I still remember that summer camp trip vividly.
It happened when I was in 8th grade in the beautiful lakeside
city of Burlington, ON, not too far from Toronto.
Our school had organized this trip kind of like a summer camp
experience, and we were all eager to embark on this
adventure. It was a Catholic school and as
part of our final year all the 8th graders got to go on two
trips. The first one usually took place
in the fall, a religious camping trip aimed at promoting
Christian values and teamwork. To be honest, none of us were
particularly excited about it as it felt like a never ending
religion class stretched over three days.
The second trip scheduled for spring was supposed to be a
weekend in Ottawa exploring the city and visiting museums.
However, our year took an unexpected turn when it was
decided that we would go camping instead 4 hours away at
Algonquin Provincial Park. The camp was located near one of
the parks lakes set up like a typical summer camp, with cabins
scattered near the lake and partially in the forest.
There were separate buildings for bathrooms and a mess hall.
For those not familiar with provincial parks, they're
similar to state or national parks in the United States.
As expected, the boys and girls stayed in separate cabins.
The girls cabins were perched on supports above the ground and
closer to the lake, while our cabins were nestled deeper in
the forest along a gravel Rd. I shared a relatively large
cabin with about four other guys.
Our cabin, despite being the largest, was far from
comforting. Unlike the other cabins with
proper windows and doors that could fully close and lock, ours
looked like it was hastily constructed from plywood.
It had thin bug screens for Windows and a door that wouldn't
close properly. Now, I should mention that I had
zero experience with actual camping.
My family disliked it, so this was a less than ideal first
impression of the great outdoors.
The creepiness began on the first evening we were all
gathered outside the mess hall for a supposed fun night
activity. The camp counselors spun a tale
about a hermit who live nearby in the woods and we were going
on a night time expedition to see where he resided.
It was a random, intriguing idea and it caught us by surprise.
With our flashlights as our only source of light, we ventured
deeper into the dark woods searching for this hermits
house. Excited screams echoed through
the night as we haunted for the mysterious abode.
Eventually we stumbled upon the hermit's dwelling, which was
nothing more than a massive log with a makeshift bed.
After the eerie encounter, we were escorted back to camp.
My group didn't see anything unusual, but other kids started
whispering about glimpses of someone lurking in the dark
woods. A person from my cabin even
claimed to have seen blue glowing eyes in the darkness.
I dismissed it as a campfire ghost story meant to spook us,
convinced that the person in the woods was just another
counselor. But that night, everything
changed. Sometime in the middle of the
night I was jolted awake by the sound of someone sprinting down
the gravel Rd. that ran to our cabin.
At first I thought it might be an animal, but then I heard the
faint crunch of gravel around our cabin.
It was too soft for an animal. It was the sound of a person
moving. Panic set in as I realized that
our cabin door didn't lock and the thin bug screens offered no
protection. If someone wanted to, they could
easily push the door open and see inside.
My bed was right beside the door and I kept my eyes locked on it,
preparing to scream if someone entered, but the door never
opened. The sound outside slowly faded
away into the woods, leaving me terrified and baffled.
My immediate thought was that it must have been the hermit.
I ruled out the possibility of it being a counselor or teacher,
as it was well past 3:00 in the morning, an odd time for a check
in. Surprisingly, I managed to fall
asleep again after that ordeal. Unfortunately, that was the only
interesting part of the camp trip.
The remaining days were marred by relentless rain, and some
students from our class caught the flu from another school
sharing the camp with us. The bus ride back home was
partially quarantined. As time passed, I almost forgot
about the creepy encounter, attributing it to the
possibility of a counselor checking on us.
However, the story didn't end there.
The following year, it was my younger sister's turn to go on
the same 8th grade camping trip. Just like for my class, they
went on the strange hermit expedition during the first
night. While she initially thought
nothing of it, during one of the other days she and a few friends
ventured into the woods by the lake.
She described seeing a small hermit like person sitting on a
log in the distance. It might not be the creepiest
summer camp story ever, but it sends shivers down my spine
knowing that the hermit was indeed real.
That seemingly fun camp LED a bunch of children to a random
guy's house in the middle of the woods, making the entire
experience much less enjoyable in retrospect.
I've been working in the film industry for a decade now, and
while my role isn't exactly glamorous, it's incredible to be
a part of this world. In a nutshell, I scout locations
for films and ensure they're suitable for specific scenes.
Many of my colleagues fell in love with movies at an early
age, and the same holds true for me.
My grandfather, a producer in the 1960s, worked alongside
legendary talents like Audrey Hepburn, Alfred Hitchcock, John
Wayne, and even Elvis Presley. As a young child, my grandfather
regaled my brother cousins in me with captivating stories about
the mythical world of Hollywood during that era.
Yet as I grew older, I couldn't help but notice my grandmother's
discomfort whenever he spoke about his time in the industry.
Her uneasy demeanor didn't escape my brother's and my
notice, and we began to speculate about the cause.
Unfortunately, we eventually arrived at the unsettling
possibility that my grandfather might have had an affair during
those wild Hollywood years. It seemed like the logical
explanation for my grandmother's strange behavior, although we
acknowledged it wasn't fair to jump to conclusions.
Hollywood during that period was notorious for its extravagant
parties and beautiful actresses, and my grandfather, being a
prominent producer, fit the profile all too well.
So why am I sharing this story now?
Last month, my brother and I decided to finally confront my
grandmother about what really happened during her time in
Hollywood. We no longer wanted to hear the
romanticized tales my grandfather had spun for us.
Given my own career in the industry, we needed to know the
truth, especially if it had been an affair.
We approached the subject with utmost delicacy, not wanting to
upset her or dredge up painful memories until the day he passed
away. My grandmother had always
expressed profound love and admiration for my grandfather,
which made it seem even more peculiar that he might have
strayed. My brother, the smooth talker of
the two of us, finally asked Grandma why did Grandpa leave
Hollywood, and why do you always go quiet and leave the room?
