I've always felt at home in the cold solitude carved from ice,
silence as thick as snowdrifts. I suppose that's why Glacier
National Park called to me the way it did.
Or perhaps it was just the stubborn desire of an ambitious
biologist determined to track mountain goats through terrain
that barely tolerated humans. Claire Renner and I had spent
months petitioning the Park Service for special winter
access to the remote ridges near Mount Cleveland, a jagged peak
infamous for unpredictable weather.
When the permit was finally granted, the Rangers had looked
hesitant, their warnings cryptic and their smiles uneasy.
Watch your footing, one had muttered quietly as we packed up
our gear. He seemed to want to say more,
but settled instead for silence. The Hike Inn had been
unforgiving. A cold snap brought the
temperature plunging well below 0.
Our snowshoes crunched loudly against fresh snow as we
ascended, breath fogging and ghostly clouds that blurred our
vision. Claire forged ahead confidently,
her Auburn hair tucked beneath her woolen hat, eyes fixed
firmly on the icy horizon. It was her strength, focus,
determination, unshakable resolve.
Mind lay impatience, quiet observation, and a willingness
to wait. Together, we made a good team.
After hours battling the slope, we reached the abandoned fire
lookout perched on the North End of Stony Indian Ridge.
It loomed stark and skeletal, A weathered Sentinel above snow
fields that stretched endlessly toward the valleys below.
Nearby, we pitched our small, wind resistant tent, setting
camera traps at strategic points along faint goat paths we'd
marked on maps. The first evening passed intense
quiet as darkness blanketed the mountain in Shades of Grey.
We warmed packets of dehydrated chili, the steam rising between
us. Claire's jokes gradually soften
the oppressive weight of the isolation.
As the wind picked up, sending small flurries scudding around
the tent, we settled into the familiar routine of sorting gear
and taking inventory. A sound snapped us both, alert,
abrupt and distinct in the silence, a steady, deliberate
crunch in the snow beyond our tent.
Claire's eyes flicked to mine, wide but calm.
Goat. She whispered, her voice tight.
Maybe. I said slowly, not entirely
believing it. I knew the cadence of a mountain
goat's stride. This was heavier, measured,
precise. After a minute, it stopped
abruptly. We unzipped the tent slowly,
headlamps casting weak beams into a swirling curtain of
snowflakes. I swept the area with light,
revealing only fresh prints, long, deep impressions with
elongated, strangely articulated toes.
What the hell makes tracks like that?
Claire muttered. Bear, Maybe, I said uncertainly,
kneeling to examine them closer. But my gut disagreed.
No claw marks, just strangely jointed prints spaced widely
apart, as though something massive had casually strolled
past. We retreated to the tent,
sealing ourselves back into fragile warmth.
Throughout the night, neither of us slept deeply.
Claire thrashed, occasionally waking me each time her breath
quickened with dreams she wouldn't recall clearly.
The next morning. At dawn, the brittle silence
returned, crisp and still. We found our trail cameras
triggered but offering no clear images, only blank frames and
bursts of static. Claire tried to joke, but her
tone was uneasy. Technical glitch, I guess.
Temperatures messing with the electronics, probably.
I agreed without conviction. We pushed deeper into the Ridge
to set more traps and find clearer goat tracks.
Midway through the day, my eye caught something peculiar.
A pine bough snapped cleanly, jammed upright into the snow at
a perfect 90° angle, defying gravity in nature.
It wasn't an accident, it was intentional.
Claire stared at it, puzzled but masking worry behind
professional detachment. Wind can do weird stuff up here,
she said dismissively, but the words sounded thin.
Night came swiftly again, darkness compressing around our
small tent. We sat quietly, each absorbed in
field notes and cautious thoughts.
Claire drifted first, but sleep eluded me.
I listened, strained, alert to every nuance of the wind, each
shift in snowdrift settling outside.
Something tugged at the fringes of my vision, a shadow, tall and
angular, standing motionless at the tree line.
My heart skipped, adrenaline spiking through my veins.
I rubbed my eyes, convinced exhaustion was deceiving me, but
the silhouette remained stubbornly upright, a shape
unmistakably there, yet impossible to define clearly
through the haze of falling snow.
Claire. I whispered urgently, shaking
her awake. She startled, bleary eyed.
What is it? Something's out there.
I breathed, my pulse quickening. But as Claire squinted into the
gloom, the figure seemed to dissipate, melting back into the
indistinct darkness as silently as it appeared.
She placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
Trees and shadows, Ethan. Nothing else.
But neither of us truly believed it as we huddled back into
uneasy rest. I stared at the tent ceiling,
listening intently to the wind, my mind replaying the strange
upright branch, the impossibly human like tracks and the
unsettling shape standing watch in the snow.
We'd both spent enough time in wilderness to trust instinct, to
sense when something was profoundly wrong, and this
Ridge, this empty ice scoured spine of land above glaciers
vast expanse, felt dangerously wrong.
Morning cracked open, Gray and brittle.
Sleep had abandoned me completely, leaving behind
exhaustion that felt like ice settling in my bones.
Beside me, Claire's breathing was shallow, restless.
Neither of us spoke much as we geared up.
We stepped outside into a world transformed.
Heavy snowfall overnight had erased our footprints, turning
the landscape into an unbroken expanse of stark, frozen
silence. Claire's brow furrowed as we
inspected the perimeter of our ruined camp.
The tent lay shredded, the fabric torn with deliberate
precision. Not animal claws, something
else. Our gear was scattered
methodically, as though someone had examined each item
carefully. Food, emergency rations, the
stove, all gone. Whatever did this knew exactly
what it wanted. Claire said softly, her voice
tight with suppressed worry. My eyes moved to a deeper
pattern of prints circling the camp, clearer now in fresh snow,
long toed impossibly wide apart, sunk deep into the powder.
My chest tightened, human like barefoot yet far too large.
Claire knelt, brushing ice from her gear.
We need to go, Ethan, now. I nodded, quickly repacking the
few salvageable items, my mind scrambling for rational
explanations. But when I glanced upward at the
high Ridge above, dread twisted in my gut.
The figure from last night still haunted my memory, stark and
motionless. We left camp swiftly heading
South, attempting to retrace our path back toward the park's
boundary. But heavy snowfall distorted
every landmark, blurring my mental map.
After hours flogging through waist deep snow, a rocky outcrop
loomed ahead, stark against the white expanse.
As we approached, Claire suddenly halted, her face pale,
eyes fixed on the slope above. There was someone up there, she
whispered, squinting through the glare.
I followed her gaze upward. At first I saw nothing but
shadow and stone. Then a fleeting motion, a
silhouette shifting briefly behind a rock.
