Around November 1970, I had just secured a job as an entry level
reporter for The Post Standard, the local newspaper here in
Syracuse. I was young, had my dream job,
and life was good. However, just six weeks later,
my entire world came crashing down with the arrival of one
letter to Daniel Frederick Wilson.
You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces
of the United States. I had been drafted.
Despite numerous stops at various induction centers,
training facilities, and Air Force bases, I was ultimately
destined for Vietnam. What followed was eight weeks of
boot camp at Fort Dix. For a while, it looked like I
was doomed to join the infantry, but due to my degree in
journalism, there was a chance I might be able to weasel my way
onto the writing staff of Stars and Stripes.
Just a few days before we were due to graduate, my drill
Sergeant pulled me into his office with some bad news.
Stars and Stripes did not need any more bodies.
However, there was an opportunity for me to become a
military dog handler. It wouldn't keep me out of the
field completely, but According to him, all I'd have to do was
roll up with my K9, sniff out a few booby traps, and after that
the engineers would roll up and I'd be back in the rear in a hot
minute. But as it turned out, all that
stuff about being safely in the rear turned out to be a bunch of
baloney because me and Tak, my three-year old German Shepherd,
ended up in more firefights than I could have possibly imagined.
Tak got his name after a particularly close call that
occurred on a routine patrol near Cuchii.
We were on point when suddenly Tak, who was called Rex back
then, started alerting like crazy.
I had never seen him act so downright scared before, and
when the Lieutenant saw this, he ordered his guys to unload their
weapons onto the jungle ahead of us.
What followed was nothing short of a storm tearing up the
foliage in front of us for a solid minute.
When the fire finally stopped, nothing moved and there was a
moment where we thought the whole thing might have been a
false alarm. But sure enough, as we pushed
through the jungle we found drag marks, bloody trails, booby
traps, the works. If it was not for Tack, there's
a chance the entire platoon would have been wiped out.
He saved our lives. God Dang boy.
I remember 1 grunt saying the hound of yours is sharp as a
tack isn't it? And it just sort of stuck.
Tack sniffed out every single ambush we ever came up against,
even the one that almost killed him.
Some poor grunt managed to snag a tripwire connected to a 125mm
tank shell. I don't even really remember the
blast, I just remember waking up on my back with someone dragging
me back through the jungle. My first thought was for Tack,
and as I look to tell the soldier dragging me to go back
for my canine, I saw that it wasn't a soldier at all, it was
Tack. He had one of my shoulder straps
between his teeth and was dragging me back towards the
relative safety of the platoon with all his might.
We were putting out a lot of fire, but Charlie was giving as
good as they got and one burst of machine gunfire ripped up the
ground in front of me before I watched a piece of my fatigue
pants just pop open. I let out a scream loud enough
to wake the dead, begging for the platoon's medic.
Only the next thing I know I hear Tack let out this almighty
Yelp before he dived on top of me.
I had no idea what just happened, and for a second I
thought he had been shot, but he had not.
He was trying to shield me from the bullet.
The poor little guy had no idea how the enemy was hurting me.
All he knew was that he wanted it to stop, even if it meant
putting his body in the way of their bullets.
I tried to push him off of me. I tried to keep crawling, but he
wouldn't budget. Only when the shooting died down
could I shift him, but by that time, instead of getting to his
feet, Tack just slumped down next to me.
He was alive, just barely, and I said to the platoon commander
that if he didn't put him on the medic vac with me, I'd make sure
he never received canine support again.
It was a total bluff, but it sure worked.
Yet it'd take some considerable amount of time and
insubordination to save Tack's life.
When we landed back at Da Nang, I carried Tack off the Huey
myself before hollering over to the medical tent to demand one
of the surgeons save his life. Get that mud off my operating
table, soldier, one of them said.
I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake, not a veterinarian.
I didn't say a word in response. I just pulled out my 45, pulled
back the slide, and then pointed it at his head.
The surgeon looked me in the eyes and saw months of
firefights, booby traps, and night patrols staring back at
him. A moment of silence followed,
and then the surgeon got to work saving tax life.
I'm sure you'll be as pleased as I am to learn that he survived.
It turned out to be nothing more than a few shrapnel wounds, and
although it took him a while to get back on his feet, Tack did
make a full recovery. The incident left the brass in a
predicament. I know there was at least one
Lieutenant Colonel who wanted me breaking rocks in Leavenworth,
but then there was another who was in the middle of writing me
up for a Bronze Star for having saved the lives of half of his
battalion. In the end, their decision was
more political and disciplinary. Rather than risk angering the
rest of the dog handlers in the country, the brass just
scratched my Bronze Star and gave me a medical discharge
instead. I couldn't have cared less about
some janky metal because I left Vietnam with the one thing that
really mattered to me. Due to the wounds he'd sustained
in combat, Tack had to be scrapped from the military's dog
program, and it looked like he was headed back to the dog pound
back in the US. Unless, of course, I stepped in
to take ownership of him. That's how I ended up back in
Syracuse with my best friend in the world.
I was an unemployed 24 year old with a bum leg and a bad case of
PTSD, but I didn't care because I had tack with me.
It took me just short of a year to get back on my feet, and
fortunately I ended up picking up where I left off at the Post
Standard after a chance meeting with the editor.
I'll be forever grateful to him for giving me that opportunity,
and with the structure and steady income it brought, I
gradually got my life together. Then one day, he called me into
his office with the proposition of a lifetime.
Some editor friend of a friend in DC needed an article written.
Only the prospective author had just taken ill and couldn't make
the assignment. Struggling to find a
replacement, he'd fruitlessly called up their New York desk,
which is how it made its way to us.
What's the subject? I remember asking you ever heard
of those churches down in Kentucky that handle snakes
during their services? A little, I replied.
I thought it was illegal. Since when did the law stop
anyone from doing anything, kid? True, but who's this piece for
National Geographic? He said, a smile stretching
across his face. I wouldn't want to go ahead and
jinx you by saying this is your big break, but I think we both
know what this is. The drive down to Appalachia was
going to be one son of a gun, but since the newspaper was
covering my gas money and Tack was used to being on the move,
there was nothing stopping me from getting on the road the
very next morning. The drive down to Kentucky was 9
1/2 hours of watching featureless suburban sprawl
slowly erupt into the green rolling hills of Appalachia, and
by the time we got there, my ass was in a coma.
Tack didn't seem to mind the journey though.
