In 2017, I was a 21 year old college student in the final
semester of my education at a university in the southeastern
part of South Dakota. It was a far cry from my
childhood in the greater Saint Louis area of Missouri, a place
that felt like a distant memory 8 long hours away from where I
now called home. During my time in South Dakota,
I had the privilege of meeting people from various backgrounds
and cultures. One group that left a lasting
impression on me were the Native Americans from the Sioux tribe.
Many late night conversations in the library with my Sioux
classmates exposed me to the rich mythologies of their
culture, tales of creatures like the Thunderbird and Sasquatch.
As a child, I had been obsessed with researching cryptids and
watching shows like Monster Quest and Mountain Monsters.
But as I grew older, I became more skeptical of the stories I
once believed in. Conversations with my Sioux
friends were now driven more by intellectual curiosity, although
some of their stories began to creep into my nightmares.
Stories of beings capable of shape shifting and mimicking
your loved ones enough to send shivers down anyone's spine.
Amidst my final semester, my girlfriend and I broke up and it
took a toll on my mental health and school work.
She had been my first real relationship and facing the
prospect of being alone was a new and unsettling experience.
My two friends, Rich and Eric, my roommates noticed my
struggles. At first they gave me space, but
as days turned into weeks, their concern grew. 1 fateful night
around 10 PMI was watching TV and sipping on a Bang Energy
drink when Rich knocked on my door so loudly that my star
blast flavored liquid splattered onto the carpet with a
mischievous grin. He exclaimed.
Come on bro, we're going hunting.
Rich was a self-proclaimed ladies man from the West Coast,
towering AT-65 and built like a former offensive lineman, much
like the three of us who had bonded through football.
I had hung up my cleats due to an injury the previous year and
both Rich and Eric had their own reasons for quitting.
Over time, Rich and I had gone from reluctant teammates to
close friends, while Eric, hailing from Nebraska, was about
my height, 6 by two and a solid 285 lbs of pure muscle, he was
the quintessential country boy, rarely without chewing tobacco
or a cheap beer in hand. Eric had gone hunting with Rich
before, but I had never been the hunting type.
My recent breakup had left me sulking in my room, making it
hard for me to muster the courage to ask if I could tag
along. When Rich urged me to join them,
I hesitated for a moment, contemplating a night of
solitude and self pity. Eventually I gave in and said
screw it, let's go. Eric was already in the driver's
seat of his truck as Rich and I locked the front door of our
apartment, I reached for a nearly full 30 pack of cheap
beer and Eric asked me to grab one for him.
Not the smartest decision, drinking and driving, but we
were young and reckless. For the next two hours, we drove
through the back roads of South Dakota, navigating dirt trails
that seem to stretch into Infinity.
Surrounded by the vast plains cloaked in darkness, the only
source of light was the truck's headlights.
At one point, Rich and Eric abruptly stopped the truck, and
I followed suit. There was a bang, and moments
later Eric retrieved a dead raccoon, shot by the tail,
grinning like a mischievous kid. This odd ritual repeated a few
times, but then something strange occurred.
Eric asked if we needed a bathroom break, and both Rich
and I raised our hands like obedient students.
Rolling his eyes, Eric slowed the truck to a stop in the
middle of a dirt road to our right.
There were about 20 yards of grass, followed by a dense
thicket of trees that seemed to stretch endlessly to the left.
The Great Plains stretched out as far as the eye could see.
We got out of the truck to relieve ourselves since there
was no one around for miles. We stayed on the Dirt Rd. close
to the running truck. As I finished and zipped up my
pants, I looked over at the tree line and was startled. 2 glowing
yellow orbs glowed in the darkness only about 20 yards
away. Thinking that the alcohol had
caught up with me, I rubbed my eyes vigorously and opened them
again, but the eerie yellow orbs remained.
I squinted, trying to discern more details, but all I saw was
an impenetrable darkness, except for those hauntingly luminous
eyes frozen in fear. I dared not look back at Rich
and Eric, terrified that turning away would invite the creature
to approach. Suddenly a hand rested on my
shoulder, causing me to jump out of my skin.
It was Eric, his voice calm but firm, saying we need to make a
dash for the truck. If not, we're going to die.
I nodded, unable to muster any words.
On the count of three, Eric continued 1/2.
He never got to three. As soon as he uttered 2A, spine
chilling sound pierced the air. It was a terrifying,
otherworldly roar, a Symphony of hatred, evil and imminent
danger. The sound was both high pitched
and deep, as though the creature possessed impossibly large
lungs. Panic surged through my veins
and I broke free from my petrified state.
Eric and I turned and bolted for the truck, our footsteps and
heavy breathing echoing in the night.
I could hear something in pursuit closing in on us
rapidly. We channelled every ounce of
energy into running faster than we'd ever run before.
I practically dove into the back of the truck while Eric jumped
into the driver's seat, slamming the gas pedal as we lurched
forward. Glancing back, I saw nothing but
the dust kicked up by the truck's tires, and in that vast,
impenetrable darkness, the two glowing eyes stared at us.
They remained fixed in place as we speed back to our apartment.
Eric pulled into our driveway and we stumbled out of the
truck, shaken to our cores. I fumble for the keys and open
the front door, and once inside, we tried to process the
harrowing encounter. Sean had only heard the roar,
not much else. As I recounted what I'd seen,
Sean gave me a perplexed look, but Eric corroborated my story.
They had witnessed the same inexplicable phenomenon.
Dazed. Confused and utterly exhausted,
we all passed out shortly after. When morning came, I woke up
with a slight headache and went to the kitchen where Eric was
already eating breakfast. I grabbed a protein bar and
chewed it in silence. Eventually I looked at Eric and
asked the question that had been gnawing at me since the previous
night. Eric.
What the heck was that? He stopped eating and locked
eyes with me, a look of someone who had seen such things before.
Well, I don't know, he replied slowly.
But I can tell you this, it wasn't human, and it wasn't like
anything I've ever haunted. After graduating, I returned to
the Saint Louis area. Over the years, I lost touch
with Eric and Sean. Hearing that Sean had gone back
to the West Coast while Eric had returned to Nebraska, I moved on
with my life, got engaged, and secured a job in law
enforcement. Most days were good, but every
now and then, when I found myself driving alone at night,
those haunting memories of that encounter in South Dakota would
resurface. Serving as a chilling reminder
of the night, I narrowly escaped something beyond comprehension
as I delved into research on cryptids once more.