Tall, gaunt, unmistakably upright, crowned by a bizarre
tangle of antlers. My pulse surged violently.
Did you see it? Claire's voice shook.
Yeah, I said weakly, my voice barely audible even to myself.
The figure vanished swiftly behind the outcrop.
Claire looked at me, eyes wide but decisive.
We have to keep moving. By late afternoon, a bitter wind
rose again, shrieking around us. Cold seeped deeper, numbing
fingers and toes until movement itself felt labored.
When we finally paused, Forrest beneath a small cluster of wind
blasted Pines, Claire's hands shook violently.
Her boots, worn thin from constant moisture, were soaked
through. You're freezing.
I said, kneeling beside her, worried at how pale she'd
become. Her eyes were distant,
unfocused. Hypothermia was a dangerous
possibility now. I'm fine, She muttered
stubbornly, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her.
As evening descended swiftly, shadows bled Into Darkness.
We found a small hollow near the trees and made a makeshift
shelter from fallen branches and piled snow.
Exhausted, Claire slipped into uneasy sleep.
I remained awake, ears alert to every whisper of wind, every
Creek and groan of snow and ice. Sometime after midnight, Claire
stirred beside me. I need to step out, She
whispered hoarsely. Be quick, I warned softly,
anxiety nodding my stomach as she disappeared into the
swirling darkness beyond the shelter.
Minutes passed, dragging heavily into uneasy silence.
Claire hadn't returned. Unease twisted into panic.
I called out softly. Claire.
My voice carried feebly into the night, swallowed by wind and
snow. No answer.
I surged upright, heart hammering, following her faint
footprints illuminated dimly by my headlamp.
They led away from the shelter toward a large, snow covered
boulder jutting from the frozen ground.
There. The footprints stopped abruptly.
No signs of struggle, no screams.
Just emptiness. My breath rasped sharply, clouds
of panic fogging my vision. Then something caught my eye,
half buried in fresh snow. A small, sharp fragment.
My fingers brushed frost away, revealing a broken antler tip.
My throat tightened. I glanced desperately around,
calling louder, frantic. Now.
Only silence answered. Cold, sharp fear twisted deeper.
My knees buckled slightly as the wind rushed through the hollow
with icy cruelty. Alone, abandoned, I stood,
shaking violently as the realization slowly pierced
through numb disbelief. Claire was gone.
The cold had seeped deep beneath my skin, infiltrating bones and
marrow until movement became slow torture.
I stumbled forward, panic and adrenaline barely propelling me
onward. Claire's disappearance replayed
mercilessly in my head, her footprints ending abruptly, that
broken antler fragment haunting my thoughts like a silent
accusation. My stomach churned, twisted by
dread and something darker. Guilt.
I turned toward the summit, toward the old fire lookout
perched atop Stony Indian Ridge. The structure loomed faintly in
the distance, a stark silhouette against the pale glow of distant
stars. My boots sank heavily into snow,
but each step felt mechanical, driven by desperation rather
than strength. Whatever had taken Claire still
lurked unseen in the shadows, waiting, watching.
By the time I reached the tower, wind howled furiously, scraping
exposed skin raw. The wooden stairs creaked
ominously beneath me as I ascended to the narrow landing.
The lookout was ancient weather, beaten and desolate, but it
offered shelter, however fragile, and the slim hope of
radioing for help. I forced the rusted door open
and stumbled inside, quickly slamming it shut behind me.
Frigid air still seeped through gaps between weathered boards.
Shivering violently, I scanned the tiny room.
A single battered radio rested atop a dusty desk beside faded
park maps and forgotten log books.
I rushed forward, fumbling with icy fingers to power it on.
Static hissed sharply, loud in the oppressive silence, but no
signal broke through. Hours crawled slowly past as
darkness pressed closer. Exhaustion tugged at my
consciousness, but fear anchored me awake.
Outside, faint, rhythmic footsteps circled the tower,
crunching deliberately through the snow.
My pulse quickened painfully. It was the same methodical tread
that had stalked our campsite nights before.
I pressed myself flat against the cold wooden wall, breath
held tight, listening helplessly.
Then a dull scraping echoed softly through the boards near
my head. Slow, deliberate panic surged,
my heart hammering wildly. I froze, desperately trying to
keep quiet. Every nerve strained taut.
Cold air rushed through narrow cracks between planks, biting
sharply at exposed skin. Outside, silence returned, heavy
and expectant. Unable to stand the tension any
longer, I moved cautiously toward the window, forcing
myself to peer into the moonlit gloom.
Snow drifted gently, deceptively calm.
But then, just beyond the edge of illumination, something
stirred. A tall, gaunt shape stood
immobile at the tree line, bathed faintly by pale
moonlight. A set of antlers crowned, its
shadowy silhouette unmistakable even at a distance.
I recoiled sharply, heart hammering.
I blinked rapidly, trying to deny what I'd seen.
Then, slowly, horribly, a voice drifted upward.
Claire's voice, thin, wavering, distorted by distance and
something unnatural beneath its surface.
It called my name softly, plaintively, echoing eerily
through the frozen darkness. Ethan.
Nausea rose bitterly in my
throat. I clenched my fists, shaking
violently. That voice, it wasn't Claire.
Couldn't be Claire. Yet the sound pierced deeply,
twisting raw nerves until my mind blurred with panic.
Dizzy, desperate, I stumbled back from the window, sliding
heavily onto the rough wooden floor.
Cold seeped relentlessly into my bones, numbing thoughts and
senses. Fatigue claimed me, blurring
lines between sleep and wakefulness.
Dreams merged cruelly with reality, images of Claire's
smiling face distorted grotesquely by twisted antlers.
Eyes wide and accusing my mind, frayed edges unraveling into
madness. I jolted awake at dawn's weak
Gray arrival, a faint glow filtering through frosted
windows. Voices echoed from below, human
voices, clear and urgent. Footsteps climbed the stairs
hastily, and suddenly the door burst open, revealing Park
Rangers and thick winter gear, faces tense with concern and
confusion. My relief shattered swiftly
against their wary stairs. Their gazes moved downward and I
followed, horrified to see my bare feet, pale blue tinged,
frostbitten. My boots sat neatly by the door,
untouched, dry, exactly where I'd left them upon entering the
lookout. Confusion overwhelmed me as they
lifted me gently upright, murmuring reassurances I barely
registered. Claire.
I croaked weakly, voice rasping from a throat raw with cold.
Claire still out there? They exchanged brief, troubled
glances before leading me slowly downward, back into the bitter
cold. Search parties combed the Ridge
thoroughly, methodically, but found nothing.
