I was so sure it would be the perfect day for a winter hunt,
the kind of morning that promises something special.
The car ride to Harrisville State Park felt oddly quiet,
except for the heater rattling against the cold and my German
Shepherd jacks panting in the back seat.
Every few miles I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was
as fired up as I was. He always seemed to know when we
were headed somewhere with open space and fresh air.
Stepping onto the snow at the trailhead, I noticed how it
sparkled under a low Gray sky. A deep hush.
Hungover everything. No birds calling, no rustling of
leaves, just the crunch under my boots.
The crisp bite in the air made me shiver, but I was too eager
to let it bother me. Jax tugged at the flimsy
retractable leash, sniffing and pawing at the ground as if he
already had a lead on something. I tried not to think about how
cheaply made that leash felt in my hand.
Everything seemed serene at first, but I remember spotting
strange canine tracks in the snow.
They looked a bit larger than the usual fox prints I'd seen
around these parts. My pulse quickened and I could
sense jacks honing in on the scent.
In that moment, I convinced myself it was just a stray dog
or maybe a coyote passing through Michigan.
Winters can turn even familiar animals into elusive shadows.
Jax's energy rose, and a little voice in the back of my mind
warned me to keep calm. Instead, I started talking him
up, telling him to find whatever's out there.
It was an idiotic move. He was already excited, and my
words only fueled his enthusiasm.
Before I knew it, the plastic handle of that bargain leash
started to bend. I gripped it tighter, but Jax
gave one mighty pull and the cord snapped.
In the blink of an eye. He darted off between the trees,
paws kicking up clouds of powder.
My hands shook as I shouted for him, but my voice seemed to
vanish in the stillness. For a second, I felt rooted to
the spot, overwhelmed by the sight of my dog disappearing
into a wild expanse. Then my body lurched forward and
I tore after him, trudging through snow that seemed to get
deeper with every step. I could see his tracks spaced
far apart from his bounding stride.
The forest around me felt larger and colder now that I was alone.
My breathing started to get rough, a mix of worry and the
frantic pace I was forcing on myself.
If Jax found an actual coyote or something worse, he might get
hurt, and if I couldn't keep up with him, he could be gone for
good. The deeper I went, the more
anxious I became. It felt like each tree watched
me rush by, not a single branch shifting.
The hush had turned ominous, and I kept expecting something to
bolt out of the shadows. I tried calling Jax again, voice
cracking in the distance. I heard him barking, but the
echo played tricks on my ears, making it impossible to pinpoint
his direction. I pressed on, ignoring the
tremor in my legs. The ground was slick in places,
hidden ice patches, waiting for a misstep.
Panic started to creep into my thoughts.
If I lost the trail, there was no guarantee I'd find it again.
Jax was a big dog, but the woods are bigger.
So I pushed forward, adrenaline urging me to keep going no
matter how numb my fingers felt or how stiff my joints had
become from the cold. There was only one goal at that
moment. Find Jax, latch on to him
somehow, and get the both of us out of this place.
Little did I know the real danger hadn't even begun.
I caught a glimpse of Jacks darting onto a narrow, half
forgotten trail that ran along the Creek.
Even though I'd been here in the summer, everything looked
completely foreign under so much snow.
My boots hit patches of ice more than solid ground, and the edges
of the path were dangerously slick, but I barely thought
twice. I needed to catch up before he
vanished for good. The slope ahead was brutal.
I tried to walk carefully, but Jacks was already bounding up
ahead, his tracks spaced too far apart for me to match.
In a normal stride. I hurried, and my foot slid on a
hidden patch of ice. One minute I was upright, the
next I was hitting the ground so hard it Jarred my teeth.
My lungs seized up, my vision blurred around the edges.
Instinct made me twist, trying to dig my hands into the snow,
but I was on a downhill slide. Every rock and jutting route
bruised me on the way down. I reached out for anything to
stop the momentum. My fingers brushed something, a
branch maybe, but it snapped instantly.
The hillside rushed by in a blur of white and brown.
Then I slammed onto the Creek, breaking through a layer of ice
that gave way under my weight. The water almost took my breath
away. It was a cold so intense my
muscles clenched. The shock shot through my limbs,
making it hard to think straight.
Struggling onto all fours, I felt the stream creeping up my
elbows. My jacket and pants soaked it up
like a sponge. One wrong move and I'd submerge
my entire body in that freezing mess.
With a desperate push, I managed to get my torso onto thicker ice
near the bank, then crawled until I was clear of the water.
That's when the pain in my leg flared up.
My pant leg was torn and blood was staining the snow.
I tried to stand, wincing as my knee threatened to buckle.
There was a sharp, pulsing throb, like a warning light in
my brain. I remember thinking that I'd be
in deep trouble if an animal picked up the scent of fresh
blood. With my luck, there might be a
hungry coyote lurking in the distance, watching for an easy
meal. Jax showed up completely
unfazed, panting like he'd just had the time of his life.
Relief washed over me, but anger flickered too.
I couldn't handle him bolting again so I grabbed the broken
cord from his side and tied it around my wrist.
My fingers shook from the cold and it felt like the wind was
trying to slice through every layer of clothing I had on.
Climbing up the bank became a test of will.
The snow soaked into my gloves each time I touched the ground
and I was limping so badly I had to half drag my leg.
It must have been 2 miles or more back to the car, but it
felt like crossing some frozen wasteland.
The quiet of the woods did nothing to calm me.
Every crack of an ice laden branch overhead made me flinch
and I kept checking behind me, convinced something might step
out from the trees. When I finally spotted the faint
outline of the parking lot, my throat tightened.
That battered old car looked like the only safe place on
earth. I nearly collapsed against it,
fumbling for my keys, my wet gloves making it impossible to
grip anything. Jax hopped in the back seat on
his own, tail wagging while I cranked the heater and peeled
off my soaked jacket. I threw my rifle onto the floor,
realizing there was no way I'd be firing any shots in this
condition. My hands were numb and I was
still bleeding. The first aid kit was tucked
under the passenger seat, and I tore into it like a lifeline,
bandaging my knee with unsteady hands.
Warm air finally blasted from the vents, but my teeth kept
chattering and I couldn't stop replaying each second of that
descent down the hill. Eventually I drove away, the
engines hum mixing with the rush of thoughts in my head.
