I've lived in Southern California my entire life.
If you know anything about California, you'll know it's
very diverse. Up north it's filled with
mountains and trees, while down South it's much more city like.
This summer I decided to take a trip to Lake Tahoe.
It's a beautiful place and it was my first time being upstate.
I'm going to chop this story up into segments to make it an easy
read. Day one I settled into the cabin
at around 5:00 PM after an 8 hour drive.
I was very tired. I went and lay down in the bed
in the loft. It was quiet, like being in a
different world. I was so used to cars zooming by
and people talking right outside my house, but here it was
silent. I fell asleep fairly quickly.
About four hours later, I jerked awake.
I looked around for a bit before hearing a strange tapping sound.
I tried to figure out where it was coming from, but to no
avail. It sounded as if someone was
tapping on the window of the back door.
I figured I was just paranoid and fell back asleep.
Day 2. Nothing happened this day and I
slept fine. Day three, early morning.
I woke up very early, maybe around 4:00 AM.
I heard a crash coming from the attic ladder, which was
conveniently placed right behind the couch I was sleeping on.
I didn't move. Then I heard a few footsteps.
You know that feeling when you sense someone staring at you?
That's exactly how I felt. I was on my side, staring
straight ahead. Suddenly I felt somebody or
something crawl over me. I felt two hands on either side
of me, and I could tell their face was just inches away from
mine. Like I said, I was facing
straight ahead, and I wasn't about to turn my head to see who
or what it was. It felt like they stayed there
forever before finally crawling backward and off the couch.
I heard the dog let out a muffled bark, and then someone
shushed her with a quiet good girl.
The presents lingered for what felt like an eternity until I
heard footsteps going out the back door.
Still, I didn't move. I was paralyzed with fear.
Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep.
Later, when I felt it was safe, I checked on my friends.
None of them had left their rooms that night.
When I told them what happened, they said I was just being
paranoid. I half agreed and we went on
with our day as planned. Day three.
Later that day, after a day at the lake with my friends, we
returned to a quiet, cozy cabin. The caretakers told us there was
a river a bit farther into the woods, about a 15 minute walk.
My friends decided to stay behind and rest, so I took some
bug spray, a small backpack with snacks, and my phone and headed
out. The trail was pretty
straightforward. Tall grass flanked either side,
and the path itself was thin but easy to follow.
I reached the riverbank where there were two picnic tables.
I didn't want to get eaten alive by mosquitoes, but I'd stupidly
worn sandals. I dropped my bag on one of the
tables and started back toward the cabin.
For some odd reason, the path suddenly seemed distorted.
What was once a smooth trail was now rough and uneven.
I noticed the tall grass on the side of the path had been
flattened, as if something huge, and I mean gigantic, had passed
through it. At first I suspected a bear,
since the locals warned us they could be a problem this time of
year, but the sheer size of whatever caused it made me
second guess that. I was startled but kept going
until I made it back to the cabin and then I returned to the
river again. By now I was a little
frightened. I kept telling myself I was just
overreacting and should try to enjoy nature.
I sat at one of the tables and watched the river for a while.
That's when I started to feel like something was watching me.
I looked around, assuming one of my friends was trying to prank
me, but there was no one. Across the river I noticed some
disturbed brush. It opened into a small clearing,
blocked off by two logs in an X shape.
The longer I sat there, the more uneasy I became.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was hidden behind
that thick brush. Hoping to find some sign of
life, I moved down to the river's edge, but there was
nothing. No fish, no frogs, no roads.
Just mosquitoes. A whole swarm of them.
Disappointed, I went back to the table.
That's when I heard it. A sound I can't accurately
describe, like a scream mixed with a gurgle, as if whatever
was making the noise had a mouthful of water.
It was inhuman. I froze.
I should have run for my life, but I just stood there.
I heard rustling in the bushes behind me.
Yes, the same bushes I'd been worrying about earlier.
And then that scream again, even louder this time.
It was the loudest sound I've ever heard run.
So I did. I sprinted through the forest,
but what should have been a quick run back to the cabin
turned into anything. But after about 10 minutes of
full on sprinting, I realized I was lost.
I stopped for a moment, panicking to see if anything
looked familiar. Finally, I spotted a bridge I
remembered crossing on my way there.
I started running toward it, wondering why that thing hadn't
just attacked me when I first froze.
That thought haunted me. I could hear it chasing me.
It felt like a twisted game. Every time I stopped, it stopped
too. Eventually, I made it back to my
cabin. Instead of going inside, I stood
on the porch facing the forest and cried.
I couldn't see anything unusual out there, but I knew it was
there. I didn't want to turn my back on
it, so I stayed on the porch for hours, silently crying, checking
my phone occasionally, and writing all of this down.
I still don't know what that thing was.
The only creature I can compare it to is a Wendigo or
skinwalker. All I know is that I will never
go back to that river again. If anyone has insight into what
or who might have been out there, I'd appreciate it.
These past two days have been too strange not to be connected.
Edit Last day of the trip we burned some sage before heading
to bed. That night Brett came to me
around 4:00 AM and said he couldn't sleep.
We watched TV for a while before hearing tapping on the back
window again. It lasted a few seconds at a
time, almost in intervals, if that makes sense.
Brett managed to record a video. We decided not to investigate
because frankly, we were scared out of our minds.
After about 10 minutes, the tapping stopped.
Brett and I took turns sleeping and nothing else happened that
night until we were both woken by loud banging on the shed
Outback. When we went to check it out, no
one was there. I'm leaving in two hours.
I can't wait to get back to city life and leave all this
weirdness behind. Thank you for all your support
and guidance over these past few days.
I really appreciate it and wish you all the best.
I think my friend and I are being followed by a skinwalker.