No tracks, no blood, no evidence of Claire's existence beyond our
ruined camp. Days later, lying in a sterile
hospital room far from glaciers relentless isolation, I
overheard A hushed conversation between two Rangers outside my
door. His story matches exactly what
happened last year, almost word for word.
A moment of tense silence, then the response even quieter,
tinged with unease. Make sure it's scrubbed from the
records again. Their footsteps faded down the
hall, leaving me alone, hollow and trembling beneath thin
hospital blankets. But their words lingered,
unmistakable and clear. Whatever had happened to Claire,
whatever had stalked us through that frozen wilderness, the
truth would remain buried beneath ice and secrecy, locked
away forever in the silence of the Ridge.
It was my last chance. At least that's what Mike said
when he handed me the keys to the old cabin.
I'd barely survived my last overdose, and everyone who still
bothered to talk to me had already said goodbye in their
minds. Mike, though, my oldest friend,
figured he owed me this one final shot.
The place belonged to his grandfather, a rustic off grid
cabin tucked deep into Michigan's Huron Manistee
National Forest, near a place the locals ominously called
Starved Hollow. It was supposed to be quiet and
peaceful, a place where I could get clean without any
temptations. Mike told me the land had
history, something vague about an old Anishinabe hunting camp
and dark folklore. At the time it sounded like
superstition. At the time, I didn't care.
Mike dropped me off at the trailhead early on a Monday
morning, the sun still low and the woods cloaked in a thin veil
of mist. I carried a backpack filled with
canned food, matches, AGPS watch and a satellite phone.
Mike stressed that the phone was for emergencies only.
No matter what happened, I had to tough it out until he came
back in five days. The hike to the cabin took about
40 minutes. My legs shook the whole way,
withdrawal already gnawing at my muscles and fogging my brain.
The place finally came into view as a squat structure framed by
dense Pines, rustic and uninviting.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by stale air and
dust drifting through beams of pale sunlight.
The first night was hell. Waves of nausea and chills
racked my body until dawn. Each minute stretched into
eternity, the creaks and pops of the old cabin twisted into
whispers and footsteps in my feverish ears.
By morning, I was drenched in sweat, shivering, curled up on a
bunk bed like a sick child. Day 2 passed in a similar blur,
though I managed to choke down some canned soup.
My stomach cramped violently in protest, but the nourishment
steadied me slightly. Still, my mind wandered into
dark corners, fabricating shapes at the edge of vision, faces
peering through the filthy window glass.
I knew better than to trust my senses.
I blamed the hallucinations entirely on withdrawal.
By the third day, the pain had dulled, though a low hum of
anxiety lingered in my chest. I ventured outside for firewood
around midday. The sky was Gray, thick clouds
blotting out any warmth the sun might have provided.
As I stacked logs near the cabins front porch, a sudden
movement at the tree line drew my gaze upward.
Something pale flashed briefly between the branches, a quick
flicker of motion. I stared intently, scanning the
trees. Heart quickening, I held my
breath, waiting for another sign.
Minutes passed, Nothing moved. I chalked it up to exhaustion
and nerves returning inside and locking the door firmly behind
me. Darkness fell quickly that
evening and I stoked the wood stove to keep the cabin warm as
the flames crackled softly. I sat listening to the nighttime
sounds, convincing myself that I was imagining the distant
rustling of leaves and snapping twigs.
But soon another noise reached my ears.
Low, guttural grunts, animal like but distorted.
They echoed from beyond the cabin walls, closer than I would
have liked. I sat upright, alert, gripping
the edge of the bunk. My pulse drummed rapidly in my
ears as the grunting grew louder, then suddenly stopped.
Silence pressed heavily against me, my breath shallow, cautious.
Then slowly, something scraped against the cabins wooden
exterior, A drawn out rasping sound like a knife gently
dragged along the planks. Swallowing hard, I forced myself
up from the bed, moving quietly toward the window.
My fingers trembled as I eased aside the edge of the curtain
just enough to peer outside. Moonlight illuminated the
clearing, stark and cold. At first I saw nothing unusual,
but then my gaze drifted downward.
Deep, uneven scratches marred the wood just beneath the window
ledge, fresh gouges clearly visible against older, weathered
wood. My throat tightened.
Whatever made those marks was deliberate and strong.
I stepped back quickly, nearly tripping over my own feet.
My gaze flicked to the front door, confirming again that it
was bolted shut. I paced, breathing unevenly,
debating if I should use the satellite phone, but ultimately
talked myself out of it. This was withdrawal paranoia.
It had to be. Sleep was impossible, but
exhaustion eventually pulled me into uneasy unconsciousness late
into the night, dreams and reality bleeding into each
other. When dawn finally filtered
weekly through the grimy windows, I forced myself outside
again, axe clenched tightly in hand.
Circling the cabin cautiously, I found more scratches this time
deeper, higher, almost waist level on the back wall.
The splintered wood looked fresh, still sharp to the touch.
Something animalistic yet precise had made them.
Then I noticed footprints in the damp earth, long and oddly
spaced, leading away into the trees.
They were too elongated to be human, too irregular to belong
to any animal I knew. My chest tightened with a cold
dread that had nothing to do with withdrawal.
Staring into the dense forest, I felt eyes upon me from the
shadowed tree line. Something waited out there,
watching. Silently retreating inside, I
locked the door once again, pulling the shades closed
tightly. The only sound was the steady
drip of cold sweat running down my spine.
Whatever I had thought was paranoia.
Whatever I dismissed as hallucinations, I now knew.
Something very real and very wrong inhabited this stretch of
isolated forest, and it knew I was here.
I didn't leave the cabin again until late morning.
I couldn't ignore the feeling any longer.
Something was out there. I spent hours staring at my GPS
watch, pacing the cabins cramped interior, convincing myself that
whatever I'd seen or heard had been exaggerated by withdrawal.
But when midday arrived, restless desperation forced me
back outside, axe in hand and pulse hammering.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the heavy clouds, providing
minimal comfort. The clearing around the cabin
appeared untouched, yet the eerie quiet of the woods pressed
against me like a physical presence.
Birds that should have filled the air with calls were silent.
I moved slowly toward the trail I'd followed in, glancing
constantly at the shadows that pooled among the thick trees.
I'd only walked 20 minutes when I realized something was wrong.
The path had changed somehow, becoming unfamiliar, narrower,
choked by dense undergrowth. Panic squeezed my throat as I
checked my GPS watch. The screen flickered
erratically, the digital compass spinning wildly, unable to lock
onto any direction. Frustrated, I turned around,
attempting to retrace my steps, but the trees blurred together
into a maze of identical Pines and brush.
