The old Ford Ranger rattled and hummed as we rolled onto the
familiar dirt path that led to our favorite spot on Vancouver
Island. I glanced at Danny, her face lit
by the late afternoon sun slipping through the Pines, her
eyes reflecting a piece I felt swelling in my own chest.
Back again, I said, the words mingling with the scent of salt
and spruce that stream through our open windows.
Yeah, she replied, her smile broadening feels like coming
home. We've been making these trips
for years, each time weaving our way farther from the hum of
civilization into the quiet embrace of nature.
This island, with its seamless blend of rugged beaches and
dense forests, had become our sanctuary, a place where the
world couldn't quite reach us. Setting up camp was second
nature to us. We worked in comfortable
silence, pitching the tent with practiced ease near the lapping
waves our movements synchronized.
As I hammered the last stake into the soft earth, I paused to
take in the sweeping view of the Cove, untouched, expansive, with
the kind of beauty that made you forget about emails, meetings,
or news. Late afternoon faded into early
evening, and I began gathering driftwood for the fire.
The air was crisp, a hint of pine resin mingling with the
briny Tang of the sea. With a fire crackling in the
sky, painted in strokes of orange and purple.
We settled into our canvas chairs, the day's fatigue easing
out of our bones. It was then we noticed another
camper, a lone figure meandering along the shoreline.
I raised my hand in greeting, and he veered off his path
towards us. His name was Leon, from New
Zealand, with a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a warm
grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Mind if I join you for a bit? He asked, his accent rounding
out his words. Not at all, Danny said, waving
him over. We've got plenty of fire and
stories to share. Leon settled down with us,
pulling a bottle of wine from his bag, an offering that was
gratefully received. We exchanged tales of travels
and trails as the bottle made its rounds, each sip loosening
our tongues and laughter mingling with the crackle of the
fire As the sun dipped below the horizon, the beach was bathed in
twilight, the fire casting dancing shadows on our faces.
It was perfect serene, until a faint rustling from the bushes
caught our ears. Did you hear that?
Danny's voice was low, her eyes narrowing toward the dark line
of forest behind us. Probably just a deer, I
suggested, though a sliver of unease wedged itself in my mind. 00:03:08,560 The island was mostly peaceful,
but the wild was still the wild. Unpredictable Leon, looking
between us, shrugged. Could be.
Or maybe other hikers. Sound carries in strange ways
out here. We listened, but there was
nothing more. Just the crackle of fire, the
distant crash of waves. Reassured, we let ourselves
relax again, the unsettling moment passing as quickly as it
had come. Yet as I gazed at the flickering
flames, the ghost of that rustling lingered in my mind, a
reminder that in the vast whispering Wilds around us,
anything was possible and not all possibilities were welcome.
As night embraced the island, the flames of our campfire
seemed to burn brighter against the encroaching darkness.
Danny pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her eyes
occasionally darting to the thick line of trees that
bordered the beach. I threw another log onto the
fire, sending a cascade of sparks into the night sky, a
futile attempt to ward off the growing chill that wasn't
entirely from the cold. It's getting darker, Danny
murmured, more to herself than to me.
Her voice carried A slight tremor that she tried to mask
with a sip of her wine. Yeah, but it's peaceful, isn't
it? I tried to keep my tone light,
though I couldn't ignore the tightness in my own chest, a
primal alertness waking within me.
The last echoes of laughter from our earlier conversation with
Leon lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the silence
that now settled over us. He had left just as the sun
dipped below the horizon, aiming to get back to his van before
night fully set in. I remembered the firmness of his
handshake, the easy smile, and the slight concern in his eyes
when he glanced back at the forest.
It wasn't long after his departure that we first heard
it. Soft at first, like whispers
carried on the breeze. Voices, unmistakably female,
drifted from the woods. I stood straining to hear more
clearly. The sounds were too rhythmic for
the wind, too deliberate. Ethan, do you hear that?
Danny stood beside me now, her body tense.
I hear it, I replied, scanning the tree line with our
flashlight. The beam cut through the
darkness, but revealed nothing. Could be other campers, maybe.
Voices carry in weird ways out here, But as the night deepened,
the voices grew neither louder nor clearer.
They wove in and out of the winds, sighs a soft murmur that
seemed both near and far. The forest remained impassively
dark, its secrets cloaked beneath layers of shadow and
sighing leaves. We maintained our vigil by the
fire, each crack and pop from the burning logs punctuating the
stillness. Danny kept close to my side, her
unease palpable. Our conversation dwindled to
nothing, our senses heightened, tune to the natural Amphitheatre
around us. Hours passed, marked only by the
gradual decline of our fire. The voices continued, A ghostly
chorus that seemed to mock our growing dread.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with unspoken
fears. We should try to get some sleep,
I finally said, though the suggestion felt hollow, even to
my ears. Danny nodded, though I could
tell she was far from reassured. We doused the fire, plunging our
camp Into Darkness save for the pale glow of the moon reflected
on the water. We retreated to our tent, the
fabric walls a thin barrier against the night.
Inside we lay in our sleeping bags, listening to the sound of
our own breathing and the distant wash of waves.
But sleep was elusive, chased away by the memory of those
whispering voices. What had they been?
Who had they been? The questions circled in my
mind, restless and unyielding. As my eyes adjusted to the
darkness. The outlines of the tent seemed
to close in. Around us every sound was
magnified. A rustle of fabric, a sigh of
wind, a distant crash of waves. But beneath them all, waiting
was the deeper silence. Where those voices had once
been, now hauntingly empty, the fabric of our tent seemed too
thin, too fragile, A barrier between US and the vast,
unknowable dark outside. Lying in the stark silence that
followed the eerie whispers, every small noise seemed
amplified, as if the night itself was holding its breath.
Danny's hand found mine, her grip tight, her silence speaking
volumes. We lay there, our eyes wide
open, staring up at the tents ceiling as if it could offer
some protection, some answers. Time stretched, elastic and
unending, marked only by the rhythm of our quiet breaths and
the occasional distant crash of the surf against the shore.
My mind raced, replaying the earlier sounds, trying to impose
logic where there was none. It was a fruitless effort.
Whatever was out there defied simple explanations.
Then, abruptly, the stillness shattered footsteps.
Not the soft, familiar padding of an animal, but the
unmistakable sound of human gait crunching on the dry leaves and
twigs that littered the ground just beyond our temporary home.
