterhouse, the killing floor.
This room was different. It was set up with a pathway
down the center, likely where the cattle were led, and
conveyor belts along the sides for processing.
Knowing what this place was used for sent a shiver down my spine.
The smell of death was stronger here.
It clung to the walls, in the floor and odor so vile that it
seemed almost tangible. As I moved cautiously through
the room, a loud sound suddenly shattered the silence.
A bellow so loud and so close it felt like it was right next to
me. The cry was not just startling,
it was terrifying, filled with a pain and fury that no animal or
machine should ever Make Heart racing.
I spun around, my flashlight, darting across the room, trying
to find the source of the sound. There was nothing there, just
shadows and the echo of that haunting noise bouncing off the
walls. Despite everything inside me
screaming to leave, curiosity pushed me forward, deeper into
the labyrinth of the slaughterhouse, towards whatever
secrets it's still held or whatever horrors awaited.
My heart pounded in my chest as I stumbled upon a room that
shouldn't exist in a supposedly abandoned slaughterhouse.
The air was filled with the hiss of steam and the metallic clink
of butchery tools against bone. The dim, eerie glow of a single
red light bulb cast long shadows on the walls, revealing a scene
straight out of a nightmare. There in front of me were three
men dressed like traditional butchers in white smocks,
helmets, goggles and rubber boots.
They were working methodically, 1 spraying down a cow carcass,
another cutting into it, and the third moving bones to a nearby
bin. The cow, suspended from a hook,
swayed slightly as they worked, oblivious to my presence.
For a moment I was frozen, watching them in horrified
fascination. They spoke in low tones to each
other, their words unfamiliar and harsh sounding.
It could have been Polish or some other Eastern European
language. It was hard to tell.
The scene felt surreal, a slice of the past still living and
breathing in the forgotten depths of this place.
Realizing I was trespassing in what appeared to be an active,
albeit clandestine operation. Panic set in.
I knew I had to get out, but I didn't want to draw attention to
myself. Slowly I began to back away,
hoping to slip out unnoticed. But just then my foot knocked
against a loose tile on the floor.
The clattering sound echoed loudly in the silent room.
The men stopped their work and turned toward me, their eyes
visible behind the goggles, narrowed as they spotted me.
One of them shouted something in that strange language, and they
all began moving towards me. Their approach was menacing, and
in that instant I knew I couldn't hesitate any longer.
I turned and ran as fast as I could.
My heart was racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I
heard their footsteps pounding on the floor behind me.
Their shouts grew louder, but the clatter of their heavy boots
and equipment seemed to slow them down, giving me a slight
edge. I dashed through corridors lined
with the same shiny white tiles, turning corners blindly,
desperate to find a way out. Every second felt like an
eternity, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
The echoing of my pursuers filled the air, a constant
reminder that they were just behind me.
Finally, I spotted a door with rubber flaps like those seen in
butcher shops, and pushed through it, not knowing what lay
on the other side. To my relief, it LED outside,
but I wasn't safe yet. The cold air hit me like a wall,
but I kept running, my legs aching, my lungs burning.
Once I reached the road, I glanced back towards the
slaughterhouse. The three men were there,
staring out from an open truck dock.
Their eyes seemed to glow red in the dim light, A haunting image
that would forever be etched in my memory.
I didn't stop running until I reached my truck with shaky
hands. I started the engine and drove
away as fast as I could, not daring to look back.
The bellowing sound echoed one last time through the streets, a
chilling reminder of the nightmare I had escaped.
As I drove home, my mind raced with countless questions.
What were those men doing there? Was the slaughterhouse still
secretly operational? And what would have happened if
they had caught me? I knew one thing for sure.
I would never return to that place, and I would never forget
the nightmarish butchers of South Omaha.
The air felt cooler tonight as I parked my car along the dimly
lit St. next to Stallsoft Park. The hum of the city was distant
here, swallowed by the sprawling, shadowy arms of the
park's dense woods. I liked it that way.
It gave me a chance to think, to breathe without the clutter of
constant noise. The park, about a square mile of
mostly forest, had always been a place of solitude for me, a
sanctuary from the nonstop pulse of urban life.
I stepped out of my car, the gravel crunching under my boots,
and made my way to the playground at the northern end.
The street lamps cast long shadows, and the playground
equipment loomed like skeletal remains of some forgotten
giants. I could see the swing set, my
usual spot just 10 feet away from the forest's edge,
separated only by a flimsy fence.
