We'd always prided ourselves on being the kind of friends who
didn't just talk about yearly get togethers, we made them
happen. Every fall, as the Smokies burst
into flames of red, orange and gold, Mike, Steve and I would
trek into the heart of it all. It wasn't just a trip.
It was our pilgrimage, a way to swear loyalty not just to the
mountains but to the bond we'd formed back in the carefree days
of high school. The drive up to Gatlinburg was
filled with the kind of easy banter that years of friendship
breeds. Jokes, laughter and plans for
the days ahead filled the cab of my old, trusty Ford as we wound
our way through the changing leaves.
The Smokies in the fall were a sight that could make even the
most hardened city dweller think about switching to flannel and
hiking boots for good. When we pulled up to the
trailhead, a crisp November breeze greeted us, carrying that
unique mix of earth, decaying leaves, and the promise of
colder nights. It was perfect, everything we
needed our escape to be. But as we stretched our legs and
breathed in the freedom, a park Ranger ambled over his face,
carrying a weight that seemed out of place in the midst of
such beauty. You folks headed out into the
Backcountry? He asked, eyeing our gear.
Yeah, I said. Annual tradition.
You know how it is. He nodded, but the concern
didn't leave his eyes. Just so you're aware, we've had
some unsettling fines recently. Couple of deer carcasses
mutilated, organs missing. Doesn't look like any predators
work. Steve, ever the skeptic in the
most grounded among us, rolled his eyes.
Let me guess. Careless hunters.
This time of year? It's a wonder the deer don't
start wearing orange vests. The Ranger shook his head, his
expression darkening. These weren't hunters.
The wounds. They're precise, like something
out of a ritual. He mimicked A scooping gesture,
as if hollowing out an imaginary carcass.
It's got some folks spooked. Mike laughed it off with a joke
about satanic rituals, and I couldn't help but join in.
The tension broke a little, but the Rangers, parting advice to
stay vigilant, stuck with us as we hit the trail.
The hike in was as breathtaking as ever.
The conversation flowed freely, but there was an undercurrent of
unease that hadn't been there before.
Every snapped twig or rustle in the underbrush had us casting
wary glances, half expecting to see a circle of hooded figures
or the gleam of a ritual knife. But as the miles passed under
our boots, the Rangers warnings faded, overshadowed by the
stunning vistas and the simple joy of being out in the
wilderness with friends. By the time we set up camp, the
only spirits we were concerned with were the ones we brought
along in our flasks. As night fell and the fire
crackled to life, the world narrowed down to the circle of
its glow, the trees, the stars and the distant howl of a
coyote, the only reminders of the vast wild world just beyond
our light. It was there, in that circle of
warmth and friendship, that I felt it.
This trip wasn't just a tradition.
It was a testament to the enduring power of nature, sure,
but more than that, to the unbreakable bond of friendship
that not even the strangest warnings could shake.
Little did we know the real test of that bond was yet to come.
The second day dawned with a fog so thick it felt like we were
walking through a cloud. It clung to the mountainside,
obscuring the trail ahead and muting the world into Shades of
Grey, the kind of morning that makes you feel like you're the
only people left on earth. It should have been peaceful,
serene even, but it wasn't, not with the Rangers words echoing
in our heads, turning every shadow into a potential threat.
We moved through the fog in silence, the usual banter that
filled our hikes, replaced by a tense, quiet.
It was Steve who broke it, his voice cutting through the mist
with a sharpness that made both Mike and I jump.
Do you hear that? He asked, stopping in his
tracks. We listened, the quiet, so
profound it felt like the forest was holding its breath.
Hear what? Mike finally whispered, the
unease palpable in his voice. Exactly.
Steve said nothing. Where are the birds?
The squirrels? He was right.
The vibrant cacophony of wildlife sounds that usually
accompanied our hikes was absent.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive, as if
something had warned the forest creatures to stay silent, to
hide. We pressed on, the fog
eventually lifting, but the silence remained a constant
companion that refused to leave our side.
It wasn't until we stumbled upon the deer carcass that the
silence was broken, replaced by the buzzing of flies.
The scene was as grisly as the Ranger had described, the deer's
innards removed with precision, leaving a hollowed out shell
that seemed more a message than a meal.
Steve, ever the hunter, knelt beside it, his curiosity getting
the better of him despite the obvious danger.
This wasn't done by any animal I know, he muttered, more to
himself than to us. His voice was tinged with a fear
I'd never heard from him before, a fear that quickly spread to
Mike and me. We debated turning back, but the
pull of the unknown, of the adventure we'd sought urged us
forward, a decision we'd soon regret.
As we hiked, the sensation of being watched grew stronger.
It was a prickling on the back of my neck, a feeling of eyes on
us from the shadows. Mike swore he saw something move
just beyond the reach of our campfire light that night, a
tall shadow that vanished when we look directly at it.
We tried to laugh it off, to reclaim the carefree spirit of
our trip, but the laughter was forced, hollow.
The sense of unease was a tangible thing, now, wrapping
around us as tightly as the fog had.
That morning sleep was fitful, filled with dreams of eyes in
the darkness and whispers in the wind.
We woke tired, irritable, and more on edge than ever.
The forest no longer felt like a sanctuary.
It was a prison, and we were not alone.
Looking back, it was clear we were being LED deeper into
something we didn't understand, something ancient and
unforgiving, but in our hubris, we believed we could face
whatever it was and come out the other side unscathed.
We were wrong. The third day broke with a
clarity that seemed at odds with the growing dread that twisted
in our guts. The sun shone bright, casting
sharp shadows that sliced through the underbrush, making
everything seem hyper real. But the beauty of the smokies,
usually so comforting, now felt like a facade, hiding something
much darker just beneath its surface.
As we packed up camp, the unspoken tension among us was
palpable. We were three friends, bound by
years of shared experiences, but now we found ourselves bound by
fear as well. Fear of the unknown, Fear of
what we had seen and what we hadn't yet seen.
We hadn't hiked long before we came across the first of the
totems. It was crude, fashioned from
sticks and twine, its limbs splayed in an imitation of human
form. It hung from a low branch,
swaying slightly in the breeze, a silent Sentinel watching over
the trail. The sight of it sent a shiver
down my spine, a primal warning signal that we were trespassing
in a world that wasn't ours. Steve paused to examine it, his
Hunter's instincts kicking in as he searched the ground for.
