My story begins back in 2011 when my family and I purchased a
large acreage of property north of Fairbanks, AK.
The surrounding lands were a breathtaking sight, with thick
timber, rolling hills and vast acreage suitable for farmland.
It was a dream come true for us. At that time, I was just 14
years old, and my family consisted of my two older
brothers aged 17 and 18, my older sister at 16, and of
course, my mom and dad. We moved into a large farmhouse
that had undergone multiple renovations since its original
construction. In 19 O 8, the lane the house
sat on was surrounded by the wild, lush Alaskan wilderness,
and wildlife such as wolves, moose, and bears were common
sights to us. We were accustomed to being
cautious when necessary. The farmhouse was spacious with
a somewhat barn like structure on one end of the property.
This structure, while not entirely a barn, had the
appearance of a renovated storage shed, possibly used for
hay storage in the past. On the other side of the
property there was a smaller typical storage shed.
The house itself was a five bedroom, 4 bathroom beauty,
completely remodeled and expanded over the years.
The previous owners were friends with my parents, which allowed
us to get a great deal on the property.
Our family's intention was to expand our family and have
livestock, and we believe that the area north of Fairbanks was
perfect for this endeavor. Initially, everything seemed
normal. As we settled into our new home,
we bought two dozen chickens, several sheep, and a few horses.
My responsibility was to feed the chickens, a task I despised.
About a month after moving in, I noticed a small blood trail
leading from the outside to the chicken coop. 3 chickens were
missing and there was blood all over their spot inside the coop,
leading to the woodline. I informed my parents and my
father shared my suspicion that a fox or a coyote might be
responsible. Little did we know that this was
just the beginning. As days turned into weeks, the
chicken situation worsened. Chickens continue to disappear,
and within three weeks our flock had dwindled from two dozen to
just 8. Something unusual was happening.
What perplexed us was the manner in which the chickens were
killed. On some occasions we found them
dead in the coop with their heads twisted or missing or
completely torn into pieces. This behavior was strange for
natural predators, as they typically killed for food, not
just for the sake of it. Concerningly, my mother began to
act strangely during this period.
She slept less, mumbled to herself, and seemed to be losing
her sanity. This was a stark departure from
her usual quiet demeanor. One night, my mother took a
violent turn and tried to attack my father with a butcher knife,
unprovoked. It took all of us, my two
brothers, my sister and my father to restrain her.
She had displayed incredible strength during this incident,
making it necessary for my father to hold her down and take
her to the hospital. My mother's condition worsened
in the hospital and she began to appear increasingly pale and
sickly. We were left bewildered by her
behavior and worried about her well-being.
About a month later, my oldest brother, responsible for tending
to the horses, experienced A terrifying encounter.
He claimed to have seen a tall figure with yellow eyes and what
appeared to be horns watching him from the wood line.
This was a departure from his usual fearlessness in the face
of wildlife encounters, and it left us unnerved.
However, my younger brother and older sister dismissed his
experience as a prank or a joke. As autumn approached and we
prepared to return to school, my sister's life took a dark turn.
She had few friends and was known for her social withdrawal.
The passing of one of the few friends she had made at her new
school plunged her into a deep depression.
His passing had occurred under mysterious circumstances, as he
had always been a cheerful and upbeat person.
My sister's depression grew more severe and she withdrew from
social interactions entirely. She rarely left her room, aid
only sporadically, and her transformation was unsettling.
The atmosphere on our property also changed as autumn
progressed. The once happy and carefree
environment took on a dark and ominous feeling.
We constantly felt as if we were being watched on edge and unable
to relax. Our senses were heightened and
we had a persistent feeling that something bad was about to
happen. The fear was palpable and our
hair would stand on end. At random moments we were in a
constant state of fight or flight.
One night, my father woke me up in a panic, asking if I had seen
my mother. I was confused because I assumed
she was in bed. However, she was nowhere to be
found, and we discovered her standing near the wood line
outside the house, muttering about being called.