Jack settled in, eyes half closed.
I kept glancing at him through the rear view mirror, feeling a
jumbled mess of relief, anger, and gratitude.
That stretch of Creek could have become my grave if I'd hit my
head or gone under the ice. The miles slipped by in a haze
of slush and salted roads. I kept thinking how close I'd
come to not making it out. One broken leash, 1 moment of
distraction, and suddenly nature had me in its teeth, ready to
swallow me whole. I knew I'd need to get my leg
checked out. I needed dry clothes and
something hot to drink. More than anything though, I
needed to get home, to let the warmth of the house chase away
the memory of that frigid water. By the time I pulled into my
driveway, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.
I couldn't decide if I felt lucky or just plain foolish, but
there was 1 clear lesson. Winter hunts aren't games, and
careless decisions can turn a simple outing into a nightmare.
I limped to my front door, jacks by my side, vowing I'd never let
a scrap of cheap plastic determine our fate again.
Saint Helena Island had this strange way of getting under my
skin without warning. On most days, I hardly noticed
how quiet the marshes were, or how the live oaks curved
overhead like old gnarled fingers.
But on that particular afternoon, the entire island
felt charged, like the landscape was waiting for something to
happen. It was impossible to ignore how
the air hung thick with attention I couldn't quite name.
I remember stepping off my dirt driveway with my friend Jack
trailing close behind. We did this all the time.
Wander the woods, poke around the creeks, look for shells or
arrowheads. Usually there was something
almost comforting about the giant ferns and the Moss draped
branches. Except that day the sky looked
washed out and the smell of damp leaves turned cloying.
Everything felt a little too still.
Even Jack, who usually cracked jokes, barely spoke.
The deeper we ventured, the more I caught myself glancing back,
almost convinced someone or something was watching.
The undergrowth rustled now and again, but whenever we spun
around, there was nothing. No birds bursting out of the
thicket, no stray dog sniffing in the brush.
Just an emptiness that set my nerves on edge.
It was like the woods had decided to keep quiet and see
how far we'd go. Then, in the distance, a voice
called out. Help, Help me.
It sounded like it belonged to a person around our age.
I froze, uncertain whether I was imagining it.
Jack and I exchanged startled looks.
Nothing about that cry felt natural.
Goats around the farms could mimic human whales, sure, but
this wasn't that. There was a raw urgency, like
somebody genuinely needed rescuing.
My first instinct was to rush toward it, even if logic told me
to stay put. I wasn't sure if it was fear or
determination pushing me forward, but I didn't hesitate
for long. The thought of ignoring whoever
was out there seemed worse than any potential danger, so I told
Jack we had to investigate. The expression on his face was a
mix of nerves and disbelief, like he wasn't sure whether to
talk sense into me or follow along.
We decided to run back to my house first.
It was a quick Sprint across damp leaves and tangled roots,
our minds racing the whole time. The plan was to grab a knife for
safety, maybe some decent walking sticks, and head right
back. Even at that age, I knew this
was a borderline reckless move, but something about that plea
demanded a response. Inside the house, I snatched up
the items I thought we needed. In retrospect, it was equal
parts bravado and naivety, two kids arming themselves to track
down a stranger's cry without telling a single adult.
My heart pounded as we ducked outside again, stepping into the
same heavy atmosphere, only now I could feel our anxiety
pounding in my ears. The silence swallowed everything
except for the leaves crunching under foot.
Jack kept shooting me, Looks like he was waiting for me to
change my mind. But I pressed on, somehow
convinced we could handle whatever awaited us.
Off we went back into the tangle of vines, guided by a voice that
drifted in and out of hearing range.
It was fainter this time, more distant, and that worried me.
Part of me was scared the person was losing hope, assuming a real
person was even out there. My senses felt more alive than
ever. Each broken twig under my
sneaker felt like it could give away our position to something
lurking behind the thick Palmetto fronds.
My own breath sounded too loud, practically echoing against the
silence. Jack tried speaking a couple of
times, but every attempt at conversation died off, swallowed
by the tense mood. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I wondered if this was how the old ghost story started, two
kids wandering off into the unknown, ignoring every warning
sign. But I pushed those doubts away,
convinced we were doing the right thing.
If somebody truly needed help, I wanted to be the one to provide
it. And if the woods were just
testing our nerves, I refused to back down first.
Still, a hint of dread tugged at me.
Something about those quiet trees and that distant voice
felt off, almost like they were part of some elaborate trick.
Yet I kept walking, letting that uneasy sensation grow with every
step. It clung to my skin, to the air,
to the fallen branches scattered across the ground.
When we finally reached the spot where we'd heard the voice the
first time, we paused, scanning the shadows.
No footprints, no sign of anyone.
And the silence was somehow worse now, as if the forest was
waiting to see what we'd do next.
Every instinct told me this was more than just an unlucky hiker
lost in the woods. I should have turned around, but
I was already in too deep, too hooked by the mystery to let it
go. Even Jack could tell I wasn't
about to stop. He let out a shaky sigh,
adjusted his grip on The Walking stick, and gave me this resigned
nod. Neither of us spoke, but we both
understood we were crossing an invisible threshold.
At that moment, it felt like we belonged to the woods more than
we belonged to ourselves. And that's how the day really
began. Two kids too young to fully
grasp the risk, too curious to run away.
We followed a voice that seemed to shift with the wind, deeper
into a maze of branches and tangled vines.
No clue about the terror waiting in the parts of the forest we'd
never even explored before. I should have known.
The moment we stumbled on that twisted path, we were headed for
something beyond our control. Jack trailed behind me, his
breath uneven as we navigated a strange network of vines that
had been manipulated into bizarre shapes.
It was like somebody had taken living plants and coaxed them
into letters and cryptic loops. Some of them reminded me of
symbols I'd once seen in an old book on folklore.
Others were so strange they made my stomach clench.
But a few contained the 1st letter of my name, and I
couldn't shake the notion that they were a message meant
specifically for me. Everything felt unnaturally
silent. No birds, no bugs, not even the
faintest breeze to stir the leaves.
I got the sense that the woods were waiting for me to make the
next move, observing from every mossy trunk.
