I volunteered for this. That's what I kept reminding
myself as Marcus and I picked our way through the tangled
deadfall that littered the trail.
We were fresh out of SUNY College of Environmental Science
and Forestry graduates, trained to understand these woods better
than anyone else and eager for hands on experience.
But enthusiasm wanes quickly when reality hits you like a gut
punch. The Five Ponds Wilderness had a
reputation, a kind of dark respect, among the older forest
Rangers stationed in Wanakina and Cranberry Lake.
I'd seen the knowing looks they exchanged when Marcus and I
signed up for the inspection. Bear Mountain's abandoned
lookout tower and it's battered cabin were little more than
scribbles on outdated maps, now a forgotten place buried by time
and snow. Locals said that in winter, when
heavy snow blanketed the Adirondacks, something screamed
through the woods, echoing down the empty valleys.
The story seemed foolish by daylight, but as the light
dimmed and the trail faded, foolishness became easier to
believe. Tyler, hold up.
Marcus said from behind, breathing heavily.
He was red faced, panting clouds into the frigid air.
This trail sucks. Tell me something I don't know.
I said, forcing a laugh. My own breath fogged my glasses,
blurring the already indistinct path ahead.
We got to be close. We pushed forward, the snow
deepening under foot, hiding slick roots and jagged rocks.
Every few steps, branches whipped at our faces, stinging
our skin. It felt like the forest itself
resisted our approach. By late afternoon, as the last
faint glow slipped below the treetops, we finally spotted the
tower. The rusted metal framework
loomed above us, skeletal and twisted, as if years of harsh
winters had bent it towards surrender.
Beneath the tower was the cabin, an old log shelter covered in
thick layers of Moss and ice. One wall sagged inward, another
wore a blanket of fresh frost. No fire had warmed it in
decades. Home sweet home, Marcus
muttered, slinging off his pack. I forced open the swollen cabin
door. Inside, the air tasted stale,
musty. We shuffled in, kicking snow
from our boots, eyes adjusting to the gloomy interior.
A rust stained stove sat against the far wall, it's pipe
disconnected. The bunk beds were warped, the
wood Gray with age. Marcus flicked his flashlight
toward the lower bunk, pausing suddenly.
Look at this, he said quietly. Beneath the bunk, deep scratches
marred the floorboards, long gouges like something had clawed
its way desperately through solid wood.
Behind the stove, a dark stain, dry and flaky, smeared upward.
Marcus knelt, squinting. Is that blood?
Probably animal blood, I said, though I felt the unease in my
voice. Bear raccoon.
Something nesting here? Yeah, Marcus agreed quietly, but
neither of us moved. Our words hung limp between us.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the cabins brittle
walls. A gust shrieked briefly through
the cracks, echoing weirdly off the metal tower above.
Marcus laughed nervously, standing quickly.
We unpacked silently, setting up sleeping bags and laying out
gear. We attempted the satellite phone
several times, but it was useless, blocked by thick Pines
and shadowed peaks. Snow started falling again, slow
flakes drifting lazily through the fading evening.
I'll check outside. Marcus said abruptly, sounding
overly cheerful. I knew him well enough to
understand he was trying to shake off the tension building
inside this cramped, darkening shelter.
I nodded. Be quick.
He stepped outside, the door closing heavily behind him,
muffling the growing wind. I stood alone in the silence,
rubbing my chilled hands, staring again at those claw
marks beneath the bed, deep, frantic slashes that seemed to
scream out a story I desperately did not want to know.
Then I heard it, a distant sound filtering through the trees.
It wasn't wind. This was different.
Something alive, something between a howl and a scream,
impossibly distant yet piercingly clear.
My blood ran cold. The door swung open abruptly,
Marcus's face pale and drawn. Did you hear that?
He asked breathlessly. Yeah, I said, throat tight.
What was it? Marcus shook his head slowly,
gaze locked into the swirling snow behind him.
Nothing, he said finally, voice hollow.
Nothing at all. The word sounded empty, even to
him, but neither of us argued. We simply closed the door,
locked it tight, and sat in silence, listening to the wind
rise and fall, pretending that whatever we had heard was gone.
Outside, darkness settled over Bear Mountain, burying the
abandoned station beneath A thickening blanket of white.
When I woke up, Marcus was gone. My eyes struggled open to Gray,
frigid daylight seeping through gaps in the old cabin walls.
I sat upright, immediately feeling the chill.
Something was wrong, deeply wrong.
Marcus's sleeping bag was ripped wide open, the torn fabric
spilling across the floor. His boots still stood by the
stove, exactly where he'd left them.
His jacket hung untouched on a rusty hook by the door.
Marcus, my voice echoed hollowly against cold logs, unanswered.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag, heart thudding.
Ice cold boards numbed my feet as I quickly dressed, pulling on
boots, gloves, coat. I moved toward the door, bracing
myself. Maybe he'd stepped outside for
firewood, or to relieve himself. Maybe I was panicking over
nothing. I pushed the cabin door open and
my stomach dropped. Outside, the snow lay perfectly
smooth, undisturbed. No tracks LED from the cabin, no
sign Marcus had ever left. The air was silent and utterly
still, a strange kind of silence, thick enough that it
seemed to press against my ears. Marcus.
I shouted, louder this time. My voice carried bouncing
between snow heavy branches. Nothing answered but the quiet
rustle of my own breathing. I circled the cabin carefully,
checking every side for footprints.
Nothing. The snow was unbroken and
pristine, as if he'd simply vanished from existence.
My hands shook as I scanned the tree line, desperate for
movement, a flash of color, anything that might signal
Marcus there was only emptiness. Desperation grew sharper in my
chest. I grabbed our satellite phone
again, fumbling with numb fingers.
No signal. The screen mocked me, dead and
useless. Helplessness quickly turned to
anger, then back to fear. My mind raced.
Marcus couldn't have gone far barefoot, could he?
The idea was absurd. I climbed the lookout tower,
hoping for a better view. I gripped each icy rung, my
gloves sliding dangerously. Wind bit at my face, cold and
relentless, making my eyes water as I reached the top.
But looking out over the endless snow covered forest, I saw no
movement, no trace. Only Gray and white, stretching
forever beneath clouds heavy with another storm.
A sudden wave of dizziness forced me back down the ladder,
back on solid ground. I leaned against the cabin wall,
breathing heavily, eyes tightly shut.
Calm down, I thought. Think Marcus was smart,
resourceful. Maybe he'd heard something and
went to investigate. Maybe he'd become disoriented.
But barefoot, without his coat. The afternoon dragged on as I
forced myself to expand my search, shouting his name until
my throat burned. The temperature continued
dropping, the air sharpening painfully with cold.
Panic clawed at my chest. If I didn't find him soon, he'd
never survive the night out here.
By the time dusk began draining color from the sky, exhaustion
forced me back to the cabin. I barricaded the door using the
old bunk frames and the remains of furniture inside.
As darkness fell completely, I lit the stove with our dwindling
supply of kindling. Shadows danced wildly against
the walls, deepening the cracks and gouges in the wood.
Those gouges drew my attention again.
I knelt, studying the floor closely.
Something about the scratches felt intentional, urgent.
One set of marks was deeper than the others, carving almost
completely through the board, as if something had desperately
tried to break free or reach something buried beneath.