My heart kicked against my chest, every instinct screaming
that this was wrong, all wrong. They're back, Danny whispered,
her voice barely audible. I nodded, unable to speak, my
throat tight with fear. The footsteps circled our tent,
slow and deliberate, pausing now and then as if whoever or
whatever was out there was listening.
Deciding the night air carried their voices again, this time
louder, harsher, a jumble of sounds that might have been
words once, but were now just a cacophony of eerie gibberish.
They spoke over each other, two voices, both distinctly female,
Yet nothing about them was reassuring or human.
It was as if the forest itself had found a voice, a twisted
mimicry of conversation that chilled me to the bone.
The voices grew closer, the words, if you could call them
that. Spinning around our tent,
enveloping us in sound. I could feel Danny's body tense
next to mine, her breath quickening.
We were trapped, caught in a web of darkness and sound from which
there seemed no escape. Then, just as suddenly as they
had come, the voices stopped. The footsteps moved away,
receding into the forest, leaving a silence so profound it
was almost a presence in itself. We lay there paralyzed, not
daring to move, not until the first faint hints of dawn began
to seep through the fabric of our tent.
The light of morning felt like a reprieve, a return to normalcy,
but it was a hollow victory. The fear of the night had seeped
into our bones, a chill that the sun's rays couldn't quite
dispel. We spoke little as we packed up
our camp, each movement deliberate, our eyes constantly
scanning the surrounding woods. As we loaded the last of our
gear into the truck, I took one last look at the spot that had
been our refuge. Now, tainted with the memory of
unexplained terror, we drove away without a backward glance,
the island's beauty marred by the shadows of the night.
The decision to stay quiet, to hide in our tent, had probably
saved us. Whatever had been out there
hadn't found us, hadn't pushed past the thin nylon to reach us. 00:10:50,320 But the questions remained,
haunting us long after we left the island shores.
What had we heard? Why us?
We never returned to find out. And some nights, when the wind
is just right, I still hear those voices whispering their
unintelligible secrets on the breeze.
Before I share this story, there is something you must know.
A premonition is a vision or a dream about the future.
In my family, premonitions are common.
Most notably, when my father was 12 years old, he had a dream
about a large lady wearing a floral dress and a round,
brimmed hat. He believed it was a sign from
God that this person would be important in his life.
Years later, in his 20s, my father moved into a house.
Some church members ran as an Airbnb.
To cut a Long story short, the lady from his dream owned the
house. This is also where he met my
mother for the first time. Now I am no stranger to
premonitions. I've had dreams about the future
that ended up coming true. I consider this to be God
telling me it will be all right. However, this dream or
premonition, whatever you want to call it, was the most
confusing, grisly, scary and bone chilling thing I've ever
experienced. And I kid you not, this is 100%
true through and through. This experience happened years
ago and I just found out about your channel a few months ago,
so if some things don't make sense, I apologize in advance.
Anyway, my dream started when I was six years old.
My father and I were in a car I didn't recognize.
I later found out the car was a custom Toyota Prado with a bull
bar and a snorkel. These details will be necessary,
so try to remember that we were driving to my grandmother's
house in Canberra. To get there, we would have to
journey down the highway through seemingly endless bands of
Australian Bush and farmland surrounding us In the dream.
My phone, which I didn't even own at the time, had recently
died, so I decided to look out the window to pass the time.
With that, I saw a vast, gnarly looking cat keeping pace with
the car. It had piercing green eyes and a
leopard print. It remained for a few seconds,
then disappeared into the Bush. Being naive and a young kid, I
woke up from my dream thinking of how cool it was that I could
have dreams like that. Fast forward 10 years and my
family was taking a trip to see my grandmother in Canberra at
the time. My dad had recently purchased a
new car and would you believe it, it was precisely the exact
same car from my dream snorkel, bull bar and all.
This was the first trip we had gone on in this specific car.
We were driving down the highway with the same endless expanse of
Bush. Just like in my dream.
It was picture perfect, as if the tiniest details were
accurate in the dreamscape. It was at sunrise that we
noticed exactly where we were driving.
My phone had recently died on the trip.
Being a biology fanatic, I decided to look out the car's
windows to survey the land and enjoy the surrounding wildlife.
I did this for about 5, maybe 10 minutes.
I was about to look away when something caught my eye.
I diverted my attention back from the Australian Bush.
There, just 20 meters away from the car, was the shape of a
large cat running through the trees.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure what I was seeing was actually
true. The shape soon emerged from the
tree line. For just a brief second it was
now 10 meters from the car and closing This cat was speedy with
a leopard like pattern and piercing green eyes.
As it started to keep pace with the car, it ran onto the lane
beside our vehicle on the left. As I got closer, my jaw almost
ripped out of my mouth from how fast it dropped to the floor.
There, just mere meters from the car, was what I can only
describe as a Smilodon. For those who do not know, a
Smilodon is the official scientific taxon for the
commonly used umbrella term Saber toothed cat.
From memory, the Smilodon was at least lengthwise the size of the
car and as tall as the average man.
It also had piercing green eyes and leopard patterning, sharp
claws attached to powerful, muscular, sleek arms, a stub for
a tail, and two substantial razor sharp Sabres about 30
centimeters long. It kept pace with the car for a
few seconds. However, those mere seconds felt
like hours. It let out a guttural,
terrifying, primitive roar that shook the spine inside of me and
sent ripples of dread through my freaking body.
Its green eyes pierced me like sharp Spears.
I could feel it. It could sense my fear when I
thought it would ram the car off the road into the ditches and
ravines below. It quickly disappeared into the
tree line. I rubbed my eyes again and then
saw nothing. I don't remember much after
that. When I awoke the next day, I was
in an unfamiliar room. We had stopped at a hotel near a
country town for the night. My mother was beside me, praying
I'd wake up. She noticed I was awake and
hugged me while thanking God in Greek.
I asked my mother what happened and why we were here and that's
when she told me she found me passed out in the car and I
would not wake up. I felt exhausted once again and
fell back asleep. We checked out of the hotel the
next day and continued the drive to Grandma's house.
We spent two days there and came back home without issue.
However, years later I'm in bed reading some articles.
Something caught my eye. I clicked on an article in the
recommended section. My eyes slowly widened as I read
the article. The headline read Biotech
engineering company Colosso pumps $15 million into funding
the mammoth cloning project. I read further down the article
in disbelief. The article continued.
However, the mammoth isn't the only prehistoric animal Colosso
is resurrecting from the dead. They also have reported on
cloning several more species, such as the Styline, the Dodo,
and the Smilodon. I started to get cold sweats and
a wave of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed me as those memories
of that bone chilling morning came rushing back.