Whenever he told us those stories, my grandmother took a
deep breath, seemingly preparing herself to share a long held
secret. She began to narrate her story,
weaving a tale only an elder could recount in such detail.
We couldn't have been more wrong in our assumptions.
My grandmother couldn't recall the exact year, but during her
husband's tenure as a producer, he decided to move her to
Hollywood. At the time, in her early 20s,
she harbored dreams of becoming an actress, and she was
undeniably beautiful. My grandfather used his
connections to secure auditions for her and introduce her to
some influential figures in the industry.
However, my grandmother was determined not to have her
success handed to her merely because she was married to a
producer. She used a different last name
during auditions and never mentioned her connection to my
grandfather, wanting to be judged solely on her talent.
After several failed auditions, my grandmother nearly gave up on
her dream of acting and considered trying her hand at
modeling, as she had received some offers, but she had one
last audition for what seemed like a significant film
opportunity. She recounted how my grandfather
was skeptical about this audition, having never heard of
the director or the film. However, my grandmother was
stubborn and urged him to trust her instincts.
On her way to the audition, she got lost and stumbled upon a
dilapidated building on the outskirts of town.
Being new to the area, she didn't question the location and
assumed it was a creative choice made by the director, perhaps
even his office. She walked through the door only
to find 4 individuals inside, three women and one man, all
masked. In an instant, my grandmother
realized her peril and tried to flee, but two of the women
caught her and subjected her to a brutal beating.
After a few agonizing minutes, they tied her to a chair,
leaving her helpless. One of the women then delivered
a chilling ultimatum. My grandmother had to assist
them in a robbery if she wished to survive.
The consequences of refusing were too grim to imagine.
My grandmother reluctantly agreed, hoping that she could
find a way to escape this terrifying situation.
The woman outlined their plan. She would rob an apartment for
them. The four assailants assured her
that there would be cash on a table inside, and my grandmother
had no choice but to comply. She assumed that once inside the
apartment, she could locate a phone or, better yet, find the
occupant and explain her predicament.
They reached the apartment building, and my grandmother's
plan began to unravel. The man from the group
accompanied her inside, holding a menacing pipe in his hand,
which filled her with dread. She suspected that the pipe was
intended for her. The apartment's door was
unlocked, and they entered. My grandmother was handed a
cloth sack and instructed to fill it with cash, assuring her
that money would be found on a nearby table.
As she cautiously collected the cash, her mind raced, searching
for an escape plan. Suddenly, she spotted a glass
vase on the table filled with fresh flowers.
With quick thinking and desperation surging through her
veins, she seized the vase and shattered it against the man's
face. He fell to the ground in pain,
allowing her the opportunity to bolt from the apartment.
My grandmother stumbled upon a back exit and sprinted several
blocks, her heart pounding with fear.
She finally encountered a police car parked nearby and approached
it frantically. Breathlessly, she explained
everything to the officers, desperately pleading for help.
Back in those days, the police didn't always respond with
urgency when it came to women's distress, and it took them a
moment to believe her and take her statement seriously.
Eventually, they contacted my grandfather, who decided to
raise hell to ensure justice prevailed.
Thankfully, my grandmother provided A detailed description
of her captors, leading to the arrest of one of the women.
However, the other three perpetrators remained at large.
My grandmother never discovered the identity of the apartment's
owner, but suspected involvement in the sinister underbelly of
Hollywood during that era. The woman they arrested admitted
to framing my grandmother, intending to incapacitate her
inside the apartment after she'd filled the bag with cash.
They believed she was merely a young actress, and her capture
at the scene would have been another tragic story.
Lost in The Dark World of show business.
This harrowing nightmare had left my grandmother deeply
scarred, compelling her to leave Hollywood and return to her
parents house. My grandfather followed several
months later and that's when they started their family.
He told us uplifting and joyful stories to entertain us
children. But whenever he mentioned his
time in Hollywood, my grandmother couldn't help but
recall the traumatic ordeal she endured.
I can only imagine the horrors my grandmother experienced
during that terrifying ordeal. I am grateful she managed to
escape and find some semblance of justice.
As for the three other monsters from that night, I can only hope
that karma eventually caught up with them and justice was served
in one form or another. My name is Brian and it's two in
the morning as I write this. I hope that sharing my
experience will help take my mind off the chilling events
that unfolded at the time. I was living in Alaska,
approximately 16 miles southwest of Fairbanks.
My home was nestled deep within a forest and my love for the
wilderness had led me to this secluded paradise.
I was an avid camper, often venturing out into the woods
with my 2 year old German Shepherd, Cosmo.
That particular night, I was feeling the weight of a tough
week, so I decided to go camping to ease my mind.
My favorite spot lay next to a serene lake roughly 7 miles from
my house. Instead of taking the car, I
opted for a jog. I grabbed my camping gear,
Cosmo's harness, and leash, and set off.
Given my background as a wildland firefighter, carrying
the necessary equipment was second nature to me.
It took around 2 hours to reach our destination.
Upon arrival, I wasted no time setting up camp.
Then Cosmo and I ventured upstream to try our luck with
fishing. I managed to hook a beautiful
rainbow trout. When I returned to camp,
however, something unsettling occurred.
My tent had inexplicably collapsed.
Anyone who has set up a tent knows that they don't just fall
on their own, you have to intentionally disassemble them.
Perplexed, I erected the tent once more and lit a campfire.
I cooked the rainbow trout and it was nothing short of
delicious. Following that, I roasted
marshmallows over the fire, not bothering with s'mores as I
preferred them plain. With the fire extinguished, I
crawled into the tent with Cosmo, finding solace in the
Symphony of nature which had always lulled me to sleep.
Sometime in the dead of night, I awoke to the low growl emanating
from Cosmo. Irritated at first, I was soon
gripped by the eerie realization that the forest had fallen
silent save for cosmos Warning growls in the darkness.
I reached for my backpack and retrieved my 9mm handgun.
It was a well ingrained instinct.
If the forest went silent, something was out there.
