The forest had a way of speaking, if you knew how to
listen. I'd come here to the vast
expanse of evergreens and firs, hoping to find some peace, some
respite from the ghosts of a war that still clung to me like the
smell of gunpowder. My cabin, nestled in this
endless sea of Pines, was the last vestige of civilization
before the wild reclaimed its dominion.
Here I was, a lone Sentinel amongst giants.
Each morning I'd stand on the porch, coffee in hand, staring
into the verdant abyss. It was a ritual, a silent
communion between man and nature.
The forest, indifferent to my presence, whispered secrets on
the wind, secrets I strained to understand.
But the trees they kept their counsel, leaving me to the
solitude that was both my sanctuary and my prison.
As a Ranger, I'd learned to be vigilant, to anticipate danger.
But in these woods my enemies were phantoms of my own making,
spectres of war that haunted me more stubbornly than the mud on
my boots. Solitude was a demanding
companion, silent yet oppressive in its constant presence.
The occasional call of a Raven or the rustling of leaves were
the only things that broke, the silence reinforcing just how cut
off I was from the world I once knew.
Another day murmur to the trees, watching as fog curled around
their trunks like wraiths dancing at dawn.
No response. As expected, the solitude was a
thick blanket, at times comforting, at times
suffocating. Stepping off the porch, my boots
sank into the loamy soil, damp with the morning's dew.
The scent of earth and pine needles filled my nostrils, a
smell I'd come to associate with peace, a far cry from the acrid
stench of my past life. Dan, I'd chide myself softly.
Keep your head here. Not there.
But memories are relentless. Predators, they stalk you,
waiting for your guard to drop. That particular morning,
something changed. I froze.
Not because of the command I gave myself, but because of the
stillness that suddenly enveloped the woods.
A chill traced the length of my spine.
Nature's eerie quietude filled the void left by my halted
footsteps. Something primal within me
recognized this silence as a prelude to danger.
Probably just a deer, I reasoned, though the hand that
once steadied a rifle was now bawled into a fist at my side.
My eyes scoured the tree line, seeking any movement, any hint
of life. Aside from my own labored
breathing, the isolation of this place was both a balm and a
curse. It ebbed away the chaos of war,
only to replace it with an unnerving tranquillity where
every snapped twig sounded like a gunshot, every shadow a
lurking threat. Nothing's there, I insisted,
though my voice lacked conviction.
It was a strange thing to yearn for solitude, yet to fear the
very isolation I sought. In Afghanistan, the enemy was
flesh and bone. Here, in the depths of the
wilderness, the enemy wore, my face haunted, my thoughts
turning respite into a battlefield of a different kind.
Get a grip, Dan. The word slipped out between
gritted teeth as I forced my feet forward, my gaze fixed on
the cabin ahead. This was my sanctuary.
But even as the words formed a shield around my heart, the
forest loomed large around me, a reminder that some wars are
never truly left behind, and some battlefields are as much
within us as they are under foot.
I was no stranger to the concept of being haunted.
War had taught me that much, But in these woods the sensation was
different, unsettling. It was as if the forest itself
had eyes, watching, waiting. Every shadow seemed to stretch
with an intent, every rustle of leaves whispered of hidden
dangers. The creature, or whatever it
was, had become more than a fleeting shadow in the periphery
of my vision. I started seeing it more
clearly, a form that was too deliberate, too intentional, to
be just another forest dweller. It was humanoid yet not human,
moving with a grace that belied its size.
My encounters with it were brief, but enough to ignite a
primal fear I hadn't known since my days in combat.
I reached out to the guys from my unit, hoping they'd
understand, maybe even offer some logical explanation, but
the skepticism in their voices was palpable.
Isolation is getting to you, Dan, they'd say.
Or worse. Are you sure you're OK out
there, man? Their doubts only deepened my
sense of isolation, making the forest feel even more
oppressive. Nightfall became a time I
dreaded I'd sit by the fire, the flames casting a feeble light
against the darkness that pressed in from all sides.
The creature seemed bolder under the cover of night, its visits
more frequent. I could feel its presence just
beyond the reach of the fire light here, it's soft movements,
an eerie mirror to the chaos that churned within me one
evening. The air was still, the kind of
stillness that feels like a wait.
I stepped out, the rifle in my hand, more of a comfort than a
weapon. The moon was a sliver in the
sky, casting a weak light over the forest.
That's when I saw it clearly for the first time.
It stood at the edge of the clearing, the silhouette against
the darkness. Its eyes caught the moonlight
and shone like 2 burning coals. A chill ran down my spine.
I raised my rifle, finger hovering over the trigger, but
it just stood there, watching me as if understanding the standoff
between us. Then, as quietly as it appeared,
it vanished into the night. I was left there, shaking, the
rifle, still aimed at the empty space where it had been.
The next day I tried to rationalize what I had seen.
Maybe it was a bear or some other animal, but deep down I
knew it wasn't the way it moved the intelligence in its eyes.
No animal I knew had those qualities.
That night, and many nights after, I found no sleep.
Every sound was magnified, every shadow a potential threat.
The line between reality and imagination blurred, leaving me
in a state of constant vigilance.
In the clear light of day, I would chastise myself for
letting fear take over. But as dusk fell in the forest,
whispers grew louder. I couldn't shake the feeling of
being haunted, watched. The creature, real or imagined,
was always there at the edge of my consciousness, a constant
reminder of the unseen terrors that lurked in the shadows of
the Whispering Woods. The forest, with its deep
shadows and ancient secrets, had become a battleground, and I
unwillingly its soul warrior. As the sun dipped below the
horizon, painting the sky and hues of fire and blood, a sense
of inevitability settled in my bones.
Tonight I would confront the creature that haunted these
woods, and perhaps the demons that haunted me.
I loaded my rifle, each round slipping into place with a
finality that echoed in the empty cabin.
My hands, steady from years of training, belied the turmoil
swirling within me. This was no enemy I could
understand, no adversary I had been trained to face.
It was an unknown, a shadow that danced at the edge of reality.