A noise outside snapped my head upward.
Thump, Heavy, slow thump, thump. My heart hammered painfully.
I turned off my headlamp, sitting absolutely still,
listening. The sound circled the cabin,
measured steps crunching through snow.
Whatever was out there wasn't trying to hide its presence.
I gripped the handle of the old Forest Service hatchet we
brought along, my knuckles aching.
The thumping paused briefly, and I held my breath.
Every muscle locked rigidly. After several unbearable minutes
of silence, I slowly exhaled, thinking whatever it was had
moved away. Then, with a force that shook
the entire cabin, something slammed hard against the outer
wall, directly behind my head. I bit my tongue, suppressing a
scream. Another slam followed, then
another, rattling the Timbers. Each impact sent shock waves of
terror through my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable
to move, unable to think clearly.
The assault continued for minutes that felt like hours,
and then, abruptly, it stopped. The cabin went silent again.
Only my shallow, ragged breathing broke the quiet.
I sat frozen, staring at nothing as dawn finally crept through
the boarded windows. Slowly I stood, joints stiff
from fear and cold. Hands shaking violently.
I pried the barricade away from the door and opened it, peering
out into pale morning light. The snow lay untouched, utterly
smooth and unmarked. No footprints, no sign of
anything living. Having been there at all, I
stepped outside, feeling disconnected, numb.
Movement at the top of the tower drew my gaze upward.
There, fluttering softly, caught in a rusted support beam, was a
scrap of fabric, Marcus's parka ripped and dangling like a
macabre flag. It's torn edges were stained
dark red, and clinging to one corner was a single, coarse
strand of Gray hair. I stared upward, a fresh wave of
nausea rising inside me. Marcus hadn't vanished.
He'd been taken. I had to get out.
After finding Marcus's torn parka, something shifted inside
me. Panic gave way to a cold,
numbing certainty. If I stayed another night in
this place, I would disappear too.
I spent the morning dismantling the bunk beds, prying the
ancient boards apart. My hands, already raw from cold,
splintered and bled as I fashioned A crude sled.
Tent poles provided bindings and frame twine and rope lashed
tightly around warped wood. The final product was ugly and
uncertain, but it was my only hope.
The snow was waist deep and soft.
I'd never make it back without something to carry my gear.
Around midday, I shouldered my pack, secured the sled, and
started back down the trail. Or what I hoped was the trail.
With each step, my legs sank heavily into the snow.
My breath came raggedly, misting in clouds around me.
The path forward felt endless, swallowed by white drifts that
blurred into featureless woods as darkness crept closer.
I gathered branches and pine needles, digging A shallow
depression beneath the shelter of a fallen tree.
I lit a small fire with shaking hands and one precious flare,
warming my numb fingers and fighting exhaustion.
The smoke rose straight into the empty blackness overhead.
That night, lying half buried in snow and hidden by my makeshift
camp, I listened. Silence, then footsteps.
Steady. Something was moving nearby,
just beyond my circle of firelight.
I curled tighter into myself, gripping my hatchet hard enough
to bruise my palm. The steps circled slowly,
methodically. They drew close enough that I
could hear snow crunching beneath.
Heavyweight. Yet I saw nothing.
No figure, no shadow. Only the oppressive darkness.
It stopped again, lingering, waiting.
I didn't sleep. I didn't move.
Eventually, the footsteps faded into the distance, leaving only
the faint crackling of my fire and my own shallow breathing.
Morning came slowly, the sky a dull, oppressive Gray.
My eyes burned from exhaustion as I stood, surveying the
untouched snow around my camp. No tracks, no proof anything had
been there yet. I knew better.
I trudged onward, pulling the sled, every muscle aching from
cold and fatigue. My vision blurred at the edges,
shapes shifting between trees. Hallucinations began.
Shadows took form, dancing figures of smoke and snow
flickering just beyond my focus. Each time I turned my head, they
dissolved. That afternoon, movement among
the trees stopped me cold. A head, partly obscured by
branches stood a figure, human shaped but far too tall.
Thin and ragged, limbs unnaturally long, It remained
motionless, watching. I felt its attention like a
physical weight, suffocating, freezing me in place.
My heartbeat pounded loudly, the only sound in a suddenly airless
forest. I forced myself to look away,
staring down at my boots, counting my breaths.
When I dared look up again, the figure had vanished into the
pale emptiness. I continued forward, legs barely
cooperating, each step slower, heavier.
By nightfall, my strength was gone.
Shivering violently, I huddled beneath an Evergreen, too weak
to build a fire, too numb to care.
My thoughts spiraled inward, fading into incoherent murmurs.
I woke sometime deep in the night to a voice calling my
name. Tyler.
It sounded close, clear, not whispered, but spoken plainly,
without warmth or breath behind it.
And though every instinct screamed at me not to, I raised
my head toward the sound. Marcus stood there, illuminated
dimly by reflected moonlight. He waved gently, smiling as if
nothing were wrong. Marcus.
My voice cracked painfully, but something was off.
His face was wrong, thin, stretched, his eyes hollow and
dark. When his smile widened, I saw
teeth that did not belong, sharp and uneven.
I staggered upright, terror flooding me with adrenaline.
Marcus's figure shifted suddenly, blurring Into
Darkness, becoming tall and twisted, limbs too thin, too
long. It advanced slowly, silently,
through the snow. A scream lodged in my throat.
I turned and fled blindly through the trees, lungs
burning, tears freezing on my cheeks.
I ran until my legs collapsed beneath me, until my chest
heaved so painfully I thought I would die.
I crawled forward, mind slipping further into delirium.
All around me, shapes shifted, whispered.
My name beckoned from shadows. I squeezed my eyes shut,
crawling forward inch by inch, my world reduced to numbness and
fear. When I awoke again, a bright
light blinded me. Voices shouted.
Human voices. Hands lifted me onto something
loud. Mechanical snowmobiles.
Rescuers from Cranberry Lake bundled heavily, speaking
urgently. Their words came muffled,
distant relief mingled with confusion.
But my strength was gone. Days later, I found myself in a
hospital bed. Doctors and nurses move silently
around me, careful and gentle, never asking too much.
They whispered about hypothermia, frostbite,
dehydration, but avoided mentioning Marcus.
I refused to speak, my tongue too heavy, memories too raw.
I stared blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the numbness inside
to fade. But it lingered, relentless.
And in the emptiness I heard Marcus's voice again and again.
One night, as a nurse gently adjusted, my ivi finally forced
words out, speaking softly, flatly, without looking at her.
It wasn't hungry, I whispered. It was lonely.
She froze briefly, then continued her work in silence.
I didn't explain, knowing somehow she understood.
People around here knew, they'd always known, even if they never
spoke of it. I turned away, closing my eyes
again, trying to push away the memories of Marcus's empty smile
beneath the endless snow and dark trees.
I hadn't spent much time with my dad since Mom died.
Truthfully, I hadn't spent much time with him before that
either. Cal Morgan was the kind of
father you admired from a distance, and that distance
usually felt like the span of a continent.
He spent most of my childhood overseas, a career Army Ranger
known for his ability to survive and conditions most people
wouldn't willingly visit. When he finally retired, he
didn't settle down. He chose instead to teach
wilderness navigation and survival.
