It was late N1 of those cold, grey afternoons in the Allegheny
National Forest when the woods go quiet.
My best friend Reed and I were in the final hour of the season,
trying to fill our last tag before darkness forced us back
home empty handed. We'd haunted these hills since
we were teenagers, a tradition passed down from our fathers.
Everything felt familiar, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath
our boots, the bitter chill seeping through layers of wool
and camouflage, and the scent of damp earth that always reminded
me of simpler times. Tom, over there?
Reed whispered sharply, nodding toward a thick cluster of
hemlocks on the opposite Ridge. I saw the movement to a buck
stepping carefully, its antlers barely visible through the
gathering dusk. Slowly, I raised my rifle and
took aim, steadying my breath. The buck paused just long
enough, it's silhouette clear against the fading orange light
of the sky. My finger tightened on the
trigger, and the gunshot shattered the silence.
The buck collapsed instantly, a clean kill.
Reed clapped me on the shoulder, grinning.
Nice shot, he said, relieved. Let's get him out before it gets
too dark. We made our way down into the
gully, boots sliding on slick patches of Moss and mud.
As we approached the buck, the last glow of daylight drained
away, leaving the forest washed and deepening shadows.
Reed knelt beside the animal, flashlight beams sweeping across
its body. I came up behind him, and
something immediately felt off. Where's the blood?
Reed muttered, confusion in his voice.
He was right. I'd haunted long enough to know
a kill shot always left a trail, Crimson splashes soaking fur and
earth alike. But there was nothing here, not
a single drop. My chest tightened, unease
prickling the back of my neck. Flip it over.
I told him, my voice quieter than I intended.
We grabbed its legs and rolled it carefully onto its side.
A chill raced down my spine at what we saw, or rather, what we
didn't. The Bucs eyes were gone, its
sockets hollowed out cleanly, as if someone had carefully removed
them. The empty socket stared up at
us, darker than the night around them.
What the hell? Reed murmured, rising quickly to
his feet. I tried to rationalize.
Could be scavengers. Maybe birds got to it before we
got here. Reed shook his head slowly,
unconvinced. No scavenger does something this
precise. We stood there, the forest
growing darker by the 2nd, the silence around us suddenly
oppressive and unnatural. I'd spent my life in these
woods, but never had I felt so profoundly unwelcome.
Reed glanced around nervously, and without another word, we
grabbed the buck by the antlers and began hauling it toward his
truck. The carcass felt heavier than it
should have, the antlers digging painfully into my palms.
It almost seemed like the buck was resisting us, somehow
anchoring itself to the forest floor.
After a short struggle, we heaved it into the truck bed,
both of us panting more from nerves than exertion.
Reed slammed the tailgate shut and stepped back.
We'll figure it out back at your cabin.
He said, trying and failing to sound calm.
As we climbed into the truck, I glanced back at the buck in the
bed. Even in the shadows, those empty
eye sockets stood out, black pits aimed directly at me.
I shook myself and turned away. The drive out of the woods
should have been familiar, comforting even, but tonight it
felt different, every tree and turn more sinister, the darkness
pressing closer. Reed fiddled anxiously with the
radio, catching only bursts of static and garbled voices that
came and went like ghostly whispers.
Reception's crap tonight. He mumbled.
I nodded absently, my eyes repeatedly flicking to the
passenger side mirror, unable to shake the feeling we were being
watched. Then I heard it.
The first howl. At first it was distant, barely
audible beneath the hum of the engine, But as Reed slowed
slightly, it grew clearer, a guttural, mournful cry echoing
through the trees. It sounded like a wounded deer,
but deeper, almost human. My blood turned to ice.
Probably coyotes, Reed said unconvincingly, gripping the
wheel tighter. But I knew the sound of coyotes,
and this wasn't it. As the wailing continued, louder
now, each note drawn out with eerie clarity, I felt my pulse
quicken. Glancing back at the truck bed,
I froze. Stop the truck, I said suddenly.
Reed looked at me, bewildered. What?
Why just stop? My voice cracked, betraying my
panic. He slammed on the brakes, gravel
scattering beneath the tires as we lurched to a halt.
Without a word, I leapt from the cab, flashlight in hand, heart
hammering. Reed joined me a second later,
breath clouding in the crisp night air as he rounded the
back. The bed was empty.
The deer was gone, vanished without a trace.
There was no blood, no drag marks, nothing but wet, muddy
hoof prints leading inexplicably toward the back edge of the
tailgate and disappearing into the road.
Reed shone his light down the road and into the trees, his
face pale, eyes wide. What's happening, Tom?
He whispered shakily. I couldn't answer.
My mouth had gone dry, fear gripping my chest tightly from
the darkness of the forest around us.
That dreadful howling rose again, closer now, accompanied
by something worse, a deep wheezing breath just beyond our
line of sight. We need to leave.
I said urgently. Neither of us spoke as we
scrambled back into the cab, slamming the door shut.
Reed punched the accelerator and the truck jolted forward, racing
down the narrow Rd. branches, scratching at the sides,
darkness closing in like it wanted to swallow us whole.
But as we speed away, my mind replayed the impossible scene
again and again. Those wet hoof prints, that
empty truck bed and the unexplainable absence of any
blood. Worst of all, the lingering
question gnawed at me relentlessly.
If the buck wasn't dead, what exactly had we brought into our
truck, and where had it gone? Reed floored the accelerator,
sending the truck barreling down the narrow Forestry Rd. gravel
and dirt flying behind us. Neither of us spoke at first,
the silence between us filled with 1000 questions neither
dared to ask aloud. My eyes kept flicking to the
side mirror, my pulse quickening every time I caught the blur of
shadow or branch. Behind us, the forest had become
a black void, swallowing the red glow of our tail lights as
quickly as they appeared. What the hell happened back
there? Tom Reed finally muttered, his
knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I don't know. I admitted, struggling to steady
my voice. Maybe it fell out.
He shot me a look that told me he knew that was impossible.
A buck that size wouldn't have simply slid out of the truck
without a sound, especially not without leaving a trail or
marks. No matter how we tried to
rationalize it, nothing made sense.
Then we heard it again, the howl, louder now, closer,
tearing through the night with that strange mixture of animal
pain and almost human agony. It came from behind, following
us down the road, growing louder despite our speed.