An hour passed before I finally found my way back, heart
thudding painfully in my chest. The cabin stood exactly as I'd
left it, yet even its modest walls offered less comfort now.
Once inside, I checked the satellite phone, desperate to
hear Mike's reassuring voice. It was dead, completely
unresponsive despite being fully charged just hours earlier.
As night crept closer, my anxiety tightened.
I barricaded the cabin door with firewood, piled heavy furniture
in front of the windows, and sat staring blankly into the dying
embers of the wood stove. My stomach nodded painfully from
hunger, but fear made eating impossible.
Around midnight, noises returned, quiet at first.
Distant bird calls echoed faintly through the darkness.
Calls strangely warped, each sound too uniform, too
deliberate. I pressed my ear to the boarded
window, holding my breath, straining to listen.
Then I heard it, clearly, distinctly human, drifting
softly from the woods. I'm fine, just need sleep.
My voice, words I'd spoken earlier in the day, perfectly
replicated. The sound chilled me to my
bones, a wave of nausea rising sharply in my gut.
I stepped back, gripping the axe tightly.
Silence followed, oppressive and unbroken.
Suddenly, a sharp tapping echoed at the window beside me, gentle
at first, then more deliberate. My heart slammed against my ribs
as something scratched slowly across the glass, nails dragging
with careful precision. I stared helplessly at the
boarded window, willing my mind to stop racing, to regain
control, but my body trembled uncontrollably.
Minutes stretched painfully until silence returned.
Eventually my legs carried me to the bunk, where exhaustion
overtook fear, pulling me into fitful sleep.
Morning brought only temporary relief.
The woods appeared peaceful again, bathed in Gray, lifeless
daylight. Venturing outside, I circled the
cabin cautiously, axe ready. Near the woodpile I discovered
something strange. A tiny pile of hair, tangled and
filthy, and beside it a small white tooth, disturbingly human,
dirtied and chipped. Bile rose in my throat and I
backed away slowly, eyes darting between shadows, expecting the
pale figure to emerge at any moment.
As I moved around the cabins perimeter, my gaze fell upon
fresh tracks stamped into the mud.
Long and strange, nearly human, but distorted, the gaps between
each print unnaturally spaced, as if the thing had bounded
forward awkwardly rather than walked.
I retreated immediately inside, hands shaking so badly it took
several attempts to latch the door.
Daylight faded again into a grim, oppressive dusk.
I doused A rag with stove fuel, laying it beside a flare I'd
placed on the table. Prepared or not, if that thing
came back, I wouldn't be helpless.
Night descended rapidly, and soon enough it returned.
I heard movement first beneath my feet, a scratching noise
beneath the floorboards, crawling slowly, deliberately,
circling directly below me. I held the axe tightly, frozen,
breath shallow and controlled. The scraping beneath me grew
louder, something shifting, pressing upward against the
wood, testing the surface. My muscles burned from tension,
my jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Then, abruptly, the noise ceased, replaced by a
suffocating quiet. Gripping the axe tighter, I
approached the window and flipped on my headlamp, shining
the powerful beam into the darkness beyond.
The figure stood motionless, illuminated starkly in the harsh
white glow. My stomach churned violently at
the sight. Its limbs were long and
emaciated, pale flesh clinging thinly to bones, Fur patchy and
matted. Its eyes stared blankly.
Milk white, hollow. For one terrible moment I
couldn't move, frozen under that lifeless stair.
Without warning, it lurched sideways, scrambling away into
the darkness, Not running, moving on all fours, grotesquely
unnatural, scuttling low like an oversized insect, vanishing
instantly into the thick cover of Pines.
I stumbled back, breath ragged, heart thundering painfully.
I sank heavily onto the bunk, fingers trembling, axe still
clutched tightly against my chest.
Whatever it was, it had found me.
It had followed me, and now I knew with sickening certainty it
wasn't going to leave me alone. I woke suddenly, jerking upright
in the dim pre dawn. My chest felt tight, my
heartbeat frantic. Something had wrenched me from
sleep, though the cabin was utterly silent now, cloaked in
cold shadows. I sat motionless, straining to
hear any hint of movement. My breath caught sharply as the
floor creaked, soft but unmistakable.
Inside the cabin, panic surged through my veins.
Slowly, painfully slowly, I turned my head toward the room's
dimmest corner. Nothing moved there, but the air
felt thick, oppressive. Then another sound, a quiet,
uneven breathing, came from near the cabin door.
It was deep, rasping, unnatural. My pulse hammered painfully in
my ears as I gripped the axe lying beside me.
Gathering all the courage left within my weakened body, I swung
my feet silently onto the cold wooden floor.
As I rose, the shadow near the door shifted abruptly, scraping
against the wall and shuffling toward the exit.
In the low gloom I glimpsed a tall, gaunt form, bones visible
beneath sickly, translucent flesh.
My knees nearly buckled, adrenaline flooding every nerve,
forcing me to stay upright. I lunged forward, axe raised,
but the figure slipped swiftly outside, through a crack in the
half open door. I slammed it shut, my body
shaking violently, and wedged a wooden chair beneath the handle.
Muddy footprints covered the cabin floor, elongated and
grotesque. I realized then, with grim
clarity, that if I stayed here, I wouldn't survive another
night. I had to get out.
The morning dragged painfully each minute and eternity.
I scavenged every scrap of kerosene from the stove, soaking
rags and old blankets, placing them methodically around the
interior. My heart pounded as I laid out
the flare beside the stove, positioned precariously on its
edge. My eyes drifted to the satellite
phone, still dead. I dropped it bitterly to the
floor, smashing it beneath my boot in frustrated anger.
It felt like another severed lifeline, another cruel joke.
Darkness arrived quickly, heavy clouds blotting out the evening
sky. Silence pressed down, stifling,
broken only by the quiet ticking of my watch.
When the forest finally whispered again, faint and
distant, my body tensed instinctively.
My mouth tasted metallic, blood pounding in my temples.
I pressed play on my GPS watch, triggering a recorded bird call,
looping quietly from the bunk. It's soft, rhythmic notes filled
the cabin. Moments later, from outside came
a responding mimicry, warped, strange, unnaturally precise.
It was close, waiting. Heart hammering, I ignited the
flare and placed it carefully atop the stovepipe, balanced to
fall at the slightest tremor. My breath caught painfully as I
edged backward, axe gripped tightly, until I reached the
back window. I forced it open quietly, the
cool night air startlingly fresh against my clammy skin.
With one last glance at the cabins shadowed interior, I
climbed out, feet landing softly on damp ground.