Tracks. For any sign of who or what
might have left it there, Cherokee used to make similar
symbols, he said, his voice low to ward off evil spirits.
Mike laughed, a sound that was more nervous than mocking.
Well, let's hope it works, he said.
But his attempt at humor fell flat in the dense, silent
forest. The totems became more frequent
as we continued, each one more elaborate than the last.
They weren't just markers. They were a message, one we were
beginning to understand all too clearly.
We were not welcome here. It was the deer head that
finally broke our resolve, nailed to a tree.
It's sightless eyes seemed to follow us, a grotesque trophy
that spoke of violence and ritual.
Beneath it, the ground was stained with blood, a dark,
dried pool that spoke of a death not quick or merciful.
We need to leave, Mike said, the words coming out in a rush now.
But it wasn't fear that kept us moving forward.
It was necessity. The trail had become narrow, the
forest closing in around us, making the idea of turning back
seem as dangerous as continuing on.
That's when we heard it, the scream.
It was unlike anything I had ever heard, a sound that seemed
to come from everywhere and nowhere, a cry of rage and pain
that echoed through the trees. We froze, every instinct,
screaming for us to run, to hide, to do anything but stand
there, exposed in the open. And then we saw it.
Across a ravine, a figure stood watching us.
It was impossibly tall, its limbs elongated, ending in sharp
points that gleamed in the sunlight.
For a moment it just watched, and then, with a slow,
deliberate movement, it pointed at us, a gesture that felt both
a warning and a challenge. There was no decision to be
made. We ran.
We ran with a terror that was all consuming, A primal urge to
escape that drove us forward without thought for direction or
safety. We crashed through the
underbrush branches, tearing at our clothes and skin, the sounds
of the forest now a cacophony of our own panicked breaths and the
pounding of our hearts. The Smokies had always been a
place of refuge, a place where we came to escape the pressures
of the world. But now, as we fled through its
heart, it felt like a trap, a labyrinth designed to lead us
deeper into a nightmare from which there was no waking.
The Ranger station emerged from the trees like a beacon, its
windows glowing with a warmth and safety that seemed almost
surreal after the horrors we had endured.
Our arrival was a chaotic blur, the three of us bursting through
the door, gasping for air, our bodies a map of cuts, bruises
and exhaustion. The Rangers were quick to react,
their professionalism kicking in despite the wild, almost
incoherent story. We spilled out.
They listened with a skepticism that I couldn't blame them for.
Our tale sounded like the plot of a bad horror movie, not
something that could happen in the well trodden trails of the
Smokies. Steve was the most animated
among us, insisting with a fervor that bordered on hysteria
about the creature we had seen, about the totems and the scream
that still echoed in my ears. Spear finger, he kept saying,
grabbing at the Rangers sleeves, trying to make them understand
the gravity of what we had witnessed.
The Rangers did their due diligence, checking us for
injuries, suggesting explanations that ranged from
dehydration to an overactive imagination fueled by too many
campfire stories. They organized a search of the
area we described, but it turned up nothing.
No totems, no signs of ritualistic killings, no trace
of the nightmare that had chased us from the woods.
In the harsh fluorescent light of the Ranger station, our story
did seem fantastical. I could see the doubt in their
eyes, could almost hear their thoughts, that we had let our
imaginations get the best of us, that the isolation in the wild
had conjured up fears from shadows and sounds.
We spent the night in a nearby motel, a stark contrast to the
rough camping we had endured. The beds were soft, the showers
hot, but sleep was elusive. Every sound was a footstep
outside the door, every shadow a lurking figure.
The terror of the forest had followed us, clinging to our
skin like the smell of smoke from our campfire.
The next day we left the Smokies behind, but the experience
stayed with us. Our annual trips continued, but
we traded the unpredictable wilderness for the predictable
safety of beach resorts. The Wild had lost its allure,
replaced by a deep, unsettling fear of what lay hidden in its
depths. As we drove away, I caught sight
of a small wooden figure nailed above the Ranger station door.
It was new, unnoticed, when we had arrived, its spindly limbs
arranged in a pattern eerily reminiscent of the totems that
had haunted our escape. Steve saw it, too.
I saw the color drain from his face, saw the way his hands
tightened on the steering wheel. It was a silent confirmation of
our experience, a nod to the truth of our story that only we
could understand. Whatever we had encountered in
the woods was real, at least to us.
It had marked us, changed us in ways we were still trying to
comprehend. The Smokies had always been a
place of beauty and escape, a place to forge memories and
strengthen bonds, But now they were a reminder of our
fragility, of the thin veil that separates the known from the
unknown. We had ventured into the wild,
seeking adventure, but what we found was a primal fear that
would forever color our memories of the mountains we once loved.
In the end, the wilderness had revealed its true nature not as
a sanctuary, but as a domain where ancient, unseen forces
still held sway. And we, mere visitors in its
vast expanse, had been lucky to escape with nothing more than a
story. A story that would linger in the
shadows of our minds, a whisper in the night that we could never
quite silence. I hail from a quaint, forgotten
corner of northwest Wisconsin, nestled amidst the tranquil
embrace of nature's greenery. In this hamlet, civilization
seems but a distant memory, with only a solitary gas station and
a weathered bar serving as the pulse of the community.
Our population, a mere 112 souls, primarily comprised
seasoned elders who had weathered the passing of time
with stoic resilience. My own abode lay on the fringes
of this sleepy town, a Parsonage where my grandmother, my two
sisters, and I dwelled. For the uninitiated, A Parsonage
is a dwelling nestled close to a church intended for the resident
pastor. However, in our case, the church
leased the property and my grandmother bore the
responsibility of its upkeep. Despite its ecclesiastical
roots, our home exuded a certain warmth and charm.
Positioned across the road from the church, its facade offered a
picturesque view, albeit with an ominous neighbor, the graveyard
casting shadows on the right flank of our property.
The house itself boasted a modest layout, 4 bedrooms, A
solitary bathroom and a spacious 2 car garage, all on a single
level save for the subterranean depths of the basement.
Surrounding the left and rear perimeters of our dwelling lay a
dense thicket of woods, a harmonious blend of towering
Pines, sturdy oaks and swaying grasses.
During the halcyon days of summer, my sisters and I would
frolic amidst this verdant haven, our laughter mingling
with the rustle of leaves and the Symphony of woodland
creatures. Yet amidst the idyllic backdrop
of our rustic abode lurked a tale that now claws its way back
into the recesses of my memory. Spurred by a conversation with
my aging grandmother as she recounted tales of yore, One
particular narrative resurfaced. A spectral remnant from the
shadows of my childhood, I once had a companion amidst the
woods, a spectral figure, tall and enigmatic, whose presence
lingered like a whisper in the wind.