As I walked, the sounds of the city faded completely, replaced
by the subtle rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a
night bird. The playground faced the street,
but it was bordered on two sides by the forest, creating a
natural alcove that felt worlds away from the asphalt and
concrete. It was a Thursday night just
past 11, and as I had hoped, I was the only soul around.
Sitting on the cold metal swing, I pushed off the ground with my
feet, feeling the familiar thrill as I swung back and
forth. The chains creaked softly with
each motion a comforting rhythmic sound that I had come
to associate with my late night reflections.
My eyes drifted to the fence, to the darkness beyond where the
woods grew thick and untamed. I wasn't afraid of the forest.
I'd been coming here since I was a child, and it felt as much a
part of me as my own backyard. The first rustle from behind the
fence didn't startle me. It was normal, after all, to
hear wildlife at this hour. Raccoons perhaps, or the
occasional deer. But when the noise came again,
louder, this time more deliberate, it caught my
attention. I slowed my swing, straining my
ears against the still night. Something was moving back there,
something sizable. The logical part of my brain
thought of the Mountain Lion warnings posted at the park
entrances. I'd never seen one here, but
that didn't mean they weren't around.
I scanned the fence line, half expecting to see a pair of
reflective eyes staring back at me.
But there was nothing. Just the deep, impenetrable
dark. I should have left, then gone
back to my car and forgotten all about the strange sounds.
But curiosity has a way of pinning you in place, of pulling
the strings of your better judgement until they fray and
snap. I continued to swing, pushing a
little higher now, my eyes locked on the spot where the
forest met the playground. The noise came again, a
shuffling sound followed by what I could only describe as a moan.
It was low, guttural, and it seemed to vibrate through the
cool air. My heart thumped loudly in my
chest, a stark contrast to the otherwise serene night.
Whatever was out there was close, maybe only 10 feet away
from where I swung. I gripped the chains tighter, my
swing carrying me forward, then back, forward, then back.
The moon wasn't much help, obscured as it was by a veil of
thin clouds, it cast a feeble light that barely reached the
forest's edge. As I reached the apex of the
swing, I made-up my mind. I take one LastPass and then go.
It was just an animal, I told myself.
Just a curious creature of the woods, nothing more.
But even as I rationalized it, the unease settled heavy in my
stomach, a visceral reminder that sometimes the night holds
more mysteries than we care to confront.
The swing's arc began to shorten as I allowed my thoughts to
wander, still fixed on the strange noises emanating from
beyond the fence. The night had grown eerily quiet
now, as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for
something to break. The silence I should have left
should have listened to that small voice in the back of my
mind, urging me to retreat to the safety of my car.
But instead I stayed, my curiosity anchoring me firmly to
the spot. I had nearly convinced myself
that I was alone again, that the noises were just the ordinary
sounds of wildlife I'd misinterpreted when it happened,
a sound that was unmistakably not an animal, more of a moan
than a growl. It was human, or at least it
seemed to be, and it chilled me to the bone.
The sound was low and sorrowful, carrying a weight of despair
that echoed through the cool air and settled deep in my chest.
My grip tightened on the chains of the swing as I scanned the
darkness. The moon shy tonight peek
through wispy clouds, offering scant illumination but just
enough to make out shapes and movements at the edge of
visibility. It was then I saw it, the faint
glow of a flashlight bobbing in the distance.
Someone was out there and they were moving with purpose through
the brush. The figures trajectory was hard
to discern at first. The light dipped and weaved
through the trees, creating elongated shadows that danced
across the playground. My heart pounded in my ears as I
watched, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Was it a park Ranger perhaps, or a police officer?
But no. The way they moved was all
wrong. It was too erratic, too furtive.
And then, as the figure drew nearer, the details of their
attire began to take shape in the dim light.
It wasn't the uniform of any officer or Ranger I'd known.
This person was clad, more like a hunter, or how I imagined one
from the stories I'd read. Baggy pants, a vest, and some
kind of hat. There seemed to be objects
strapped to his limbs, though I couldn't make out what they
were. In one hand, he carried the
flashlight. In the other, something long and
slender, like a stick, a weapon, a tool.
I couldn't tell. My mind raced with
possibilities. What if this person was hunting
something, Or worse, what if they were here for something
else entirely? The isolation of the park, once
comforting, now felt menacing, as if I had wandered into a
scene I was never meant to witness.
I made a split second decision. Then I slipped off the swing, my
feet hitting the soft earth as I crouched low and moved quickly
toward the metal overhang nearby.