I could only narrow it down to two possibilities.
Bigfoot or a Skinwalker. Regardless of its identity,
those luminous eyes would forever remain etched in my
soul, A haunting reminder of that night in South Dakota when
I came face to face with the unknown to the creature in the
darkness of South Dakota. I can only say this.
Let's not meet again. When I was 13 years old, a young
girl navigating the world, this story unfolded.
A memory that still sends shivers down my spine despite
the many years that have passed. It was a time when innocence
mingled with ignorance and I was blissfully unaware of the
dangers lurking in the world. The day began like any other as
I embarked on my daily journey home from school, A4 kilometer
trek along a bustling Rd. It was a route I had traversed
countless times. However, on this particular day
I was walking alone, and little did I know that it would be a
journey etched into my memory forever.
As I crossed intersections, the busy St. became a stage for an
unsettling encounter. A tall, unkempt man who appeared
to be in his early 30s caught my eye back then, deciphering an
adult's age was a puzzle I had yet to master.
He began to follow me, his footsteps echoing ominously
behind me. With an unsettling smile, he
initiated a conversation, repeatedly emphasizing the
beauty of the day and his desire for us to become friends.
He probed me with questions, inquiring about my home and
whether my parents would be there.
I sensed that something was amiss, and his peculiar interest
in a child like me only fueled my unease.
Politely, I avoided answering his inquiries and quickened my
pace. As we neared the block where I
lived, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me.
I knew I couldn't allow him to follow me home.
He exuded an eerie aura that adults rarely directed at me.
To escape, I concocted a desperate plan.
I would give him a fake cell phone number, agreeing to answer
his calls later, anything to sever the connection and get
away from him. In my discomfort, I handed him a
fabricated number and fled the scene.
Months passed, and I convinced myself that he was merely a
random oddity, a disturbing episode best forgotten.
Little did I know that the story was far from over.
Four months later, the grim specter of that man resurfaced
as I walked home from school. My attention was elsewhere,
until the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps jolted me
to awareness. I turned, and there he was, that
same sinister figure from the past.
He slowed his pace, yet his voice pierced the air with
anger. He had discovered my ruse and
fury consumed him. He berated me relentlessly,
accusing me of thinking myself superior to him.
Panic gripped me. I feared for my safety, but my
cries for help went unanswered by the passing motorists.
Desperation led me to the nearest petrol station, not too
far away, with the man trailing behind his voice a cacophonous
storm. Upon arriving at the station, I
caught the attention of two burly men standing next to their
pickup truck. They must have seen the terror
etched across my face and the man following me.
Without hesitation, they rushed to my side, Their protective
instincts kicking in. Words failed me as I shook my
head. Frantically.
Seeking refuge behind their imposing figures, the two men
demanded to know why the man was pursuing me.
He concocted a false story claiming to be my older brother.
Silently, I affirmed their suspicions through my terrified
demeanor. Realizing the gravity of the
situation, the men berated him, accusing him of actions I
couldn't bring myself to articulate in that moment of
chaos. As their attention was drawn to
the man, I seized the opportunity to flee.
He noticed my escape and made an attempt to pursue me.
The burly men, incensed by his audacity, reacted swiftly.
They tackled him to the ground and deposited him
unceremoniously into the back of their pickup truck.
His screams filled the air as they speed off at an astonishing
pace, passing me by and disappearing into the distance.
Relief washed over me as I watched them drive away with the
menacing stranger. I didn't know where they were
taking him or what they intended to do, and frankly, I didn't
want to know. I ran all the way home, my heart
pounding in my chest, trying to make sense of the traumatic
encounter. I confided in my parents, and we
immediately altered my school route.
Thankfully, I never saw that man again, and for that I remain
eternally grateful. Those two kind strangers who
intervened when I couldn't find my voice saw my distress and
acted selflessly to protect me. Even now, after all these years,
I vividly remember the terror that gripped me and the
overwhelming relief when they took him away, saving me from an
unthinkable fate. I remember the day I first
arrived at the Watchtower. The sun was dipping below the
horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange and red, much
like a wildfire itself. I lugged my last bag up.
The wooden steps of the tower, a structure that seemed both
ancient and timeless perched solemnly amidst the vastness of
the forest. I'm Alex Matthews, not your
typical fire watcher. I guess I landed this job partly
out of necessity, partly out of a desire to escape the clutches
of city life. There's something about the
forest solitude that appealed to my less social nature.
But as I stood there on the deck of the tower, the forest
stretching endlessly in every direction, I felt a pang of
something akin to fear. It was a respect, maybe, for the
sheer enormity of nature. The tower was rustic, to put it
nicely inside, everything smelt of pine and old wood.
The walls were lined with shelves holding an array of
outdated equipment, maps, and a dusty old radio that would be my
only line to the outside world. In the back of a cupboard I
found a leather journal left by some previous watcher.
I presumed. Flipping through it's yellowed
pages, I felt a strange connection to those who had come
before me. My first night was a Symphony of
unfamiliar sounds, the creaking of the tower, the whispering of
the wind through the trees, and distant calls of nocturnal
animals. I lay in my bunk, listening,
learning. The next day I started my
routines. I scanned the horizon for smoke,
reported weather conditions, and kept the radio close.
It was a life of repetition and vigilance, but the forest had
other plans. It was on the third day that I
found the deer skull. I was returning from a routine
check when I saw it lying just outside my door.
A chill ran down my spine as I examined it.
It was old, weathered, with bits of fur and flesh still clinging
to it. It felt like a warning, a sign
of something more sinister lurking in the depths of the
forest. I recalled the teenagers I had
chased off a few nights before and figured it was their idea of
a prank. Still, I couldn't shake off the
uneasy feeling it left in my gut.
That night, as darkness engulfed the tower, I sat at my desk, the
journal open in front of me. I began to write, pouring my
thoughts onto paper. It felt cathartic, a way to
process the day's eerie discovery.
As the days passed, the initial thrill of solitude gave way to a
gnawing sense of isolation. The tower, once a symbol of
escape, now felt like a cage. The endless expanse of trees
seem to watch me whispering secrets I couldn't understand.