I sat there, clutching my gun for what felt like an eternity,
but was likely only minutes. Then it came, a sound that sent
shivers down my spine. It was reminiscent of a
caribou's call, but distorted, almost gargling.
My heart raced as I heard a twig snap nearby, so close it felt as
if it was just outside the tent. Without hesitation, I fired a
warning shot into the air. The sudden blast seemed to
startle whatever lurked in the darkness, and it retreated.
But the forest remained eerily silent, and my unease grew.
At six foot three, and with a desire to appear fearless, I
bellowed A menacing warning into the night, threatening to shoot
if whatever it was returned to my disbelief it did come back.
This time it brushed against the side of the tent, taunting me
with its malevolent presence. In a surge of terror I fired at
it and it darted away into the depths of the forest.
Suddenly all the ambient sounds of the wilderness rushed back,
filling the void that had existed during the creatures
sinister visit. I stayed vigilant, my gun at the
ready, but with the break of dawn I made my decision.
I swiftly packed up my camp, secured Cosmos harness and fled
the scene, sprinting 2 miles and jogging the rest of the way.
I cannot say for certain what I had encountered that night, but
I was grateful that it had played out the way it did,
sparing me from whatever malevolent force lurked in the
darkness. Last month I embarked on a
journey to visit my grandparents after a couple of years of
absence. I know it might sound terrible,
but the truth is my grandparents live on the other side of the
country, making it challenging to visit frequently.
This visit was more than just a casual family gathering, it was
a grand family reunion, an opportunity to reconnect with
cousins, aunts and uncles I hadn't seen in what felt like an
eternity. My grandparents residence was a
sprawling farm, a place I remembered fondly from my
childhood. When we live just 30 minutes
away, we used to visit occasionally and stay overnight.
Every one of those nights had been filled with incredible
memories and I always felt safe within the walls of that
farmhouse. Little did I know that beneath
the facade of tranquility lay a horrifying tale.
As the family sat around, swapping stories and laughter,
my grandfather decided to share something that would send
shivers down my spine. It was a night when my cousin
James and I had stayed overnight at the farm, a night that would
forever haunt my dreams. The recollection of that evening
came rushing back as my grandpa began his unsettling narrative.
I remember precisely which night it was, because it was the only
time in my life when my grandpa had raised his voice at me.
The night started innocently. As most sleepovers do, James and
I played outside devoured pot pies with extra gravy and sipped
on root beers, pretending they were real beers.
The farmhouse had a creepy little loft with a pull out bed
and a small TV where we had our PlayStation hooked up.
We typically stay up all night, engrossed in games like Spyro
the Dragon and Crash Bandicoot. However that night as the clock
neared midnight, our world was shaken by an ear splitting bang.
From downstairs, we instinctively paused the game,
locking eyes with a sickening feeling in our stomachs.
My initial thought was that one of my grandparents had taken a
tumble, and I didn't know if I had the mental strength at that
time to help them up. We sat in silence for what felt
like an eternity, straining our ears for any sound from below.
The silence was deafening, leaving us in an agonizing state
of uncertainty. Tentatively, we resumed our
game, trying to dismiss the eerie atmosphere that had
settled upon us, but something felt off and inexplicable.
Unease had taken hold of us. James halted the game again,
suggesting that one of us should check on our grandparents just
in case they needed our help. I reluctantly agreed and open
the loft door, which was attached to the ceiling As it
creaked open, a small ladder like staircase descended.
I descended the stairs as quietly as I could, straining to
hear any clues from the lower floor.
Faint murmurs reached my ears, but the words remained
indistinct. With cautious steps, I moved
down the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest.
Then another loud bang, this time akin to a door slamming,
sent me nearly jumping out of my skin.
Fear surged through me as I continued to advance, and then I
saw my grandpa turning the corner, his eyes filled with an
intensity I had never witnessed before.
Without uttering a word, he pointed towards the loft and
shouted at the top of his lungs. It was a bone chilling scream,
unlike anything I'd heard from him before.
I was terrified and it was made even worse by the look of sheer
urgency on his face. In sheer panic I spun around,
sprinting back up to the loft and hastily shutting off the TV.
James bombarded me with questions, but I could only
manage to hiss at him to keep quiet, and the grandpa was angry
with us throughout the night. We heard more loud banging and
shuffling, but exhaustion eventually overtook us and we
fell asleep. The following morning, we found
our grandparents looking exhausted in the living room.
My grandpa had his hunting rifle out, an unusual sight that we
didn't question at the time. Despite their strange demeanor.
That morning we let it go and continued with our visit.
It wasn't until the family reunion that my grandpa finally
disclosed the truth about that fateful night.
The initial bang that had sent shivers down our spines was the
sound of an intruder attempting to break down the front door.
My grandpa, in a fit of bravery, had managed to scare the
intruder away temporarily, but when I had descended the loft
stairs and heard the second loud noise, it was the sound of the
intruder successfully breaking into the house.
My grandma had managed to hide in a coat closet while my
grandpa, on turning the corner and spotting me in the hallway,
had only yelled the word. Now in a desperate attempt to
communicate that I needed to return to the loft, he didn't
want the intruder to realize there was another person in the
house. My grandpa had grabbed his
hunting rifle to ensure our safety, and although he had
called the sheriff, he convinced him that no immediate action was
required. He provided an unofficial report
over the phone explaining the situation.
All of this unfolded while James and I were blissfully unaware
upstairs, and we never realized how close we had come to a
potentially life threatening situation.
As my grandpa recounted the tale, I felt a mix of anger and
understanding. They had kept us ignorant to
protect us, and it had worked. My grandpa emerged as a
legendary defender of his home, wife and grandchildren, but it
was clear that the trauma of that night had left a lasting
mark on him. It makes you wonder what other
dangers lurk when you believe you're safe.
I live in Montana on a small 20 acre ranch with my parents and
my three sisters. My twins name is Skye and my
second oldest sister, who is also a part of this story, is
named Jess. We all loved going on night
trail rides, especially just at dusk.
