Last year, I had a deeply unsettling experience in a
National Forest in California. I was alone on a road trip with
my dog Yuka, and I decided to drive far into Mendocino
National Forest. I often choose national parks
and forests for camping because they're free and isolated, which
lets my dog roam freely. The trade off is sometimes
navigating sketchy roads with 0 cell service or assistance.
It was around 5:00 PM when I started up a narrow dirt Rd.
that snaked around the side of a mountain.
The air was oddly still despite a mild breeze.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road and
everything felt eerily silent except for my tires crunching
gravel. I've driven on plenty of remote
roads, but something about this place hit me immediately.
A cold, uneasy feeling that settled in my stomach.
Every instinct told me I shouldn't be there.
I texted my boyfriend about my discomfort for as long as I had
service, maybe a few minutes until my phone went dead.
I kept an eye out for any signs that someone else was around or
had been there recently. Tire marks, footprints, or even
trash. Yet the road was empty.
No fresh tracks, no sign of life.
Eventually, I pulled over to stretch my legs and let Yuka
out. She bounded ahead a little, but
then stopped abruptly, her hackles raised.
That's when I noticed a dead squirrel on the roadside.
Its body was fresh enough that flies hadn't swarmed it yet,
which struck me as odd. A few feet away, shards of
broken glass glinted in the dirt like tiny mirrors.
The moment Yuka caught the scent, she let out this low,
rumbling growl. She's vocal, but it's rare for
her to growl at something that isn't another dog or a direct
threat like the time she saw a possum.
This was different. An unnatural hush seemed to hang
over the forest. I swear the breeze died down the
second I stepped out of the car, leaving the trees and bushes
perfectly still. It felt like the entire place
was watching me. Despite the anxiety twisting in
my chest. I pride myself on being an
independent traveller, so I decided to venture a bit farther
to find a suitable campsite. The deeper I drove, the worse I
felt. My stomach churned at the sight
of more dead animals along the road.
Squirrels, small birds, even what looked like a rabbit.
It struck me as incredibly strange.
At most, people would drive 510 mph on this road, if anyone even
came through at all, so roadkill should be minimal.
It was almost as if something else had been killing them and
leaving them out in the open. That's when I first heard what
sounded like men's voices drifting through the trees.
It was faint, but clear enough to raise the hairs on my arms.
My immediate thought was to call out, maybe confirm there were
indeed other people around. But when I slowed to a stop, I
had this overwhelming sense that I needed to keep quiet.
My pulse thundered in my ears. I realized I was actually afraid
to make my presence known. I couldn't understand what they
were saying, if they were even speaking English, but every
syllable I caught sounded wrong, garbled, like a bad radio
signal. Yuka started whining from the
back seat, ears pinned flat. That alone was enough to scare
me. She's a rescue I brought home
from Costa Rica, and she's been through all kinds of rough
situations, but I'd never seen her so visibly rattled.
I tried to spot any movement between the towering Pines or
behind the thick underbrush, but it was as if the voices were
coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Then, just as suddenly as they started, they stopped.
The silence that followed was even more unsettling, like the
forest was holding its breath. I decided I'd had enough.
Although part of me felt like I was overreacting.
My instincts told me to leave as I began turning the car around
on the narrow Rd. The voices reappeared for a
moment, louder this time, echoing in the quiet.
A chill shot through me and I swear Yuka let out a Yelp.
I stepped on the gas more abruptly than I should have on
such a precarious Rd. but I was desperate to get away.
My heart pounded so hard I felt light headed.
On the way back down. I kept checking my rearview
mirror, half expecting to see someone or something burst out
of the woods behind me, but the road remained empty, winding
back to the main stretch of Hwy. When I finally reached a safer
area, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding
and noticed my hands trembling on the steering wheel.
I decided a hotel was worth every penny.
That night as I checked in, my reflection in the lobby's glass
doors showed me how pale and shaky I looked.
It took me hours to calm down and stop hearing those strange
voices in my head. At the time, I tried to
rationalize it. Huge open spaces are
intimidating. Weird echoes can travel far in a
Canyon or valley, animals die, and broken glass could be from
careless visitors. But something about that place
and those voices stuck with me. Whenever I watch a scary movie
or walk my dog alone at night, nothing compares to the raw
terror I felt in that forest. Months later, I stumbled upon
some Native American lore that immediately dredged up memories
of that creepy Rd. A year after the incident, I was
telling my boyfriend about it again while we were on another
road trip, this time heading home after a wedding in Wyoming.
We've been listening to scary podcasts and YouTube videos to
pass the time in the dark. One of the videos mentioned
Wendigos, creatures said to lurk in remote forested areas and
mimic human voices. I practically froze, feeling a
horrible wave of dread wash over me.
My boyfriend suddenly remembered that he had joked about wendigos
when I first told him about hearing voices in the forest.
Back then I shrugged it off as a Bigfoot like joke.
Hearing the lore described more seriously, especially the part
about them being able to mimic voices, made my skin crawl.
It fit too well with what I experienced.
The disembodied voices, the uneasy atmosphere, the dead
animals. I started Googling wendigos in
Mendicino and came across alarming stories of unexplained
disappearances. One headline read, Another
Family goes missing in Mendicino.
Digging deeper, I found out that over 100 people in the past
eight years had vanished without a trace, and others were found
dead under mysterious circumstances.
That terrifying Dr. flashed through my mind all over again.
I remembered the way Yuka's growls had made the hair on the
back of my neck stand up. She's never been so spooked
before or since. For a dog who once lived on the
streets of Costa Rica, seeing her react with that level of
fear convinced me there was something terribly wrong in
those woods. Even though it's just a legend,
these stories come from somewhere.
I've travelled solo through jungles, deserts, mountains, you
name it, and I've never felt such an immediate sense of doom.
Something in Mendocino National Forest was off, and I can't
shake the thought that if I had stayed another hour or ventured
deeper, I might not be telling this story today.
I don't plan on traveling anywhere near that remote
without a companion, preferably a group.
The memory of those voices, the lifeless bodies of animals, and
my dog's reaction still haunts me.
I can't help but wonder what's really out there, and whether
it's watching the next unsuspecting traveller who dares
to wander too far from civilization.
If anyone knows about authentic Native American lore, or if
you've had a similarly inexplicable experience,
especially in Mendocino National Forest, I'd love to hear it.
Because to this day, I'm convinced there was something in
those woods and it wasn't anything I've ever encountered
in my life. I was up before my alarm,
tossing on my gear and stepping outside into the kind of
blackness that feels almost solid.