Every so often he'd stick his head out the passenger side
window to renew his spirit. That and when it came to
provisions, I had little choice but to buy him a burger at the
roadside. Grease trap, onions, mustard and
all. We rolled into Lexington late
afternoon and to my surprise, getting information on snake
handling churches wasn't all that difficult.
All it took was a few pictures of Budweiser down at the VFW and
it had those crusty old veterans singing like Canaries.
They told me I'd have to look out on the eastern side of the
state if I wanted to talk to any of the old snake handlers, and
given that the practice was outlawed, finding them was
certainly not going to be easy. That didn't bother me, though.
After all, I had tack with me and we were used to finding
things that did not want to be found.
One guy, Teddy, hadn't heard of anyone handling snakes in years,
but the last time he did it was happening at the old church up
in the hills. And so I set out for the Eastern
Kentucky hills with nothing but the name of a small hillside
hamlet called Three Forks. The next morning I was back on
the road driving in the direction of West Virginia,
somewhere by the state line. Around 4 hours in, it felt like
I had not just traveled 200 miles, it felt like I had
traveled back in time. By around 50 years.
It was everything the old Hudson trucks dated looking signage,
and by the time I was out near Three Forks, the roads had
degenerated into nothing but dirt tracks flanked by dense
dark woods. Every so often these
claustrophobia inducing country roads would open up into what
the locals call Hollows, relatively flat areas where the
road is sandwiched by homes and small businesses.
Frog Pond Hollow was home to the Rabbit's Foot General Store, a
place that doubled as both the Hollows gas station and Barber
shop. And as I pulled in to top up my
gas tank, the clerk wandered out to greet me.
Not often we see New York plates around here, he said, eyeing me
suspiciously from across the forecourt.
I explained I was in the area on business, and that I'd
appreciate some gas and a bite to eat for $1.50.
The guy brought me a plate of something he called corn pone
pie, which was basically cornbread with beef chili
filling along with a plate of raw hamburger for tack.
After I complimented his cooking, he nodded in
appreciation before correcting me that it was his wife's and
that I told him he was a lucky man to have such a fine cook at
home. He finally began to warm up to
me a little when he asked what kind of business I was on.
I didn't want to spoil all the goodwill by telling him that I
was a reporter charged with writing a story on a neighboring
community that would well end with them being arrested, so I
broke it to him gently. The instant he heard that I was
there to write an article about snake handling, I could tell he
felt almost tricked into talking to me.
Sir, please hear me out. I countered.
This country was founded on the promise of religious freedom,
and the fact that snake handlers can be arrested for practicing
their faith is frankly UN American.
So please, help me show the world that these are good people
here. Help me get these people their
rights back. I fought for this country's
freedom in South Vietnam, and damn it, I'll fight for them
here too. I think it was the last line
that got him. He gave me another look over,
then motioned for me to follow him inside.
According to the clerk, almost everyone in Appalachia knew of
at least one church that still took up serpents, as he put it,
and it came as no surprise that those who practice it were still
persecuted by the state. Three Forks had been the subject
of a crackdown on snake handling in the mid 50s after their
pastor almost lost his life to a rattlesnake bite.
Since then, they'd taken their rather unique form of worship
underground, But a more pertinent question then where
are they now was how in the hell did their pastor survive the
bite of an Eastern diamondback, a snake whose venom is almost
100% fatal when untreated. Victims describe the pain of
being bitten by one as like 2 red hot hypodermic needles
piercing your skin and the venom causing the flesh surrounding
the bite to blacken and rot. Even worse, the intense swelling
of the affected area is said to be one of the worst forms of
pain imaginable. But snake handlers vow never to
seek medical attention or take any kind of painkillers in the
event that they're bitten. Instead, they put their survival
in God's hands. Sometimes he comes through for
them, others not. I asked the clerk if he knew of
any local snake bite fatalities, but he just shook his head.
They'd get bitten all right. Not often, but they do.
But the way I hear it, they always seem to pull through for
some reason. Who knows, maybe the Lord really
is looking out for them. It's then that I asked how I'd
go about securing an invite to one of these snake handling
services. The clerk just looked at me,
asked what unit I served with, and then once I confirmed he
walked into the back to make a phone call.
When he re emerged he held a small torn off piece of paper in
his hand, one with the following note written on it.
Walk into the woods off Laurel Fork after dark.
No pictures. It was all the information he
had for me, but it was all I needed.
That night. Once the sun had fully set, me
and Tack walked out of the small Inns motel where we were
staying, got into my car and drove back down to Three Forks.
The darkness gave the overgrown, rust eaten place an ominous
feel, and the closer we got to Laurel Fork, the more anxious I
got. By the time we reached the dead
end of Laurel Fork and I switched on the old flashlight I
kept in the glove box, I'm not afraid to admit I was downright
scared. It was the first time that me
and Tack had gone anywhere in the dark in an unfamiliar area
since Nam. But there was something else
too, something I couldn't quite put my finger on until the
following night. Like I said, I was so nervous
that Tack could sense it, and he stayed glued to my heel for most
of the walk. Then, after a few minutes of
trudging through the darkness, I began to hear something.
Something that sounded almost like singing.
Moments later, I saw a dim light shining from beyond the trees
somewhere in the distance. I got a little closer, then
realized what I was looking at. It was the shape of a large
revival tent set up in a small clearing, and the light was
coming from the Lantern of a dark, shadowy figure.
Since I figured they were expecting me, I switched my
flashlight back on, then slowly began to approach with tack by
my side. Welcome, brother, the figure
said. I trust you've adhered to the
terms of our agreement? Yes, Sir, I replied.
No cameras, just me and my dog. Good, the stranger replied.
Now come meet Pastor Childers. As he lifted a tent flap, I was
met with a surprising sight. I'd gotten into my head that
these folks were some Serpentine death cult, yet they seem just
like any other small town congregation in America.
A guy was plucking a guitar at the head of the congregation
while the worshippers sang a cheerful melody of When I hear
that trumpet sound, I'm going to get up out the ground.
Ain't no grave going to hold my body down.
Once the musical numbers ceased, the congregation applauded the
banjo player before a very distinctive looking man took the
stage. He was pale and stick thin, with
a shock of curly red hair and a fiery mustache, wearing a white
button down in black slacks. As soon as he came into view,
Tak's ears shot up and he softly began to growl.
Brothers and sisters, The man began to bellow.