That ain't no coyote, Reed whispered through clenched
teeth. The truck's headlights cut
narrow beams through the pitch black ahead, illuminating little
more than 50 feet at a time. The rest was darkness,
impenetrable, endless, and increasingly hostile.
Reed's hands were trembling slightly as he fought to keep us
straight on the narrow track, eyes locked forward.
Suddenly, the truck sputtered, radio flaring briefly to life
with static that crackled and snapped in short, broken
fragments. The garbled, distorted voices
rose and fell, an eerie chorus punctuated by bursts of what
sounded disturbingly like laughter.
Then the engine faltered, coughing sharply.
No, Reed growled, panic rising in his voice.
Not now. He slammed the dashboard with a
palm, as if sheer force could keep the truck running.
It didn't. With one last choked gasp, the
engine died completely, leaving us coasting forward into the
dark silence. Reed steered the vehicle slowly
off the side of the narrow Rd., the tires crunching to a final
halt on gravel. For a long moment we sat frozen,
staring at each other, listening to the crackling static of the
dying radio as it too faded into silence.
Outside, nothing moved, nothing breathed.
The forest around us felt impossibly still, as though the
entire world was waiting, holding its breath.
Grab your rifle. I said quietly, trying to hide
the tremor in my voice. Reed reached behind his seat,
pulling out his gun with trembling fingers as I did the
same. Slowly, cautiously, we stepped
out of the truck, boots crunching into gravel that
seemed too loud in the oppressive silence.
Flashlights trembling, we swept our beams across the empty bed.
The wet hoof prints were still there, glistening oddly beneath
our lights, but otherwise the bed was empty.
Tom. Reed whispered, pointing his
flashlight at something on the ground.
I followed his gaze. My stomach twisted.
There, leading from the truck toward the edge of the forest,
were more hoof prints, but something was wrong with them.
They faced backward, as if whatever made them had walked
toward the truck, not away from it.
A chill crawled up my spine, colder than anything the
November air could produce. Let's get the truck started,
Reed said, his voice tight, urgency sharpening his tone.
I'll check under the hood, Watch my back.
I nodded, heart thudding in my ears as Reed popped the hood and
leaned in, flashlight tucked under his chin.
I stood behind him, sweeping the beam of my flashlight around us,
paranoia now tightening every muscle in my body.
The trees were motionless, the silence absolute.
It felt as though the forest itself were watching, waiting
for something. Then, from somewhere deep in the
woods to our left, the howling returned, this time louder,
clearer, closer. It was followed by a rasping,
wet breathing sound, like lungs choking on fluid.
I swung my flashlight toward the sound.
Branches swayed slightly, though there was no wind.
Read. Hurry.
I hissed. Almost there, he muttered, voice
barely audible beneath the hood. Loose wire.
Just give me. His voice cut off suddenly.
I spun around just in time to see his head snap upward, eyes
wide, locked on something behind me.
Tom. His voice trembled slowly, dread
settling in my chest like ice. I turned.
Just beyond the edge of our headlights, standing utterly
still, was the buck we'd shot. Only now it was upright, balance
precariously on 2 hind legs, head hanging grotesquely to one
side, antlers silhouetted starkly against the blackness.
The empty eye socket stared directly at us, 2 deep holes of
pure darkness. What in God's name?
Reed whispered, fumbling backward into the truck.
Without warning, the deer opened its mouth impossibly wide,
unleashing another ghastly howl, this time distorted into an
eerie mimicry of human speech stretched painfully through an
animal's throat. It wailed a single word, garbled
and chillingly clear at once. Go.
My blood ran cold. Reed slammed the hood shut and
jumped into the driver's seat, desperately twisting the key
again. After a heart stopping moment,
the engine roared back to life. I hurled myself into the
passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as Reed punched
the accelerator, gravel flying wildly beneath us as we tore
away. In the side mirror, I watched in
horror as the buck dropped back onto all fours, its grotesque
form dissolving into shadows, melting away into the darkness
behind us. We raced down the Forestry Rd.
in silence, our breaths ragged, pulses pounding in time with the
frantic hum of the engine. Neither of us spoke until the
1st dim lights of Cain appeared through the trees, faintly
reassuring yet unable to erase the fresh terror we've just
experienced. But even as the forest fell away
behind us, I knew the night wasn't over.
Whatever that thing had been, whatever it had become, wasn't
done with us yet. The buck, the creature had told
us to go, but deep down I felt certain that it wasn't letting
us escape. It was just giving us a head
start. By the time we reached my cabin
on the outskirts of Cain, neither of us had said a word
for at least 10 miles. Reed's hands trembled visibly as
he parked the truck, knuckles white around the wheel.
When he finally spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper.
I need to get home, Tom. I, I can't do this right now.
I nodded slowly, understanding, but a small voice inside urged
me to keep him close. It felt safer, somehow.
You sure you don't want to stay here tonight?
It's late. Reed shook his head, refusing to
meet my eyes. I just need to clear my head.
We'll talk in the morning. He backed the truck down my
driveway, headlights slicing through the darkness, and
vanished into the night. For a long minute I stood alone,
listening to the distant hum of his engine fading away until
silence enveloped me again. A bitter wind whispered through
the woods, carrying a scent of rod and damp earth.
The woods around me had never felt so ominous, so aware.
I moved slowly toward the cabin, my boots crunching on frost
covered gravel. The porch creaked beneath my
weight, the old wood groaning as I unlocked the door and stepped
inside. The familiar warmth of home did
nothing to soothe the unease twisting through my chest.
Sleep refused to find me. I lay in bed, staring blankly at
the darkened ceiling, replaying every impossible moment of the
night. Each howl, each twisted hoof
print, each image of the eyeless buck haunted my thoughts.
I tossed and turned, sweat soaking my sheets despite the
chill in the air. Then something outside scraped
against the cabin wall, a faint, deliberate scratching.
I sat up sharply, pulse hammering in my ears.
Grabbing my flashlight and rifle from beside the bed, I crept
through the dark cabin to the front door.
I hesitated, heart thudding, before stepping out onto the
porch. My flashlight beam darted around
the yard, probing the shadows. Nothing.
Just silence. But as I move toward the shed
where I'd usually store any game we brought back, my stomach
twisted. The shed door was open, swinging
lightly in the cold breeze, the lock dangling uselessly.