The earlier call for help still echoed in my mind, and I kept
turning my head, hoping to catch sight of whoever was crying out.
But there was just the hush of the wilderness and these
haunting sigils guiding us forward.
Each step took more effort, like my body was trying to resist.
Moving deeper, we eventually reached a tree so big that it
stood out from everything else around it.
The trunk was massive, wide enough that you'd need more than
one person to wrap arms around it.
A ring of smaller trees crowded around it, forming a natural
barrier. The arrangement felt
intentional, like the forest had grown that way on purpose.
Jack mumbled something about leaving, and my legs quivered
with a spike of dread, but I kept pushing ahead, telling
myself we were too far in to turn back.
A narrow break in the brambles caught our eye.
On the far side of the trunk, Thorn snarled the entrance,
forming a gate of sorts, but we squeezed through anyway,
scraping our arms and ankles in the process.
The second I crossed that threshold, the light seemed to
fade. It was still daytime, but the
air felt dimmer, as if the sun couldn't reach this pocket of
land. My chest tightened with every
breath, but I refused to back down.
There was this reckless determination inside me, an urge
to see what was waiting beyond the overgrowth.
Lay a patch of ground that had been scorched black.
The area was maybe 5 or 6 feet across, encircled by dead grass
and brittle shrubs. It was more than just a burn
scar. The soil felt oddly cold, and
the smell hanging over the place reminded me of wet ashes.
At the center stood a charred tree, barely half its original
height. The top portion looked like it
had been snapped off and the remaining trunk was blackened
and split. That was when I noticed the
hollow, a small opening in the trunk just a few feet from the
ground. Normally an owl's hole wouldn't
bother me, but this one seemed to drink in the light, leaving
nothing but pure darkness within.
My pulse hammered as I stared at it.
Jack came up behind me, muttering something about going
home, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.
If anything was responsible for that cry, I felt certain it was
hiding in that hollow. Suddenly, the exact same voice
we'd been following Help help me came from inside the burned out
tree. Hearing those words echo from
such a lifeless trunk made everything inside me twist in
fear. I whipped around to see Jack's
face, which had gone pale. Neither of us knew what to do or
say. So we did the only thing that
made sense. We ran.
Branches whipped at our faces as we sprinted back the way we
came. In our panic, we veered off the
trails, desperate to put distance between US and that
scorched hollow. It felt like the whole forest
was closing in, urging us to escape faster.
We tripped over roots, stumbled through prickly undergrowth, and
paid no attention to the path or the twisted symbols we'd passed.
We were terrified of seeing something.
Worse if we looked back, By some stroke of luck, we burst out of
the woods onto my driveway, far from where we'd entered.
My lungs burned and my mind whirled.
I still gripped the knife I'd brought, but it felt ridiculous
and flimsy compared to whatever existed in that hollow.
Jack and I said nothing as we caught our breath.
We both just stood there, shaking, hearts pounding so loud
we could hardly hear anything else.
We never told our parents or any other adults.
Maybe a small part of us suspected they'd believe it
without question. Everyone on Saint Helena had
their own eerie tail, after all. But it felt better to keep this
one locked away instead. We avoided each other for a few
days, too unsettled to talk it through.
I kept replaying the scene in my head, struggling to understand
why the woods seemed to single us out.
The strangest part was how normal everything looked once we
were safe at home. The sky had that same dull
color, the air smelled the same, but I knew something was
different. I had seen just enough to learn
that the island held secrets darker and more twisted than I'd
ever imagined whenever I passed the edge of the tree line after
that. I caught myself expecting to
hear that voice again. Part of me braced for the moment
it would call out, beckoning me back toward the scorched
clearing where a hollow in a dead trunk could imitate a cry
for help, one that no living thing should ever make.
I got a late start that evening, slipping into my old hunting
clothes and grabbing the single shot 20 gauge from its usual
spot by the door. The night sky was pitch black,
no moon, no distant glow from any town.
Out here you rely on your own eyes, maybe a weak flashlight if
you're lucky. I remember thinking it felt
unusually still, like all the wildlife had decided to bed down
early. Normally the crickets would be a
steady chorus, and occasionally I'd catch an owl calling in the
distance. That night I barely heard
anything. I led the hounds out, two young
ones still learning the ropes. They were excitable, but
reliable enough to sniff out a raccoon or even a stray deer if
they were in the mood. They usually dashed into the
brush, yipping and yapping, but this time they were dead quiet.
I chalked it up to them not catching a scent yet.
We set off along the edge of the property, heading for a familiar
spot near a little stream. My boots crunched through the
undergrowth, and I noticed that each step sounded louder than
normal. After a good 20 minutes of slow
walking, I realized we hadn't heard a single bark.
Usually, even if they were on a wrong trail, they'd make some
racket. I whistled.
Nothing. I tried calling them by name.
Still nothing. A tightness settled in my gut.
I kept going, stepping over fallen branches and pushing
aside tangles of weeds, hoping to see a flash of fur, hoping
they'd burst out barking like they were just playing a trick
on me. The silence hung like a thick
curtain. There came a point where I
decided to cut through a small patch of waist high brush toward
a cow pasture. From there I could skirt around
to the next hollow and keep an eye out for the dogs.
As soon as I stepped into that open field, I stopped dead in my
tracks. Across the Ridge that ran
parallel to the field, an intense red glow spread out,
drenching everything in this unreal color.
It wasn't flickering, it wasn't pulsing, It just bathed the
entire tree line in Crimson. At first my head tried to
rationalize it. Maybe the farmer was having a
bonfire or some kind of brush clearing burned, but if that was
the case I would have smelled smoke or seen sparks.
This glow looked almost too pure, and it stretched for way
too long a distance. I was far enough away that I
couldn't make out details, just the scarlet shade crawling
across the treetops. My pulse hammered as I realized
there was no flicker, no crackle, no smell at all.
I fumble with my shotgun, popping out the birdshot shell
and loading a slug. It felt silly.
Who loads slugs to investigate a weird light?
But my instincts were screaming that something about this wasn't
right. I knew no one would be out here
with a massive Bank of red lights, especially not this deep
off the road. It almost felt like I was seeing
the horizon died in blood. For a moment, I debated marching
right up that Ridge to see who or what was causing it.
