I always thought moving to the cabin would be peaceful.
You know, the quiet where the loudest thing is, the wind in
the trees and the occasional crackle of a fire.
Grace loved it here, she said. The woods felt alive, like they
were watching over us. I used to laugh that off, but
after what happened I'm not so sure anymore.
The Ridge loomed behind the cabin like a wall, the trees
stretched thin and tall against the sky.
It was beautiful during the day, but at night it was something
else entirely. The way the shadows moved, the
faint rustle of branches. It was too still, too quiet.
I'd chalked it up to my imagination, at least until that
night on the porch. We were sitting outside, wrapped
in a blanket, watching the stars.
Grace was leaning against me, her face lit by the faint glow
of the Lantern beside us. She was humming softly,
something she'd heard growing up, when she stopped mid note
and stiffened. Do you see that?
She whispered, barely audible. See what?
I asked, already feeling the hairs on the back of my neck
rise. She pointed toward the Ridge.
At first I didn't see anything, just the black outline of trees
against the sky. But then it moved, a flash of
pale, almost white, slinking low, to the ground.
I squinted, trying to make sense of it.
A deer, maybe. But it wasn't.
It was too thin, its limbs too long, its movements all wrong.
It crawled forward on all fours, its head jerking unnaturally,
like it was struggling to balance itself.
For a second, it stopped and turned toward us.
I froze. I couldn't see its face, but I
swear it was looking at me. It's just an animal, I muttered,
trying to convince myself as much as Grace.
She shook her head. No, it's not.
Her voice didn't sound like her, calm, almost reverent.
She leaned forward, her eyes locked on the thing as it
crawled into the shadows and disappeared.
I wanted to get up, grab the flashlight and chase after it,
but my legs wouldn't move. Maybe it's a coyote?
I suggested, my voice unsteady. Grace smiled faintly, her eyes
still fixed on the Ridge. No, she said.
It's something else. I didn't sleep that night.
Every Creek of the cabin, every gust of wind made me jump.
Grace, though, seemed perfectly at ease.
She even laughed at me when I told her I'd heard something
outside. Maybe it's your forest spirit, I
said, trying to make light of it.
She just smiled. Maybe it is.
The next morning I went out to check the property.
The air was crisp, the ground damp from the rain the night
before. Everything looked normal until I
got to the edge of the clearing. Then I found something
disturbing. A circle of broken branches,
scattered, as if something had been lying there.
In the centre was a pile of bones, small ones picked clean.
I knelt down, my stomach twisting.
They looked like rabbit bones, but there was something off
about the way they were arranged, almost like a spiral.
I brought Grace out to see it. She didn't seem fazed.
It's a gift, she said simply. A gift from what?
She shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the Ridge.
The forest. I laughed nervously, but she
didn't. She just stood there, staring,
until I finally dragged her back inside.
That night, the thing came closer.
We were inside the fire, crackling low, when Grace
suddenly got up and went to the window.
What is it? I asked, already dreading the
answer. She didn't reply at first, just
pressed her hand against the glass.
Finally, she said It's here. My chest tightened.
I grabbed the flashlight and stepped onto the porch.
The air was freezing, my breath coming out in clouds.
And there it was. It stood at the edge of the
clearing, upright now, its pale body stretched and gaunt.
Its limbs were too long, its hands dangling near its knees.
It didn't move, didn't breathe, just stood there, watching me.
I shined the flashlight on it and it flinched, its head
snapping to the side like it was trying to avoid the light.
Then it dropped to all fours and skittered back into the woods,
disappearing into the dark. When I turned back to the house,
Grace was still at the window, smiling.
It doesn't want to hurt us, she said, her voice soft.
It just wants to watch. That was the first time I felt
truly afraid. Not of the thing, but of her.
It started with Grace spending more time on the porch.
She'd always liked being outside, but this was different.
She wasn't enjoying the fresh air or taking in the scenery.
She was watching, waiting. Every morning she'd step
outside, barefoot no matter how cold it was, and stare toward
the Ridge. At first, I told myself it was
harmless. Grace had always been a little
more connected to the natural world than me, and if she wanted
to commune with the trees, who was I to stop her?
But then she started talking about it.
I see it every day now. She told me one afternoon while
I was stacking firewood. She was sitting cross legged on
the porch, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes locked
on the tree line. I stopped mid swing.
You see what the watcher? She said like it was the most
obvious thing in the world. It comes closer every time.
I set the axe down, my stomach tightening.
Grace, this isn't funny. She turned to me, her face calm,
serene even. I'm not joking.
It doesn't want to hurt us. It's curious, that's all.
Curious, sure, because that's exactly how I'd describe
something that crawls on all fours like a broken marionette.
That night, I woke up to find Grace's side of the bed empty.
At first I thought she'd gone to the bathroom or maybe downstairs
for a drink of water, but when I didn't hear any movement, I got
up to check. The house was silent, the kind
of silence that presses on your ears.
The door to the porch was wide open, letting in a freezing
draft. My heart dropped.
I grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside.
The moon was high, casting long shadows over the clearing.
Grace. I called, my voice shaky.
No answer. I followed the faint tracks in
the snow, my breath coming out in short, panicked bursts.
They led toward the woods. Grace.
I shouted again, louder this time.
Finally, I saw her. She was standing just inside the
tree line, her back to me, staring at something I couldn't
see. Grace.
I yelled, running to her. What the hell are you doing?
She didn't turn around. Her breath fogged in the cold
air, slow and steady, like she wasn't freezing her ass off in
nothing but a sweater and pyjama pants.
Do you hear it? She asked, her voice barely
above a whisper. I grabbed her arm and spun her
around. Hear what?
What are you talking about? She smiled faintly, her eyes
distant. It's singing.