This started a few days ago. I don't know what we did, but
ever since about 3 days ago we've been noticing very odd
things. Our truck started smelling like
sulfur and rotten meat and our trailer which is very clean,
smells like rotten meat as well. We don't have any meat here, we
checked. We hear scratching at night
while we're trying to sleep as well as knocking, but that
doesn't make sense because we are in the middle of nowhere in
Utah with no towns for at least 20 miles.
There is also a Native American reservation literally 200 feet
from our property. We decided to go looking for it
last night. We walked about two miles from
our truck and started to smell sulfur.
Then we both saw a six or seven foot tall silhouette running
toward us. We ran right back to the truck,
but it wouldn't start. Pretty cliche, I know.
I got out, went to the toolbox on the side, grabbed a wrench
and started taking off the intake.
I sprayed some ether in and put the intake back on and it fired
up. Needless to say, we peeled out
of there. We were doing about 53 mph
heading back to our trailer when I looked back and saw that thing
still behind us and keeping up. I told my buddy to punch it
because it was right behind us. He floored it but it wouldn't go
any faster. It can usually do around 7080
but it wouldn't go past 55. It's a Ford 6.9 Idi with a turbo
kit in case anyone was wondering.
We eventually made it the mile or so back to our trailer, shut
the truck off and ran inside as fast as we could.
We locked the door and covered all the windows with blankets.
As soon as I got the last blanket up, there was something
tugging at our door and trying to open it, so I went and held
the door shut. Then out of nowhere the lock
started to unlock itself. I tied it in the locked position
with a boot lace, grabbed a hammer, It's all I had to defend
myself and waited. About a minute later I got a
text from a girl I'm interested in but who never texts me back
saying that she's in trouble and needs us to come get her right
now. I asked what was going on and
she said she was getting kicked out of the house so I got ready
to go because this was my only chance with her.
I asked if she had money for diesel and she asked me why.
I told her we were coming to get her and she then said why would
I want to see you? We haven't talked in months.
Umm, what? You just texted me 3 minutes
ago. So I decided it was probably in
our best interest to stay inside that night.
I started hearing my name being called from outside by vaguely
familiar voices, but I couldn't quite place them.
I never looked outside last night for fear that this thing
was just outside the door. I put salt around the door
because someone told me that would help, and nothing got in
last night, so it must have worked.
Now it's morning and there's almost no sign that anything
happened last night. No scratch marks on the trailer,
no dents, no footprints or paw prints, nothing.
So here I am writing this and hoping someone believes me
because I need help. I don't know how to get rid of
this thing. If you read this far I just want
to say thank you and I will have another update tonight.
To clarify, this post is not me trying to seek attention.
I'm just saying I'm scared to death and don't know what to do.
There are people saying that it's fake, but I'm just
explaining the events that happened and asking for help.
I appreciate those of you who are trying to help me and keep
me safe. Unfortunately, I cannot leave my
property since I have nowhere else to go, but I am taking the
necessary precautions to stay safe.
I'm going to the gas station soon to buy salt to make a
barrier around my trailer. Thanks for the help y'all.
Again, feel free to downvote my post if you like, all I need is
help. I understand the skepticism, I
really do, as I didn't think it was real either.
The thing that really shook me was when the door started to
shake and began to unlock. Thanks for reading.
Edit Two Another thing I forgot to mention is that my flashlight
did flicker on and off a few times.
I don't know if that's paranormal or just the battery
dying but I thought I should mention it.
Edit three Day four It's now night time and I haven't
experienced anything yet. Today I plan on keeping a log of
everything that happens. The reason it says day 4 is
because this whole thing started about four days ago.
Even though it's dark, I really want to capture some video for
everyone and that's what I'll be doing.
I'm not going to try to piss it off, but I am going to record.
Not sure how I'll upload it yet, but I'll find a way and be back
with an update. Thanks again to everyone who is
genuinely trying to help me. Ever since I followed your
advice I've had fewer experiences, but that could just
be because it was daytime. Also side note, I went to the
reservation today but no luck. My buddy and I asked everyone
who drove by where the tribe is and nobody knew.
We might have to try again tomorrow.
I wish I could just call them but I don't know where to find
their number. I'll be back with an update in a
couple of hours hopefully. Edit four day 5 I listened to
everyone's advice and made a salt barrier.
There are also a lot of people saying that it's a demon, not a
skinwalker. So I've been researching demons.
I found one very helpful point. If you don't give it the power
to mess with you, you won't get messed with.
So I did exactly that last night.
I didn't focus on it. In fact y'all told me to pray,
so I prayed. I didn't hear any knocking or
scratching last night. No light flickering, nothing.
Thank you to everyone who has helped me fight off this entity,
whatever it is. You guys don't understand how
much you helped me stay calm and fight it off.
Also, if I do have any more experiences I will try to record
it and communicate with it using an EVP app.
Not sure if the app works but I might as well try.
Thanks again y'all. I'll be back with an update
later. Edit 5 and most likely final
update. No new occurrences.
I still haven't gotten any help from the reservation but nothing
has happened in the last couple of days.
We also got a dog and it hasn't acted weird at all these last
couple of days. I think that whatever was
bothering us is gone for good. I just want to say I'm so so
glad I had y'all to help me through this and keep me calm.
I may or may not post more updates depending on what
happens next. I must preface this with a few
things. This encounter is second hand,
but it was told to me on multiple occasions by the person
who experienced it. I am a natural skeptic and
cynic, so I can't say I 100% believe it.
However, his telling of the story was simple yet concise,
and it never varied between retellings.
I've known him for many years and his advice and input on just
about everything are well reasoned and always helpful, so
I'll take his word for it, even if with a grain of salt.