I could hear the primitive roar of the Smilodon in my ears.
All these years later, it's like recounting A haunting that you
lived through or something. It's kind of weird.
I still get minor premonitions though.
They're minor, like a storm that happens On this date or
something like that. They still have caused quite a
bit of trouble in my life. I'm still scared of the
capabilities my brain and the Lord have given me.
But despite all this, I still have unanswered questions.
Was this a vivid hallucination? Did I actually encounter the
Smilodon? What do you guys think?
Growing up in a small lake town in central Wisconsin was about
as peaceful as you'd expect. We knew everyone, and everyone
knew us. Our town had no more than 1000
people and serious crimes were just stories from places far
away. The worst we got was a bunch of
high schoolers partying too hard on the weekends.
I lived on the very edge of this small town where the houses
started to get scarce and the woods behind my house stretched
for miles. Behind those woods was the lake,
huge and quiet, like a giant mirror reflecting the sky.
The place was so serene. Sometimes it felt surreal, like
living in one of those picture perfect postcards.
That Saturday started off like any other.
I met up with Jake, my friend who had moved right across the
street last summer. There wasn't much to do around
here, so we usually ended up riding our bikes.
It was our way to kill time, cruising the five miles into
town and back. Stopping at our only gas station
for some soda and chips, we took the Back Rd. that afternoon, the
one that runs through the woods. This road was always quiet.
No sidewalks, no St. lights. Just the occasional lake home.
Hidden behind long, narrow driveways cut through the thick
trees. The other side was all forest.
We hardly ever saw anyone else, except maybe for an occasional
Walker or a runner. As we were peddling back home, I
remember the sky was a clear, cold blue.
It was that kind of sharp chill you only get in the fall, right
before the world turns Gray and white.
With winter we were just chatting about school and some
video game, the usual stuff when this old beat up Ford truck
pulled up alongside us. It was the kind of truck you'd
think twice about getting into, rusty with a cloud of exhaust
darker than the woods around us. The man driving looked rough,
his face unshaven. His clothes, like he had been
working in a field all day. The woman next to him was even
more unsettling. She looked straight ahead, not
even blinking, her hair a tangled mess, her face grimy.
They were strangers, which was weird, because in our town,
strangers stood out like sore thumbs.
Is it OK if we park here? The man asked in a flat,
monotone voice. His eyes were fixed on us, but
there was something off about the way he spoke, like he wasn't
really asking, but just going through the motions.
Jake and I exchanged a look. Sure, I said.
We were kids. What did we know about where
people could park? But it was strange.
This road didn't have any real shoulder, just ditches filled
with last fall's leaves and the springs run off.
The fancy lake. Homes around here wouldn't
tolerate a truck like that for long.
He nodded, rolled up his window, and slowed down the truck.
We didn't stick around to see if they actually parked.
Something about the whole thing felt off.
We pedaled faster, the uneasy feeling growing in my stomach.
We got home just as the shadows started to stretch long across
the road, the sun dipping low. I remember tosssing my bike down
in the yard, that uneasy feeling still nagging at me.
There was something about that couple, something not right.
Little did I know this was just the beginning of what would
become the scariest night of my life as the sunset below the
horizon. The idea of toilet papering some
houses seemed more exciting than ever.
It was one of those things that made total sense to a bunch of
middle school kids with too much energy and not enough to do.
The fact that my parents were out of town just added to the
thrill. We felt like outlaws, rebels
without a cause, except our cause was toilet paper and the
targets were our neighbors. After dinner, my friends Chris,
Matt, and Tyler showed up at my house, each armed with backpacks
bulging with rolls of toilet paper.
We all dressed in dark clothes, the unofficial uniform for a
night of mischief. Our target was an acquaintances
house. His mom was known to be a bit
over the top about everything, which somehow made her house the
perfect candidate for our prank. We set off just before midnight. 00:22:24,440 The moon was almost full,
casting a silver glow that made the woods less intimidating and
more like a scene from an adventure movie.
We made our way through the neighborhood, avoiding St.
lights and keeping our laughter to hushed chuckles.
Our spirits were high and the crisp night air only added to
the excitement. The route took us down a
familiar Rd. lined with thick trees that reached into the sky,
their branches swaying gently in the breeze.
The moonlight dappled through the leaves, creating patterns on
the ground. We were halfway through our
trek, the mood light and carefree, when everything
changed. As we rounded a curve, the world
suddenly snapped from playful to petrifying.
Headlights flared to life about 50 yards ahead of us.
The abruptness of it sent us scattering into the ditch by the
roadside. My heart thudded painfully
against my ribs, the sound of it almost as loud as our frantic
breaths. We have you now.
You can't hide from us. The man's voice boomed through
the darkness, tinged with a sinister chuckle that sent
chills down my spine. He was out there somewhere
close, his presence turning the night's air thick with fear.
We didn't think. We just ran.
The cornfield by the side of the road offered a meager cover as
we plunged through it, the dry stalk scratching at our faces
and hands. I could hear him, that man
crashing through the underbrush, his taunts echoing.
I'm going to find you. It was like a nightmare, only
there was no waking up. We were in it, living every
terrifying second. My friend Tyler's phone started
ringing suddenly, its shrill tone slicing through the
silence. In a panic, I grabbed his
backpack and slammed it to the ground, muffling the noise.
But it was too late. The footsteps seemed to quicken
coming our way. We didn't wait around to see
what would happen next. Adrenaline fueling our legs, we
tore through the field, not caring about the direction as
long as it was away from that voice.
The woods were thick here, but our familiarity with the area
gave us an edge. We zigzagged through the dense
trees, dodging branches and jumping over fallen logs driven
by sheer terror. Finally, breathless and
exhausted, we spilled out onto the road that led back to my
house. We didn't stop running until we
were safely inside. The door bolted behind us.
The laughter and excitement from earlier were gone, replaced by a
heavy silence as we all tried to process what had just happened
that night. The adventure we had sought
turned into a chilling ordeal, a stark reminder that sometimes
the darkness holds more than just shadows.
The morning light filtered through my curtains, too
cheerful for the heaviness in my chest.
The house was silent, a stark contrast to last night's chaos.
My friends had crashed in various corners of the living
room, their sleeping forms a reminder of the ordeal.
We barely escaped as I sat on the edge of my bed.