The distant mimicry grew louder, rapidly approaching.
Fear surged white hot through my veins and I sprinted toward the
forest edge, stumbling blindly through the underbrush, not
daring to look back. Seconds later, a sudden,
brilliant flash illuminated the forest, followed by a roar as
flames exploded within the cabin.
Heat licked my back even from a distance, a strange, shrill
shriek rising from the burning structure.
The scream echoed, painful and distorted, twisting through the
trees. I ran harder, branches clawing
my face, lungs burning. My foot caught on an exposed
root, sending me sprawling painfully to the forest floor.
Sharp agony pierced my leg and blood began soaking through torn
jeans. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped a
torn strip from my shirt around the deep wound and limped
forward, lungs heaving, vision blurred with tears and sweat.
The night seemed endless, every shadow hiding another horror.
Twice I thought I heard movement behind me.
Soft footsteps, pacing low, breathing, matching mind.
But each time I spun around, only darkness and empty trees
stared back. Exhausted and bleeding, I kept
moving, driven solely by raw desperation.
The first light of dawn finally revealed familiar terrain, a
glimpse of the trail I'd first taken days earlier.
Relief flooded through me, overwhelming, and I staggered
toward the road, collapsing onto the gravel, covered in mud and
blood. I saw headlights approaching,
bright, steady salvation piercing through early morning
fog. The pickup slowed beside me, a
man leaping out in confusion and alarm.
His voice sounded distant as he called for help, the world
dimming around me. Days later, Mike returned to the
cabin, or rather, to the scorched remnants.
He visited me afterward, describing with pale, shaken
features what he'd found. The cabin had burned completely,
reduced to ash and charred debris, but strangely, nothing
else had ignited. Not the surrounding trees, nor
even the nearby brush. Just a perfect circle of
scorched earth, confined entirely within the cabins
footprint. A forest Ranger, confused and
skeptical, found no trace of wildfire or lightning.
Mike later spoke quietly to a local Anishinabe elder who
shared a story of an ancient hunting camp, a place where
desperate hunger had driven men to unspeakable acts.
One particular soul had lingered there, trapped, cursed, forever
starving, mimicking life to lure the vulnerable and lost.
As Mike finished his tail, I stared at my bandaged leg and
shivered, haunted by the hollow eyed figure still burned into my
mind. Whatever it had been, whether
ghost, demon, or twisted remnant of something ancient, it was
real. And it had almost taken me.
Mount Katadine isn't a welcoming place in the dead of winter.
Rising above Baxter State Park, it's the highest peak in Maine
and a brutal climb even in favorable conditions.
But once winter fully claims the mountain, it becomes an entirely
different beast. Hostile, unpredictable and
unforgiving. Experienced hikers know the
stories. Sudden storms trapping climbers.
Hikers disappearing without a trace.
Eerie sounds that even seasoned Park Rangers dismiss with uneasy
laughter. Ben Koenig and I had conquered
harsh terrain before. We were friends since high
school, seasoned climbers from Vermont, with summits from the
Rockies to the Adirondacks under our belts.
Mount Katahdin was our newest challenge, planned meticulously
for mid January, An opportunity to push ourselves just a little
further than we'd ever gone before.
Maybe too far. The morning we arrived at
Roaring Brook, the sky was already heavy, the cold air
biting through layers of thermal gear as though mocking our
efforts to prepare. The Ranger stationed at the
trailhead studied our faces carefully, glancing down at our
itinerary. You boys know a blizzard's
coming in tonight. His eyes lingered, measuring our
resolve. Nobody else is out there.
Visibility could drop to nothing in minutes.
We're prepared, Ben replied confidently.
Worst case, we hunker down at Chimney Pond and ride it out.
The Ranger frowned, but eventually relented.
We signed the logbook, acknowledging that rescue might
not be possible if the storm trapped us.
Then, without fanfare, we set off from the first step onto the
trail. Silence enveloped us, a thick,
pressing quiet interrupted only by our boots crunching the snow
and the steady hiss of wind through sparse Pines.
Katadine's slopes stretched upwards, stark and Gray against
the sky. We hiked for hours, methodically
pushing through deepening snow until we reached a Ridge near
Chimney Pond. Ben stopped abruptly, staring
down at something in the snow off the trail.
Hey, Miles, check this out, He called, motioning me closer.
There was a single snowshoe print pressed deeply into the
powder, far larger than our own, veering off trail and abruptly
disappearing at the edge of a frozen bog.
No other prints lead to or away from it.
My stomach tightened slightly, irrationally.
Could have been someone turning around.
I offered. Weekly.
Ben shook his head, looking skeptical.
Someone huge and alone up here in this weather.
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as we trudged
onward. By late afternoon, Chimney Pond
greeted us. White, desolate, empty.
We set up our tent and huddled inside, the wind steadily
increasing as snow pelted the thin walls.
Night fell swiftly, swallowing the mountain.
Hours later, around 3:00 in the morning, something Jarred me
awake. My ears strained against the
relentless wind, trying to make sense of the unsettling sound.
A deep, slow, rhythmic breathing.
Just outside the tent, I nudged Ben awake, silently pressing a
finger to my lips. His eyes snapped open,
immediately alert. You hear that?
I whispered, barely audible above the wind.
Ben listened carefully, his breath catching as he registered
the sound. Quietly, we pulled back the tent
flap and shined our flashlights out into the storm.
Nothing, only swirling snow untouched around our tent.
Ben pulled back inside, visibly shaken.
What the hell? I had no answer.
Our breath formed ghostly clouds inside the tent.
Neither of us slept again that night, waiting silently for
dawn, each minute stretching endlessly.
By morning, the breathing had ceased.
The world outside was bright but lifeless.
As we brewed coffee and forced ourselves to eat, Ben tried to
rationalize the sound. Wind patterns can do weird
things up here, he reasoned, though neither of us truly
believed it. The storm was worsening, white
sheets obscuring visibility almost entirely, yet we decided
to stay one more night, hoping for a clearing by morning.
We both tried to ignore the heavy, persistent dread, but
Catadine's shadow loomed larger than ever, and I couldn't shake
the feeling we weren't alone. We didn't leave the tent much.
The next day, the storm raged stronger, whipping snow
violently against the nylon walls, blinding everything
beyond a few feet. The temperature plunged
steadily, dropping well below 0. Even wrapped in layers of high
tech insulation, I felt chilled deep inside my bones.
Sometime in the early afternoon, I forced myself outside to
relieve myself. Every inch of me resisted
stepping into that storm, but necessity won out.
I opened the tent flap and immediately regretted it.