My mother loved him, though I'm not sure she ever fully
understood him. After she passed, we became two
people orbiting a painful silence.
When he suggested a week long trek through Wyoming's Wind
River Range, I almost said no, but something in his voice, a
gentle vulnerability I hadn't heard before, pushed me to
agree. I flew in from Seattle, met him
in Riverton, and we drove out to the Elkhart Park trailhead on a
cold September morning. The leaves had already turned a
brittle yellow, and a Ranger stopped us briefly before we
headed out, warning us of bear sightings and an early snowfall.
Neither seemed to bother Dad. The first couple of days went by
without issue, aside from my growing irritation with the
terrain and weather. By day three, we'd crossed
Island Lake and we're making our way toward Bonneville Basin.
My muscles ached, the straps of my pack chafing my shoulders,
but I kept pace with my father. He moved ahead of me with
practiced ease, constantly scanning the horizon as if
expecting trouble. It was almost noon when Dad
paused on the trail, staring intently into a stand of lodge
pole Pines. Hold up, he said quietly.
What is it? Game trail.
Curious where it leads, I sighed loudly enough for him to hear,
but he ignored it and stepped off the main path.
The trail he chose was barely more than a hint of disturbed
grass, winding through a Grove so dense that branches scratched
at our jackets. I swallowed my complaints,
following closely behind. Less than 1/4 mile later, we
found it. My stomach twisted into a tight
knot. There, tucked against a rocky
slope beneath twisted, dying Pines, stood A crude shelter.
The walls were built from elk antlers, cracked bones and
rotting wood, every piece weathered by exposure.
It looked like something built by someone desperate or insane,
a heap of sharp angles and organic debris.
My eyes trailed across the twisted shapes, and nausea rose
in my throat as I realized many of the bones had been gnawed.
Dad. My voice barely carried above a
whisper. He didn't respond.
Instead, he knelt and ran his fingers slowly over one of the
wooden support beams. Then he abruptly recoiled.
Eyes narrowing, I stepped closer, feeling the chill seep
through my coat. Embedded in the grain of the
weathered wood were teeth, human teeth, ivory, white to yellowed
roots, intact. Forced deep into the timber.
I could feel my pulse quicken, breath fogging in short bursts.
Dad, we shouldn't be here. He nodded, his eyes darkening.
Without another word, he turned away and walked back the way
we'd come, faster than before. I hurried after him, glancing
back only once at the terrible shelter.
It seemed to mock our intrusion, a dark, jagged shape standing
stark against the thin forest. We hiked another mile down a
steep slope toward a rushing glacial stream before Dad
finally stopped. We set camp in silence, working
quickly as dusk seeped across the landscape.
Dad spoke little, only giving brief instructions.
His eyes seemed focused on something far away, something
only he could see. Nightfall came rapidly, bringing
with it a bitter wind. I zipped myself into the tent
and stared at the thin nylon walls, listening to the stream
hiss and churn nearby. Sleep came in restless fits, and
it felt like only moments passed before a sound woke me.
Crunch, crunch. I sat upright, my pulse pounding
in my ears. The sound came again, slow and
deliberate, like footsteps circling above our camp.
I turned toward Dad. He was already awake, his eyes
fixed on the darkness beyond the tent.
He lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head slowly.
Crunch, snap. Whatever it was, it circled us
twice before moving away. When silence finally returned,
neither of us moved, waiting desperately for dawn.
The morning light brought relief, but also dread.
Our camp looked different, Small things scattered.
Items shifted subtly from where we left them.
Dad stood at the edge of our clearing, his posture stiff.
I approached quietly, then followed his gaze down to the
ground. Resting on a Flat Rock.
Placed there intentionally was a pair of military issue jungle
boots, worn down, split at the soles.
They looked as though they'd spent years in these mountains.
Dad knelt slowly, staring at them.
His face was pale. What is it?
I asked, though part of me didn't want the answer.
He exhaled slowly, his voice tight.
These belong to someone I knew. Sergeant Bill Navarro.
He disappeared up here maybe six years back.
They never found him. The silence that followed was
heavier than any we'd shared before.
I stared at those boots, trying to ignore the way the wind now
felt colder, the trees more oppressive.
Dad. I finally whispered.
I think someone wants us gone. His eyes met mine, colder and
more haunted than I'd ever seen them.
No, Rachel, I think someone wants us to stay.
My father didn't speak again until mid morning.
We sat quietly by the small fire he'd built, sipping bitter
coffee. My nerves felt frayed from lack
of sleep in the creeping unease that had taken hold.
I stared into the smoldering embers, hoping he'd break the
silence first. Finally he spoke, his voice
heavy with something I couldn't quite identify.
Rachel, about those boots. I glanced up.
He was looking directly at me, his expression tense, the lines
of his face deeper than I remembered.
They were Bill Navarro's, he continued, voice hushed, as if
even the trees might overhear. He disappeared hiking solo up
here back in 2019. No traces, no leads, nothing.
Search and rescue teams combed these mountains for weeks.
I knew Bill well enough to recognize those boots anywhere.
How can you be sure? My question felt foolish, even
as I said it. The laces, he said softly.
Bill always used red paracord. It was his way of being
prepared. I taught him that.
I swallowed hard, feeling the forest around us tighten like a
snare. Maybe someone found them, maybe
it's a coincidence. He shook his head slowly.
I don't think so. Whatever we stumbled into here,
it's not random. The silence fell between us
again, oppressive. We broke camp, intense, quiet,
packing swiftly. Every sound felt louder, the
crunch of pine needles beneath our boots, the rustling of gear,
our breaths sharp and shallow. The weight of our packs grew
heavier, as if the air itself resisted our movement.
By midday, we'd moved a few miles South along the trail.
I tried to focus on the terrain, the vast granite faces, the
sharp contrast of Alpine grass against patches of snow, But my
eyes kept drifting back up the Ridge toward the shelter we'd
left behind. Then, around mid afternoon, Dad
stopped abruptly and pointed to the distance.
A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward against a pale, cloudy
sky, somewhere near the Ridge we'd left earlier.
It rose and dissipated gently, far too controlled to be
accidental, yet oddly faint, barely visible.
Is someone camping up there? I asked, though I doubted my own
suggestion. Too remote.
Dad murmured, eyes narrowed. Not a good spot.
No water source nearby. We watched it silently for
another few minutes. Eventually the smoke faded
entirely, leaving no trace it had ever existed.
Dad's jaw tightened. Let's keep moving.
Evening descended quickly, blanketing the valley in shades
of Gray and blue. Dad chose a new campsite,
cautiously selecting an open area with good visibility.
We built a larger fire this time, arranging rocks carefully
around its perimeter. He retrieved A hatchet and a
flare gun from his pack, placing both within easy reach.
His preparation only heightened my anxiety.
We barely spoke through dinner, ears straining to pick up
anything unusual. Just as the shadows deepened, I
moved down a shallow slope to gather water from a stream.
My breath caught when something shifted in my peripheral vision.
I froze, slowly raising my eyes toward the Ridge.
Above us, a figure stood outlined against the fading
twilight. Tall, gaunt, and angular.
Its form was distorted by the dimness, but clearly not an
animal. Its arms hung unnaturally long
at its sides, torso impossibly thin.
I stood paralyzed, heart hammering in my chest.