The terror of the previous night replayed in my mind like a
horror movie stuck on loop. We had all gathered around the
kitchen table late last night after our narrow escape,
whispering frantically about what happened.
The fear was still fresh, our hands trembling, our eyes wide
with the adrenaline that hadn't quite left our systems.
We tried to make sense of it all.
How had a simple prank turned into a night of terror?
The truck, the same beat up Ford from earlier in the day, had
been at the heart of our nightmare.
It wasn't just coincidence, that much was clear.
The man and that emotionless woman.
They had been waiting for us, or someone like us, And it struck
me then how little we knew about the true dangers lurking in the
shadows of our own hometown. Determined to unravel this
mystery, we spent the morning scouring the Internet for any
mention of similar incidents, but the search turned up
nothing. It was as if the couple in the
truck had vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind
except the memories that haunted us.
I couldn't shake the image of the woman's blank stare, or the
menacing tone of the man's voice.
It felt like we had stumbled into a nightmare that was meant
for someone else, a script we weren't supposed to read.
The realization that we might have been mere steps away from a
darker fate sent shivers down my spine.
Later that day, I rode my bike past the spot where the truck
had first appeared. The road was empty, the eerie
calm a stark contrast to last night's terror.
I stopped, my gaze lingering on the ditch we had hidden in half,
expecting to see the truck lurking nearby.
But there was nothing, just the rustle of the wind through the
trees and the distant call of a bird.
The encounter left a mark on all of us.
Over the next few weeks, our group was more cautious, our
rides into town less frequent. The shadows seem deeper, the
nights longer, and every unexpected noise had us jumping. 00:27:33,480 The fear eventually dimmed, but
it never completely disappeared. Years later, after watching a
movie that mirrored our own experience, the memories
resurfaced with a vengeance. The similarities were uncanny.
The truck, the remote setting, the palpable sense of evil.
It was as if the film makers had plucked the images right out of
my head. I couldn't help but wonder, what
if? What if we hadn't run?
What if one of us had been caught?
These questions linger unanswered, haunting my dreams.
Sometimes I think back to that night and feel that same rush of
fear, a reminder of how close we came to a different ending.
It's a story I rarely share, because how do you explain a
night that sounds like a ghost story except it was all too
real? And so I carry the lesson of
that night always with me. Sometimes the true stories are
the ones you wish were just make believe.
It was a bit past midnight when I was jerked awake by voices.
Angry, loud, cutting through the quiet like a chainsaw through
pine. From my bed I could just make
out the shadows flickering under the door, the distant clink of
glass in the kitchen, voices rising and falling in a heated
exchange. Get the hell out of my house
with this old country crap, Sylvia.
I'm serious. Dad's voice, usually so calm
now, thundered up the stairs with a force that made the
floorboards tremble. I'd never heard him this
furious, not even when the elk broke through our fence last
winter. I give children and idiots 3
warnings. That's your first Aunt, Sylvia,
replied, her tone ice cold and menacing.
I rarely saw her maybe a handful of times in my life, but her
voice cut through the night like a blade curled up against my
pillow. I felt the chill creep under the
covers. This wasn't just another family
spat. This was something else.
Something darker. Mom tried to mediate her voice,
a soothing balm. Still, he's right.
This is crazy. I'm Roma.
I'm proud. But your part of the family and
mine are two separate things. Silence followed, a heavy, thick
kind that seemed to press down from the ceiling.
So you say. But just because you ignore the
other side doesn't mean the other side ignores you.
Sylvia shot back. There was something in her
voice, a sinister hint that made me shiver.
What was she talking about? What did all this mean?
The sound of a chair scraping violently against the tile
dragged me out of bed. I crept to my door, heart
hammering against my ribs, and pressed my ear to the cool wood. 00:30:24,880 The next words froze me in
place. That's 2, Sylvia said quietly.
A moment later, a loud crash echoed through the house as
something heavy hit the floor. Fear clawed at my throat.
I cracked the door just enough to peek through.
The hallway was dark, empty, the soft glow from the staircase the
only light. The arguing had stopped,
replaced by a stifling silence that seemed to spread through
the house like a stain. Then a cough, weak and stifled,
broke the quiet. Dad.
The sound twisted something deep inside me.
It wasn't right. His coughs muffled like he was
struggling to breathe. Sill.
Jesus, that's my husband. Mom's voice, more offended than
scared, failed to mask her fear. I could hear it, a quiver that
didn't belong in the tone of the woman who'd face down a charging
moose with nothing but a broom. I wanted to shout, to run down
stairs and demand it all stop, but my legs wouldn't move.
I was rooted to the spot by an inexplicable terror, my breaths
shallow and quick. The situation spiraled faster
than a dust devil picking up speed across the plains.
Happy now? Nicholas and I have a long drive
ahead of us. He's 16.
He has a license. Yes.
Sylvia's footsteps were heavy on the stairs coming up.
Mom was pleading now, a desperate tone threading through
her usually composed demeanor. No, he's not interested in
driving. You can't take him sill.
But it was too late. I knew it, just as I knew the
howl of the wind outside wasn't just a storm coming.
It was something worse, something that had been there
all along, hidden just beneath the surface of our family's calm
exterior, and now it had come to claim me.
The car's engine hummed a steady, ominous tune as the
landscape blurred past us. Sylvia drove with a kind of
controlled recklessness, her eyes fixed on the road, her face
illuminated intermittently by the passing lights.
I sat stiffly beside her, the seat belt digging into my
shoulder, feeling every bit the captive.
She hadn't said much since we left the house, the silence
between us heavy with unasked questions and unspoken answers.
I glanced at her occasionally, trying to piece together the
aunt I thought I knew from the stranger she had become tonight. 00:32:52,280 She was dressed in a mix of
hippie and punk rock that seemed to clash as much as it made
sense, a visual metaphor for the night itself.
You understand why we're doing this, right?
She finally said, breaking the silence.
Without taking her eyes off the road, I shook my head, my voice
barely above a whisper. No, I don't.
How could I understand something so abruptly forced upon me?
Sylvia sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from a
place of profound frustration. Our family, we're different,
Nicholas. We deal in the unseen, the
unspoken. There are things in this world
that normal people shouldn't know about, things they can't
handle. We handle them.
I wanted to scoff, to dismiss everything as the ramblings of a
mad woman. But the memory of my father's
cough, the crash of the chair, and the palpable fear in my
mother's voice kept me silent. We're going to a place where
you'll learn what it means to be part of our family, she
continued, her tone softening slightly.
You might not understand now, but you will.