I found myself staring out into the forest, searching for
something I couldn't quite define.
But the forest kept its secrets, and I, in my isolated
watchtower, waited, watched, and wondered.
Little did I know, the true test of my resolve was yet to come.
The days in the watchtower began to blend into one another, each
indistinguishable from the last. The forest, with its sprawling
expanse of Pines and hidden secrets, watched me silently, my
daily routines scanning for smoke, reporting weather
conditions. Walking the trails became my
lifeline, the only thing anchoring me to reality.
It was during one of my routine trail checks that I stumbled
upon the old man. He was a small, wiry figure,
leaning heavily on a cane, his eyes squinting against the
daylight. Lost, he said.
Couldn't find his way back to the car park.
I remember thinking how out of place he looked in the
wilderness, like a piece of a different puzzle forced into the
wrong box. I pointed him towards the trail
leading back to the car park, watched him shuffle away, his
steps unsteady but determined. There was something about his
resolve that struck a chord in me.
Maybe it was the way he clung to his independence, OR the
stubborn set of his jaw. I didn't know then that I'd see
him again, under far different circumstances.
The next day I was woken by a crackle over the radio.
A search party was being formed. The old man hadn't made it back
to his car. My stomach sank.
I joined the search, a sense of responsibility weighing heavily
on me. We found him at the bottom of a
steep incline, his leg broken, his face etched with pain and
relief. The sight of him lying there
helpless made me feel both guilty and grateful.
Guilty for not walking him back to the car park, grateful that
we found him alive. After that incident, the forest
seemed to close in on me, its shadows deeper.
Its silence is longer. I started noticing things I
hadn't before. The way the trees seem to move
in the corner of my eye, the strange arrangements of stones
on the trails. One day I found a series of
stones stacked in a precise, unnatural way.
It was unsettling, like a message left in a language I
couldn't read. Then came the day I found blood
under my station. It was a small, dark stain on
the ground, almost easy to miss, But I saw it and it sent a
shiver down my spine. Jonathan, my contact and only
lifeline to the outside world, said it was probably an animal,
but his words did little to ease my mind.
The forest felt alive, watching, waiting.
The most disturbing discovery came a few days later.
I was walking the mountain trail, my thoughts lost in the
monotonous rhythm of my steps, when I stumbled upon it.
A deer, its body mutilated, hanging from a tree.
Its entrails were strewn about like some grotesque decoration.
The sight of it stopped me cold. My heart pounded in my chest, My
breath caught in my throat. For a moment I couldn't move,
couldn't think. All I could do was stare at the
macabre spectacle before me that night, back in the safety of my
tower, I couldn't shake the image of the deer from my mind.
It haunted me, a vivid reminder that the forest was not just
trees and trails. It was something ancient,
something wild, something that didn't adhere to the rules of
the civilized world, and I was a guest in its domain, a fact I
was becoming painfully aware of. The days turned colder, and the
forest seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for
something to happen. I felt it too, a sense of
impending change, a prelude to something dark.
My days at the Watchtower once filled with a sense of purpose
and now felt tinged with an undefinable dread.
The missing hiker, David Greene, became my obsession.
His name echoed in my mind as I walked the trails, his unseen
presence a constant companion. The forest, once a source of
solitude, now felt like a labyrinth, hiding secrets in its
dense foliage. The search for David was
exhaustive, each day ending with the same result.
Nothing. Then the fire broke out.
It started as a distant glow on the horizon, a small flicker
amidst the darkness. But it grew quickly, hungrily
consuming everything in its path.
I radioed it in my voice steady but my hands shaking.
The response was swift, a team of firefighters, their faces set
in grim determination, their movements practiced and precise.
For six days and nights, the battle raged.
The fire was relentless, a living thing with a will of its
own. We dug trenches, cleared brush,
and set backfires. The air was thick with smoke,
the heat intense enough to singe the hairs on my arms.
My body ached from the constant exertion, but I pushed on,
driven by a sense of duty that was as much about self
preservation as it was about the job.
When the fire was finally contained, the forest was a
different place. Charred trees stood like
Sentinels over a scorched earth, a blackened testament to
nature's fury. The air smelled of ash and
defeat, but there was no time to rest, no time to process what
had happened. The missing persons cases piled
up, six in total, all hikers who had been in the forest when the
fire started. Their cars were found in the
parking lot, their belongings untouched.
It was as if they had simply vanished into the smoke.
Jonathan and I combed our sectors, our search now
including the burnt area. The destruction was complete,
the landscape unrecognizable. It felt like walking through the
aftermath of a war, the silence oppressive, the devastation
complete. One morning, as I walked a
familiar trail, my mind numb from the endless searching, I
stumbled upon a cave. A low, mournful sound emanated
from within, like a cry for help.
My heart raced as I approached, my flashlight cutting through
the darkness. Inside I found a Mountain Lion,
its eyes reflecting A primal intelligence, its body tense and
ready. The sight of it, so wild and
untamed, sent a shiver down my spine.
I backed away slowly, my every instinct screaming to flee.
That night, back in the watchtower, I couldn't sleep.
The image of the Mountain Lion haunted me, its eyes a mirror to
the forest itself, wild, unfathomable, and deeply alive.
I realized then that the forest was not just a backdrop to my
job. It was a living entity with its
own rules and mysteries, and I was an intruder in its domain, a
fact that both terrified and fascinated me.
The forest had changed since the fire.
The blackened trees stood like grim Sentinels, guarding secrets
that the flames couldn't consume.
I walk the trails with a sense of purpose, each step taking me
deeper into the unknown. The mystery of the missing
hikers weighed heavily on me, their absence a constant
reminder of the forest's deceptive tranquility.
It was during one of these patrols that I found The Cave
tucked away in a part of the forest, spared by the fire.
It seemed like a dark mouth, ready to swallow anything that
dared enter. The air around it was cold, and
as I approached, a sense of unease crept over me.
I heard it before I saw it, a low, guttural growl that
reverberated through the still air, the Mountain Lion from
before, its eyes gleaming in the dim light, watching me with a
predator's interest. I backed away slowly, my heart
pounding in my chest. There was something about that
cave, something ancient and malevolent.
