Buckskin Gulch is a deep, winding gash carved into the
desert rock along the border of Utah and Arizona, a slot Canyon
famous for tight passageways and unpredictable flash floods.
As a search and rescue Ranger working these canyons for the
last decade, I've learned to respect its brutal simplicity.
Get in, get people out, and get back safely.
Nothing else matters. Until today, that formula had
always worked. It was October 2023.
Clear skies, cool temperatures, ideal conditions for hikers.
A group of four experienced backpackers from Flagstaff went
missing on a planned 2 day trek through the Gulch.
I'd read the report twice. Their emergency beacon activated
briefly, sending a distress signal that lasted just 13
seconds. Then nothing.
No indication of flash flooding, no unusual weather, just
silence. Protocol dictated a solo drop in
for a visual assessment before committing a larger team.
I volunteered, confident in my knowledge of the terrain by the
pre dawn darkness. I repelled alone down wire pass,
the narrow shoot of sandstone barely wide enough for my
shoulders. Cold air pooled at the bottom,
oddly stale and heavy. When my boots touched ground,
the silence of the Canyon pressed into my ears like
cotton. My flashlight beam sliced across
the sandstone walls as I moved forward, scanning for any sign
of the missing hikers. At first, everything seemed
routine. After nearly an hour, I spotted
a jagged piece of nylon wedged into a narrow crack, the torn
edge of a tent pole nearby. Equipment damage wasn't unusual
in tight canyons, but my gut twisted slightly.
This gear had been violently shredded, as though pulled apart
rather than snagged. I continued deeper, reaching a
section of the Canyon where the walls squeezed inward, creating
a claustrophobic passage. As I pressed through, my
flashlight caught an irregular stain smeared across the
sandstone floor. Dark Crimson streaks trail
deeper into the Canyon, unmistakably fresh blood.
The coppery scent lingered in the air, sour and unmistakable.
Instinctively, I reached for my radio and thumbed the button.
Bass, this is Ranger Holt, I've got blood evidence.
Roughly one mile in. No visual on missing party yet.
We'll proceed cautiously, Please acknowledge.
Static buzzed quietly back at me.
No response. Typical signals rarely
penetrated this deep. Alone was exactly what I was.
Now. I advanced slowly, senses alert,
heart quickening. Ahead, the blood trail became
clearer, drag marks broad and deliberate, as though someone
had been pulled bodily across the rocky floor.
The narrow passageway twisted sharply ahead, creating blind
corners. I stopped, forcing slow,
measured breaths, listening carefully.
That's when I heard it. A faint but distinct thudding
from deeper in the Canyon. Not rockfall, not distant
Thunder. Too rhythmic, too steady.
Footfalls heavy and purposeful, like bare feet slapping against
sandstone. Every step echoed softly,
reverberating gently off the Canyon walls.
They stopped abruptly whenever I halted, then resumed as soon as
I moved again. Always ahead, always just beyond
sight. My hand instinctively moved
toward the grip of my sidearm, fingers curling tightly around
its handle. Something was down here with me,
in this twisted maze of rock and shadow.
My rational mind scrambled for answers.
A lost hiker, delirious and stumbling.
An injured animal, disoriented. But the cold, primitive fear
rising inside me said otherwise. Something was deeply wrong about
those footsteps. I pressed forward, deeper into
the narrowing passage, following the blood trail and the steady
rhythm of feet I could never quite see.
Every nerve screamed at me to turn back, to retreat to
daylight and fresh air. But I couldn't, not yet.
Lives depended on me finding answers.
Ahead, the Canyon tightened again, forcing me to angle my
shoulders sideways and squeeze painfully between sandstone
walls. My flashlight flickered briefly,
then steadied, illuminating another piece of torn gear, a
shredded backpack emptied of its contents, cast aside like
refuse. I paused, staring at the torn
fabric, heart hammering. Whoever or whatever had done
this was strong, powerful enough to tear through nylon and
plastic like tissue paper. I glanced again at the blood
trail, smears darkening into near blackness as the Gulch grew
dimmer around me. With dread crawling up my spine,
I took another step forward, feeling the Canyon walls close
around me like a tomb. The deeper I pushed into the
Gulch, the tighter it squeezed around me.
What little sunlight had made its way into this twisting slot
Canyon now faded entirely. My flashlight became a lifeline,
slicing through the thickening darkness, but even its powerful
beam couldn't reach far enough to offer comfort.
I'd stopped hearing the footsteps, but that brought no
relief. The silence felt worse.
I strained to listen for any movement, any sign that might
help me make sense of the growing dread.
My heart was pounding, adrenaline keeping my senses
sharp, hyper aware of every scrape and scuffle of my boots
against the Canyon floor. Then, in the dim edge of my
flashlights reach, I saw something wedged against the
sandstone wall. Moving closer.
My breath caught as I recognized the remains of a sleeping bag,
torn apart with unsettling force.
Its synthetic fibers were shredded and clumped together,
stained dark red where something or someone had rested.
No footprints, no sign of struggle, just more of those
eerie drag marks that continued further into the canyons,
twisting shadows. My mind raced through possible
explanations, but none fit neatly into reality.
Animals didn't drag people cleanly away without leaving
claw marks. Flash floods left debris and
mud. They didn't carefully scatter
belongings. Like a morbid scavenger hunt.
Every rational thought I had crumbled against the sight in
front of me. I turned around abruptly,
deciding I'd seen enough. I would call in backup, let a
full team handle whatever was happening here.
But as I backtracked through the narrow passage, I immediately
felt disoriented. Junctions I'd never seen
appeared around every turn, splits in the Canyon walls that
hadn't existed before. My sense of direction started
unraveling rapidly, panic clawing at the edges of my
thoughts. This was impossible.
I trained extensively in these canyons.
My instincts for navigation were solid, and yet every turn I took
seemed to shift and warp, funneling me deeper into
unfamiliar territory. Each step felt heavier, each
twist more alien than the last. My flashlight flickered suddenly
and died, plunging me into absolute blackness.