It stood shrouded in darkness, never venturing beyond the
confines of the forest's embrace.
In my recollection, its form rose to towering heights, a
looming silhouette that peaked from the boughs of trees adorned
with the macabre visage of a deer skull.
Despite its eerie countenance, an inexplicable sense of
security enveloped me in its presence.
An odd comfort amidst the wilderness.
My sisters and I would engage in spirited games of hide and seek,
our voices mingling with the creatures, low melodic cooing, a
sound that resonated through the dense foliage like an ancient
incantation. Yet for all its ethereal allure,
the spectre bore a fetid odor, earning the moniker stinky from
my younger sibling, its movements fluid and silent as
the dance of shadows defied the natural laws that governed our
world. I recall witnessing it scale the
trees with unearthly grace, a shadowy Wraith traversing the
arboreal realm with eerie finesse. 1 Fateful day upon
returning home from the confines of academia, my sisters and I
ventured into the woods, only to stumble upon a crude Fort
fashioned from Styx and detritus.
We assumed it to be the handiwork of our spectral
playmate and gleefully embarked on our own imaginary escapades
within its confines. Yet our childish reverie was
shattered by the anguished cries of our grandmother, her voice
fraught with panic and urgency. With trembling hearts we
hastened indoors, where we were met with the chilling revelation
of a prone figure lying amidst the grass, a silent Sentinel
concealed from our youthful gaze.
The air thickened with dread as my grandmother locked the door
behind us, her fingers trembling as she reached for the phone,
summoning the authorities with quivering urgency.
Minutes stretched into eternities as we huddled in
fearful silence, the specter of uncertainty looming over us like
a shroud. When the local Constabulary
arrived. Their search yielded not but the
whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves.
They departed, leaving us to grapple with the enigmatic
intrusion that had shattered the tranquillity of our sanctuary.
In the aftermath of that harrowing ordeal, my grandmother
imposed a moratorium on outdoor play, a sombre decree that cast
a pall over our carefree existence.
Yet as the seasons waned and the spectre of fear ebbed, she
relented, allowing us to once more roam the verdant expanse of
our woodland haven. In the years that followed, the
memory of that spectral interloper lingered like a
ghostly spectre and enigma veiled in the mists of
uncertainty. I pondered the nature of our
unearthly companion. Was it a guardian spirit, a
harbinger of forgotten lore, or something more sinister lurking
amidst the shadows? As time wore on, the memory of
our spectral playmate faded into the annals of memory, supplanted
by the exigencies of adulthood. Yet amidst the tranquil embrace
of the woods, whispers of an unseen presence lingered, a
reminder of the mysteries that dwell beneath the canopy of
night. As someone who has spent their
entire life in the same small area, I've grown quite familiar
with the woods surrounding my home.
From my earliest memories, I've wandered these paths accompanied
by my parents, faithful dogs. These woods were my playground,
my sanctuary, I thought. I knew every inch of them like
the back of my hand. But one evening everything
changed. It was a typical evening, albeit
a bit later than usual. My energetic nine month old dog,
always eager for his nightly walk, was bouncing around with
excitement. We ventured into the woods
around 8:00 PM, following our usual route, but as dusk began
to settle, I realized we might not make it back before dark.
So I made the decision to take the shorter path through the
heart of the woods, a route I knew well but didn't frequent as
often. As we trotted along the familiar
yet slightly eerie path, I couldn't shake the feeling that
something wasn't right. My dog seemed tense too, his fur
bristling, his senses on high alert.
Ignoring the unease gnawing at me, I pressed on, eager to get
home. Then, out of the corner of my
eye, I noticed it, a strange archway made of intertwined
branches and vines. At first glance it seemed
innocuous, just another part of the natural scenery, But as I
approached, I realized there was something off about it.
The darkness within seemed impenetrable, swallowing the
faint light of the surrounding woods.
Curiosity tugged at me, urging me to investigate, but my dog
had other ideas. He planted himself firmly on the
ground, refusing to budget despite his youth.
His sturdy frame held me back, a silent warning not to proceed.
It was then that I truly grasped the gravity of the situation.
Whatever lay beyond that mysterious archway was not meant
for human eyes. With a sense of foreboding, I
snapped a few quick photos, feeling the weight of my dog's
apprehension. With my heart racing, we hurried
back along the path, my dog practically dragging me in his
haste to escape. Once safely back at the car, I
breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to leave that eerie
place behind. The next day, fueled by a
mixture of curiosity and apprehension, I returned to the
spot where the archway had stood, But to my bewilderment,
there was nothing there. I searched high and low,
scouring the area for any trace of the mysterious structure, but
it was as if it had never existed.
Haunted by the memory of that night, I couldn't shake the
feeling that I had stumbled upon something otherworldly,
something beyond comprehension. And though I had photos as
evidence, I hesitated to share them, uncertain of what they
might reveal to the. World, or worse, what they might
attract, Fishing has always been my sanctuary, ever since my
grandpa introduced me to it as a child.
There's an indescribable tranquillity in casting a line
into the water, surrounded by the soothing sounds of rustling
leaves and chirping birds. So when I found myself blessed
with a three day weekend last month, I couldn't resist the
opportunity for a solo fishing retreat in the serene setting of
the Smoky Mountains. I stumbled upon a cozy cabin
nestled deep in the woods. Available for rent by the
riverbank, the photos online showcased its rustic charm, a
grand stone fireplace, creaky wooden floors, a queen sized bed
and a basic kitchen. It was a far cry from my cramped
studio apartment, and the promise of freshly restocked
firewood sealed the deal. Arriving on a Friday evening, I
marvelled at how secluded the cabin truly was.
After unloading my fishing gear, I took a leisurely stroll around
the property. The nearby river burbled gently,
hidden from view by the dense foliage.
As dusk approached, I hurried down the wooded embankment,
eager to test my luck with the fish.
With daylight fading fast, I cast my line with fervor,
managing to hook two beautiful rainbow trout before darkness
enveloped the forest. Satisfied with my hall, I
returned to the cabin to clean and store the fish, envisioning
a delicious grilled dinner over the crackling fire.