Dad. I whispered urgently, barely
audible up on the Ridge. He appeared next to me,
following my gaze upward. But the figure was already gone.
Only empty space remained, framed by rocks and Pines.
I felt a deep chill settle into my bones.
I saw it. I insisted softly, fighting back
the tremor in my voice. Someone was watching us.
He nodded gravely. I believe you.
We hurried back to camp, building the fire higher,
feeding it dry wood until flames leaped and crackled.
I pulled my jacket tightly around my shoulders, scanning
the dark edges of our campsite as night fell fully.
Dread pressed in around us, heavy and tangible.
Then we heard it. Footsteps again, slow and
deliberate, circling just beyond the fires glow.
Dad gripped the hatchet tightly, jaw clenched.
The steps moved with precision, pausing occasionally as if
measuring our reactions. We sat frozen, listening, barely
breathing. Suddenly, something landed near
the fire, making me jump. I stared in horror as Dad leaned
forward, lifting the object from the ground.
His fingers trembled slightly as he held it up to the fire light,
an army patch. His face drained of color as he
turned it over. He traced the emblem gently with
his thumb, his breathing ragged, eyes glassy with emotion.
This is from my old unit. He whispered.
His voice cracked on the words, grief and confusion spilling
from him openly for the first time in my life.
This. This belonged to one of the
others, one of the missing. My stomach churned.
How many went missing, Dad? He exhaled deeply, fighting back
visible pain. 4 Four soldiers from my unit vanished up here
between 2009 and 2018, always alone, always without a trace.
I felt tears stinging my eyes, the reality of our situation
hitting me with terrifying clarity.
Something followed us from that shelter, something that knows
you. Before he could respond, a new
sound froze us both. Directly behind the tent, close
enough to touch the thin nylon walls, came deep, rhythmic
breathing. It sounded wet and heavy,
inhaling long and slow, as if taking us in, savouring our
presence. Dad lifted his finger silently,
eyes locked on mine, shaking his head once.
Neither of us dared to move, barely breathing ourselves.
We waited, muscles taut, mines frantically searching for
escape, until eventually the sound stopped.
But the silence that replaced it was infinitely worse.
When everything essential was secured, Dad reached into his
pack and pulled out a small canister of kerosene, one he'd
carried for emergencies. In swift, practiced motions, he
began rigging a crude trip wire between two narrow trees near
our campsite's edge. He laid fishing line at ankle
height, barely visible, securing it tightly between two sticks
that supported the canister above a small, prepared mound of
Tinder. What's this?
I whispered sharply, confused. A warning or distraction?
His tone was flat, resolute. When this trips, it'll flash up
quick. If something's following us,
we'll have a few seconds. I swallowed hard, realizing this
wasn't just caution. He was setting a trap.
Whatever stalked us wasn't just some wild animal.
It was something else entirely, something calculated.
We extinguished most of our fire, leaving just glowing
embers, and waited in the bitter chill.
The minutes dragged on torturously, every snapping twig
or rustling branch jolting my heart.
Eventually, I saw Dad glance at his watch, frowning deeply.
It's past 1, he whispered. Let's move.
We hoisted our packs and took our first cautious steps away
from camp, barely daring to breathe.
The forest around us felt suffocating, every shadow hiding
unseen threats. We'd made it maybe 50 yards,
following our carefully marked GPS route through dense trees,
when a sharp crack echoed from behind.
An instant later, a bright orange flash erupted in the
darkness, briefly illuminating the trees like a violent
sunrise. We both spun around, eyes
widening in horror as a figure emerged through the flames,
briefly silhouetted by the flickering blaze.
My heart lurched. It was impossibly tall,
emaciated, with elongated limbs and pale, ash covered skin that
stretched over prominent bones. It's jaw hung grotesquely wide,
an open maw of blackness, and even in that split second
glimpse, I could tell there were no eyes, only empty hollows.
Run. Dad shouted, grabbing my arm and
yanking me forward. Adrenaline surged through me,
obliterating the pain in my legs as we plunged into a panicked
Sprint. Branches clawed at my face and
neck. I stumbled repeatedly, nearly
losing my footing on slick rocks and tangled undergrowth.
Dad's breathing was harsh beside me, matching mine and sheer
desperation behind us. Crashing steps echoed
relentlessly, heavy and deliberate, drawing closer with
every stride. I slipped hard, my knee slamming
onto shale, sending sharp pain slicing upward through my body.
Dad hauled me up without pause, his grip iron tight.
We pushed forward blindly, driven by fear and instinct
alone. Then the whistle started, sharp,
shrill sounds piercing the night.
They echoed strangely distorted, almost mimicking human voices,
but twisted into something far worse.
It felt as though they came from every direction at once,
impossible to pinpoint. My throat tightened in panic.
The trail blurred ahead, lit dimly by our shaking headlamps.
The figure behind us crashed through brush and branches,
persistent but strangely measured, matching our frantic
pace as if it were playing a twisted game.
My lungs burned, each breath ragged, every step becoming
heavier and slower still. Dad pushed us forward, unwilling
to slow down. Just as the sky began to
lighten, faint hints of dawn illuminating the peaks around
us, the terrain leveled out. A surge of hope jolted me.
We were close to the parking area, our truck parked safely
just beyond this final stretch of wilderness.
Dad. I gasped, voice raw from
exertion. We're almost there.
We stumbled together, our pace frantic and uneven, desperate to
reach the dirt lot ahead. Behind us, the creatures pursuit
had slowed, the whistles fading to silence, replaced only by
distant, eerie cracking sounds. Neither of us dared to look
back. Finally, our boots met packed
dirt, familiar ground beneath us at last.
We reached the truck in seconds, hands shaking violently as Dad
fumble the keys. Finally unlocking the doors.
I practically threw myself inside, chest heaving painfully.
Dad started the engine immediately spinning gravel as
we pulled away, racing down the narrow Rd.
Neither of us spoke during the drive back towards civilization.
Exhaustion seeped into my bones and I stared out the passenger
window, seeing nothing but dark trees and shadowed mountains.
When we reached the Ranger station an hour later, the sun
was fully risen, bathing the world in an oddly normal light
that felt surreal. The Rangers listened carefully
to Dad's recounting, disbelief and concern mixing on their
faces. Two days later, a search team
returned to the coordinates we provided.
Dad and I waited an anxious silence for their report, but
what they found offered no relief, only further confusion.
The entire Ridge had been burned, black charred trees and
scorched rocks stretching as far as they could see.
The strange bone and wood shelter, the boots, the signs of
whatever had stalked us. Nothing remained.
Not a single piece of evidence survived the flames.
We never returned to the Wind River Range.
Dad stopped guiding trips, retreating further into himself.
He began writing letters, quiet apologies to the families of
those lost men from his old unit.
He never shared their replies, if there ever were any.
Years later, I framed that army patch, sealing it carefully
beneath glass. Below it, in small, precise
handwriting, I noted the GPS coordinates we'd marked Blood
Ridge, a place now wiped from official maps, existing only in
our memories and nightmares. I always knew Snowshoe Gulch had
a reputation. Most trails around Flathead
National Forest do, especially if you talk to the locals who've
spent their lives hunting, fishing, and guiding tourists
through these mountains. Growing up here, I'd heard the
whispers, the quiet warnings about places that didn't feel
quite right. My brother Eli and I would joke
about it sometimes, those strange stories, calling them
campfire talk or old time or paranoia.