I fumble quickly with trembling hands, pulling spare batteries
from my vest pocket. After struggling in the dark,
fingers trembling with urgency, I managed to snap them into
place and switch the flashlight back on.
The beam returned but dimmer, fogged by something smeared
across the lens. Sticky and oily, it blurred the
light into a hazy, sickly Halo. Gritting my teeth, I continued
forward. Ahead, scattered clothing
appeared. Shirts, pants, jackets, all
turned completely inside out and neatly placed in piles along the
Canyon floor. Boots sat lined up beside them,
perfectly paired, empty and undamaged.
It felt staged, purposeful, more chilling than if they'd been
violently shredded. The scene made no sense, defied
logic entirely and deep in the sense of dread now coiled
tightly around my chest. Then further on.
My light caught a smear on the sandstone wall at shoulder
height. I stepped closer, shining the
hazy beam directly onto the surface.
It was a handprint, impossibly elongated and wide, each finger
trailing downward as if whoever left it had slid slowly along
the wall. It was deep red, fresh enough to
glisten wetly in my weakened flashlight.
I backed away quickly, heart racing wildly.
My rational mind collapsed beneath the weight of fear,
replaced by a primal need to escape.
Panic surged as I desperately searched for a way out.
A short distance ahead, the passage narrowed dramatically
into a steep chimney chute, my only possible route upward.
Without hesitation, I began to climb, fingers gripping
sandstone edges, muscles straining to haul myself upward,
driven purely by survival instinct.
Halfway up the chimney, a sound broke the silence below.
A deep, rasping intake of breath, long and ragged,
unmistakably human, but distorted somehow.
It echoed upward, reverberating along the stone walls, freezing
me in place. Cold sweat dripped down my
spine, every muscle locked. Then came sudden, searing pain.
My shoulder wrenched violently as I overextended, A sickening
pop radiating through my bones. I bit down hard on my tongue to
stifle a scream. My shoulder was dislocated,
useless at my side. Gasping, I wedged myself
awkwardly against the sandstone wall and, bracing for agony,
slammed my shoulder into the rock.
The pain exploded through me, vision momentarily Whiting out,
but the joint slid mercifully back into place.
Breathing shallow, vision swimming, I forced myself upward
again. Below me, the breathing
continued, patient and waiting. With every ounce of remaining
strength, I pulled myself higher, desperate for open air
and escape from whatever nightmare lurked beneath.
I dragged myself out of the chimney chute, collapsing on to
the rocky ledge above. My injured shoulder burned with
a deep, throbbing ache, every movement sending sharp jolts of
pain through my entire body. Sweat dripped down my forehead,
mingling with grit and blood, stinging my eyes as I struggled
to steady my breathing. The twilight sky overhead was
fading quickly into nightfall, painting the horizon in shades
of deep Violet and Crimson. Despite the exhaustion that
threatened to pin me down, I knew staying here meant death.
Whatever was in that Canyon could easily follow.
It was only a matter of time before it caught up.
Using my good arm, I crawled forward, moving inch by painful
inch until I reached an exposed shelf of rock that overlooked
wire pass. My hands shook as I pulled the
emergency flare from my pack, fumbling to activate it.
With trembling fingers, I pointed the flare skyward and
ignited it, sending a fiery red streak high into the darkening
sky. The flare illuminated the Canyon
walls, briefly casting sharp shadows before fading away,
leaving me alone again in the encroaching darkness.
Time stretched painfully, each second passing like an eternity,
until finally, I heard voices echoing from above.
My team mates had seen the flare.
Shouts grew clearer as flashlights appeared along the
Canyon rim, beams slicing through the darkness toward me.
Relief flooded through my veins, breaking the tension that had
gripped my body. Travis, someone yelled.
Hold tight, we're coming. Within moments they reached me,
faces pale, eyes wide with shock at my battered state.
Questions spilled rapidly from their mouths, but I silenced
them quickly with a raised hand. Don't go down there tonight.
I warned, my voice raw and trembling.
You need to wait for daylight. Full teams only.
As they strapped me onto the litter and began carrying me up
the rocky incline toward safety, I felt my heart rate finally
start to ease. Still, my mind couldn't shake.
The images burned into memory. The Crimson stains, the twisted
gear, that impossible handprint. Something unknown and malevolent
waited down there, deep in the Gulch, and I feared it would
always remain unexplained. Back at base camp, under bright
fluorescent lights, they carefully examined my injuries.
The medic cleaned and bandaged my wounds, tending to my
shoulder and administering painkillers that dulled the
throbbing ache to a muted pulse. Despite protests, I refused
sedation until I could show them the footage from my body camera.
I needed them to see, to believe, so they wouldn't
dismiss my story as delirium or panic.
We gathered around the small screen in tense silence, the
footage playing clearly at first.
My descent, the shredded equipment, the blood trails,
even faint glimpses of movement just beyond the edge of my
flashlight. My stomach clenched when the
recording reached the final minute.
Static erupted, blotting out the picture for a brief moment, and
when clarity returned, the Canyon was silent and still.
Then, abruptly, a scream tore from the audio.
Desperate human. Filled with raw terror.
The recording cut off sharply, plunging us all into stunned
silence. That scream wasn't mine.
At sunrise the next morning, drones buzzed over Buckskin
Gulch cameras scanning every shadowy crevice and dark alcove.
The search teams found no bodies, no survivors, only the
shredded gear and Crimson stains I'd seen with my own eyes.
The drag marks ended inexplicably against smooth rock
walls, offering no answers, only deepening the mystery.
Days turned into weeks without resolution.
Official reports marked the hikers as missing, presumed
dead, with no explanation offered.
When I finally submitted my resignation 6 weeks later,
citing lingering trauma, no one questioned it.
My fellow Rangers had watched that footage with me, seen the
unexplained horror first hand. They knew why I couldn't return.
I left Buckskin Gulch behind, but I knew the truth would stay
with me forever, etched into my mind like the scars on my
shoulder. Whatever had taken those hikers
was still down there, hidden within the twisting shadows,
quietly waiting for the next group to descend into its grasp.