A chill ran down my back. We're going inside.
I said, pulling her back toward the cabin.
She didn't resist. But as we walked, she kept
glancing over her shoulder like she was leaving something
important behind. The next day, she acted like
nothing had happened. She hummed to herself while
making breakfast, joked about how I needed to chop wood
faster, and didn't mention the previous night at all.
Something was wrong that afternoon.
While she was outside, I found something near the edge of the
clearing, a bundle of sticks tied together with twine,
sitting on top of a patch of disturbed snow.
At first I thought it was just some weird debris, but then I
noticed the hair tangled in the twine, long dark strands that
looked exactly like Grace's. I showed it to her.
When she came back inside. Do you know anything about this?
I asked, holding it up. Her eyes lit up, and she reached
for it. It's a gift.
She said, cradling it like it was something precious.
A gift from what? I demanded.
She shrugged, still smiling. The forest.
I took it outside and burned it. Grace watched me from the porch,
her face expressionless. The breaking point came three
nights later. I woke up to the sound of
something moving on the roof. Slow, deliberate footsteps.
I lay there, holding my breath, straining to listen.
Then I realized Grace wasn't beside me.
I bolted upright and looked around.
The curtains were open, and through the window I saw her.
She was standing in the clearing, looking up at the
Ridge. I threw on my boots and coat,
grabbing the flashlight as I stumbled out the door.
The cold hit me like a slap, but I didn't care.
Grace. I yelled, running toward her.
She didn't move when I reached her, I grabbed her shoulders and
spun her around. Her eyes were wide, unfocused,
like she was in a trance. What are you doing?
I shouted. She didn't answer, she just
pointed toward the Ridge. I followed her gaze, and there
it was. The thing stood at the edge of
the forest, half hidden in the shadows.
It was taller now, its limbs impossibly long, its face a
pale, featureless void. It tilted its head, as if
studying us, and then stepped forward, its movements jerky and
wrong. I dragged Grace back to the
cabin, my heart pounding. She didn't fight me, didn't say
a word, just kept looking over her shoulder at the thing.
When we got inside, I locked the door and shoved a chair under
the handle. Grace sat at the table, staring
out the window with a faint smile on her face.
It doesn't want to hurt us, she said softly.
I didn't sleep that night. Neither did Grace.
She just sat there, watching the woods.
I didn't think it could get worse.
Every night since that last encounter, I'd stayed up late,
sitting by the window with a shotgun across my lap.
Grace barely spoke to me anymore, her eyes always
drifting toward the Ridge, her face drawn and pale.
She claimed she hadn't seen the thing again, but I knew she was
lying. She flinched at every Creek of
the floorboards, every gust of wind that rattled the windows.
But the worst part was how quiet the forest had become.
No birds, no rustling of animals, just silence.
It was like the woods were holding their breath, waiting.
That night, the storm hit. The wind howled, rain pelting
against the cabin like 1000 tiny claws.
The power flickered and then died completely, plunging us
Into Darkness. I lit a Lantern and tried to
keep calm, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was
wrong. Grace had gone to bed early, or
at least that's what she told me.
I hadn't checked. I didn't want to see the vacant,
glassy look in her eyes again. I sat in the living room, the
shotgun propped against my knee, when I heard it, the faint creak
of footsteps overhead. My stomach twisted.
I told myself it was just the wind, that the old roof was
groaning under the pressure of the storm.
But then it came again, louder this time, deliberate.
Something was up there. I stood, gripping the shotgun,
my heart pounding. Grace.
I called out, my voice cracking. No answer.
I moved toward the bedroom, the Lantern casting long, flickering
shadows on the walls. The door was slightly ajar, and
when I pushed it open, my heart sank.
The bed was empty, the curtains were drawn back, and the window
was wide open, rain soaking the floorboards.
Grace. I shouted, running to the
window. Outside, the storm raged, but
through the sheets of rain, I saw her.
She was standing in the clearing, her arm stretched
upward, her face tilted to the sky, and it was there.
The thing loomed over her, taller than I'd ever seen it.
Its pale, emaciated body was bent at impossible angles, its
limbs trembling as if struggling to hold their weight.
Its face, or lack of one, was turned toward her, a gaping
black void where its eyes should have been.
I yelled her name again, but she didn't react.
She was whispering something, her voice carried away by the
wind. I didn't think, I just ran.
The rain soaked me to the bone as I sprinted across the
clearing, the shotgun heavy in my hands.
The thing didn't move as I approached, didn't even
acknowledge me. Its entire focus was on grace.
When I was just a few feet away, I raised the shotgun and fired.
The sound was deafening, cutting through the storm like a Thunder
clap. The thing jerked back, its body
folding in on itself like a collapsing puppet.
For a moment I thought I'd killed it, but then it
straightened, its head snapping toward me with a sickening
crack. It turned its half decayed head,
its jagged, toothless mouth splitting open in what I can
only describe as a grin. Then it reached for Grace.
No, I screamed, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.
The thing let out a sound, a deep guttural noise that
vibrated in my chest. Its arm stretched toward us
impossibly long, its clawed fingers brushing the edge of my
jacket. I fired again, this time aiming
for its head. The shot hit and the thing
recoiled, its body convulsing. It let out another sound, this
one high pitched and grating like metal scraping against
metal. Then it retreated, skittering
backward into the woods, its limbs twisting and contorting as
it disappeared into the darkness.
I didn't wait to see if it would come back.
I threw grace over my shoulder and ran for the cabin.
When we got inside, I locked the door and barricaded it with
everything I could find. Chairs, the table, even the
couch. Grace didn't fight me, she just
sat on the floor, dripping wet, staring at nothing.
What the hell were you doing out there?
I demanded, my voice shaking. She didn't answer.