Folks always ask me how I handle the early starts.
Truth is, I've always liked that quiet window before dawn.
It usually settles me. But on this day?
It felt more oppressive than soothing, like the very air
carried a warning. The drive out was familiar, a
narrow Rd. twisting through bare branches that seemed to crowd in
from every side. The headlights only cut through
a small patch of darkness, making everything else blur into
a single inky mass. When I finally parked, a weird
anticipation bubbled up inside me.
Usually I'm eager to slip into the woods, but that morning felt
different. The silence was a little too
heavy, the darkness too thick. I grabbed my bow and started the
short hike toward my usual spot. Leaves snapped under each step,
and I noticed that nothing else made noise.
No night birds calling, no rustling in the nearby brush.
I tried telling myself it was just one of those days.
The forest decides to go still, but doubt was already creeping
around in my head. My flashlight beam cut across
tree trunks, but they looked more like looming figures than
simple timber. Every so often I'd stop and hold
my breath, trying to pick up on some sign of life.
Nothing. Eventually I found the tree
stand I'd set up last season. It's in a decent spot where deer
sometimes wander at dawn. Climbing up there felt like a
routine I'd done 1000 times, but I couldn't settle in.
Darkness pressed in from all angles.
The bough sat across my lap and I attempted to keep my senses
attuned to the slightest disturbance.
Still nothing. Time dragged.
And with each passing minute, that quiet weighed on me more.
Normally I'll hear some snapping twigs in the distance or the
faint call of an owl, but the quiet was close to suffocating.
I tried to focus on the possibility of seeing a deer
come into view, but all I could think about was how unnaturally
calm everything seemed. After hours of waiting without
spotting so much as a scampering rabbit, I decided to call it
quits. The shadows were still thick,
but dawn couldn't be too far off.
I climbed down, my boots crunching on damp leaves.
Honestly, I expected the usual wave of relief that comes from
calling it a day. Like, OK, maybe no deer this
time, but there's always next hunt.
Instead, I felt an edge in the pit of my stomach.
Turning toward my car, I took the path that usually winds me
back through the woods. A few minutes into the walk, I
started noticing that each step felt amplified.
At first, I blamed the leaves. Maybe the ground was just wetter
than usual, but the repetition became impossible to ignore.
It seemed like there was a subtle delay, just enough to
make my hair stand on end. I'd take a step, crunch, and
half a second later I'd catch a fainter crunch echoing mine.
After a few beats of that, any lingering calm I had vanished.
I stopped dead. My ears were straining to catch
the slightest sound. Everything went silent again, as
if the woods were mocking me, only making noise when I moved.
I let out a slow exhale, forcing myself to stand still until I
was certain there was nothing behind me.
Nothing stirred. The only thing I could hear was
the thump of blood in my ears. I set off again, slower this
time, and sure enough, that second set of footfalls resumed.
Even though it kept perfect time with me, there was no question
it wasn't my own. It was a heartbeat behind, an
unnatural echo that made my skin prickle.
By then, my grip on the bow was iron tight.
I've spent plenty of nights out here, and I know how to trust my
instincts. Something, someone, was
shadowing me. I decided to confront it.
If I was imagining things, I'd laugh about it later.
If I wasn't, I needed to be ready.
I stopped short, whirled around, and lifted my bow.
My voice came out louder and harsher than I expected.
Whoever's out there, I'm not messing around.
My shout faded into the dark, swallowed by the trees that
looked like looming sentries. Silence again.
No movement, no answer. But the tension in the
atmosphere felt real, like the woods themselves were bracing
for what came next. I kept my bow raised, scanning
the path and the twisted silhouettes around me.
My pulse was racing, but I tried to keep my breathing steady.
Nothing approached, yet I was convinced I wasn't alone.
That's the moment the first real flicker of alarm pushed through
my composure. Alone in the darkness, far from
any house or main road, with the distinct feeling I'd stumbled
into some silent game I never meant to play, and I couldn't
tell if I was dealing with a person, an animal, or something
else entirely. I tightened my stance, calling
out once more, half hoping I'd get no reply, half hoping I
would, just to end the mystery. The seconds dragged.
The forest around me offered no comfort, each tree trunk seeming
to lean in as if waiting for a final verdict.
My heart hammered as I braced for whatever was about to happen
next. I kept my bow raised, hardly
daring to breathe, eyes locked on the dark stretch of trees.
My mind was racing with every worst case possibility.
A rogue animal, A trespasser, Someone with bad intentions.
The forest around me felt so still it was almost oppressive,
like every twig and leaf was part of a silent audience
watching me. Suddenly, a voice shattered the
hush. Please don't shoot.
I twisted, trying to pinpoint exactly where it came from.
At first I saw nothing, just the shifting shapes of branches
against the faint light of dawn. Then a single figure stepped
out, one hand raised like he was trying to prove he had nothing
to hide. He was a man, but that was about
all I could tell. Scruffy facial hair, worn
clothes caked with dirt. His posture suggested he was
either terrified or very good at pretending to be.
I'm lost, He managed, voice trembling.
Been wandering for hours. I didn't lower my bow right
away. There was something off about
him in the way he couldn't seem to hold eye contact.
I remembered how long he'd been tailing me, quiet as a shadow.
Part of me wondered if he was truly lost, or if that was just
a story to put me off guard. Step out where I can see you.
I told him. He took another slow step
forward, keeping his palms visible.
The forest was still pretty dark, but I could at least make
out the anxious line of his mouth.
He repeated. I was following you because I
thought you might know how to get out of here.
His words came out rushed, like he needed to convince me.
A wave of conflicting impulses flooded my thoughts.
Everything in me screamed to be careful, to keep him in front of
me and never let him out of sight.
But I also couldn't just leave someone behind if they were
genuinely stranded. All right, I said quietly.
I'll help you find the road, but you walk ahead and don't make
any sudden moves. He nodded fast, shoulders
sagging with what appeared to be relief, though I couldn't be
sure. I gestured with my bow for him
to turn around. The path behind us looked
endless, swallowed by blackness, so I guided him toward what I
hoped was the right direction. As we pressed forward, the only
sounds came from our footsteps on dead leaves and the
occasional scrape of a stray branch against my jacket.
The tension practically thrummed in the air.
I tried to chat just enough to gauge how truthful he might be.
How long you been out here? He hesitated.
Not sure a while. I tried another angle.
Came with friends. His answer was muddled,
something about a group hike going wrong.
He fumble the details, claiming he got separated.