Approaching cautiously, I shined the flashlight into the
darkness. My breath caught sharply.
Wet, muddy hoof prints were scattered across the wooden
floorboards leading inside. They stopped abruptly at the far
wall, as though whatever had made them had simply vanished.
The walls were untouched, the windows intact.
Yet somehow the thing had gotten inside without breaking
anything. I stumbled backward, my pulse
racing as I scanned the trees. Beyond the yard there was
nothing but empty darkness, yet the sensation of being watched
was overwhelming. Back inside the cabin, I fumble
to lock the doors, checking every window twice.
I placed my loaded rifle next to my bed, hands trembling, and
eventually drifted into an uneasy half sleep, plagued by
dreams filled with hollow eyed creatures and endless forests.
I awoke sometime later to a sound I knew instantly, the
howling. Only now it wasn't distant.
It was right outside my bedroom window, so close I could hear
the rattling breath beneath the shrieking cry.
Swallowing, the terror rising in my throat, I slowly got up,
gripping the rifle tightly, creeping toward the window.
With a shaking hand, I moved the curtain aside just enough to
peer outside. There, at the edge of the tree
line, illuminated by moonlight, stood the buck.
My heart nearly stopped. It stood upright again, its
unnatural posture grotesque and contorted.
Its antlers, now impossibly large, branched upward like
claws grasping at the night sky. The empty black sockets where
eyes should have been stared directly at me.
Then, with terrifying deliberateness, the creature
turned its head slightly and smiled A hideous, toothy grin no
deer could ever produce. My breath seized in my lungs as
panic set in. Without hesitation, I stepped
outside, adrenaline overpowering fear.
Leave me alone. I shouted, voice cracking as I
raised my rifle, aiming straight between those empty, haunting
sockets. It didn't move, didn't flinch.
It just stood, grinning horribly, mocking me with its
presence. Fingers trembling, I squeezed
the trigger. The rifle barked loudly, echoing
through the trees. My shot was perfect, directly
into its chest, but the buck didn't even twitch.
Instead, with sickening slowness, it dissolved, its body
unraveling into a dark mist pulled into itself until nothing
remained but empty air. The night fell silent once more,
leaving me shaking and alone. I ran back inside, locking the
doors again, and spent the rest of the night awake, waiting for
dawn. Morning brought no relief.
Instead, it brought dread. My phone buzzed, jolting me from
exhausted stupor. Reed's wife, panic in her voice,
was asking if he'd stayed with me.
My gut twisted painfully as she explained that Reed hadn't come
home. Hours later, they found his
truck abandoned on Route 66, doors wide open, keys still in
the ignition. There was no blood, no sign of
struggle, nothing except the now familiar muddy backward hoof
prints trailing off into the forest.
I sold the cabin within weeks. I left Kane, left the woods and
moved somewhere far away, somewhere bright and crowded.
I told myself I could outrun it, bury the memories in the noise
of city life. But the truth still haunted me,
whispered in quiet moments when I lay awake at night.
You can't outrun something like that.
Once it sees you, once you see it, you're marked.
There's one last thing I kept hidden a secret locked away in
my dresser drawer on my last night in the cabin.
I checked the game camera outside the shed.
It showed nothing for hours, just empty darkness.
But at exactly 2:47 AM, the image glitched, distorted into
lines in static, before briefly clearing to reveal one final,
impossible image. The buck standing in my
driveway, antlers silhouetted sharply against moonlight, head
tilted, empty eye sockets staring directly into the lens.
And it was still smiling. I parked my truck at the end of
the gravel access Rd. 10 miles South of the trailhead near the
Grove Antra Wilderness boundary. The forest lay quiet under a
blanket of fresh snow that had fallen overnight, broken only by
the occasional Creek of branches under the snow's weight.
After my divorce, I'd come to appreciate trips like this more.
Quiet, lonely, simple. Nothing cleared my head like
being alone in the Wyoming Backcountry.
With only a bow and camera for company, I strapped my gear
tight, shouldered my pack, and moved through knee high drifts
toward the Ridge locals called the Shelf.
It took me almost 4 hours to reach the spot, my legs burning
from the climb, but it was worth the effort from that vantage.
The entire valley spread below me, tucked between slopes dense
with lodge pole Pines and patches of open Meadow.
I set up my small tent near an abandoned Forest Service fire
ring just as dusk tinted the sky pale orange.
While gathering kindling for my fire, a sound echoed across the
valley. An elk bugle, drawn out and
rough edged, different from what I'd ever heard in my years
hunting. I paused, trying to pinpoint its
origin, but found nothing. Silence soon returned, leaving
me unsure if I'd really heard anything at all.
That night. Sleep came slowly.
As I lay in my sleeping bag, my ears strained to pick up the
smallest noise outside. Just as my eyes began to feel
heavy, the sound returned. It drifted closer this time,
louder, sharper, almost painful to hear.
There was a thick, ragged quality to it, like an animal
struggling to breathe. I sat up, heart racing, gripping
the handle of my knife out of instinct more than reason.
It stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving only my own
shaky breaths filling the tent. Morning arrived, Gray and
bitterly cold. I rubbed, feeling back into my
numb fingers, gathered my gear, and crept to the edge of the
Ridge. A movement near a downed pine
caught my attention. A bull elk stood, partially
obscured by a tangle of fallen branches.
My pulse quickened. The bull was huge, a trophy
animal, easily 10 years old by the looks of its antlers.
But as I raised my binoculars, something about the elk seemed
off. Its body stood rigid, muscles
twitching oddly beneath its hide.
Through the binoculars, I saw its chest heaving violently,
breath steaming in frantic puffs.
Every few seconds. Its head jerked sideways, as
though reacting to unseen irritations.
Ignoring the growing unease in my gut, I knocked an arrow and
lifted my bow. My breath steadied as I aimed
carefully behind its front leg. My finger tightened around the
bowstring, muscles tensed, eyes fixed.
Then the elk jerked its head upward and let out a piercing,
terrified scream. A scream exactly like a man
begging desperately for help. Somebody help me.