Stepping out into the twilight, the forest greeted me with its
customary silence, a silence that felt like the calm before a
storm. My eyes scanned the tree line,
searching for any sign of the creature.
The air was thick with anticipation, every sense
heightened to its extreme. Then it came, not with a roar,
but with a silence that was somehow more terrifying.
It emerged from the shadows, a figure so surreal it seemed to
blur the line between nightmare and reality.
Tall, hunched, its eyes glowed with an otherworldly malice.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other, two predators
recognizing the threat in the other.
Adrenaline surged through me as I raised my rifle.
The creature moved with a speed that seemed impossible, its form
a blur as it closed the distance between us.
The first shot rang out, echoing through the forest, but the
creature was undeterred. It swiped at me with claws that
glistened in the moonlight, narrowly missing as I dodged to
the side. The battle that ensued was
primal and brutal. The creature was relentless,
attacking with a ferocity that matched the wildness of the
woods themselves. I fought back with equal
tenacity, each shot, each movement driven by a deep,
instinctual need to survive. But it was more than physical
prowess that fueled me. It was a fight to reclaim my
sanity, to prove to myself that this nightmare was real.
The creature and I, we were reflections of each other,
embodiments of the raw untamed nature that surrounded us as the
battle raged. Wounds were exchanged, blood
staining the forest floor. The creatures howls filled the
night, a sound that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
I was pushed to my limits, every ounce of training and survival
instinct called upon in this dance of death.
In the end it was a combination of luck and sheer determination
that turned the tide. A well aimed shot sent the
creature stumbling and I closed in my rifle, now useless in the
close quarters struggle. It was hand to claw combat, a
fight that felt as old as the forest itself.
The creature was strong, its body a massive sinew and fur,
but it was wounded, slowing with each movement.
I could see the pain in its eyes, a pain that mirrored my
own. This was no ordinary beast.
There was an intelligence there, a sense of understanding that
transcended the primal urge to kill.
Our struggle brought us to the ground, rolling across the
forest floor, each trying to gain the upper hand.
I managed to grab a rock, heavy and jagged, and with a primal
yell I brought it down on the creature's head.
The impact sent a shockwave through my arm, and for a moment
everything stood still. The creature lay motionless
beneath me, its breath ragged and fading.
I collapsed beside it, my own breath coming in short, painful
gasps. Blood, both mine and the
creatures, mixed with the soil of the forest floor.
In that moment I felt a connection to the creature, to
the forest, to the very essence of survival.
I lay there for what seemed like an eternity, staring up at the
canopy of trees silhouetted against the night sky.
The forest had gone silent, as if in respect for the battle
that had just taken place. I had won, but the victory felt
hollow. What had I truly defeated?
A creature of the woods or the demons that lurked within me?
Eventually, I gathered the strength to stand.
My body ached with 1000 pains, each movement a testament to the
ferocity of our fight. I knew I had to leave to find my
way back to the cabin, but a part of me wanted to stay, to
become one with the wild that had so thoroughly claimed me.
As I stumbled through the forest, the creature's body left
behind, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the
end. The forest held many secrets,
and I had just scratched the surface.
The real battle, I realized, was not against the creatures that
lurked in the shadows, but against the shadows within
ourselves. Reaching the cabin felt like a
return to a world I no longer fully understood.
The walls that had once offered sanctuary now felt like a
prison, holding me back from the wild truth that lay beyond them.
I was changed, and I knew that the Whispering Woods would call
to me again, beckoning me back into their embrace, into the
heart of the wild. Lying in that hospital bed, with
its sterile sheets and the constant beep of the heart
monitor, felt like being trapped in a world where the rules of
nature no longer applied. The forest, with its wild
lawlessness, seemed like a distant dream.
The doctors talked about recovery, about therapy, but
their words felt hollow. They didn't understand that some
wounds ran deeper than flesh. Every night, the hospital's
fluorescent lights would flicker, casting shadows on the
walls that dance like the leaves of the trees outside my cabin.
In those shadows, I saw the creature.
It's haunting, eyes burning into mine.
The nurses said it was the medication, the trauma, but I
knew the truth. The creature had left its mark
on me, a scar that was more than physical.
The days blurred into one another, each marked by the
monotonous routine of the hospital.
Physical therapy was a torture of its own kind, a reminder of
how far I had fallen from the man who had once survived the
harshest conditions of war. But it wasn't just my body that
was healing. It was my mind trying to piece
together the fragments of that night in the forest.
The authorities had come asking questions, their skepticism
evident in every word. They talked about bear attacks,
about the tricks the mind plays when faced with trauma, but
their rational explanations couldn't account for the way the
forest had responded to the creature, the way the shadows
had moved with intent. I knew what I had seen, what I
had fought, but in the sanitized reality of the hospital, those
truths sounded like the ramblings of a madman.
I was due for release soon, a thought that filled me with both
relief and dread. The forest was calling me back,
its whispers echoing in my dreams.
But there was something else, a change within me that I couldn't
quite understand. My senses seem sharper, my
instincts more attuned to the subtle language of nature.
I joked to the nurses about being part wolf, but in the
quiet hours of the night, I wondered if there was some truth
to it. The night before my discharge, I
lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The hospital was silent, the other patients lost in their own
worlds of healing. Outside, the wind rustled
through the trees, a sound that felt like a call to return to a
place where I had been both predator and prey.
In the morning, the doctors gave me their final instructions,
their words a litany of caution and care.
But as I walked out of the hospital into the bright light
of day, I felt a sense of freedom, a longing to return to
the wild. The city around me felt foreign,
a concrete jungle that lacked the brutal honesty of the
forest. As I drove back to the cabin,
the landscape changed, the trees growing denser, the air fresher.
I rolled down the windows, letting the scent of pine and
earth fill the car. The forest welcomed me back, its
shadows greeting me like old friends.
But there was a tension in the air, a sense that the battle I
had fought was only the beginning.
The cabin stood just as I had left it, a solitary Sentinel in
the midst of the wilderness. But as I stepped inside, I knew
that I was not the same man who had left.