The whole thing left me with more questions than answers.
We walked on. A faint glow started to touch
the sky, revealing the twisted outlines of trees around us.
In that thin light, I noticed the man's clothes were torn in
places and his hands looked grimy, like he'd been on the
ground more than once. But his face troubled me the
most. He kept glancing back with the
corner of his eye, assessing me as if he was sizing up a
situation. Each time he slowed down, eyed
tense, ready to react. Was he pausing to catch his
breath? Or was he testing me, waiting
for me to drop my guard? My hand never left the bow,
thumb resting near the arrow. Eventually, we reached a slight
clearing. The path here was a bit more
defined, and the first scraps of daylight helped me get a clearer
look at him. His gaze was wild, not just from
exhaustion but from something else, nervous energy or maybe
fear that I was on to him. You have a flashlight or phone?
I asked, trying to see if he was lying about being completely
lost. He just shook his head, eyes
darting like he was embarrassed or stalling.
I dropped it. Battery died.
He mumbled, never finishing a complete sentence.
We trudged along side by side at times, but he'd always veer a
little ahead whenever I nudged him forward with my words or a
small motion of my bow. The truth is, I was counting
every step until we reached the parking lot.
As uneasy as I felt, I also didn't want to be stuck out here
if he decided to pull something. After a while, the trees began
to thin, and that was the first sign we were close to the edge
of the forest. My car was parked in a clearing
up a short slope. Relief flickered inside me, but
it came tangled with a fresh jolt of nerves.
If he was planning something, he might try it in these last few
minutes. Not far now.
I said, mostly to fill the silence that felt razor sharp.
The trail opened up, revealing my car in the distance.
The man slowed noticeably, almost like he was disappointed.
For a split second. His eyes flicked to the
surrounding area, scoping if anyone else was around perhaps.
Then he exhaled sharply, turning to me with a forced grin that
didn't touch his eyes. This is it then.
He muttered. I nodded, stepping a bit to the
side so I could keep him in my peripheral vision.
The morning light was stronger now, illuminating smears of dirt
on his cheeks. He seemed torn between relief
and something darker, a restless energy that made my gut twist.
I offered. There's a road not far from
here. I can drive you or show you how
to follow it. He shot a glance at the car,
then at me. I'll find my own way.
He said. The edge in his voice was
sharper than before. I was about to press him
further, but he turned and took off into the thinning tree line
at an odd shuffle, never once looking back at me until he was
a good distance away. He paused briefly, far enough
that I could just make out his expression.
The look he gave me was too quick to read fully, but a
chill. Rose in my mind.
It was the type of look that suggested this encounter hadn't
gone as he planned. Or maybe he was simply relieved
to escape my scrutiny. Then he disappeared behind a
stand of gnarled trunks, leaving me there, Beau still in hand.
I stood in that clearing for a few beats, wrestling with a
storm of emotions, relief Ward with a nagging sense of danger,
the feeling that if I'd made even one wrong move, things
might have turned out badly. In the end.
I lowered my bow and forced my legs to move toward my car.
Once inside, I locked the doors and just sat behind the wheel,
listening to my breath hiss in and out.
Even though the dawn was brightening, that unsettling
memory of footsteps trailing mine stuck in my head.
I realized that no matter how well I knew these woods, there
would always be a chance of running into someone who didn't
belong. And sometimes that's scarier
than any natural predator I could have faced out there.
Starting the car, I cast one last glance at the line of
trees. It all looked so peaceful from
here, like any normal morning in the forest.
Yet I couldn't shake the tension in my chest, that intuition
telling me this wasn't just some harmless lost hiker.
Maybe he truly needed help. Or maybe I just walked away from
a much darker situation. Either way, I drove off with my
mind and OverDrive, swearing I'd stay more vigilant from now on.
Out here, you can never be too sure what or who might be
lurking among the shadows, waiting for the right moment to
follow. I could have sworn this would be
a regular day. My buddies and I have roamed
these woods since we were kids, so piling into the car before
dawn and heading for that old trail felt the same as always,
easy and comfortable. As we stepped onto the dirt
path, the morning air smelled like pine and damp earth, the
kind of scent that usually calms me right down.
We packed everything we'd need, Water, snacks, a whistle, and
that one gun we never really thought we'd have to use.
Our chatter bounced around all jokes and half hearted
complaints about waking up early.
Back then I had no clue how abruptly that cheerful mood
would unravel. After a couple of miles we
spotted a narrow offshoot from the main trail, one that most
visitors ignore. We never do.
This is our spot, our own hidden detour where the map doesn't
matter because we know every inch.
That's when I noticed a sort of hush around us.
I couldn't place it right away, but something was off.
Usually we'd hear birds or the rustling of small critters.
Today it was just our footsteps. I tried to brush it off,
cracking a dumb joke about how the birds must be on vacation or
something. The guys chuckled, but I could
tell they felt it too, That strange emptiness you don't
usually get here. Despite the eerie quiet, we push
deeper into that off trail stretch.
Leaves rustled overhead, shifting in the breeze.
A branch snapped somewhere off to the side, and I whirled
around, half expecting a deer, but there was nothing there.
My friend Manny let out a dry laugh and said I was jumping at
shadows. I tried to shake it off.
Pride told me I shouldn't let every small sound startle me.
My other friends seemed on edge, too, but none of us wanted to
admit it. We'd grown up in these woods.
This place was supposed to feel like a second home.
Eventually I noticed someone up ahead, leaned against a trunk in
this awkward tilt from far off. He looked hurt or exhausted, His
shoulders slumped forward and no gear insight.
We slowed down, scanning for signs of anyone else, but it was
just him. My stomach nodded up.
We hollered a greeting. Hey man, everything OK?
But got no reply, just silence. My pulse kicked up, though I
told myself maybe he was injured or hard of hearing.
This is usually the part where you jog over to help.
But instinct held me back. Something in his body language
screamed that we should stay cautious.
We inched closer, trying to see his face.
He still didn't move, didn't glance our way.
One of my friends waved, hoping to draw him out of whatever days
he might be in, but it was like he was locked in place.
That hush pressed in around us even harder, and it felt like
the whole forest was waiting to see what we'd do next.
At about 50 feet, Manny stepped forward, then froze.
He called out just loud enough for us to hear.
He's got a blade. We all tensed, straining to see
the faint shine of something metal gripped in the stranger's
hand. My throat went dry.
I wasn't sure if I should call out to him again or back off
entirely. Our friend who carried the gun
cautiously raised it, muzzle angled down but ready.