Grace. I shouted, grabbing her
shoulders and shaking her. Finally, she looked at me, her
eyes wide and filled with tears. It was beautiful.
She whispered. I didn't know what to say.
The next few days were a blur. Grace wouldn't leave the cabin,
wouldn't eat or speak. She spent most of her time
sitting by the window, staring out at the Ridge.
I tried to convince her to leave, to pack up and go back to
the city, but she refused. It won't let us, she said, her
voice flat. I started hearing things at
night. Soft whispers outside the
windows, the creak of footsteps on the porch.
Sometimes I thought I saw movement in the shadows, but
whenever I looked, there was nothing there.
Then one night I woke up to find Grace standing at the window
again. Her hand was pressed against the
glass, her breath fogging up the pane.
It's back, she said softly. I didn't look.
I didn't want to see, but deep down I knew it was true.
The thing wasn't done with us. I don't know how we survived
that night. It started with Grace waking me,
her voice trembling. It's here, she whispered.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror.
For a second I thought it was just another one of her trances,
her strange connection to the thing that haunted us.
But then I heard it too, the scraping sound like nails
dragging across the cabin walls. I bolted upright, grabbing the
shotgun from the floor. The sound circled the cabin,
slow and deliberate, like it wanted us to know it was there.
Grace clung to me, trembling, her nails digging into my arm.
What do we do? She asked, her voice barely
audible. I didn't have an answer.
I just knew we couldn't stay. The sound stopped suddenly, and
the silence that followed was worse.
It pressed down on us, thick and suffocating.
Then the door rattled. I aimed the shotgun, my hands
shaking. Stay behind me, I told Grace,
though my voice didn't sound convincing even to me.
The door creaked open an inch, the woods splintering as
something pushed against it. And then it came.
The thing squeezed through the opening, it's partly decayed,
body contorting, limbs bending at impossible angles.
It filled the room with its presence, towering over us.
It's eyeless face turned toward me.
It didn't move, but I could feel it, sense it crawling into my
mind. My thoughts twisted, my vision
blurred, and I felt like I was falling even though I hadn't
moved. Grace screamed, snapping me
back. I fired the shotgun, the sound
deafening in the small cabin. The thing recoiled, its body
jerking violently, but it didn't fall.
Instead, it screeched, a sound so loud and piercing it felt
like it was splitting my skull. I grabbed Grace's hand and ran,
dragging her toward the back door.
We stumbled into the storm, the rain freezing against our skin.
The forest was alive with noise, branches snapping, leaves
rustling, the sound of heavy footsteps chasing us.
Don't look back, I shouted, pulling Grace with me as we
sprinted toward the truck. The thing was close.
I could hear its guttural breathing, feel the ground
trembling beneath its weight. Grace tripped, falling into the
mud, and for a horrifying second I thought it was over.
I yanked her up, practically carrying her the rest of the
way. When we reached the truck, I
threw open the door and shoved her inside.
My hands fumble with the keys as I climbed in, the shotgun
clattering to the floor the engine.
Roared to life and I slammed on the gas.
The tires spun in the mud, the truck lurching forward as the
thing burst from the tree line. It was faster than I thought
possible, its long limbs skittering across the ground
like some grotesque spider. It reached for us, its claws
scraping against the tailgate as the truck finally found traction
and shot forward. We didn't stop driving, not for
miles, not until the forest thinned and the lights of the
town came into view. Only then did I pull over, my
hands still gripping the wheel so tightly they ached.
Grace was silent beside me, staring straight ahead.
Her face was pale, her lips trembling, but she didn't cry.
Neither did I. Finally, she broke the silence.
We can't go back, she whispered. I nodded.
We won't. We packed up the cabin the next
day. I didn't care about leaving
things behind. Half our stuff wasn't worth the
risk. We drove away with what little
we could carry, the weight of that place still clinging to us
like a shadow. I've thought about what happened
100 times since then, but I still can't make sense of it.
Was the thing real? Was it some kind of Cryptid, or
a skinwalker, or just a manifestation of our worst
fears? I don't know, and I don't want
to. All I know is we barely made it
out alive, and no matter how much Grace insists, she feels
better now, no matter how far we've gone, I still wake up some
nights to the sound of her whispering in her sleep.
Sometimes I catch her staring out the window, her gaze
distant, her lips moving silently.
And in those moments, I wonder if we ever really escaped.
But one thing is certain, we will never, ever go back into
those woods. The drive into Cayenta, Arizona
felt endless. The desert stretched out like a
massive, silent void, the horizon shimmering under the
relentless sun. Lena had the music on low, some
scratchy old playlist she loved, but it did nothing to fill the
oppressive stillness. The further we drove, the more
isolated it felt. No gas stations, no other cars,
just endless sagebrush and sunbaked dirt.
My phone had lost signal hours ago, and even though I tried to
shake the unease creeping up my spine, it clung to me like the
desert dust. This is it, Lena announced
suddenly, turning the wheel sharply onto a gravel path that
I wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't pointed it out.
The tires crunched as we bumped along the uneven Rd., the house
finally coming into view. It wasn't much, just a single
story place with weathered wood siding and a sagging porch.
A fence surrounded the property, the kind meant to keep something
out, not in. Her Uncle Sam was waiting on the
porch, leaning against one of the support beams.
He looked older than I'd imagined, his sun creased face
partially hidden under a wide brimmed hat.
You girls made it. He said, his voice deep and
gravelly as he helped unload our bags.
He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting
someone or something to appear. You didn't mention how far out
this place was. I said, trying to keep it light,
but my voice betrayed me. Sam chuckled, but it was
humorless. Solitude's good out here, but it
comes with its quirks. He didn't elaborate.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the air began to cool, but
it didn't feel refreshing. It felt heavy, almost
suffocating. After dinner, we sat on the
porch, watching the stars start to emerge.