The wind slammed into me like a physical force, stealing the air
from my lungs. I stumbled forward, pushing
blindly into the squaw, and then, as I turned toward a patch
of Pines, I stopped dead, my blood instantly freezing in my
veins. Standing about 50 yards away was
a deer carcass, completely frozen, positioned upright on
its hind legs. Its head was tilted unnaturally,
dark, eyes wide open and glazed over with ice.
Snow clung stiffly to its hide. It looked as though it had
simply died, standing there, impossibly preserved and
disturbingly posed. Ben.
I shouted, my voice cracking against the wind.
He emerged from the tent instantly tense as he saw my
face. What's wrong?
Wordlessly, I pointed toward the carcass.
He squinted, then his eyes widened.
Is that a deer? We approached slowly, snow
crunching beneath our boots. The closer we got, the more
grotesque it became. The animal showed no obvious
wounds, no blood, nothing to suggest why or how it ended up
there, frozen upright. A lump of dread lodged deep in
my gut. Who could have done this?
Ben muttered. Or what?
I said grimly. Ben shook his head, eyes darting
around the trees. Maybe it's some twisted joke
hunters or something. Maybe it was already dead.
I didn't believe that any more than he did, but neither of us
wanted to consider the alternative.
We turned back quickly, retreating into the tent.
Night came early, the darkness absolute around 9.
Something pressed gently against the tent, pushing the fabric
inward. Ben's eyes snapped open wide
with alarm. That's not wind, he whispered
hoarsely. Another press, stronger this
time. My breath caught in my throat.
Outside, heavy footsteps move slowly around the perimeter,
crunching snow with careful deliberation.
Each step landed with weight clearly audible through the thin
fabric. Check outside, Ben whispered
shakily. Neither of us moved, fear
pinning us in place. Eventually the footsteps
stopped, replaced by that terrible breathing sound again.
Slow, deep, unmistakably close. Ben started mumbling
incoherently in his sleep. Shortly after midnight.
I shook him awake, panic rising as he opened his eyes and smiled
dreamily. Did you hear it?
He murmured softly. Someone outside calling my name.
I gripped his shoulders. Ben, listen to me.
No one's out there. We need to stay calm.
But he shook his head, still smiling faintly.
They said they have something to show me.
I felt the tent walls press inward again, more forceful now,
like something large brushing against it deliberately.
My heart hammered in my chest. We sat awake until dawn, silent,
breathing shallowly, waiting for whatever was outside to move
away. When Pale Morning finally
filtered through the tent, I reached for my boots.
We have to get off this mountain.
I told Ben urgently, but he didn't move.
He sat there, staring blankly into space.
A vacant smile slowly crept onto his lips.
It wants me to see. He whispered, eyes distant,
unfocused. Then, before I could grab him,
Ben stood and walked barefoot into the snow outside the tent,
eyes glazed, face serene. Ben.
I screamed, scrambling after him, but by the time I stood in
the open, blinding snow swirling around me, he had already
vanished into the storm, gone into the trees without a trace.
Panic surged through my chest, overriding everything else as I
stared into the blank, swirling whiteness where Ben had
vanished. My mind screamed at me to move,
to follow, to pull him back before it was too late, but the
snow swallowed everything. There were footprints at first,
deep and erratic, but soon they twisted into a baffling spiral
that made no sense. Mixed among Ben's familiar boot
prints were longer, wider depressions, barefoot
impressions pressed deeply into the powder, trailing alongside
his. The cold bit painfully into my
fingers, but adrenaline kept me numb, urging me forward.
I stumbled through the thickening drifts, shouting his
name until my throat felt raw. The Blizzard buried every sound
beneath its relentless gusts, isolating me completely.
After 10 frantic minutes, the tracks became impossible to
follow, overlapping and turning in circles, crossing paths as if
Ben had chased or been chased by something I couldn't understand.
I stopped, trembling and exhausted, snow crusting my
lashes. I knew continuing blindly into
the storm was a death sentence. My friend was out there, lost in
the madness of Katadine's wrath. But I had no choice left to
survive meant retreating. I forced myself back toward the
tent now, a small blue smudge fading into the swirling white.
My heart skipped as I neared it. Standing upright once more,
impossibly positioned directly in front of our campsite, was
the deer carcass, its head twisted grotesquely to the side,
dead eyes fixed directly toward me.
Snow coated its fur again, but thinly this time, as if recently
placed there. My breath froze in my lungs.
This was no joke, no coincidence.
Something monstrous had carefully arranged this scene.
I moved quickly, avoiding looking too closely, grabbed my
gear from the tent and left Chimney Pond behind, driven
downward by blind terror. The descent was brutal.
Each step tested my strength, the snow accumulating rapidly,
hiding familiar landmarks, transforming the trail into a
treacherous maze of ice and frost covered rocks.
My fingers burned with the intense cold, soon they dulled
to numbness. My toes followed quickly,
feeling leaden, then not at all. Hours passed in a haze of
desperation. Every sound around me became
sinister. A branch snapping, the wind
moaning through distant gullies, heavy snow falling from branches
above. Shadows moved at the edges of my
vision, quick and elusive, vanishing whenever I focus
directly on them. My pace slowed.
Weakness overtook me. The simple act of breathing felt
impossibly difficult. Lungs aching from the icy air, I
forced myself onward, driven only by the instinctive
animalistic urge to survive. Ben's face haunted every step.
His calm smile burned into my memory.
By the time I reached Roaring Brook, darkness had fallen
again, deeper and colder than before.
The Ranger station emerged from the blackness, dimly lit, a
beacon of warmth and life. My legs gave out mere feet from
the door. I collapsed into the snow, my
mind spiraling Into Darkness. When I awoke, harsh fluorescent
lights pierced my vision. Voices echoed distantly, urgent,
concerned Park Rangers crowded around their faces.
Grim pain bloomed through my hands and feet, stabbing and
relentless. I glanced down, horrified, to
see two fingers already discolored, frostbitten black.
Ben. I rasped, desperate and weak.
Ben still out there? A Ranger placed a gentle hand on
my shoulder. We have a search party already
out. Just rest now.
I shook my head violently, panic overwhelming me again.
You don't understand. Something was following us.
It it took him. He smiled when he walked away,
smiled like he heard someone calling him home.
The Ranger glanced uneasily at the others, exchanging silent
looks. They offered no reassurances, no
words of comfort. They merely nodded, lips tight,
eyes uneasy. Days later, as I lay recovering
in a hospital bed, bandaged and broken, a Ranger visited me
privately. His voice stayed low, wary of
being overheard. We never found your friend, he
said gravely. But we did find something else
near Chimney Pond, a deer standing upright, exactly like
you described. He paused, visibly shaken,
before continuing. There were prints, too.