He spoke in a steady voice. We don't want trouble.
Just checking if you're all right.
The tension in the air felt thicker than any fog.
For a heartbeat, the man stayed still.
Then, with a slow deliberation, he pushed himself upright.
My eyes locked onto the massive knife, machete, really, he had
clasped in his fingers. When he turned our way, I
managed a glance at his face. He looked detached, like he
wasn't present in the moment. I felt A twist of fear run
through me. Because someone like that,
someone who doesn't react at all to having a weapon pointed near
him, might not be safe to reason with.
My friend repeated his warning, told him to stay back, to put
the blade down. No response.
The man just stood there so still that even the slightest
movement felt loaded with menace.
I took a step back and my backpack shifted on my
shoulders, the weight reminding me that we weren't exactly
powerless. But it didn't help me feel any
less vulnerable. I told myself to stay calm, that
maybe this stranger was just confused or scared.
Then, in a gesture that was both simple and terrifying, he moved
one foot forward. Not fast, just deliberate.
He stopped. Then another step stopped again.
Each pause lasted a heartbeat, but it punched me with anxiety.
It was like he had his own dark rhythm in mind.
My friend with the gun kept saying don't come any closer,
but the guy didn't even blink. We were locked in the standoff
that I never expected to face in a place I'd always considered my
backyard. That's where the day took a turn
from familiar to something alien.
Our cozy routine was gone. Replaced.
By a single horrifying thought. How quickly can we get away from
this guy? My pulse hammered so loud I
thought for sure the stranger could hear it. 1 moment we were
calling out warnings, trying to keep it calm, and the next he
was stepping toward us in this bizarre, measured way.
One step, stop, another step stop.
Like each footfall was time to rattle our nerves.
I clutched the straps of my backpack, forcing myself not to
outright Sprint. Part of me wanted to grab my
friends and drag them away, but it felt like any sudden move
might provoke him. My buddy holding the gun kept
his voice firm, demanding the guy drop his weapon, back off,
anything to keep him at Bay. Yet that machete gleamed in his
hand, and he showed 0 sign of fear.
My friends and I began to retreat, inch by inch, trying to
maintain a gap between US and this silent figure.
The air felt thick, like the forest itself was caught in a
dreadful hush. Even the usual crackle of leaves
under our boots seemed muffled. I caught a glimpse of Manny's
face. He looked just as freaked out as
I felt, eyes darting around to see if maybe someone else was
watching from behind a tree. It was a paranoid thought, but
none of us were sure if this stranger was alone.
That slow, stuttering approach never speed up.
It was unnerving, like he was toying with us, savouring every
shaky breath we took. My friend with the gun said
we're leaving now. Speaking with forced calm while
shifting backwards, the stranger just kept creeping forward, step
by deliberate step. You'd think the sight of a
firearm would have triggered some reaction, fear, alarm,
something, but it was like he barely even registered the
threat. His focus stayed locked on us,
or maybe somewhere else entirely.
I couldn't tell. The second we built a bit of
space between us, Manny blurted. Go.
We got to go in a hushed yell. And that was it.
We bolted. My legs started pumping,
adrenaline taking over the branches, clawing at my clothes.
Every few strides I glanced back, half convinced he'd broken
into a run. Instead, I saw him standing
there, machete still at his side, just staring.
In a twisted way that was almost worse, like he was letting us
escape on his own terms. The forest rushed past in a
blur. My lungs burned as I zigzagged
through the undergrowth, ignoring the scrapes and
scratches from brambles hooking into my pant legs.
We put distance between ourselves and that clearing, but
the paranoia refused to ease up. Every snap of a twig behind me
sent a jolt of panic through my gut.
My brain looped with thoughts. What if he's following?
What if he has friends? Eventually we slowed, breath
rasping in our chests, and found a more familiar part of the
woods, a spot we recognized with a few scattered boulders and a
trickling stream. Nobody said a word for a solid
minute as we tried to settle ourselves, eyes still flicking
over our shoulders. I dialed for help on my phone,
voice shaking as I gave the gist of what happened.
Some unresponsive man with a huge blade lurking in the middle
of nowhere, stepping toward us like it was a game.
Even just saying the words made my stomach.
Churn all over again. Once we ended the call, we
trudged on, weaving our way to the main trail.
Instead of relief, all I felt was a low grade dread that clung
to me. We were safe, relatively.
But the chill of his expression, blank and distant, lingered in
my memory. That stare hinted at something
deeply wrong, like he was operating on a different level
of logic, or had no logic at all.
When we finally reached the car, we huddled around it in uneasy
silence. A friend muttered something
about driving to the Ranger station to make sure the
authorities knew exactly where to look.
Another friend said he wasn't sure he ever wanted to come back
here, not after seeing that. I just nodded, replaying those
slow, methodical steps in my head.
I never thought a complete stranger could turn such a
familiar place into a nightmare. Even now, I can't shake how he
stood there, not flinching at the sight of the gun, not giving
us a single word, just watching us scramble to get away.
A part of me wonders if he was waiting for us to slip up, or if
he planned on following us at some point.
I keep picturing his face, void of emotion yet somehow intense,
like all that mattered to him was that machete and whoever
crossed his path, and I keep asking myself what would have
happened if we'd hesitated even a second longer.
We escaped, but the forest feels like it's changed forever,
tainted by the memory of that silent threat lurking between
the trees. I always thought of the Arctic
nights as my personal escape. Imagine blankets of white
stretching to every horizon, the sky so clear you could count the
constellations if your eyes didn't blur from the cold.
This was my hometown, a place of frozen expanses and midnight
wonder. Staying cooped up indoors never
appealed to me, especially when I knew the stars were out there
waiting. My parents, both teachers, were
usually too busy to notice I'd swiped the snowmobile keys.
Most nights I'd slip out quietly, the thrill of being
somewhere I shouldn't be fueling each step.
On that particular evening, it felt like the sky was calling my
name. I tiptoed across the living
room, making sure not to step on the squeaky floorboard near the
couch. My dad's papers, still unmarked,
fanned out on the coffee table. My mom's boots, caked in days
old slush, rested by the door. They were worn out from a long
day, perfect timing for me to sneak away.
The moment I stepped outside, the chill cut into my lungs like
glass. Cold nights were normal here,
but there was something sharper about the air.
I chalked it up to excitement and tugged my hood tighter.
Pulling the cord on the snowmobile.
I heard the engine sputter awake in a burst of noise.
I winced, worried the sound might echo right into my parents
room, but no lights flipped on. Good.