But neither of us ever laughed too loud, and we always watch
the tree line carefully when the shadows stretched long.
When Eli went missing with his client Eric Halstead in early
January of 2019, those whispers came back louder and colder. 3
days after they failed to return, Flathead County Search
and Rescue was outcoming the trails, trying to pick up their
tracks. I didn't join the main group,
even though they'd asked me. Instead, I teamed up with Nathan
Twofeathers, a Black Feet tracker I'd known since we were
kids, and two other volunteers, Deputy Greg Weller from the
Sheriff's Department and Jesse, a local who'd been riding
snowmobiles through these forests almost as long as I had.
We left before sunrise, engines cutting through the silence,
headlights piercing the heavy snow flurries that rolled over
the mountains. It took three hours of riding
before we finally reached the edge of Snowshoe Gulch.
It wasn't a place meant for snowmobiling, too steep, too
narrow, and notoriously unpredictable.
But Eli's GPS had pinged near here before going silent.
Nathan slowed ahead of me, signaling we stop.
His expression was solemn beneath the fur lined hood of
his parka. This place feels wrong.
Nathan said simply, killing his engine.
He gazed through the trees, eyes narrowed.
My grandfather refused to hunt here.
He called it a place the forest wouldn't take back.
Greg chuckled nervously, trying to lighten the mood.
Come on, 2 feathers, let's not spook ourselves before we even
get started. Nathan ignored him and looked
straight at me. Caleb, if your brother came here
willingly, he had a good reason. Eli was smart.
I nodded silently. Eli was experienced careful.
If he'd come here, something had drawn him.
We rode slowly into the Gulch, engines growling as we navigated
fallen trees and drifts higher than our waists.
The deeper we went, the quieter everything became.
No birdsong, no rustling of branches, just a thick,
oppressive silence. Jesse spotted the sleds first,
pointing wordlessly. They sat in a small clearing,
arranged nose to nose in a perfect circle, headlights still
faintly glowing beneath snowdrifts.
Why would they park like that? Jesse whispered, unease creeping
into his voice. I moved closer, brushing snow
from the seat of Eli's sled. His keys were still in the
ignition. The fuel gauge read half full.
It made no sense. Eli was meticulous, disciplined.
He wouldn't abandoned his machine in such an odd
formation. Nathan crouched by the tracks
leading away from the snowmobiles. 2 sets of prints,
he said. No panic, no running.
They walked. We followed the footprints
carefully through the snow until they ended abruptly at a frozen
Creek. Greg stepped cautiously onto the
ice, shining his flashlight through the layers.
Solid, thick, no cracks, no signs of someone breaking
through. Impossible.
Greg muttered, disbelief coloring his voice.
Tracks don't just disappear. Nathan stood quietly studying
the trees above the Creek, his breath clouding in the fading
daylight. Something erased them.
This place doesn't belong to us. It never did.
The sun sank behind the ridgeline, bringing swift
darkness. We set up camp on a flat rise
overlooking the clearing, lighting a fire that crackled
softly against the suffocating stillness of the forest.
Nathan silently scattered tobacco to the four directions
around our camp. Greg watched skeptically, his
mouth forming questions he never asked.
Jesse paced restlessly near the fire, glancing constantly toward
the shadows. After the others bedded down, I
sat awake, staring into the dark trees.
Somewhere out there was Eli. I couldn't shake the feeling
that something watched us. I glanced at Nathan.
He hadn't moved from his spot by the fire.
I moved closer, whispering. What did your grandfather say?
Lived out here. Nathan didn't look at me, just
gazed, unblinking into the flames.
He called it the eater of men. Old, hungry, something from the
times when these mountains belong to no tribe.
He said. It sleeps until someone wakes
it. I shivered, despite the fire's
heat. Before I could reply, Jesse
jerked awake nearby, his eyes wide in panic.
He scrambled backward, pointing frantically toward the trees.
Behind me, I saw someone. Jesse gasped, voice shaking.
Someone tall walking out there behind the trees.
We grabbed flashlights and weapons immediately, scanning
the darkness beyond the camp's glow.
Nothing. No tracks, no movement, only
endless shadows cast by trees and snow.
You imagined it? Greg grumbled, clearly irritated
but uncertain. But Jesse shook his head firmly,
retreating closer to the fire. I know what I saw.
Nathan watched silently, jaw tense.
Then he turned slowly back toward the fire.
Sleep if you can. Tomorrow will be harder.
I tried to rest, but sleep wouldn't come.
Each rustle of the branches made my heart leap.
Every shadow became something standing there, watching.
I lay awake, eyes open, waiting for morning, knowing in my gut
that whatever was out here was waiting too.
Morning broke, Gray and bitter, a low hanging mist shrouding
Snowshoe Gulch like a damp cloak.
Sleep had eluded me, coming only in restless bursts.
I woke exhausted, with Nathan already packing gear
methodically. Greg stood nearby, pacing
impatiently, glancing between his watch and the silent trees.
Jesse sat close to the dying embers of our fire, staring
blankly into the snow. I pulled my coat tighter,
ignoring the knot of dread in my stomach.
We ate quickly, mostly in silence, our conversation
limited to planning. Nathan stood, shouldered his
pack, and spoke quietly. We follow the tracks as far as
they lead, Then we reconsider. Everyone stays within eyesight.
We retraced our steps back to the frozen Creek.
The footprints remained exactly as we'd left them, vanishing
inexplicably at the icy edge. Nathan knelt again, brushing
away fresh snow with a gloved hand.
This wasn't natural. He muttered softly, barely loud
enough for me to hear. Greg cleared his throat
impatiently, eager to dismiss Nathan's superstitions.
Then let's find what did it and be done.
We're wasting daylight. Nathan said nothing, rising
slowly, eyes scanning the Ridge ahead.
With no clear trail, we climbed the steep incline ahead, picking
our way through tangled brush and dense Pines.
Snow crunched beneath our boots, echoing oddly through the silent
woods. The farther we ascended, the
more oppressive the quiet became, pressing down around us.
Halfway up, Jesse stopped abruptly, voice trembling.
What the hell is that? We turned, following his gaze
upward. About 20 feet above, wedged
firmly into the trunk of a towering pine, was the partially
eaten skull of a deer. Its jaw hung crookedly, empty
eye sockets staring down at us, grotesque and hollow.
I felt bile rise in my throat. Who could do that?
Jesse whispered. Greg stepped forward, examining
it closer, his face a mixture of disgust and confusion.
No blood, no drag marks, Greg said.
This doesn't make sense. Nathan was staring at the trees
around us, eyes wide and alert. He motioned for silence,
pointing to something further ahead.
We moved cautiously, eyes searching through the gloom a
dozen yards up. Limbs of animals, antlers, deer
legs were wedged between branches, arranged deliberately
high above the ground. Everything appeared drained,
dried, almost mummified. I glanced at Nathan, whose face
had turned pale. He shook his head slowly, voice
tight. This is a warning.
It wants us gone. Greg snorted angrily, visibly
shaken. This is just some sick local
playing games. Nathan met his eyes without
blinking. No man did this.