I knew I had to explore it further, but not alone, not
without being prepared. The next day I returned with
Jonathan. He was armed, his revolver a
small comfort against the unknown.
We entered The Cave cautiously, the beam of our flashlights
cutting through the darkness. The Cave twisted and turned,
leading us deeper into the earth.
The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and
something else, something metallic.
We found the room deep inside The Cave.
It was like stepping into another world, a place untouched
by time. The walls were lined with
strange symbols, their meaning lost to the ages.
In the center of the room lay a collection of objects, clothes,
tools, things that had no place in a cave deep in the forest.
It was a cache of sorts, A hoarders treasure trove.
Jonathan was tense, his revolver at the ready.
We didn't speak, our silence a mutual agreement that there were
things here, beyond our understanding.
We left The Cave with more questions than answers, the
mystery deepening with each step we took.
But it was the basement that truly shook me.
I found it by accident, a small opening in the ground, hidden by
the charred remains of what once was a forest.
I descended into the darkness, the air growing colder with each
step. The basement was a tomb, a final
resting place for things long forgotten.
The walls were lined with shelves, each holding jars
filled with unidentifiable substances.
In the center of the room lay the bodies, six of them arranged
in a circle, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.
The 7th body lay apart from the others, a dagger clutched in its
lifeless hand. I stood there, frozen in shock,
the horror of the scene etching itself into my memory.
The silence of the basement was oppressive, A tangible reminder
of the finality of death. I backed out of the basement, my
mind reeling from the discovery. I knew then that the forest held
secrets darker than I could have imagined, secrets that were now
mine to uncover. That night, back in the safety
of my watchtower, I couldn't sleep.
The images of The Cave in the basement haunted me, their
mysteries a siren call that I couldn't ignore.
I knew I had to go back to delve deeper into the forest secrets,
But I also knew that I was playing a dangerous game, one
that could cost me more than I was willing to pay.
The forest had become a realm of shadows and whispers, its
secrets gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
Each night the darkness seemed thicker, pressing against the
glass of the watchtower like a tangible force.
I felt it watching me, an unseen presence lurking just beyond
sight. The deer creature haunted both
my waking hours and my dreams. Its grotesque form, a twisted
mockery of nature, seemed to symbolize the forest's hidden
malevolence. I couldn't shake the feeling
that it was more than just a random occurrence, that it was
connected to The Cave, the basement, and the unexplained
disappearances. I spent my days poring over the
cryptic message carved into the deer's body, Mutmeromit ihim
adnetso. The words were like a puzzle,
their meaning just out of reach. I scoured the old books and maps
in the Watchtower, searching for any clue that might shed light
on the mystery, but the answer eluded me, hidden in the shadows
of forgotten lore. Then came the night that changed
everything. It started as a low rumble, a
sound that seemed to come from the very heart of the earth.
The watchtower shook its Timbers, groaning under the
strain. I looked out the window and saw
it. A fire, but not like any fire I
had ever seen. It was alive, writhing and
twisting like a living thing, and in its heart I saw the
silhouette of the deer creature, its antlers outlined against the
flames. I grabbed my rifle and radio,
knowing that this was the moment of truth.
The forest was no longer a place of refuge.
It was a battlefield, and I was the only one left to fight.
I made my way down the tower, the fire growing larger with
each step. The heat was intense, the air
thick with smoke and ash. I could hear the deer creature
moving through the forest, its footsteps heavy and deliberate.
I followed the sound, my rifle at the ready.
The fire illuminated the forest in a hellish glow, casting long,
dancing shadows among the trees. I felt like I was walking
through a nightmare, each step taking me deeper into the heart
of darkness. Then I saw it, the deer creature
standing at the edge of the fire.
Its eyes glowed with an unholy light, its body twisted and
malformed. It stared at me, a silent
challenge in its gaze. I raised my rifle, my hands
steady despite the fear that gripped my heart.
But before I could fire, the creature moved.
It was fast, impossibly fast, a blur of fur and antlers.
I fired blindly, the sound of the rifle loud in the silence of
the forest. But it was too late.
The creature was upon me, it's antlers piercing me, It's breath
toxic and fetid on my face. As I lay there, the life ebbing
from my body, I realized the truth.
The forest was not just a place of trees and trails.
It was a living, breathing entity, ancient and powerful,
And I had been nothing but a pawn in its game, a player in a
story that was as old as the hills.
The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the fire
burning bright against the night sky, a beacon of destruction and
renewal, and I knew that the forest would continue long after
I was gone. It's secrets hidden in the
shadows, waiting for the next unwary soul to stumble upon
them. I've always had this strange
occurrence in the middle of the night, where I awaken at the
eerie hour of three or 4:00 AM, engulfed by an unexpected surge
of energy. This peculiar habit began in my
childhood, prompting my parents to consult doctors and
specialists. They were perplexed as they
would often find me aimlessly darting around the house,
attempting to exhaust myself. Fearing for my safety, my
parents took a drastic step to prevent me from wandering
outside. During my teenage years, they
relocated my entire bedroom to the basement and installed a
treadmill there. Extensive neurological tests
yielded no conclusive results, and sleeping pills proved
ineffective. Thus, this midnight restlessness
became a peculiar facet of my life.
Now, as an adult living alone, I have discovered that the best
remedy for my nocturnal restlessness is late night
walks. I embark on these solitary
journeys covering a mile or two until I sense myself gradually
winding down. Once I feel the fatigue creeping
in, I retrace my steps and return home.
Surprisingly, these night time strolls have proven to be quite
therapeutic and I've grown to embrace them as an essential
part of my nightly routine. I share this background to
emphasize that walking in the middle of the night has become
second nature to me. I don't experience
hallucinations, fatigue, or any impediments to my senses during
these walks. However, what I encountered last
night defies all explanation. At precisely 333 in the morning,
I awoke from slumber, the time etched into my memory.
Due to its specificity, given my history of random awakenings
between 3:00 and 4:00, AMI thought nothing of it and
quickly donned my sweatshirt and sweatpants.
My body was already pulsating with energy, a sensation I'd
grown accustomed to. I knew better than to resist the
urge to walk as I stepped out into the deserted St.