I've worked the Backcountry of Bridger Teton National Forest
for nearly 12 years and thought I'd seen just about everything
the Wyoming wilderness had to offer.
Bear maulings, lost hikers, flash floods.
I'd been there, dealt with it and moved on.
So when I got the call about the elk carcasses up in the
Grosvenor Range, I expected wolves, maybe even poachers.
What I didn't expect was something I couldn't easily
explain. It was late October, cold
already settling into the valleys, and I was helicoptered
in to investigate reports that had shaken up even the most
seasoned hunters. Elk had been found dead, not
just killed, but arranged in patterns deliberately posed.
It wasn't predation, it wasn't human, at least not normal human
activity. It was something else entirely.
The chopper set me down near a high altitude Meadow around mid
morning, the air brittle enough to catch in my throat.
Snow dusted the ground, melting in thin patches beneath the
sun's pale rays. I watched the helicopter shrink
against the sky, the rhythmic beat of its rotors fading,
leaving me alone in a vast stretch of rugged terrain.
My gear was simple, a week's worth of supplies, my rifle, and
enough determination to figure out exactly what had hunters
spooked enough to call off their trips mid season.
I moved cautiously through the timberline, eyes scanning for
signs of wildlife or disturbance.
After hours of silent hiking, I reached the first reported
location. The sight stopped me cold.
It wasn't the smell of death, I'd gotten used to that years
ago. It was the arrangement itself. 5
adult elk placed in a near perfect circle, legs extended
outward, heads twisted around so that their antlers formed a
crude interlocking pattern. Their chests were neatly split,
ribs pried open. Even more unnerving were the
entrails, which had been removed and placed neatly around the
circle in concentric rings, forming A grotesque Halo.
This wasn't random. It was precise, intentional, and
deeply unsettling. I stepped closer, trying to make
sense of it. Wolf kills were messy, chaotic.
Bears didn't bother organizing their prey.
Human poachers took antlers or meat and left the rest
scattered. But this, this was methodical
and left no tracks, no footprints, no drag marks,
nothing to show how these massive animals had been moved
or manipulated. I documented the site carefully,
photographing and taking notes for my report.
Something primal tightened in my chest, and I knew instinctively
that whatever had done this was still close.
The forest around me grew oppressive, each rustle of
leaves sending adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I glanced at the map, confirming that my next destination was the
ravine. Locals called it Deadman's
Notch, a name whispered rather than spoken and usually avoided.
Old timers had stories, vague warnings about something that
lived deep inside it, but I didn't have the luxury of
superstition. My job was evidence and
explanation, not stories. As I climbed higher toward the
ravine, daylight thinned, shadows deepening around me.
A strange noise broke the stillness, echoing from the
distance. A scream, but distorted,
unnatural. It was animalistic, yet
disturbingly close to human. It rang out twice, identically
each time, like a perfect mimicry.
I paused, rifle instinctively at the ready, my breathing shallow.
Silence returned, heavy and absolute.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss the chill that ran down
my spine. Rational explanations fought for
dominance. Mountain Lion, injured elk,
trick of the wind through the gorge, But my gut told me
otherwise. By the time I set up camp near
the edge of Dead Men's Notch, darkness had settled thickly
around me. I made a quick meal, careful not
to leave scraps to attract wildlife, and climbed into my
tent. Despite exhaustion from the
hike, sleep wouldn't come. Every subtle noise from outside
became louder, magnified. I lay awake, ears strained,
pulse quickening at the smallest sounds.
Hours dragged by before exhaustion finally took hold.
But just as I drifted off, something brushed across the top
of my tent, heavy enough to sag the fabric.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I grabbed my rifle and threw myself outside, flashlight
piercing the darkness. Nothing.
No movement, no tracks, only my own shallow breathing disturb
the air. My gaze traveled slowly around
the perimeter of camp. Something was off.
My boots were missing from beside the tent.
I spent several frantic minutes searching, panic rising, before
spotting them nearly 40 yards away, tucked into the fork of a
tree. When I reached them, my stomach
twisted. Each boot was filled to the brim
with cold, dense mud, packed firmly as if by strong,
meticulous hands. I stood there frozen.
A wave of realization washing over me.
I wasn't alone out here, and whatever was out there had made
it clear it knew exactly where I was and exactly how vulnerable I
had become. I spent the next hour sitting by
the dying fire, my mind racing. I couldn't find an explanation
that made sense. An animal wouldn't move my
boots, let alone fill them with mud and place them neatly in a
tree. And a human.
I didn't even want to consider that possibility.
But who else was there? Sleep was impossible now, the
tension coiled too tightly within me.
I decided to use the remainder of the night productively
checking gear, repacking supplies, and trying to stay
focused. As dawn broke, cold Gray light
filtered through the trees. I quickly dismantled camp, eager
to move and regain some feeling of control.
By mid morning, I descended carefully into Dead Man's Notch.
The ravine was deeper than I'd anticipated, jagged cliffs
rising steeply on either side, funneling shadows along the
narrow floor. Moss covered rocks slick with
frost made footing dangerous, and every step echoed with
unsettling clarity. Halfway down, something caught
my eye on a shelf of rock partially hidden beneath an
overhang. My breath stalled in my chest.
There, tucked beneath a canopy of branches and alkide,
stretched tight across a crude framework of saplings, stood a
rough shelter. It blended eerily with its
surroundings, camouflaged by weather and shadow.
I approached cautiously, rifle held tightly in one hand.
As I drew nearer, the details sharpened into grim reality.
Bones littered the area, stacked loosely in piles.
Each one was cracked open, emptied of marrow, some with
flesh still clinging to the joints.
The scent of decay hung thick in the chilled air, sharp enough to
sting my nose. I knelt, studying the bones.
They weren't cut with knives or saws.