We managed to bring her back inside, but her behavior
remained erratic and we grew increasingly concerned about her
mental state. As we moved into October, the
situation took a darker turn. The ominous atmosphere
intensified and my family's behavior became increasingly
erratic. Livestock, including chickens,
sheep, and horses, began to die mysteriously.
These deaths were not the result of natural predators.
The animals simply dropped dead. The unsettling events escalated
with entities visiting our house at night, banging on windows,
clawing at the walls, and trying to gain entry.
My mother's disturbing behavior continued and she muttered about
letting them in. In late October, my father and
oldest brother discovered our beloved horse Maple dead in her
stall, her throat torn open and her innards exposed.
The other horses were unharmed but visibly terrified.
This was devastating for my father and brother as Maple was
their favorite horse. The incident left us puzzled
about what could have caused such a gruesome attack.
We decided to seek help and brought in a priest to perform
an exorcism on my mother. He believed she might be
possessed given her behavior. However, he claimed that the
forces on the property were too strong and refused to perform
the exorcism on the House. We were left with no other
option but to leave the property, as the priest warned
that these forces wouldn't let us leave alive.
We eventually discovered that the property may have been
cursed by an older native man who had a dispute with the
previous owners. This man was rumored to be a
witch who cursed the land. After the deal fell through, our
family moved out, never to return to that cursed property
again. The terrifying experiences we
endured there still haunt us to this day, and we consider
ourselves fortunate to have escaped with our lives.
Now, over a decade later, I can share this chilling tale of the
supernatural horrors that unfolded on that cursed property
in the remote wilderness of Alaska.
The day began like any other at Williams Field, the vast Alaskan
landscape stretching out around me, unforgiving and relentless
in its isolation as an oil and gas worker.
In this harsh environment, I had grown accustomed to the solitude
and the rugged beauty that came with it.
My job kept me grounded, rooted in the practicalities of the
daily grind, far removed from the intrigues and mysteries of
the world beyond these fields. That morning I was outside the
surveyor's office, taking a break.
The cold Alaskan air bit into my skin as I lit a cigarette,
watching the plumes of smoke get swept away by the biting wind.
There's a certain peace in the monotonous hum of machinery and
the desolate beauty of the Alaskan wilderness, a piece that
I had come to cherish in my years working here.
But that peace was abruptly shattered when I saw him, an
older gentleman, walking up the Dirt Rd. towards our site.
He was an anomaly in this landscape, clad in a large fur
coat that seemed more suited to a bygone era than a modern day
oil field. He moved with a purpose, a
briefcase in his hand, which struck me as odd.
Men in fur coats with briefcases weren't exactly a common sight
around here. As he drew closer, a sense of
unease began to take hold of me. It wasn't just his out of place
attire or the briskness in his steps, it was his eyes.
When he looked up at me, I felt a chill run down my spine, a
feeling I hadn't known since my childhood days in the Wilds of
Wyoming, when every shadow in the woods could be a lurking
predator. His eyes were wild, untamed,
almost primal. They reminded me of the eyes of
a predator, a bear or a wolf, perhaps, sizing up its prey.
It was a look that spoke of wildness, of a life lived
outside the bounds of civilization.
The man gave me a slight smirk, a knowing, almost mocking
gesture, before quickly putting his head down and covering his
face with his hat. Instinctively I stepped back, my
heart racing. Who are you?
What are you doing here? I called out.
My voice edged with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, but
he simply walked past me, ignoring my question, and
entered the surveyor's office as if he owned the place.
I stood there for a moment, trying to shake off the unease
that had settled in my chest. The man's presence was an
intrusion, a disruption of the predictable rhythm of my daily
life. I couldn't shake the feeling
that there was something off about him, something that went
beyond his odd attire and unsettling gaze.
I stubbed out my cigarette and made my way back to the office,
my mind racing with questions. Who was this stranger?
What business did he have in this remote corner of the world?
His presence felt like a harbinger of change, an omen
that the life I had known at Williams Field was about to be
irrevocably altered. As I pushed open the door to the
office, I braced myself for what might come next.