The voice reverberated down into the valley, echoing painfully in
my ears. My arrow sailed harmlessly past
the elk into the underbrush. I staggered back in shock, the
bow slipping from my fingers. The elk remained still a moment
longer. It's wild, panicked eyes locked
directly on mine. Then it turned abruptly and
bolted into the trees, vanishing without a sound.
My knees buckled and I crouched low in the snow, heart pounding
so hard it hurt. I waited a long time for my
breathing to slow, trying to rationalize what I'd heard,
telling myself it had been a trick of acoustics or nerves,
but every explanation fell flat. Cautiously, I approached where
the elk had stood. My eyes scanned the ground for
any sign of the animal's flight, any tracks or blood, but found
nothing except a pair of shallow hoof prints that vanished
abruptly mid stride, leaving no clear trail away.
Back at camp, I packed hastily. I didn't care that I'd planned
to stay longer, didn't care about the wasted trip.
All I wanted was to leave the valley and whatever had happened
behind. But as darkness fell faster than
expected, clouds blocking the remaining daylight, I was forced
to reconsider. With no choice but to wait until
morning, I stoked the fire high and sat rigid, listening,
watching shadows dance against the surrounding trees.
It was late, perhaps midnight, when the noises began again.
Soft at first, growing louder, hooves crunching, snow circling
slowly around my camp. A familiar, strained elk call
echoed through the darkness, followed by a wet, choking
cough. I reached quietly for my rifle,
fingers trembling on the cold metal.
The sound stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but a silence
heavier than before. My eyes scanned the darkness,
waiting. Just as I thought, it was over.
A voice, low, hoarse, and horribly human, spoke from
somewhere behind the trees. Somebody help me.
At the first hint of dawn, I abandoned my camp and move N
through thick brush toward the logging trail I'd seen on the
way in. My legs ached from the cold,
sleepless night. I kept glancing behind, checking
my trail, searching the trees. The forest felt heavy, watchful,
every sound louder than it should have been.
But, I reminded myself, focus ahead.
Keep moving. After an hour, exhaustion slowed
me to a steady walk. Each step crunched through the
thin layer of snow. Gradually, I realized that my
footsteps were echoing strangely, each step seemingly
mirrored by another. When I stopped abruptly, the
sounds continued for one more step, then halted.
A sudden chill crawled up my spine.
Hello. I called out, voice barely
steady. Anyone out there?
My words faded unanswered into the trees.
I moved forward more cautiously now, gripping my rifle tight
enough to make my knuckles ache. I listened intently between my
breaths, but heard nothing unusual, only the normal sounds
of wind moving branches. Then, from somewhere in the
trees to my right, a voice drifted toward me.
Bailey. It sounded exactly like my
voice, but younger, sharper, like a recording from years
past. Bailey had been my retriever,
dead nearly four years now. A wave of nausea hit my stomach,
making me stumble and brace against a tree.
I held still, breath locked in my throat.
The voice called again. Bailey, come here, boy.
This time, clearer, closer. Who's there?
I shouted, spinning toward the sound, eyes straining through
dense brush. This isn't funny.
Silence returned. I listened desperately for
movement. A snapped twig.
Anything. But the woods stayed quiet,
mocking me with the emptiness. Shaken, I kept moving forward,
faster now, anxiety pulling at every nerve.
Half an hour later, I emerged into a clearing and stopped dead
in my tracks. Something hung from the branches
directly ahead, a ragged shape strung up, swaying gently in the
breeze. Moving closer, I saw it clearly,
a torn elkhide stretched wide and nailed crudely to the bark
with sharpened twigs. Dark fluid dripped slowly from
the edges onto the snow below, staining it black.
The smell hit me a second later. Thick, rotten, sickening.
What the hell? My words were barely a whisper.
I backed away, nearly losing my footing as I turned.
The woods erupted around me with my own voice, urgent and
terrified. Clay, Clay, help me, clay.
Panic surged through me, my heart hammering painfully in my
chest. I scrambled away, breaking into
a blind run through the trees. Branches tore at my jacket,
slapped my face, and snagged at my boots, but I didn't slow
down. Behind me, my voice kept
screaming, becoming distorted, frantic, as though mocking my
own fear. Eventually, exhaustion forced me
to slow down. Gasping for breath, I scanned
the unfamiliar terrain. I had run far from my intended
route. My map was back in the tent I'd
left behind, and I had only a rough idea of where I stood.
Despair began creeping into my thoughts, but I pushed it aside.
Survival first, panic later. With daylight fading, I found a
cluster of rocks and built a crude shelter beneath A shallow
outcrop. The wind picked up sharply,
pushing bitter cold into every crevice, but I had no choice.
I wrapped myself tight in my coat, rifle clutched to my
chest. I didn't dare build a fire, too
afraid of what it might attract. Darkness filled the forest,
bringing an unnatural quiet. For hours I lay awake, nerves
raw, listening. Just when I believed I might
escape the night undisturbed, a slow, rasping breath moved
through the air outside my shelter.
The breathing drew closer, louder, heavy and wet, like
someone drowning. My muscles froze, my heartbeat
echoing painfully loud in my ears.
Then a voice whispered softly into the dark, right next to my
hiding place. Help me, please, Clay, help me.
It was my voice, low and broken, repeating endlessly in an awful
monotone, drifting just inches away.
I couldn't move, could barely breathe.
Seconds passed like hours, each whisper stabbing deep into my
mind. Finally, I gathered enough
courage to move my hand. Trembling, I reached for the
flare gun on my belt and pulled myself upright.
With a final burst of desperation, I lunged from
beneath the outcrop and aimed the flare into the darkness.
The flare exploded upward, bathing everything in sharp
Crimson light. For an instant, it illuminated a
figure hunched low behind a fallen tree.
Thin, elongated limbs twisted unnaturally beneath antlers too
large and jagged to belong to any elk I had ever seen.
It stared back at me, eyes reflecting red in the dying
flare. Its long fingers curled into the
snow. Then the flare burned out,
plunging me back Into Darkness. I stayed standing, breath locked
painfully in my lungs, waiting helplessly for whatever came
next. At dawn, I abandoned anything
non essential. My pack felt like dead weight.
My rifle was my only comfort, gripped tightly as I stumbled
downhill toward the Snake River Range, hoping for a cell signal
or a break in the endless forest.