Big ones. Bare feet, but different.
Not human. His voice trailed off, eyes
distant, haunted. You know, every few winters,
someone disappears up there. People whisper stories, tracks
without explanation, whispers in the dark.
He stood abruptly, turning toward the door, pausing only
once more before leaving me alone.
You're lucky. He muttered softly.
Whatever it is that hunts up there, it doesn't often let
people leave. His words lingered long after
the door closed. Outside the hospital window, the
mountain loomed silent and patient, hiding its secrets
beneath deep snow and shadows. Gifford Pinchot National Forest
is over 1,000,000 acres of sprawling wilderness in
Washington, known for its dense old growth forests, cascading
rivers, and rugged volcanic terrain.
The place is notoriously vast, easy to get lost in, and
tempting for those like me who crave the solitude and thrill of
exploration. I've spent years solo
backpacking the Pacific Northwest, documenting my trips
on blogs and forums, always pushing deeper, always off
trail, drawn to untouched lands that don't exist on any official
map. So when I heard vague mentions
of abandoned logging settlements hidden northeast of the Goat
Rocks Wilderness, curiosity got the better of caution.
I parked my truck at the end of an abandoned logging road near
Randall, marked only by a rusted gate buried in BlackBerry vines.
Slinging my pack onto my shoulders, I glanced at my
handheld GPS, fully charged, and noted my coordinates before
slipping into the dense green wall of the forest.
The initial trek was tough going.
Thick ferns tugged at my boots, tangled roots threatened to trip
me at every step, and the low hanging branches slapped at my
face and chest. But the effort was worth it.
The silence was magnificent, A profound absence of humanity
that only the deep wilderness offers.
Still, as the day wore on, I couldn't help but notice that
silence growing deeper, more absolute.
Not a single bird call or the distant rustle of squirrels,
just the steady crunch of my boots on pine needles and Moss.
By late afternoon, the forest opened slightly into a small
clearing, and I saw them weathered wooden structures
melting into the ground, roofs collapsed, walls bowed and
covered in thick blankets of Moss.
Rusted saw blades, broken axes, and disintegrating boots were
scattered about an abandoned logging camp, forgotten and
reclaimed by nature. I paused, intrigued, heart
quickening with the rush of discovery.
There was no record of this place on my maps or in the
histories I'd read. It felt like I'd stepped into a
forgotten era. The sun began dipping below the
distant Ridge, painting the forest in muted amber.
I decided to set up camp among the ruins.
It would make great content for my blog, I thought.
Ignoring the small voice in the back of my mind urging caution,
I pitched my tent next to the skeletal remains of a bunkhouse,
collected some dry wood, and soon had a small fire going.
After heating a freeze dried meal and brewing instant coffee,
I leaned back against my pack and recorded a quick update for
my GoPro, detailing the location and excitement of the discovery.
As darkness crept in, the forest settled into an eerie calm.
Usually, night brought a Symphony of insects, rustling
animals, and wind through branches.
Tonight, the quiet was oppressive, almost tangible.
It felt unnatural. Shaking off the feeling, I
crawled into my tent, zipped myself in, and eventually fell
asleep, comforted by the familiarity of canvas walls.
I awoke suddenly. A heavy, oppressive silence
pressed down my pulse, loud in my ears.
My watch glowed faintly. 2 AMI lay there for a moment, ears
straining, eyes wide in the absolute darkness.
Nothing. Just silence.
Maybe a dream had startled me awake.
Still, unease prickled my skin. Slowly, I unzipped the tent flap
and peered into the dark clearing.
The cold air rushed in, sending chills down my spine.
My flashlight beam swept across the ruins, catching the twisted
shapes of decaying buildings and ghostly white trunks of Alder
and Birch. Nothing moved, no eyes reflected
back at me. I whispered a curse under my
breath, zipping the tent back up and forced myself back into
restless sleep. Morning came reluctantly.
A pale Gray dawn illuminated the clearing, bringing relief.
Unzipping the tent, I stretched and stepped out, immediately
freezing mid stride. My heart thumped painfully in my
chest. All of my gear had been moved.
My boots, carefully placed just outside the tent last night, now
sat 20 feet away near the old fire pit.
My backpack lay open on its side, contents neatly arranged
nearby. Food packets, maps, clothing,
none of it taken but meticulously reorganized.
My cooking pot, which I'd left upside down by the tent to dry,
now rested upright in the middle of the cold ashes of last
night's fire. Panic surged and I quickly
checked my GoPro. The footage from last night
abruptly stopped at 1:47 AM, cutting off mid frame.
Hands shaking, I examined the camera closely.
Battery full, memory card intact.
No logical explanation. Something rustled faintly at the
edge of the clearing. A soft shift of leaves, then
silence. I jerked around, scanning the
trees. A nearby cedar trunk caught my
eye. Deep grooves gouged into the
bark, fresh SAP oozing down like blood. 3 distinct claw marks,
higher than my reach. Precise and deliberate.
Heart pounding, I stared at those marks, knowing beyond
doubt they hadn't been there yesterday.
Whatever had visited my camp last night hadn't merely
rearranged my belongings. It was letting me know it was
here, and it had watched me sleep.
The claw marks were deep, precise, deliberate.
I ran my fingers over the grooves, feeling the sticky SAP
seep between them. Whatever left these marks had
strength. Real, tangible strength.
My rational mind scrambled to identify an animal capable of
such markings. But nothing fit.
Not bears, not Cougars. They were too high, too precise,
too unnatural. The forest around me felt closer
now, as though it had shifted inward overnight.
Every shadow, every tree trunk took on a menacing quality.
Shaken but determined, I retrieved my gear, packed my
belongings, and debated leaving immediately.
But the need to document the site, to make sense of what was
happening, kept me anchored. I spent the afternoon
methodically exploring the perimeter of the abandoned
settlement. As I ventured deeper, my camera
rolling, I found more claw marks, identical sets of three
parallel grooves, each higher off the ground than the last.
They ringed the camp in an eerie pattern, like some primitive
form of boundary marking. By evening, the sun bled slowly
below the distant ridgeline, leaving behind a dull Crimson
glow. I rebuilt my campfire, this time
larger and brighter, the snapping flames offering limited
reassurance. I brewed another pot of instant
coffee, fighting off exhaustion with caffeine and adrenaline.
My headlamp remained lit even in the twilight, casting its feeble
beam into the looming darkness. By 11:00 PM, the silence
thickened again, heavy and unbroken.