The forest had changed me in ways I was only just beginning
to understand, and as the sunset casting long shadows across the
forest floor, I knew that the creature, or whatever it was,
was still out there, waiting for me to return to the heart of the
wild. The drive back to my cabin was a
journey back into myself. Each mile closer to the forest,
the more I felt the grip of the civilized world loosening.
By the time the familiar outline of my cabin, nestled among the
evergreens, came into view, a part of me felt like I was
coming home to a place that understood the untamed part of
my soul. The cabin was unchanged, stoic
and silent, a guardian of my solitary life.
As I stepped inside, the familiar scent of pine and wood
smoke greeted me, a stark contrast to the sterile,
antiseptic air of the hospital. It was comforting, yet there was
an undercurrent of something else, a sense of unease that I
couldn't shake off. I spent the first few days
trying to fall back into the routine I had before the
encounter. I checked the perimeter, tended
to the vegetable garden, and sat on the porch, staring into the
depths of the forest. But something was different.
The forest didn't seem like just a backdrop to my solitude
anymore. It felt like a living, breathing
entity, watching and waiting. My senses, heightened since the
attack, picked up every rustle, every whisper of the wind.
The forest was speaking, but the language was one I was still
learning to understand. My nights were restless, filled
with dreams of shadows and glowing eyes.
I was no longer sure if I was dreaming of the creature, or if
it was something more, something deeper that had awakened within
me. One morning I woke up with the
realization that I couldn't keep living in the shadow of that
night. I needed answers.
I ventured deeper into the woods than ever before, each step a
mixture of fear and determination.
The deeper I went, the more alive the forest seemed as if it
was leading me, guiding me towards the truth I was both
seeking and dreading. In a clearing where the sunlight
filtered through the dense canopy, I found it, not the
creature, but a sense of connection.
I felt the pulse of the forest, the rhythm of life, that course
through it. For a moment I was part of it,
no longer just an observer but a participant in the ancient cycle
of nature. As I stood there, a realization
dawned on me. The creature, the forest, the
battle. It wasn't just about survival.
It was about transformation. I had come to these woods a
broken man, haunted by the ghosts of my past.
But here, in the heart of nature, I had found a different
kind of battle, one that had changed me in ways I was only
just beginning to understand. The return to the cabin was a
contemplative walk. The shadows of the evening were
lengthening, but they no longer felt threatening.
They were just a part of the forest, like me.
That night, as I sat on the porch, the forest around me felt
different. It was no longer a place of
isolation, but a place of belonging.
I knew the creature was still out there, and perhaps our paths
would cross again, but for now I was content to listen to the
Whispering Woods, understanding that some mysteries were meant
to remain unsolved and some battles were meant to be fought
within. I remember the day Doctor Daniel
Vance disappeared like it was yesterday.
He was a legend around these parts, a genius in fluid
dynamics. But I always thought there was
something odd about him. The day he left, our small town
buzzed with whispers and rumors. He quit his job out of the blue,
sold everything he owned, and just vanished.
It was the biggest mystery our sleepy town had ever seen.
I was just a kid back then, but I was fascinated by the Vance
family. They were like characters out of
a storybook rich, brilliant, and a little eccentric.
Dr. Vance's wife, who was much younger than him, was a PhD
student when they met. She was beautiful and smart, but
after marrying Dr. Vance, she too became a part of his strange
new world. They had five kids and I
remember seeing them around town sometimes.
They were always polite but kept to themselves.
People said they were home schooled, which made sense since
the Vances lived in a huge secluded house in the woods, far
from everyone else. The Vance family wasn't just
known for their brains or their wealth, They were hardcore
survivalists. They prepared for the end of the
world like it was their full time job.
And Doctor Vance, he was the ringleader.
I heard he built a massive bunker somewhere in the woods.
A fortress to keep his family safe when or if that apocalypse
came. I never saw the bunker, but
everyone in town had their theories.
Some said it was an underground palace, others thought it was
just a paranoid man's hideaway. But we all agreed on one thing.
It was Doctor Vance's obsession. People in town had mixed
feelings about them. On one hand, they brought a lot
of business to local stores. I remember Mr. Jenkins, who
owned the hardware store, grinning from ear to ear when
Doctor Vance ordered truckloads of cement, steel, and who knows
what else. But on the other hand, the
Vances were a bit of a spectacle.
We weren't used to their kind of eccentricity.
Then the pandemic hit and everything changed.
It was like the world Doctor Vance always feared was finally
coming true. The Vances went into full
lockdown mode. No more trips to town, no more
sightings of the kids playing in their yard.
They just disappeared into their fortress, leaving the rest of us
to face the pandemic in the real world.
Most of us thought they were just being overly cautious.
After all, they had been preparing for something like
this their entire lives. If there was any family equipped
to survive a global crisis, it was the vances.
Little did we know, their fate was far more sinister than any
of us could have imagined. As the days turned into weeks
and the weeks into months, people started to forget about
the Vance family. They became just another weird
story in our town's history. But not for me.
I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was terribly
wrong. I often found myself staring at
the woods, wondering what secrets lay hidden in its
depths. It wasn't until three years
later that the truth about the Vance family would shock us all,
and I, of all people, would be the one to uncover it.
I never imagined my quiet, uneventful life would be turned
upside down by my dog, Ripley. He's a half Bernice, half collie
mix with a knack for getting into trouble.
One afternoon, he just vanished into the thick woods behind our
house. I called for him until my voice
was hoarse, but he didn't come back.
That's when I decided to go look for him, not knowing it would
lead me to the Vance family's bunker.
The woods were dense and unwelcoming, the kind of place
where you could easily get lost. But I knew these woods like the
back of my hand. I've played here since I was a
kid, building forts and climbing trees, but that day the woods
felt different, Eerie, like they were hiding something.
I stumbled upon the bunker purely by accident.
I was following Ripley's paw prints when I saw it, a strange
structure, partially hidden by overgrowth, with faded police
tape flapping in the wind. The door was ajar, hanging off
its hinges, and there were scorch marks around the lock.