We welcome an esteemed guest in our humble House of worship
tonight. The announcement prompted a
handful of worshippers to shoot a welcoming smile at me.
He's come all the way down here to the holler tonight from New
York City. He talked about the place like
it could have just as easily been Mars.
But he isn't no federal man coming to take away your rights.
He's come to show all those tyrants in Washington that what
we are doing isn't harming anybody down here in God's
house. Isn't that right, brothers and
sisters? The congregation erupted in
whoops and cheers of approval. And in a way, he was right.
If folks were dying because they were dancing with rattlesnakes,
that was undeniably tragic. But no one was forcing them to,
and they weren't exactly going out of their way to hurt anyone.
So for me, it really did raise the question, do we live in a
free country or not? The pastor continued with his
sermon for a spell, then, after ushering in another musical
number, walk down the center row of seats to greet me.
But as he got within arm's reach, Tack exploded in a flurry
of furious barks. Tack.
I growled at him. Quiet boy.
But Tack just would not stop. He barked so loud and so
intensely that some of the worshippers were turning to us
with angry looks on their faces. Brother, I really must insist
you tie that thing up outside, Pastor Childers said, his
cheerful demeanor slipping a little as he spoke.
Normally if someone spoke about Tack like that, I'd tell them to
kick rocks, but this was work, so I made an exception.
I took Tack outside and asked what the hell had gotten into
him. Then, for the first time since
the day we had both been wounded in combat, he alerted.
There were no booby traps here, no Vietcong to worry about, but
he still told me danger was present.
I was concerned, but I had not come too far just to turn back.
I told him to stay and assured him I'd be back in a moment.
Tack laid down, shooting me a frightened look, but did as he
was told. Must be that he can smell the
snake on me, the pastor said when I re entered the tent.
At the time that made all the sense in the world to me, and
since he had given me a conversational window into
asking him about snakes, I took the initiative.
My snakes really bite, he said with a warm smile.
They sure got the devil in them. All serpents do, but Satan's
power is weakest here in the Lord's house.
However, on the occasion they do bite, it shall not hurt them.
They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
That being said, he broke off, turning his neck to one side,
revealing 2 dark pinprick scars upon his throat.
To my knowledge, no one had ever survived being bitten on the
neck by an eastern diamondback. Yet here stood this pastor,
living, breathing, proof that it was possible.
Only that wasn't quite his version of events.
When I asked him how he survived, his response was
cryptic to say the least. That's just the thing, brother.
He said. I didn't.
When I asked him what he meant by that, the pastor called out
to one of his congregation. Brother Robert, he yelled.
Show our guest here how we are. Unafraid.
I watched in disbelief as a boy no older than 20 fetched a
Wicker basket from one side of the stage before pulling out the
biggest rattlesnake I'd ever laid eyes on.
Then, in rhythm with the singing and clapping of the
congregation, he started bouncing this thing up and down
in his grip. I expected that the rattler
would just wheel around and bite him in an instant, but to my
amazement, it looked completely disinterested.
My jaw is on the floor as I am trying to figure out if it's the
music, the rhythmic bouncing, or if these snakes have been
sedated before the service and I only snap out of it when I hear
the pastor speak again. You see, brother?
He hissed into my ear. You see how we got the devil on
a leash? I must admit I was impressed.
Balls for picking up a rattlesnake like that, but it
didn't seem the least bit interested in biting him.
I had to drag myself out of that awestruck stupor to get the
interview back on track. I finally asked him what he
meant when he said he didn't survive the snake bite.
He just looked at me and grinned, his lips squirming like
the truth was on the tip of his tongue.
But all that came out was a Bible verse.
I am the resurrection and the life.
Whoever lives by believing in me will never die.
My first guess was that Pastor Childers hadn't died.
More like he had miraculously survived a period of
unfathomable pain and suffering and lost a little of his sanity
in the process. But Pastor Childers was telling
the truth. Only before I could question him
any further, one of the congregation let out an ear
piercing screech. Another worshipper rushed to
take control of the rattler Brother Robert had been holding
while the boy himself held out his forearm, two tiny droplets
of blood bubbling out before running down his alabaster skin.
He had been bitten. Excuse me, brother Pastor.
Childers said as pandemonium erupted.
But please come back tomorrow night.
If the boy doesn't survive, he'll be resurrected.
Come see, come see. And at that he was gone, sucked
into the throng of hysterical worshippers as they flocked
around the venom stricken boy. I left, disgusted at the waist
of a young life, switching on my flashlight as I walked back into
the darkness. Come on, boy, let's get out of
here. Tack jumped up, his tail wagging
in relief before we trudged off through the trees.
When I awoke the next morning, I had no intention of returning to
the revival tent to watch Brother Robert's resurrection.
I had seen enough medics hopelessly laboring over dead
men to know that once you're gone, there's no bringing you
back. Instead, I plan to check out of
the motel before the long drive back to Syracuse.
Only as I was loading up my car, I heard a soft, mousy voice
calling out from behind me. Hey, Mr. It was a young woman,
maybe about 16 or even 17 years old.
You're headed down to the worship tonight, right?
I hadn't noticed her the night before, but evidently she had
noticed me. No, I replied.
I don't know what they're going to do with that boy, but he, he
passed. She interjected, a sadness in
her eyes. Last night, a few hours after
you left, but they're going to bring him back tonight.
She believed it too. You could hear it in her voice.
I'm sorry, but you can't bring people back.
I felt like a major jerk saying it to her, but it was the truth.
At least I thought it was. Your pastor is a liar.
He wasn't resurrected. There's no such thing.
Sure there is, Mr. And you're going to tell everyone about it.
I slammed my trunk shut and turn to face her.
And why would you want me to tell everyone I asked?
That'll mean feds crawling all over these hills.
They'll arrest your pastor and take away your snakes.
Because it needs to stop. All of it needs to stop.
She was growing more increasingly agitated, and her
voice cracked as she spoke. What they're doing down there,
it's, it's wrong. Sure, most of the time they come
back OK, but every so often they come back different and they've
got to put them down. I don't want to see Robert like
that, I just can't. But they're going to.
And. I said, cutting her off before
she descended into panic. I'll head down to the tent again
tonight and try to stop whatever they're going to do, OK?
Thank you, Mr. Thank you. The girl replied, her cheeks now
slick with tears. Before I had a chance to say
anything else, she was on her way.
That night me and Tack repeated the ritual of gearing up,
getting in the car and driving down to Three Forks.