Nobody was stopping me. I guided the snowmobile out
beyond the town's edges, riding until the streetlights faded to
pinpricks in the distance. The motors rumble was almost
calming, and the snow kicked up in a glitter spray behind me.
Before long I found a gentle slope, a familiar spot with a
clearview of the sky, and switched off the machine.
In the sudden silence, my own breathing sounded too loud.
Usually I found that hush comforting.
That night, it stirred a subtle dread I couldn't explain.
I scanned the heavens above, expecting the usual a lazy
satellite drifting across the stars, maybe some faint auroras
shimmering in green and purple bands.
It all looked normal at a glance.
Yet an itch under my skin told me something was different.
The stillness pressed down, as if the entire tundra was
smothered in anticipation. I told myself I was overthinking
it. After all, I'd been here 100
times before, soaking in the cosmic beauty.
Just as I started to relax, a faint tapping reached my ears,
so soft I almost missed it. It reminded me of somebody
clinking glass beads together, distant but too steady for a
random breeze. Immediately I glanced around,
expecting to see a fox skittering across the snow, or a
loose piece of gear tapping in the wind.
Nothing. Not a single thing moved on the
horizon. My gaze drifted upward, and my
pulse hammered for no clear reason.
Everything appeared normal. The stars were their usual
brilliant selves. The Aurora seemed calm.
Still, the tapping sound lingered, picking up in
intensity until it resonated in my eardrums.
Panic slid into my bloodstream. Was it something mechanical?
Some bizarre echo? I forced myself to focus,
scanning every inch of the sky. That's when I noticed 3 distinct
lights, brighter than stars and aligned far too perfectly to be
random. Each point grew in intensity,
not in size, as if they were pushing through the aurora's
colors. The tapping swelled into a
sharper clack, like pieces of metal colliding just out of
reach. My mouth went dry.
I wanted to jump back on the snowmobile, but I couldn't tear
my eyes away from these lights. It felt like they were locking
on to me, making my bones itch from the inside.
Then, in a breath, they vanished.
No flicker, no slow fade, Simply gone.
The noise disappeared right alongside them, leaving behind a
heavy ringing emptiness. For a moment I remained frozen,
unable to decide if I should stay and see if it happened
again or flee. My survival instinct finally
screamed louder. My limbs jolted into action and
I flung myself onto the snowmobile, fumbling with the
starter. The machine chugged without
catching, as if it was refusing to help me escape.
Fear made my hands shake and I yanked the cord again and again.
On the fourth try, the engine roared to life, the sudden sound
jolting me. I pressed the throttle and
didn't look back. My heart hammered with every
bump in the snow, convinced something out there was watching
me leave. Only once the familiar glow of
the town appeared did I start to breathe easier, yet the unease
refused to lift. My senses were on high alert.
Every shadow seemed to quiver, every gust of wind felt charged
with something unknown. Replaying what I saw, I
struggled to make sense of it. 3 perfect lights, that unnatural
clicking echo. It couldn't have been just a
trick of the Aurora, whatever it was.
It left a silent echo in my thoughts, a certainty that I had
glimpsed something far beyond any normal night sky show.
By the time I reached home, my shoulders ached from gripping
the handlebars too hard. Without hesitation, I killed the
engine and pushed the snowmobile into its usual spot.
My heart thudded while I slipped through the door, half expecting
my parents to confront me with angry questions.
But the house was silent, darker than it should have been.
I felt an odd pang in my gut, but I shoved it aside and headed
for my room. I didn't dare turn on a single
light, clinging to the hope of avoiding punishment for this
midnight joyride. Little did I realize the
strangest part of the night was yet to come.
As I collapsed into my bed, the memory of those three lights
burned itself into my mind. For the first time, I wasn't
just intrigued by the Arctic night.
I was downright afraid of it. When I finally stumbled into the
house, a strange hush greeted me.
Normally the hallway light was on and the TV murmured from the
living room, my parents awake and marking papers or half
watching some late night show. This time the place was pitch
black, like everyone decided to call it quits at some eerily
early hour. I gently closed the door behind
me and stood there, letting my breath even out.
My insides still roiled from the whirlwind of cold and sheer fear
I'd just escaped on the tundra. My bedroom door practically
moaned when I pushed it open, but nobody stirred.
The relief was brief. My alarm clock's red digits
caught my eye, a blaring reminder of how messed up
everything was. I'd left around 11 at night,
feeling pretty sure I'd only been gone maybe an hour or two.
Yet somehow it was edging towards 6:00 in the morning.
That meant nearly 7 hours had evaporated.
I froze, mind racing. Even the wildest Aurora show or
a random Daydream couldn't account for all that missing
time. Dropping onto my bed felt like
sinking into quicksand. My body was so stiff I realized
I must have been standing out there forever, motionless,
staring at those lights. My joints ached and my eyes
throbbed as if I'd been holding them open for hours.
Whenever I closed them, I saw pulsating shapes, flickers of
those three points hovering in the sky.
A phantom ringing teased my ears, bringing back that bizarre
tapping sound. The memory unsettled me to my
core, like 1/2 formed nightmare, refusing to let go.
I wanted to shake myself and say it was a hallucination.
Maybe I dozed off on the snowmobile.
But the physical evidence was impossible to ignore.
My numb fingers, my throbbing legs, and the throaty rattle the
engine made on my way home. It had never struggled like that
before. The air outside the window
looked unchanged, a deep Arctic gloom, but that only cemented
the feeling that time had no logical flow tonight.
After several minutes, though it felt like hours, I forced myself
to sit up. My parents, for once, hadn't
rushed out to scold me, which meant either they were
completely oblivious or I was more stealthy than I deserved to
be. Normally I'd feel triumphant
about sneaking in Scott free, but not tonight.
The silence in the house gnawed at me.
I kept imagining shapes lurking beyond each doorway, waiting for
me to explain what I'd seen. My heart pounded erratically,
not from the excitement of a rebellious joyride, but from a
fear I couldn't even name. Giving up on the idea of sleep,
I flicked on my bedside lamp, its dim glow chasing away some
of the shadows. My snow gear lay in a wet pile
near the closet, and I remembered how the front door
lock had been a little stiff, or maybe a bit scratched.
Was that a coincidence, or had someone, something messed with
it? My head buzzed with
possibilities, all of them worse than the last.
I kept picturing a shape, tall or monstrous, lurking outside,
lured by those lights. Or maybe it was all in my head.
Whichever it was, I didn't plan on finding out the hard way.
I fumble for my phone, thinking about texting a friend for some
semblance of normalcy, but what would I even say?