My throat was dry, my legs numb. Every sound caused me to spin
around, rifle raised, eyes wide. By late morning, I started
noticing deep claw marks carved into the trunks around me.
Fresh grooves scraped through bark into raw wood beneath.
Each set rose well above my head.
A cold dread settled heavily in my gut.
An hour later, the forest gave way to an old fire Rd.
Relief flooded through me. If I followed it far enough, I
knew it would lead back towards civilization, or at least to a
Ranger station. But as I started down the road,
I spotted someone standing at the far end, partially obscured
by shadows. The figure was dressed like a
hunter, wearing gear similar to mine, dark jacket, boots and cap
pulled low. My pulse quickened.
After days alone, seeing another person felt unreal.
I raised a hand cautiously, trying not to appear as
terrified as I felt. Hey.
I called out, voice raw and weak.
You lost. The figure waved back stiffly,
its posture bent forward oddly. I felt a sudden tightness in my
chest. Then it spoke.
My stomach churned at the sound of my own voice coming from its
direction, flat, emotionless. Hey.
It called back, repeating my earlier greeting exactly.
You lost. A wave of nausea surged upward.
My hands shook uncontrollably, rifle barrel wavering in the
air. Slowly, I backed up, careful not
to turn away from whatever stood in front of me.
Stay right there, I shouted, my voice cracked under pressure.
Don't move. But instead, the figure stepped
forward. Its steps were wrong, awkward,
unnatural strides that twisted its legs at strange angles.
Then it dropped suddenly to all fours, charging forward, limbs
flailing wildly, its antlers scraping branches as it moved.
A high, piercing scream filled the air.
Again, the same anguished human whale from the elk.
Fear exploded inside me. I raised my rifle, aimed wildly,
and fired three times in rapid succession.
The gunshots echoed through the trees, leaving a painful ringing
in my ears. The figure tumbled sideways,
rolling violently down the slope into thick brush.
For a moment, everything fell silent.
I stood frozen, heart pounding. Slowly, I approached the spot
where it had vanished. On the ground lay strands of
coarse elk hair scattered across the snow, mingled with dark
streaks of blood. Beside them was a single white
object, a human tooth, perfectly intact.
My stomach clenched. I turned away, fighting off
panic, forcing my trembling legs to move again.
Each step felt heavier than the last, but I forced myself
forward, stumbling along the winding Rd.
Shadows lengthened, trees crowding closer as dusk
approached. Just before twilight fully
enveloped the forest, I finally spotted the dim lights of a
small Ranger outpost. Weak with relief, I staggered
toward it, knocking hard enough to splinter my knuckles on the
weathered wood door. 2 Rangers answered quickly, guiding me
inside. They stared silently as I
babbled about antlers, screams, and my own voice chasing me
through the woods. They exchanged careful glances.
The younger one handed me water, while the older Ranger, Gray
haired and walking with a limp, sat quietly nearby, eyes
narrowed thoughtfully. Eventually, the younger Ranger
stepped outside to radio for assistance.
When he was gone, the older man leaned toward me, his voice low
and firm. You saw the one that hunts with
voices, didn't you? He asked quietly, eyes locked on
mine. I nodded slowly, afraid to speak
aloud. He sighed, shaking his head as
though recalling some distant memory.
Don't tell anyone else. He continued softly.
Not for their sake, for yours. Hours later, safely away in the
back of an ambulance, I deleted every video file on my camera
without even looking at them. I wanted nothing left of
whatever I'd experienced out there, Nothing to remind me of
the thing in the woods that stole voices and wore antlers.
A year passed before I found the courage to return to that spot
on the Ridge, compelled by guilt and curiosity.
I wanted closure. I carried a small wooden cross
with me, hoping to leave it behind at the tree where I first
encountered the elk. But when I arrived, the tree was
gone entirely, replaced by a circle of elk skulls arranged
neatly around a bare patch of earth.
They pointed inward, toward emptiness.
I turned around and never went back.
I pulled my truck off the narrow dirt access Rd. into a little
clearing about a mile east of Sylvan Lake.
I'd haunted here every November for the past eight years.
It was still dark just after five in the morning, the kind of
chill that settles deep into your bones no matter how many
layers you wear. I switched off the headlights,
instantly plunging the forest into blackness.
The quiet hum of the engine faded, replaced by the hushed
stillness of the trees around me.
Grabbing my rifle and backpack from the passenger seat, I
stepped into the crisp air, my breath forming tiny clouds
illuminated by the weak glow of my flashlight.
The frosty ground crackled beneath my boots as I carefully
made my way toward my usual spot.
My tree stand was set back deep in a cluster of Pines,
positioned perfectly for the deer that like to cross the
hollow just after dawn. My heart rate slowed as I
climbed the cold metal ladder, each rung stinging my fingers
even through gloves. Settling into position 20 feet
above the ground, I scanned my surroundings.
Visibility was poor in the pre dawn darkness, but the first
faint blush of dawn had started to seep into the sky.
I sat perfectly still, rifle across my lap, waiting patiently
as I'd done countless times before.
Minutes passed slowly, daylight gradually erasing the darkness
around me. It wasn't until the forest had
fully emerged from shadows that I began to feel something was
off. Usually by this hour, squirrels
were already scampering through fallen leaves, and chickadees
would be softly calling from branch to branch.
But this morning, nothing stirred.
No birds, no movement, Only a total oppressive silence that
seemed to wrap itself around my chest.
I shifted uncomfortably, scanning the trees again through
my binoculars, searching for signs of movement.
My fingers tightened involuntarily around my rifle,
unease prickling the back of my neck.
Something deep in my gut told me this wasn't normal.
Then, just beyond the thick stand of Pines, a shadow moved.
I froze, binoculars locked on that spot, heart suddenly
hammering. At first I thought it might be a
Mountain Lion, a rare enough sight here, but not impossible.
It moved cautiously, staying low to the ground, slowly creeping
out into clearer view. As I watched more closely, a
wave of cold dread washed over me.
It wasn't right. Its shape was twisted somehow,
limbs stretched longer than any cougar I'd ever seen, moving
with jerky, unnatural strides. The fur was ragged and patchy,
like badly sewn high, draped loosely over bones that were too
thin, too angular. My breathing grew shallow as it
crept further into the clearing. The creature stopped abruptly,
head cocking sideways. Through my binoculars, I saw its
eyes clearly for the first time. They were pale, almost white,
reflecting faintly in the weak morning sunlight, and they were
fixed directly on me. An overwhelming panic rose in my
chest, my pulse throbbing painfully at my temples.