As I settled into the cozy den, a sense of contentment washed
over me. The warmth of the fire, coupled
with a chilled beer lulled me into relaxation until strange
noises shattered the tranquility.
Guttural grunts and rhythmic snapping emanated from the dark
tree line outside, stirring primal fears within me.
Brushing it off as the harmless presence of a black bear, I
retired to bed with a second beer in hand.
Throughout the night, I was plagued by the eerie cries
echoing faintly through the glass, each one more unsettling
than the last. Despite my attempts to dismiss
them as vivid dreams, a lingering unease lingered as
dawn broke over the tree tops. Determined to shake off the
night's terrors, I ventured back to the river, losing myself in
the soothing rhythm of the water.
Landing three more trout before noon, I returned to the cabin to
prepare them for lunch. However, my peaceful respite was
short lived as the piercing shriek pierced the air once
more, this time uncomfortably close.
Blaming territorial disputes among native creatures for the
disturbance, I hastily devoured my meal and sought refuge
indoors. As dusk fell and the storm
intensified, I found myself constantly peering into the
darkness, dreading the sight of a lurking menace among the
dripping Pines. Though the cries ceased, I
couldn't shake the feeling of impending danger, triple
checking locks and windows as the night wore on.
Then a deafening crash jolted me from my fitful slumber,
signaling the presence of something monstrous outside.
With trembling hands, I cautiously peered out the
window, only to be met with the sight of two glowing orbs and a
grotesque, sinewy figure prowling the perimeter of the
cabin. Paralyzed with fear, I retreated
indoors, the creatures relentless pacing and scraping
against the walls, haunting me until dawn.
When daylight finally broke, I fled the cabin, leaving behind a
trail of destruction in my wake. Haunted by the harrowing
encounter, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched,
knowing that the malevolent entity still lurked in the
shadows, bidding its time until its next victim crossed its
path. And as I share my tale, I can't
help but wonder if those same eyes still track my every move,
waiting for the opportunity to strike once more.
The moment I crossed into South Dakota, the landscape took a
hold of me, with its sprawling prairies that stretched out like
a canvas painted in shades of gold and green.
I was 17, and the sense of adventure that Summer promised
was as palpable as the warm breeze flowing through the open
window of my old pickup. I was returning to my roots, to
a family that was as much a part of this land as the soil itself.
As I pulled into the driveway of the family home, the sight of my
brother standing on the porch, a grin splitting his face,
reminded me why I'd come. The air was filled with the
scent of pine and something sweet cooking inside.
My sister and her husband emerged, their smiles as
welcoming as the sun dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows
across the yard. We've been counting the days, my
sister said, wrapping me in a hug that felt like coming home.
The evening passed in a flurry of laughter and stories, the
kind that knit families together.
We talked about everything and nothing, reminiscing over past
adventures and plotting new ones.
It wasn't long before the conversation turned to what we
loved most, shooting. It was a passion we shared, a
way to connect with the land and each other.
We should head out to the woods tomorrow night.
My brother-in-law suggested. His eyes alight with the
familiar thrill of the idea. Make it a real adventure under
the stars. I hesitated, thinking about my
evening shift at the local diner, but the pole was too
strong. I get off around one, PMI said.
We can head out. After that, the plan was set.
We would pack the truck with our gear, snacks for the road, and
the guns and ammo that were as much a part of our family as our
shared DNA. That night I lay in bed.
The excitement making it hard to sleep, the anticipation of being
in the woods under the vast Dakota sky was something I'd
missed more than I realized. The next day at work, I found
myself watching the clock, each minute dragging on like hours.
Finally, 1:00 PM arrived and I rushed home.
The truck was already loaded, my family waiting with that same
spark of anticipation in their eyes.
The drive was a journey into the heart of what made South Dakota
wild and beautiful. The Dirt Rd., flanked by
towering trees and untamed grass, seemed to swallow us
whole, leading us deeper into the wilderness.
When we emerged into the clearing, it was like stepping
into another world, one that was quiet, serene, and untouched.
But beneath the surface of that tranquillity, a sense of unease
began to stir within me, a feeling I couldn't quite place.
I brushed it off as just the nerves of being in the woods, as
the sky darkened, telling myself it was nothing.
We were here to enjoy ourselves, to bond over our shared love of
shooting. Little did I know the night had
something else in store for us, something that would leave a
mark on me forever. The woods at night hold a
different kind of silence, the kind that weighs on you thick
and unyielding. As we set up in the clearing,
illuminated only by the dim glow of the trucks headlights, I
couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone.
It was irrational, I told myself.
We were experienced. We knew these woods.
Yet the unease nestled itself deep in my gut, refusing to be
ignored. We're all set, my brother
announced, his voice slicing through the quiet plastic
bottles and gallon jugs. Our makeshift targets stood
lined up like Sentinels in the darkness.
We took our positions, the familiar weight of my rifle a
comforting presence in my hands for a moment as we focused on
the task at hand. The unease receded, pushed to
the back of my mind. Then came the smell, sudden and
nauseating, a stench of rotten eggs so overpowering it made my
eyes water. What the hell is that?
My sister's husband muttered, echoing the confusion.
We all felt this was no ordinary scent of the woods, nor was it
the smell of gunpowder we were all too familiar with.
It was something else, Something wrong?
We paused, scanning the tree line for a source, but saw
nothing. Then, almost as if summoned by
our collective concern, it appeared a figure so out of
place in the natural order of these woods It seemed to warp,
the very air around it, crouching at the edge of the
clearing. It was a specter of hunger, its
body so thin its bones seem to press against its pallid skin.
Even in the weak light, I could see the elongated limbs, the way
it's dark hair fell around its face like a shroud.
Its eyes, though, were the worst, empty yet filled with an
ancient hunger. We need to leave, I whispered,
my voice barely carrying. No one argued.
The figure watched us unmoving as we hastily packed up.
The fear was palpable, a living thing that urged us to move
faster. As we scrambled into the truck,
I couldn't help but glance back. The figure was gone, as if it
had never been there, but the feeling of being watched
remained, clawing at my spine with cold fingers.
The drive back was silent, each of us lost in our thoughts
processing what we'd seen. It was only once the safety of
the house enveloped us that we spoke of it again.
Did we all see the same thing? My brother finally asked.
Our descriptions matched down to the haunting, hollow eyes.
Yet how could we have seen it in different places at the same
time? Was it real, or had fear
conjured it from the shadows? I lay awake that night, the
image of the figure etched into my mind.