Only this time I had even less of an idea of what to expect.
We had hit the dead end of Laurel Fork and again walk
through the drizzling rain towards where the tent had been
the night before. Once again they were expecting
me, but when I entered I found the tone to be very different
than the night before. Instead of singing, dancing and
clapping, the congregation was silent and there was a distinct
tension in the air. Ah Pastor Childers, I exclaimed
as I walked in. Welcome brother, God told me
you'd return and here you are. Childers was standing over 2
white plastic camping tables which held up Brother Roberts
lifeless corpse and it was quite evident that he was dead.
He had that deathly pallor about him, that same grim jaundice I
had seen so many others have in Vietnam.
Behind him was the same man who had welcomed me into the 10th
the previous night, only this time he was carrying a shotgun.
Pastor, we need to talk. Not now, brother.
Plenty of time to talk when Brother Robert is back.
Brother Robert isn't coming back, Pastor, you and I, please,
no more talking. Pastor.
Childers interrupted. All your doubts will be cleared
soon enough. Now take your seats, brothers
and sisters. The time of rebirth is upon us
again. Tack was growling something
fierce, but he kept it low, sticking close to my side as we
were waiting to what was to come.
We got something special here, folks, Childers began.
There's something in these hills that God put here long, long
ago, and we must show our gratitude for it.
A smattering of Amens came back from the congregation before the
pastor continued. So will it be with the
resurrection of the dead, he said, his voice rising with
every sentence. The body that is sown is
perishable, but it's raised imperishable.
It's sown into dishonour, but it was raised in glory.
It is sown in weakness, but it is raised in power.
The congregation. We're calling back to him now as
he motioned to a man off stage. Bring me the serpent that took
this boy's life, Pastor Childers bellowed, and at his command the
man picked up the same Wicker basket that Brother Robert had
carried just the night before. In it was the snake that killed
him, still alive and still deadly.
Childers whipped open the lid, plunged his hand into the basket
and raised the snake up by its head, and as he held it up to
the congregation, he produced a small knife and began to slice
through the snake's throat. Once it had been decapitated.
Another member of the congregation appeared to be
holding a large glass bowl, and the snake's blood was carefully
and methodically drained into it before they continued.
The pastor then placed the snake's remains on Brother
Thomas's lifeless chest before taking a short step back.
I declare to you, brothers and sisters, he bellowed, that flesh
and blood cannot inherit the Kingdom of God, nor does the
perishable inherit the imperishable.
We will not sleep. We will all be changed, changed.
The congregation began to whoop and holler and in turn Pastor
Childers Intensity began to build.
In a flash, in a twinkling of an eye at the last trumpet, the
dead will be raised imperishable and we will be changed.
He was foaming at the mouth now, fire and brimstone in his words.
Then and only then, we will have the saying that will come true.
Death has been swallowed up in victory.
As Pastor Childers ranted and raved, my attention was suddenly
drawn away from him, the headless snake that lay on
Robert's chest. He began to move.
It was only slight at first, little twitches that could
easily be mistaken as belated death throes, but soon it was
unmistakable. The snake, the dead snake, was
moving. Where, O death, is your victory?
Childers screamed, motioning to the sheer impossibility before
him. Where, O death is your sting?
And at that, the snake began to slither stump first into Brother
Robert's open mouth and down into his throat.
I could not believe what I was seeing.
Watching the headless, blood soaked snake disappear down
Brother Robert's throat was the single most horrifying thing I
had ever witnessed. Nothing I had seen in Nam could
possibly compare. But instead of running for their
lives, the congregation were in raptures.
Some were weeping, other spoken tongues, the rest simply stood
there as in a deep trance, swaying from side to side.
Me on the other hand, it was like I was dumbstruck.
I was glued to that spot, just clamoring to comprehend what the
hell I was seeing. Then, when I thought things
couldn't get any more insane, Brother Robert woke up.
Tack was just about losing his mind at this point, unleashing a
flurry of high pitched wines as he tugged at the sleeve of my
jacket. He was begging me to leave, but
I just couldn't. I remember putting a hand on my
mouth in pure shock. Watching his brother Robert
coughed, sputtered and gasped for air.
He looked terrified, his sunken eyes wide and fearful, and they
darted around the room in confusion.
The congregation spilled out of their seats toward him.
People were weeping. Others cried out Hallelujah.
The joy they felt was otherworldly.
And as Brother Robert embraced his loved ones after a long,
deep sleep, he began to smile. All eyes were on Roberts.
Not a single person wanted this moment to be missed, this
miracle of a resurrection. All except one.
The girl who had visited me at the motel, she was staring at
me. The desperate look in her eyes
that screamed for God's sake to do something.
But I didn't have anything to do because Robert did it for me.
Give me some room, Pastor, Childers cried out.
Let me welcome our dear brother back into the land of the
living. The congregation rescinded like
waves from a beach, allowing Childers to get face to face
with the still smiling Robert. Only as I watched him approach,
I noticed there was something horribly wrong about Robert's
face. His eyes were wide open, almost
like he didn't have any eyelids at all, and his smile was
stretched so unnaturally wide that I swear you could see every
single one of his teeth. It wasn't a happy smile, it was
something else, something terrifying.
Robert. Childers asked.
It's me, Pastor Childers, I want to.
Childers was silenced by the lightning fast movement of
Robert's arms. In an instant, his hands were
wrapped around the pastor's throat.
He gasped for air as the congregation leapt to his
defense, trying to pry Robert's hands off of his neck.
But it was no good for a man who had been clinically deceased
just a few moments before. Robert was horrifyingly strong,
and we all heard the moment he crushed the pastor's larynx with
a sickening crunch. Robert then swung the pastor
around, knocking down several of the congregation as he flung the
man's limp body in the direction.
Robert, no. What in God's name are you
doing? Yet it was as if he could not
hear them. He simply grabbed another member
of the congregation and sunk his teeth into her face.
The scream she let out was gut wrenching, punctuated by the
sound of a shotgun shell racking into the chamber.
Get the hell off of her, Robert. The armed man roared, aiming the
barrel squarely at his head. Robert let go, spitting out the
chewed remains of her nose on the earthen floor of the tent.
And with that same sick smile splitting his face into two, he
slowly turned back towards the armed man.
Please, Robert, he said. Please snap out of it.