It was bathed only in the eerie glow of the moon and the dim,
yellowish haze of streetlights. I've never been a fan of horror
movies, but I could understand why they often took place at
night. Even my tranquil suburban
neighborhood assumed A sinister aspect in the hushed stillness
of the night. The pounding of my own blood
echoed in my ears as I ascended the steep incline toward the
forest that crowned our block. Although I walked outside at
this hour every night, the disconcerting feeling of unease
never waned. I followed my usual weekday
route, tracing the path along the tree line and the moderately
maintained sidewalk. This route LED directly to an
elementary school, which on any ordinary night would be locked
and shrouded in darkness. However, as I approached, I
noticed something unusual. All the lights were on.
Not just a few lights, as if a teacher had forgotten to switch
them off, but every single light inside the two-story concrete
building was illuminated. Moreover, I could discern
silhouettes in each window. My initial thought was that some
school event was taking place, but then I remembered the time.
A sudden realization struck me. I had left my phone at home over
the course of countless nocturnal walks.
I rarely took my phone with me, as it would only serve to keep
me awake, contrary to the purpose of these walks, and now
I wished I had it with me, I felt compelled to investigate
further. Despite the uneasy sensation
that crept up my spine, a chilling shiver ran through me,
regardless of the warmth provided by my clothing.
Standing in the school's entrance was an impossibly tall
figure, although I was still well over 100 feet away.
I couldn't discern whether it was a man or a woman.
They filled the doorway and then some, their hunched posture
indicating a height that exceeded 9 or 10 feet.
Common sense urged me to turn back, but my curiosity
prevailed. I veered off the path to the
left, which led to the woods near the school.
If I intended to share my discovery with anyone, I needed
more than just a vague description of a tall, eerie
figure near the school. So I stealthily ventured into
the woods, all the while keeping an eye on the figure lingering
at the entrance. As I disappeared into the dense
foliage, I had about 20 feet of cover ahead of me to formulate a
plan. I couldn't take any photographs
due to the absence of my phone, and if there was any potential
danger, it was unlikely that anyone would hear my screams
from the isolated spot I was in. Nevertheless, I pressed forward.
Emerging from the woods near the western entrance of the school,
I lost sight of the figure at the front door.
This lack of visibility unsettled me, but I continued.
I cautiously approached the school, keen to catch a glimpse
through one of the many illuminated windows.
The first floor, where my niece had attended school nearly a
decade ago, contained homeroom classrooms.
I crept closer, not spotting any other figures outside, and
peered into my niece's former classroom.
Although I stood about 10 feet away from the window, it was
evident that something was amiss.
The classroom bore no resemblance to a typical school
setting. Instead, it resembled A
laboratory. Massive jars containing murky
liquids, tubes running through the hallway, and hefty power
cables protruding from the walls filled the room.
In the corner lurked A cloaked, corpulent figure, contorting as
if straining against some invisible force.
It was too large to be a human with an almost comical width and
roundness, yet it moved in a manner characteristic of a
person. Just before it spun around, I
hastily lowered myself to avoid being noticed.
However, I managed to catch a glimpse of what it was clutching
an oversized rat like creature with human eyes and human teeth.
It was at that moment I wished I had my phone with me.
You see, I failed to mention a significant detail about my
sleeping troubles. I also suffered from night
terrors. Although they weren't a nightly
occurrence. When they did manifest, they
were exceptionally vivid. This rat, human hybrid creature
was a recurring entity in my night terrors, an entity I had
witnessed sitting in the corner of my room since childhood, and
now I was encountering it just up the street.
At that moment, I tried to convince myself that this was
all a dream, but no matter how many times I pinched myself, I
couldn't awaken. I had no choice but to continue
observing. The next classroom over was
unfamiliar to me. Containing several hooded
figures, each with a different size and peculiar physique, they
had strapped some grotesque creature to a large Gurney, a
creature that resembled a real life boogeyman.
They showed it a series of photographs of children, while
another hooded figure made incisions into its dark,
hardened flesh. I couldn't hear what was
transpiring inside, but I witnessed the creature snapping
and growling at them. I dared not linger there for too
long. As I passed by several more
classrooms, each more bewildering and terrifying than
the last, I eventually reached another unnervingly familiar
sight, the elementary school gymnasium.
Inside, I saw hundreds, if not thousands, of shadows.
These were not the typical shadow people one might read
about online. These were tangible shadows of
individuals. I knew.
It was a common theme in my night terrors.
I would encounter the shadow of someone I recognized, only for
it to engage in horrifying acts such as self harm or attempting
to attack me. This particular scene was too
much for me to bear and I decided to head back home.
The sights I had witnessed were too bizarre and inexplicable for
anyone to believe. For all I knew, this was still a
dream. However, as I turned to make my
way back to the woods, I spotted him.
The 10 foot tall man from the school's entrance was now
traversing the woods. His grotesquely scarred and
pallid face marred by a gaping hole where his nose should have
been, indicated that he was searching for something, or
rather someone Me. I didn't hesitate.
Adrenaline surged through my veins and I bolted in the
direction of my house. I could hear pounding footsteps
behind me, but I dared not glance back.
I had stumbled upon something unspeakably horrific and beyond
comprehension, and it was abundantly clear that it did not
want to be seen. It didn't want me seeing it.
I raced back into my house, rushing to my bedroom and
slamming the door shut. Trembling, I huddled beneath the
covers, feeling like a frightened child.
I glanced at the clock fully, expecting hours to have passed,
but to my astonishment. The time still read 333 in the
morning. Desperately, I tried to ward off
sleep. I knew it wouldn't end well if I
succumbed to slumber. Despite my efforts, my body
eventually betrayed me, and I reluctantly drifted into a
fitful sleep. I couldn't recall the specifics
of my dreams between 4:00 AM and 7:45 AM when I awoke, but I knew
they had been nightmarish. Scratches adorned my arms and my
nails were chewed down, an extreme physical reaction I
hadn't experienced since my childhood, when my night terrors
were at their worst. These nightly walks had
typically kept them at Bay, but it seemed this particular night
had exacerbated them. After witnessing those bizarre
scenes in the classrooms, I dreaded to think about what
horrors my subconscious had conjured.
And then there was the note scrawled in my own handwriting
on a slip of paper Next to my bed was a chilling message.