We had done this many times, so we knew these trails very well.
On the evening in question we gathered our horses and prepared
for the ride. We made sure to bring a
flashlight with us and wore those reflecting bright yellow
coat things for safety. Once we were all set, we mounted
up and set off. By this time the sun was setting
and the moon was just over half full, providing enough light for
us to see clearly. We decided to take a roundabout
trail from the barn which led us through a dense forest and
eventually back to the barn sky. Rode in front.
I was in the middle, and Jess brought up the rear.
As we venture deeper into the woods, we heard the unmistakable
sound of a stick breaking. Initially we didn't think too
much of it, assuming it might be a deer or some other harmless
creature. However, as we continued, we
heard another breaking stick, this time much closer.
We grew cautious and began to notice something odd, the
absolute silence that surrounded us.
No chirping crickets, rustling leaves, or distant calls of
animals. It was eerily quiet.
Our horses began to grow, uneasy and skittish.
They refused to stand still, constantly stepping to the side
and nervously scanning the surroundings with their ears
perked up. Then, out of nowhere, a shrill,
demonic sounding scream pierced the air.
Originating just to our left. Our horses went berserk.
Bolting away in sheer panic, we clung to our saddles, too
terrified to even think straight.
As we raced through the forest, the sound of heavy, pounding
steps echoed behind us, steadily closing in.
Despite our horses reaching speeds of about 25 mph, the
ominous footsteps grew nearer. I couldn't resist the urge to
glance over my shoulder. In the moonlight, I caught a
glimpse of a long, skinny, Bony creature with ghastly white
eyes. It was indescribably horrifying
to look at, and it's mere presence filled me with an
overwhelming sense of dread. We continued our frantic ride
until we were just a few feet from the safety of the barn.
Miraculously, our horses suddenly came to a screeching
halt. However, the pursuing footsteps
ceased just as abruptly we dismounted and hurriedly entered
the barn, locking the door behind us.
Our hearts pounded in our chests and fear gripped us like a vice.
Inside the barn, we huddled together, trembling with terror.
Our parents were out of town, and our older sister was in her
room, oblivious to the horrors unfolding outside.
None of us had our phones with us, leaving us isolated and
utterly defenseless. Throughout the long, harrowing
night, we remained vigilant, convinced that the creature
would return to haunt us. The thought of venturing outside
seemed impossible. We were paralyzed by the fear of
what awaited us in the darkness. We anxiously awaited the first
light of morning, clinging to the hope that daylight would
bring safety as the sun's rays finally broke over the horizon,
we wasted no time. With adrenaline, fuel,
determination, we left the barn running toward the house.
Once inside, we quickly gathered our older sister and recounted
the terrifying events of the night.
We also called our parents, desperate for their reassurance
and guidance. Unfortunately, our parents
didn't believe our chilling tale.
We were left feeling helpless and vulnerable, fearing that the
unknown creature might return to harm our horses and other
livestock. If anyone out there has any
knowledge of what this nightmarish entity might be,
please share your insights in the comments below.
We are desperate to learn more and gain an understanding of the
horrifying encounter that still haunts our dreams.
I had never realized just how many fascinating stories my
grandpa had. Our relationship had always been
distant, not due to any animosity, but simply because
our lives rarely crossed paths. However, a few years ago, my
grandmother passed away and I witnessed the profound
loneliness and sadness that gripped my grandfather's heart.
It was then that I decided to make an effort to spend more
time with him. Whether out of guilt for not
being there for my grandmother, or out of genuine concern for
his well-being, I began visiting his house once a week for a
simple coffee and a chat. I knew my grandpa had served in
the military, but he had never shared any wartime stories with
me while I was growing up. I believed he had served in the
Korean War, but the specifics were a mystery to me.
All I knew for certain was that he had been stationed in Germany
and a few other European countries during his service.
One afternoon, as we sipped our coffee, the topic of his
military service came up organically in our conversation.
He revealed to me that he hadn't met my grandma until he returned
home from the war in Europe. He had been a single man, and he
recounted how he spent a significant amount of time with
women during that period. During his time in Germany, he
and some fellow soldiers had ventured into a local
establishment, though he was unsure whether it was a bar or a
pub by the cultural terminology there, he had a fateful
encounter with a woman named Irma.
As he began describing Irma, it became evident that he was
deeply smitten by her. He painted a vivid picture of
her beauty with her curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a
smile that could seemingly illuminate an entire room.
His words not mine. Despite the language barrier, he
knew a little German and she knew a little English.
They instantly connected as he recounted their meeting.
I was surprised by the daring nature of their encounter, given
the norms of the 1950s. He continued by describing their
walk to Irma's place. Initially they traversed dimly
lit and somewhat secluded alleyways, surrounded by the
rustling of twigs and leaves. At the time, my grandpa
attributed the sounds to possibly being just forest
animals. Eventually they arrived at a
small cottage nestled about 100 yards into the woods.
Irma had invited him inside the cottage.
As he described, it sounded like something out of an old fairy
tale. It was constructed entirely of
wood, with a comforting fireplace, two small chairs
facing it, a loft accessible via a ladder that held a small bed,
a table, and a petite kitchen area.
Irma lit a fire and poured my grandpa some beer.
Emboldened by romance, he asked her to come back to America with
him once his military service concluded, a proposition that I
found hard to fathom. Irma seemed flattered, but
evaded his question multiple times as he continued narrating.
A shift in his tone and demeanor signaled that the story was
about to take a sinister turn. Irma began unbuttoning his
military uniform and he momentarily turned his head,
losing himself in the passion of the moment.
What he saw outside the window, however, jolted him out of his
reverie. He leaped from his chair
urgently, trying to explain to Irma what he had glimpsed.
According to him, a man had appeared in the window, spying
on them. As soon as the intruder realized
he had been spotted, he ducked out of sight.