In the days that followed, I scoured the Internet for stories
of creatures that matched what we'd seen, but found nothing.
It was as if the woods had whispered a secret to us, a
glimpse into a world that existed alongside ours, unseen
but ever present. That night in the woods changed
something in me. I had come to South Dakota
seeking adventure, a break from the monotony of everyday life.
Instead, I found a mystery, a story of my own that I couldn't
explain away no matter how hard I tried.
The woods held secrets, and we had stumbled upon one that would
haunt me forever, a reminder that some things are beyond our
understanding. The circle of forest lay cloaked
in a shroud of mystery. As enigmatic as it was
isolating, it wasn't vast by any means, merely a 750 meter
diameter of dense, untamed wilderness that seemed to exist
in a world apart from the rugged open spaces I usually found
solace in. The trees.
Within that circle were thick, their forms strange, almost
alien in their appearance, as if nature had twisted itself into
an incomprehensible puzzle. This circle was my charge, my
responsibility to monitor, tucked away from the prying eyes
of the world, bordered by a ring of grassless rock that served as
a natural barrier between the known and the unknown.
Sitting in my Hut, a modest structure of wood and tar barely
enough to keep out the elements, I cradled a mug of warm tea, the
only comfort in this remote outpost.
Rain pattered against the roof, a relentless drumming sound that
had become a constant companion over the past months.
It found its way through a corner of the roof, dripping
with a rhythmic persistence into a bucket I'd positioned beneath
my rifle. An ever present shadow leaned
against my leg, a reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond
the safety of these four walls. From where I sat, I could see
the forest's heart, a dark, gaping maw in the ground that
served as the centerpiece of this circle.
It was an abyss, a hole that led down into the depths of the
earth, its purpose or endpoint unknown.
I had ventured into it once, curiosity getting the better of
me, only to be repelled by an overwhelming pain that seized my
skull the deeper I went. It was an agony that forced me
to retreat, to acknowledge that some mysteries were better left
unsolved. Robbie, my colleague for the
duration of this assignment, joined me this evening.
He took a sip from his mug, a contented smile playing on his
lips. Ah, he sighed.
Nothing like a warm mug on a cold day.
I could only grunt an agreement, my mind elsewhere lost in the
contemplation of our surroundings and the oddity of
our situation. What do you think might be
coming up tonight? He asked, breaking the silence
that had settled between us. Who could tell Nothing,
hopefully, I replied, the hope sounding hollow even to my own
ears. It's been a while since the last
one, he murmured, almost to himself.
We're overdue a visitor. I couldn't help but snort at
that visitor was our way of adding a touch of dark humor to
the creatures that occasionally emerge from the whole, a way to
cope with the crushing isolation of our post.
I had been here for three months, with another three to go
each day blending into the next, punctuated only by the
unpredictable appearances of these visitors.
But tonight I had Robbie. It was a small comfort, but in
the vast silence of the circle, any human connection was a
lifeline. The rain intensified, a curtain
of water that seemed to separate us further from the world
beyond. I took a final sip of my tea,
setting the mug down with a thunk.
Right, let's head a little closer, shall we?
I suggested a decision born out of necessity rather than desire.
Into the rain, Robbie muttered, reluctance clear in his voice.
You know it, brother, I replied. A camaraderie forged and shared
hardship, pushing us forward. He sighed, resigned.
Fine. Are we splitting up or sticking
together this time? The question was rhetorical at
best. In this place, the bond between
us was the only certainty we had.
We'll stick together, I affirmed, clapping him on the
shoulder as we prepared to step out into the unknown once again,
rifles in hand, united against whatever darkness the Circle
chose to reveal tonight. The rain hadn't let up, turning
the ground beneath our feet into a slippery mire that threatened
to suck us down with each step we took towards the abyss at the
heart of the forest. The downpour obscured our view,
blurring the line between the known and the unknowable,
between safety and the lurking dangers of the circle.
Robbie and I, rifles ready, pushed through the underbrush,
our presence and affront to the solitude of this place.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and pine, a natural
fragrance that was usually comforting but now seemed to
carry an undercurrent of warning.
The forest around the circle was alive with the sounds of the
storm, the howling wind and the relentless drumming of rain on
leaves drowning out any other noise.
It was as if nature itself was conspiring to keep its secrets
hidden from our prying eyes. As we approached the clearing,
the sense of foreboding grew. The circle, with its gaping maw,
seemed to stare back at us, an unblinking eye that had
witnessed eons pass by. It was a reminder of our
insignificance, of the fleeting nature of human endeavor against
the backdrop of the ancient and the eternal.
It was Robbie who broke the silence, his voice barely
audible over the storm. I just think you'd be so much
happier if you quit this businessman, he said, concern
lacing his words, being isolated for such long periods of time.
It's not healthy. 3 months, I replied, my voice a mixture of
resignation and defiance. So six months total.
Half a year in such a place as this.
I trailed off, the weight of his words settling on me like the
heavy rain. Robbie shook his head about to
speak, but I cut him off. Something was stirring from the
hole, a shadow against the darkness.
Moving with an unnatural grace, we crouched lower instincts,
honed by months of vigilance taking over as we watched the
creature emerge. It was covered in slime, its
body and amalgamation of armor and flesh, with rows of sharp
legs that cut into the earth with each movement, its beady
eyes fixed on us, unseeing yet all too aware as it chattered in
a language of clicks and hisses that sent shivers down my spine.
Without a word, Robbie and I raised our rifles, a silent
agreement between us. The creature, a grotesque
mockery of life, was quickly dispatched it's death throes, A
cacophony that briefly rose above the storm before falling
silent. Disgusting, Robbie muttered,
echoing my own revulsion. The question of where these
creatures came from, what unnatural forces birthed them
into our world hung between us, unspoken but palpable.
The encounter left us shaken, a reminder of the unpredictable
and often grotesque nature of our visitors.
But there was little time to dwell on it.
The forest was not done with us yet.
No sooner had we regained our composure than a figure stumbled
into the clearing a man seemingly lost.
His appearance is out of place in this wilderness as a deer in
the city streets. His arrival sparked a mix of
relief and suspicion in me. Humans were rare in this
isolated circle, and while part of me yearned for the company,
another, more cautious part wondered if he was just another
visitor masquerading in human form.
The man claimed to be lost, a hiker who had wandered off the
path, but as we questioned him, his answers unravelled,
revealing the lie beneath. When he could not name a country
any sense of kinship, I felt evaporated.