Also keep in mind, I am not a seasoned writer.
My past and present tenses may get a little jumbled, but I'll
keep it as clear and accurate as I can.
Now let's get down to business. My friend, we'll call him Marv,
likes to go solitary camping on occasion to be one with nature
and experience everything that goes along with that.
He's also an avid gun collector and enthusiast.
I don't remember exactly when he said this took place, but it was
a few years back when he decided to go camping on a whim.
He packed his gear and a few guns, a hunting rifle and a 45
sidearm specifically, and headed out into the country onto a vast
swath of property owned by a friend of his.
He had full permission and the works.
This happened near the Kisachi National Forest in South Central
Louisiana. I won't be any more specific
than that. Suffice it to say, it's miles
and miles of forest and wilderness.
He liked to hike in pretty deep and camp at a specific spot he
had found on a few previous trips.
These details are sparse, as they're not really the meat and
potatoes of this encounter. After making his way in, he set
up camp in his usual small clearing for the night, skipping
ahead a few hours. It was late afternoon when he
heard leaves crunching and twigs snapping.
He assumed it was an animal at 1st and got up from cooking
something on the fire to take a look.
He gazed in the direction of the noise and saw a man approaching
through the trees, still a good many yards away.
Marv has described his etiquette for dealing with people in very
remote places, as always being cautious because more often than
not the people he comes across are armed just like him.
He tries to stay friendly while keeping his guard up, always on
the lookout for ulterior motives because you never know what some
folks are up to in the middle of nowhere.
He'll make small talk with them, find out generally what they're
doing if he can, and occasionally share a meal.
He's never really met anyone nefarious until this situation
and maybe one other, but that's a whole other ordeal.
One thing that set off small alarm bells for him was that he
knew he was the only one with permission to be on this
property. Secondly, the guy was not
dressed for this location at all.
He said the man was wearing a white T-shirt, short blue
jogging shorts and white socks and sneakers.
Keep in mind, Marv was miles out in the middle of the woods, away
from any paths, roads, houses or anything else.
Nobody would casually stroll into that location dressed like
that unless they were lost or confused.
It was early fall, but not quite cool.
Very normal for Louisiana, so there were tons of mosquitoes,
ticks and other insects aplenty. You wouldn't want most of your
skin exposed if you could help it, especially deep in the
woods. I know that all too well from
personal experience. Marv assumed something might be
off and called out. Hey there, do you need help or
something? Loudly, Definitely loud enough
to be heard. The man kept walking forward,
staring directly at him. Marv started to feel uneasy,
which is unusual for him because he's typically cool as a
cucumber in tense situations. As the man kept closing the
distance, Marv stood up and said loudly.
Hey man, can I help you with something or what?
The guy was now about 15 to 20 feet away from Marv, standing at
the edge of the clearing in the forest, looking Marv dead in the
eye. The man spoke clearly.
Help me. Marv said.
He was already starting to get worried at this point, because
the way the man said it made it seem like something that didn't
quite know how to talk. At least that was his first
impression. It didn't sound right.
The man, still unmoving, said help me again, slightly more
emphatic, but only slightly louder.
Marv said. That's when he picked up on what
was really wrong. He noticed the tambour of the
voice was more feminine and actually sounded like a
recording being played back. The man's lip and mouth
movements weren't matching the words.
It was as if he was just opening his mouth, emitting the phrase,
then closing it again. Marv asked.
What do you need help with? Not daring to back up or move at
all, the man, still standing motionless, still looking
directly at Marv, said help me again and repeated the phrase
another three times, slowly, but not any louder.
Now completely unsure of what the hell was going on, Marv
interrupted him by barking. All right, you need to go now
unless you actually need my help.
He continued, loud and firm. Do you need my help or not?
The man didn't miss a beat. He started up with the help me
again and made as if to take another step toward Marv.
Marv told me he did the only thing that made sense in that
moment. He drew his 45 semi auto pistol
and pointed it at the man, telling him again you need to
go, I don't care what you want. The man grew more animated and
agitated, actually starting to say the phrase louder and
louder, but he neither stepped closer nor backed away.
Marv did what he thought was right, given his predicament.
Assuming he was dealing with an unstable or potentially
dangerous individual, he discharged around into the
ground in front of the man. Here's where it gets fully,
absolutely crazy. I'm not kidding.
The man stopped uttering the phrase, went silent, and, while
still staring at Marv, did a full backflip somersault, the
kind gymnasts do backward into the woods, disappearing
immediately from sight. Yes, you read that right.
I know what you're thinking because I had and still have the
same reaction. That sounds like bull crap, but
Marv gave no indication of lying and told me this story multiple
times, every time in a dead serious manner.
Marv said. The man backflipped away
effortlessly, as if pulled by an unseen tensioned coil.
He described it as completely unnatural and totally out of
place. The man had just appeared,
repeated the same phrase over and over, and became almost
frantic before Marv fired at the ground in front of him, causing
him or it to flee. Marv stood there, focused on the
spot in the forest where the man had vanished.
He saw and heard no further movement.
It was as if the guy had never been there at all.
He stayed like that as the sun began to set and the normal
night noises crept in. As I mentioned before, Marv is
pretty unshakable and actually stayed in the area for the rest
of that night and the next with no further incident.
When he told me and some other friends about this, of course we
had many questions. We asked him to elaborate on the
man's speech. He said the more he thought
about it afterward, the more sure he was that it was
definitely a female voice coming from the man.
It was like he or it had heard someone say help me and was
mimicking it like a parrot or some other talking bird, almost
like a lure. He doesn't know what it wanted.
It didn't give any indication that it wanted Marv to follow or
do anything else. It reacted immediately to the
gunshot and you know what followed.