While my grandpa was concerned, Irma appeared dismissive and
attempted to distract him. However, my grandpa, torn
between his desire for Irma and his instinct to protect her,
grew increasingly uneasy. He began recalling the
unsettling noises he had heard during their journey to the
cottage, and feared they might have been followed from the pub.
Eventually, he mustered the courage to break away from Irma
and insisted on inspecting the situation outside.
Irma, though visibly upset, remained silent.
Rushing to the table near the door where he had placed his
weapon, my grandpa discovered that it had vanished.
He turned back to Irma, seeking answers, but she stood
motionless in front of the fireplace At that very moment, a
burly man speaking German barge through the door, he struck my
grandpa in the face with such force that the pain was likened
to an iron fist colliding with his skull.
My grandpa, disoriented and in agony, was unable to move as the
man proceeded to assault him mercilessly.
He described it as the most excruciating pain he had ever
endured, to the point where he felt almost numb.
The attacker hurled my grandpa onto the table inside the
cottage, produced a hunting knife, and brutally stabbed him
in the side. Irma, now panicking, joined in
the chaos. The room echoed with their
frantic exchange in German, a language my grandpa had only
limited knowledge of, further adding to his confusion
compounded by the throbbing pain from the sucker punch helplessly
pinned to the table. My grandpa lay there, applying
pressure to the wound in a desperate bid to stave off the
bleeding, yearning to see the sun again.
In the end he succumbed to unconsciousness, and it was only
through the serendipitous discovery of one of his military
buddies that he survived that night.
This comrade had been leaving the pub that evening, catching a
glimpse of Irma and the unfamiliar assailant running
down the road. A nagging suspicion gnawed at
him, compelling him to follow Irma's path.
Along the way, he encountered muddy footprints originating
from the forest. These footprints led him to the
open cottage door, revealing my grandfather unconscious on the
table. With extraordinary strength, he
carried my grandfather all the way back to their military base.
Thankfully, the medical personnel managed to save him,
and my grandpa thanked his lucky stars every day for his friends.
Timely intervention. They remained in touch until my
grandpa's passing five years ago, with the friend constantly
reminding him that he was a hero and that he owed him his life.
I too wished I could thank that unsung hero for his
selflessness. As my grandpa showed me the scar
from that dreadful night, he confessed that even after all
those years, he could still feel the phantom pain.
Every time he beheld that scar, he was haunted by the memory of
the horrific ordeal. Strangely, his deepest sorrow
lay not in the brutal attack he endured, but in the fact that he
never saw Irma again. Neither she nor the enigmatic
man who had accompanied her were ever apprehended by the
authorities. Listening to my grandpa recount
this harrowing tale, I was both fascinated and terrified.
It was a story of love, betrayal, and survival, a tale
that emphasized the importance of caution in matters of the
heart. As my grandpa concluded his
narrative, he offered me this chilling warning.
Be careful who you give your heart to, because they may just
try to cut it out when you least expect it.
As the lush greenery of northeast Louisiana faded into
the rearview mirror, I couldn't help but feel a mix of
excitement and apprehension. I'm Robert, just an ordinary 18
year old guy, but this trip to Washington State felt like
stepping into a whole new world. My friends Drew, Gregory, and
Jolene were with me, all of us eager to escape the mundane
routines of our small town life. The car hummed along the
Interstate, the miles slipping away under us like water under a
bridge. Drew, always the Joker, kept us
entertained with his endless stories and off tune singing.
Gregory, the oldest at 19, played the role of the
responsible one, though his eyes shown with the same excitement
that filled the car. Jolene, with her quiet smile and
thoughtful gaze, seem to absorb every detail of our journey.
As we cross state lines, the landscape began to change.
The flat expanses of the South gave way to towering mountains
and dense forests of the Pacific Northwest.
It was like entering ACJ box novel, where the scenery is as
much a character as the people. I imagined a world of hidden
mysteries and untold stories lurking in those woods, and a
shiver ran down my spine. We arrived at my uncle's house
in Washington after what felt like an eternity.
His small, cozy home was nestled in the heart of the woods, a
stark contrast to the wide open spaces of Louisiana.
My uncle, a rugged man with a warm smile, welcomed us like we
were his own kids. His small family, including a
couple of hyperactive kids and a dog that wouldn't stop barking,
added to the lively atmosphere. For the next few days, we
immersed ourselves in the local culture and landscapes.
We hiked through trails that snaked through the forest, the
air fresh with the scent of pine and earth.
In the evenings we would gather around the fireplace, sharing
stories and laughing until our sides hurt.
Then Gregory, always the adventurer, suggested we spend
our last night camping in the nearby woods.
The idea struck me like a bolt of lightning.
Camping in the vast, unknown wilderness of Washington was not
something I was prepared for. A million thoughts race through
my head. The isolation, the
unpredictability of nature, the sheer thrill of it.
Drew and Jolene are in, Gregory said, his eyes alight with the
prospect of an adventure. I hesitated, the words caught in
my throat, but something in me wanted to break free from the
safety of the known, to step into the wild unknown.
All right, I finally agreed, my voice barely a whisper.
We borrowed 2 tents from my uncle and set out for the woods.
It was hardly remote. The faint glow of the porch
light was still visible from our campsite, but as we set up the
tents and gathered around the fire we built, the woods around
us felt like a different world. The trees stood like silent
Sentinels, and the night air was filled with the sounds of the
wilderness. It was exciting and terrifying
All at once, As the fire died down and my friends retreated to
their tents, a sense of unease settled over me.
The woods seemed to close in, and every snap of a twig or
rustle of leaves sent my heart racing.
I stayed up with Jolene, trying to shake the feeling off, but
then we saw it, something massive and silent moving in the
shadows. My heart stopped.
This was no ordinary camping trip.
We were in CJ box territory now, and the story was just
beginning. The night had draped itself over
the forest like a dark, heavy cloak, and the campfires glow
seemed to be the only thing holding back the darkness.
As I sat there and the flames casting dancing shadows on
Jolene's face, I could feel the forest's eyes on us, watching,
waiting. Jolene with her Auburn hair
reflecting the fire light, seemed lost in thought.