The stranger's wild eyes still etched vividly in my mind, A
haunting reminder that the wilderness wasn't just out there
in the Alaskan expanse, but sometimes it walked right up to
your doorstep. The door of the surveyor's
office swung shut behind the stranger, and I was left
standing there, a mix of curiosity and apprehension
churning in my stomach. That man with his wild eyes and
anachronistic fur coat was an enigma wrapped in a Riddle, a
puzzle that didn't fit into the rugged, unyielding landscape of
Williams Field. I paced outside, the minutes
stretching like hours. The cold Alaskan air did little
to cool the heat of my racing thoughts.
Who was this man? What was his business here?
Questions buzzed in my mind like a hive of restless bees.
Finally, the door opened and the stranger emerged.
This time, his eyes were different, Normal, human.
Lacking the wild intensity that had so unnerved me earlier, he
passed me without a word, his earlier smirk replaced by an
unreadable expression. Watching him disappear down the
dirt Rd. I felt a shiver that wasn't from
the cold. There was something deeply
unsettling about a man who could change so completely in the span
of a few minutes. I turned and stepped into the
office, eager for answers. My boss was there, his face
ashen, a stark contrast to his usually unflappable demeanor.
He looked like he'd seen a ghost, or worse.
What happened? I asked, my voice barely above a
whisper. He shook his head as if to clear
it, then looked at me. That was unexpected.
He's interested in investing in the company, might even become a
business partner. His words were mechanical,
devoid of his usual confident tone, but it was more than just
a potential business deal. I could see it in his eyes.
Fear, confusion, a hint of disbelief.
The man had proposed something that went beyond the ordinary,
something that had shaken my boss to his core.
He made a proposal. My boss continued, his voice a
strained whisper. A choice.
A small sum of money for a stake in the company.
Or he trailed off, his gaze distant.
Or what? I pressed, sensing the gravity
of what he was about to say. A curse on me?
My family, The company? He laughed.
A hollow, humorless sound. Curses.
Can you believe it? But his eyes?
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.
His eyes? They changed in the meeting,
like like a wild animals. Just like you said.
My mind flashed back to the strangers.
Primal, unsettling gaze. A shudder ran through me.
This was more than just a business deal gone awry.
This was something out of a folk tale, something that didn't
belong in the logical, predictable world of oil and
gas. My boss didn't say much after
that. He didn't need to.
The fear in his eyes spoke volumes.
We both knew that whatever this was, it was beyond our
understanding, beyond our control.
As I left the office, I couldn't shake the image of the
stranger's eyes, nor the chilling proposition he had
made. The wilderness of Alaska had
always been a place of unfathomable mysteries, but this
was something different, something darker.
I couldn't help but feel that our quiet corner of the world
had just become a stage for something much larger, much more
sinister, and we were unwilling players in a game whose rules we
didn't understand. The days following the
Stranger's visit to Williams Field were marked by a palpable
tension. Like the calm before a storm,
the rugged, icy landscape of Alaska, once a symbol of
unyielding strength and solitude, now seem to whisper
secrets with every gust of wind that swept across the oil
fields. My boss, once a pillar of stoic
pragmatism, had become a shadow of his former self.
The decision to sell the company to the Stranger, made in a haze
of fear and disbelief, had sent ripples through our small
community. I watched as the news was met
with a mix of shock and resignation among my colleagues.
The stranger, with his unsettling proposition and
otherworldly presence, had changed everything.
I spent my nights tossing and turning the strangers wild eyes
haunting my dreams. They were eyes that spoke of
ancient, unknowable things, of powers and forces that lay
beyond the realm of our understanding.
His presence had left a mark on me, an indelible imprint that
challenged everything I believed about the world.
In the days that followed, I found myself drawn to the
mystery surrounding the stranger.
Who was he? What was his true nature?
I couldn't shake the feeling that he was more than just a
man, perhaps a being from the old legends, a skinwalker or
shapeshifter. Alaska was a land steeped in
lore and superstition, and the Stranger seemed to embody the
very essence of these ancient tales.