Marv has been back to the property since with no other
strange occurrences. The only other small detail I
can think of is that during the early morning of that first
night, he remembered hearing what sounded like a gunshot in
the distance. It sounded eerily similar to his
45. He thought he might have heard
it again on his hike back out. Of course, there are people who
hunt in the area, so it could have just been that he couldn't
be sure. Since this incident and one
other which happened in a completely different location,
Marv has done some online research of the whole Kasachi
area and found many legends, stories, and supposed encounters
dealing with skinwalkers and other unnerving bits of Native
American folklore in the region, not to mention mimics and other
similar supposed creatures. A lot of his encounter lines up
with these tales. There's nothing tangible to
prove it, of course, but even as a skeptic, it makes me wonder
about strange things in remote and untouched areas of our world
that can't be explained. The mornings here are quiet,
usually very quiet. Silence that stretches, yawns
and swallows sound whole. No birds, no wind, just the soft
Creek of the cabin settling in the cool September air.
That morning wasn't any different, at least not at
first. Beau was scratching at the door
like usual, his way of saying walk now or deal with me later.
I grabbed his leash, threw on my boots and stepped outside.
The air was sharp, crisp enough to wake me up faster than
coffee. We started our walk along the
edge of the property, where the Pines press in on one side and
the wheat field sprawls out on the other.
Beau always loved this route, nose to the ground, tail wagging
like he was on the trail of something big.
But today he was different. His nose stayed up, ears
twitching at every rustle in the field.
His steps weren't playful, they were cautious, deliberate.
It put me on edge, even if I didn't want to admit it.
The wheat was high that year, taller than me in some spots.
I hated it, Couldn't see a damn thing past the first couple
rows, and it always felt like something was just out of sight.
Watching Beau stopped, his body stiff.
His growl started low, the kind that made your stomach knot up.
The kind that said we're not alone.
Coyotes, probably, I muttered, trying to convince myself as
much as him. But coyotes didn't usually make
Beau act like this. He pulled at the leash, digging
his paws into the dirt like he wanted to drag me straight into
the wheat. Knock it off, Beau, I said,
yanking him back. His growl turned into a bark,
sharp and urgent. Then I heard it.
A soft whimper, high pitched, like a puppy crying out for
help. It came from the wheat.
I froze. There weren't any dogs around
here that I knew of, no neighbors for miles.
The sound came again, closer this time.
Probably some stray, I said, though it sounded more like a
question. I took a step forward and Bow
went wild, barking and pulling harder than ever.
All right, all right, I said, backing up.
We're going. But as I turned to leave, the
whimper changed. It stretched, warbled, like a
record spinning too slow. And then it was something else
entirely. A growl, deep and guttural,
vibrating through my chest. Bo lunged at the wheat, his
leash cutting into my hand. Bo, stop.
I shouted, my voice cracking. The wheat rustled, a heavy sound
like something big was moving through it.
Not a dog, not a coyote. Something bigger.
I gripped Beau's leash tighter and pulled, practically dragging
him back toward the cabin. The growl followed us, growing
louder, sharper, and then it shifted again.
This time it sounded human. A scream tore through the air,
raw and ragged, like someone was being ripped apart.
My feet moved faster than my brain could process, dragging
Beau along as he barked and howled, like he was trying to
fight whatever was in that wheat.
We reached the edge of the yard, and I glanced back just once.
The wheat was still again, perfectly still, like nothing
had ever been there. Beau stopped barking but kept
growling, his eyes locked on the field.
I didn't wait to see if anything came out.
Inside the cabin, I locked the door and leaned against it,
trying to steady my breathing. Beau paced in front of the
window, still growling low. I grabbed the curtain and yanked
it shut. No way was I looking out there
again. That scream, though, It stuck.
It didn't sound like an animal, didn't sound like a person,
either. It sounded wrong, like something
trying to sound human and not quite getting it.
That night, as I sat at the kitchen table, Beau curled up at
my feet, I thought about the field, about how still it had
looked after all that noise. I almost convinced myself it was
nothing, just my imagination running wild.
Just a stray dog or coyote. Then came the tapping on the
window light, at first like a bird brushing against the glass,
then heavier, deliberate. I didn't move.
Beau's head shot up, his ears twitching.
He growled low, a sound so deep it rumbled through the
floorboards. The tapping stopped.
I sat there, every muscle locked up, staring at the curtain like
it was going to be ripped off at any second.
But nothing happened. The cabin stayed quiet, except
for Beau's growl and the faint sound of wind whispering through
the wheat. I didn't sleep that night, not
even a little. I spent the morning cleaning up
the scratches on my front door, long, jagged marks that ran deep
into the wood like something with claws had tried to get in.
Beau sat by the window, watching the tree line growling under his
breath. He hadn't been himself since the
day near the wheat, and neither had I.
The cabin didn't feel safe any more.
Every Creek of the walls, every gust of wind against the glass
had me glancing over my shoulder.
I needed answers. Something had been out there,
and it wasn't leaving any time soon.
I called Walter, my nearest neighbour, if you could call
someone living 3 miles down a dirt Rd.
A neighbour. He picked up on the third ring,
his voice gruff like he'd been expecting bad news.
What's going on, Charlie? I told him everything, The
wheat, the scream, the tapping on the window.
I even told him about the claw marks, though I could hear how
ridiculous it all sounded as the words tumbled out.
He didn't laugh, didn't tell me to get some sleep or lay off the
whiskey. Instead, there was a long pause,
followed by a quiet. You need to come by.
I packed Bo into the truck and headed over.