Silence hung heavy between us. Finally, Nathan spoke, voice
firm but quiet. I will go no further.
Whatever woke up in this place is older than us.
We have intruded enough. I stared at him, anger and fear
warring inside me. My brother's still out here,
Nathan. I'm not leaving until we find
him. Nathan's eyes soften briefly,
sympathy in his gaze. I won't risk all of our lives,
not for this. Greg set his jaw defiantly.
Then stay here, Caleb, and I will finish this.
I nodded, though my pulse pounded in my ears.
Jesse looked back and forth uncertainly, then quietly took a
step toward Nathan. I'll stay too, he said, avoiding
my gaze. I, I can't.
Without another word, Greg and I pressed upward.
The air seemed to grow colder, biting through my clothing.
My fingers tightened on the handle of my flashlight,
knuckles aching from the grip. After a few exhausting minutes,
we reached the Crest of the Ridge.
Greg stopped suddenly, eyes wide, face drained of color.
Caleb, he whispered hoarsely. Ahead of us, barely visible in
the snowdrift, was a dark shape, A sleeve.
A bright orange parka sleeve. My heart seized painfully as we
scrambled forward, frantically digging.
Eric Halstead's frozen face emerged rigid and twisted into a
final grimace of terror. His body was curled in a tight
fetal position, both feet bare, blackened with frostbite.
His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky.
Jesus. Greg breathed, stepping back,
horror evident on his face. What happened to him?
I stood numb, unable to tear my gaze from the expression of pure
dread locked onto Eric's face. A sudden snapping sound echoed
through the trees behind us, making us both spin around.
Greg raised his rifle, flashlight beam slicing through
the thickening gloom. The woods were empty, yet I
could feel something there, heavy and unseen.
Breathing slowly, patiently, the hairs rose on my neck as silence
reclaimed the forest. Let's get him back, I finally
whispered. We carried Eric down awkwardly,
our breath misting the air and hurried bursts, every step
feeling heavier than the last. Nathan and Jesse met us halfway,
their expressions grim. Nathan's eyes never left Eric's
body. Leave him here.
Nathan said, voice flat. Greg bristled, furious.
Like hell we will. Nathan didn't flinch, didn't
move. Don't bring the marked one to
the fire. It knows.
Greg cursed bitterly, but I waved him silent.
We'll bury him nearby, then. I said quietly, ignoring the
nausea rising in my throat. We dug hurriedly, placing Eric
carefully in the shallow grave, covering him swiftly with frozen
earth and snow. All the while, Nathan stood
watching the darkening woods, lips moving softly in prayer.
That night, around our fire, we barely spoke.
Greg stared angrily into the darkness, gripping his rifle
tightly. Jesse curled up near the fire,
eyes wide with terror, flinching at every sound.
Nathan remained silent, gaze fixed on the tree line.
As exhaustion finally pulled at me, I heard it.
A slow, heavy crunching through the snow, circling our camp just
beyond the reach of the firelight.
Each footfall was deliberate, patient, and close.
When I lifted my head to look, nothing moved.
Yet the sound continued, circling endlessly, never quite
seen. I shut my eyes, unable to block
it out. As sleep claimed me, one thought
echoed relentlessly in my mind. We were never alone out here.
I woke to an ash in dawn, frost biting sharply at my exposed
skin. The fire had burned down to
embers, leaving the campsite Gray and lifeless.
I sat up stiffly, body sore and mind still haunted by the heavy
footsteps I'd heard circling our camp through the night.
Across from me, Nathan was already awake, silently
sharpening a knife, eyes distant and troubled.
I stood, stretching out the ache in my limbs, scanning the
surroundings. Jesse was pacing nervously, head
bowed, hands trembling. Greg loaded his rifle carefully,
his jaw set tight with grim determination.
Nathan finally spoke, eyes meeting mine briefly before
turning back to his blade. We need to leave.
There's nothing left here we can save.
My brother's still out there, Nathan.
I said, voice rough from the cold.
I won't leave him. Nathan sighed heavily, setting
his knife down. He stood slowly, meeting my
eyes. Caleb, your brother isn't here
anymore, not the way you remember him.
This place doesn't return what it takes.
Greg interrupted sharply, stepping forward.
Enough with this superstition. We saw Eric's body.
There's still hope. Eli is alive out here.
Nathan's eyes darkened. What's alive out here is an Eli
anymore. I hesitated, uncertainty
tightening my throat. Then Greg touched my shoulder,
voice firm and reassuring. We came here to find him.
Let's finish it. I nodded slowly, pushing away
Nathan's warning, and adjusted my pack.
Jesse shook his head, quickly backing toward Nathan.
I, I'm staying here. I can't go back up there.
Nathan placed a reassuring hand on Jesse's shoulder, watching
Greg and me prepare to leave as we moved into the trees.
Nathan called softly, his voice carrying clearly in the silence.
If you see it, don't run, don't look it in the eyes.
The climb back to the Ridge was grueling.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the sound of our
breathing. Greg LED, rifle clenched tightly
in gloved hands. My thoughts spiraled, fear
gnawing at the edges of my resolve.
As we crested the Ridge, we froze.
The trees here had changed overnight.
Branches snapped cleanly, arranged in a crude circle,
limbs twisted like grotesque sculptures in the snow.
Clearly visible were Eli's boot prints, leading deeper into the
woods. My pulse quickened.
Hope and dread tangled painfully together.
Greg stepped forward cautiously, examining the tracks.
These are fresh, he said softly, motioning me onward.
We followed slowly, scanning every shadow, each breath tense
and shallow. The Prince wound deeper into the
forest, disappearing behind a dense wall of tangled Pines.
Then, from just beyond those trees, came Eli's voice, thin,
hollow, unmistakable. Caleb, is that you?
I broke forward without thinking, desperation propelling
me past Greg, but I didn't slow. I pushed through the dense
branches, emerging into a small clearing.
Eli stood at the far end, barefoot in the snow, eyes
glazed, lips cracked. His parka hung torn from his
shoulders, skin pale and blue beneath.
He trembled violently, staring blankly through me.
Eli, I said, breath hitching. We're here.
We found you. He didn't move, didn't
acknowledge my words. Instead, his eyes widened,
focused beyond me, terror flooding his features.
A guttural roar erupted from the trees behind us, echoing
painfully through the clearing. Greg spun around, rifle raised,
shouting. I grabbed Eli's arm, pulling him
toward me, panic surging in my chest.
Run. Greg shouted, firing blindly
into the trees. His shots echoed uselessly,
swallowed by the forest. I pulled Eli forward, stumbling
through snow, heart hammering wildly.
Behind me, I heard Greg scream, a raw, agonized sound abruptly
silenced. I didn't turn back.
We burst through the trees, slipping and falling toward
Nathan and Jesse's waiting forms below.
Nathan rushed to meet us, eyes wide with urgency.
Keep moving, he shouted, gripping Eli's other arm,
pulling us down toward the camp. Behind us, branches snapped
violently, something massive pursuing unseen, it's pace
steady, relentless. My lungs burned as we scrambled
to the snowmobiles. Jesse started the engines
frantically, terror etched on his face.
Nathan shoved Eli onto the sled behind Jesse, turning sharply
toward the trees, chanting urgently under his breath.
Then he pushed me toward the sled, eyes fierce and clear.