My heart pounded in my chest. This had to be the Vance
family's bunker, the one everyone in town talked about
but no one had actually seen. Curiosity overcame my fear.
I stepped inside my phone's flashlight, cutting through the
darkness. The bunker was like a maze, with
corridors leading off in every direction.
It was silent, except for the sound of my own breathing and
the distant drip of water. The air was stale and heavy, as
if it hadn't been disturbed in years.
I found a room that looked like a living area.
There were beds with yellowed sheets, a dining table set with
rotten food and children's toys scattered on the floor.
Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.
It was like walking into a time capsule, a snapshot of life
frozen in time. The more I explored, the more
unsettled I felt. The bunker was huge, much larger
than I had imagined. There were rooms filled with
supplies, a library, a gym, and what looked like a classroom.
It was clear the vances were prepared for the long haul, but
something had gone terribly wrong.
I found notebooks filled with frantic scribbles, diagrams of
the bunker and what looked like escape plans.
It was as if they were trying to solve a puzzle a way out of
their own fortress. But the most disturbing thing
was the children's room. The beds were unmade toys left
mid play, and on the wall, written in a child's
handwriting, was a single word. Help.
That's when the reality of the situation hit me.
The vances hadn't just disappeared, they had been
trapped here in this bunker, they're supposed safe haven.
My mind raced with questions. What happened to them?
Why didn't they leave? And most importantly, where were
they now? I was so lost in my thoughts
that I didn't hear the faint whimpers at first.
It was Ripley. I followed the sound and found
him huddled in a corner of a dark room.
His fur matted and eyes wide with fear.
Relief washed over me as I scooped him up in my arms.
But I knew we weren't alone. The bunker held secrets, dark
and terrifying, and I had just scratched the surface.
With Ripley safely in my arms, I felt a surge of courage.
I needed to understand what happened to the Vance family.
The bunker, with its twisting corridors and silent rooms, felt
like it was watching me, holding its breath as I uncovered its
secrets. The deeper I ventured, the more
the bunker revealed its tragic tale.
I stumbled upon a room that must have been Doctor Vance's office.
Papers were strewn everywhere, and amidst the chaos, I found a
diary. It belonged to Doctor Vance.
The entries started off methodically, detailing their
daily routines and preparations for living off grid.
But as I flipped through the pages, the tone shifted.
Paranoia crept in. He wrote about the pandemic, how
it was the beginning of the end, and how their bunker was the
only safe place. Then came the entries about the
lockdown they imposed on themselves.
It was meant to be a trial run, Six months of total isolation to
test their readiness. But just a few weeks in,
something went wrong, a sickness he described.
Unlike any flu, it struck them one by one.
Starting with his wife, Miranda, the entries became more erratic,
filled with fear and confusion. He mentioned hearing strange
noises at night, feeling like they were not alone.
In one of the final entries, Dr. Vance wrote about a door.
A door that hadn't been there before, appearing mysteriously
in the lower levels of the bunker.
He was obsessed with it, convinced it was the source of
their misfortune. My heart raced as I pieced the
story together. The vances hadn't just succumbed
to an illness. They were plagued by something
far more sinister, an unseen presence lurking in their safe
haven. Armed with this new information,
I ventured further into the bunker.
The air grew colder, the silence more oppressive.
I found a room that looked like it had been used for quarantine.
Makeshift beds lay, scattered medical supplies littered the
floor and on the wall, a child's drawing of a family with big,
sad eyes. It was heart wrenching, but it
was the discovery of a hidden room that chilled me to the
bone. Behind a false wall, I found
what Doctor Vance had described the mysterious door.
It was unlike any door in the bunker, old and rusted, as if it
belonged to another time. A feeling of dread washed over
me. This door was an anomaly, an
intrusion into their world. I stood there, staring at the
door, wondering if I should open it.
But the fear of what lay beyond held me back.
The Diaries words echoed in my mind.
Doctor Vance's fear was palpable in his writing.
He had been driven to the brink of madness by this door, this
unexplainable presence in their sanctuary.
With a heavy heart, I decided to leave the door closed.
Some mysteries are better left unsolved.
I needed to get out of the bunker to breathe fresh air
again. But as I retraced my steps, a
chilling thought gripped me. What if the presence Dr. Vance
wrote about was still here, watching me just as it had
watched them? I quicken my pace, Ripley's soft
whimpers, urging me on. We had to leave this place,
leave its secrets and its shadows behind.
But even as I emerged into the fading light of the woods, I
knew this experience would haunt me.
The Vance family's tragedy was now a part of me, a story of a
safe haven turned prison, a reminder of how quickly our
worlds can unravel. The bunker was a labyrinth, and
with each step I felt like I was delving deeper into a nightmare.
Ripley, sensing my fear, stayed close, his body tense.
The Diaries revelations had left me shaken, but I had to find a
way out. As I wandered through the dimly
lit corridors, the eerie silence was suffocating.
I stumbled upon a room that seemed like it had been a
workshop. Tools were scattered everywhere,
and in the center was a workbench cluttered with
mechanical parts and what looked like prosthetics.
It was here that the full extent of Doctor Vance's descent into
madness became evident. The walls were lined with
blueprints and diagrams, obsessively detailed, but it was
the arm on the bench that stopped me cold.
It was small, like it belonged to a child, and it was
unnaturally preserved. I felt a wave of nausea as the
realization hit me. In his grief and insanity, Dr.
Vance had tried to rebuild his family.
I had to get out, but every turn seemed to take me deeper into
the bunker. In my panic, I barely noticed
the temperature dropping, the air growing denser, until I
entered a room that froze me in my tracks.
It was colder here, and the walls were lined with shelves of
supplies, but what caught my attention was the door at the
end of the room. It was the door Doctor Vance had
written about, rusted and out of place with a strange, oily
substance oozing from its frame. I remember Doctor Vance's
warning in his diary about the door and the radiation it
emitted. I backed away, but as I did, I
heard something a low, guttural moan that echoed through the
room. Ripley growled, his hair
standing on end, and I knew we weren't alone.