The drive felt longer than usual, the pine trees pressing
in on either side of the road like they were trying to swallow
it whole. Even Bow was uneasy, his ears
twitching at every sound. Walter was waiting on the porch,
a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He looked older than I remembered, his face lined like
someone who'd spent too many years staring into the woods.
He didn't say much, just waved me inside.
His house was cluttered, walls lined with hunting trophies and
old photographs. He poured us coffee and sat
down, his hands trembling slightly as he lit another
cigarette. What you're dealing with?
He started. Ain't something you can shoot or
scare off. It's older than that, old as the
land itself. I didn't know what to say, so I
just nodded. Walter went on to tell me about
a story he'd heard growing up, a legend passed down from the
Ojibwe people who used to live on this land.
They spoke of a guardian spirit, something tied to the woods in
the fields. It wasn't evil, not exactly, but
it didn't take kindly to being disturbed.
They called it the Keeper, he said, his voice low.
Said it watched over the land, made sure everything stayed in
balance. But if you messed with it, dug
up something you weren't supposed to, it had come for
you. That's when I remembered the
artifact I told Walter about, the carved piece of metal I'd
found in the garden last week, how I'd tossed it near the edge
of the field without thinking twice.
His face darkened. You need to put it back right
where you found it, and you need to do it soon.
I wanted to ask him why, wanted to push for more details, but
something in his expression stopped me.
Walter looked scared, the kind of fear that doesn't leave room
for questions. On the drive home, the sun was
setting, casting long shadows across the road.
I thought about the artifact, the weight of it in my hand, the
strange carvings that seemed to twist and shift in the light.
I'd found it buried deep, almost like it wasn't supposed to see
daylight. By the time I pulled into the
driveway, it was nearly dark. The cabin loomed ahead, its
windows glowing faintly against the growing night.
Beau bolted out of the truck and ran straight to the porch, his
tail down, ears flat. The air felt wrong, too.
Still too quiet. I grabbed the flashlight and
made my way to the spot near the field where I'd left the
artifact. The wheat was swaying, though
there wasn't any wind. My footsteps crunched against
the dirt path, louder than they should have been.
The artifact was still there, half buried where I'd tossed it.
I crouched down, picking it up gingerly.
It felt colder than I remembered, Heavier.
The carvings on its surface seem deeper now, more intricate, like
they'd grown in my absence. As I stood, a sound carried
through the air, a low, rhythmic hum, almost like chanting.
It wasn't coming from the house or the woods.
It was coming from the field. I turned slowly, shining my
flashlight into the wheat. The light barely penetrated the
stalks, but the sound grew louder, closer.
Beau barked from the porch, a sharp, desperate sound that made
me want to run, but I couldn't move.
The wheat shifted, parting slightly, just enough to catch a
glimpse of something moving within.
Tall, too tall, with limbs that bent in ways they shouldn't.
The hum turned into a deep, guttural growl that vibrated
through the ground. I bolted, the artifact clutched
in my hand. I ran back to the cabin with
Beau barking wildly at my heels. I slammed the door shut and
locked it, leaning against the wood as the sound outside faded.
Inside, Beau wouldn't settle. He paced the room, whining and
growling at the windows. I set the artifact on the
kitchen table, staring at it like it might move on its own.
Walter's words echoed in my head.
You need to put it back, and you need to do it.
Soon. The chanting outside stopped,
replaced by a single deliberate knock on the door.
I didn't sleep, not even for a second.
The knock on the door had been deliberate, too deliberate.
Whoever or whatever was out there wasn't done with me.
Beau lay by the door, growling low, his ears flicking at every
creak of the cabin. The artifact sat on the kitchen
table, cold and silent, as if it was waiting for me to decide
what came next. Walter's warning played over and
over in my head. I had to put it back.
Not toss it, not leave it near the edge of the field like I did
before, but back where it came from.
The problem was, I couldn't even be sure I'd survived the trip.
By the time the sun began creeping over the trees, I was
already packed. A flashlight, my hunting knife,
and a bundle of matches I wasn't sure I'd ever use.
Beau whined when I leashed him, but I had no intention of
bringing him into the field. He stayed on the porch, pacing
and barking as I headed toward the wheat alone.
The early light stretched long shadows over the rows of wheat,
making the field look taller, denser.
Every step I took along the dirt path felt like walking into a
trap. The silence wasn't natural, not
the kind you hear when the woods are still waking up.
This was something else. The kind of quiet that presses
down on you, suffocates you. I stopped where I thought I'd
dug up the artifact. The first time the wheat swayed
around me, though, the air was completely still.
Clutching the artifact in one hand, I crouched my knife in the
other and started digging. The ground was cold and
stubborn, resisting me at every scrape of the blade.
That's when it started again, the sound a low, rhythmic hum,
so deep it felt like it was coming from beneath the ground.
I froze, my hands caked with dirt, my heart hammering.
The hum built slowly, shifting into something sharp and
grating, like metal scraping against bone.
The wheat rustled to my left, then to my right.
Something was moving, circling, but I couldn't see it.
I kept digging, throwing dirt behind me as fast as I could,
desperate to finish before whatever was out there decided
to come closer. And then it stopped.
The sound, the movement. The wheat stood perfectly still.
I didn't dare look up. The soil beneath my knife began
to soften almost too easily, as though something below wanted me
to hurry. My blade hit something hard, and
I realized I'd found the spot. The hole was deeper now, more
than enough to bury the artifact, but I hesitated.
A part of me felt like putting it back was a trap, like
whatever I was dealing with wanted me to finish this for
reasons I didn't understand. The wheat shifted behind me,
slow, deliberate. I clenched the artifact so
tightly the edges dug into my skin.
My flashlight flickered, casting long beams that made the shadows
stretch and twist. I stood, turning slowly, and
finally saw it. It wasn't just one.