My vision blurred at the edges, dizziness flooding my head as if
I'd stood too fast. I fought to steady myself,
gripping the railing of the tree stand, but it felt as if all
strength had drained from my limbs.
The pale eyed creature below remained perfectly still,
watching, waiting. Then darkness surged up,
swallowing my vision completely. My last coherent thought was a
simple, desperate plea. Please let me wake up.
I woke with dirt pressed cold against my cheek, my body heavy
and numb. My mouth tasted metallic, gritty
like earth. Slowly, painfully, I pushed
myself upright, blinking away the blur in my eyes.
The midday sun filtered through the trees, too bright, sharp
against my pounding skull. My stomach churned, nauseous
from dizziness and confusion. For a few moments, nothing made
sense. I squinted, taking in my
surroundings. I was sprawled beside my truck,
parked haphazardly along the narrow access Rd. near Sylvan
Lake. My rifle lay beside me, it's
polished wooden stock now scarred by deep, jagged gouges,
as if something had clawed at it fiercely.
My chest tightened, cold dread washing over me as fragmented
memories surfaced. Those unnaturally pale eyes
locked on mine through binoculars, that twisted thing
moving silently through the Pines.
I scrambled backward, heart thundering, and struggled to my
feet. My legs shook beneath me, but I
forced myself to stand, to assess.
My fingers brushed gingerly over my neck, my arms, my torso.
Nothing broken or bleeding, just dirt, caked clothes and fresh
bruises. I breathed heavily, trying to
steady my nerves, rationalize away the panic rising in my
throat. But the marks on the rifle were
too real to dismiss. Something had attacked, had
followed me back here. My pulse raced as I circled the
truck, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
That's when I noticed the tracks in the soft dirt.
They were larger than any Mountain Lion print I'd ever
seen, elongated and misshapen, too narrow yet frighteningly
deep. They circled my truck in uneven
loops, pacing repeatedly. I felt sick.
How long had it lingered here, watching while I lay
unconscious? The silence around me returned.
No rustling leaves, no distant birdsong.
Just suffocating stillness. I climbed into the driver's
seat, locking the door and gripping the steering wheel so
tightly my knuckles whitened. I turned the key, engine roaring
to life, shattering the oppressive quiet.
I drove out of the forest faster than I ever had.
Dirt and gravel sprang behind me.
The trees seem to press closer now, an endless maze of shadows.
My eyes darted frantically to the mirrors, terrified I'd see
something pale eyed and distorted running alongside me.
It took every ounce of self-control not to lose my
nerve entirely. Half an hour later, I pulled
shakily into the parking lot of a small diner in Hill City.
The reassuring presence of civilization calmed me slightly
as I stumbled inside. People glanced briefly,
returning to their conversations and meals, unaware of the terror
still gripping my chest. I slid into a booth, hands
trembling, and ordered black coffee, hoping to settle my
nerves. Across from me, a man about my
age nodded sympathetically. He introduced himself as Jim
Redford, a local hunter. His eyes narrowed when he saw
the condition of my rifle. Rough morning?
Jim asked cautiously. I hesitated, then quietly told
him what happened. At first, he nodded slowly,
skeptical. But as I described the creature,
the stretched limbs, pale eyes, it's impossible movements, Jim's
face went grim. He glanced around the diner
before leaning closer. There's a name for it around
here, he whispered. Some call it the Hill Walker.
Older folks, mostly. They won't talk openly about it,
but hunters have whispered about it for years.
It stalks, it waits, and it's nothing you'd ever want to see
twice. A chill ran down my spine as he
spoke. The fear I'd been desperately
trying to bury surged back, colder and sharper than before.
I knew then I couldn't go back into those woods alone, and deep
down I wasn't sure I could ever set foot there again.
Twilight crept over the hills as Jim and I drove back toward the
spot where I'd seen that thing earlier.
My pulse quickened as the familiar outlines of trees grew
darker against the fading sky. Jim had insisted we needed to
investigate, to see if what I'd encountered matched the legends
whispered through generations around these hills.
I wasn't sure why I agreed, except that fear needed answers,
and hiding wouldn't make this go away.
The headlights sliced thinly through the darkness as we
parked close to where I'd left my truck hours before.
We stepped out cautiously, flashlights flicking nervously
through the shadows as we move deeper into the forest.
Soon we reached my original hunting spot, and the same
unnatural silence descended again, heavy enough to press the
breath from my lungs. Jim paused, shining his beam
upward. My tree stand still hung
silently 20 feet above us, untouched.
But beneath it the earth had been disturbed, churned, as if
something had paced there obsessively.
The flashlight beams traced the tracks, elongated Prince deep
and unsettlingly sharp edged, overlapping again and again.
My throat tightened as I whispered.
It waited here. Jim nodded grimly, eyes tense,
scanning the darkness around us. We shouldn't stay long.
Whatever this is, it isn't something we can handle easily.
A branch snapped nearby, startlingly loud in the
oppressive quiet. Both flashlights swung sharply
toward the sound. My pulse thumped painfully as
shadows flickered, something moving rapidly just beyond the
reach of our lights. A second crack of twigs, closer
now. I caught a glimpse of distorted
shapes darting between trees, quick and erratic.
Then it emerged, stepping into our lights with slow, deliberate
motions. My breath froze in my chest.
The creature was taller than I'd realized earlier.
Grotesquely elongated patchwork fur hung from limbs that twisted
strangely beneath its weight. Its arms reached almost to the
ground, fingers ending in dark claws.
The face was more unsettling, A distorted blend of human and
animal, sharp teeth visible behind a fixed, terrible grin.
Those pale eyes caught our lights, reflecting A ghostly
Sheen as they locked onto US. Jim.
My voice came out barely a whisper.
He raised his rifle, face pale, eyes wide with horror.
Back away slowly. Keep your gun steady.
The creature made a harsh rasping noise, low at first, but
rising sharply to a chilling, guttural shriek.
It lunged forward, limbs unfolding grotesquely.