Turning around, I saw them, the vances.
They were like something out of a horror movie.
Their bodies emaciated, their eyes hollow.
They move towards me, jerky and unnatural.
My heart pounded in my chest, and for a moment I was paralyzed
with fear. Then Survival Instinct kicked
in. I grabbed Ripley and ran,
dodging past the figures that reached out with Bony hands.
I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I had to get away
from those things. The bunker seemed to twist and
turn around me, and I was hopelessly lost.
Finally, I saw a staircase leading upwards and took it 2
steps at a time, emerging into a familiar corridor.
Relief washed over me, but it was short lived.
The exit hatch was jammed. I pulled and tugged with all my
strength, but it wouldn't budget.
Desperation set in. I couldn't go back the way I
came. The vances, those things were
still there. I searched the room frantically
and found a crowbar. With renewed hope, I wedged it
into the Hatch and pushed with all my might.
Finally, with a loud Creek, the Hatch gave way, and a sliver of
light broke through the darkness.
I heaved it open, fresh air rushing in to fill the stale
bunker. But as I climbed the ladder to
escape, a chill ran down my spine.
I felt something watching me, an unseen presence lurking in the
shadows. I shuddered, knowing that
whatever haunted the vances might still be down there,
waiting in the dark. Once outside, Ripley and I
didn't stop to catch our breath. We ran through the woods, the
bunker, a dark spot in my memory.
I didn't dare look back, fearing what I might see.
As the trees thinned and my house came into view, reality
began to set in. What had I just experienced?
Was it real, or had the isolation and fear played tricks
on my mind? The vances, their tragic fate
and the horror in the bunker felt like a nightmare.
But the mud on my shoes and Ripley's frightened whimpers
told me it was all too real. I reached home and locked the
door behind me. My parents were still at work,
the house empty and silent. I sat down, trying to process
everything. The diary, the hidden door, the
vances. It all swirled in my head, a
terrifying puzzle I couldn't solve.
I decided to keep it to myself for the time being.
Who would believe such a story? A boy and his dog uncovering the
dark secrets of a prepper's bunker.
It sounded like something out of a horror movie.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The images of the bunker, the
diary, and the ghostly figures of the Vance family haunted me.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a heavyweight
on my chest. The world seemed a lot scarier,
a lot more unpredictable, and I knew deep down that what I had
found in the bunker was just the beginning of a mystery that
would consume me. I made a decision.
Then I had to find out more about the vances, about that
door and what really happened in that bunker.
The truth was out there, and I was going to uncover it, no
matter how frightening it might be.
Exhausted both physically and emotionally.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
The events in the bunker played over and over in my mind like a
twisted movie. I couldn't pause.
I had escaped, but the terror of what I'd witnessed clung to me
like a second skin. The next morning, I woke up
feeling feverish. My parents, worried, took me to
the hospital. The doctors said it was
pneumonia, likely from the damp, moldy air in the bunker.
But deep down, I knew it was more than that.
It was the weight of the secret. I carried the haunting images of
the Vance family, their distorted faces and hollow eyes.
In the hospital, my mind was a Whirlpool of thoughts.
I tried to piece together the puzzle, the Vance family's
tragic end, the mysterious door, and the unspeakable horror that
lurked behind it. I wondered if Doctor Vance had
opened a door to something otherworldly, something that had
consumed his family, and almost claimed me, too.
One afternoon, a sheriff's deputy came to visit.
He asked odd questions about what I had seen in the bunker.
His eyes searched mine for truth, but I couldn't bring
myself to tell him everything. The fear of not being believed,
of being thought of as crazy, kept me silent.
I gave vague answers, hiding the chilling reality of what I'd
encountered. After a week in the hospital, I
was sent home. But home didn't feel the same
anymore. The shadows seem darker, the
silence more profound. I was constantly looking over my
shoulder, half expecting to see a gaunt figure from the bunker
standing in the corner of my room.
One night, as I lay in bed trying to find sleep, I heard a
faint static noise coming from the basement.
Curiosity overcame my fear, and I crept downstairs.
The sound was coming from an old shortwave radio my dad had kept,
a relic from his younger days. As I listened, a voice emerged
from the static, barely audible but unmistakably human.
It was a whisper, repeating the same phrase over and over.
Let them go. Let them go.
It sent chills down my spine. Was it Doctor Vance?
Was he still trapped in that otherworldly place, reaching out
for help? The experience was the last
straw. I couldn't stay in that house
anymore, with its memories and shadows.
I convinced my parents to move, telling them I needed a change
of scenery for my health. They agreed, not fully
understanding my urgency, we moved to a different town, a
fresh start. But the memories of the bunker
never left me. They lingered in my dreams, a
constant reminder of the horror I had escaped.
The Vance family's fate remained a mystery.
The bunker was sealed off, and the town slowly forgot about
them. But I couldn't.
I often wondered if there were others like them, other doors
hidden around the world leading to unspeakable horrors.
As I grew older, I realized that some mysteries are better left
unsolved. But the experience changed me.
It taught me that the world is full of hidden terrors, and
sometimes the safest place is right in front of us, in the
light away from the shadows of the unknown.
I grew up in northern Montana, surrounded by the stunning
landscapes that the state had to offer.
It was a place of endless beauty, where summers were spent
hiking and winters were for snowboarding.
To me, Montana was one of the most captivating states, mainly
due to its incredible versatility.
It boasted vast forests, abundant wildlife, historic
cities, sprawling farm lands, serene lakes, and so much more.
The people, especially the locals, were equally remarkable.
Each person had their unique story, whether it was filled
with joy or sorrow, and they were all captivating in their
own way. I had always cherished Montana
for its charm and warmth, but recently something unsettling
had started to unfold. At first it seemed like nothing
more than the occasional odd encounter, something not
entirely out of the ordinary. For a place like this.
You'd cross paths with peculiar individuals, some who had fallen
victim to the growing drug issues plaguing the area.