It was a flimsy hiding spot, but under the cloak of night it
would have to do. I ducked behind the picnic table
with its fishnet pattern, my breath shallow as I peered over
the edge. The figure continued to
approach, the light from his flashlights sweeping the ground
in front of him, never quite reaching where I hid.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs as I watched,
praying that the shadows would keep me concealed.
As he neared the swing set, the figure paused, tilting his head
as if listening. I held my breath, afraid even
the slightest sound might give me away.
Then, just as suddenly as he had stopped, he continued on, moving
at an angle toward the South entrance of the park, descending
into the valley that led into the deeper parts of the forest.
I stayed crouched behind the picnic table, my mind a whirl of
fear and confusion, until the light from his flashlight was
swallowed up by the night, leaving me alone once more in
the oppressive silence of Stallsoft Park.
The silence that settled over the park after the figure with
the flashlight disappeared into the forest, was oppressive,
almost tangible. I remained crouched behind the
picnic table, my heart still racing, the adrenaline coursing
through my veins making it impossible to move.
The cool metal of the overhang felt grounding against my back
as I tried to make sense of what I had just witnessed.
The minutes ticked by slowly, each second stretching out as I
listened intently for any sign of the figures return.
But there was nothing, only the soft rustling of the leaves and
the occasional distant bark of a dog.
Eventually, my breathing steadied, and the initial spike
of fear began to ebb, replaced by a swirling mix of confusion
and curiosity. What was that person doing in
the park so late at night? Were they aware of my presence?
The questions multiplied in my mind, each more unsettling than
the last. The logical part of me argued
that there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.
A wildlife officer monitoring animal activity, perhaps.
Or maybe just another night owl like myself.
I'll be at one with peculiar habits and attire.
But then there was the moan, that human like sound that had
first drawn my attention. It didn't fit with any logical
explanation. Was it possible that I had
stumbled upon something far stranger?
Something that my rational mind was struggling to accept?
The lore of the park, tales of shadows and whispers that I had
laughed off as mere ghost stories suddenly didn't seem so
far fetched. After what felt like an
eternity, I finally mustered the courage to leave my makeshift
shelter. I moved cautiously, my eyes
scanning the darkness, half expecting to see the flashlight
beam cut through the night or hear that unsettling moan again.
But there was only silence and the faint light of the moon
guiding my way. As I reached the edge of the
forest where the trees met the playground, I paused.
This place that had brought me peace now seemed charged with a
mysterious energy. Could the forest really harbor
secrets so deep and dark? The thought was both terrifying
and thrilling. Resolved to not let fear dictate
my actions, I made my way back to the car.
The forest felt different as I passed through.
Every shadow seemed to move, every noise made me jolt.
Despite my fear, a part of me was intrigued, drawn to the
mysteries that might hide in the depths of Stallsoft Park.
Once safe in my car, the interior light felt harsh
against my eyes. Too bright.
After the dimness of the night. I sat there for a moment, engine
idling as I tried to piece together the events.
The possibility of encountering A skinwalker, as some of the
local legend suggested, seemed both absurd and oddly fitting.
Could the park serve as a temporary refuge for such a
creature, or was it simply the playground of a nocturnal hunter
of another kind? As I drove home, the park fading
into the rear view mirror, I knew that this encounter would
linger in my mind. A puzzle that demanded to be
solved. I also knew that it wouldn't be
my last visit to Stallsoft Park. There were answers out there,
hidden among the whispering trees, and I felt a pull, a need
to uncover the truth, however unsettling it might be.
The night had indeed revealed mysteries, but it had also
awakened a determination in me, a determination to face whatever
lay hidden under the cover of darkness.
Life on the edge of Mount Ida is as close as you can get to truly
being off the grid without disappearing entirely.
It suits me fine. The air is crisp, the sky is
vast, and my nearest neighbor more than a shout away.
My trailer, perched at the highest accessible point of my
property near an old barn, faces a road that hardly merits the
name, and beyond that, the endless dark embrace of the
forest. This mountain, steeped in local
lore, has always been a character in its own right.
In the stories told by the First Nations elders, they speak of it
with a respectful fear, cautioning that the spirits
dwelling here do not take kindly to human intrusion.
Tonight, the mountain feels alive, almost watchful.