Go, he commanded. The engines roared to life,
drowning out the deafening silence of the forest.
I hesitated only a second before climbing on, glancing back just
long enough to see Nathan facing the trees defiantly, lips
moving, knife drawn. Then we were speeding away, the
Gulch disappearing behind us in a blur of white and shadow.
We rode hard, not slowing until we reached open ground near the
main trails. Only then did Jesse finally kill
the engine. I slid off, legs shaking, and
turned to Eli. He sat motionless, eyes distant,
murmuring softly to himself. Jesse stood back, breathing
heavily, pale and shaken. In that quiet moment, Eli's
whispers became clear. It watches through the bones.
Two days later, Eli was found
wandering barefoot down an old logging Rd. miles from Snowshoe
Gulch. He remembered nothing, offering
only fractured whispers about the Tall One and the Eater of
Men. Greg's body was never recovered.
Weeks passed before I visited Eli in the psychiatric facility
in Kalispell. He refused to go near windows at
night, eyes always fixed fearfully on shadows.
As I prepared to leave, he finally spoke clearly.
His voice strained, hollow. You can't see it unless it wants
you to, but you feel it. It waits behind the cold.
I left him there, haunted by his words and the knowledge that
whatever we awakened out in Snowshoe Gulch still lingered,
patient and hungry, waiting silently behind the trees.
Lake of the Woods had always been a sanctuary for me, a
sprawling maze of ice covered water spanning the border
between Minnesota and Ontario. I'd fished here every winter for
more than 35 years, sometimes with my wife, but mostly alone.
She'd preferred summers at the cabin near Bemidji.
When cancer took her last July, everything changed.
This winter, more than ever, I needed the solitude.
I needed to disappear for a while, to lose myself in the
stillness of ice fishing. In silence, I loaded my sled and
snowmobile at first light, packing carefully.
Ice auger, propane heater, cot Lantern, canned food, water and
extra fuel. As I drove deeper onto the
frozen expanse toward the isolated chain of islets known
as Devil's Elbow, the morning sun cast a pale glow over the
ice, turning the world silver and ghostly.
It was miles from the resorts and the crowds, perfect
isolation, just as I'd planned. The ride was familiar.
I knew every bend, every cluster of Pines, and every patch of
rough ice. I stopped near the southern tip
of the largest island, checking ice thickness with practiced
caution. 18 inches More than enough.
Within minutes, I drilled a hole and had the shack set up around
it, the wind breaking against the heavy canvas walls as I lit
my heater and settled in. For the first time in months, I
felt truly alone, but it was a comforting loneliness.
The first night passed quietly. Dinner from a warmed can, coffee
brewed in a dented kettle, a dog eared paperback to occupy my
mind and sleep on the narrow cot.
Dreams came easy, something rare these days, and I woke at
sunrise feeling better than I had in months.
After breakfast, I ventured N on the snowmobile to visit an old
shack belonging to a friend, Jim Barrett, who'd long since moved
S for better winters. I hadn't expected anyone would
be around, and sure enough, the shack was deserted, everything
neatly locked up. On impulse, I drilled a quick
test hole nearby and was rewarded immediately to good
sized walleye. Satisfied, I marked the spot,
mentally planning to return again.
By late afternoon, clouds had gathered, dimming the sun to a
thin yellow smudge on the horizon.
The temperature dropped sharply, sending bitter gusts across the
open ice. I hurried back to my shack, the
hum of the snowmobile engine fading into a deafening silence
as I parked it close to the canvas walls.
Inside, I cooked dinner and readied myself for another long,
quiet evening. Sleep took hold quickly again,
but sometime late in the night I jerked awake.
A noise had disturbed me. I sat up on my cot, listening
intently, breathing shallowly. It came again, a slow, measured
crunch, footsteps approaching steadily over the ice.
I froze, heart hammering. My Lantern had gone out, and the
shack was dark except for moonlight filtering weakly
through frosted canvas. The crunching continued,
methodical and unhurried. Circling the shack, I gripped
the edge of the cot, listening for any sign of human presence,
a voice, breathing, anything. But there was none.
Only footsteps. Heavy.
Carefully, I eased toward the small window slit and peered
through a gap in the frost. The ice outside was empty.
Moonlight washed the surface white, but no silhouette broke
the desolation. Still, the footsteps continued
around me, slowly circling, sometimes stopping abruptly,
then starting again, each step hollow and impossibly heavy.
I held still, not daring to breathe deeply, every muscle
rigid. After what felt like hours but
might have only been minutes, the footsteps moved away, fading
into silence. I didn't sleep again.
I waited, listening, until dawn. When the sky finally paled, I
found the courage to unzip the shack and step cautiously
outside. Cold air bit at my face.
The ice spread, pristine and empty in every direction.
But as I circled around my shack, my stomach tightened.
Clear footprints, large and bare, had pressed deeply into
the snow and ice, looping in an even circle around the shack.
What chilled me to the bone wasn't the size or shape of the
Prince, though they were disturbingly large and
elongated. It was that they started
suddenly midway across the ice, with no trail leading up to
them, and ended just as abruptly a few yards away.
Whatever had visited me hadn't walked in or walked away.
It had simply appeared and vanished, leaving nothing but
footprints in silence. Morning broke, heavy and Gray,
shrouding the lake in thick, drifting fog that seemed to
swallow the distant islands entirely.
I stood for a long while in front of the shack, staring at
those unnatural footprints in disbelief.
There was no logical explanation, nothing in all my
years of fishing and hunting this land that could make sense
of it. I shook off the thoughts and
tried to steady myself by returning to routine.
I reached for the radio, calling out on the local channel.
Anybody copy? It's Tom Braddock, out near
Devil's Elbow, thinking of heading in early.
Anyone around? Only static replied.
That wasn't unusual this far out, but today it felt
oppressive. My cell phone was useless, no
bars of reception to anchor me to civilization.
I was completely alone, and for the first time in decades, that
truth unsettled me. I ate a small breakfast of cold
jerky and stale crackers, glancing out at the icy surface
of the lake, now blanketed by a fresh dusting of snow.
Memories from the night lingered in the forefront of my mind, too
real to dismiss. Determined to distract myself, I
climbed onto my snowmobile and decided to return to Jim
Barrett's old shack. Perhaps there'd be something
there, some overlooked clue, something familiar to help
settle the twisting unease in my gut.
The ride was short but tense, my eyes constantly darting toward
the islands and the tree line, expecting movement that never
came. I arrived quickly, but as soon
as the shack came into view, dread rose sharply inside me.
Something had changed. I parked and stepped off the
snowmobile slowly, cautious. The front wall of Jim's shack
was ripped outward. The thick plywood splintered as
though it had exploded from within.
My pulse quickened. I approached slowly, boots
crunching quietly through fresh snow, my breath fogging in the
bitter air. Inside was chaos.
The cot gym had left, folded neatly in the corner, was
shattered canvas shredded into ragged ribbons.
Blood, dark and frozen, stained the floorboards and pooled in
the corner, spreading outward toward the door.
Despite the violence evident everywhere, none of the gear had
been disturbed. Jim's tackle box sat untouched,
and his propane heater and Lantern were neatly stacked as
if nothing had happened. There was no body, no trail.