Tall figures stood just inside the wheat, their forms barely
visible between the stalks. They didn't move like they had
before, jerky and unnatural. Now.
Their motions were fluid, almost human, but there was nothing
human about them. Their limbs were too long,
bending in ways that defied reason.
And their faces, if they could even be called faces, were pale
voids, featureless except for faint impressions where eyes
might have been. They didn't advance.
They just watched, their heads tilting in unison, as though
waiting for me to act. I dropped the artifact into the
hole and shoved the dirt over it, my hands trembling.
The hum started again, but it wasn't coming from the ground
anymore. It was coming from them, a deep,
layered sound that vibrated in my chest and made my ears ache.
I'm sorry, I said, though my voice felt small and useless.
I didn't mean to disturb anything.
The figures didn't react. The hum grew louder, sharper,
like it was burrowing into my skull.
I backed away slowly, careful not to trip, careful not to run.
The wheat began swaying violently, as if caught in a
storm, but the figures stayed still, their heads following my
every step. I reached the edge of the field
and turned, bolting toward the cabin.
The hum stopped the moment I crossed into the yard, but the
silence that followed was even worse.
Beau barked and howled, his claws scrabbling at the porch as
I climbed the steps and collapsed against the door.
My lungs burned, my hands throbbed, but I didn't look
back. I couldn't.
Inside, I locked the door and pushed the kitchen table in
front of it. Beau sat at my feet, whining
softly as I tried to steady my breathing.
For a moment, everything was still.
No hum, no movement, just the faint sound of wind through the
trees. But then came the tapping.
Not at the windows this time. Not at the door.
It came from the roof, slow, deliberate, moving steadily
toward the center of the cabin. They weren't gone.
They were never gone. I should have trusted my gut the
moment I stepped into that house.
It wasn't just the damp smell that hit me like a slap.
Mold, old wood and something faintly metallic like pennies
left out in the rain. It wasn't even the dim lighting
that turned every corner into a shadowy void.
No, it was the feeling, that heavy, suffocating weight
pressing down on me as soon as I crossed the threshold, like the
house was watching me. I knew something wasn't right,
but I told myself to man up. We were here because we had no
other choice. Mission rules didn't matter when
you didn't have a roof over your head.
The woman who owned the place, Sister Wilcox, waddled ahead of
us, her wide frame brushing against the walls as she LED us
to our room. She didn't say much, just
muttered something about us. Making do.
Her voice was thin and raspy, like the air in the house.
When she opened the door to our room, I had to bite back a
grimace. Room was generous.
It was more like a shoe box someone had lined with cheap
panelling and called livable. A single bare bulb hung from the
ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light. 2 twin beds crammed
together with barely enough space to walk between them, and
a closet that looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
This'll do. She said, more to herself than
to us. Her small, watery eyes flitted
over me, lingered for a beat too long, then turned to my
companion, Elder Russo. Dinner's at six.
She added before lumbering off, her footsteps heavy on the
creaky floorboards. Cozy.
Russo muttered, tossing his bag onto one of the beds.
His Italian accent made everything sound less sarcastic
than it probably was. I tried to shake off the unease
as I unpacked, telling myself this was temporary, just a few
days until the mission office found us another place.
But the feeling lingered, a nagging itch I couldn't scratch.
The first night I couldn't sleep, Russo snored softly on
the bed next to mine, his steady breathing the only sound in the
room. But something kept me awake.
Maybe it was the faint creak of the house settling, or the way
the shadows in the corner seemed to shift when I wasn't looking
directly at them. I stared at the closet door, its
faded wood grain catching the light in strange patterns.
I don't know how long I lay there, but at some point I must
have dozed off. I woke up to the sound of my
name, David. It was a whisper, soft but
distinct. My eyes snapped open and my
heart hammered in my chest. I glanced at Russo, who was
still snoring, then at the closet.
The door was slightly ajar. I hadn't noticed it before.
David. It came again, this time louder,
more insistent. My skin prickled and my mouth
went dry. I told myself it had to be my
imagination, a leftover thread from 1/2 remembered Dream.
But the voice didn't sound like something conjured by my
subconscious. It sounded real close, like
someone standing just behind the closet door.
I sat up, my movement slow and deliberate, and stared at the
crack of darkness inside the closet.
My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Russo. I whispered, No response.
I reached over and shook his shoulder, but he just grunted
and rolled over. The voice didn't come again that
night, but I didn't sleep. I sat there wide eyed, watching
the closet until the first light of dawn seeped through the
window. The next day I tried to convince
myself it was nothing. Stress, fatigue.
But when Russo asked why I looked like I hadn't slept, I
couldn't bring myself to tell him.
What would I even say? That I thought the closet was
whispering to me. We spent most of the day out on
our bikes, visiting houses, knocking on doors.
By the time we got back, I was bone tired, the kind of
exhaustion that made your legs feel like lead.
But as soon as we stepped into that house, the unease came
rushing back. Dinner was the same bland
casserole as the night before, served with Sister Wilcox's
unsettling stare. She didn't talk much, but when
she did, it was always something strange.
Cryptic comments about how houses have memories and some
rooms are better left shut. That night, I made sure the
closet door was shut tight before I climbed into bed.
I even jammed a chair against it just to be safe.
Russo teased me for it, but I didn't care.
You'll thank me when the boogeyman doesn't get us.
I said, forcing a laugh. But the laugh died in my throat
when I woke up in the middle of the night to find the chair
moved and the closet door wide open.
The voice was back, clearer this time.
David, come here. My blood ran cold.
The voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight, a sense of
command that made my stomach churn.
I wanted to scream, to wake Russo, but I couldn't move.
It was like something had pinned me to the bed.