Hey, I got stuck staring at weird lights for seven hours.
Can't sleep because I'm half convinced I'm losing my mind.
You up? Yeah, right.
I felt too jittery to deal with the awkward questions that would
follow, so I just sat there, letting my breath stutter into
something like a rhythm, waiting for morning to break.
When dawn finally came, it bled through the window in pale Gray
strips, transforming the cramped bedroom into something I
recognized, but only barely. The thin sunlight exposed every
random detail, the peeling wallpaper corner, the scattered
school binders. I should have found it
comforting, but my nerves stayed sharp.
Even with daylight, a different sort of dread settled in my gut.
If I stepped outside, would I sense any lingering presence of
those lights overhead? Thoughts tumbled around as I
weighed, telling my parents what happened.
They weren't the type to dismiss me out of hand, but the idea of
describing those pulsing orbs in the mechanical tapping made me
uneasy. I worried they'd assume I was
making up a story to cover for sneaking out.
Plus, there was this undercurrent of shame, like I'd
stumbled into something far bigger than I could handle and
that I should keep quiet or risk unleashing it more.
Eventually, the clock nudged past eight.
My body felt hollow, like I'd sprinted a marathon overnight.
Somewhere in the house, my father started moving around,
kitchen chairs scraping the floor.
The smell of coffee drifted down the hallway, normally a
comforting sign. Not today.
I didn't want to walk in there, meet his eyes, and pretend
everything was normal. I didn't want to see pity or
confusion if I tried to explain. In that moment, I promised
myself I would never go out to the tundra alone at night again.
Memories of the swirling Aurora and the star filled Vista were
now tainted by an unsettling aura of fear.
Whatever hovered in the sky that night, whatever stole hours from
me, felt like it had burrowed into my thoughts.
No sense risking another round. Eventually, I peeled myself off
the bed and started getting ready.
Ignoring the reflection in my mirror that revealed dark
smudges under my eyes, I figured I'd power through the day, maybe
blame insomnia on some big assignment.
Deep down, I knew that if I admitted the truth to anyone,
I'd have to face it more directly, and I wasn't ready for
that. Truth be told, I wondered if I'd
ever be ready at all. Some things are better left
behind in the Arctic night, especially when they refuse to
follow the rules of time and reason.
As I left my room, I had no doubt I'd glimpse something
unimaginable out there. And if it wanted to be seen
again, well, I wasn't about to volunteer for a second look.
It was close to noon by the time me and my two friends, Eric and
Sam, stumbled on to my dad's old place in Woori Yallock.
The sun was burning through a haze of clouds and the whole
driveway felt deserted, like it hadn't seen a car or a person in
ages. Dad was there long enough to
toss me the spare key and drop a casual warning he might sneak up
on our campsite later just to spook us.
I figured it was his way of reliving a prankster youth we.
Offloaded whatever gear we didn't need for the night.
Then we were off. The three of us tromped along an
overgrown trail that snaked behind the house.
Wild bushes clawed at our legs, and every so often one of us
would curse under our breath when a sharp twig snagged our
clothes. The further we went, the quieter
it got. No hum of cars, no chatter from
neighbors, just endless undergrowth and the crunch of
our boots. Something about that stillness
had me on edge, but I told myself this was exactly what I'd
wanted. Wilderness and a real break from
everything. After a couple of hours, we
found a little clearing tucked between scraggly trees and thick
brush. It looked perfect, flat enough
to pitch a tent, room for a campfire, and plenty of dead
branches for fuel. We started gathering wood,
making jokes about nasty spiders and the weird ways we could
prank each other. Once it got dark, that's when
Eric lifted up what looked like a sun bleach stick and said,
dude, this is a bone. Turned out the area was littered
with them. Some were brittle, cracking
apart at the slightest touch. Others were bigger and had a
weight to them. Sam tried to brush it off by
saying something about old cow bones from when the land was
farmland. We jumped on Wilder theories
just to mess with each other. Maybe it was an old dumping
ground for criminals. Maybe it was some creepy ritual
site. That sort of talk got us all
watching our backs. Eventually we built a decent
fire. The glow felt comforting in the
early evening gloom. Eric tossed in one of the
smaller bone sticks to see if it burned any different.
It made a weird sizzle for a second, then fizzled out like
regular kindling. Didn't exactly smell great, but
we shrugged it off. We cooked whatever snacks we'd
brought, told silly ghost stories, and started joking
about how my dad might show up wearing a mask.
It gave me a bit of confidence to think that at worst, I'd just
have to endure dad's sense of humor.
I must have dozed off sometime after midnight.
The campfire was dying and a faint breeze rustled the leaves.
Above us. Next thing I knew, Sam was
shaking my shoulder, mumbling something about a flashlight on
the tent wall. My mind reeled.
For a second I'd almost forgotten the plan for Dad to
scare us. This was prime time for him to
jump out from behind a tree. But when I focused, I realized
the look in Sam's eyes was genuine fear.
Eric was sitting bolt upright, breathing real slow, peering at
the tent fabric as if any second it might RIP open.
Light flickered across the thin nylon, like someone was moving
the torch in slow sweeps. Then it vanished.
We heard a shuffle, branches snapping in a pattern that
suggested more than one person was out there.
I whispered. Probably my dad.
But for the first time all day, that idea didn't feel
comforting. Something.
Soft brushed against the side of the tent.
We all froze. I forced a grin, even though my
stomach was a knot. If it was Dad, he'd probably
jump right in, cackling at how scared we were.
But no cackling came. Instead, there was this low,
hushed whisper I couldn't quite parse.
It rose and fell like a weird chant, or several voices
overlapping. I shot Eric a glance, and he
mouthed. Who else would come all the way
out here? I had no answer.
That whispering went on for what felt like forever.
Every so often I'd catch the faintest crunch of leaves, like
someone pacing. My friends were trembling, and I
can't pretend I was calm either. I was doing mental gymnastics
trying to figure out how Dad could have convinced any friends
of his to join a prank this extreme, hiking hours through
dense Bush just to stand outside our tent and whisper.
Then, at once, it all stopped. The silence slammed down so hard
it rang in my ears. I waited for something else, a
footstep, a cough, anything, but heard only my own unsteady
breathing. We sat up the rest of the night,
half expecting that torch beam to slice through the dark again.
The tension got so thick I couldn't tell if my mind was
conjuring shapes outside the tent or if someone was actually
still there. When dawn finally broke, we
basically tore down the tent in record time.