I would wander the fields, my eyes scanning the horizon, half
expecting to see the stranger emerge from the wilderness, his
figure materializing from the mist and shadows.
But he never did. He had vanished as suddenly as
he had appeared, leaving behind a trail of questions and a sense
of unease that lingered in the air.
My boss never spoke much about the deal or the Stranger.
After that. He would only gaze into the
distance, his eyes clouded with a mix of fear and regret.
It was clear that whatever agreement he had made with the
stranger, it had come at a great cost, a cost that went far
beyond the financial implications.
As time passed, the memory of the stranger began to fade,
becoming nothing more than a whispered tale among the
workers. But for me it remained A vivid,
unsettling memory, a reminder of the thin veil that separates the
known from the unknown. Eventually I moved on from
Williams Field, seeking new opportunities and less haunted
landscapes. But the echo of the Stranger's
presence stayed with me, a constant reminder of the
mysteries that lurk in the wild corners of the world.
I often find myself looking back on that encounter, wondering
about the stranger's true intentions and the nature of the
deal he struck with my boss. It's a puzzle that I know I'll
never fully solve, a mystery as deep and impenetrable as the
Alaskan wilderness itself. In the end, the stranger had not
just brought a curse or a blessing to Williams Field.
He had brought a reminder that some mysteries are too vast, too
ancient, and too wild to ever be fully understood.
I've always felt a deep connection to the Alaskan
wilderness. It's where I feel most alive,
where my senses heightened and the world makes sense.
As I packed my gear on that crisp October morning, the
thrill of the hunt course through me.
I was ready to embrace the wilderness once again.
Leaving behind the small town where I lived, I drove along the
rugged path leading to the Bush. The old logging Rd. bumpy and
unpaved, was like a gateway to another world.
As my truck bounced along, I watched the sun peek over the
horizon, casting a golden glow over the dense forest.
The beauty of Alaska never failed to take my breath away.
Arriving at my starting point, I checked my gear.
I had everything I needed. My trusty rifle, a pair of
binoculars, a map of the area, some snacks, and of course, my
old, worn out hunting jacket. It had been with me through
countless hunts, a silent witness to my triumphs and
failures in these woods. I set off on foot, the familiar
crunch of leaves under my boots comforting.
The air was fresh and a slight chill nipped at my skin as I
walked. I let the sounds of the forest
envelope me, The distant call of a bird, the rustle of small
animals scurrying in the underbrush.
This was my world, a place where I felt at home.
My first stop was a tree stand I had set up years ago.
It was like visiting an old friend.
The wooden planks creaked under my weight as I climbed up.
From my elevated vantage point, I scanned the area with my
binoculars. This stand had always been a
good spot for deer, but today it seemed quiet.
Almost too quiet. Shrugging off a vague sense of
unease, I moved on to the next location.
Each tree stand offered a different view, a different
opportunity. I knew these woods well, but
every hunt was a new adventure, a chance to discover something I
hadn't seen before. By midday, I'd visited several
stands, but none felt quite right.
I decided to push deeper into the forest.
To a stand I hadn't used in a long time.
It was located in a secluded valley.
A bit of a hike, but I remembered it being a prime
spot. As I trekked towards the valley,
I noticed how the forest changed.
The trees grew denser, the shadows longer.
There was a stillness in the air that made me more alert.
This part of the forest had a Wilder feel, untouched and
untamed. Reaching the old stand in the
valley, I climbed up and settled in.
The view here was spectacular. The Creek nearby was a perfect
draw for deer, and from my perch I could see for miles I felt a
surge of excitement. This was it, the ideal spot.
I sat there for a while, lost in thought, my rifle resting beside
me. The peacefulness of the forest
was a stark contrast to the adrenaline of the hunt.
But that's what I loved about hunting.
The balance between tranquility and excitement.