You have to. The rest of the drive passed in
a blur of half sleep and restless thoughts.
When we finally stopped, the sun was just beginning to hint at
rising, touching the edges of the horizon with a pale light
that seemed too gentle for the world Sylvia was describing.
We were at an old farmhouse that looked like it had been
forgotten by time. The paint was peeling, the
garden overgrown, but the inside was alive with activity.
People buzzed around, their movements purposeful, and their
conversations filled with a language of urgency I didn't
understand. This is where it starts, Sylvia
said as she led me inside. These people, they're like us.
They know the burden of the unseen.
I was introduced to a few of them, their name slipping
through my memory like water. They looked at me with a mix of
curiosity and sympathy, as if they knew what was coming, and
pitied me for it. We moved through a series of
back rooms until we reached a large, dimly lit space that
smelled of metal and old earth. In the center, encased in a
makeshift cage of bars and electronic locks, was something
I couldn't quite process, a creature that seemed pulled from
a nightmare. It was large, its skin a
patchwork of scars and rough stitches, its eyes glinting with
a kind of intelligent malevolence.
This is what we deal with, Sylvia said, her voice steady
but her hands clasped tightly together.
This is why we need you. I stared at the creature,
feeling a cold dread settle into my bones.
How was IA? 16 year old kid with no
particular skills supposed to deal with this?
What was expected of me? You'll learn.
We all do, Sylvia said, reading my expression.
Welcome to the family, Nicholas. And with those words, any
illusion I had of escaping this new, terrifying reality
shattered. I was part of something much
larger and much darker than I could have ever imagined.
The place that Sylvia took me to wasn't a house or anything
resembling a home. It was an abandoned theme
restaurant that looked like it had seen better decades, with
boarded up windows and graffiti crawling up its walls like
vines. The parking lot was packed, the
air thick with a mixture of anticipation and something
darker, almost feral. The neon sign flickered
sporadically, half lit letters spelling out Pharaon's fun
House. Inside, the atmosphere shifted
palpably. The interior was an eerie
juxtaposition of dilapidation and meticulous organization.
Hundreds of people milled around, their voices a low,
continuous murmur under the buzz of old fluorescent lights.
The center of the room featured a massive, clear Lucite cube
that seemed out of place amid the decay.
It was filled with what looked like children's play equipment,
ball pits, slides and climbing frames now repurposed into an
arena of sorts. Sylvia's grip on my shoulder
tightened as we approached. This is it, she whispered, her
voice tinged with a gravity that made my stomach churn.
You'll see what I mean soon. The cube was a fighting pit, and
tonight I was part of the spectacle.
We watched as creatures, things I'd only ever imagined in my
worst nightmares were paraded, and then forced into combat.
The crowd cheered, a sound grotesque in its Glee.
Sylvia nudged me forward as a gate to the cube opened.
Your turn, she said, a stern push accompanying her words.
I stumbled into the cube, the gate clanging shut behind me,
sealing me in with a creature that looked human in shape but
was monstrous in every other aspect.
It towered over me, its skin a sickly shade, eyes hollow with a
hunger that was palpable. The creature moved towards me,
and every instinct screamed to run, to escape, but there was
nowhere to go. I was trapped with hundreds of
eyes, watching me, expecting me to fight to survive or to die
for their entertainment. Time seemed to slow as the
creature approached its steps, thudding heavily against the
Lucite floor. I could feel the crowd's
excitement building their shouts, becoming a deafening
cacophony. Then, out of sheer desperation,
I grabbed a piece of broken playground equipment and swung
with all my might, the makeshift weapon connected with a
sickening thud, and for a moment the creature staggered, fueled
by a surge of adrenaline. I struck again and again, Each
hit less about hope and more about delaying the inevitable.
The creature roared, a sound so fearsome it shook the cube and
lunged. I dodged, barely, and it crashed
into the Lucite Wall, the impact reverberating through the cube.
Sylvia watched, her expression unreadable.
Whether she was rooting for me or for the creature, I couldn't
tell. The fight drew on, each second,
stretching impossibly long. Finally, with a desperate, lucky
thrust, I managed to wound the creature seriously enough to
incapacitate it. The crowd erupted into a roar of
approval, exhausted, covered in grime and blood.
I looked up to find Sylvia smiling, a grim sort of pride in
her eyes. You're one of us now, truly, she
said, her voice carrying over the noise.
As I was let out of the Cube, the adrenaline faded, replaced
by a bone deep weariness. I had survived, yes, but at what
cost? The night had changed me,
stripped away any remaining innocence.
I was part of Sylvia's world now, a world of monsters and
men, where the lines between the two blurred indistinguishably.
I was never one for the great outdoors, at least not the way
Dad saw it. Vast landscapes a man could
dominate, if only he had the right gear and gumption.
At 8:00, I didn't see the mountains as he did to me.
They were colossal shadowy figures lurking in the distance,
ready to swallow up little boys who'd rather be tucked away in
their rooms with a good video game.
But there I was. Zipped up in a bright orange
jacket that smelled like mothballs and plastic sitting on
the dusty seat of a bus filled with chatter and excitement.
All except for mine. Jake Kerrigan was bouncing in
his seat 2 rows ahead, tossing words over his shoulder like
darts that didn't quite stick but stung all the same.
Jake was a scout, born and bred with a badge littered sash to
prove it. His dad, Mr. Kerrigan, the camp
counselor, was at the wheel, leading us to some mountain and
company awfully for what was supposed to be the adventure of
our young lives. The bus trundled through the
countryside fields, sprawling out like a patchwork quilt made
by giants. My reflection in the window
looks sullen, eyes fixed on the moving scenery, trying to ignore
the growing knot in my stomach. It wasn't just the motion of the
bus or the scent of packed lunches.
It was dread, thick and suffocating about stepping into
those woods. Scared, are you?
Jake's voice cut through my thoughts like a cold draft.
Not even, I muttered without conviction, eyes glued to the
passing trees that seem to grow denser and darker.
As we neared our destination, the bus shuttered to a stop in a
gravel parking lot that was bordered by towering Pines.
They stood like Sentinels, guarding the secrets of the
forest. As we filed out, the air hit me
crisp with an undercurrent of something rotten.
I thought of a dead fox I'd seen once by the roadside, its
presence marked only by a similar stench and the Halo of
flies that reveled in its decay. We're here, lads.
Fresh mountain air. Mr. Kerrigan clapped his hands,
his voice booming across the lot.