My legs felt numb, torn between curiosity and a prickling sense
of danger. I could practically taste my own
fear. The risk of running into
something beyond my comprehension kept me rooted in
place. Finally, self preservation took
over. There are times to be bold, and
there are times to get the hell out of there.
I opted for the latter. Keeping my flashlight off, I
turned around slowly, trying not to make a sound.
The brush rustled beneath my feet, leaves crackled, and every
little noise made me flinch. The only thought in my mind was
getting back home before that red glow moved or spread or
whatever an otherworldly light might do.
By the time I stumbled onto our porch, my breath was ragged and
my hands were shaking. My mom and stepdad were inside,
not even looking up from the kitchen table, when I started
babbling about the red glow. They'd heard plenty of wild
hunting stories over the years and probably assumed this was
another tall tale. They scolded me instead,
demanding to know why I ditched the hounds out in the woods.
I tried explaining, but words failed.
Eventually I fell quiet, realizing I wouldn't get any
sympathy or understanding. That night, the dogs found their
way home by dawn, looking spooked and refusing to leave
their shelter. I spent the morning drinking
coffee and replaying everything in my head, trying to figure out
how a bonfire could appear so solid, or how a glow that strong
could vanish by sunrise. There had to be some trace, a
scorched field, a line of tire tracks, something.
But I already suspected I'd find nothing that unsettling.
Red light became the only thing on my mind.
I barely slept after that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd
picture the treetops drenched in that fiery red glow, spreading
across the Ridge like some silent warning.
By morning, I'd worked myself up enough to decide I had to go
back and see if there was anything, anything at all, that
could prove what I'd witnessed. Once the sun rose high enough to
brighten the woods, I headed out.
Instead of the shotgun, I brought my backpack stuffed with
snacks, water, and a cheap camera I'd borrowed from a
friend. I wanted evidence.
My breath quickened the closer I got to that pasture.
I kept expecting to see scorched grass or some sign of a
makeshift campfire. Yet everything seemed normal.
The grass was damp but green. No tire tracks, no scorching, no
burned out logs. The birds were chirping.
The breeze rustled the leaves. It felt maddingly ordinary, as
if the night before had been an illusion.
I paced around the area, snapping photos of the ground,
the trees, the sky, anything that might capture some subtle
clue. At one point I knelt and tried
to see if the soil was disturbed, but it just crumbled
between my fingers like regular old dirt.
No footprints I couldn't explain, no broken branches to
suggest someone had hauled in a generator or floodlights.
If anything, it was too pristine, which fueled my
frustration. A short walk away stood this
abandoned pre Civil War home, weathered boards sagging inward.
Growing up I'd heard rumors about it, whispers of odd lights
in the windows, disembodied voices drifting across the yard
at night. I'd always thought those stories
were just tall tales to spook local kids, but right then, with
my nerves already frayed, it felt like a natural next stop.
The place looked deader than ever.
Its front porch drooped. Old shutters dangled from rusted
hinges, and the windows were caked with dirt.
I stepped onto the porch, half expecting it to collapse under
my weight. A sharp creak made my heart
jolt, but it held. Then I spotted something moving
inside. At first I thought it could be
an animal, but it disappeared too quickly, like a flicker of a
silhouette that shouldn't have been there at all.
I pressed my face to a broken window pane, but all I saw was a
dim, empty hallway. A chill crawled across my skin.
It felt like stepping into a vacuum.
No birds sang, no breeze whistled through the cracks.
It was the kind of silence that makes you suspect you're not
entirely alone. I backed off before curiosity
got me doing something reckless like breaking down the door.
That old house had a heavy aura, and I was already wound tighter
than a coiled spring by the time I trudged back home.
I was itching to tell someone, Anyone.
That there was no sign of a fire, no sign of headlights,
nothing. But as soon as I walked through
the door, my stepdad was there, pacing around, looking spooked.
He locked eyes with me and blurted out he'd seen the light
too. Except in his case, he'd been
hunting in another hollow a couple miles away, waiting for
the dogs to pick up a scent with his flashlight off.
Out of nowhere, 3 flashes of red lit up the entire area, bright
enough to reveal every tree trunk and leaf.
Then it vanished, leaving him in darkness.
I couldn't form a proper response beyond an open mouthed
stare. We both knew we weren't dealing
with imagination. Hearing his story felt like
validation. At least I wasn't going crazy.
We spent the next couple of days calling around, talking to folks
we trusted. Most had heard rumors of odd
lights over the years, but no one had solid proof.
A few suggested it might be military flares or experimental
aircraft. Others hinted it was something
not of this world. My stepdad and I weren't sure
what to believe, but neither of us could shake the feeling that
something was off in these woods.
I started digging online whenever I could get to a place
that had Internet. Eventually, I stumbled upon a
local message board with mention of a red light sighting about a
decade later and 10 miles away. The poster talked about an
object that hovered in one place, then shifted colors.
It gave me goosebumps to read, partly because they described
that same electric shade of red I had seen.
I reached out to them, hoping for more details or pictures,
but got only silence. That made my paranoia worse,
like someone wanted to bury the story.
At night, I found myself checking the window, waiting for
a flash of Crimson that never came.
The hounds seemed skittish too. They'd circle the yard, whining,
ears perked like they caught a scent of something in the
distance. My stepdad slept with his
shotgun resting against the wall.
We didn't talk about it directly, but I could tell he
was on edge, same as me. Friends started noticing I was
quieter, more distracted. A couple of them teased me about
chasing spooky lights, but the ones who really knew me could
tell something had gotten under my skin.
Finally, I mustered up the nerve to return to that pasture at
dusk. My shotgun was slung across my
back. This time, I wasn't taking any
chances. The walk felt twice as long as
usual, and every rustle of wind in the trees made me grip the
flashlight tighter. When I reached the pasture, I
switched off my beam and waited. Minutes ticked by, stretching
into an hour. The moon rose high, bathing the
rolling hills in a faint glow, but no red light appeared.
Just silence and the distant call of a night bird.
Eventually the chill of the evening got to me, so I turned
back, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment.
On the way home, I kept replaying the moment I'd first
seen that bright glow. It felt as if something had
crossed a line that night, like I'd witnessed a side of this
land that wasn't meant for prying eyes.