I raised my rifle. The decision made in the span of
a heartbeat. His transformation from man to
monster was swift, a grotesque spectacle that ended with a
single shot. The black fluid that spilled
from his body was a stark reminder of the corruption that
lay at the heart of this circle, a corruption that threatened to
consume everything it touched. As we stood there, the rain
washing away the last traces of the creature, I couldn't help
but wonder about the nature of our duty.
Were we protectors, standing guard against the darkness?
Or were we simply delaying the inevitable, fighting a battle we
could not hope to win? The circle of the forest held
its secrets tight, and as the night wore on, I knew that our
vigil was far from over. The night deepened, wrapping the
circle in a darkness so complete it felt almost tangible, like a
cloth smothering the last vestiges of daylight.
The rain had eased to a persistent drizzle, the droplets
merging with the mist that rose from the earth, blurring the
lines between earth and sky. It was in this twilight of
shadows and whispers that the forest revealed its newest
aberration, duplicates of Robbie and myself stepping from the
gloom with an eerie familiarity. Their appearance was a jolt to
my senses, A visceral punch that left me reeling.
I had faced the monstrous, the grotesque without flinching.
But the sight of my own face, mirrored in the half light, was
a horror of a different sort. These were not the mindless
predators or misshapen beasts that had stumbled from the hole
before. They were something new,
something far more disturbing. The duplicates spoke, their
voices, a mockery of our own pleading for understanding, for
recognition. They spoke of realities beyond
our understanding, of truths that lay buried deep within the
abyss that dominated this cursed circle of forest.
They claimed to come from a future looped back upon itself,
a concept that strained the limits of my comprehension.
Robbie, the real Robbie, remained silent beside me, his
rifle trained on his own duplicate.
I could see the tension in his posture, the barely suppressed
urge to act, to end this surreal encounter before it could
unravel further. Yet we hesitated, caught in the
grip of an uncertainty that was as paralyzing as it was
unfamiliar. The dilemma that faced us was
unlike any I had encountered in my years of service.
Was there truth in the words of these duplicates?
Or was it merely another layer of deception, a trap designed to
exploit our deepest fears and doubts?
The forest had taught me to trust in my instincts, to see
through the lies and illusions that it conjured.
But in this moment, my instincts were silent, drowned out by the
torrent of questions that flooded my mind as the
conversation spiraled, Touching on themes of duty, isolation,
and the human condition, I felt the weight of my
responsibilities bear down on me with renewed force.
The Guardian of the Circle, the Sentinel standing watch over a
gateway to unimaginable horrors. I had accepted the burden of
this role without question, driven by a sense of duty that
had once seemed unshakable. But now, faced with the pleading
eyes of my duplicate, with the echoes of a life I could not
remember but felt hauntingly familiar, I found myself
questioning the very foundations of that duty.
What if, in my zeal to protect, to prevent the horrors of the
forest from spilling into the world beyond, I had lost sight
of something essential, something fundamentally human.
The decision, when it came, was a reflex, a return to the
training and protocols that had governed my actions since the
day I took up this post. The duplicates, regardless of
the truths they might hold, represented A breach, a
violation of the rules that kept the chaos at Bay.
With a resolve that felt brittle in its intensity, I raised my
rifle, aiming for the heart of my own mirror image.
The shots rang out, echoes bouncing off the trees as the
duplicates fell. 1 by 1. The forest absorbed the sound,
muffling the finality of our actions, leaving us once again
in silence. Robbie and I stood alone in the
clearing, the rain washing away the traces of the encounter, as
if the forest itself sought to erase the evidence of our
doubts. As the night wore on, the weight
of what had transpired settled upon me, a mantle of uncertainty
that was as suffocating as the darkness that enveloped us.
The Guardian's dilemma, the choice between duty and the
unknown, had been resolved, but the cost of that resolution, the
price of our continued vigil, remained an open question, one
that whispered in the shadows unanswered.
Dawn was a concept rather than a reality in the circle of forest,
a faint lightening of the sky that did little to dispel the
darkness of the night's events. The encounter with the
duplicates had shaken me more than I cared to admit, leaving a
residue of doubt that clung to me like the morning mist.
It was a feeling I couldn't shake, even as Robbie and I
resumed our positions, watching the whole with a vigilance born
of necessity rather than conviction.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the usual sounds of
wildlife conspicuously absent, as if the very earth awaited the
next act in this unfolding drama.
And it wasn't long before the circle delivered, challenging
the very foundations of my reality with a scenario so
bizarre, so utterly beyond the realm of possibility, that I
questioned my sanity. Figures emerged from the mist,
their features becoming clearer as they approached an older
version of myself, lines of time etched into his face, An aged
Robbie, his familiar grin tempered by years, and a woman.
Her features a blend of the familiar and the unknown,
introducing herself as my daughter.
Their appearance was a gut punch, a visceral blow that left
me reeling, struggling to comprehend the implications of
their words, they spoke of a future, of a loop that had
brought them back to this moment, this critical juncture
in time. The elder version of myself
pleaded for understanding his words, a torrent of urgency and
desperation. He spoke of the whole as a
passage, a gateway that connected not just different
places but different times, different realities.
The skepticism that had served me so well in the past, that had
been my armor against the lies and deceptions of the forest
began to crack. The possibility that these
people, these versions of myself and those I cared for, could be
speaking. The truth was a sliver of doubt
that wormed its way into my thoughts, unsettling in its
persistence. Yet as the conversation
unfolded, as please turn to demands, and the fabric of my
understanding stretched thin, I found myself retreating to the
familiar ground of duty and protocol.
The risk, the sheer, unknowable risk of believing, of allowing
these figures to alter the course of events, was too great.
The circle, with its history of deception and danger, had taught
me that much. With a resolve that felt more
like desperation, I acted, silencing the voices that sought
to sway me with a finality that brooked no argument.
The forest absorbed the sound of the shots just as it had
absorbed so much else, leaving behind a silence that was as
profound as it was unsettling. Robbie, or the figure I had
known as Robbie, watched me with an expression that mirrored my
own turmoil. The revelation that the real
Robbie had been dead for years, that the man beside me was yet
another deception, was a final twist of the knife, a betrayal
that cut deeper than any physical wound.