He was a large man, his cheer as outsized as his frame commanding
immediate attention and obedience.
Councillor Murphy from the Awfully Scouts was there to meet
us. Her smile was wide, but didn't
quite reach her eyes as she started listing off rules and
checking our gear. I hung back, tightening the
straps on my backpack, trying to make myself smaller, less
noticeable. Jake and his friends were
already forming a plan to find the best spot by the cabin to
set up their tents, their laughter easy and carefree.
We'll be hiking for about 45 minutes to the cabin, stick
together and let's enjoy the hike, Councillor Murphy
announced, her voice a mix of enthusiasm and command.
Last one there has to set up the bonfire.
The thought of being last appealed to me.
I'd be glad for something to do, a reason to stay busy and avoid
conversation. As the group began the trek, I
deliberately slowed my steps, letting the others get ahead.
The mountain closed around us, a tunnel of green and brown light
filtering through leaves in haphazard patterns.
The deeper we walked into the woods, the heavier my heart
felt. Every crunch under foot seemed
to echo too loudly, every rustle a whisper to turn back.
But turning back wasn't an option, Not for a scout, not for
my dad's son. So I walked on, following the
trail, blazed by those more eager, more brave, or maybe just
more naive. As I walked, the forest seemed
to close in, the chatter of my troop mates fading ahead,
leaving me wrapped in a cloak of silence and that inexplicable
smell of decay. Feeling more an intruder in this
ancient land than a visitor, the others had marched off, their
flashlights bobbing like fireflies in the thickening
dusk. I stayed behind, my heart
thumping A frantic rhythm that echoed the distant laughter and
calls of the scout group fading into the woods.
The cabin, with its rough timber walls and a promise of safety,
stood silently behind me as I lingered near the dying embers
of the bonfire. Councillor Murphy was wrapping
up some gear when she noticed me standing alone, my flashlight
dimming with each passing minute.
Not up for the night hike. Her voice was soft, almost
understanding. I shook my head, my throat
tight. Not really.
She nodded, considering me with a tilt of her head.
Well, how about a little adventure?
Just up the road? I know, a spot perfect for a
ghost story. I'll even bring the marshmallows
and hot chocolate. What do you say?
Reluctance Ward, with the part of me starved for a distraction. 00:44:37,720 Anything to feel less alone with
my fears, OK? I whispered, and something like
relief flickered across her face.
We walked in silence, our path lit only by her bright LED
Lantern and the weak beam from my dying flashlight.
The road was steep, lined with sharp stones that crunched under
our boots. Every step seemed to take us
deeper into another world, one veiled in shadows and thick with
the scent of pine and decay. The clearing she led me to was
nothing more than a small open space surrounded by dark,
towering trees. It felt isolated, far from the
safety of the cabin in the laughter of my peers.
Murphy sat on a rock, padding another as she invited me to
join her. The Lantern cast eerie shadows
over her face, deepening the grooves and hollows until she
looked like a part of the woods herself.
We'll just wait here for the others to loop back, she said as
she opened a bag of marshmallows and handed me the thermos filled
with hot chocolate. I sat, the cold seeping through
my clothes, the darkness pressing in.
I sipped the hot chocolate, but it did little to warm me, the
sweet smell of marshmallows mixed oddly with the rotting
undercurrent of the forest air. Turning my stomach, Murphy began
a story about Mound People, ancient creatures said to roam
these lands. Her voice was a low monotone,
almost hypnotic. As she spoke.
The Lantern flickered, its light dimming to a sinister glow.
My eyes darted around the clearing, heart pounding, skin
prickling with the intensity of her tail and the chilling
atmosphere. Then the Lantern died
completely. Darkness enveloped us, thick and
absolute. The smell of decay grew
overwhelming. Panic clawed at my chest as I
fumble with my flashlight, desperate for any light.
When the beam finally clicked on, the light revealed a horror
that stole my breath. Counsellor Murphy, or what I
thought was Murphy had transformed.
Her body was elongated, twisted, her skin pale and mottled.
Too many fingers sprouted from her hands, grasping at the air.
Her mouth was too wide, teeth sharp and gleaming dimly in the
flashlights, tremulous glow. I stumbled back, terror rooting
me to the spot as the creature advanced with a jerky, unnatural
motion, its eyes too numerous, fixated on me with an intensity
that promised nothing but malice.
With a scream I turned and ran, the creatures grotesque form
haunting my every step. Branches whipped my face, Roots
threatened to trip me, but fear lent speed to my legs.
I could hear it behind me, the soft thud of its strange limbs
hitting the ground, the raspy breath.
It exhaled. I didn't stop until I burst into
the clearing by the cabin, the lights from the returning scout
group, A beacon in the night. I collapsed, gasping for air, my
story spilling out in disjointed fragments to anyone who would
listen. But even as they gathered
around, their faces etched with concern and disbelief, I knew
nothing would ever be the same again.
I had seen the true face of the forest, and it was monstrous,
years ground by, like so many cold seasons changing, each one
leaving a little more weight on my shoulders.
I found ways to cope, ways to ignore the shadows that lingered
at the edges of my mind. Work, life, mundane routines,
they all helped. But nothing ever erased that
night from my memory. The fear, the stench of decay,
the monstrous face of what had once been Councillor Murphy.
Then, out of the blue, a message popped up on my social media.
Jake Kerrigan. Just seeing his name brought a
rush of old anxieties, the echoes of taunts and the chill
of dark woods. His message was unexpected, A
plea for a meeting, a hint at needing to discuss that night,
and an apology that seemed as deep as the hollows of those
mountains we'd once camped near. Curiosity, more than forgiveness
drew me to accept. We met at an old pub, the kind
where every corner is filled with whispered histories and
lingering looks. It was early.
The morning light barely touched the stained windows.
Jake was there, already waiting with two pints of stout sitting
heavy on the table. Between us, he'd changed.
The years had smoothed out some of the harshness of his youth,
but his eyes were still restless, searching.
We exchanged pleasantries, the kind that stretch out like a
thin veil over the surface of deeper, darker waters.
Then, without much prompting, he brought out a camcorder.
Old, battered, the sort of thing no one used anymore except to
look back at times. Best forgotten.
Breda's, he said, his voice low. Found it in the attic, thought
maybe, well, thought it might help make sense of things.
The footage was grainy, the sound filled with the static
hiss of old technology, but it was what it showed, or rather,
suggested, that turned my stomach.
Breda, younger, laughing, then alone for a moment.
The woods behind her breathed with an unseen life.