Nobody bothered with breakfast, we just wanted out.
We power walked all the way back, ignoring the aches in our
legs and the stinging scratches across our arms.
By the time we dragged ourselves into the yard of my dad's house,
we were drenched in sweat and shaking.
Dad was sitting on the porch sipping coffee.
He looked up, saw our expressions, and asked what was
wrong. We told him everything from the
weird whispering to the tapping on the tent.
He got real serious and said I never made it out last night I
was with my girlfriend. He even apologized for not
following through on his plan. He'd fallen asleep early.
His reaction was so genuine I almost wished he'd been lying.
It would have felt better if there was a simple explanation,
a punch line. But there wasn't.
As he stared at us, frowning, like he couldn't decide whether
to blame some random trespassers or our overactive imaginations,
I realized we might never know who had been out there or why.
All I knew was that something or someone had circled our tent in
the dark and whispered in hushed voices as we cowered inside.
And no matter how many times I try to laugh it off, the memory
of that night still leaves me uneasy whenever I think about
setting up camp in the middle of nowhere again.
A few years had slipped by since that horrifying night in the
clearing, but no matter how many times I shrugged it off in
conversation or joked about it after a few drinks, the memory
always lingered in the back of my thoughts.
I'd see a picture of someone camping and remember the faint
tapping on our tent and that unsettling whispering.
Part of me knew I had to go back to that spot.
Somewhere between fear and curiosity.
I wanted to prove to myself it had all been a fluke or teenage
imagination. And to be honest, I needed
closure. That's how I found myself
rolling into Wari Yallik again, with my friend Mark in tow.
He'd heard the story and was convinced I was either
exaggerating or missing some logical explanation.
He came along almost like a skeptic investigator, determined
to reveal the truth about what happened.
Dad wasn't around this time. He'd taken a job a few hours
away, so we had the run of the old house.
It felt emptier than ever, dust dancing in the sunlight that
slipped through the grimy windows.
The silence stirred up memories from the last trip, making me
more anxious than I cared to admit.
Mark and I set out on foot the next morning.
The brush had grown Wilder, like nature decided to reclaim the
area with a vengeance. Vines snaked across the path,
and every so often the ground dipped unexpectedly, sending one
of us stumbling. The leaves overhead clustered so
thickly they blocked out most of the sky.
No birds, no other hikers, just us pushing deeper, the only
sound being branches snapping under our boots.
It reminded me of how isolated we were, and I could tell Mark
was beginning to catch some of my unease.
Eventually, we reached that same clearing.
My heart thudded a little faster.
I remembered where the tent had been, the circle of black ash
from our old fire pit still faintly visible in the dirt.
The place seemed oddly silent, like it was holding its breath.
Mark poked around, snapping photos on his phone, asking me
to point out exactly where we found the bones.
But there were no bones this time, just a few random sticks
that didn't look too special. I started thinking maybe this
trip would be a bust, that I'd over hyped everything.
That's when Mark wandered behind a thicket and hissed my name.
Hidden by a weave of dead branches stood a rusted
corrugated iron shack. Bullet holes pockmarked the
metal, leaving jagged edges that hinted at some violent past.
A tall oil drum leaned against one wall, blackened on the
inside and stacked with burned clothes.
Shirts, maybe jackets. Whatever they'd been, they were
reduced to scorched rags. A pair of axes lay nearby, their
handles split and dirty, but definitely used before my pulse
spiked. The memory of those whispers
played over in my head for years.
I told myself those voices might have been some harmless
bushwalkers or a weird echo. Staring at this shack, I felt
that old dread seeping back in. Mark took a shaky breath.
This is messed up, he muttered. I tried to sound braver than I
felt, muttering something about an old hunting cabin, or maybe a
place squatters used, but a hunting cabin doesn't usually
feature bullet riddled walls, an oil drum of burned clothing and
a pair of axes left lying around like they'd been used recently,
and the footprints in the dirt. They looked recent enough to me,
something told me. We were standing in a spot where
we weren't welcome. The tension cranked up even
higher when I noticed what might have been small animal bones
near the drum. Or maybe they weren't animal
bones at all. Mark just stared fiddling with
his camera, and I realized his hand was shaking as he tried to
take a picture. A sense of being watched crawled
up my spine. I felt like if I turned around
too quickly, I'd catch sight of someone peering at us through
the trees. We moved quietly, not wanting to
leave more tracks every step. Felt like a gamble.
Mark kept checking behind us, but all I could see was that
endless green wall of leaves. I wanted to call out, to test if
maybe there was a normal explanation, some ranger's
outpost or old caretaker's Hut, but the place felt suffocating,
like any loud noise might trigger something lurking in the
underbrush. When we finally convinced
ourselves to step away from the shack, we heard a distant crack,
like a branch snapping. Except it sounded purposeful,
close enough to send us running. We exchanged glances, both
thinking the same thing. If someone was out here, we
wanted to be anywhere else. We crashed through the trees,
ignoring the scrapes and the sharp sting of nettles against
our legs. Every crunch behind us made me
flinch. I was convinced we were being
followed. After what felt like forever, we
burst onto a narrow dirt Rd. a few miles from the house.
We stood there panting, our clothes smeared with mud, hearts
going like mad. Mark kept looking over his
shoulder, but I didn't see anything chasing us.
That made it worse in a way. Not knowing if we'd really heard
someone or if paranoia had taken over back at the old place, we
flung open the door and sank into a pair of dusty chairs.
I found a half flat soda in the fridge and downed it, my throat
raw from running. Mark asked in a shaky voice.
Do you think it's connected? The people with the flashlights
back then? Could they still be out there?
All I could do was shrug. I told him about the folks in
town who sometimes whispered about shady happenings in the
Bush, illegal stuff, hidden camps, people you don't want to
meet after dark. That night I called Dad.
He sounded worried but not surprised.
Said he'd heard rumors for years, a place deep in the
forest that got used for God knows what.
My mind drifted to the bullet holes, the axes, and that barrel
of burned clothes. Maybe we interrupted whoever set
up that shack. Maybe they were just waiting for
us to leave. Mark and I spent a few hours
packing up. Neither of us wanted to hang
around worry Yallak anymore. As we locked up and headed off
in my car, I stared at the tree line.
Part of me knew we'd probably never find out the whole truth.
Whatever happened in that Bush, both that night years ago and
now, felt like it belonged to another world, one that didn't
appreciate strangers. I kept thinking about the
tapping on the tent, those whispered voices, and how
someone clearly had a place nearby for a reason.