As I stood there, surrounded by the fallen, the duplicity of the
forest laid bare, I couldn't help but wonder, at the cost of
my actions. The guardianship of the circle,
a duty I had accepted without question, had demanded
everything of me, leaving in its wake a trail of ghosts, both
literal and metaphorical. The rain began to ease, the
first rays of sunlight piercing the canopy and shafts of light
that seemed almost otherworldly in their beauty.
It was a beauty that felt unearned, a reminder of the
world beyond the circle, a world I had protected at the expense
of my own soul. The corpses would disappear,
consumed by the forest as if they had never been but the
scars they left behind, the questions that remained
unanswered would not fade so easily.
The loop may have unravelled, but the threads of doubt of what
might have been lingered. A tapestry of choices and
consequences that I would carry with me long after my vigil
ended. Moving to Sunderland, Vermont
wasn't exactly my dream come true, but then again, I never
really had a dream about the perfect place to live.
My parents were the ones with the dream.
They wanted a quiet, peaceful life away from the hustle and
bustle of the city. It'll be an adventure, they
said. A fresh start, they claimed.
I wasn't so sure. But then I hated Boston anyway,
with its noisy streets and crowded sidewalks.
So when my parents announced we were moving to a small wooded
town, I shrugged and packed my bags without protest.
Our new home was a rustic 2 story house with a large
backyard that melded seamlessly into the western edge of a dense
forest. I remember thinking it looked
like something out of a fairy tale.
With its wooden facade and stone chimney.
The forest behind our house was vast and unexplored, a sharp
contrast to the concrete jungle I was used to.
I was intrigued by it, but also slightly intimidated.
My parents, on the other hand, were immediately enchanted.
For the first few years, life in Sunderland was as normal as it
could be. I made a few friends, did
decently in school, and slowly got used to the slow pace of
small town living. The woods became a background to
our daily lives, a picturesque view from our kitchen window,
but nothing more. I'd venture close to the edge
sometimes, always within viewing range of the house, but never
dared to explore its depths, especially not after dark.
That was an unspoken rule I had set for myself.
Everything changed when I was a junior in high school.
That's when my nightmare began. It was a late summer afternoon,
the sky a dull Gray canvas above us.
My friend Chris and I were bored out of our minds, flipping
through channels on TV when he suggested we go outside.
Let's smoke the joint. I got off Derek and Calculus, he
said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
I hesitated at first, but the idea of doing something,
anything, other than rotting away on the couch seemed
appealing. We don't need to go far, I told
him as we made our way to the forest.
I just don't want my parents to catch us.
Chris laughed. You've never explored deeper
than this? He asked, gesturing to the
familiar boundary I never crossed.
Not really. I admitted.
No reason to. He shook his head in disbelief.
Then it's time for you to go on an adventure.
He stopped walking and dropped his backpack to the ground,
rummaging through it before pulling out a can of red spray
paint. We'll mark our path so we don't
get lost, he declared. I couldn't help but laugh at his
sudden Boy Scout attitude. Why are you even carrying that
around? You never know when it might
come in handy, he said, grinning.
We ventured deeper into the forest, Chris leading the way
and marking a ring on the trees we passed.
The ground beneath our feet was soft, the air filled with the
scent of earth and decay. It was quiet, the kind of quiet
you only find far away from civilization.
It was peaceful, yet as we walked further in, I couldn't
shake off a growing feeling of unease.
Suddenly, Chris stopped and called me over excitedly.
Hey, Heather, come take a look at this.
I approached him, curious to see what had caught his attention.
It was a pit, about 3 to 4 meters in diameter, looking as
though someone had scooped out a perfect cylinder of Earth.
Vines dangled over its edges, but the sides were unnaturally
smooth. How deep do you think it is?
Chris asked, lighting the joint. I shrugged, equally fascinated
and apprehensive. No idea.
Let's throw something in. We tossed in rocks and sticks,
but there was no sound of them hitting the bottom.
Just silence. An eerie, unsettling silence
that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This is freaky, Chris said, passing me the joint.
I took a hit, trying to calm my nerves as I peered into the pit.
The more I stared, the more I felt like something was staring
back, something from the depths of the darkness.
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the feeling.
I don't like this whole, I said, my voice slightly shaky.
Let's head back. We made our way back to my
house, marking our path as we went, But I couldn't shake off
the feeling that we had seen something we weren't supposed
to, that we had stirred something that should have been
left alone. Little did I know that was just
the beginning. The morning after, we found that
weird pit in the woods, I couldn't shake off the eerie
feeling that had settled in my stomach.
School felt like a blur. My thoughts kept drifting back
to the pit. It's silent challenge, and the
absolute darkness that seemed to swallow everything we threw into
it. Chris was equally distracted, I
could tell. We exchanged glances throughout
the day, a silent agreement that we needed to talk during lunch.
Chris pulled me aside. Did you see it too?
He whispered, his eyes wide. The nightmares, I mean.
I nodded, feeling a cold shiver run down my spine.
Yeah, I saw us from inside the pit, and then something.
I don't know. Something was watching us.
Chris rubbed his face with his hands, looking more tired than
I'd ever seen him. I Googled about pits like that
last night. Ever heard of Mel's Hole?
I shook my head and he told me about this bottomless pit
someone claimed to have found, which was apparently so deep
that not even a super long fishing line could reach the
bottom. The story was probably a hoax,
but it made our discovery even more unsettling.
The rest of the school day dragged on.
I couldn't focus on anything, my teacher said.
My mind was stuck on the pit, the nightmares and now Mel's
whole. When the final bell rang, I
practically bolted out of class, eager to escape the suffocating
normalcy of school. As I walked home, the forest
edge seemed to loom larger, more menacing than before.
The thought of going back there made my heart race, but at the
same time a strange curiosity tugged at me.
What was down there? Was it just an ordinary pit or
something more? That night, the nightmares
returned more vivid and terrifying than before.
I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding in my chest.
The dream had been so real I could almost believe I had
actually been inside the pit, staring up at a distorted
version of the night sky. The next day I found Chris in
the library, his face buried in books about paranormal phenomena
and unexplained mysteries. We have to go back, he said,
without looking up. We need to figure out what that
pit is. I hesitated.
But what if? What if there's something
dangerous? Chris finally looked at me, his
expression grim. What if there already is
Heather? Weird things have been happening
at my house, sounds, shadows, moving on their own.
I think it's connected to the pit.
The thought of unseen dangers lurking in the woods, possibly
making their way into our homes sent a shiver down my spine.