A crack, a rustle, then a face, pale too elongated, slipping
between shadow and light, with a grin that could haunt the
bravest soul. Jake paused.
The footage looked at me. She never talked about it much,
but whatever it was, it scared her more than just that night.
She's got kids now. Thinks it's best to leave these
woods in the past. But how could we?
It was there, that unspoken agreement between us, that the
past wasn't done with us. Not yet.
Not while those woods still stood.
Not while whatever haunted them still roamed free.
We need to find out, don't we? Jake's question was rhetorical.
He was already there, already decided.
I found myself nodding, drawn into the gravity of his resolve. 00:50:46,120 He talked then, not just of the
past, but of what he'd seen that night after we'd all fled back
to the cabin. His words painted a picture of a
creature from nightmares, not just a distorted face in a
camcorders viewfinder, but something far more terrifying.
He spoke of plans, of needing to face what lurked in those woods,
of needing to know if it was still there, if it was waiting.
I listened, the weight of years and the chill of old fears
settling around me like a cloak. This was it, then, our return,
not just to those dark woods, but to the very heart of our
childhood terrors. We would go back armed, not just
with flashlights and old brave words, but with a need to
understand, to challenge the darkness with the light of
truth, however dim it might be. And so we set a date, a time to
meet, not just to talk, but to walk those paths once more to
find answers. Or perhaps to find peace, and
knowing we dared to seek them. The morning was Gray, the kind
that blankets the earth in a hush of mist and whispered
warnings. Jake and I met at the edge of
the town, the mountains looming in the distance like dark
specters of our past. We were older now, our steps
heavier, our eyes wary, but our resolve was ironclad.
Today we would confront our fears head on.
Jake's truck was loaded with more than just the usual camping
gear. Ropes, Salt.
Silver items that sounded more at home in a supernatural
thriller than our reality. Yet after what we had seen, what
we had survived, we left nothing to chance.
We ready? Jake asked, his voice steady but
his hands betraying A slight tremor as he checked over the
gear one last time. As will ever be.
I replied, climbing into the passenger seat.
The engine roared to life, and with it the old familiar thrill
of fear mixed with anticipation surged through me.
The drive was quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts, the
scenery passing by, a blur of greens and Browns.
When the cabin came into view, dilapidated and swallowed by
overgrowth, A shiver ran down my spine.
It looked as haunted as our memories.
We didn't speak as we unloaded the gear and prepared.
There was an unspoken understanding between us, a
shared memory of terror that no words could bridge.
Our plan was simple. Find the clearing, Find whatever
evidence of those creatures we could, and if possible, confront
them. The woods welcomed us with an
eerie silence, the kind that feels like a breath held too
long. Our steps were cautious, our
eyes scanning the underbrush, our hands gripping the makeshift
weapons we hoped we wouldn't need.
We should have brought more people, I muttered, my voice
low. And tell them what?
That we're hunting monsters? Jake's reply was a whisper, his
eyes never leaving the shadowed path ahead.
He was right, of course. This was our burden to bear, our
story to finish. Hours passed, the shadows
lengthening and the air growing colder.
Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves tighten the knot of
anxiety in my gut. Then, as we neared the clearing,
the smell hit us. Foul, rotting.
Unmistakable. This is it, Jake said, his voice
barely audible. We edged into the clearing,
every sense strain to its limit. There was nothing at first, just
the oppressive silence. Then the ground shifted, leaves
and soil disturbed as if something had just vacated the
spot. My heart raced, terror and
adrenaline flooding my veins, A rustle to our right, a flash of
movement, then stillness. We turned slowly and there it
was. The creature, as horrific as we
remembered its body and amalgamation of nightmares, eyes
gleaming with malevolence. It didn't hesitate.
The creature lunged faster than seemed natural, its form
blurring into motion. We reacted purely on instinct,
Jake swinging a silver laced club, me throwing salt.
An old wives tail turned last ditch defence.
The Creature recoiled, its scream piercing the silence a
sound so unearthly it froze the blood in my veins.
But it was retreating, Hurt, perhaps, or merely surprised by
our resistance. We did it.
Jake breathed his eyes wide with a mix of fear and triumph.
We did something, I corrected, knowing deep down that we hadn't
killed it, only driven it away. We left the woods quickly after
that, the darkness creeping closer with every heartbeat.
We didn't speak, each lost in our own relief and dread,
knowing we had faced our past, our monster, and survived.
But the fight wasn't over. It might never be.
As we drove away, the cabin and the woods shrinking in the rear
view mirror, a grim satisfaction settled over me.
We had come looking for answers, and while we hadn't found them
all, we had found enough to know that some childhood nightmares
never fully disappear. They only wait in the dark,
bidding their time. There's something about the
Finger Lakes that suggests the possibility of supernatural and
mysterious occurrences. Legends and stories abound of
hauntings, spirit happenings, utopian communities, ancient
ruins, inexplicable phenomena, extraterrestrial visits, and the
occasional glimpse of even Sasquatch.
Among the most intriguing stories are the numerous
reported sightings in the deepest parts of the lake of an
aquatic creature, a lake monster, if you will.
Each of the Finger Lakes has its own personality, of course, but
Seneca and Cayuga lakes seem to fit within a different, more
mysterious category. Their waters are colder, their
moods are darker, and their waves are bigger.
You can travel on boats to and from the sea to these two lakes,
and their sheer size seems to hint at the possibility of
ancient aquatic megafauna. Native Americans believed Seneca
Lake to be a bottomless lake with a monster that lived within
its depths, almost 40 miles long deep, and one to three miles
wide. The pitch black depths of both
lakes, hundreds of feet deeper than sunlight can penetrate,
descend to depths below sea level.
Reports of monsters in Cayuga Lake were numerous, perhaps even
routine, in the 1800s. It can be inferred from a story
from January 5th, 1897, in an edition of the Ithaca Journal,
that a recent sighting marked the 69th consecutive year in
which there was a confirmed encounter with the monster
nicknamed Old Greenie. The story went on to recount
that a member of the newspaper staff had been living in daily
anticipation of Old Greenie's appearance and had refused
reporting assignments that would have taken them near the lake
because they were afraid of the monster.
The 1897 incident was reported by an Ithaca resident who was
driving along the lake's Eastern Shore and saw what he knew must
be the large long Sea serpent. Of course, there were many
people trying to debunk it as some sort of hoax or
misidentification of a muskrat. Sporadic and isolated reports of
the creature would continue until about 1929, when people
began reporting not one, but two creatures seen together along
the lake's Eastern Shore. The creatures were described by
witnesses as being 12 to 15 feet in length.