Sam lit a cigarette, the glow briefly illuminating his face.
Had a visitor lately. He said suddenly, exhaling a
stream of smoke. Big stray, not like any dog I've
ever seen. He leaned forward, the creak of
the chair loud in the stillness. Things been hanging around for
days. Too bold for a wild animal.
Lena brushed it off, laughing softly.
Uncle Sam, you get spooked too easily.
It's probably just a coyote. He shook his head.
Coyotes don't act like this. It's different, smart, watching
me like it knows something. He flicked the cigarette into
the dirt and stood. You'll see.
That night, as we settled into the guest room, I couldn't stop
thinking about Sam's words. The house was quiet except for
the occasional creak of the wind against the siding.
The window by my bed had no curtain, just a clearview of the
barren landscape beyond. I kept staring out into the
dark, half expecting to see what?
Glowing eyes, A shadow moving against the brush?
I didn't know, but the longer I stared, the more uneasy I felt.
Somewhere around midnight, I jolted awake.
I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep.
Lena was out cold in the other bed, but something had woken me.
A sound, faint but distinct. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
It was coming from the porch. I sat up, my heart thudding in
my chest. It could have been the wind, I
told myself, or one of the dogs Sam kept in the back.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't. The sound was deliberate, like
claws dragging across wood. I slipped out of bed, moving
toward the window on shaking legs.
The porch light was on, casting a weak yellow glow that barely
illuminated the space. At first I didn't see anything,
just the empty rocking chair swaying slightly in the breeze.
Then I saw it. Just at the edge of the light, a
figure crouched low to the ground, its black fur matted and
patchy. It wasn't a dog.
It was too big, too misshapen. Its head was cocked unnaturally
to one side, and even in the dim light I could see the way its
eyes glinted, catching the glow like tiny flames.
It was staring right at me. I stumbled back, my hand
catching the edge of the bed frame with a loud thunk.
The thing didn't flinch. Instead, it rose slowly onto its
hind legs, its outline growing taller and more grotesque.
It didn't move toward the house, it just stood there, watching,
its breath visible in the cold night air.
Behind me, Lena stirred. What's going on?
She mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window.
There's something out there. I whispered.
She was next to me in an instant, her eyes wide as she
peered out the window. The thing had moved closer now,
fully in the light. Its body was gaunt, its fur
hanging in clumps, and its face. Its face wasn't right.
It looked almost human, the features distorted, like someone
had stretched skin over a skull that didn't belong to it.
Lena grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the window.
We need to wake Uncle Sam. She whispered.
The second she said his name, the creature's head snapped
toward the door. As if it had understood, it let
out a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the room.
My stomach dropped and every instinct in me screamed to run.
But where the thing was, just outside, the growl grew into a
deep, unnatural scream, a sound I'll never forget.
It wasn't an animal, it wasn't human.
It was something in between, a sound that didn't belong in this
world. Move.
Lena hissed, yanking me toward the hallway.
The sound of scratching filled the house now, coming from
multiple points. Windows, walls, the roof.
It was everywhere, as if the creature was multiplying,
surrounding us. Sam met us in the hallway, his
rifle in hand. Get back in the room now.
His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed him.
He was scared. As we huddled in the dark, the
sounds grew louder, more frantic, and I realized
something chilling. It wasn't trying to get in.
It was playing with us. The next morning, the house was
quiet, almost unnervingly so. Sam was already outside by the
time Lena and I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.
Through the window, I could see him pacing along the fence line,
his rifle slung over one shoulder.
The events of the night before hung heavy in the air, but Lena
tried to act like everything was normal.
I wasn't buying it. She hadn't slept either, and the
dark circles under her eyes matched the ones I'd seen in the
mirror. We should leave.
I said quietly as we sat at the table.
The coffee tasted burnt, but I sipped it anyway, needing
something to calm my nerves. Lena shook her head.
We're fine. Whatever it was, it's gone now.
She didn't sound convinced, and when Sam walked in, his grim
expression only added to my growing anxiety.
He dropped a bundle of firewood by the door and shook his head.
It came back after sunrise, stayed just out of range, like
it knew I couldn't get a clear shot.
What do you mean it? I asked, trying to keep my voice
steady. Sam glanced at Lena, then back
at me. I mean that thing from last
night. It's not a dog, and it sure as
hell isn't a coyote. The room felt colder suddenly,
the morning sunlight failing to chase away the shadows lingering
in the corners. The day passed in a haze of
tension. Every noise, every flicker of
movement outside the windows set me on edge.
Sam spent most of the afternoon reinforcing the fence and
checking the property, muttering under his breath about how it
was testing him. Lena tried to distract me by
stacking firewood near the shed, but even out there the
atmosphere felt wrong. The air was too still.
The dogs, usually loud and energetic, stayed huddled in
their pens, their tails tucked between their legs.
And then there was the smell. A faint rancid odor.
That seemed to cling to the breeze.
What's that smell? I asked, wrinkling my nose.
Lena stopped stacking wood and sniffed the air.
I don't know. Dead animal, maybe?
I wasn't convinced it smelled too human.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the tension in the
house reached a breaking point. Sam called us inside and locked
the doors, double checking the latches on every window.
Keep the curtains closed, he said sharply.
No matter what you hear or see, don't open them.
I wanted to ask what he was expecting, but the look in his
eyes stopped me. We ate dinner in near silence,
the scrape of utensils on plates the only sound.
By the time night fell, the house felt like a fortress.
Sam sat near the front door, his rifle across his lap, while Lena
and I stayed in the living room, pretending to watch TV.
It started just after 9. At first it was faint, a soft
rustling outside, like wind through dry leaves.