The anticipation of the unknown. As the sun began its descent,
casting long shadows through the trees, I felt a change in the
air. A silence descended, a quiet so
profound it was almost a presence in itself.
I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was different,
something was off. Little did I know, as the
shadows lengthened and the forest grew quiet that my life
was about to change forever. The valley was like a hidden gem
tucked away in the vast Alaskan wilderness.
As I settled into the tree stand, I couldn't help but feel
a sense of pride for finding such a spot years ago.
The Creek nearby glistened under the afternoon sun and the gentle
rustle of leaves created a serene soundtrack.
This was the perfect place for a hunter like me.
I spent the first few hours just watching and waiting from my
perch I had a clearview of the Creek and the surrounding area.
It was an ideal hunting ground, and I felt certain that deer
would be drawn to the water. I scanned the area with my
binoculars, looking for signs of movement, but as the afternoon
wore on, the forest, usually teeming with life, grew
strangely silent. At first I thought it might just
be a lull, A momentary pause in the forests rhythm.
But the silence stretched on, pressing in around me.
It was unusual. In all my years hunting I had
learned to read the signs of the wilderness, and this, this was
different. The birds had stopped chirping,
the small animals had ceased their rustling.
It was as if the forest was holding its breath.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue
over the trees, a sense of unease crept over me.
I reminded myself that silence in the Alaskan Bush often meant
predators were nearby. Bears and wolves were common in
these parts, and I was well aware of the dangers they posed.
I checked my rifle, ensuring it was loaded and within easy
reach, just in case. The transition from day to night
in the Bush is something I've always found fascinating, the
way the light changes, the way the sounds shift.
But that evening, the fascination was tinged with
apprehension. The forest felt different,
almost as if it were aware of something I wasn't.
Nightfall brought a new set of sounds, or rather, the absence
of them. The quiet was pervasive,
enveloping. I strained my ears for any sign
of life. But there was nothing.
Not a rustle, not a twig snap, nothing.
The usual nocturnal chorus was conspicuously absent.
Then the first sound in hours, a distant crashing, like something
large moving through the underbrush.
My first thought was a bear, maybe a moose.
I gripped my rifle, peering into the dimming light, trying to
catch a glimpse of whatever was out there.
But the crashing was erratic, not the steady, purposeful
stride of a bear or moose. As darkness enveloped the
valley, the crashing sounds seem to circle around, moving closer,
then away, then closer again. It was disconcerting.
I've faced down bears and other predators before, but this felt
different. The pattern was unlike any
animal I knew. My heart raced, adrenaline
coursing through me, every Hunter's instinct.
I had screamed that something was off.
I settled into a restless vigil, my eyes scanning, the darkness,
my ears straining for any sound. The night air was cool, and I
could see my breath misting in front of me.
I felt a primal fear, a sense of being haunted, and I didn't like
it. I was the hunter, not the prey.
But that night, in the depths of the Alaskan Bush, I wasn't so
sure anymore. The darkness in the Alaskan Bush
is like a blanket, thick and all-encompassing.
That night, as I sat in my tree stand, the blackness seemed to
press in on me from all sides. The sounds I had heard earlier,
the crashing through the underbrush had stopped.
Now there was only silence. A heavy, oppressive silence.
I kept my rifle close, my senses on high alert.
In all my time hunting, I had never felt so uneasy, so on
edge. I knew the dangers of the
wilderness. But this was different.
This was fear, raw and unfiltered.
Hours passed, or at least it felt like hours.
Time has a way of stretching out when you're scared.
My eyes were glued to the night vision scope, scanning the area
around the Creek. That's when I saw her, a lone
doe cautiously stepping out to drink.
I watched her admiring her grace, aware of how vulnerable
she was out in the open. But then something else caught
my eye. A shape, a form, something
moving in the shadows. My heart pounded in my chest as
I focused on it. It was big, bigger than any bear
I'd ever seen, and it moved with a terrifying grace.
Before I could even process what I was seeing, it pounced on the
doe with a speed and ferocity that took my breath away.
I stared, frozen in shock as the creature tore into the doe.