Even though I found no evidence this time around, I couldn't
shake the sense that the light might reappear, maybe when I
least expected it. Part of me wanted to unravel the
mystery, to push harder to investigate the old house, to
scour every acre of that Ridge. But another part whispered that
maybe it was better not to know. Sometimes answers can make
things worse. Still, as I walked up my porch
steps, I decided I'd keep looking.
If that eerie color ever spilled across the trees again, I would
be ready to face whatever was out there, no matter what form
it took. I've lived my entire life in the
northeastern mountains of Pennsylvania, surrounded by
endless trees and rugged trails that feel more like home than
any concrete sidewalk ever could.
My ex-wife on the other hand, was a city soul through and
through. She came from Trenton's busy
streets, so naturally my family thought a weekend of camping,
albeit in our own backyard, would be a fun way to show her
the quieter side of life. At least that was the plan.
My parents cottage is set against a broad stretch of land
with a small Creek trickling a ways behind a stand of dense
foliage. We decided to camp just a short
distance from the cottage, maybe 25 yards at most.
It wasn't exactly untamed wilderness, but it had all the
rural charm a city dweller could want.
Plus the pop up camper we pitched was cozy enough to feel
adventurous, yet close enough for a quick dash inside if we
needed anything. I spent most of that first day
giving my ex-wife the Grand Tour, the Creek where I learned
to fish, the grassy area where you can sometimes spot deer at
dusk, and the big oak tree that my dad planted as a sapling
decades ago. She was enthusiastic, though I
could tell it was a different world for her.
Our two lab mixes, Yoshi and Max, were having a blast.
Yoshi, the bigger one, tended to barrel forward with No Fear,
sniffing every leaf and chasing everything that moved.
Max, though braver than most dogs, usually waited for Yoshi's
cue. Together they acted like
unstoppable siblings, racing around the yard until their
tongues practically dragged on the grass.
As evening arrived, my dad strolled up to me with that
familiar look in his eyes, the one he always got before warning
me about something. Sure enough, he said a mean
storm was expected overnight. Heavy rain, strong winds, maybe
hail. Typical for these mountains.
But he wanted us to know it might be safer to sleep indoors.
Of course, I brushed him off. We'd come prepared, right?
The pop up had held up against all sorts of weather in the
past. I told him we'd be fine and he
just shrugged. That silent I told you so
practically written on his face. Once darkness fell, the yard
felt different. The wind kicked up, rustling
branches and scattering leaves around.
Every few seconds the motion sensor lights would flick on and
catch some stray movement, a raccoon, maybe a squirrel,
before going dark again. My ex-wife seemed both
fascinated and uneasy, and I can't say I blamed her.
Nights out here can feel unnervingly quiet 1 moment and
then fill with weird noises the next.
By the time we crawled into the camper, it felt like midnight,
though it might have been just shy of 11.
The dogs settled down quickly on their blankets at our feet,
still worn out from all the running around.
I was drifting in and out of sleep when I registered the
first few drops of rain tapping on the roof.
That gentle sound barely registered as a threat, In fact,
I figured it'd lull me to sleep in no time.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was a
burst of Thunder so loud it rattled the flimsy windows in
the camper. My eyes shot open in the
blackness. My ex-wife sat up too, muttering
something I couldn't catch over the roar.
Outside. Rain hammered down and the wind
rocked the camper just enough to make my stomach flip.
The dogs went from snoozing to alert in seconds.
Their ears perked. That's when I heard something
else, like someone dashing across the flagstone path
between the cottage and the camper.
Quick steps. Not a mere shuffle, but a
Sprint. I thought.
Dad must have changed his mind about letting us ride out the
storm alone. My ex-wife called out toward the
door, jokingly inviting him in, but no one answered.
Instead, I felt a hard thump against the camper door, like a
heavy fist slamming into it. The entire pop up trembled.
Yoshi usually would have been barking his head off by then,
but I caught sight of him backing up, ears pinned, a growl
rumbling in his throat. Max pressed closer to him,
uncertain but growling too. My ex-wife gripped my arm and I
realized I was holding my breath.
Another jolt struck the camper, this time from above, producing
this eerie groan in the canvas. It almost felt like something
heavy had landed on the roof, shifting its weight as the storm
raged on. We both stared at the ceiling,
unsure if it was going to cave in or RIP open.
Rain pelted harder, each burst of lightning lit the edges of
the camper, highlighting the shapes around us.
For a heartbeat, I caught a flash of Yoshi trembling eyes on
the roof. I could barely see my ex-wife,
but I heard her breathing, rapid and shaky.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't place what was out
there. A person?
Some wild animal? No clue.
The wind picked up even more, and for a split second the
overhead lights outside blinked on, scattering pale beams across
the yard. Normally they would stay lit if
there was movement, but they flickered off again almost
immediately, plunging us back Into Darkness.
Another loud thump resonated through the roof.
The camper swayed so hard I thought we'd tip over.
If my dad was outside I was sure he'd be yelling for us to get
inside the cottage, but there was only the storm.
I leaned over to my ex-wife, trying to steady my voice as I
told her we needed a plan. We were practically trapped in a
battered pop up, completely blind and clueless about what
was pounding on us. The dogs barked uncontrollably,
but it felt like their aggression was mixed with raw
fear. Honestly, I didn't blame them.
It was at that moment I realized how risky it might be to step
outside. I thought about my dad's hatchet
resting by the fire pit just a few feet from the camper door,
assuming it hadn't been moved. If we had that, maybe we'd feel
safer. But the idea of opening the door
without knowing what lurked beyond sent a wave of dread
through me. Thunder rattled overhead again
and the roof groaned. Something, someone sounded like
they were moving up there, dragging across the fabric.
My mind raced through every possible explanation.
A bear, a raccoon on steroids, or maybe a person messing with
us. None made much sense, not with
the weight it felt like we were dealing with.
I whispered to my ex-wife that if this got worse, we'd send the
dogs out first. That plan wasn't my proudest
moment, but I was desperate. She whispered back that she was
ready to run. The moment I said so, she'd bolt
straight to my parents cottage and bring help.