Then came the footsteps, heavy and deliberate, circling the
house. I froze, the sound sending a
shiver down my neck. Lena grabbed the remote and
muted the TV. The footsteps stopped.
For a moment, the silence was deafening.
Then came the scratching. It started at the back door, low
and slow, like claws dragging across the wood.
The sound moved, scratching its way along the wall until it
reached the window nearest us. Lena whispered.
Don't look. But I couldn't help myself.
I turned my head just enough to see the curtain twitch, as if
something was brushing against it from the outside.
My breath caught in my throat as a shadow moved behind the
fabric. Tall, distorted, and all wrong.
Then came the knock. It was soft at first, almost
polite. A gentle tap, tap, tap on the
glass. When no one responded, it grew
louder, more insistent, until the sound echoed through the
room. Don't answer it.
Sam barked from the doorway. No one moved.
The knocking stopped, replaced by a low, guttural growl.
It wasn't like anything I'd heard before.
Not an animal, not human, but somewhere in between.
Lena clutched my arm. It's playing with us.
The next few hours were a blur of terror.
The sounds grew louder, more chaotic, scratching at the
walls, pounding on the roof, footsteps racing back and forth.
At one point we heard the front door rattle, the knob twisting
as if someone were trying to open it.
Sam fired a shot out the window, and for a moment, everything
went still. Then it screamed.
The sound was inhuman, piercing and guttural, vibrating through
my chest like a physical force. It came from everywhere at once,
surrounding the house, growing louder and louder until I
thought my ears would burst. Get away from the windows.
Sam shouted. Lena and I scrambled into the
hallway, pressing ourselves against the walls.
The house felt like it was under siege, the walls groaning under
the weight of the relentless assault.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
The silence was worse somehow, thick and oppressive, as if the
house itself was holding its breath.
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could,
there was a loud crash from the kitchen.
Something had gotten in. Sam yelled stay back and
disappeared around the corner, his rifle raised.
Lena grabbed my hand, her grip so tight it hurt.
We stayed frozen in place, listening as Sam moved through
the house, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
Then we heard it, the growl, low and menacing, followed by the
sound of claws scraping against the tile floor.
Sam fired, once, twice, and then silence.
Uncle Sam? Lena called out, her voice
trembling. No response.
And then, from the shadows of the hallway, we heard it.
The sound of something breathing heavy and ragged, and it wasn't
Sam. I don't know how long we stood
there, frozen in the hallway, listening to that horrible
sound. Each breath it took was labored
and wet, like it was savoring every moment before making its
next move. Lena's grip on my arm was vice
like her nails digging into my skin, but I didn't care.
I couldn't move, I couldn't think.
Uncle Sam? Lena whispered again, barely
audible. The breathing stopped.
The silence was worse. Oppressive.
Suffocating. My heart was pounding so hard I
thought it might give me away. Then, slowly, deliberately, the
sound of footsteps echoed through the house.
Heavy, uneven. Whatever it was, it wasn't.
Walking like a person or an animal.
It was something else entirely. The kitchen light flickered,
casting erratic shadows onto the walls, and I could feel Lena
trembling beside me. What do we do?
She mouthed. I didn't have an answer.
Suddenly the footsteps picked up faster now, slamming against the
floor as if whatever was out there had dropped to all fours.
It was heading straight for us. Run.
I yelled, grabbing Lena and pulling her down the hall.
We bolted into the guest room, slamming the door behind us.
I pushed a dresser in front of it, my hands shaking so badly I
could barely grip the edges. Lena was pacing near the window,
her breaths coming in short gasps.
It's in the house, she said, her voice cracking.
It's in here with us. I didn't respond.
I couldn't. My eyes were glued to the door,
watching the shadows under the frame as they moved, shifting
unnaturally. A deep, guttural growl came from
the other side, low and deliberate, as if it was letting
us know it knew exactly where we were.
Then came the scratching. Slow, deliberate, nails dragging
across the wood. The sound made my skin crawl.
Stop it. Lena screamed, covering her
ears. The growling stopped, replaced
by something even worse. A voice.
It was faint at first, barely a whisper, but unmistakably human.
Lena. It hissed, drawing out the name
like it was tasting every syllable.
Lena froze, her face draining of colour.
How does it know my name? She whispered.
I didn't have an answer. We stayed in the room for what
felt like hours, listening to the thing pace outside.
Every now and then it would tap on the door or the window, its
claws clicking like nails on glass.
Lena sat curled up in the corner, clutching a blanket to
her chest, while I stood guard with a fireplace poker I'd
grabbed from the living room earlier.
It felt useless, like bringing a knife to a gunfight.
Just when I thought we couldn't take it anymore, we heard the
sound of tires crunching gravel outside.
Headlights flooded the room, and for a brief moment, I felt a
glimmer of hope. It's the elder.
Lena said, scrambling to her feet.
I yanked open the curtains, desperate to see someone, anyone
who could help. The elder was standing by his
truck, his silhouette tall and commanding in the headlights.
He was holding something in his hand, a bundle of sage already
smoking. I didn't see the creature at
first. Then it moved, a shadow breaking
away from the darkness near the fence.
It was crouched low to the ground, its body contorted and
wrong, and even from inside the house I could hear the low,
guttural growl that made my stomach twist.
The elder raised his arm and started chanting, his voice
strong and steady. He walked slowly toward the
house, trailing the smoke behind him, and the creature recoiled.
It screamed, a high pitched, bone chilling sound that made my
ears ring. It doesn't like the sage.
Lena said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.
The creature lunged toward the elder, but he stood his ground,
chanting louder. With a flick of his wrist, he
threw a handful of what looked like ash directly at it.