Robert responded by taking a few slow steps toward him, before
suddenly and violently lunging. Buckshot tore through the right
side of Robert's skull, popping it open like a smashed
watermelon. The boy stood there for a
moment, staggering to and fro, and then it looked like he was
about to drop. Then, out of nowhere, Robert
once again lunge towards the man, grabbing hold of the
shotgun and using it as leverage to smash what remained of his
forehead into the man's mouth. He fell back, letting go of the
shotgun, blood pouring from his pulverized lips.
Robert had racked around into the shotgun, a percussive hit to
the melody of the downed man's pleas for his life.
Some of his teeth fell out of his mouth as he begged Robert
aim the shotgun square at the man's hands, clasped together in
a prayer and fired. The man howled as everything
above the wrist simply disintegrated, all while the
congregation and I begged Robert to come to his senses.
Instead, he racked another round into the chamber, aimed the
shotgun at the wounded man's head, and fired.
The sound of his scream degenerating into a gurgle still
haunts my nightmares, and that was the moment I came to my own
senses and got the hell out of that revival tent.
Run, boy, run. I screamed, but Tak did not need
to be told. He bolted on a head as the
sounds of the unfolding massacre echoed through the trees behind
us. And here's where I bring up my
wounded leg. Remember the one I told you
about 12 pages back? It means I can't run very far,
very fast. And we ended up paying for it
because at one point I looked back to see something catching
up to us. I think it's another survivor
from the tent. But when I turn, all I see is
Brother Robert hurling towards me.
Shotgun in hand. He pumps one final round into
the chamber, raises the shotgun, and then something else tears
past me in the darkness. It was Tack barreling towards
the thing that used to be Brother Robert, and with his
good eye it tracked Tack as he leapt towards him and took its
last shot. The next thing I see is Brother
Robert in the dirt, and Tack has him by the throat, whipping his
neck back and forth, chewing and piercing, drowning Robert in his
own blood. At first I didn't think that'd
finish him off, but when Tack climbed off of him and Robert
ceased to move, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
But it was one taken far too soon.
No sooner than I had said Good boy Tack collapsed to the
ground. The thing that used to be Robert
had indeed landed, his final shot, filling Tack's gut full of
buckshot in the seconds before he delivered the killer blow.
I went to autopilot, picked Tack up and ran as fast as I could
back to the car, driving like a man possessed, not even sure
where I was headed. I just remember looking over at
him at one point to see if he was still alive, if he was still
with me, and he was gone. His big brown eyes stared off
into oblivion. I pulled the car over to the
side of the highway and burst into tears.
I never loved anything in my whole life like I loved that
dog. After we got back from Nam and
the things had gotten bad for a while, he was the only thing
that kept me from eating my gun every single time I thought
about ending it. I think, who's going to feed
Tack? And that was that.
All the guys whose lives he had saved, they'd kick my ass if
they knew I'd ever dared to mistreat him.
He was my best friend in the world, and now he was gone.
I tried and failed to save his life, just like he had saved
mine that day in the jungle, and just like he did that day in
Three Forks. And that's just something I must
live with. I couldn't bring myself to write
up the story. I just apologized to my editor
and told him I had to pass on it.
After all, who in their right minds would believe me?
When he asked about what happened in Kentucky, I just
told him it was a hunting accident.
A few years later, I took a job down in Florida, working as the
sports correspondent for the Gainesville Sun, and I ended up
retiring here, too. I mean, to go back to Three
Forks one day to really address what happened.
Just not yet, not yet. I have a new dog these days,
also ex military and he's also a German Shepherd.
I think he takes more care of me than I take care of him at this
point, and he certainly makes for better company than my
ex-wife. As for a name, I call him Junior
and I don't think I have to tell you who that's after.
It was a typical chilly night at our campsite, nestled deep
within the woods. The sky was sprinkled with
stars, and the campfire crackled, casting flickering
shadows on everyone's faces. My friends and I were huddled
around the fire, roasting marshmallows and swapping ghost
stories. Despite the spooky tales, the
warmth of the fire and the laughter made everything feel
safe and cozy. Just as I was about to take
another bite of my s'more, I felt an urgent need to use the
restroom. I'll be right back, I mumbled,
standing up. The nearest restroom was a
quarter mile away, down a narrow winding path that disappeared
into the darkness beyond our campfires glow.
I grabbed a flashlight and started walking.
The beam of light cut through the darkness, but it couldn't
chase away the eerie feeling that crept up my spine.
Every rustle in the bushes and every snap of a twig made my
heart jump. I told myself it was just the
wind or a small animal, nothing to be scared of.
As I continued down the path, the outline of someone walking
ahead caught my eye. It looked like one of my friends
from the campsite. He had a peculiar way of
walking, kind of a shuffle with one foot dragging slightly.
I called out. Hey, wait up.
But he didn't stop. Instead he looked back and
shouted. Why are you following me?
His voice sounded strained, almost scared.
That was weird. I quicken my pace to catch up,
keeping the beam of my flashlight steady on the path
ahead. I told you guys I was just going
to the bathroom. I yelled back.
But he didn't wait. He turned and started walking
faster. And then, just like that, he was
gone, swallowed up by the dark. When I finally reached the
restroom, I was a little out of breath and a lot spooked.
I did my business quickly, half expecting a ghost to pop out at
any minute. The walk back to the campsite
was even creepier. I kept looking over my shoulder,
expecting to see my friend or whoever it was following me, but
there was only darkness and the distant sound of laughter from
the campfire. When I got back, I walked
straight to my friend, the one I thought I had seen on the path.
He was sitting by the fire, roasting another marshmallow,
acting as if he'd been there the whole time.
Were you just on the path to the restroom?
I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.
He looked up, puzzled. No, I've been here the whole
time. Why, what's up?
I glanced around at my other friends.
They all nodded, agreeing with him.
But I saw someone. It looked just like you.
I stammered, feeling a bit foolish.
They all laughed. Probably just your imagination,
or maybe you saw a ghost. One friend teased, winking.
I forced a laugh and sat back down, poking at the fire with a
stick. Maybe they were right, it was
probably just my imagination running wild in the dark, but
still, a nagging feeling told me something strange was going on.
I decided to keep it to myself for now, not wanting to be the
joke of the night. But deep down I couldn't shake
off the chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
After the strange happenings earlier that night, I tried to
convince myself everything was normal.
I joined in the laughter and stories.
But I couldn't completely relax. Eventually I crawled into my
tent, still puzzled, and fell into a fitful sleep.