They had been broken by blunt force, methodically and with
precision. My heart thumped painfully as I
noticed several strips of tattered fabric mixed into the
bedding inside the shelter. The torn edges suggested outdoor
gear, faded camouflage cloth from jackets, fragments of wool
and nylon. A shiver crawled up my spine as
I realized these could be remnants of Hunter's clothing,
gear belonging to people who had disappeared or fled, leaving
behind only fragments to indicate they'd ever been there.
Panic crept closer, twisting coldly within me.
I rose quickly, backing away, eyes darting around the ravine
walls. That's when I saw it.
A sudden flicker of movement at the corner of my vision, high
above, on the opposite side of the gorge.
I spun around, raising my rifle instinctively.
Nothing there. Just trees, rocks, shadows.
My pulse drummed hard in my temples, each heartbeat echoing
inside my head. The silence was oppressive,
closing around me like an unseen hand pressing down until
breathing felt difficult. I forced myself to move again,
desperate to get away from that awful shelter and whatever had
built it. My sense of direction blurred.
Anxiety gnawed at the edge of reason, yet I knew I couldn't
panic now. The climb out was steep,
dangerous even without my nerves spraying.
As daylight faded rapidly, my campsite from the night before
felt impossibly distant. The sky darkened to a dull,
bruised purple, shadows stretching deep and long between
the trees. Each crackling twig, each
rustling branch became magnified, sharpening my
paranoia. But there was nothing visible,
just an endless void of quiet menace.
I finally reached my camp as darkness fully took hold.
I rebuilt the fire quickly, gathering wood and stocking
flames high enough to push back the suffocating blackness.
My eyes searched the tree line obsessively, hyper aware of
every shifting shadow. Late into the night, as
exhaustion battled anxiety, I drifted in and out of uneasy
sleep. Around midnight, something
stirred me awake. A faint sound that broke the
monotonous crackling of the fire.
My body went rigid as I listened.
Slowly, painfully slowly, the sound clarified into something
distinct. Slow, rhythmic breathing, not my
own. It seemed to come from just
outside the glow of the firelight.
Hands trembling, I reached silently for my rifle.
Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the biting cold.
I stared into the darkness, eyes wide, straining for a glimpse of
movement, but nothing revealed itself.
Minutes stretched endlessly, my breathing shallow, every nerve
ending on fire. Then, without warning, the
breathing stopped. Abruptly.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Somehow, that was worse. I waited until dawn broke again,
eyes gritty and burning from lack of rest as pale sunlight
finally washed across the trees. My gaze fixed numbly on the
ground just outside my tent flap. 2 bare footprints marked
the frost covered soil, clear and human like, but something
about their shape felt subtly wrong.
Elongated, distorted, as if made by something only pretending to
be human. The realization sank deep into
my bones, settling cold and unshakeable.
Whatever was stalking me through Dead Man's Notch, it wasn't
merely hunting. It was studying me.
By morning, I was barely holding it together.
My body felt worn thin from sleeplessness, fear, and
exhaustion. Every rational explanation I'd
clung to had slowly unraveled over the past two nights,
leaving behind only dread. Whatever was out here with me
had No Fear of being discovered. It was stalking me, mimicking my
movements, learning my habits, and worst of all, letting me
know it could reach me whenever it chose.
I knew I had to get out. Returning to my original drop
off point would take most of the day, but remaining in this place
was no longer an option. I quickly packed what essentials
I still had, abandoning everything non essential to
lighten my load. As I walked, my eyes darted
across the landscape, pulse quickening with every shifting
shadow. I'd hiked for hours.
When I finally reached a rocky overlook above the gorge,
pausing briefly to Orient myself, my nerves buzzed with an
uneasy awareness, as if being watched by something I couldn't
yet see. I glanced up from my map and
froze. Across the ravine, about 300
yards away, a figure crouched on a rocky ledge, staring directly
at me through my binoculars. The breath caught painfully in
my throat. It wore my Ranger jacket,
identical in color and style, complete with the familiar
patches on its sleeves. The same boots, stance, and even
the same posture mirrored my own.
My hands shook as I raised the binoculars higher, desperate to
identify who or what was watching me.
My stomach turned as I brought the figures face into focus.
It was me. My face, my short hair, the
faint scar on my cheek, all of it was there.
Yet something was horribly off. The eyes sat too far apart, cold
and vacant. The mouth hung slightly open,
lips slack like an imitation missing critical details.
Its head cocked slowly to one side, mimicking my exact posture
as I shifted my weight. I lifted my rifle, pulse
pounding, trying to steady my shaking hands.
I aimed just above its head, hoping a warning shot would send
whatever it was fleeing. The sharp crack of the gun
echoed across the gorge, but the thing never flinched.
It remained motionless, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on me.
A cold, sharp wave of terror flooded me as I watched the
figure drop silently onto all fours and scurry impossibly fast
back into the shadows of the rocks, its limbs moving and
jerky, unnatural motions. I didn't wait.
Instinct overtook reason and I turned and ran, lungs burning,
branches slapping my face. Every snapping twig and rustling
Bush behind me pushed adrenaline through my veins, urging me
faster. The creature stayed parallel,
tracking me through the trees, it's distorted shape glimpsed
briefly in flashes between branches, pacing me
effortlessly. I skidded downhill toward the
river, legs shaking from the brutal pace.
At one point I risked a glance over my shoulder.
My stomach churned when I spotted the thing again, closer
now, its mouth wide open like it was screaming.
But no sound escaped. I stumbled and nearly fell, but
forced myself upright and kept moving.
The river appeared ahead, wide and churning, a ribbon of
salvation cutting through the forest.
Without hesitation, I plunged into the icy water.
Cold seized my chest, numbing instantly.
The current yanked me downstream, pulling me beneath
the surface. My lungs screamed for air as I
fought to stay afloat, driven by desperation more powerful than
exhaustion. Minutes stretched into eternity,
the rushing water sweeping me along until finally, gasping and
coughing, I dragged myself onto the muddy shore downstream,
limbs trembling uncontrollably. Night fell swiftly, wrapping the
wilderness in oppressive darkness, but I kept moving
along the riverbank, driven by the singular urge to survive.