The thing let out another scream, stumbling backward, its
form shifting unnaturally. For a moment it looked human,
too human, before snapping back into its monstrous shape.
Stay here, The elder yelled, his voice booming over the
creature's wails. The elder entered the house, his
presence filling the room with a calm but fierce energy.
He moved with purpose, setting the sage bundle on a plate and
lighting more cedar. The smoke curled upward, filling
the room with an earthy, sharp scent.
It's a skinwalker. He said, glancing at us.
Someone sent it here, and it won't leave until we force it
out. How do we do that?
I asked, my voice shaking. He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he began sprinkling a mixture of ash and herbs around
the room, muttering prayers under his breath.
Finally, he turned to us. You'll have to be strong, he
said. It feeds on fear.
Don't give it what it wants. As if on cue, the creature
slammed against the door, the wood groaning under the force.
The elder didn't flinch. He raised his voice, his
chanting growing louder, more forceful.
The door rattled, the growls turning into screams.
Shadows danced along the walls, and for a moment it felt like
the house itself was alive, breathing with the energy of the
ritual. Then, as suddenly as it began,
everything went still. The elder lowered his arms,
beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.
It's gone. He said, but his tone was
cautious for now. The next morning, the elder
walked the property with us, sprinkling more herbs and
muttering prayers. Near the fence, he uncovered
something buried, a bundle wrapped in cloth, tied with
human hair. He opened it carefully,
revealing a collection. Of small bones and a piece of
jewelry. This is the curse, he said,
holding it up. Someone sent it here to draw the
skinwalker. You were the target.
He handed Lena a small pouch filled with herbs.
Keep this with you at all times. He said.
And stay away from whoever gave you this.
Lena's face went pale as she stared at the bundle.
I think I know who it was, She whispered.
I didn't ask, I didn't want to know.
As we drove away from the property later that day, I
glanced in the rear view mirror. The fence line was empty, but I
got the feeling we were still a target.
And when the elder's words echoed in my mind.
Stay away from whoever gave you this.
I don't know what to do. The desert has a strange way of
quieting sound. Even though my cousins were
laughing in the other room and the hum of the fridge buzzed
softly, the quiet outside was unnerving.
It wasn't just silence, it was the kind of stillness that felt
alive, like the desert was tense.
I had just arrived that afternoon, bag still half
unpacked, in the corner of my cousin's tiny room.
The Adobe house was cozy, with its low ceilings and warm,
earthy walls, but it felt like it was barely holding back the
wilderness outside. That night, after a long day at
the fall festival, my family crowded around the dining table,
swapping stories about people we hadn't seen in years and who was
marrying who. It was the kind of harmless
gossip that made the place feel alive.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I asked the question.
I didn't plan to. It just slipped out, casual and
stupid. So does anyone actually believe
in skinwalkers? The room shifted.
You wouldn't think a handful of words could drain the air from a
space, but it did. Conversation sputtered, smiles
faded. My grandmother, who had been
stirring her tea, froze mid motion.
The spoon clinked against the cup as she set it down, her face
pinched tight. You shouldn't speak of such
things. She said, her voice sharp and
firm, like the crack of a stick snapping.
That wasn't the reaction I expected.
My cousins exchanged uneasy glances, and even my uncle, who
could usually laugh off anything, looked like he wanted
to bolt out of his chair. What, why?
I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words
wavered. My grandmother's eyes darted to
the windows. You just don't.
Not here, not at night. For a moment, no one said
anything, the tension hanging like the desert heat before a
storm. Then my uncle cleared his
throat. He wasn't looking at me when he
spoke. I've heard them, he said, his
voice quieter than I'd ever heard it few weeks ago.
Out by my sheep pen, screaming like a woman in pain.
But it wasn't no woman. He didn't elaborate, and no one
asked him to. I wanted to press for more, my
curiosity practically screamed for it, but I could feel the
weight of the room crushing down on me.
My grandmother stood up abruptly, mumbling something
about needing to check the windows.
That was it. Conversation over.
No one wanted to say another word.
Later that night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on the lumpy mattress in my cousin's room, staring at the
wooden beams above me, listening to the creaks of the old house
settling. The window was cracked open to
let in the cool night air, but it did nothing to calm me.
My uncle's words played on a loop in my head, screaming like
a woman. But it wasn't no woman.
The wind picked up, whistling through the cracks of the old
Adobe. The soft rustle of Mesquite
branches brushing against the side of the house almost made me
relax. Almost.
Then I heard it. It started faint, just a low
drag, like someone pulling a bag of rocks across gravel.
I held my breath, convincing myself it was nothing, a stray
dog or a loose tarp blowing in the wind.
But it came again, closer this time.
Drag, stop, drag, stop. I sat up slowly, my heartbeat
drumming in my ears. The room was pitch black except
for the pale glow of the moon slipping through the curtains.
My cousin was still asleep, her breath steady and oblivious.
I tiptoed to the window and peered out.
At first I saw nothing, just the yard bathed in silvery light.
The old truck sat rusting in its usual spot, and the ground was
littered with scattered brush and a few broken down tools.
But then something moved near the truck.
I squinted my eyes, adjusting to the faint light, and my stomach
dropped. It looked like a dog, but wrong.
Its limbs were too long, it's fur matted and patchy like it
had been pulled from a sewer. The way it moved wasn't natural,
jerky and deliberate, like it didn't quite know how to walk on
4 legs. Then it stopped, raising its
head to look directly at me. The eyes, God, those eyes.
They glowed a sickly yellow, like burning sulphur, and they
didn't blink. My knees locked and I couldn't
look away. It tilted its head, studying me
like a predator sizing up its prey.
Then it opened its mouth, and the sound it made was like nails
scraping across metal. A growl that wasn't quite
animal, wasn't quite human. I stumbled back from the window,
nearly tripping over a pair of shoes.