Don't come back. I find myself utterly bewildered
by the events of last night and consumed by fear about what may
transpire tonight. It's nearing midnight, and I'm
apprehensive about succumbing to sleep.
I understand how insane this all sounds, but I'm convinced I
wasn't dreaming. That school was a nightmarish
factory where unspeakable horrors were being created,
horrors that I had only ever encountered in my nightmares.
I can't help but wonder if any of you have glimpsed these same
terrors that now haunt my waking hours.
My name is Ken, and I'm an anthropology student who grew up
in North America. Listening to the mysterious
stories my grandfather, an immigrant from the former Soviet
Union, used to tell, his house always had an enigmatic
atmosphere, filled with memories and peculiar objects from that
distinct nation. My family had immigrated from
the USSR decades ago, but my grandfather carried with him a
baggage of skepticism and a story that he held dearly at 86
years old. He remained strong and
skeptical, always ready to discredit or mock certain
beliefs, be they folklore or political ideologies.
He used to say that ideologies were the mythology of a man who
thought himself intelligent. However, there was one specific
legend he dared not joke about or even mention.
I recall a time when my older cousin, Nicholas, casually
mentioned the name of that creature as a joke during a
family gathering at my grandfather's house, only to
receive a stern reprimand after that incident.
We never spoke of it again, neither at my grandfather's
house nor at any other family gathering.
I'm sharing this for a reason. He told me about it during our
last visit. We have a close relationship and
I often visit him not to brag, and I pray that neither Nicholas
nor any of the others see this, but I am his favorite.
He always tells me how much I resemble him when he was my age
and I receive many gifts from him.
This time, however, I was visiting him with a purpose.
In college we were studying Slavic culture, the differences
in the development of Eastern and Western Europe, and who
better to talk about it than my old Soviet grandfather.
I called him asking if he was free, and we arranged to have
coffee in the afternoon. He prefers climates that remind
him of home snow mountains. Therefore he lives near Aspen,
Co. It's about a two hour drive
until you spot his castle, by which I mean a wooden cabin he
built himself. It's a charming place, to say
the least. We talked for a long time,
losing track of how late it had become.
He shared stories of happy days, his childhood running through
the streets of Moscow, his beloved babushka, the monks
distributing bread in the city. Due to my young age, he didn't
provide many details about the war, since he remembers very
little. His father was a radio operator
and his mother a seamstress. He had a good education,
learning to read early, with early exposure to his favorite
authors, Jostoyevsky and Nietzsche.
His stories filled more than 10 pages, and while I'd love to
share them, they don't fit the purpose of this occasion.
I'm here to report what happened next.
I glanced at the clock and almost jumped backward.
It was almost 9:00 PM and it was really late.
I grabbed my coat from the bench, saying I was leaving.
He didn't even say goodbye. I thought he hadn't heard, but
upon opening the door to go to my car and seeing the snow
falling heavily rapidly increasing in level, I returned
and found his sarcastic smile. Ken, he said.
You'll have to spend the night here lad.
It's not safe to hit the road in these conditions.
The old man was right and I believe he was also happy to
have some company since my grandmother passed away.
He feels quite lonely, so I was also glad to keep him company.
He made a batch of black bread and borscht for us to eat while
he poured the hot soup. He looked outside, closed the
curtains, and sat in his armchair, more solemn this time.
Ken, he said. You came here wanting to know
about my history, but there's something I left out.
There are reasons why I didn't talk about it, but look, I'm
getting old, don't have much time left, and I need to tell
someone. Don't say that, grandpa, I
replied, referring to his earlier remark about not having
much time. You're so fit that you could
outlive us all. We laughed.
But now seriously, he continued. I need to tell you what made me
leave my country and start a life here.
The following account is a transcription of my
grandfather's words. I can't vouch for its accuracy,
but if a man as skeptical as him asserts it with such certainty,
God, what might exist out there without our knowledge?
I was around 25 when it happened.
You must remember that I was a metallurgical worker, strong and
full of vigor at the time. As a result, I enjoyed nights
socializing with factory comrades, getting drunk and
going out with girls. He looked at the icon on his
table as if reflecting, regretting past indulgences.
That night I hadn't been drinking.
I was too busy trying to win over a German beauty at the bar.
My friends left while I was still talking to her, attempting
to convince her to come to my place.
She left soon after, leaving my night to end sober and alone.
A true loss. He chuckled.
Without the comfort of vodka to warm my thoughts, I had no
choice but to walk home. Public transport, already
scarce, had ceased its operation at that hour, and vagabonds
roamed the streets. If a cop caught you, well, you
better have a really good excuse.
I must have walked about two blocks after leaving the bar
when turning into a narrow alley, I came across it.
His gaze was uneasy, as was his voice and the swallow in his
throat. It was a slender thing, pale,
leaning over a guy I didn't know, but God rest his soul.
The man's coat was stained with blood, a large hole in the
fabric revealing a side wound. The thing seemed to be draining,
the Crimson liquid oozing from the wound.
I took a few steps back, but it was too late.
The devil's spawn had seen me, looked at me while growling, and
its eyes were so, so bright. His hand holding the coffee cup
was trembling. I turned around to start
running, but I could hear its agile footsteps behind me.
Glancing back, I saw it running on all fours like an animal.
I could see my door just over 50 meters away.
When it pounced on me, knocking me down.
I turned and saw its deformed face a few inches from mine.
It growled while it's iron like breath flooded my nostrils.
The creature seemed prepared to make me its victim, just like
the previous man, but upon opening my coat it encountered
my crucifix. He clutched the crucifix around
his neck, a constant companion since I can remember.
For a brief moment the creature hesitated, fell backward, and I,
not being a fool, continued running.
I almost broke down my door with the speed I rushed at it.
I could see the beast regaining composure and coming, this time
more furious. I had already entered, but there
was no way to close the door before it arrived.
It was a few meters away when it stopped out of nowhere, it
stared at me. My legs wobbled, it circled for
a few moments and then left. I closed the door while
breathing heavily, collapsing into the armchair, utterly
incapable of standing. My breath condensed into dense,
wet clouds when a quick, subtle knock on my door made me jump, a
knock that seemed to echo the sinister events of that night.
He made the sign of the cross. Are you scared, lad?
Relax. If it's one of those things, I
have a bag of garlic in the kitchen.