Just blood. Too much blood for a man to have
left behind and still walk away. I backed out quickly, feeling
dizzy. The forested islands now seem to
press closer, dark shapes looming silently at the edge of
my vision. Panic tightened my throat as I
mounted the snowmobile and drove back toward my shack, forcing
myself not to glance back at the devastation I'd found.
Thoughts raced frantically. Animal attack, Perhaps a bear
waking early from hibernation, or maybe someone dangerous who
had hidden out there. But none of these explanations
could silence the fear rising sharply inside me.
Back at my own shack, I hurried to pack my gear, shoving items
quickly and haphazardly into the sled.
But as I worked, a sinking realization crept over me.
The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, shadows
stretching long across the ice. If I tried leaving now, the
slush patches forming under the snowpack could trap me miles
from shore, leaving me helplessly stranded in the
darkness. After a desperate internal
debate, I decided my safest move was to wait until first light.
Night fell quickly, darker than I remembered ever seeing it.
I sat silently on my cot, flare gun clutched tightly, staring at
the canvas walls as wind whispered around the shack.
It wasn't long after darkness settled completely that I heard
the sound. A hollow, mournful howl that
seemed to carry impossibly far across the frozen lake.
It wasn't the howl of a wolf, or the call of any animal I'd heard
in my long life. The sound seeped through the
shack walls, reverberating through my bones, primal and
wrong. My hands shook as I rose
carefully and peeked through the narrow window slit toward the
nearest island. Scarcely visible in the dim
Starlight, a dark shape stood just within the tree line.
Tall, gaunt, and unnaturally still, it stood straight and
motionless, staring directly across the ice toward my shack.
I strained my eyes, searching for details, but darkness
swallowed them. The figure remained perfectly
motionless, waiting, watching. I lowered myself slowly onto the
cot, barely breathing, muscles rigid with fear.
Seconds turned into minutes, each stretching painfully,
tension building like pressure beneath thin ice.
Suddenly, footsteps approached again, crunching slowly toward
me. I clenched the flare gun
tighter, finger trembling against the trigger.
Then came the soft tap, one single knock against the canvas
wall behind me, clear and unmistakable.
My chest tightened, heart racing wildly.
Silence followed. Thick, absolute smothering.
I waited, motionless, for another sound, but nothing
followed. The shack became unbearably
still, the only sound my ragged breath.
Sleep eventually claimed me, though I fought it desperately,
terrified by what lay just beyond the thin walls that
separated me from whatever lurked in the frozen darkness.
And as I drifted off, I knew beyond doubt that it would
return before morning. I jerked awake at first light,
startled by the sharp cold biting my skin.
My breath clouded heavily inside the shack, and a thin layer of
frost had formed along the walls overnight.
Everything felt dangerously still, as though the lake itself
had frozen solid in its sleep. The memory of last night's
tapping resurfaced quickly, making my pulse quicken.
I forced myself upright, aching and stiff from tension, and
began hastily gathering my belongings.
Ignoring organization, I threw my gear into the sled cot,
heater, supplies all jammed together.
I was past caring about broken equipment.
Panic was taking hold, compelling me toward only one
goal, escape. My hands shook as I secured the
last tie down and glanced nervously across the ice toward
the tree line. No movement disturbed the silent
Pines, but the feeling of being watched never left.
As I climbed onto the snowmobile, the motor fired to
life instantly, its growl breaking the heavy silence.
I glanced behind me once more, expecting to see the dark figure
emerging from the trees, but saw nothing.
Gritting my teeth, I opened the throttle wide, accelerating
quickly across the open ice toward the Ranger outpost 12
miles away. For a few minutes, I let relief
creep into my thoughts, feeling my muscles loosen.
I was getting away. It was going to be all right.
But then something in the side mirror caught my eye, snapping
me back into full alertness. A shape moved behind me, dark
against the white expanse of ice, impossibly fast.
My chest tightened and my breath came sharply.
I risked a quick look over my shoulder.
What I saw sent raw panic surging through me.
A gaunt figure pursued me relentlessly, running upright in
an unnatural jerking motion. It moved too fast, bounding
forward in massive strides, long arms swinging low beside its
emaciated body. Its skin was pale and leathery,
almost Gray, stretched tightly over prominent ribs and sharp
joints. Even from this distance, its
eyes burned bright and hollow. Desperation gripped me, and I
pressed the throttle harder. My snowmobile surged forward,
engine whining in protest. The figure behind let out a
strange guttural cry, a sound somewhere between choking and
rage. The ice ahead looked fragile
now, riddled with pockets of slush and dark water seeping
through cracks. I knew I was pushing the limit,
but slowing down wasn't an option.
Glancing back again, the creature had closed the gap
terrifyingly fast. In a frantic bid to buy myself
time, I grabbed the flare gun from my coat pocket, aimed
shakily upward, and fired. The flare rocketed into the Gray
sky, exploding in a bright burst that momentarily distracted the
pursuing figure. It paused briefly, shielding its
face from the sudden blaze, and I gained precious distance.
Just as I felt a glimmer of hope, the snowmobile lurched
violently, skis plunging into a slush pocket hidden beneath
fresh snow. The machine stopped abruptly,
pitching me forward. Ice cracked loudly beneath me,
water rushing into the newly opened hole, pulling the
snowmobile under with alarming speed.
I scrambled desperately, icy water flooding around my knees
and soaking through my clothes. Instantly, the shoreline stood
less than 30 yards ahead, crawling forward, fingers
digging painfully into the frozen slush, I dragged myself
from the widening hole, ice splintering loudly beneath my
weight. Behind me, footsteps thudded
steadily closer. The adrenaline forced me
upright, and I staggered towards solid ground, legs numb, lungs
burning with every painful breath.
The growling, choking sound of the creature echoed closer,
closing rapidly. I refused to turn, knowing that
seeing it clearly would rob me of any strength left.
Reaching the shoreline felt surreal.
I collapsed heavily onto solid snow just as the ice behind me
shattered, splashing violently as something crashed through,
Shrieking furiously, unable to move, I lay gasping in the snow,
trembling uncontrollably, certain I was moments from being
dragged back. But the attack never came.
Instead, a different sound reached me.
An approaching vehicle, a Game Wardens ATV, appeared on the
nearby service trail, drawn by the flare.
He jumped out, eyes wide in shock.
Helping me onto the back of his vehicle, he wrapped an emergency
blanket around me, asking questions I could barely answer.
Two days later, after warming up and recovering at the Ranger
station, I returned to the spot with the local authorities.
The ice had refrozen overnight, erasing all evidence of my near
drowning except for long claw marks etched deeply into the
fresh ice tracing away from the hole.
No blood, no animal tracks, no obvious explanation for what had
pursued me. Just those marks, impossibly
deep and spaced too far apart for any animal I knew.
I never returned to Lake of the Woods.
Sold everything. The shack, the gear, the
snowmobile. Yet as much as I've tried to
forget, the memory refuses to fade.
I told my story once to the Ontario Ministry of Natural
Resources. They recorded it, but the tape
quickly vanished. Officially, the incident was
labeled an animal attack and dismissed.
Yet every winter I hear stories whispered by the locals of
fishermen going missing out near Devil's Elbow, leaving only
abandoned gear, blood stained ice and deep, impossible
footprints leading nowhere.