My breath came in shallow gasps, and I clamped a hand over my
mouth to keep from screaming. I wanted to wake my cousin, but
my legs wouldn't move. The dragging sound started
again, closer this time. It was coming toward the house.
I pressed myself against the wall, staring at the window,
terrified of what I might see next.
The sound stopped just below the sill, and for a moment there was
nothing but silence. Then came the scratching, slow,
deliberate, as if whatever it was wanted me to know it was
there. I bolted straight to my cousin,
shaking her awake, my words tumbling out in panicked
whispers. There's something outside.
I saw it. It's right outside.
She sat up groggily, annoyed at first, but her expression
changed when the scratching came again, louder this time.
Her face went pale. We need to wake everyone.
She whispered as we crept toward the hallway.
The stench hit like rotting meat left to bake in the sun.
It was so thick I gagged, covering my nose.
Whatever this thing was, it wasn't just an animal.
I didn't know what it was, but I knew it wasn't here by accident.
It was hunting, and it had seen me.
The scratching didn't stop. Each drag of its claws on the
door sent shivers down my spine, a slow, deliberate sound that
seemed to mock us. My cousin and I were frozen in
the dark hallway, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.
The smell of rot still hung in the air, thicker now, like it
was seeping through the cracks in the Adobe walls.
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but my mouth was dry
and my heart was pounding so loud I was sure it could hear
me. My cousin grabbed my arm, her
fingers digging into my skin. What do we do?
She whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of my own
panicked breathing. We wake everyone.
I said, though my voice trembled so much I wasn't sure it even
sounded like me. We crept down the hall, the old
wooden floorboards creaking beneath our bare feet.
The scratching stopped and I froze mid step.
The silence was worse than the noise.
I strained my ears, trying to hear anything over the blood
rushing in my head. And then it started again, this
time on the side of the house, just beneath the window we had
been looking out of earlier. I almost screamed, but my cousin
yanked me forward. We reached my aunt and uncle's
room first, shoving the door open without knocking.
My uncle sat up immediately, his face groggy but alarmed.
What's going on? He asked, his voice low but
stern. There's something outside.
I blurted, my voice shaking. It was scratching at the door
and now it's it's moving around the house.
My aunt sat up now, too, wide eyed.
What do you mean what kind of something?
Before I could answer, we heard it again, a faint thud, like
something heavy hitting the wall.
My uncle's face went pale and he threw off the blanket, grabbing
a flashlight from the night stand.
Wake the others, He said, his tone leaving no room for
argument. Minutes later, we were all
gathered in the living room, my grandparents, my parents, my
cousins, and me. The room felt too small, the air
thick with fear and the rancid smell of decay that refused to
dissipate. My grandmother was clutching a
small pouch of ash, muttering prayers under her breath in
Navajo. My grandfather stood by the
door, rifle in hand, his jaw set tight.
It's probably just a stray dog, my dad said, though he didn't
sound convinced. He peeked out the front window,
careful not to get too close to the glass.
Maybe a coyote. It's not a dog, I said, louder
than I intended. Everyone turned to look at me,
and I felt my face flush. I saw it.
It's wrong. It's not natural.
My grandfather's expression darkened.
He glanced at my grandmother, who was still praying, and then
back at me. You looked at it?
He asked, his voice sharp. I didn't mean to, I stammered.
I just. I thought it was a dog at first,
but it wasn't. It had these eyes, glowing
yellow, green, and it, it was looking right at me.
My grandmother gasped, her hands trembling.
You never look at them, She said, her voice barely above a
whisper. Now it knows you.
Her words sent a chill through me, but before I could respond,
the scratching started again, this time louder, more
aggressive. It was coming from the front
door. The room went deadly quiet.
Everyone was staring at the door, the sound filling the
space, dragging against our nerves like nails on a
chalkboard. My grandfather stepped forward,
raising his rifle. Stay.
Back, he ordered, his voice steady despite the fear in his
eyes. The scratching stopped again,
replaced by something worse, a low, guttural whisper.
It wasn't loud, but it was unmistakable, like words spoken
in a language I couldn't understand.
The sound seemed to vibrate in the air, crawling into my ears
and burrowing into my brain. My stomach churned and I pressed
my hands over my ears, but it didn't help.
What's it saying? My cousin whispered, her face
pale as a sheet. Don't listen to it, my
grandmother snapped, her voice fierce.
She threw a handful of ash toward the door and began
chanting louder. The whispering stopped abruptly,
as if cut off mid sentence. Then came the thud.
Something slammed into the door with such force that the whole
house seemed to shake. My little cousin screamed, and
my aunt pulled her close, covering her ears.
My grandfather raised his rifle, his hands steady despite his
age. Open it, he said to my dad.
What? My mom hissed.
Are you insane? We can't let it think we're
scared, my grandfather replied. Show it, we're ready to fight.
My dad hesitated, but the thudding came again, louder this
time. He muttered a curse under his
breath and grabbed the doorknob, his knuckles white.
He flung the door open in one swift motion, and my grandfather
stepped forward, aiming the rifle into the night.
But there was nothing there. The porch light illuminated the
yard, the ground scattered with dust and brush.
The truck sat where it always had, and the surrounding desert
stretched out empty and quiet. But the smell lingered, and it
was stronger now, so strong it made my eyes water.
My grandfather stepped outside, scanning the darkness with his
flashlight. It's still here, he muttered.
I can feel it. That's when we heard it, A sound
that made every hair on my body stand on end.
A laugh, high pitched and distorted, like a coyote
imitating a human. It echoed from somewhere in the
darkness, and I could swear it was coming from every direction
at once. My grandfather fired a shot into
the night. The sound rang out, deafening in
the stillness, but the laugh didn't stop.