But Chris was right. Ignoring the pit wasn't going to
make it go away. We needed to face whatever was
out there that afternoon. Armed with flashlights and a new
can of spray paint to mark our path, we ventured back into the
forest. The air felt heavier, the
silence more oppressive. Every rustle in the underbrush
had me jumping, half, expecting something to leap out at us.
When we reached the pit, it was just as we had left it, dark,
foreboding, and utterly inscrutable.
Chris suggested we try to measure its depth by dropping a
weighted string down, but like everything else we threw into
it, the string disappeared into the void without a sound.
Frustrated and more than a little frightened, we headed
back home. The feeling of being watched
followed us every step of the way, a constant reminder that we
had stumbled upon something beyond our understanding.
That night, the disturbances started at my house, 2 footsteps
in the hallway, a shadow flickering in the corner of my
eye, the sensation of cold fingers brushing against my
skin. I lay in bed, too scared to
move, too scared to sleep, knowing that whatever was out
there, it was getting closer. The days following our second
visit to the pit blurred into a haze of fear and confusion.
Both Chris and I were grappling with the reality that something
had followed us back from the woods, something that lingered
in the shadows of our homes, manifesting as unexplainable
noises and fleeting shadows. The nightmares intensified, each
more vivid and terrifying than the last.
It felt as though the pit had opened a door that we couldn't
close, unleashing something into our lives that we didn't
understand and couldn't control. In a desperate attempt to find a
solution, Chris and I poured over Internet forums, books, and
old legends, searching for anything that might explain the
pit or how to deal with what we had encountered.
That's when Chris stumbled upon the idea of an offering.
It's a long shot, he admitted one afternoon as we sat in my
backyard, far from the tree line that now seemed to watch us with
a silent, malevolent gaze. But maybe if we give it what it
wants, it'll leave us alone. The idea of giving anything to
that gaping void in the woods was terrifying, but we were out
of options. The constant fear and sleepless
nights had taken their toll, leaving us both on edge and
desperate for any form of relief.
So we decided on a plan. We would gather items of
personal value, hoping that whatever resided within the pit
would accept them as a peace offering.
Chris brought an old family watch, something he'd inherited
from his grandfather, and I gathered a few pieces of jewelry
that had been gifts from my parents over the years.
We also included meat, thinking that if the entity was more
primal, it might prefer something more basic.
The walk back to the pit was the longest of my life.
Every snap of a twig under foot sounded like a gunshot in the
oppressive silence of the forest.
When we finally reached the pit, it was as if the air around us
had grown colder, the darkness deeper.
Without speaking, we threw our offerings into the abyss.
They disappeared without a sound, swallowed by the void.
We stood there for a long time, waiting for something to happen,
but the forest remained silent, the pit inscrutable.
For a moment it felt like we might have been successful.
The oppressive feeling that had followed us seemed to lift
slightly, and for the first time in days I felt a glimmer of
hope. Maybe, just maybe, we had
appeased whatever haunted us. That night, however, proved us
wrong. The disturbances at my house
grew worse, culminating in an incident where I woke to find my
bedroom door violently shaking, as if someone or something was
trying to break in. Chris experienced similar
events. With objects moving on their own
and an unshakable feeling of being watched.
It was clear that our offering had failed.
Whatever resided in the pit, it wanted more.
The realization filled me with a dread so profound it was almost
paralyzing. We had tried to fix the problem,
to make peace with the unknown, but instead we had angered it.
Sitting in my room, listening to the sounds of the night and
wondering what would come for us next, I couldn't help but feel a
sense of despair. We were out of our depth,
dealing with something beyond our understanding, and the pit,
with its insatiable darkness, seemed to be at the heart of it
all. What had we unleashed?
And more importantly, how could we ever hope to stop it?
The desperation in Chris's eyes the day after our failed
offering haunted me. We sat in silence, the weight of
our situation pressing down on us.
It felt like we were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring
into an abyss that stared right back, hungry and unforgiving.
Chris broke the silence with a suggestion that chilled me to
the bone. What if it wants something
living? He whispered, his voice hoarse.
I recoiled at the thought. No, Chris, we can't.
I protested the idea of sacrificing an innocent creature
to that thing in the woods, twisting my stomach into knots,
but the look of sheer desperation on his face stopped
me. He was right.
We had tried everything else. This might be our only chance to
end the nightmare, so we set the plan into motion, trapping a
rabbit and a raccoon in humane traps.
My heart ached as we carried them to the pit, their eyes wide
with fear. When we reached the pit, it
seemed to loom larger than before, as if it had grown fed
by our fear and desperation. Throwing the animals into the
void was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
Their cries as they fell echoed in my mind long after they had
been swallowed by the darkness. We waited, but nothing happened.
No sign of acceptance, no feeling of relief, just the same
oppressive silence and the weight of what we had just done.
We walked back home in silence, each lost in our own thoughts
and fears. That night was the worst yet.
The sounds were louder, closer, as if whatever we had awoken was
now right outside my window, just beyond my sight.
I lay in bed, paralyzed by fear, until the first light of dawn
crept through my curtains. The next morning I found Chris
waiting for me outside my house, a look of resolve on his face.
We have to go back, he said. It's getting worse.
I knew he was right. We had to face this once and for
all. We made our way back to the pit,
the forest around us eerily silent, as if holding its
breath. But when we arrived, the pit had
changed. It was larger, and the ground
around it seemed to pulse as if it were alive.
That's when Chris turned on me, his eyes wild.
It's the only way, he said, pushing me towards the pit.
I stumbled, terror gripping me as I realized what he meant.
He believed the pit wanted a human sacrifice.
Me. The struggle was brief but
frantic. I managed to push him away, but
in doing so Chris lost his balance and fell backward into
the pit. The look of betrayal and fear on
his face as he fell will haunt me forever.
I ran home, my mind a blur of panic and guilt.
I told my parents everything and my dad accompanied me back to
the woods. But there was nothing there.
No pit, no sign of the struggle. Nothing.
Heather, there's nothing here. It was just a dream, my dad said
gently. But I knew the truth.
Chris was gone, and it was my fault.
The police investigation found nothing.
Chris and his parents disappeared, and the rumors
swirled, but I knew the truth. The pit had taken them just like
it had taken Chris. I haven't gone back to the woods
since that day. The fear, the guilt, it's all
too much. I lost my best friend to
something beyond our understanding, something ancient
and malevolent that lurks in the darkness.
And I know deep down that it's still out there waiting.