Gunshots exploded through the silence, echoing violently
between the trees. The creature staggered, jerking
back, but didn't fall. Instead, it retreated into the
shadows, howling in fury as it circled us, staying just beyond
our lights. Run.
Jim shouted, his voice raw with panic.
We turned, sprinting blindly back toward the trucks,
flashlights bouncing wildly ahead.
Branches whipped at my face, tearing skin as I stumbled
through undergrowth. My breath came ragged,
adrenaline scorching my veins. Behind us, the creature moved
through the darkness, shrieking again, impossibly fast and
agile. Finally, the trucks appeared
ahead, outlined faintly by the moonlight.
I lunged into my vehicle, slamming the door, Jim doing the
same beside me. Tires spinning, engines roaring,
we tore back onto the access Rd. I glanced into the rear view
mirror one final time, catching a flash of pale eyes at the edge
of the woods, fixed on us as we speed away.
Days later, standing at Jim's cabin in Hill City, my hands
shook as I packed my gear. He watched silently, his face
grave. We'd spoken little about that
night since returning, both unwilling to relive it.
You won't come back, Jim said quietly.
It wasn't a question, No, I replied, voice tight.
Never again. As I pulled onto the main
highway away from the Black Hills, I glanced toward the tree
line one last time, unable to shake the feeling that somewhere
out there, hidden deep in the shadows, pale eyes still
watched, waiting patiently for another chance.
The air was cold and sharp that morning, stinging the inside of
my nostrils as I climbed slowly up the Creek bed toward the
Ridge. The Selway Bitterroot Wilderness
was rugged country, dense Pines and twisted Cedars stacked upon
steep hillsides, thick brush scraping against my legs with
every step. Garrett and I had haunted these
mountains plenty, but today something felt different.
Maybe it was the silence, too heavy, like it was pressing down
from above. Birds were scarce, squirrels
absent. Even the Creek seemed muted.
Garrett had split off toward the higher ground an hour earlier,
hoping to flush an elk toward my position in the Gulch.
We had tracking collars sync to each other's GPS devices for
safety, though we'd never had reason to use them before.
The screen on my unit showed him ascending steadily, climbing
about 300 yards ahead of me. I paused to catch my breath and
wipe the sweat from my forehead. I checked the GPS again.
Garrett had stopped moving. Strange, considering we plan to
rendezvous further along the Ridge.
Just as I was about to radio him, I heard his scream.
It ripped through the silence, sudden and ragged, raw panic
mixed with pain. Adrenaline flooded my veins, my
heart slamming into my ribs. As I took off running toward the
sound. My feet slipped in loose pine
needles and damp earth, nearly pitching me face first into the
hillside. But I kept scrambling upward,
ignoring the burn in my lungs. Garrett.
I shouted as loudly as I could manage, listening for any
response. None came, only the oppressive
quiet somehow deeper than before.
I pushed myself harder, gripping low hanging branches to haul
myself up the steepening slope. When I finally crested the
Ridge, my legs trembled beneath me.
I stopped abruptly, nearly falling forward as the scene
unfolded before my eyes. The dirt was disturbed
violently, clawed and gouged as if something heavy had thrashed
across it. Garrett's bright orange glove
lay shredded on the ground, streaked dark red.
Blood splattered across the pine needles in a chaotic pattern,
pooling in places, then dragged upward along the trunk of a
massive Douglas fir climbing impossibly high.
I forced myself to breathe steadily, eyes darting around
for Garrett or some sign of what had attacked him.
But there was nothing. No movement, no sound.
Only the blood, gleaming fresh in patches, marking a grizzly
path upward into the trees. A sudden flicker of movement
above caught my attention. Instinctively, I jerked my head
upward, rifle raised high in the branches.
I glimpse something pale and sinewy vanish quickly between
trees. It moved silently, effortlessly,
like something accustomed to traveling where nothing should
be able to climb. I stared hard, trying to make
sense of the figure I just seen, hoping it was my imagination
playing tricks on me in the shadows.
Garrett. I yelled again, desperation
cracking my voice. My words echoed emptily through
the forest, returning unanswered.
I paced nervously, scanning upward, helplessness gnawing at
my chest. What could have dragged Garrett
upward so swiftly? I couldn't imagine an animal
capable of it. My eyes traced the dark smears,
higher and higher, disappearing into dense foliage.
That's when I spotted Garrett's hunting cap, tangled in a branch
far overhead. The fabric was ripped, soaked
dark red at the edges, swaying slightly in the wind.
I sank slowly onto my knees, unable to look away.
Fear took hold, deeper and colder than anything I'd ever
felt. Whatever had taken Garrett was
still out there, watching from somewhere above.
The woods around me were silent and still, but I knew with awful
certainty that I was not alone. I stumbled back into our camp
just as dusk was settling over paradise Meadows.
The thin orange glow of sunset faded quickly, replaced by a
thick, impenetrable darkness that felt suffocating.
My hands trembled as I struggled to light the fire.
Matches slipped from my shaking fingers one after another, until
finally a flame caught the Tinder crackling weakly to life.
Sitting close to the small fire, I gripped my rifle tightly, eyes
darting between the trees around me.
Every shadow seemed deeper than usual.
Each movement of branches overhead pulled my attention
sharply upward. My thoughts raced chaotically,
replaying the image of Garrett's shredded glove, the blood
streaked trees, and that brief glimpse of something agile and
impossibly pale swinging between the branches.
I stared numbly into the fire, occasionally glancing down at my
GPS unit. Garrett's signal was offline
now, frozen at his last known location, a ghostly dot far up
slope without any cell reception and darkness swallowing the
landscape. Hiking out tonight was
impossible. I was stuck until dawn, trapped
alone in the middle of nowhere, waiting.
That's when the scratching started.
At first it was subtle, A faint scraping high in the trees.
My muscles went rigid as I strained to hear better, holding
my breath. Silence followed, broken only by
the crackling of the fire. Just as I began to think I'd
imagined it, the scratching resumed, clearer this time,
deliberate and rhythmic, directly above me.
I slowly lifted my gaze upward, but the branches were too thick,
the canopy too dense, revealing nothing.
Yet the scratching persisted, a quiet, persistent, rasping noise
that slowly moved from one tree to another.
My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I raised the rifle,
aiming vaguely into the shadows. Who's up there?