It wasn't a bear, It wasn't a wolf.
I didn't know what it was. It was like something out of a
nightmare, black and monstrous, with an elongated face and what
looked like spines or quills running down its back.
The way it moved, the way it ripped apart the doe.
It was nothing like any animal I'd ever encountered.
Panic set in a cold, hard knot in the pit of my stomach.
I was alone, miles from anywhere, with a creature from a
horror movie. My mind raced, trying to figure
out what to do. I couldn't stay here, not with
that thing out there, but how could I leave?
How could I make it back to my truck without it seeing me?
Then, as if sensing my fear, the creature stopped eating.
It lifted its head, turning towards me.
Our eyes met even from that distance, and a chill ran down
my spine. It started moving towards me,
slow and deliberate. I could hear its footsteps,
heavy and certain. I ducked down in the tree stand,
gripping my rifle. My heart was pounding so loud I
was sure it could hear it. It got closer and closer until
it was right below me. I could hear it sniffing, smell
the blood and gore from its recent kill.
Then, in a moment of sheer terror, it reached up a hand,
not a paw. A hand with long, sharp claws
tore through the floor of the tree stand, grazing my leg.
I screamed in pain and fear, firing my gun at it.
The creature howled, a sound that was part roar, part scream,
and retreated into the darkness. I sat there, shaking and
bleeding, listening to the sounds of the creature moving
away. I knew I had to get out of
there, but I was paralyzed with fear.
What if it was still out there, waiting for me?
What if it came back? The night stretched on an
endless cycle of fear and pain. I was trapped, injured, and
alone with a creature from my worst nightmares lurking in the
darkness. The longest night of my life
slowly gave way to the first light of dawn.
Throughout those endless dark hours, I sat in the tree stand,
my injured leg throbbing with pain, my mind racing with fear.
Every rustle in the underbrush, every whisper of wind through
the trees had me clutching my rifle tighter.
Expecting the worst, I thought about the creature.
That terrifying, unexplainable being.
The way it looked at me, the way it moved.
It was like something out of a Horror Story.
I had always been the hunter, always in control.
But that night I had become the Haunted.
As the first rays of sun filtered through the trees, I
realized I had to make a move. I couldn't stay in the tree
stand forever. I had to get back to my truck,
get back to safety. But the fear of encountering
that creature again was almost paralyzing.
What if it was still out there? What if it was waiting for me to
come down? I gathered my courage, knowing I
had no other choice. I slowly and painfully made my
way down from the tree stand, my legs screaming in protest.
Every step was agony, but fear propelled me forward.
I had to get out of that valley, had to put as much distance
between me and that thing as possible.
The forest, which had always been a place of solace and peace
for me, now felt ominous and threatening.
Every shadow seemed to hide dangers.
Every sound made me jump. I kept expecting to see the
creature emerge from behind a tree or rise up from the
underbrush. But the forest was quiet.
Eerily quiet, I limped as fast as I could, trying to be as
quiet as possible. My leg was a mess, blood seeping
through the torn fabric of my pants, pain shooting up with
every step. I knew I needed medical
attention, but first I had to survive.
The journey back to the truck felt like an eternity.
Every step was a struggle against pain and fear, but the
thought of that creature, of its inhuman eyes and terrifying
strength kept me moving. I had to escape, had to survive.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, I saw my truck through
the trees. I had never been so relieved in
my life. I practically fell against it,
tears of pain and relief streaming down my face.
I was safe, at least for the moment.
As I drove away from the valley, I couldn't help but look back,
half expecting to see the creature following me.
But the forest was silent, giving up no secrets.
I knew I would never return to that place, never again feel
safe in the wilderness I had once loved so much.
That day changed me. It took away my sense of
invincibility, my confidence in the wilderness.
I had come face to face with something unexplainable,
something terrifying, and it had left its mark on me.
I would carry the memory of that night of the Alaskan Devil with
me for the rest of my life. I'm a seasonal caretaker at a
National Park in Alaska, a job that's as remote as it gets.