It only grew louder, more twisted, until it dissolved into
a scream that made my blood run cold.
Get back inside. My grandmother yelled, pulling
my grandfather by the arm. He hesitated, his eyes scanning
the desert one last time before stepping back into the house.
My dad slammed the door shut and my grandmother began sprinkling
ash along the windows and door frame, her prayers fast and
urgent. We stayed in the living room for
the rest of the night, huddled together like children scared of
the dark. The whispering didn't return and
the scratching stopped, but none of us could shake the feeling
that we were being watched. Every creak of the house made us
jump, and every shadow seemed to move.
When dawn finally broke, it brought little relief.
The desert looked the same, but it felt different, like
something had shifted, something we couldn't see.
My grandfather stood by the door, staring out at the
horizon, his rifle still in his hands.
It'll be back, He said quietly, and somehow I knew he was right.
The morning light did nothing to ease the tension.
It only made the fear feel sharper, more real.
The shadows that had hidden in the night were gone, but the
memory of those sounds, the scratching, the whispers, that
unholy laughter clung to the walls of the house like smoke.
We were all still gathered in the living room, no one brave
enough to drift far from the group.
My grandmother sat by the window, clutching her pouch of
ash, her lips moving silently in prayer.
My grandfather hadn't slept. He stood by the door, his rifle
cradled in his arms, staring out into the open desert as if
daring it to try something in broad daylight.
I hadn't slept either. Every time I closed my eyes, I
saw it. Those glowing yellow green eyes,
the way it moved, that horrible laugh.
I kept thinking about what my grandmother had said the night
before. Now it knows you.
We decided to go outside together, strengthen numbers.
The smell of rots still lingered in the air, weaker now but
enough to make my stomach. Churn The yard looked normal at
first. Just dirt, scattered brush, and
the old truck. But then my uncle noticed the
door. Deep, jagged claw marks ran
across the wood in long, uneven streaks.
The scratches were so deep they had splintered the surface.
My dad swore under his breath, running his hand over the marks.
That's no dog, he muttered. No kidding, I said, unable to
keep the tremor out of my voice. But the door wasn't the only
thing around the base of the house.
In the dirt were tracks big enough to look human, but wrong.
The shape was off, with long narrow toes that ended in claw
like indentations. They circled the house, stopping
at the windows and the door. It had been watching us, moving
from one side of the house to the other.
As we huddled inside. I felt my stomach drop, a cold
wave of dread washing over me. Then my cousin found the fur.
It was caught on the edge of the old trucks bumper, a tuft of
mangy, matted hair. She picked it up with a stick,
holding it at arm's length. The smell was unbearable, a
rancid stench that made us gag. It was coarse and wiry, stained
with something dark and sticky. My uncle told her to drop it and
immediately started covering it with dirt.
By midday, my grandmother insisted on calling a neighbor,
a medicine man who had helped our family before he arrived
within an hour, an older man with a weathered face and sharp,
knowing eyes. He didn't ask many questions,
just nodded solemnly as we explained what had happened.
It saw you, He said, his voice heavy.
He looked directly at me, and I felt like he could see straight
through me. Once it sees you, it knows you.
That's how it works. What do we do?
I asked, my voice breaking. I hated how small I sounded, but
I couldn't help it. We drive it out, He said simply.
But it's not easy. These things don't like to let
go. He set to work immediately,
gathering cedar and ash and creating a mixture he sprinkled
around the house. He chanted as he worked, his
voice low and rhythmic, a language I couldn't understand
but felt deep in my chest. He marked the doors and windows
with the ash, creating patterns that he said would block the
creature from returning. As the blessing continued, I
wandered toward the edge of the yard, drawn to the vast
emptiness of the desert. The sun was starting to dip
lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the brush.
I stared at the horizon, searching for something I
couldn't name, when I felt it again, that prickling sensation,
like I was being watched. I turned sharply, my eyes
scanning the landscape. At first I saw nothing, just the
endless stretch of dirt and rock.
But then, far off in the distance, I saw movement, a
figure low to the ground, darting between the sparse
bushes. My breath caught in my throat.
It was fast, too fast to be anything normal, and the way it
moved, jerky, unnatural, made my skin.
Crawl. I backed up slowly, my heart
racing. Grandpa.
I called, my voice barely above a whisper.
He was by my side in an instant, his rifle in hand.
What is it? He asked.
I pointed, but the figure was gone.
I saw it, I said, my voice trembling.
It's still out there. He didn't doubt me.
He just scanned the horizon, his grip tightening on the rifle.
Get back to the house, he said, his voice calm but firm.
The medicine man finished the blessing just as the sun dipped
below the horizon. He warned us to stay inside for
the night and to keep the windows shut no matter what we
heard. It may test the barrier, he
said, but it won't get through. Not if you don't invite it in.
His words didn't make me feel any better.
As darkness fell, the house seemed smaller, the walls
thinner. The wind picked up, howling
through the cracks like a distant scream.
I sat by the window, staring out into the night, every shadow and
flicker of movement making my heart skip.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to a
sound that made my blood run cold.
A faint knocking at the window, soft but deliberate.
My grandmother's words echoed in my head.
It knows you. I didn't move, I didn't breathe.
The knocking stopped, replaced by the low, guttural whispering
I'd heard the night before. It was outside, just beyond the
thin glass, speaking in that horrible, inhuman voice.
I wanted to scream, to run, but I couldn't.
All I could do was sit there, frozen as it whispered my name.
The blessing held. It didn't get in.
But that night, as I lay in bed, I knew this wasn't over.
It wasn't just something I'd seen.
It wasn't just something that happened.
It had seen me and I didn't think it would ever forget.