And as much as I'd always been drawn to the wilderness, I
realized there are parts of it that aren't meant to be
discovered by people like me. As a child or young teenager, I
had a very strange experience in the woods.
I'm not sure if this encounter involved some kind of entity or
perhaps something else. I hope someone can give me more
information about what happened to me and my friend.
I female, was around 12 years old at the time and one of my
best friends, let's call him Alex, was about 10.
Alex's father had purchased a large tract of forested land
about 100 kilometers from the city.
We lived in Montreal, Canada. It was all forest when his
family bought it, so they cleared a small patch to build a
house, leaving the rest as untouched woodland.
Their property was split by a dirt Rd. that if followed for
several kilometers, led to a few other houses.
Each side of that dirt Rd. felt very different.
On the right side, where their house was, the forest was light
and luminous, or at least it felt that way.
It wasn't too dense with gentle rolling hills.
A lovely place to play. On the left side of the road,
however, it was a different story.
First there was a deep ditch about two meters down, and then
a steep hill. Oddly, this ditch was full of
old car parts all along the road.
Wheels, doors, steering wheels, everything covered in Moss.
Beyond that steep hill, the forest felt ominous, filled with
tall, dark, coniferous trees that seemed devoid of light or
life. Sometimes we climbed that hill,
though rarely, because it gave us the creeps and there was a
sort of swamp at the top. Whenever we ventured there, we
felt an unsettling pressure, like an instinct telling us to
leave. The creepy atmosphere was
obvious to both me and Alex and we jokingly called that side of
the road the Demons Forest. One weekend, probably in 2001 or
2002, my family and I visited Alex's family.
Tired of listening to the adults, we decided to play in
the forest. Alex's father warned us about an
animal that had been rummaging in their trash bin, apparently a
Rottweiler like dog that might belong to someone farther up the
Dirt Rd. He said it looked unhealthy or
diseased, maybe missing patches of fur so we shouldn't interact
with it if we saw it. Off we went.
It was autumn and the leaves were golden, many already on the
ground. The day was calm and slightly
overcast with no wind at all, just a very still atmosphere.
We walked along the dirt Rd. with a pleasant forest to our
right and the demons forest to our left.
We chatted as we followed the road uphill, feeling slightly
uneasy about the creepy forest on the left.
We tried to be brave and ignore the unsettling vibe.
Eventually, well out of sight of Alex's home, I noticed something
odd. On the left side, where the
steep hill rose above us, a large dark pine tree hungover
the road. Someone had tied a pink ribbon
to one of its branches, which was already strange because
Alex's family had no daughters or other young girls around.
The ribbon's loose ends were flapping almost horizontally, as
if in strong wind, but there was no wind at all.
I even touched the ribbon and did the old lick your finger and
hold it up trick my dad taught me.
There was no breeze, yet the ribbon kept flapping.
I mentioned it to Alex, but he seemed preoccupied, so I let it
go and we kept walking. We soon reached a spot where the
hill on the left wasn't so steep.
It looked as though the hillside had been carved out in a shallow
half circle, making it easy to climb into the Demons Forest.
From where we stood, the road felt like a stage and the slope
of fallen red and gold leaves stretched up in front of us,
with trees starting at the top about 9 meters higher.
We paused to admire the view. Canadian autumns are truly
beautiful. Suddenly, Alex got excited.
He said he heard something up in the Demon's Forest.
He claimed there were Wildcats in there.
He and his dad had seen them, and one had reportedly had
kittens to kids our age. The idea of kittens was
thrilling, though I couldn't shake my unease.
He insisted he'd just heard a cat meow.
I hadn't heard a thing and doubted him, but he wanted us to
meow back in hopes the cat, and possibly it's kittens would come
our way. Before I could protest, he let
out a loud meow toward the forest.
To my shock, the forest meowed back.
Alex was delighted. He meowed again.
Once more something responded from the woods.
I was unsettled. It didn't make any sense.
Still, I stayed quiet to see what would happen.
Every time he meowed, there was an immediate meow in return.
It wasn't an echo. There were no hard surfaces for
sound to bounce off, and it only returned our meows, nothing
else. Alex became even more excited.
Listen, it's coming toward us, He said, sure that the cat was
approaching with its kittens. And disturbingly enough, there
was the clear rustle of leaves as something approached from
higher up the slope. But it felt wrong.
Cats are small and quiet. They don't make such a racket.
It sounded more like footsteps, heavy ones, almost like someone
walking on two legs. And the sound was definitely
getting closer. My instincts screamed that
something was off, but Alex was oblivious and kept calling out.
Then it hit me. We had an open view of the
slope, yet we saw nothing. If something was coming at us,
we should have seen it plainly. There was nothing but rustling
and meowing sounds. Soon multiple sets of rustling
seemed to converge, getting closer with nothing visible.
I wanted to run, but Alex got mad.
He believed the kittens were nearly there by that time.
I felt real fear. We were exposed on that stage,
and whatever was approaching was definitely not a bunch of
playful kittens. I was about to drag him back
home when it happened. I heard loud panting right at my
feet. For a split second I wasn't
alarmed. It sounded just like my Husky
panting next to me. Then dread seized me.
My dog was nowhere near here, so this had to be another dog, a
big one, standing right at my feet.
I looked down, ready to jump away, but there was nothing
there. The panting continued, loud and
unmistakable, as if something was inches from me.
I spun around, screaming, searching for the source.
Still nothing. Then I glanced up the dirt Rd.
about 100 meters away, at the top of the slope stood a lone
dog. It resembled a Rottweiler, but
was in awful shape. Patchy fur, filthy, with bits of
skin exposed. It was staring straight at us.
There was no way I could hear that dog panting from such a
distance, especially so loudly at my feet.
At that point, my flight instinct kicked in.
I have never run faster in my life thankfully.
It was all downhill. Alex was right beside me, also
terrified. We made it home safely and never
walked in those woods again. I visited Alex's place many more
times over the years, but always avoided those woods.
We had some great parties there as teenagers, sometimes staying
up late and having fun. Still, I felt uneasy whenever I
went outside, especially at night when I slept over.
I often had strange experiences upon waking.
I'd sensed that something was there, watching me in that half
awake state. I even saw a shape floating near
the ceiling. I never felt it was immediately
threatening, more like it was observing me.
I'm not sure if that was related to what happened on the Dirt Rd.
We never discussed that day again.
Recently I did some research and found that this land is
historically associated with the Algonquin people, though one
source mentioned Mohawk. If anyone has insights into what
I experienced, I'd be grateful for any clarification.