It was speculated that they might be members of the Seneca
Lake Sea Serpent family that found their way into the local
waters through a subterranean channel which is believed to
exist between the two lakes. Legends of tunnels connecting
Cayuga and Seneca lakes have circulated for many years, which
anyone with a rudimentary grasp of the notion of water seeking
its own level knows could be possible occasional.
Other reports of Old Greenie have certainly been made since
then, including a 1974 attack in which a teenage boy apparently
had his arm broken and bitten by a large eel like creature, and
the local 1979 encounter by a professional diver of a
submerged animal 30 to 35 feet in length.
Still, all the reported sightings, save one, have been
by one or two persons. The incident with the greatest
number of witnesses, and therefore the most credible lake
monster encounter, happened on the evening of July 14th, 1899
on Seneca Lake. The side wheel Steamboat Otay
Tiani, named to evoke the region's Iroquois past, was
traveling N toward Geneva from Watkins Glen with several dozen
passengers at about 7:00 PM. Sunset was at approximately
8:40, so there was plenty of daylight left, and it had been a
sunny and seasonably warm day, with a high of 79° somewhere
between Dresden on the West side of the lake and Willard on the
east side. Pilot Frederick Rose reported
that approximately 400 yards ahead of the boat was what
appeared to be an overturned boat.
Captain Carlton Herendine examined the object with his
telescope, later describing its appearance as being 25 feet long
with a very sharp bow and long, narrow stern.
Passengers began to gather. It was a group with some
ostensibly credible witnesses. Including two Commissioners of
Public works, a police commissioner, the manager of the
Geneva Telephone Company, and a geology professor.
As Captain Herendine completed his inspection, the pilot
signaled the engineer to slow down the boat.
The Steamboat approached to within 100 yards and lowered a
boat to take a closer look. Suddenly the object turned,
began to move away, and the captain immediately ordered full
speed ahead. As the thing was moving.
Slowly, the Steamboat gained on it easily.
The object turned again, this time toward the Steamboat,
raising its head, looking in the direction of the boat and
opening its mouth, displaying 2 rows of sharp white teeth.
Captain Herendine declared that he would ram the creature and
take it alive if possible, otherwise he would kill it and
take it aboard or tow it to Geneva.
This was the United States in 1899, when conservation of flora
and fauna was still somewhat fringe out West.
The bison population, perhaps 10 million in 1850, had been
reduced to fewer than 1000, and passenger pigeons, numbering in
the billions in 1860, were on the brink of extinction.
So the boat was turned so that it would approach the creature
from the side at ramming speed. The deck of the Steamboat was
crowded with passengers who were ordered by the captain to put on
life preservers. According to the Geneva Gazette,
every eye on deck was fixed on the monster, and hardly a person
was breathing normally. While the boat was yet some
distance from it, the monster again looked at the boat, sank
out of sight, and the boat passed over the spot where it
had been. As the Steamboat approached
within 50 yards of the creature, the captain gave the order to
turn the boat so that its paddle wheel would strike the creature
midway between its head and tail.
The boat went full steam ahead and struck the monster with
enough impact that many of the passengers were thrown off their
feet. The mortally wounded animal lay
in the water next to the Steamboat.
It raised its head, gave a sound like a gasp, and lay quiet.
Its spinal column had been broken and it was dead.
Lifeboats were immediately lowered and lines were strung
around the body. Passengers and crew tried to
secure the carcass. In the end, though, it proved
too heavy or unwieldy and dropped into the water, sinking
600 feet to the bottom of Seneca Lake.
The ship reached Geneva after dark, and the passengers began
to tell their stories of the incident.
While all agreed that a monster had been seen, different
versions of the length of the monster, from 25 feet to as much
as 90 feet, strain the credibility of the accounts.
The Rochester Herald said that Professor George R Elwood, the
geologist on board who had been in one of the lifeboats trying
to secure the body, gave what was considered the most careful
and perhaps most trustworthy account.
He thought it was a caddis, an extinct marine lizard from the
Mosasaur family that lived in what is now the United States
until it disappeared from the fossil record at the end of the
Cretaceous period, about 66,000,000 years ago.
Now, we can't let skepticism get the better of us, considering
that in December of 1938, A South African fisherman caught a
coelacanth, which is a fish that was thought to have been extinct
and disappeared from the fossil record at the end of the
Cretaceous period, 66,000,000 years ago.
So it is entirely possible that this thing could have existed.
Professor Elwood went on to describe the creature as about
25 feet long, with a tail that tapered to within about 5 feet
of the head, which then broadened out and looked much
more like a whale. The creature weighed about 1000
lbs. Its head was perhaps 4 feet long
and triangular, its mouth was very long, and it was armed with
two rows of triangular white teeth, as sharp as those of a
shark, but in the shape more like that of a sperm whale.
Its body was covered with a gross substance which was much
like the carapace of a Terrapin, as anything else of which I
know. This gross substance was brown
in color and of a greenish tinge.
The belly of the creature which I saw after the rope slipped and
the carcass was going down, was cream white.
Its eyes were round like those of a fish, and it did not wink
for years. Now what could it have been?
Has been the question that is speculated around the area and
even the country and now the world.
It hardly seems likely that so many people could have imagined
something so vivid if there had been nothing there.
Lake sturgeon, indigenous to both big lakes, can live to be
as old as 100 years, grow to 9 feet long, and weigh 300 lbs.
Their skin is like that of a shark.
Dull Gray eels are darker but smaller, not getting much longer
than five feet. Muscalunge can also get over 5
feet long and weigh 70 lbs plus. They have rows of sharp teeth,
but none are apartment to convince a boatload of people
that they were in the presence of a 25 foot monster.
Though it was suggested by a cynic that the whole thing was a
hoax perpetuated by the passengers and crew, which is
also exceedingly unlikely. Dozens of people would have had
to have kept that secret for the rest of their lives.
While human nature suggests that no group larger than three
people can be trusted to reliably keep a secret for a
long weekend, the Geneva Historical Society can document
at least 20 separate reported sightings of the Seneca Lake
monster, most recently in 2003. Cayuga's Old Greenie has a
Facebook page. Clearly the idea that big lakes
harbor mysteries beyond our knowledge is one that is held,
stubborn and collective in our imagination.
It's part of the charm of living in small towns, I would say,
especially lake towns.