Every rustle, every cracking branch set my heart racing
again, but nothing emerged from the darkness.
Eventually, my battered body collapsed on the rocky
shoreline, utterly spent. By sunrise, a Wyoming Fish and
Game Patrol boat found me shivering violently scratched,
bruised and barefoot. They brought me in, silent and
staring vacantly into the distance, struggling to
articulate what I had witnessed. Back at headquarters, the dash
Cam footage from my patrol truck had been erased entirely,
leaving only static behind. Without video proof, all I had
were my notes, sketches, and the unsettling memories seared into
my mind. I wrote a brief, guarded report,
carefully avoiding speculation. Officially, it was logged as an
unidentified threat, but privately among Rangers, I
warned them to avoid Dead Man's Notch at all costs.
I've since refused to patrol alone.
Bridger Teton quietly restricted access to the gorge, citing
environmental recovery. But late at night, lying awake,
my thoughts returned there again and again.
I know now, with bitter certainty, that what crawled out
of that ravine remains hidden, waiting patiently for the next
person brave or foolish enough to wander into its territory.
Palo Duro Canyon was never forgiving.
In July, under a sun that blistered the red rock and
cracked the dry earth, it became downright hostile.
The heat clawed at your throat, stole moisture from your eyes
and turned the most seasoned hikers into stumbling, mumbling
shells of themselves. Most visitors underestimated it,
arriving with flimsy water bottles and cheap sandals.
They came here looking for postcard perfect views, only to
leave humbled, if they left at all.
I knew the Canyon well. I'd been a Texas State Park
Ranger here nearly 10 years, a lifetime after serving as an
Army medic. I'd patched up snake bites,
twisted ankles, heat stroke victims.
After a while, you thought you'd seen it all.
But the truth is, the Canyon was always waiting with something
new, something worse. That summer, July brought more
than record-breaking heat. It brought disappearances. 3
campsites abandoned within two weeks, campers gone without a
trace. No signs of struggle, no
scattered gear. Just silence.
A cold sense of unease had crept through the Ranger team, though
nobody spoke openly about it. Maybe because we all remembered
the whispered local legends. When storms came in summer,
shadows moved along the Canyon walls.
Shadows tall and unnatural. I tried not to dwell on ghost
stories. Rangers didn't indulge
superstition. But there was something about
this July I couldn't shake. It was a Tuesday when the call
came in. Two hikers, a brother and sister
from Lubbock, were overdue by two days from their planned hike
along the Rock Garden Trail. A volunteer spotted their old
Subaru parked at the trailhead, untouched.
The visitor center raised an alert and I headed out at dawn
to investigate before the sun became unbearable.
My patrol mule, Rosie, knew the trails as well as I did.
She plotted patiently as we climbed higher into the Canyon,
navigating narrow paths and rocky slopes.
By mid morning, the air was shimmering with heat and the sun
beat down like a hammer. When we reached the campsite, my
stomach tightened. 2 tents stood intact, sleeping bags laid open
as if the occupants had just stepped outside.
A loaf of bread sat half eaten on a cooler, already swarming
with ants. Water bottles, maps, guidebooks,
everything was still here. Nobody packs for a hike and
leaves all their gear behind. I radioed headquarters, but the
line was static. The canyon's sheer walls often
killed reception. Sighing, I climbed higher to
find a signal. Glancing at the towering cliffs
around me, my breath caught. Halfway up a sandstone face was
something dark, something unnatural.
Carefully picking my way through loose rock, I moved closer,
squinting in disbelief at what I found. 3 deep gouges, each 6
feet long and spaced evenly apart, carved neatly into the
rock. They looked fresh, the edges
sharp, too precise to be animal claws, too powerful for a human
prank. An uncomfortable shiver ran down
my back. Despite the heat, Instinct made
me glance quickly over my shoulder at the empty Canyon
behind me. I took a shaky breath, feeling
very exposed on the narrow ledge.
Whatever did this had strength and reach.
On the way back to the campsite, Rosie froze.
Ears flattened, She pawed nervously at the ground,
refusing to continue toward the dry wash we'd crossed earlier.
A foul scent drifted on the breeze, something dead and ripe
baking in the sun. Animals died here all the time,
but Rosie had never reacted this badly.
She was usually steady, unflappable.
I trusted her instincts. We circled around, choosing
another route back, eventually settling into a different
clearing for the night. The sun sank behind the Canyon
walls, plunging us into an oppressive darkness.
No moon tonight, only thick, choking shadows that seemed to
press inward. I ate a cold dinner and bedded
down under the stars, unable to shake the feeling of eyes
watching me from the blackness beyond the firelight.
Sleep refused to come. I lay awake, listening to the
silence of the Canyon. Sometime after midnight, Rosie's
terrified braying jolted me from my thoughts.
Scrambling up, flashlight in hand, I sprinted toward the
sound. Rosie was thrashing violently at
her tether, her cries abruptly silenced by a sickening crunch.
The beam of my flashlight found her immediately.
She lay crumpled, throat savagely ripped open, eyes wide
and glassy. Her legs were bent grotesquely
beneath her, as if something had snapped them with brutal force.
Bile rose in my throat. My flashlight trembled in my
grip as I searched frantically around me.
There were deep indentations in the ground, too long, too widely
spaced for human feet. Something large and heavy had
moved quickly here, silently approaching the camp, killing
Rosie before retreating into the darkness.
I stood frozen, my heartbeat roaring in my ears, realizing
for the first time in my career that I wasn't alone in the
Canyon. Something else was out here,
something violent, powerful, and utterly unknown.
And whatever it was, it wasn't finished yet.
I sat in the cramped Ranger station, staring at my shaking
hands. My supervisor, Mark, paced
slowly in front of me. The room smelled of stale coffee
and sun warmed maps. I'd spent all morning filling
out paperwork about Rosie's death.
Mark had insisted I take some personal days, but that felt
impossible. I couldn't just go home and
pretend the Canyon hadn't changed overnight.