He laughed again to himself as he walked to the door.
A muffled voice through layers of clothing sounded.
Hey, is anyone home? My car is stuck in the snow, and
I can't go back home. Can I come in and use your
phone? My eyes met my grandfather's.
What kind of twist of fate was this?
I looked out the window, someone in a thick orange coat, a scarf
wrapped around the lower half of their face, and a beanie on
their head. My grandfather opened the door.
Do you want to use my phone? He said, stepping back.
Yes, please. The voice seemed clearer now,
without a door in the middle, and she pulled the scarf
slightly away from her mouth. My grandfather stared at her.
I swear I won't take long. I just with a subtle movement.
My old man had taken off his crucifix.
The creature was now retreating. You're getting old, Mikhail.
You won't stand there forever. She hissed as she moved away
from the door and disappeared into the forest.
That was the same girl from that night.
My grandfather seemed somewhat affected.
He tried to conceal it with his characteristic manner, but I
noticed he didn't let me leave until he was sure the sun
covered the entire plane. I came home constantly checking
my rear view mirror and taking extra care when entering my
house. It's been a few months since
that happened, and I'm finally reporting it two weeks after
that encounter. He disappeared shortly
afterward, presumed dead. Probably some animal got him, or
his old age and confused mind made him lose his way.
We'll never know. But I know one thing.
My grandfather told me that for a reason.
And if that thing crossed the ocean to reach him, how much
time do I have before someone knocks on my door?
I've never been one for ghost stories or tales of things that
go bump in the night. My name's Max, and I guess you
could say I'm a practical guy. My journey across Canada was
meant to be a break from the constant buzz of city life, a
chance to find some peace. But as I was about to find out,
sometimes life has other plans. The trip had been pretty
uneventful until I reached a town on the edge of this vast
eerie forest in Canada. That's where I met Sarah.
She was the kind of person you feel like you've known forever,
even if you've just met. Sarah was an artist, always with
a sketchbook in hand, and she seemed to find something magical
in every little thing. She was full of stories and had
this easy going charm that made everything seem like an
adventure. We hit it off right away and
before I knew it I was inviting her to join me on my drive
through the forest to the next town.
I figured it wouldn't hurt to have some company and Sarah was
more than happy to tag along. The drive was smooth at first.
Sarah pointed out every scenic spot and told me all these
quirky tales about the area. It was fun, and I found myself
enjoying her company more than I expected.
Then, as if on cue, my car decided it needed a break.
Right in the middle of nowhere. It just sputtered and died.
Great, right there. I was, a guy who prides himself
on being prepared, stranded in the middle of a forest with a
girl I just met. But Sarah?
She was incredible. She just laughed it off, joking
about forest spirits having a bit of fun with us.
As the sun began to set, the forest started to look
different. The shadows grew longer and
everything seemed a bit more, I don't know, mysterious, I guess.
I remember trying to sound cool and in control when I suggested
we camp there for the night. Inside, though, I was kicking
myself for not paying more attention to those stories about
the woods. Sarah seemed thrilled by the
idea of an impromptu camping trip.
As twilight wrapped around us, I felt this weird mix of
excitement and nervousness. I've always been a city guy, so
spending a night in the woods was way out of my comfort zone.
But there was something about Sarah's enthusiasm that was
contagious. We sat by my car, the only
source of light around us. The forest was eerily quiet, and
for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the
world. Sarah then started talking about
the legends of the forest, whispering about ancient spirits
and wendigos. I tried to laugh it off.
You don't really believe in that stuff, do you?
I asked, but my voice betrayed a hint of doubt.
She just looked at me, her eyes reflecting the dim light, and
said something that stuck with me.
Sometimes, Max, there are things in this world that can't be
explained by logic or reason. I didn't know what to make of
it. The forest around us seemed to
grow denser, the silence more profound.
That's when we heard it, a howl that cut through the night.
It was unlike anything I'd ever heard, a sound that made the
hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Sarah's grip on my hand tightened, and for the first
time I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.
That's just an animal, right? I whispered, more to reassure
myself than her, but Sarah didn't answer.
She just stared into the darkness, as if she could see
something I couldn't. I'll never forget that night,
the way the darkness seemed to press in on us, full of secrets
and whispers. It was the beginning of an
adventure. I never expected one that would
challenge everything, I thought. I knew that night in the
Canadian forest was like something out of a storybook,
except it was real and I was living it.
After the car broke down, Sarah and I decided to make the best
of it. We were stranded, but she seemed
to find the whole situation exciting.
I tried to match her enthusiasm, but deep down I was uneasy.
As the darkness enveloped the woods, the atmosphere changed.
The playful shadows of the afternoon turned into something
more ominous. Sarah, who had been full of
lively stories during the day, became more reflective.
She talked about the legends of the forest, about ancient
spirits and mythical creatures like Wendigo's, which she said
were creatures of the night that preyed on lost souls.
I tried to laugh it off, but her tails mixed with the eerie
setting made my skin crawl. I've always been a skeptic, but
that night every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves had
me jumping. Sarah seemed to sense my unease
and squeezed my hand reassuringly.
It's just the forest, she whispered, her voice barely
audible over the sounds of the night.
Then, out of nowhere, a dog appeared.
It was a strange looking creature with a collar made of
tiny bones. Sarah was fascinated by it, and
mentioned seeing a similar dog on a wanted poster back in town.
The dog seemed friendly enough, and its presence was oddly
comforting. Amidst the weirdness of our
situation, we sat by the car, the dog at our feet, and watched
the stars peek through the tree tops.
Despite the beauty of the night sky, I couldn't shake off the
feeling that we weren't alone. The forest felt alive, watching
and waiting. Sarah's stories about the woods
continued. She spoke of people who had
disappeared, of strange sightings and unexplained
phenomena. I wanted to believe it was all
just folklore, but part of me wondered if there was some truth
to her tales. That's when it happened.
A howl pierced the night, unlike any animal sound I'd ever heard.
It was long, mournful, and seemed to come from everywhere
at once. The dog perked up, its ears
twitching, and then bolted into the darkness.
Sarah and I exchanged a look of alarm.
We should follow it, she said, and without waiting for my
response, she was off into the woods, chasing after her.
My heart pounded in my chest. The forest was a maze of shadows
and shapes that played tricks on my eyes.