Another strike of lightning lit the interior, revealing the fear
on her face. I tried to give a reassuring
nod, but deep down I wasn't sure how we were getting out of this
with our nerves intact. We waited, half expecting the
roof to RIP open. The next flash of lightning was
so bright I almost shut my eyes. Then everything went dark again,
Quieter. For a few seconds.
I listened hard. The banging had ceased, but the
rain and wind kept going. I started wondering if we were
in the clear, or if something out there was merely waiting for
us to poke our heads out like fools.
I knew one thing, the night was far from over and none of us
were getting any sleep until we figured out what was lurking in
that storm. I told myself we couldn't stay
cooped up in that shaking camper.
The roof kept groaning and whatever was out there seemed
bent on ripping it apart. My ex-wife and I huddled in the
darkness, practically yelling over the Thunder, trying to
figure out how to escape without running straight into its claws.
If it even had claws. We had no idea.
Finally, we settled on the only plan that made sense in the
moment. Get the dogs out first.
Maybe they'd frighten it off, or at least give us enough time to
bolt for my parents cottage. I took a breath, reached for the
zipper on the canvas door, and counted down under my breath.
I flung the door open, letting in a torrent of rain.
Yoshi and Max charged outside, barking like they'd never barked
before, vanishing into the sheets of water.
I jumped out right behind them, and the ground instantly felt
like a shallow lake. My shoes sank into the soggy
earth, and my shirt clung to me as if it weighed a ton.
For a split second, a flash of lightning lit the yard.
My parents stood on their back porch, shining a flashlight
around, completely baffled. Dad was barefoot in boxers.
He'd obviously sprinted out of bed the moment he heard
commotion. Mom was gripping him by the
elbow, keeping him from stepping into the mud.
They shouted something, but the wind and rain drowned out their
words. I grabbed the small hatchet we'd
used for kindling. A feeble comfort, but at least
it was something. My ex-wife dashed past me,
heading for the porch. Water dripped into my eyes, but
I forced myself to keep scanning the yard, expecting to catch a
glimpse of a hulking silhouette moving between the trees.
Yoshi and Max barked toward the dark corners around the camper,
but no shape emerged. Each bolt of lightning revealed
only swaying branches and walls of rain.
It was eerie how empty it looked, given how sure I'd been
that some beast was out there. Dad yelled for me to hurry
inside, so I took off, hatchet in hand, still half crouched
like I expected something to pounce.
Each step felt heavier than the last, the mud sucking at my
feet. I made it onto the porch, nearly
colliding with my parents. Mom slammed the door shut behind
us, locking it twice, like an extra bolt would stand a chance
against something that could rock a camper.
Inside, the lights flickered, threatening to plunge the
cottage Into Darkness. My ex-wife was drenched,
trembling on the couch. The dogs shook out their fur,
splashing water everywhere. Dad kept shouting questions, but
I was too rattled to speak in full sentences.
I managed to choke out that something heavy had been
pounding on the roof of the camper.
Mom, eyes wide, threw me a look that said she believed me more
than she wanted to admit. Meanwhile, Dad kept repeating.
You sure it wasn't a branch? The wind can snap them right
off, you know. It sounded like he was trying to
convince himself more than me. A branch, sure, except branches
don't feel like a weight. Slytherin across the roof.
We spent the rest of the night on the edge.
Every time a gust rattled the windows, I half expected the
front door to burst open. The dogs paced in circles,
occasionally letting out low growls at sounds only they could
hear. My ex-wife refused to budget
from the couch, so we all just stayed together, jolting at
every flash of lightning. Eventually the storm eased and
dawn rolled in, subdued and Gray.
The yard looked like a swamp. My father, still trying to brush
off the night's events, insisted we go outside and check for
damage. None of us were eager for that,
but the idea of leaving the camper out there after such a
beating made me antsy. My ex-wife stayed indoors with
mom, her eyes still full of panic.
I couldn't blame her. Dad and I trudged back outside.
Rain dripped from the porch roof, splashing our shoes.
The pop up camper looked battered, water soaked, but
still standing. Dad approached it cautiously, as
if part of him suspected something might leap out.
I told him about the banging on the sides, the swaying that made
me think it might flip over. He gave the camper a test shake
with his hands. It wobbled a little, but nowhere
near the force we felt. I hopped inside, scanning for
tears or broken poles. Then Dad called me from outside,
sounding more urgent than usual. He was pointing at the roof, one
hand shielding his eyes from the now drizzling sky, when I
climbed onto a folding ladder. I froze, 4 long impressions
scored across the algae and grime on the canvas roof, like
something with massive fingers had gripped the edges to haul
itself up. Each mark looked at least six or
seven inches in length, spaced out too widely for any raccoon
or possum. Dad stared at them for a long
moment, silent. I could tell he didn't know what
to say. He eventually muttered that
maybe a big branch had scraped it during a gust, but we both
knew that wouldn't explain the weird spacing or how violently
the camper rocked. I hopped down, feeling a new
wave of dread. If that was made by a person,
how strong did they have to be to lift themselves onto a slick
roof in a thunderstorm? If it was an animal, what kind
of animal had fingers like that? Dad took a step back and seemed
ready to dismiss the whole thing, but he didn't look quite
as confident as before. Rainwater kept sliding down my
neck, but I barely noticed. My mind locked on those prints.
If we hadn't scrambled out when we did, who knows what might
have happened. By the time we got back inside,
my ex-wife was already packing up, her expression set.
She'd clearly made-up her mind that she wasn't spending another
second in that camper. We all agreed to cut the weekend
short. Mom tried to offer some
breakfast, but no one had much appetite.
Even the dog seemed off, tails low, sniffing the corners of the
cottage as though expecting another intrusion.
No one ever pinpointed what was responsible for that terrifying
assault on the camper. My father still drops the big
branch explanation whenever the story comes up, though he's
never looked me straight in the eye while saying it.
I'm positive we were dealing with something outside the realm
of normal late night wildlife, and though the house and yard
went back to their usual calm after that day, I've never quite
forgotten that stormy night. The pounding, the rocking, and
those four marks pressed into the rooftop like a silent
warning. We left soon after, all of us
soaked and sleep deprived but still in one piece.