Instead, I found myself buried in old incident logs, searching
through yellowed pages that smelled of dust and mildew.
Maybe it was just denial. Or maybe I was desperate for
something, anything, to explain what had happened out there.
Either way, I was convinced I wasn't the first person in Palo
Duro Canyon to see something they couldn't explain.
I found scattered notes buried deep in the archives.
Entries from the 80s described campers vanishing during heat
waves, their gear left untouched.
A Ranger named Roy Mendoza had written about strange marks
along the rim, dated July 1999. Then there was a vague reference
to something the older locals called La Sombra del Canon, the
shadow of the Canyon. The notes were frustratingly
brief, but the common thread was clear.
Campers disappearing without reason.
Strange markings on Canyon walls.
Sightings no one could prove. That evening, as the sun sank
low over the horizon, painting the sky deep shades of orange
and Violet, I found myself packing.
Not the gear I'd usually take on routine patrol, but heavier
equipment. My service pistol, a flare gun,
an emergency beacon, and night vision goggles I'd borrowed from
the station's supply closet. I didn't check out the gear
properly. I didn't want anyone asking
questions. Rangers didn't go hunting
folklore, they'd say. The heat was getting to my head,
but something was out there, and I couldn't shake the image of
Rosie's broken body, the gouges carved into the stone, or the
feeling of something close by, just beyond the reach of my
flashlight. I headed out on foot this time,
moving slowly toward Capital Peak, avoiding trails where
hikers or fellow Rangers might spot me.
The sky darkened fast, clouds swirling overhead, promising a
storm that wouldn't bring rain, only heat.
Lightning crackling silently, the hot air clung to my skin
like a fever. After a grueling climb, I
reached a shallow cave I knew from patrols.
Settling into the narrow alcove, I waited, night vision goggles
heavy on my head, sweat stinging my eyes.
Hours ticked by in silence. The storm finally gathered
overhead around 2:00 in the morning, lighting the Canyon in
eerie greenish bursts. During a particularly intense
flash, something moved across my vision.
I froze, heart suddenly pounding in my ears.
Adjusting the goggles, I scanned the opposite Ridge.
Another flash lit up the night, and there, silhouetted against
the sky, stood a shape. My pulse quickened and my breath
caught painfully in my throat. It was tall, easily 7 feet, with
limbs unnaturally long, almost skeletal.
The storm flickered again. And for a moment, I caught a
glimpse of its skin, pale and stretched tight across its
frame, face hidden in shadow. I fought down panic, my breath
shallow, each inhale barely filling my lungs.
Whatever this was, it wasn't human or animal, not any species
native to the Canyon. It lingered, unmoving, like it
was waiting, watching. Then darkness fell again.
My heart hammered as I blinked sweat from my eyes, frantically
adjusting the goggles when lightning illuminated the Ridge
once more. The figure had vanished.
My hands shook as I forced myself to breathe, steadily
counting seconds between lightning flashes.
Nothing moved. Only silence filled the gap.
At sunrise, exhausted and tense, I left The Cave and cautiously
made my way down toward the dry wash below Capital Peak.
As I moved, I noticed something dark trailing along the Canyon
floor, streaks of dried blood. The trail was easy to follow,
winding through the wash and ending abruptly at a narrow rock
shoot. The opening was tight, barely
wide enough to squeeze through, but I pushed inside anyway, skin
scraping against the rough stone walls.
Wedged inside, I found an abandoned backpack, the missing
hikers pack from Lubbock. My throat tightened.
Carefully, I opened it, finding sealed granola bars, sunscreen,
an unopened water bottle, and a guidebook.
No wallet, no keys. Beside it lay something else,
bones, broken and scattered, unmistakably human.
I stumbled backwards, stomach churning, fighting the urge to
be sick. I grabbed my radio and called
in, desperation coloring my voice.
Headquarters, this is Ranger Louise, do you copy?
Static hissed back, empty and lifeless.
Headquarters. My voice broke.
I tried again, voice thick with dread.
Only more static. I was completely alone, trapped
in the heat ravaged Canyon, aware now that the missing
campers hadn't simply wandered off.
They'd been taken, killed, and whatever had killed them was
still out here, waiting for nightfall.
Night came swiftly, and the darkness fell like a heavy
curtain over the Canyon. I sat alone near the mouth of
Sunday Creek, feeling vulnerable beneath a thick blanket of
clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance,
angry growls promising a storm. But no rain fell.
Instead, flashes of dry lightning illuminated the Canyon
walls in brief, disorienting bursts of white hot light.
Each flash left bright after images dancing behind my
eyelids, twisting my vision into confusion.
I had stopped trying the radio hours ago.
It yielded nothing but meaningless static.
My leg ached from a scrape I'd picked up crawling through that
narrow chute. Sweat stung the cut, and every
move sent fiery jolts up my thigh.
Still, I knew staying still meant dying.
I kept low, flashlight grip tightly, moving cautiously
through the loose gravel in the dry wash.
My heartbeat felt loud enough to echo off the walls, and I forced
my breath shallow and controlled, fighting to steady
my shaking hands. Nothing stirred around me, no
insects, no breeze, only the oppressive silence between claps
of Thunder. Then came a sound so quiet it
barely registered a subtle shift of gravel just behind me.
I spun around, raising the flashlight, but the weak beam
found nothing except empty space and dust particles floating in
the air. My pulse hammered at my temples.
Another flash of lightning split the sky, and the Canyon lit up
in stark detail. Ahead of me, crouched low behind
a cluster of Mesquite shrubs, was a shape too thin, too tall
limbs folded unnaturally. My stomach lurched.
In the brief instant of illumination, its pale skin
seemed almost reflective, drawn tight over Bony joints.
One arm rose slowly, impossibly long fingers reaching out toward
me. The Canyon plunged back Into
Darkness. I stumbled backward, nearly
dropping the flashlight. Terror surged through me, primal
and urgent. I turned, breaking into a full
Sprint down the wash. Gravel slid beneath my boots,
threatening to send me sprawling, but sheer panic drove
me forward. The thing pursued, silent,
swift, disturbingly agile, gaining ground with each passing
2nd. I felt the air rush past as it
lunged for me, missing by inches.