I wondered what mysteries were locked behind those deep green
eyes. We talked in hushed tones, our
conversation meandering like a lazy river.
But as the fire crackled and popped, a prickling sense of
unease grew at the back of my neck.
Suddenly, Jolene's hand gripped my arm, her fingers cold and
tight. She nodded towards the edge of
the firelight. There, amidst the darkness, was
something massive. It was like a shadow, yet more
solid, more real. It moved with a grace that
belied its size, silent as the night itself.
Panic gripped me, but I couldn't move.
My mind raced with every Horror Story I'd ever heard, every
monster from childhood nightmares.
We stumbled back to our tent, our breaths coming in short,
sharp gasps. We had to wake Gregory.
He was the oldest, the de facto leader of our little group.
He'd know what to do. Gregory, half asleep and
annoyed, barely registered our panicked words.
Go back to sleep y'all, he mumbled.
Dismissing our fears as he curled back into his sleeping
bag. But sleep was the last thing on
my mind. The forest seemed to close in
around us, suffocating, oppressive.
Time stretched on each minute an eternity.
Then the creature returned. Its footsteps were soft, but to
my heightened senses they sounded like Thunder.
Gregory, oblivious to the world, snored softly.
I couldn't blame him. Until you see it, the monster is
just a story. My hand closed around the
hatchet. Gregory had carelessly tossed
aside. Its weight was reassuring, A
tangible anchor in a sea of fear.
Jolene's eyes, wide with terror, met mine.
We were in this together. Whatever this was, the decision
to check on Drew was born of necessity.
He was out there, alone and vulnerable.
Jolene, braver than I would ever be, took the hatchet and stepped
out into the night. Her courage astounded me, but
she was back in an instant, her face a mask of terror.
She gasped. I couldn't leave it at that.
Drew was out there. I had to know, had to see it for
myself. Stepping out of the tent, I was
met with the oppressive silence of the forest.
There it was, the creature. It's immense form looming over
us. Fear and adrenaline surged
through me, and I did the only thing I could.
I swung the hatchet. The creature let out a sound
that was half scream, half roar, a sound that chilled me to the
bone. It vanished into the woods,
leaving behind only the echo of its cry.
The sound woke. Drew and Gregory, their faces
etched with confusion and fear. What was that?
Gregory asked, his voice trembling.
But before any of us could answer, Drew pointed to the
ground. There, imprinted in the soft
earth, were footprints. Huge, unmistakable footprints.
His whisper cut through the night.
Bigfoot. The words hung in the air, a
chilling testament to the reality we had just faced.
We were no longer just kids on a camping trip.
We were survivors, witnesses to something beyond understanding.
And as I lay there, listening to the sounds of the night, I knew
one thing for certain. The woods were no longer just
trees and shadows. They were alive, and they were
watching. The forest was silent in the
aftermath, the kind of silence that screams louder than any
noise. The creature had vanished into
the darkness, leaving behind a void filled with our racing
hearts and heavy breaths. As I stood there, hatchet in
hand, I could feel the weight of the unknown pressing down on us.
Gregory and Drew were now wide awake, their faces pale in the
dim light of the dying fire. What was that?
Drew's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide with a
mix of fear and fascination. I shook my head, unable to find
the words. The echo of the creature's
scream still rang in my ears. It was a sound that didn't
belong in this world, a cry that spoke of ancient, hidden things.
Jolene clung to my arm, her body trembling.
It was huge. She stammered like nothing I've
ever seen. Her eyes, usually so full of
life, were clouded with fear. Gregory, ever the skeptic, tried
to rationalize. Maybe it was just a bear, he
suggested, but his voice lacked conviction.
We all knew it was no bear. The footprints we had seen were
too large, too strange. The night passed in fitful
silence. None of us could sleep, our
minds haunted by what we had seen.
The forest that had once seemed so inviting now felt like a
prison, holding us in its dark embrace.
As dawn broke, the light seemed to chase away some of the fear
that had enveloped us. My uncle, alerted by the
commotion, arrived with a pistol and a Lantern, his expression a
mix of concern and confusion. What the hell was that?
He demanded, scanning the woods as if expecting the creature to
reappear, Gregory pointed to the footprints, now even more
pronounced in the morning light. We don't know, he admitted, his
voice tight. But whatever it was, I'm not
staying to find out. The decision to leave was
unanimous. We packed up our camp in
silence, each lost in our own thoughts.
The ride back to my uncle's house was a quiet one, the
events of the night hanging over us like a dark cloud.
The journey back to Louisiana was a blur.
We spoke little, each of us processing the experience in our
own way. The once lively conversations
were replaced by a heavy quiet, broken only by the hum of the
car on the highway. As I lay in my bed that night,
back in the familiar surroundings of my home, the
events in the woods felt like a distant dream.
But the fear, the awe and the wonder of that night, we're all
too real. It was a reminder of the
mysteries that lie hidden in the dark corners of the world, a
whisper of the unknown that lurks just beyond our
understanding. I knew one thing for certain
That night in the woods would stay with me forever.
A haunting memory of the time when we came face to face with
something truly inexplicable. There's something about the road
at night that's always spoken to me.
Maybe it's the way the moonlight plays tricks on your eyes, or
how the world seems to stand still while you keep moving.
My name's Devin, and I've been a trucker for over a decade now.
I come from a line of truckers down in Mexico, and if there's
one thing my cousins and uncles love more than the road, it's
the stories they've picked up along it.
Stories of the paranormal, the kind that make you look over
your shoulder. I never bought into it much
until that night. The route from southeastern
Wisconsin to southern Michigan had become like a second home to
me. Every curve of the road, every
gas station, every billboard was a familiar face.
It was a clear night, the kind where the stars try to outshine
each other. I was making good time humming
along to some old tune on the radio.
The hum of my truck's engine, a comforting constant beneath the
drop yard, was quiet when I arrived, just the sound of my
boots crunching gravel. I did a quick switch, finding
the trailer I was supposed to haul back over the legal weight
limit. It wasn't the first time, and it
wouldn't be the last. Company policy was clear.