My voice echoed weakly through the trees, the question hanging
unanswered. The scratching abruptly stopped.
Silence fell again, heavy and absolute.
I lowered the rifle slightly, blinking sweat from my eyes.
Maybe it was just a squirrel or some nocturnal bird, but deep
down I knew that wasn't true. Animals didn't move like that,
didn't wait and watch, silently calculating each movement.
A sudden, piercing scream shattered the quiet, high
pitched and twisted, nearly human but distorted by pain.
It echoed eerily through the valley, chilling my blood,
squeezing my chest until breathing hurt.
It sounded like Garrett's scream from earlier, mocked, twisted,
and thrown back at me from somewhere deep within the
forest. Panic surged through my limbs.
I swung the rifle wildly around, spinning to check every
direction. Something rustled overhead, and
I jerked my head upward just as a heavy, wet object fell from
the branches above, landing with a dull thud just beyond the
fire's edge. My body froze, heart pounding
loudly in my ears as I stared at the spot.
Trembling, I slowly move forward, rifle held tight
against my shoulder, finger resting lightly on the trigger.
As I drew closer, I noticed a faint blue glow flickering in
the grass. My throat tightened in dread
when I recognized it. It was Garrett's GPS collar, the
screen cracked and splattered with fresh blood.
Kneeling slowly, I picked it up, my finger slick with Crimson.
The device felt impossibly heavy in my hand, evidence of
something unnatural and terrifying above me.
Instinct forced my head upward once again.
With shaking fingers, I raised my flashlight and aimed it
toward the branches directly overhead.
The beam sliced through the shadows, briefly illuminating a
pale, elongated figure crouched upside down against the trunk.
Its limbs were thin and twisted, impossibly long fingers gripping
the bark. Reflective eyes stared,
unblinking, fixed directly on me, lips pulled back in a
silent, predatory grin. I jerked backward, my breath
catching painfully in my throat. The flashlight dropped from my
numb grip, clattering to the ground, plunging the trees back
Into Darkness. The image burned into my mind,
seared in place, the creature still crouched above, waiting,
observing. I huddled closer to the fire,
gripping my rifle until my knuckles turned white.
I knew it was still up there, hidden in the darkness, watching
me intently. Whatever it was, I understood
clearly. I wasn't leaving this place
unless it allowed me to. I barely slept, jolting awake
every few minutes as if I'd been shocked.
Dawn crept in slowly, pale light filtering through the branches
above. The fire had burned down to grey
ashes, and the morning air felt damp and heavy, chilling me
straight to my bones. My body ached from exhaustion,
muscles stiff and nerves raw. I shoved a few supplies into my
pack, moving quickly and quietly.
My goal was simple, get out of the wilderness and find help.
Each sound seemed amplified as I moved, twigs snapping under my
boots, fabric scraping against brush.
I felt exposed, vulnerable beneath the canopy that loomed
overhead. My eyes constantly scanned
upward, wary of any movement among the treetops.
The silence broke abruptly, branches cracking violently
above me. My head snapped upward, my heart
nearly stopping as I saw glimpses of something pale and
spindly moving swiftly through the branches, leaping easily
between the trees, descending toward me.
Panic exploded through my chest, adrenaline overriding the
stiffness in my limbs. I sprinted blindly through the
brush, branches clawing at my face and neck, not daring to
look back. My foot caught on something
hidden beneath fallen leaves, and suddenly I was tumbling
downward. My shoulder slammed painfully
into the earth, momentum rolling me down a steep, rocky incline.
I crashed into brush, my vision blurring with pain.
Struggling to my feet, I realized I'd fallen into a thick
patch of twisted trees and undergrowth.
Thorns dug into my arms, tangled branches grabbing at my clothes.
Above me, the violent crashing continued, louder and closer.
I raised my rifle unsteadily, scanning the branches, breathing
raggedly as panic squeezed my chest.
I couldn't see clearly through the tangled foliage, but I knew
something was approaching rapidly.
Another loud snap echoed from above.
Twigs and needles rained down around me, stinging my face
through the gaps. I caught sight of it again.
It crouched on a branch just overhead, its body thin and
sinewy, limbs bent at unnatural angles.
Its skin was colorless and stretched tight over elongated
bones. Eyes, cold and reflective,
stared down at me with intent. Curved claws flexed silently
around the branch, each finger tipped with hooked nails
darkened by dried blood. My heart thundered wildly in my
ears. The creature shifted forward
slightly, lips pulling back in anticipation.
I raised my rifle, aimed directly upward, and squeezed
the trigger. The gunshot shattered the
silence. The recoil jolted painfully into
my shoulder, ears ringing. An inhuman scream pierced the
air, sharp and furious. The pale figure recoiled
violently, losing its balance and tumbling awkwardly through
the branches. Without waiting to see where it
landed, I turned and scrambled desperately through the brush,
forcing myself through the tangled mess of trees and
thorns. My lungs burned painfully, each
breath feeling like glass shards scraping inside my chest.
I ran wildly, stumbling, tripping, refusing to slow down
until I burst free of the underbrush onto a familiar path.
The trailhead to Paradise lay just ahead, visible through the
thinning trees. My strength gave out then.
Knees buckling as I fell hard on the gravel and dirt.
Voices shouted nearby, distant at first, then suddenly close.
Hands grabbed my shoulders, pulling me upright.
Concerned faces appearing in my blurred vision, hikers staring
at me with wide eyes and urgent questions.
I tried to speak, to explain about Garrett, the creature, the
terror above the trees, but words wouldn't come.
My throat tightened, vision dimming as the adrenaline faded,
leaving only exhaustion and fear.
Rescuers eventually arrived, guiding me safely out of the
Sell Way Bitterroot Wilderness. They searched for Garrett for
days, scouring the ridges, combing the woods.
They found no body, no sign of him besides his shredded glove
cap and GPS. Eventually, they stopped
looking, labeling it a tragic wildlife attack.
I moved away shortly afterward, abandoning Idaho and its forests
for the bright lights of Boise, desperate for distance between
myself and those towering trees. But despite leaving, despite
moving hundreds of miles away, I know I'm not truly free.
Even now, in the silence of my new home, I wake in the dark,
listening to scratching sounds outside my window, convinced
that whatever took Garrett, whatever lurked high above in
those woods, has never stopped watching me.