Occasionally you'd spot strange looking animals on the side of
the road late at night. Leaving you wondering whether it
was a dog, a coyote, or something altogether different.
But then there was this man. He was beyond ordinary.
It happened on an otherwise ordinary day while I was working
at a small shop that sold touristy knickknacks, much like
many other businesses in the area.
I remember the boredom that seemed to stretch time as I
watched the clock, the store unusually quiet for an early
June afternoon. It was around 2:00 PM when he
walked in. He was accompanied by two
individuals who seemed like strangers to him, judging by
their conversations. Perhaps he was their tour guide.
As the couple went to browse our products, he lingered behind,
fixated on our Community Board. Initially, I paid him little
attention. He appeared entirely ordinary,
almost forgettable. I remember thinking to myself,
he's painfully normal looking. My fleeting judgement and error
I would soon regret. Suddenly, as if he had sensed my
thoughts about him, he snapped his head from the board.
To me, it felt as though I might have been the first human he had
interacted with in a long time. He approached the cash register
with an unsettling robotic manner.
His normalcy had transformed into something inhuman and
suffocating. His smile was just a bit too
wide, his eyes devoid of any emotion or thought, making them
feel like windows to a malevolent abyss.
Staring into his eyes was like staring at pure evil.
He muttered something that sounded foreign and
incomprehensible to me, as if it belonged to no known language.
What was that? I asked, putting on my best
customer service voice, though his very presence was choking
me. In an instant his expression
changed. The inhuman smile vanished,
replaced by a scowl. I had clearly provoked him in
some way. Nothing, he mumbled, then walked
away and I could finally breathe again.
I never saw him leave. The couple exited the shop about
30 minutes later, but he was not with them.
I closed the store that night and he was nowhere to be found.
He never left the premises. About a week later, an
unpleasant odor began to walk from the small crawl space or
attic above our tea towel section.
The stench had likely been baking in the June heat.
My manager suspected it was a bird or squirrel that had
slipped through a hole in the old roof.
He sent me up there to investigate.
As I climbed the ladder into that dim space, part of me half
expected to find the man, or whatever he was from before.
He wasn't there. All I discovered was a pool of
blood and an old pocket knife that appeared to have been
dropped by someone doing maintenance work.
The rotting odor gradually faded in the days that followed,
forgotten by the rest of the staff.
But I remembered I couldn't forget the man who seemed
anything but human, who never left the store, and the
unsettling presence of blood in that crawl space.
Maybe he had slipped away unnoticed, or perhaps my
imagination had played tricks on me.
He had left the store with the couple, but he didn't exit with
them. That encounter with that
sinister man had instilled a fear in me, a fear I had never
experienced before. I had never been afraid of
anything, having grown up loving horror movies and all things
spooky. Yet he was someone who genuinely
terrified me. I had spoken to evil, or at
least someone I believe to be evil, and that memory would
haunt me forever. The fear of seemingly ordinary
people would forever linger in the depths of my mind, gnawing
at my thoughts every time a new customer entered the shop.
It planted a paranoia in me that I doubted I would ever shake.
Days later, I felt an inexplicable pull to return to
that attic. Something or someone called to
me, though I couldn't discern what or who it was.
My ascent up the ladder was agonizingly slow, as if I were
moving through thick syrup, and there in that attic he awaited,
He was in that space, or crawl space or whatever.
My manager and the local paper wanted to call it lifeless.
According to the police, it was a drug overdose, and that's what
everyone chose to believe. Man Found Dead in Local Business
Drugs Claim Another Life in the Community, read the headline,
but I didn't buy it. In my heart, I knew that drugs
didn't kill him. What did?
I couldn't say, and I had no desire to find out.
It was my second time sharing the eerie happenings in my home
state of Montana, and this particular day would leave an
indelible mark on my memory. My friend Sarah and I had always
been drawn to the wilderness, making it a tradition to explore
the natural wonders of our state every summer.
Whenever one of us stumbled upon something intriguing, be it an
abandoned building hidden in the forest or a picturesque
clearing, we couldn't wait to share the discovery with the
other. Our adventures had taken us to
all sorts of places, from derelict decontamination
buildings to forsaken vehicles and even a peculiar clearing
filled with women's clothing, Montana's wilderness held an
array of secrets waiting to be unearthed.
On this particular day, we found ourselves deep in the forest,
perhaps 3 miles from Sarah's house.
Though it was hard to gauge the exact distance, the dense woods
had a knack for disorienting even the most experienced
outdoorsman. We were in search of a location.
Our friend Jace had mentioned, a place he jokingly referred to as
a cult site. According to him, there was a
bizarre white face painted on a felled tree stump, wedged
between two other trees, surrounded by the remnants of a
massive bonfire. We knew Jace had a penchant for
exaggeration, but Sarah was determined to distract me from
the unsettling memory of a recent encounter with a deceased
man at work. It's just something to pass the
time, Sarah said, trying to ease my anxiety.
My mother always said it's the thought that counts.
As we venture deeper into the woods, I couldn't shake the
feeling that we were being followed.
Strange sounds emanated from the forest behind us, loud steps and
indistinct chatter that might have been animals, but we both
knew this forest harbored creatures capable of mimicking
human speech. We walked in silence, Sarah
preoccupied with deciphering the direction scribbled on her hand
by Jace. I remained vigilant, my unease
growing with every branch that snapped.
Suddenly, Sarah tripped over a fallen tree, almost landing face
first in the dirt. I hurried to her side, helping
her to her feet. Are you all right?
I asked, concerned. She shot me a glare.
Another branch snapped. Yeah, I'm fine, she replied, But
her focus had shifted. It wasn't on her bleeding hand
or the creatures following us. Instead, it was on a white
Shard, protruding from the dried mud.
I reached down and extracted the Shard carefully.
It turned out to be a fragment of a vertebrae.
Sarah wiped her hands on her jeans to rid them of dirt and
blood before taking the bone from me.
What the hell? She muttered, rolling her eyes.
I could have cut my hand on anything, but it just had to be
a bone. This is some BS.