When in doubt, swap it out. So I found myself hooking up to
an empty trailer instead. That's when the night started to
stray from the usual script. I was back on the road, cutting
through the rural country roads to avoid the tolls.
The company always said the less we spend on tolls, the more we
can pay you. I didn't mind.
It gave me more time to think, more time with the night.
It was around 2:00 in the morning when I saw him, a
figure, walking on the shoulder of the road.
He was wearing a hard hat and neon green pants, a reflective
vest that caught my headlights from a distance.
It was odd. No construction signs or work
lights, just him in the dark Rd. As I drove closer, he turned and
waved. A casual, friendly gesture, but
something was off the way he stood, the way the moonlight
didn't quite reach him. I passed him, glancing in my
rear view mirror. I was about to chalk it up to a
night worker or a hitchhiker. When I saw it or didn't see it,
he was gone. In that split second he had
vanished. I told myself it was just a
trick of the light, the fatigue playing with my mind.
I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road, but the
unease settled in the pit of my stomach, A silent companion for
the rest of the journey. The road stretched out before
me, bordered by dense woods, and the night felt heavier than
before. I remembered my family's
stories, the tales that I had always dismissed.
Was I about to have one of my own?
Little did I know, The night had just begun.
The road has a way of getting into your head, especially in
the dead of night. After that brief, unsettling
encounter with the man who wasn't there, I could feel the
silence pressing in around me. The dashboard clock glowed 2:15
in the morning, a stark reminder of the solitude of the night
shift. I tried to shake off the
feeling, but it clung to me like the chill of early morning fog.
The landscape outside was a monochrome world, painted in
shades of darkness and faint moonlight.
Each passing mile felt like a step deeper into an unknown
territory, even though I'd driven this route more times
than I could count. Then came the knocks. 3 sharp,
deliberate sounds from the back of the trailer.
My heart skipped a beat. I've heard a lot of noises on
the road, but this was different.
It wasn't the usual creaks and groans of cargo shifting or the
roads uneven surface. This was something intentional.
I slowed down, my eyes flicking to the mirrors, half expecting
to see something. But there was only the dark road
and the dense woods on either side.
The knocking had stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Just your imagination, Devin, I muttered to myself, trying to
brush off the unease. But as the miles wore on, the
silence was shattered again. Five loud knocks, harder and
more urgent than before. My grip on the steering wheel
tightened. This wasn't right.
Every instinct I had screamed that something was off.
I knew my truck, and I knew that sound wasn't normal.
I couldn't ignore it any longer. I had to check the next safe
spot I found. I pulled over the gravel,
crunching under my tires. The night seemed to hold its
breath as I stepped out, flashlight in hand.
My heart was pounding as I made my way to the back of the
trailer. I was a rational man, but in
that moment, every ghost story I'd ever scoffed at came rushing
back to me. The back of the trailer was as
I'd left it, locked and secure. I hesitated before unlocking it,
half expecting to find something or someone inside, But when I
swung the doors open, the beam of my flashlight revealed
nothing but empty space. I let out of breath.
I didn't realize I've been holding.
I was alone. At least that's what logic told
me. But the knocks, I couldn't
explain them away. I closed the trailer, locking it
back up, and climbed back into the cab.
My hands were shaking slightly as I started the engine.
I tried to focus on the road, but my thoughts kept drifting
back to the empty trailer and the unexplained knocks.
Then, without warning, the calm of the night was shattered.
A massive tree crashed onto the road just ahead of my truck.
I slammed on the brakes, heart in my throat.
There was no wind, no sound of splintering wood beforehand.
It was as if the tree had decided to fall At that very
moment. Fear gripped me, A primal,
instinctive fear. I didn't stick around to ponder
the why or how I maneuvered around the fallen giant and
didn't stop until I reached the next truck stop.
I had to know what was in my trailer once and for all.
The road never felt lonelier than it did that night.
After narrowly missing that falling tree.
My nerves were shot, hands still trembling slightly on the wheel.
I kept replaying the night's events in my head, each detail
more unsettling than the last. The ghostly figure on the road,
the inexplicable knocks, and now this.
As I drove on, the stillness of the night felt oppressive, like
a heavy blanket smothering my thoughts.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone, that
whatever had knocked on my trailer was still with me,
following silently in the darkness.
The knocks returned as I neared my destination, this time more
frantic, as if in a hurry. Five quick, hard thuds that made
me jump in my seat. I turned down the radio,
straining to hear anything else, but there was only the sound of
the road and my own ragged breathing.
It was then I made the connection.
The knocks. They were a warning, something.
Maybe someone was trying to tell me something.
Had it been trying to warn me about the tree?
The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
Maybe my family's stories weren't just stories after all.
Maybe I'd been too quick to dismiss the idea of the
paranormal. I pulled into the yard, my eyes
weary from strain and my mind heavy with questions.
I parked the truck and sat there for a moment, gathering my
courage. I needed to see, to know for
sure what was in that trailer. The yard was silent as I made my
way to the back of the trailer. The air felt charged, every
sound amplified in the stillness.
I unlocked the door, half expecting to find something
waiting for me. But when I opened it, the
trailer was as empty as it had been before.
No sign of anything out of the ordinary.
I stood there, flashlight in hand, staring into the empty
space. What had I heard?
What had been knocking? I couldn't find an answer, and
that bothered me more than anything.
I closed up the trailer, making sure it was secure, and did a
final walk around. Everything was as it should be,
but the feeling of unease lingered as I drove the last leg
of my route. The sun began to rise, casting a
soft light over the landscape. The world felt different in the
daylight, less threatening. I tried to convince myself that
it had all been a trick of my tired mind, but deep down I knew
it wasn't. I finished my run and unhooked
the trailer, going through the motions mechanically.
My mind was elsewhere, lost in thought.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd been given a warning,
that something out there had looked out for me.