My ears strained, desperate for any normal forest sound.
A cricket, The wind rustling leaves an owl's distant call.
But the woods refused. Then, distinctly, a slow shuffle
sounded at the tree line, measured and heavy.
Something was pacing, circling just beyond the reach of my
firelight. I stood slowly, flashlight
trembling in my grip. Who's there?
My voice cracked in the quiet, thin and insignificant.
No answer came. Only more shuffling footsteps,
deliberately slow moving with calculated intent.
Panic coiled inside me. I swept my flashlight across the
trees. The beam caught another freshly
clogged tree, much closer this time, saps still oozing.
It was moving in while I watched.
Fear surged, cold and bitter. Staying in the open felt
suicidal. My eyes landed on the nearest
intact bunkhouse. It's warped wooden walls
suddenly seemed safer than canvas.
Abandoning the fire, I hastily grabbed my pack, flashlight
shaking wildly, and bolted for the structure.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and decay.
Rusted metal bunks lined the walls, and floorboards creaked
beneath my weight. I slammed the heavy wooden door
shut behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard.
Hastily, I pulled rope from my pack and wound it through a
sturdy bracket on the wall, securing the door tight.
My hands shook uncontrollably, fingers fumbling knots.
I sank onto a moldy bunk, knife clenched in one hand, flashlight
in the other. Minutes passed slowly,
stretching into what felt like hours.
Every muscle remained tense, every nerve alert.
Just as exhaustion began clawing at the edges of consciousness, A
scraping sound jolted me awake, the noise harsh and deliberate
along the outside wall. My breath stopped.
I stared at the wood paneling as the scraping moved methodically
around the building, something dragging heavily against the
warped boards. I couldn't move, couldn't
scream, could only listen in silent dread.
The scraping paused by the door, the handle rattling gently,
testing the ropes. Strength.
Seconds dragged by the silence, broken only by my ragged
breathing. Then footsteps again, slow,
measured, dragging away from the bunkhouse, fading into the woods
long after the sound ceased. I sat rigid, gripping the knife
until my knuckles turned white, unable to close my eyes, waiting
desperately for daylight. The first hint of morning
sunlight filtered weakly through cracks in the bunkhouse walls, a
pale reprieve from the endless darkness.
My muscles ached from hours spent frozen in place, fingers
clenched around my knife. The forest beyond had gone quiet
again, unnaturally still, but at least the scraping and footsteps
had stopped. I stood up slowly, bones popping
as I stretched and approached the bunkhouse door.
The rope I'd used to secure it remained taut.
I listened carefully, pressing my ear against the warped wood.
Silence. Taking a deep breath, I united
the rope, eased open the door, and stepped outside into the
Gray morning chill. My heart sank.
Overnight, the clearing had transformed completely.
The circle of clod trees had tightened even further around
me. Fresh gouges bled SAP and thin
amber trails that glistened wetly in the dawn light.
There were dozens, far more than before.
It felt like a cage closing in. I grabbed only what was
essential from my scattered belongings, my camera, GPS,
knife, and a single emergency flare.
The rest I abandoned without hesitation.
Escape was the only option now. Holding the GPS in a trembling
hand, I set off quickly, heading directly toward where I had
parked my truck 2 days ago. The device flickered
erratically, signal jumping wildly between coordinates.
I cursed, smacked it uselessly against my palm, but it refused
to stabilize. My compass too spun without
direction. With no other choice, I moved
forward by instinct, fighting the choking brush and tangling
undergrowth that clawed at my legs.
After an hour, my pulse quickened as familiar shapes
loomed ahead. A twisted bunkhouse, Broken
foundations, Rusted tools. My stomach lurched.
I'd walked in a loop. The abandoned camp had pulled me
back. Frantically, I turned in another
direction, marking trees with my knife to confirm my path.
This time again, after nearly an hour, the dilapidated bunkhouse
emerged from the trees ahead, mocking my efforts, Fighting
back rising panic, I tried again, altering my path, almost
running blindly through the dense foliage, the breath hot
and ragged in my throat. Eventually, exhausted and
desperate, I stumbled across the faint trace of an old logging
Rd. nearly swallowed by brush. It was narrow, choked with
tangled Alder branches, but it LED outward, downhill, away from
the cursed clearing. I followed the road as quickly
as I could, branches scraping my face and arms, leaving red
welts. Strange markings began appearing
on logs and boulders beside the trail, deep scratches forming
symbols of circles and straight lines and groups of three.
Primitive, deliberate, and unsettling.
I didn't stop to examine them, but the markings seem to pulse
in my peripheral vision, urging me faster.
Then, behind me, footsteps began again, heavy, rhythmic and
deliberate. My chest tightened, blood
pounding loudly in my ears. I glanced back quickly, nearly
tripping over a root, but saw nothing except dense foliage.
The footsteps came steadily closer, accompanied now by the
slow drag of something heavy across leaf litter.
My breathing became shallow, panic clawing at my chest.
I quickened my pace, nearly sprinting, branches whipping
across my face, leaving stinging cuts.
I could hear it clearly now, close behind, relentless,
gathering courage. I spun around, gripping the
knife tightly. My heart nearly stopped.
Just beyond the edge of my vision stood A pale shape, thin
and towering, half concealed behind the wide trunk of an
ancient cedar. It was impossibly gaunt,
elongated limbs dangling low, its posture twisted awkwardly.
Unnatural. Pale, mottled flesh reflected
faint daylight, but its face remained hidden behind the tree.
It moved slightly, silently. No breath, no sound, just a
horrifying, deliberate shift forward.
Instinct overtook reason. I yanked the emergency flare
from my pocket, fingers fumbling as I ignited it, sending a
blinding burst of red light skyward.
The forest erupted in sudden brilliance.
The figure recoiled sharply, retreating deeper into shadow,
seemingly startled by the brightness.
Seizing my chance, I sprinted wildly down the old road, legs
burning with effort, chest tight with exhaustion.
My lungs felt ready to burst, but fear propelled me forward.
Then, mercifully, through the trees, I glimpsed the shape of
my truck, parked exactly where I'd left it days before.
I crashed through the last thick patch of brush, wrenching open
the driver's door, nearly sobbing with relief as the
engine roared to life. I tore away from the spot
without looking back, hands shaking uncontrollably on the
wheel. Hours later, safely locked
inside a cheap motel room near Randall, I uploaded A brief
account of my nightmare to a wilderness backpacking forum,
avoiding specifics about location or details too
unbelievable. I just needed to share, to warn.
The following morning, a notification flashed on my
phone. A private message from an
anonymous user. You weren't the first.
Stay out of starved ground.