She flicked the bone away and it disappeared into a huckleberry
Bush. Make sure to disinfect that
thoroughly when we get back, I advised, suppressing a laugh.
Sarah had a knack for getting injured, and it was only fitting
that she would cut herself on a bone while searching for a cult
site. Thanks Doc, she quipped,
brushing past me and resuming our trek.
I followed, quietly, amused by her irritation with Sarah's
presence. Most of my lingering paranoia
about being followed had dissipated.
Her mere presence lifted my spirits.
That's how we were able to find humor in almost any situation
when we were together. After about 5 more minutes of
walking, we stumbled upon the spot we were looking for.
The unmistakable white painted face on the tree stump confirmed
it. The site, littered with empty
beer cans and a substantial fire pit, appeared more like a party
spot than a cult site, as I had suspected Jace had exaggerated.
Sarah sat down on a large rock near the bonfire pit, cradling
her injured hand. This was kind of a bust, she
grumbled, glancing around at the trees.
She had dragged me here and was already the one growing bored.
Typical. I hummed in agreement and
decided to survey the area's perimeter.
Suddenly my head snapped to the side as I heard movement.
The paranoia rushed back, stronger than ever.
There was definitely something out there.
My eyes and ears seemed to deceive me.
Figures hidden in the shadows of the trees, cloaked in darkness,
appeared to be watching us. Then disaster struck.
I stepped into a shallow hole, falling to my knees and bruising
them on what I initially thought were rocks.
But as I gazed down, disbelief washed over me.
These weren't rocks. The hole was filled with bones.
Not just any bones, but a plethora of them, too many to
belong to a single creature or even a human vertebrae.
Femurs, jaw bones, ribs. An assortment of bones filled
the pit. Sarah yanked me out of the hole
by my hood, pulling me to my feet.
It was time to leave. The journey home was eerily
quiet. There were no more sounds from
behind us, no birds chirping, and even the distant river seem
to have lost its voice. Sarah and I never spoke of what
we had seen, not to each other or anyone else.
The knowledge of those bones was confined to us, the creatures
that followed us, and our own thoughts.
That night, when I drove home, a feeling of unease settled over
me. It was as if they were watching
me from the trees, a silent threat lurking in the shadows,
warning me not to reveal what we had found.
Even inside my home, I could sense their presence.
Their eyes were on me, and I wondered if they had always been
watching. I saw one of them emerging from
the tree line, moving stealthily in the shadows.
I was frozen in place, unable to do anything but follow it with
my gaze. Then came a knock on my door.
I couldn't muster the courage to open it.
Scratching followed a sinister attempt to intimidate me into
facing whatever lurked outside. I stood in my kitchen, utterly
still staring out the window. The scratching felt like an
eternity, though it may have been mere seconds.
Eventually it retreated into the shadows and then vanished into
the tree line, allowing me to regain control of my senses.
The next morning, when I left for work, something had been
terribly scratched into the mahogany door, a cryptic message
neither my boyfriend nor I could decipher.
I couldn't help but wonder if they wanted me to be next.
Next for what? I wasn't sure and I didn't want
to find out. This is the. 3rd part of things
I've experienced in Montana over the course of a summer.
It was a warm summer evening in Montana, and the haunting
presence that had been shadowing my every move for two weeks had
begun to take a toll on my sanity.
Those unseen eyes followed me relentlessly.
Their unyielding gaze felt like an icy grip on my soul, never
letting go. Bones had started appearing on
my property. They would materialize
mysteriously, whether it was on my porch, amidst the garden, or
even perched ominously atop my car.
These macabre discoveries had become a gruesome routine, each
one gnawing away at my fragile sense of security.
I tried to hide this disturbing reality from my boyfriend, Luke.
I didn't want to burden him with the same terror that had
ensnared me. I rarely ventured beyond the
confines of my yard anymore, except for work.
The dread of those unseen watchers had imprisoned me
within my own property, a prisoner in my own life.
I wished I could tell Luke why, but I couldn't find the words he
shouldn't have to share in the horrors that haunted my every
step. It was July.
Now, a month since this living nightmare began In June, those
unsettling events had left an indelible mark on my psyche.
And as I penned down these words, I'm certain they'll
remain etched in my memory until my dying day.
One fateful night, Luke insisted on dragging me out of the house.
He was determined to pull me from myself, imposed isolation,
and take me for a late night drive, just as we had done in
the early days of our relationship.
We used to revel in those moonlit drives, talking about
everything and nothing as we speed down dark, desolate back
roads. But now I couldn't help but
wonder if those sinister beings had been watching us even then,
lurking in the shadows For 30 minutes, we drove in silence,
the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between us.
Finally, Luke couldn't bear it any longer.
Just tell me what's wrong, Jessa, he implored, his eyes
fixed on the road while I continued to stare out into the
inky blackness of the woods. Nothing's wrong.
I sighed, unable to reveal the truth.
You went into the woods with Sarah one day and it's like you
didn't actually come back. Even Sarah is acting weird, Luke
said, turning to study my face as he spoke.
I'm right here, aren't I? I countered, meeting his gaze.
But I knew that my physical presence couldn't conceal the
turmoil within. Not mentally, he muttered,
shifting his attention back to the road.
He was right. But I couldn't bring myself to
confess the horrors that had become my reality.
The. Eerie sightings in the woods,
the Bone Filled Hole and the unsettling truth about the man
from work. Then I saw them.
The shadowy figures draped in cloaks lining the woods.
More of them than I had ever seen before.
Panic course through my veins, and I instinctively grabbed my
phone, intending to capture proof of their existence.
What are you doing? Luke's voice wavered as he
glanced at the phone, clutched in my trembling hand.
You don't see them, I stammered, taking a quick snapshot of the
figures. See who?
His question hung in the air, but when I turned to look at
him, the figures had vanished into the night.
Are you doing drugs? Luke accused a note of disbelief
in his voice. I couldn't believe he would
suggest such a thing. He knew how vehemently I avoided
any involvement with drugs, given the pain they had caused
in my life. I began to respond, to defend
myself against his baseless accusation.