Every step felt like we were moving deeper into another
world. I called out for the dog, but
there was no sign of it, just the sound of our footsteps and
the occasional distant howl. We wandered for what felt like
hours, the darkness around us growing thicker with each
passing minute. I couldn't help but think about
Sarah's stories. My rational mind told me there
was a logical explanation for everything we were experiencing,
but in the heart of that forest, logic seemed to have little
place. Finally, exhausted and lost, we
stopped. The dog was nowhere to be found
and the howling had ceased. The silence was oppressive and
for the first time since I started my journey across
Canada, I felt truly scared. I looked at Sarah, trying to
find some reassurance in her eyes, but she looked just as
lost and afraid as I felt that night in the woods.
Under the watchful gaze of the ancient trees in the star lit
sky, I began to question everything.
I thought I knew the forest held secrets, and Sarah and I had
stumbled right into the middle of them.
As we huddled together for warmth, waiting for the dawn, I
realized that this adventure was only just beginning.
The deeper we ventured into the forest, the more I realized how
out of my element I was. The once comforting presence of
Sarah and the mysterious dog was now replaced by an overwhelming
sense of solitude. I had lost track of time and
direction. The trees seem to loom over us,
their branches like arms trying to snatch us away.
I remember tripping over something.
It happened so fast. One moment I was on my feet, the
next I was tumbling to the ground.
The world spun, and then there was darkness.
When I finally came to, the first thing I noticed was the
silence. It was suffocating.
I called out for Sarah, but there was no answer.
The dog was gone, too. Panic set in as I realized I was
alone. I scrambled to my feet, my head
pounding with a ferocious headache.
The forest was a blur of greens and Browns, and it took me a
moment to get my bearings. I had to find Sarah and the dog.
I had to get out of this forest. As I stumbled through the woods,
a sense of dread grew within me. The story Sarah had told me
echoed in my mind. Tales of spirits and creatures
that lurked in the shadows. Every snapped twig or rustling
leaf sent a shiver down my spine.
I was lost, both physically and mentally, in a world I didn't
understand. After what felt like hours, I
came across a cave. It looked ominous, like the
mouth of some giant beast. I hesitated, but the thought of
Sarah, alone and scared, pushed me forward.
I entered The Cave, my heart racing with every step.
The Cave was darker than the night outside, and the air felt
thick and heavy. I moved cautiously, feeling my
way along the walls. My eyes gradually adjusted to
the darkness, and that's when I saw it.
A scene that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Bodies were strewn across The Cave floor.
I froze, my breath caught in my throat.
Among the lifeless figures I saw her Sarah.
She was lying unconscious, her face pale in the dim light.
Relief and horror washed over me in equal measure.
She was alive, but we were in grave danger.
That's when I heard it. A low guttural growl that seemed
to come from the depths of the earth.
My blood ran cold. I remembered Sarah's stories
about the Wendigo, a creature of nightmares.
I never believed in them, but now, faced with the unknown,
doubt crept in. I knew I had to act fast.
Gently, I lifted Sarah into my arms.
She was surprisingly light. But every movement was a
struggle against fear and uncertainty.
I had to get us out of there. As I made my way back towards
The Cave entrance, every shadow seemed to move, every sound a
potential threat. My mind was racing with thoughts
of the Wendigo. Was it just a story, or was
there truth to the legend? When I finally emerged from The
Cave, the forest seemed different.
It was as if the trees knew what lay hidden in the depths of that
cave. The once welcoming woods now
felt like a prison, holding secrets too dark for the light
of day. I didn't stop to look back.
With Sarah in my arms, I pushed through the underbrush,
desperation giving me strength. The forest that had once seemed
magical was now a labyrinth of fear and mystery.
I had come to Canada seeking peace, but what I found was a
nightmare that would stay with me forever.
The forest was a blur as I carried Sarah through it.
My mind was a mess of fear and confusion.
Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig under foot
made me flinch. The terrifying encounter in The
Cave and the shocking discovery of the bodies, along with Sarah
unconscious in my arms, weighed heavily on me.
But here's the twist. This isn't my story.
I'm not Max. I'm a member of the search and
rescue team that was sent out to find Max and Sarah after they
went missing. What I'm about to tell you is
piece together from a journal we found near The Cave.
It belong to Max and it was filled with entries that
describe their journey into the forest, the breakdown of his
car, the eerie tales Sarah told, and their terrifying encounter
in The Cave. As we read through the pages, a
sense of dread filled us. The details were vivid, the
emotions raw. It wasn't just a story.
It felt real. Too real.
The journal ended abruptly, leaving us with more questions
than answers. We knew we had to find The Cave
Max wrote about. We found it all right, and it
was just as Max had described. The Cave was unsettling, an air
of danger lingering at its entrance.
We ventured inside, our flashlights, cutting through the
darkness. There were no bodies, no sign of
Max or Sarah. Just the remnants of that dog
Max mentioned and these weird wooden stick figures with
strands of hair that match the DNA of Max and Sarah.
It was creepy to say the least. We searched the area for days,
calling out their names, hoping for a response that never came.
The forest seemed to swallow up any sound we made.
It was like stepping into another world, one that was not
meant for us. The experience left us shaken.
The mystery of what happened to Max and Sarah hung over us like
a dark cloud. We had to face the fact that we
might never find out the truth. The forest kept its secrets well
after the search was called off. I couldn't shake off the feeling
that we had missed something, that there was more to the story
than what we found in Max's journal.
The tales of the Wendigo, the mysterious dog, the strange
figures in The Cave. It all seemed like pieces of a
puzzle we couldn't solve. I went back to the forest many
times after that, drawn by a need to understand to find some
closure. But each visit left me with more
questions. The forest was silent, as if
mocking my efforts. I'm not sure why I'm telling you
this. Maybe it's a warning to stay
away from places that are better left unexplored.
Or maybe it's just a way to keep the memory of Max and Sarah
alive. Their story is a reminder of the
mysteries that exist in this world, mysteries that we may
never understand. As for the forest, it remains
there, untouched and unyielding, a reminder of the unknown that
lurks just beyond the edge of our understanding.
And As for Max and Sarah, they're just two more names
added to the long list of those who ventured into the unknown
and never returned.