In what felt like just minutes later, I woke up again.
My watch showed it was 3:00 AM, and once again I needed to use
the bathroom. I didn't want to trek all the
way to the restroom, so I decided to just walk a little
into the woods. I slipped on my shoes and
quietly unzipped my tent, trying not to wake anyone else.
The woods were even quieter at this hour, and a thin mist had
settled around the campsite, making everything look ghostly.
I shivered, more from the eerie silence than the cold, and
headed into the trees. After I was done, I started back
toward the campsite. That's when I heard it, the
distinct sound of a tent zipper. I turned my head just in time to
see my friend, the same one I thought I saw earlier, stepping
out of his tent. He pulled out a cigarette and
his lighter. The sparks from the lighter
briefly lit up his face in the darkness, giving him a spooky
look. Can you hear me?
He called out softly, almost a whisper.
I stopped walking, confused. Yeah, I can hear you, What's up?
I replied, trying to sound braver than I felt.
Can you hear me? He asked again, this time much
louder. It was as if he was talking to
someone far away, not just to me.
Yeah, what are you trying to do, wake everyone up?
I said, a little annoyed. He just shook his head and
walked towards the cars parked a little way off from our tents.
Curious and a bit worried, I followed him.
The mist made it hard to see and he seemed to be just a shadow
moving ahead of me. When I reached the cars, he was
nowhere to be seen. I looked around, bewildered and
not a little scared. This isn't funny anymore.
I called out, but there was no answer.
Frustrated and feeling a bit foolish, I walked back to his
tent. It was zipped up and I could
hear faint snoring from inside. I stood there for a moment,
trying to make sense of things. Was I dreaming, seeing things?
Or was something weird really happening?
Too wired to sleep, I returned to my tent, but I didn't close
my eyes again. That night I lay there listening
to the sounds of the night and wondering about what I'd seen
and heard. It seemed impossible, but I was
sure of what I'd experienced. The next morning, I watched as
my friend climbed out of his tent, stretching and yawning
like it was just another day. I wanted to ask him again, to
see if he'd admit to anything now in the daylight, but
something in his normal sleepy expression stopped me.
Maybe I just imagined it all, but the memory of that night
stayed with me, a mystery that wouldn't quite let me go.
I knew something strange had happened, even if I couldn't
explain it. As I pushed past the low hanging
branches at the edge of Ocala National Forest, the scent of
pine and damp earth hit me. The forest, cloaked in its
perpetual shadow, stretched endlessly before us, an
impenetrable wall of green that had swallowed up countless
sunsets. It was the kind of place you
could get lost in without ever straying from a path, the kind
of place that kept its secrets close.
My buddy Mike, a sturdy guy with a keen eye for tracking, led the
way with his usual brisk pace. We're going to find some good
spots tonight, I can feel it, He said, adjusting the strap of his
AR15 on his shoulder. I nodded, feeling the familiar
weight of my own rifle and the side arm at my hip.
We were equipped for hogs, but prepared for anything.
The deeper we ventured, the thicker the woods seemed to
become. Ancient oaks twisted high above
their limbs, weaving a dense tapestry that blotted out the
moon. Only thin shards of light
managed to Pierce the canopy, casting eerie shadows that
danced around our feet. It was well past midnight, and
by my reckoning, we were about 3 or 4 miles from the main road,
deeper than we'd planned to go. We should have turned back an
hour ago. I muttered, checking my watch.
The digital glow seemed out of place in the timeless dark of
the Ocala. Mike chuckled softly.
Where's your sense of adventure, man?
Besides, we're not the type to shy away from a little darkness.
True enough, with our gear, our skills, and the moon providing
just enough light to navigate, I felt a surge of confidence.
We were hunters, after all, descendants of a long line of
humans who knew how to tread softly and strike fast.
But there was something about Ocala that made you feel small,
a whisper in your ear that you were never truly alone.
As we moved, the silence of the night was suddenly shattered by
a rustling to our right. It was heavy, deliberate, the
sound of something big pushing through the underbrush.
My heart kicked against my ribs as I instinctively reached for
my rifle. Hold up, Mike said, his voice
low. He gestured for me to switch on
the flashlight. We opted against the mounted
lights on our rifles to avoid startling.
Whatever it was, maybe it was just a deer, or at the very
least, a bear. I clicked on the flashlight, the
beam slicing through the darkness.
We stood still, listening as the rustling grew louder, closer.
Whatever it was, it was moving fast, heading straight for the
trail ahead of us. I braced myself, ready to catch
sight of a hog or a startled deer, but instead there was
nothing. Nothing but the quick flash of
what looked like white legs crossing the trail some 50 feet
up. Human legs it seemed, pale and
bare against the dark undergrowth.
What the hell? Mike whispered, my thoughts
exactly. What kind of person would be out
here crashing through the woods in the middle of the night?
We had a choice then, to follow the strange sighting and delve
deeper into the unknown, or turn back and admit defeat.
We chose to press on, our curiosity now as sharp as our
blades. The rest of the journey was
marked by occasional sounds from the woods around us, a reminder
that we weren't alone. But we saw no further sign of
the mysterious Night Walker. Each step took us deeper into
the heart of Ocala, deeper into its secrets.
As the night wore on, the forest seemed less like a place on a
map and more like a living, breathing entity, watching us
with unseen eyes. I couldn't shake the feeling
that Ocala wasn't just keeping its secrets, it was whispering
them, one rustling leaf at a time, and I was listening,
whether I wanted to or not. The trail became a narrow gash
in the earth, winding its way through towering Pines that
seemed to lean in, curious about the interlopers in their midst.
My boots crunched softly on the bed of pine needles, the sound
almost devoured by the thick silence that enveloped us.
Mike was ahead, his outline a ghostly shadow against the dark
backdrop of the woods. We hadn't spoken much since
seeing those white legs flit across the trail.
The image lingered in my mind, unsettling in its ambiguity.
Was it a prank, a lost hiker, or something else?
Something that didn't want to be found.
The deeper we walked into Ocala, the more I felt the latter might
be true. Our flashlights bobbed with our
steps, twin beams that carved out small islands of light in
the ocean of darkness. Every rustle, every snap of a
twig under foot seemed amplified.
I kept my rifle close, the grip reassuring against my palm.
We should be nearing the car soon.
Mike said over his shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper, as
if afraid to break the night's spell.