That alone was a relief, yet there's always been this nagging
sense that we might have escaped before discovering what truly
lurks in the shadows of those mountains.
It's a question that still lingers unanswered every time I
remember that weekend. And trust me, it's impossible
not to remember. I was slumped against the fence
at the end of our driveway, trying to wake up enough to face
another dull day of middle school, when the rocks under my
shoes started shifting. A faint rumble passed beneath my
feet, like something colossal was stirring underground.
Before I could process it, the mailbox beside me clattered so
hard I thought it would RIP off its post.
My brother and sister yelped, and we all stumbled backward.
It was early, barely light, and the whole world seemed to wobble
in a way that made my stomach feel strange.
After maybe 10 seconds of this rolling tremor, everything
stilled. An eerie hush swallowed the
yard. No birds, no wind.
Like nature was stunned by what just happened.
Dad rushed out of the house, his face etched with worry,
muttering something about power lines.
He knelt to examine the new cracks clawing through the dirt
near the porch steps. Mom hovered in the doorway, eyes
darting between us kids and the yard.
My brother tried to crack a joke he always does when he's
nervous, but his voice shook. Not 5 minutes later, an
announcement blared from Dad's old radio in the workshop.
School was canceled. With the bus route probably
wrecked or delayed by the quake, nobody was taking chances.
I can't say I was disappointed. My sister and I exchanged
glances, half relieved, half buzzing with excitement.
Even though an earthquake is dangerous, part of me kept
thinking this might mean a day free from boring math and the
chance to poke around our mountainside without any
grown-ups telling us no. Eric, my best friend since I
could walk, showed up not long after, practically vibrating
with energy. He loved anything out of the
ordinary. He didn't even knock, just burst
through the front door hollering about how a couple chimneys on
his St. had fallen. We huddled in the living room,
talking over each other about the quake, about how maybe the
old logging roads up by the Ridge had caved in or something.
Even my younger sister, who usually stuck to reading, seemed
intrigued. Dad overheard us buzzing about
the Ridge and cut in, telling us to leave those weakened slopes
alone. The quake, he warned, could have
loosened the rocks. Mom looked equally uneasy,
insisting we stay close to the house.
Of course, that only fueled our determination to see the damage
for ourselves. Once Dad turned his attention to
the radio and Mom started fussing with the dishes, my
brother and I locked eyes with Eric.
It was time. We slipped outside, telling Mom
we'd just check around the yard, which was technically true.
But as soon as we were a safe distance down the driveway, we
veered off toward the trail that led up behind the orchard.
The early morning chill clung to my jacket, and the ground felt
spongy where the quake had rearranged the soil.
Broken branches littered the path.
Every few steps, Eric or my brother would point out fresh
cracks in the earth, some running shallow, others diving
deeper. Like the land had been sliced
open. We reached the edge of the
Ridge, panting from the climb. Loose stones clattered beneath
our feet, rolling down the slope.
One big boulder had torn loose completely, leaving a raw gash
in the hill. Even from a few yards away, it
looked ominous, a dark slice in the earth, partially hidden by
sagging roots and clumps of damp leaves.
My sister tugged at my sleeve, saying she wasn't sure we should
get too close. I remember an odd sensation in
the pit of my stomach. Something about the way the
ground had ripped open felt wrong.
Still, I couldn't help stepping closer, trying to see if the
quake had revealed anything hidden beneath the dirt.
Eric, always braver than smart, hopped forward and yanked at a
clump of torn roots. He blinked, then waved us over
with wide eyes between the muddy vines and toppled.
Rocks lay a narrow crevice, big enough to squeeze into if you
tried. A weird draft seeped out,
carrying a smell I couldn't place, somewhere between old
leaves and something metallic. My brother wanted to see if it
went anywhere, but my sister backed away, crossing her arms
tight. Just then we heard Dad calling
our names from below. He must have guessed we'd
ignored his warnings. We scattered from the Ridge,
slipping and sliding over damp. Rocks until we were back on more
solid ground. I glanced over my shoulder at
that hidden gap in the hillside, feeling uneasy but also
strangely captivated. It felt like a secret, and if we
didn't explore it, the opportunity would vanish.
When we reached home, Dad scolded us, told us to stay put,
and threatened chores if we kept wandering.
But I couldn't stop thinking about that crevice, even as I
tried to help Mom with some cleanup and pretend I was
listening to Dad's stories about the biggest quake he'd ever
felt. My mind drifted back to that
opening. Later, I asked Eric if he'd ever
known about any cave systems up there.
He shrugged, grinning in that excited way he gets whenever
there's a mystery. My brother, overhearing us,
started pulling out Dad's old map of the area, though it
didn't show anything unusual in that spot.
Mom, not fooled for a second by our apparent cooperation,
reminded us we'd get grounded if we went up there again.
But once something piques your curiosity, at that age, it's all
you can think about. The quake had ripped open a
piece of our world we'd never seen.
We had to check it out. That night, while the rest of
the family tried to settle down, I lay in bed, wide awake,
picturing that hidden crevice under the Ridge.
Questions spun in my mind. How deep did it go?
Was there something inside? That subtle metallic odor still
lingered in my nose whenever I recalled the draft escaping from
the hole. Whatever it was, I knew I wasn't
going to sleep peacefully until we investigated further.
And so. Even though my sister warned me
over and over that it was a bad idea and Dad had threatened
chores for a month, I caught myself making a plan.
Eric and my brother were on board.
The quake had given us an unexpected day off, and we
intended to use it, no matter the risk.
We crept back into that dark mouth of the earth, driven by a
reckless need to understand what had been waiting for us behind
the Ridge. With only a single Lantern to
guide our uncertain steps, my brother Eric and I eased
ourselves into the narrow corridor of twisted roots and
wet stone. Every step felt like crossing a
forbidden threshold, the feeble light casting restless, dancing
shadows on walls that seemed to whisper secrets of decay.
The further we went, the thicker the air grew, suffused with the
rank odor of rotting flesh and a sharp metallic Tang that burned
at the back of my throat. I had to force myself to breathe
through my mouth, each inhalation a near choke on the
stench of something long dead and forgotten.
Soon enough, our path widened into a cramped chamber where the
beam of our Lantern revealed a grotesque scattering of bones.