My breath came in shallow gasps as I stared at the open door,
the darkness inside seeming deeper than it should have been.
Like it wasn't just shadows, but something alive watching me.
I don't know how long I lay there, paralyzed.
When I finally managed to move, I didn't dare look inside the
closet. I just reached over and shook
Russo awake. We're switching beds, I blurted.
What? Why?
He grumbled, groggy and annoyed. Just trust me.
He didn't argue, and I didn't sleep a wink for the rest of the
night. By the third night, I was ready
to leave, rules be damned, but Russo convinced me to stick it
out. A few more days, he said.
We can handle a few more days. That was the night I woke up to
find the scratches. 3 long parallel lines across my
abdomen. They didn't bleed, but they
burned like fire. I stumbled to the bathroom, my
hands shaking as I stared at them in the mirror.
They were too precise, too clean, Not something I could
have done to myself. When I asked Sister Wilcox the
next morning if she had any pets, her response sent a chill
through me. No pets, she said, smiling
faintly. But you know this house is
haunted, don't you? She didn't wait for my reply.
She just shuffled off, humming to herself, leaving me alone
with the gnawing realization that whatever was in this house
wasn't done with me yet. The reservation felt like
another planet. The air was thinner, drier, and
the emptiness stretched forever. Rusted out cars littered yards
like forgotten relics, and the wind carried a faint metallic
Tang that didn't belong to the desert.
My new companion, Elder Ramirez, was the quiet type.
He was polite enough, but you could tell he'd seen some things
in his five months here, the kind of things he didn't want to
talk about. We stick to the rules here, he
told me the first day. No staying out past sundown, no
shortcuts through the back roads.
And if something feels wrong, we leave.
No questions. It sounded dramatic, but I
didn't argue. There was something about the
way he said it, like he wasn't quoting the mission handbook.
But speaking from experience out here, the rules felt less like
guidelines and more like survival instincts.
It was a Thursday evening and we were driving back from Superior,
the sun bleeding red into the horizon.
Ramirez was at the wheel, humming a hymn under his breath
while I stared out the window, watching the shadows grow long
and sharp across the desert. We were supposed to be back
before dark, but the appointment had run late.
Now the road ahead was cloaked in twilight, and the silence
between us felt heavier with each passing mile.
I was about to say something, maybe crack a joke to lighten
the mood, when Ramirez slammed on the brakes.
The truck skidded to a stop and I lurched forward, my seat belt
digging into my chest. What the hell?
I barked, clutching the dashboard.
Ramirez didn't answer. He was staring at something in
the road ahead, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his
knuckles were white. I followed his gaze and froze.
A dog, at least I think it was a dog, stood in the middle of the
highway. Its fur was patchy, hanging in
clumps like it had been pulled off in strips.
Its ribs jutted out sharply, and its head hung low, almost too
low, as if its neck couldn't support the weight.
Its eyes, though, those weren't the eyes of an animal.
They were dark and glassy, and they locked on to me like it
knew I was watching. Speed up, Ramirez said, his
voice low and urgent. What?
Speed up? He snapped, slamming his foot on
the gas. The engine roared, and the truck
lurched forward. I stared at him in disbelief.
You're going to hit it. Shut up, he hissed.
Don't look at it, just don't look.
But I did. I couldn't help it as we
barreled toward the thing. I turned to look, and for a
split second, it looked back. The face staring at me wasn't a
dog's. It wasn't even human.
The skin was stretched too tight, the features twisted into
something grotesque, like it was wearing a mask that didn't quite
fit, And it smiled, its lips pulled back to reveal jagged
yellow teeth, and I swear I heard it laugh, a low, guttural
sound that cut through the roar of the engine.
I snapped my head forward, my heart hammering.
The truck jolted as we speed past, and when I looked in the
side mirror, the thing was gone. What the hell was that?
I demanded, my voice shaking. Ramirez didn't answer.
He was breathing hard, his eyes fixed on the road.
Don't talk about it, he finally said.
Don't even think about it. That night, back at the
apartment, I couldn't shake the image.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face staring at me, its
dark eyes boring into mine. Ramirez barely said a word as we
ate dinner, and when the sun dipped below the horizon, he
locked every door and window in the place.
It seemed excessive, but I didn't argue, not after what I'd
seen. It was around 11:00 PM when the
knocking started. It was soft at first, just a
faint tap, tap, tap on the front door.
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth.
Ramirez's head snapped up, his eyes wide.
Don't answer it, he whispered. What if it's the district
leader? I asked, trying to keep my voice
steady. It's not.
The knocking grew louder, more insistent.
My skin prickled. I moved toward the door, but
Ramirez grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
Don't. I shrugged him off.
You're being ridiculous. It's probably just.
He cut me off with a desperate look.
If you open that door, we're dead.
Something in his tone stopped me cold.
The knocking continued, rhythmic and deliberate, like whoever or
whatever was on the other side knew we were listening.
And then I heard it. Elder.
A voice called softly. It sounded like our district
leader, but something about it was wrong.
The tone was off, too flat, like it was reading from a script.
Elder Ramirez, Elder Johnson, it's me.
Open the door, my blood ran cold.
Ramirez pulled out his phone and dialed, his hands shaking.
After a few tense seconds, someone picked up.
Where are you? He asked, his voice barely above
a whisper. In bed.
Came the groggy reply. Why send me a picture?
Ramirez demanded. Now I heard the muffled sound of
confusion on the other end, followed by the Ding of a text.
Ramirez showed me the screen, a photo of our district leader and
his companion, timestamped just a minute earlier.
They were in their apt, 2 hours away.
The knocking stopped. I let out a shaky breath, but
Ramirez's grip on my arm tightened.