I nodded, though he couldn't see it, the promise of returning to
the familiar cramped space of my old Ford was a welcome one.
As much as I love the hunt, tonight had woven a thread of
unease through the thrill. Finally, the outline of my car
materialized through the trees, untouched and solitary under the
watchful eyes of the forest. A wave of relief washed over me.
We quickened our pace, our beams of light swinging wildly in our
haste as we stowed our gear in the trunk.
The silence of Ocala seemed to press in on us, dense and
expectant. I glanced around, half expecting
to see a figure standing at the edge of the light, watching us.
But there was only the forest and the night.
We climbed into the car, the interior a bubble of mundane
safety compared to the wild outside.
I started the engine, the purr of the motor a comforting sound.
Mike fiddled with the radio, settling on some late night talk
show that filled the cabin with inane chatter.
But as we drove down the Forest Rd. the headlights caught
something. A figure walking along the
roadside. It was a man, his shirt a
checkerboard of light and shadow, wearing shorts and no
gear, no flashlight. That's got to be the guy we saw
earlier. Mike murmured, his tone a mix of
disbelief and curiosity. The man didn't look up as we
passed, just kept walking with a steady, purposeful stride.
Where could he be going? There was nothing for miles, no
reason for him to be out here. It didn't make sense.
As the road straightened and we neared the paved exit of the
forest, the man vanished from view.
Mike and I exchanged a look, questions unspoken but hanging
heavy between us. The rest of the drive was
silent, each of us lost in our thoughts.
The encounter had cast a shadow over the night, turning an
otherwise successful hunt into a puzzle we couldn't solve.
I dropped Mike off at his place with a casual wave, the night's
events still swirling in my mind as I drove home.
The empty streets of my small town seemed eerily similar to
the dark paths of Ocala. Quiet, deserted, and full of
secrets. I knew one thing for certain,
I'd be back, not just for the thrill of the hunt, but to
unravel the mystery of what or who was sharing the forest with
us. Sometimes you hear stories that
you just can't shake off, no matter how hard you try.
That's exactly what happened with the story Jay told me one
chilly evening as we sat curled up on the couch sipping hot
cocoa. Jay, my boyfriend, had always
been interested in all things spooky, and I guess that's one
reason we clicked, because I'm pretty open to that sort of
stuff, too. Jay had this old intriguing tale
about his childhood, one that involved a dusty old Ouija board
he found in his grandma's attic. He was just about my age then,
maybe a bit older, always looking for adventures or
something mysterious to solve. But this wasn't just any
adventure, it was one that he'd remember forever, and not in a
good way. He told me how he had dusted off
the board, the letters almost faded and the planchette a
little pointer, quite wobbly. Despite the eerie feeling it
gave him. Curiosity won over and he
decided to play with it alone. He asked it silly questions at
first, like if he'd pass his math test or if any girl in his
class liked him. But then he asked it if anyone
was there with him. The planchette moved to yes.
That was the start of everything.
From that exact day, Jay said his life changed.
It was like he had opened a door he couldn't close.
Weird things began to happen. He would hear his name whispered
when no one was home, doors would slam shut, and sometimes
his things would go missing only to turn up in odd places at
night. It felt as if someone was
watching him, and not in a protective guardian Angel kind
of way, but something more sinister.
Listening to him, I felt a chill run down my spine.
I believed in spiritual stuff, yes, but Jay's story seemed like
something straight out of a horror movie.
Despite my fears, I couldn't help but be drawn into his
world, wondering about the unseen and the unexplained.
As Jay's story unfolded, I found myself looking around our cozy
living room, half expecting to see something uncanny.
But all that greeted me was the soft glow of our lamps and the
comforting crackle of the fire. Yet something about Jay's tale
made the room feel colder, the shadows darker.
I never touched a Ouija board again after that.
Jay concluded, staring deep into his mug as if it held some
secret. I reached out, squeezing his
hand, trying to bring him back from the haunting memories.
The rest of the evening, we switched gears and decided to
listen to some creepy encounter podcasts, which we both loved.
But in the back of my mind, Jay's story lingered, making
each podcast feel a little more real, a little more possible.
What if these things weren't just stories?
What if something really was out there, just beyond the edge of
what we could see and understand?
As we settled in for the night, those thoughts swirled in my
mind, unsettling yet oddly thrilling.
Little did I know, the night was about to take a turn bringing
Jay's stories terrifyingly close to reality.
That night, after listening to a couple of spooky podcasts, Jay
and I decided to switch to watching some scary stories on
YouTube to wind down before bed. It sounds weird, right?
Watching scary things to wind down, But for us, it was our way
of relaxing. It was like riding a roller
coaster from the safety of our couch.
But what happened next wasn't something we could have ever
predicted. We were halfway through a
particularly creepy story when a scream shattered the quiet of
our room. It was distant yet clear,
cutting through the narrator's voice on the TV.
It sounded like a little girl's cry for help, coming from
somewhere outside in the dark. I looked at Jay, my eyes wide
with fear, and he paused the video.
We listened, holding our breaths.
There it was again, the same scream, only this time it seemed
closer, more desperate. I felt a chill run down my
spine. Jay muted the TV and we sat in
silence, straining our ears against the stillness of the
night. The scream came again, and it
was unmistakable. This time it wasn't just our
imagination. Suddenly our cats, who had been
sleeping peacefully at our feet, jumped up.
Their backs arched and they hissed towards the front door,
their eyes fixed on something we couldn't see.
Their reaction made my heart race even faster.
Animals are supposed to sense things humans can't, right?
What were they seeing that we couldn't?
Before we could comfort them, a new sound began.
It started as a soft tapping, like fingertips drumming against
the window pane. Then it grew louder and more
insistent, as if someone or something was tapping on every
window and door around the house.
Tap, tap, tap. It went on and on, a sinister
rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of my own heart.
Should we check it out? Jay whispered, his voice barely
audible. No, let's just stay here.
I replied, my voice shaking. I wasn't about to go anywhere
near those doors or windows, not with that tapping, not with
those screams. We decided to hide under the
bed, which might seem silly, but it felt like the only safe place
at that moment. We crawled underneath, pulling a
couple of blankets with us. Lying there in the cramped,
dusty space, I held Jay's hand tightly.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried to stifle my sobs.
I was scared that whatever was outside could hear us, could
sense our fear. The tapping continued for what
felt like hours. Tap, tap, tap.