The wind carries whispers through the Pines, and the last
light of day fades with a reluctance that edges on
warning. I've learned to listen to these
subtleties. The land has a language all its
own. The evening's quiet is split
suddenly by the distant wail of sirens, 3 distinct sets in rapid
succession tearing past on the main road.
In my 15 years here, sirens are a rarity.
This is the second time this week, which prickles the back of
my neck. My eyes narrow as I peer through
the window, scanning the shadowed Rd. below.
But the vehicles are already gone.
They're urgent cries, fading into the night like ghosts
shrugging off a chill. I stoke the wood stove and
settle into my evening routine, the oddity of the sirens gnawing
at me. I'm turning over the
possibilities when the lights flicker and die, plunging my
trailer Into Darkness. The power outage snatches my
comfort away, leaving a hollow silence in its place.
I'm not new to the dark, but tonight it feels like a heavy
blanket thrown over my world. No Wi-Fi, no lights, no
connection to anything beyond these thin walls.
I fumble for my flashlight. It's beam slicing through the
blackness, settling on the aged faces of my two loyal dogs, Huck
and Finn. They sense my unease, their
bodies tense and alert as I wrestle with the generator's
notion, already dreading the cold trek to the barn.
A child's cry shatters the stillness.
It's sharp, desperate, the sound of raw fear.
Huck and Finn explode into a frenzy, barking and clawing at
the door, their reaction amplifying my alarm.
In these parts, it's known that Cougars can mimic a human's
wail, a chilling thought, yet somehow the best case scenario.
Tonight I press my forehead against the cool glass of the
window, straining to see through the inky blackness outside.
Just a cougar. I mutter to myself, not
convinced. My heart thuds painfully against
my ribs, the primal part of my brain firing off warnings.
The dogs do not settle their growls, a constant rumble under
the sudden, eerie quiet that follows the cry.
I weigh my options, every instinct, screaming to stay put,
to not open that door as I wrestle with my fear.
The mountain seems to lean in, listening, the ancient spirits
stirring in the shadows. Then out of nowhere comes a
second sound, a guttural, shrieking cacophony that chills
my blood. It is nothing I can name,
nothing I've ever heard before, a sound that seems to scrape at
the very edges of reality. The floor vibrates beneath my
feet, a visceral reminder that here on Mount Ida, humans are
not the apex predators. My hands shake as I grip the
flashlight, my breath shallow and quick, just a cougar.
I whisper again, but the lie is thin and feeble against the
darkness that presses in alive with unnamed terrors.
The silence after the cry is almost worse than the noise
itself. My trailer feels smaller,
somehow claustrophobic, as if the walls are inching inward
with each passing. 2nd Huck and Finn have stopped barking, but
their low, menacing growls ripple through the still thick
air, a constant reminder that the night is far from over.
I force myself to sit down, to try and think rationally, but my
heart is a wild drum in my chest.
I tell myself it's just a cougar, that's all.
A cougar in distress, perhaps, but the words are hollow,
echoing unconvincingly in the dense shadow that my home has
become. I've heard Cougars before, heard
their screams slice through the night.
It's chilling, yes, but this was different.
This wasn't just an animal, this was primal.
Fear made audible. The clock on the wall ticks
loudly, overly loud in the hush, and I try to focus on it, to
anchor myself to something mundane, something normal.
But it's no use. The eerie cry replays in my
mind, a loop of terror that tightens around my gut.
I consider reaching for the gun I keep locked away, but what
good are bullets against shadows and cries that could just be
wind or something far worse? My fingers tap against the
wooden table, restless, uncertain.
Then, just as I start to feel like I might be able to breathe
normally again, it happens. A second noise shatters the
fragile calm, a terrifying guttural howl that seems to roll
down the mountain and up through the floorboards.
It's an amalgamation of every nightmare sound from every
horror movie I've ever dared to watch.
It's a bone chilling chorus of anger and pain, so intense that
the trailer shudders with its force, and for a moment it feels
as though the earth itself might open up and swallow us whole.
My bed shakes, the vibration carrying through the soles of my
boots resonating deep within my bones.
Huck and Finn are up again, bodies rigid, fur bristled,
their growls turning into something frantic, something
desperate. They hurl themselves at the
door, scrabbling at the metal, as if they can sense the very
essence of whatever is out there.
I'm frozen, flashlight grips so tightly in my hand that my
knuckles turn white. I want to yell at the dogs, to
quiet down, to not provoke whatever lurks beyond the thin
safety of the trailer walls. But my voice is gone, swallowed
by the thick dread that fills the room.