It's not over, he whispered. The silence that followed was
worse than the knocking. It pressed against my ears,
thick and unnatural. And then, faintly, I heard it.
Breathing. Heavy, labored breathing just
outside the window. I turned slowly, my pulse
pounding in my ears. The blinds rattled softly, as if
something was brushing against them.
Ramirez motioned for me to stay put as he moved toward the
window. He peeked through the edge of
the blinds and went rigid. His face drained of color and he
stumbled back, his hand clutching the cross around his
neck. What did you see?
I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He didn't answer, he just turned to me with a look I'll never
forget. Pure, unfiltered terror.
We didn't sleep that night. We just sat there, backs against
the wall, clutching whatever we could find that felt even
remotely like a weapon. The silence stretched on, broken
only by the occasional shuffle of footsteps outside, and when
the sun finally rose, we found the footprints, Large, clawed
and muddy. They led from the front door to
the window, then stopped abruptly, as if whatever had
been there had vanished into thin air.
But I knew it hadn't, not really.
We didn't talk about what happened that night, not at
first. Ramirez wouldn't look me in the
eye, and I wasn't about to press him.
I wasn't even sure I wanted answers.
Every instinct I had screamed to forget it, pretend none of it
had happened. But how do you ignore muddy claw
marks that disappear into nowhere?
The next morning, our district meeting was already set.
We drove in silence, the truck humming along the cracked
highway. The desert felt different now.
The vast emptiness I'd once found almost peaceful had turned
oppressive, as if every shadow and rock was hiding something.
Ramirez gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles bone
white. While I kept my eyes on the
horizon, avoiding my own reflection in the passenger side
mirror. I couldn't shake the feeling
something was watching us just out of sight.
The meeting started like any other elders talking shop,
exchanging stories about rejections and the occasional
rare success. But when it came to my turn to
share, I hesitated. The words were caught in my
throat like barbed wire. Ramirez stayed silent, but I
could feel his eyes on me, daring me to say something.
Finally, I muttered. We had some disturbances,
knocking, weird noises. The room went quiet, too quiet.
Everyone else exchanged uneasy glances, and the air grew heavy,
almost stifling. Elder Hutchins, one of the
district leaders, cleared his throat and leaned forward.
Disturbances. He asked, his voice calm but
laced with something sharp. What kind of disturbances?
I swallowed hard and tried to keep my tone light.
You know, just strange. Knocking a voice outside the
door. Probably just some kids messing
with us. Hutchins didn't laugh.
His face darkened and he exchanged a look with his
companion before nodding slowly. You saw something, didn't you?
His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.
I hesitated, but Ramirez stepped in.
We don't need to get into it. He said quickly.
It's handled. No, it's not.
Hutchins snapped, his composure slipping for a moment.
You think this is a joke? You think this is something you
can just ignore? The tension in the room was
unbearable. Finally, Hutchins leaned back
inside. You've heard of skinwalkers,
right? What followed was a crash course
in nightmares. Hutchins explained the legend in
hushed tones, his voice steady but his hands trembling.
Skinwalkers, he said, were dark spirits, shape shifters born of
unspeakable acts, murder, betrayal.
They wore the skins of animals, mimicked human voices and
thrived on fear. According to local lore, making
eye contact or acknowledging them gave them power over you,
marked you in some way. They don't stop.
Hutchins said, his eyes fixed on me.
Once they notice you, they keep coming unless you figure out how
to break their hold. My stomach churned.
The thing on the road, the knocking, the voice outside our
door. Had I looked too long, listened
too closely? I wanted to ask, but the words
wouldn't come. That night, I was restless.
Ramirez tried to reassure me, mumbling prayers under his
breath as he sprinkled the apartment with salt and holy
water. It seemed desperate, almost
futile, but I didn't stop him. Any comfort, no matter how
small, was better than none. Around midnight, the air in the
apartment changed. It felt heavier, colder, like
the temperature had dropped 10° in an instant.
Ramirez and I exchanged a look, and I knew we were both thinking
the same thing. Then the knocking started.
It was soft at first, just a faint tap, tap, tap, But it grew
louder, sharper, until the entire door frame rattled.
This time there was no mistaking the malice behind it.
The sound was angry, purposeful, like whatever was out there was
trying to breakthrough. Ramirez grabbed a Bible and
stood near the door, muttering rapid prayers.
I stayed back, clutching the pocket knife I'd brought from
California. It felt laughably inadequate,
but it was all I had. The knocking stopped suddenly,
and for a moment the silence was worse.
Then came the voice. Elder Ramirez.
Elder Johnson let me in. It sounded like Hutchins,
Perfectly, unmistakably Hutchins, but it wasn't him.
The voice was wrong, flat, hollow, like it was coming from
a broken speaker. Ramirez shook his head, his lips
moving silently in prayer. Then came the scratching.
Long, deliberate strokes, like claws dragging across wood.
The sound was unbearable, setting my teeth on edge.
My heart pounded as I stared at the door, waiting for it to give
way. But it didn't.
Somehow it held. The scratching stopped, and for
a moment I thought it was over. Then I felt it.
A cold hand brushed against the back of my neck.
I whipped around, but there was nothing there.
Just Ramirez, wide eyed and pale, clutching his cross like a
lifeline. The next morning, the claw marks
were there, deep gouges in the wood, too precise and on purpose
to be anything natural. We reported it to the mission
office, but they dismissed it as a prank.
We knew better. Whatever it was, it wasn't done
with us driving to our next assignment.
The unease followed me like a shadow.
I caught glimpses of something in the mirrors, a figure
distorted and animalistic, always just out of focus.
I didn't tell Ramirez I couldn't, but I knew one thing
for sure. Whatever had marked me back on
that highway wasn't going to let go.