It was relentless. Then, as suddenly as it had
started, it stopped. The silence that followed was
almost worse than the noise. It was heavy, filled with
anticipation of what might come next.
We didn't dare move. We stayed under the bed, holding
each other, waiting for the sun to rise.
Neither of us spoke much. What was there to say?
In that moment, we both understood the reality of fear.
Not just the kind you hear in stories, but the deep, primal
fear that makes you realize how vulnerable you really are.
As dawn finally broke and the first light crept into the room,
we finally allowed ourselves to breathe.
Whatever had visited us that night had gone, leaving us with
nothing but the echoes of our own fear.
But the question remained, what was it?
And more importantly, would it come back?
Life, as they say, can turn on a dime.
For me, it seemed to turn on every restless thought and every
sigh that escaped my lips in the silence of our two empty house
that Sunday night. The world outside was alive with
the usual hum of the main road, a constant reminder that life
went on, bustling and busy just beyond my front door.
Across the street, the high school stood like a Sentinel,
dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos within its walls
during the day. My wife, Emily, had gone to stay
with her mother in a neighboring city.
A few weeks ago. We were taking a break, a phrase
that felt like a thin veil over a gaping wound.
Our conversations had become minefields, our home a
battleground of silent treatments and whispered
grievances. She left in search of peace, I
suppose, And me? I was left grappling with the
pieces, trying to forge some semblance of normalcy in the
echoing spaces of our once shared life.
The kids were tucked in bed, their gentle breathing a
rhythmic comfort as I moved through the motions of
organizing our home. Boxes, once packed with the
optimism of a family making a new start, now stood as
monuments to our fragmented reality, stacked neatly by the
front door. I had decided to unpack them,
not because they needed unpacking, but because the task
gave me a sense of purpose, a distraction from the heavy cloak
of loneliness that had settled around my shoulders.
It was late, maybe too late for the noise I was making, but the
emptiness of the house swallowed the sounds, leaving behind a
quiet that was too loud in its silence.
I was winding down, my thoughts turning to the week ahead, when
a sound sliced through the night, so out of place it made
my heart stop. A baby crying.
At first I thought it might be a trick of my weary mind, a
phantom whale born from too many sleepless nights.
But there it was again, a clear, sharp cry that seemed to come
from just outside. I froze, listening, trying to
make sense of it. My children, six and nine, were
far past the age of night time cries.
A chill ran down my spine as I move toward the door, driven by
a mixture of concern and a growing unease peeking out.
The night greeted me with its cool indifference.
The street was empty, the usual night time quiet settling over
the neighborhood like a thick fog.
But as I strained my eyes in the dim light, I saw it.
An unsettling, misshapen figure shuffling up the sidewalk.
It was too far to discern details, but it was definitely
not human. Not anymore, if it ever was.
I stepped outside, the door slamming shut behind me.
In my haste, the sound seemed to startle the creature.
It paused, turning its head in my direction.
Heart pounding, I could only stare as it faced me.
The details of its form were obscured by the shadows, but the
feeling of wrongness it projected was palpable.
Panicked, I retreated back inside, slamming the door and
locking it. My mind raced as I backed away
from the door, trying to process what I had just seen.
It wasn't just fear that gripped me, it was the realization that
my understanding of the world, of what was possible and what
wasn't, had just expanded in a way I was not prepared to
handle. I grabbed a machete from the
utility closet. A laughable defense perhaps, but
it was something. As I stood there, weapon in
hand, the silence of the house now seemed oppressive,
suffocating. I was alone, truly alone, and
for the first time, the weight of that solitude felt like it
might just crush me. The moments after I slammed the
door shut felt longer than any I'd experienced before.
My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain it could be heard
throughout the quiet house. The machete felt clumsy in my
hand, a poor substitute for actual safety, yet it was all I
had to defend myself against. Whatever was out there, I stood
there frozen, listening intently for any signs of movement.
Outside, the soft ticking of the kitchen clock mocked the rapid
pace of my pulse. I was expecting to hear the
shuffle of footsteps, the scraping of claws, or the
ominous silence broken by another cry.
Instead, there came a different sound, A heavy, deliberate set
of footsteps that seemed too rhythmic and solid to belong to
anything human. They sounded like hooves
clicking against the concrete of our front walk in a steady,
haunting cadence. Minutes stretched into an
eternity as I waited, every sense strained in the heavy
silence of my fortress of solitude.
Finally, when I could stand the suspense no longer, I edged
toward the door, machete gripped tightly.
I peered through the peephole but saw nothing but the shadows
of the night. Taking a deep breath, I unlocked
the door and pulled it open with a swift, determined motion.
What greeted me was chaos. The neat stack of boxes I had
earlier arranged so meticulously was now a sprawled mess across
the driveway. Boxes were torn open, their
contents strewn about like the aftermath of some bizarre
tantrum. The night air was still, with no
sign of the creature that had caused such disarray.
I stepped outside, my eyes scanning the darkness for any
sign of movement, any hint of the misshapen figure I had seen
earlier. But there was nothing.
Just the ordinary night sounds of a town at rest, as if the
world were wholly unaware of the terror that had visited my
doorstep. Over the next few days, the
weight of what had happened bore down on me.
I found myself jumping at shadows, every sound making me
tense and ready for a confrontation that never came.
My sleep was fitful, filled with nightmares that left me waking
in a cold sweat. During the day, I scoured the
Internet for any explanation, any similar experiences that
could tell me what I had encountered.
That's when I stumbled upon tales of skinwalkers, creatures
from Native American lore said to be able to transform into,
possess, or disguise themselves as animals.
Could my emotional turmoil have attracted such a being?
Was it possible that these entities were drawn to the
lonely and the broken hearted, feeding off their despair?
The thought was both terrifying and strangely validating.
It meant I wasn't crazy, that perhaps there was more to my
experience than just an overactive imagination fueled by
stress and fear. As the days turned into weeks,
the immediate fear began to dull, replaced by a lingering
caution and a deep seated curiosity.
I was more aware, more watchful. No longer the passive observer
of my own life, but an active participant in a mysterious,
unseen world. I decided to share my story not
just as a warning to others, but as a way to find connection and
perhaps answers. If anything, I hope that by
reaching out, by exposing my vulnerability and fear, I might
find others who had witnessed the inexplicable, who could
offer understanding or at the very least the comfort of shared
experience. It was a step towards healing,
towards reclaiming the peace that had been so brutally
disrupted that unsettling night.