But then it happened. One of those shadowy entities
darted out in front of the truck.
Luke swerved violently, sending the old truck careening off the
dirt road and straight into a tree.
Amidst the deafening chaos, all I could hear was my own scream.
The truck collided with the tree, and the impact sent my
head crashing into the dashboard.
I survived the crash, the doctor said miraculously, with minimal
injuries. They assured me that it could
have been much worse, that I could have been gravely injured
or killed. But that consolation offered me
no solace, for my boyfriend Luke had paid the ultimate price, a
victim of those enigmatic beings that they insisted were merely
dear. Tears refused to come, as if my
grief was held hostage by the same invisible force that had
tormented me. Luke was gone, and the reality
of his loss was as unrelenting as the sinister presence that
had haunted me. I spent hours staring at the
photo I had taken, my cracked phone screen mirroring my
fractured world. In the dimly lit image, There
was nothing to be seen, just an empty dirt Rd. illuminated
solely by the headlights of the truck at 1:00 AM on July 5th.
They weren't there. Maybe, just maybe, Luke had been
right in his final moments. There was nothing there, and I
was slowly descending into madness.
But I couldn't accept that Luke had swerved for a reason.
They had taken him for a reason. The unsolved mystery of those
shadowy watchers and the grim fate that befell Luke remained
etched in my mind, a chilling enigma that would haunt me for
the rest of my days. This is my 4th and final story
of events that happened to me over the course of a summer in
my home state of Montana. After the events of this part, I
never experienced anything to this degree again.
Of course, there were still weird things happening, but
nothing that could ever compare to what I have already told or
what I am about to tell. Luke was gone.
My boyfriend was gone. No matter how hard I tried, I
still couldn't bring myself to cry over his death.
It's like all the tears in my eyes had dried up.
I think it was because I was angry rather than sad.
Angry at myself for not telling him while we were safe in my
house. Angry at Sarah for dragging me
to the woods that day, angry at those cloaked things who killed
him. I wanted revenge.
No, I needed revenge for his death.
I sat in my house on July 15th, staring down at the coffee
table. I knew that they were out there,
and they knew I was in here. I hadn't gone to work since
Luke's death, or I should say murder, and they had been there
in the trees the entire time. Killing him made something in my
mind snap. Without even realizing what I
was doing, I stormed outside into the moonlit yard.
I was entirely vulnerable to whatever they wanted to do to
me. I half hoped they'd kill me like
they had killed Luke. I didn't say anything as I stood
barefoot in my grass, staring into the forest.
I was challenging them. I could hear them talking, that
same talking I heard when Sarah and I had been looking for that
place in the woods, indistinct and almost animal like.
It sounded like how that man at work had sounded in unison.
They all stepped out of the tree line.
There were ten of them, all standing around six feet and
thin, thin like skeletons. Just seeing the figures made me
want to turn around and run, barricade myself inside and grab
my 3030. But I had to stand my ground for
Luke. I had to face these creatures,
find out why they were doing what they were.
What do you? Want from me?
My voice involuntarily cracked. Facing them was choking me,
making me nauseous. They made me feel inferior.
A hot searing pain struck through my body, sending me to
my knees. Some voice in the back of my
brain told me they didn't really want anything, that I was just
their toy for the time being. Black spots danced in my vision
and they began to step closer towards me.
They wanted to use me to kill me.
I think. Everything began to blur
together. I remember them grabbing me,
their hands feeling like ice on my body, like corpses were
gripping my arms, forcing me to move.
Then I remember blinking and being in the woods.
I'm not sure how much time had passed or how we were moving as
fast as we were. I tried to struggle, but that
feeling of trying to move through syrup began to happen
again. I was too slow to escape, even
if I could get out of their holds.
Then we were there, the place with the bones.
It looked much different in the night, more sinister even after
I had discovered the bones. It wasn't like this.
The flames from the fire reflected off the trees, casting
evil looking shadows. Shadows that monsters could hide
in. Shadows that these cloaked
things created to mask their sins.
The cloaked people filled the clearing gathered around the
fire. Some turned to watch as I was
brought in. They threw me down next to the
fire pit, the only thing between me and the flames being rocks I
needed to escape. One began to speak, Another
forcefully grabbed my left arm. It stopped speaking.
There was silence. Then my screams pierced the air.
It forced my hand into the flames, burning my flesh from my
bone. It had been the worst pain I had
experienced in my life, so excruciating.
I began to black out again. The figure pulled my hand out of
the hell fire and pushed me back towards the crowd.
Before I opened my eyes, I could smell dirt and smoke.
They were familiar scents from when I was camping as a young
kid, playing in the dirt as the adults started a fire to roast
marshmallows over. Unfortunately, I couldn't smell
marshmallows and I wasn't a naive 7 year old anymore.
I forced my eyelids open. I was laying face down in the
dirt. The events that I could remember
played in my head. My arm shook and burned as I
tried to push myself up. My entire body felt like it was
on fire. I took in my surroundings.
It was daylight now, probably early morning.
I was at that place still. They were gone and the fire was
out. I was in the hole where the
bones had been, but they weren't there either.
It was almost like I had imagined it all.
I knew I hadn't, though. A little smoke was still rising
from the fire pit, but my hand wasn't burnt.
I stumbled out of the hole, forcing myself not to become
sick. I held my arm straight out,
inspecting myself. Further red hand prints littered
my forearms right where those things were holding me.
My head felt too heavy for my own body.
Was it all in my imagination? Had I walked 12 miles from my
house in the dark, barefoot, without realizing what I was
doing? I don't think so.
As I write this, I wish I knew what had truly happened that
night, whether it really was a weird cult hiding in the Montana
wilderness or my own grief filled delusions.
I haven't been stalked by their gaze since then, though.
They no longer hid in the shadows on my property, watching
my every move, and for that I am thankful.
Still, I wonder if they're out there, hiding deep in the
forest, away from civilization, or maybe even tormenting another
poor person, killing their loved ones, driving them insane.
I wish I knew the truth.