The sound doesn't come again, but it's echo hangs in the air
like a spectre. Minutes stretch into hours, or
so it seems. Every shadow seems to move just
in the corner of my vision, every Creek of the trailer a
prelude to something terrible. Stepping out from the forest,
Finally, I move more out of a need to do something, anything
than out of any real plan. I pull on my boots, thinking I
might make it to the barn, to the generator, but I only get as
far as the door. My hand hovers over the
doorknob, trembling. The cold seeps through the
cracks, whispering of the dark and the unknown.
Not tonight, I murmur to myself, heart sinking.
Not tonight I can't bring myself to open the door, can't bring
myself to face the blackness beyond.
Instead, I retreat back to the false safety of my bed, where I
sit, flashlight never leaving my grip, listening to the night as
it whispers and waits. Dawn breaks with a reluctant,
muted glow that filters weakly through the fogged windows of my
trailer. It's quiet.
Too quiet, as if the mountain itself is holding its breath.
I let the night's terror ebb away slowly with the darkness,
feeling the adrenaline dissolve into a weary, shaky relief as
daylight asserts itself. Huck and Finn are the 1st to
relax, their tense bodies unwinding as they sense the
change in me. Their instincts tune to my own.
I rise bones stiff from a night spent, too alert, and flick on
the kitchen light. It responds with a reassuring
hum. The power is back, the normalcy
of it feels alien. After the horrors of the night.
I check my phone. No messages, no missed calls, a
stark reminder of how cut off I really was.
Outside, the world looks untouched.
The Pines stand sentry as always, the ground beneath them
undisturbed. It's hard to believe that such
terror pulsed through this calm landscape just hours ago.
I make coffee, the aroma filling the space grounding me back to
reality. Huck and Finn eat their
breakfast with gusto, the routine a balm to my frayed
nerves. I'm at the table with my coffee.
When curiosity and a need for validation drive me to my
laptop, I log into the local Facebook group, a small
community bulletin where lost pets and pie recipes are the
usual fare. Today I add my own post, a brief
account of the night's events, a query about the power outage.
Others experiences. Responses trickle in, a few
others lost power, but no one else heard the strange cries or
the monstrous howl that shook my trailer.
With the sun higher now, I venture outside.
The air is sharp, the remnants of night's chill lingering like
a memory. I circle the trailer, looking
for anything out of place. The ground is hard, unforgiving.
It offers up no tracks, no signs of nocturnal visitors.
The forest looms quiet and impassive, keeping its secrets
back inside. I find more responses on
Facebook. Speculations run from the
mundane to the wild. Cougars, indeed, but also talk
of Bigfoot and ghosts. One particularly eerie comment
suggests the spirits of the mountain were reminding me of my
place here on the edge of their world.
It's a thought that chills even in daylight.
I update the thread with the new information about the sirens, a
motor vehicle accident down the road.
It's a rational explanation for one mystery, but does nothing to
explain the sounds that haunted me.
The community's theories swirl in my mind, none providing true
comfort. Later, as the day wanes, I check
Reddit against my better judgement.
The anonymity of the platform gives rise to more sinister
theories. Skinwalkers, government
experiments, portals to other dimensions.
My skin prickles with unease. I shut the laptop with a snap.
Tonight I'll leave a podcast playing as I try to sleep, a
human voice to fill the silence, to guard against the emptiness.
The mountain watches, indifferent.
Huck and Finn settle by the door, their presence A
reassurance. But as the shadows lengthen, I
can't shake the feeling that whatever stirred in the darkness
remains, waiting perhaps, for the quiet to return.
As I lay down, the last light fading, I realized that this
place I call home is Wilder and more unknown than I ever
imagined. My eyes closed, but sleep is a
long time coming. Hello, my name is Herron and I
am ABBC Earth, Nat Geo photographer and cinematographer
for various documentaries including Ice on Fire for HBO
and Leonardo DiCaprio. A few years ago, something
extraordinary happened to my shooting partner, Gavin
Heffernan and me at Vermilion Cliffs in Arizona.
We have privately told the story to friends but didn't figure
making it public would make much sense until a friend of mine
sent one of your videos about Skinwalker Ranch, which echoed
almost similar things that happened to us.
Gavin and I have specialized in night sky photography and have
covered all 50 American States and Canadian provinces, spending
full nights in most remote places.
However, out of over 1000 of those nights we spent shooting,
we have never had anything like this happened.
We made our way to White Pocket inside Vermilion Cliffs, a
fantastic collection of swirling white lithified sandstone.