I could tell some belonged to small animals, a stray dog,
perhaps a raccoon, or even a deer, left in a macabre display
of nature's indifference. The site was as repulsive as it
was mesmerizing. Flies buzzed relentlessly around
some of the fresher remains, adding a constant madding drone
to the silence. As we inched along, a slow drip
began echoing through the confined space, each drop
measured and deliberate, like the ticking of a grim clock
counting down our inevitable discovery.
I knelt by the wall, tracing faint scratch like marks that
ran along the stone, and found clumps of coarse dark hair
caught in the crevices. These marks suggested that
something large and agitated had once or still roamed these
depths. At the far end of the chamber,
the ground sloped sharply downward.
The floor became a slick, treacherous path that led us to
what appeared to be a natural ledge overlooking a yawning
chasm. A sudden burst of hot, humid air
surged upward from the pit, as if exhaling from some hidden
lung. Deep in the darkness, Eric
fumble with a ragged scrap of cloth he'd soaked in lighter
fluid until we managed to ignite it into a makeshift torch.
Its erratic flame trembled over the edge, casting a shaky light
that barely held back the consuming blackness below.
In that wavering glow, I caught sight of movement, a massive,
fluid shape sliding just beyond our feeble light.
It moved too quickly to be clearly seen, yet its presence
was unmistakable. Before we could exchange another
word, a low, guttural growl rumbled up from the depths.
It was a sound so raw and visceral it reverberated in my
chest, as though the creature itself were speaking directly to
my deepest fears. Then came a roar, an explosion
of sound that shattered any semblance of calm.
The impact of that roar was more than mere noise.
It pounded through my skull, making my limbs tremble
uncontrollably. I sank to the uneven ground,
ears straining against the overwhelming assault.
Eric fell beside me, his body folding in on itself as we both
struggled to catch fleeting, scattered breaths.
In the midst of the chaos, I managed a fragmented glimpse.
Two glowing red eyes, unblinking and fierce, fixed on us from
somewhere in that abyss. For what felt like an eternity,
time slowed as the sound and sight merged into a single,
horrifying moment. Every instinct screamed at me to
run, yet I remained frozen, ensnared by the sheer force of
that sound. An oppressive, all consuming
vibration that robbed me of thought.
The creature's presence was undeniable, its power magnified
by the darkness that cradled it. I knew then that whatever lurked
below was far beyond anything our wild imaginations could have
conjured. Struggling against the paralysis
that held me, I forced my aching body to shift, determined to
drag myself away from that cursed ledge.
But the roar continued, echoing off the walls of the cavern like
a promise that this was only the beginning.
With every pulse of that terrible sound, the chasm seemed
to pull us in deeper into a nightmare that we had only just
begun to understand. I don't remember the exact
moment when we realized we had to run, only that the creatures
roar shattered every thought of courage we'd mustered.
My brother's grip on my arm tightened as we scrambled up the
treacherous slope, the slick, uneven ground turning every step
into a desperate fight for survival.
I could barely hear anything over the pounding in my ears, a
relentless ringing that felt like it was hammering my skull.
Every fibre of my being screamed to move, and yet fear paralyzed
me for split seconds before adrenaline forced my limbs into
action. The cavern behind us was a
cacophony of echoes. That unearthly roar still
reverberating off the stone walls, haunted my every step.
I remember the acrid smell of burnt wood and wet stone
mingling as we burst out into the weak morning light outside.
The chill of the air hit me like a slap, a harsh reminder that
the nightmare was far from over. I stumbled over jagged rocks and
broken roots, my heart hammering so fiercely I thought it might
burst through my rib cage. We didn't stop running until the
Ridge was a distant, dark memory behind us.
When we finally collapsed onto a patch of rough grass, my brother
was pale and shaking, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Eric was quiet, his face blank and numb, as though the
creature's malevolence had sucked every ounce of color from
his soul. I tried to speak, to demand that
we recount what we'd seen, but my throat was raw, and the words
died before they could form. Later that day, back at home,
our parents hardly recognized us.
Dad's angry scoldings were drowned out by the silence in
our eyes, the unspoken terror of something beyond explanation.
I couldn't shake the sensation that every creak in the house,
every whisper of the wind, was a reminder of that monstrous sound
from deep within the earth. My ears still rang, a high
pitched whine that persisted long after the creature's voice
faded. The doctor later said it was
likely from shock and the intense sound pressure, but his
clinical words did nothing to ease the dread that clung to my
skin. For days, I lay in bed with the
darkness behind my eyelids filled with that scene, the
Crimson, unblinking eyes in the depths of that pit, the low
guttural growl that seemed to speak directly to my worst
fears. Sleep was elusive.
When I finally dozed off, it wasn't rest at all, but a
torturous replay of that horror, complete with the creature's
roar echoing in every nightmare. I woke up curled in a ball,
drenched in sweat. Convinced that at any moment
those red eyes would appear again, in the weeks that
followed, our little group of adventurers was irreversibly
changed. Eric drifted away into silence,
barely speaking to anyone and keeping to himself, as if the
memory of that underground terror was a secret too painful
to share. My brother, once so full of wild
energy, now avoided even the hint of a cave or a dark,
forgotten corner of the woods. And me, I became haunted by
every Creek in the floorboards and every shadow that moved in
the periphery of my vision. Years later, when another minor
tremor rattled our sleepy town, I couldn't ignore the pole to
return. I made my way back to the Ridge,
driven by a mixture of dread and a desperate need.
Foreclosure. The caves entrance was partly
collapsed now, a jagged scar on the hillside.
Yet I could still feel that old metallic odor drifting out like
a whisper from a forgotten nightmare.
Standing there, I felt the chill of the memory run down my spine.
Every time I closed my eyes, I still heard that thunderous roar
and saw those blazing eyes locked in a silent promise that
whatever lurked in that dark pit was waiting, bidding its time.
I don't know if I'll ever be free of that terror.
The scars, both seen and unseen, remain etched into my memory.
I live each day with the quiet knowledge that something
unnatural still lurks beneath the surface, waiting for the
next tremor, the next lapse in our guard.
And sometimes, in the dead of night, when everything is still,
I swear I can hear it echoing from that cursed place,
reminding me that some secrets should never be unearthed.