I spun and fired my flare gun wildly, and the bright red glare
cast shadows dancing crazily off Canyon walls in that horrifying
glow. I caught a brief glimpse of it
again, now even closer, head cocked at an unnatural angle,
empty eye sockets blacker than the Canyon around us.
The flare fizzled out, darkness closing back around me like a
tomb. I ran blindly, lungs screaming
for air, my injured leg throbbing in agony.
Behind me, gravel shifted again, faster, heavier.
It was coming. My mind screamed at me to move
faster, to run, until my legs gave out.
Then, without warning, a bolt of lightning slammed into a cedar
tree only yards away, shattering it into splinters of smoking
wood and flame. Heat and light exploded,
momentarily blinding me. I fell hard onto the jagged
earth, hand scraped raw. When I raised my head, blinking
rapidly to clear my vision, the burning tree cast an eerie glow
across the wash. I saw clearly the thing behind
me, frozen mid step, recoiling from the brightness.
Its elongated arm shielded its featureless face.
For the first time, it hesitated.
I didn't wait. Pain forgotten, I scrambled to
my feet and bolted, lungs burning as though filled with
fire. The Canyon blurred past me,
rocks and brush scraping at my skin, but adrenaline carried me
forward. Behind me, the distant sound of
movement faded. When dawn finally broke, Pale
and weak, I reached the Ranger station doors, collapsing onto
the dusty floor, gasping for air.
Blood trickled from the reopened gash on my leg, mingling with
dirt and sweat. Someone shouted for help, but
the voices sounded distant, unreal.
By afternoon, the park accepted my resignation without argument,
my silence taken as shock or trauma.
Within days, a quiet announcement went out.
Backcountry camping was suspended due to fire risks and
trail erosion. But those of us who knew Palo
Duro Canyon understood the truth, even if none of us dared
speak it aloud. I moved away to Amarillo and
left the Canyon behind. But some nights, especially when
the heat rises and dry lightning flickers in the distance, I
dream vividly of shadows moving silently along sandstone walls,
shadows that never fully reveal themselves but whose presence
lingers unmistakably in my memory.
This morning wasn't much different, at least not at
first. Dispatch called me at sunrise
about an overdue Backcountry permit near Bone Valley. 2
hikers, a husband and wife from Louisville, had parked their
Honda CRV at the Nolan Creek trailhead. 6 days later.
No return tags, no check in, no contact.
Normally folks either come wandering out sheepishly with an
apology or they get themselves in trouble.
Twisted ankles, dehydration, hypothermia.
But something felt off about this one from the start.
Bone Valley is isolated, hard to reach.
If you pick that spot, you know what you're doing.
Or at least you think you do. I left my itinerary with
dispatch, grabbed my gear, and headed out.
The trail up from Nolan Creek was overgrown, thick branches
and Laurel snagging at my pack and uniform sleeves.
Nobody had cleared this route in months, maybe longer.
By noon, the climb had me sweating through my shirt,
breathing heavy. It was slow going.
Every mile or so I caught signs someone had passed recently.
Small boot prints pressed into muddy soil, snapped twigs
dangling freshly from trees. Near 1 stream I spotted a melted
lump of trail mix, the chocolate gone sticky and embedded with
pine needles. They'd come this way, at least.
By early evening, I reached the clearing marked on their permit
application. At first glance, it was clear
something had happened. The tent was half collapsed, the
nylon torn along one side, shredded in jagged strips.
The ground was littered with debris, cookware, clothes, a
paperback novel left to swell and wrinkle in the rain.
One sleeping bag remained rolled out, untouched.
The other was gone entirely. I checked the area carefully,
scanning the dirt and plants for blood or signs of a struggle.
Nothing. But along a nearby Tulip Poplar
tree, I saw deep gouges in the bark.
Bare, maybe, but the marks didn't match anything I'd seen
before. They were wide set and
alarmingly deep. The hair on my neck prickled as
I ran a finger over the splintered grooves behind the
clearing. The brush had been pushed aside,
creating a narrow corridor through dense thickets.
I ducked low, peering into the shadowed path.
Something big had come and gone through here repeatedly.
I debated following it, but the sun was already slipping toward
the Ridge and daylight had a way of fading quickly in these
valleys. Staying out here alone after
dark wasn't on my list. I took detailed notes, logged
coordinates, and then turned to head back.
The sky was already a dim Violet as I hiked down the trail.
Shadows lengthened and shifted. The forest had that heavy,
silent feel it gets at twilight, like the trees themselves are
holding their breath every few minutes.
I paused to look behind me, scanning the dim woods.
It was then, maybe 1/2 mile from the campsite that I first
noticed it. Standing perfectly still about
20 yards off the trail, was a figure.
Tall, dark, unmoving. I froze, hand inching
instinctively toward my sidearm. I blinked once, twice, hard.
Then I raised my flashlight, heart hammering as the beam
swung up. But the figure was gone.
The light illuminated only stone and Moss, twisted tree limbs and
dense brush. I stared for a moment, trying to
shake the feeling crawling down my spine.
Just a trick of the fading light, I told myself.
Nothing more. I resumed walking quicker now,
but the next time I glanced back, it was there again.
Exactly the same shape, the same spot, perfectly motionless.
This time. I whipped the flashlight beam
across the space hard in my throat.
And again, nothing but stone, Moss and trees.
The hike back was the longest I'd ever made.
By the time I reached my truck at the Nolan Creek trailhead, it
was fully dark, and the figure or whatever I'd seen never
appeared again. Still, when I climbed into the
cab, locked the doors and radio dispatch, my voice was steadier
than my hands. The drive back to my outpost
cabin near Fontana took nearly an hour, the headlights barely
piercing the dense darkness. I spent every minute trying to
convince myself I'd seen nothing back there on the trail, just my
imagination playing tricks after a long day.