As I drove home, the first light of dawn breaking over the
horizon, I found myself speaking into the empty cab.
Thank you, I said softly, not sure who or what I was thanking.
Maybe it was just the road, or maybe it was something more, but
whatever it was, I was grateful the story scared me.
Sure, but it also left me with a sense of wonder.
Maybe there was more to this world than I'd thought.
More mysteries hidden in the dark corners of the night.
Maybe, I thought as I headed home, I just had my first real
encounter with the unknown. It was about a year ago when I
first heard this chilling story from my grandma, and it still
sends shivers down my spine. Sadly, she passed away just a
few weeks ago. May her soul rest in peace.
I thought I should share this bizarre tale that she confided
in me, hoping it would captivate you as it did me and my husband.
The revelation that my grandma had been married before my Papa
left me dumbfounded. I'm 30 years old and I had never
known this dark secret. What shocked me even more was
that my Papa was equally unaware of this hidden chapter in her
life. She had kept it hidden all these
years, not wanting to hurt him, and as time went on it seemed
less and less significant, especially since she had never
had any children with her first husband.
She described him as a dangerous man, and the fact that she had
married him when she was just 19 years old was mind boggling.
She was drawn to the bad boy persona, attracted to the danger
he exuded. His name was Dawn.
Dawn had a way of making her feel important, and in the world
he inhabited, he was both feared and respected.
The fact that he took an interest in her made her fall
head over heels. They embarked on a tumultuous
journey together, and my grandma became entangled in Dawn's
world. Dawn had a distinctive
appearance. He would roll his cigarettes in
a short sleeved shirt, his hair always slicked back.
He was the type who always got what he wanted, even if it meant
resorting to force. At times, however, he shielded
her from the worst of it, making her wait outside or in another
room when things got rough. She admitted to being scared
most of the time, but there was something addictive about the
fear, something that held her captive first.
Love always has a vice like grip on one's heart, for better or
for worse. Their lives were transient,
living in a small boarding house, paying weekly for a room.
Their constant movement necessitated such arrangements,
as they needed to be able to leave at a moment's notice.
One fateful night, dawn burst into their room, wild and angry,
insisting that they needed to leave immediately.
My grandma could see what looked like blood stains on his shirt
and jeans. She was upset and tried to get
him to calm down and explain, but he was relentless in his
anger and yelling. She quickly learned that when
Dawn was in this state, it was best to comply with his demands
without question. They hit the road, and for hours
he remained silent. It wasn't until my grandma
couldn't take the silence any longer that she asked what had
happened. Dawn's response was chilling.
He told her they would never speak of that night again and
instructed her to forget about it.
Even though my grandma knew about the terrible things Dawn
did, this felt different somehow.
Worse, it was a line crossed, a boundary shattered, and the
memory of that feeling haunted her.
Eventually, they moved on and decided to have a small wedding
ceremony. My grandma longed for children,
but Dawn always told her that someday they would have them.
That day never came, and my grandma's patience began to wear
thin. Dawn's bad boy persona was
finally starting to affect her, as she constantly worried that
he would come home covered in blood, or worse, not come home
at all. One night, her worst fears
nearly became a horrifying reality.
They were spending an evening together when there was a knock
at the door. An older gentleman stood
outside, someone my grandma didn't recognize.
Dawn's reaction was fierce. He yelled at her to stay in the
bedroom. She pressed her ear to the door,
trying to catch snippets of the heated conversation.
She couldn't make out all the words, but the exchange sounded
hostile. Minutes later, Dawn entered the
room and informed her that he needed to leave and would
return. Later, she tried to pry
information out of him, to understand where he was going
and what had happened, but he remained tight lipped.
There was something different about him this time.
He didn't seem angry, but rather he appeared scared.
That night, Dawn never returned. My grandma didn't call the
police, as Dawn had always warned her never to involve law
enforcement, no matter what happened.
Instead, she decided to take matters into her own hands and
become her own detective. She scoured their small
apartment for any clues, and she stumbled upon some notes with a
street address. Determined and anxious, she
walked to that address the next morning, hoping to find Dawn.
However, she didn't find him there.
Instead, she uncovered a scene that would haunt her for
decades, a warehouse filled with unspeakable horrors.
I won't go into the gruesome details, but it involved a
considerable amount of blood and a lifeless body.
She rushed to a nearby store and asked the clerks to call the
police, claiming that she had stumbled upon the site by
accident. She never considered implicating
Dawn, as he had always made it clear that she should never
betray him. The body was never identified,
and as far as she knew, it remained a John Doe.
What made matters even more complicated was that one of the
officers who had comforted her that fateful afternoon later
became my Papa. That's why she never wanted to
admit to him that she might have known the potential culprits, as
it weighed heavily on her conscience.
She erased all traces of dawn from her life, though there
wasn't much to erase because he forced them to live a minimalist
lifestyle. It wasn't immediate, but
eventually she started developing feelings for my Papa
and they began seeing each other.
A few weeks after the warehouse incident, she came to terms with
the fact that Dawn was never coming back.
For a long time, she wondered about his fate.
Was he dead? Had he fled the country?
Or did he simply want to separate from her?
When I asked for Dawn's last name so I could try to find him
for her, she just smiled sadly and said that she had given up
on wanting to know what happened years ago.
She believed she had made the right choice by ending up with
my Papa. The fear of Dawn finding her one
day of him lurking in the shadows haunted her for years.
With my aunt's birth, that fear intensified and she lived in
constant dread, believing that Dawn was watching her, waiting
for the perfect moment to strike.
Now that she's passed away, I'll never know Dawn's real name or
where he ended up, and perhaps that's for the best.
It's astounding to me that my grandma had been married to a
criminal, even if it was an unofficial marriage.
She retrieved an old box from storage and showed me her
wedding ring and a picture of Dawn from back then.
As I watched her stare at that picture, I could see the mix of
fear and love in her eyes. My poor grandma, the fear she
must have endured daily for such a long time.
It truly must have been a living nightmare.