We decided to spend a night there shooting time lapses for
ABBC Earth short film, and we're the only ones there.
That night we set up our six cameras and let them roll, then
decided to get some sleep. We set a timer for 1:00 AM to
wake up and move our cameras to different places so that we
could shoot another set of shots.
When I turned, I saw lights that initially looked like headlights
but made no sense as they were in the direction of the park
where there were neither roads nor trails.
I pointed it out to Gavin and we looked at it for quite some
time. The more it appeared that it
wasn't headlights, but possibly a headlamp of a hiker.
However, there were no trails in that area and we figured perhaps
a hiker got lost and was wandering around towards us as
they may have spotted us with their headlamps.
We decided to stick around and wait as we were worried it might
be someone who might take our cameras.
We looked and the light was getting closer and when it got
close enough that it was bright enough to reflect off the white
rocks at some point, but then it suddenly stopped.
We sat there and waited and nothing.
A couple of minutes later, the lights were back but much
further away and there was no way a hiker could have
backtracked a few miles in a matter of 5 minutes.
That disturbed us enough that we didn't return to our tents, but
stayed there to sleep next to the camera.
This was a bizarre event, but we would have shrugged it off if
something hadn't happened. The following night we drove to
another park and hiked into a famous rock structure area
called the Wave. Only about 20 people are allowed
in a day via a permit, so we figured if we stayed overnight 3
miles away from the parking lot, we wouldn't get any lights
flashing around from cars or hikers.
We could shoot the night sky videos there.
It's a highly dark area at night you can barely see your hand in
front of your face. We did the same as the previous
night, set up cameras and slept with the alarm set to 1:00 AM.
Unlike White Pocket, the wave is situated amongst canyons that
are highly echoey and you can very clearly hear even the
smallest of rocks roll half a mile away.
Footsteps or any other sounds are easily heard.
When we woke up we returned to where we had left our cameras
and set up new shots. However, when I went back to the
spot I had left one of the cameras, it was missing.
We left it there in the dark with nobody around.
I frantically looked for it all around and nothing.
I suspected I may have forgotten where I exactly put it, but I
was fairly certain that it was there.
I went to Gavin and asked him if he recalled where I put it, and
he said he was sure it was where I was.
We searched for it more, covering the whole area.
Then we stood there quiet, trying to see if we could hear
the sound of a camera shutter clicking somewhere in the dark.
But there was nothing. We agreed to go back to sleep
and look for it in the morning, when suddenly a loud thud
reverberated through the Canyon. We pointed our lights and walked
in the direction of the sound. It was my camera falling over.
There was no wind, no sounds of animals we would have easily
heard and no people. The camera was still clicking,
taking shots, something we also would have heard when we were
sitting there earlier listening for sound.
We were beside ourselves as to how this could have happened
because we set up our tripod legs wide to anticipate a
possible bump of the camera, just about anything.
But in this case, the camera would have had to have been
pushed over or dropped by something.
I remember Gavin turning to me and saying I'm an atheist, but
this one's making me wonder. The following morning, I dropped
Gavin back at his car. He went toward Los Angeles and I
went to the city of Page, Arizona, where I plan to do a
night of shooting in the Water Holes Canyon that's just
underneath State Highway 89 and about 5 miles South of the town.
I tried to put last night's event in the back of my head as
I had to shoot alone this night. I was still in the Vermilion
Cliffs area, but this was just outside the park and I was close
to the town, so unlike the last two nights in a completely
remote location, this was underneath a highly utilized
bridge of a busy state road. I parked and went into the
Canyon to scout things out in daylight.
I wanted to grab a shot of the bridge from inside the Canyon,
looking up at the night sky above it.
As I made my way down into the Canyon, hiking down a trail, I
started to smell something strange.
The closer I got to the Canyon area underneath the bridge, the
more I smelled it. When I got there, I spotted next
to the bridge support structures what appeared to be a dead dog.
I got closer and it was clear the smell was coming from there.
I then realized it wasn't a dog but a coyote and it was lying
not as if it fell from above, but as if someone had set it
down. However, the disturbing part was
that the coyote was missing its bottom jaw and its tongue, and
it was sliced off like it was missing.
Not ripped off, but sliced off with precision.
I left and never went back again.
I didn't think about this much until I watched your episode
about Skinwalker Ranch, and now it's really making me think.
I experienced what I can only imagine is an otherworldly
occurrence.