The alternative was something I wasn't ready to consider.
By the time I reached the cabin, the radio crackled as dispatch
confirmed my report. They said they'd send a search
and rescue team to meet me at first light.
That should have eased my mind. It didn't.
Inside, I locked the door behind me, double checking the latch.
It was a small outpost, one room, wood paneled, with a desk,
a cot, and a modest kitchen area.
Sparse, but it always felt secure, a tiny sanctuary buried
deep in the mountains. Tonight, though, it felt
exposed. I spread a map of the park on
the desk, tracing roots with my finger.
Outside, the woods stood silent. The usual nighttime sounds,
crickets, distant owls were absent.
There was only a heavy silence pressing in from every
direction. Around midnight, as fatigue
finally began to settle in, I heard footsteps.
They sounded like bare feet, quick and light, circling the
cabin. I straightened instantly, pulse
jumping. A bear, I thought, or maybe a
coyote. But as I listened, my heart
sank. The rhythm wasn't animal.
It was paced, purposeful. I moved quietly to the window.
Peering cautiously through a crack in the blinds, I saw
nothing but shadows. The urge to fling the door open
was overwhelming, but my training screamed at me to stay
put. Bolted doors were better than an
open forest. 10 minutes later, the power flickered and died.
I sat frozen at the desk, the room swallowed by darkness.
Reaching blindly into a drawer, I pulled out the emergency radio
and flicked the switch. Static buzz softly, then cut
out. Dead.
That shouldn't happen. These radios always worked from
above. A sharp creak echoed through the
ceiling. Something was on the roof.
My pulse thudded in my ears. The footsteps overhead moved
slowly from one side to the other, pausing, then shifting
again. Whatever was up there had
weight. It sounded heavy, solid.
My instinct screamed at me to stay inside, to wait it out.
Then, just as suddenly as they started, the footsteps stopped.
I waited, breath shallow, ears straining.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Just as I began to believe it
had moved on, a voice erupted from the trees, clear and sharp
as a rifle. Crack.
Eric. My blood turned cold.
The voice wasn't from Dispatch, wasn't from another Ranger.
I knew exactly who it sounded like.
My brother Josh. He died 10 years ago on a rescue
gone wrong in Shenandoah, fell into a ravine during a midnight
search. His voice had been silent for a
decade, and yet here, in the middle of the Smokies, I heard
it, unmistakably. Eric, come out here.
Every fiber of my being wanted to shout back, but I knew
better. I forced myself to stay still,
heart hammering so loudly it felt like it echoed off the
walls. Whatever was out there was
trying to draw me into the dark, and I wasn't taking the bait.
The voice grew distant, gradually fading into nothing.
Still, I didn't move, didn't sleep.
I just sat rigid at the desk, listening until dawn crept over
the ridgeline, spilling soft Gray light through the blinds.
When the search and rescue team arrived at sunrise, radios
crackling and voices calm, I unlocked the cabin door and
stepped into the cool morning air, my face a mask of calm I
didn't feel. As we loaded our gear and
started toward Bone Valley, I made myself a promise.
This would be the last Backcountry patrol I'd ever do
alone. The morning sunlight was sharp
but did nothing to chase away the chill from the night before.
As the search and rescue team gathered at the trailhead, I
kept quiet about the voice I'd heard.
There was no point spooking them.
Before we even started, 4 seasoned rescuers and a cadaver
dog, a Belgian Malinois named Riggs, set out with me up the
winding trail. Riggs moved confidently ahead,
nose to the ground. When we reached the campsite, it
looked exactly as I'd left it. The torn tent, the unsettling
claw marks, one of the rescuers muttered.
Never seen marks like that. Riggs stiffened suddenly, his
eyes fixed on the dense Laurel beyond the campsite.
His handler gave a sharp nod and Riggs darted into the brush, the
team moving quickly to follow. We pushed into the tangled
undergrowth, following the dog's progress along the narrow
corridor of disturbed earth I'd seen yesterday.
The path twisted through the thickets and ended abruptly at
the base of a steep, rocky bluff.
Rig stopped, body low, nose trained at a shadowed spot below
a Moss covered ledge. I stepped forward, chest
tightening behind a curtain of tangled vines.
A small cave mouth yawned open, black and damp.
We ducked carefully inside, flashlights illuminating walls
lined with bones. Animal bones gnawed and cracked.
Near the back of the shallow cave, someone had arranged a
small living area. Torn clothing, dirty blankets
and bits of camping gear were strewn across the uneven floor.
Got something? One of the rescuers called
quietly. He held up a weathered backpack,
its fabric crusted with dirt. Carefully, he unzipped it,
pulling out a worn wallet and a crumbling permit tag.
My breath caught when he passed the permit to me.
The date stamped on it read clearly May 14th, 1998.
We'd found gear belonging to Michael Farris, A backpacker who
had disappeared more than two decades ago on this very trail.
The realization that someone somehow had remained hidden here
all that time made my skin crawl.
Rigs pawed at something else. His handler crouched beside him,
retrieving A ripped boot from beneath a pile of animal
remains. It matched the size and style of
footwear described in the Missing Couples report.
There were no bodies, just signs that something had claimed this
place for years. By midday, we radioed for
forensic support. The team documented everything,
packing it for the lab. Eventually, we left The Cave
behind, but I knew its image would be burned into my mind
forever. Back at the station that
evening, after hours of interviews and uneasy glances, I
submitted my request for immediate transfer to a front
desk roll. There was no hesitation.
I'd done my time. I was done with the Backcountry,
done with those quiet trails and lonely nights.
In the weeks that followed, the story spread in hushed tones
among park employees, but no arrests were ever made.
The investigation stalled, unable to offer closure beyond
what we'd found. But the truth was clear enough
to me, obvious in every shadowy corner of the Smokies.
Someone had survived out there for decades, hidden from sight.
Someone who knew these mountains better than anyone.
Someone who I was certain still watch silently from the woods,
waiting patiently for the next hiker foolish enough to wander
too deep.