I won't disclose the specific parks name, as my employers have
warned me to keep quiet about the peculiar occurrences I've
witnessed during my three years on the job.
None the less, I feel compelled to share some of the unsettling
experiences I've had in this desolate wilderness.
You might wonder what a seasonal caretaker does, and I wouldn't
blame you. It's not the most thrilling
occupation, I'll admit. My tenure begins when the park
shuts down for the winter, and my primary responsibilities
involve maintaining the various cabins and public buildings
while ensuring the roof stay clear of snow to prevent damage.
In essence, it's a solitary job, and if you're a social
butterfly, it's definitely not for you.
It takes a certain breed to willingly isolate themselves for
three month stretches, fully aware that there's no escape
until the snow melts and the plows clear the access roads to
my cabin. I do have a snowmobile for the
occasional 3 hour trek to the nearest Ranger station, but it's
hardly a jaunt to the corner store.
For me, it's a perfect fit. I've always leaned towards
solitude, and my loyal companion Duke, a Jack Russell terrier,
keeps me company. The work isn't overly demanding.
I typically spend just a few days each week attending to my
duties, leaving the rest of my time free.
A few years ago I took up nature photography as a hobby to pass
the hours, and some of my photos have even been published by a
reputable organization. During the warmer months, this
park teams with visitors, making it a hot spot for outdoor
enthusiasts in this part of Alaska.
However, in the winter it becomes an icy wasteland
inhabited only by a few isolated Ranger stations.
Weeks can pass without me encountering a single soul, and
the only regular interaction I have is with my fellow Ranger,
whom I'll call James. We chat a few times a week over
the radio, and apart from that, it's just Duke and me.
It's challenging to describe some of the eerie things I've
witnessed in the cold, desolate winter days, but I'll start with
the shades, as I call them in my private musings.
I have no clue what they really are, but they only appear during
heavy snowstorms. The more intense the storm, the
closer they venture to my cabin. It's like watching figures move
behind frosted glass, their forms indistinct and shadowy.
Initially, I dismissed them as figments of my imagination, my
mind finding patterns in the swirling chaos of snowfall.
But then I began to hear them. Too soft murmurs barely audible
above the howling wind, unintelligible whispers that set
my nerves on edge. One thing's for sure, they've
only ever shown up during brutal storms, and they terrify me.
If I know a storm is approaching, I make sure all my
doors and windows are locked well before nightfall.
Once, during a particularly vicious Blizzard, they
surrounded my cabin. I could see their shadowy forms
and hear their incomprehensible mutterings like a macabre
procession. That night was sheer terror.
At one point the doorknob on my front door slowly turned,
accompanied by soft scratching against the wooden surface.
But the most chilling part, I swear on my life was the faint
whisper calling my name from the other side of the door, an hour
long torment that still haunts my dreams.
It sounded like a voice stripped of its soul, neither alive nor
dead, an inexplicable horror I can't adequately put into words.
Imagine someone's soul being torn from their body.
It was like that. I may sound dramatic, but that's
how it felt, and I shudder at the mere thought of what might
have happened if I hadn't remembered to engage the
deadbolt that night. I'm in no hurry to find out.
Just recalling it sends shivers down my spine.
I confided in James the next day after the storm had subsided
enough for me to get a radio signal out.
I half expected him to laugh off my fear, attributing it to the
darkness and isolation. However, he didn't.
With a calm and stern demeanor, he warned me not to discuss them
and simply advised locking up tightly during heavy snowstorms.
My attempts to extract more information from him proved
futile, as he adamantly refused to elaborate, except for one
unsettling remark. Winter didn't lull everything
into slumber up here. That cryptic statement sent
shivers down my spine, and I'm determined to press James For
more information one day. Next on my list is the car
graveyard. It sounds unbelievable, but if
you venture far enough off the beaten path in this wilderness,
you're likely to stumble upon one cars or trucks inexplicably
abandoned in the heart of the Alaskan Backcountry.
It defies all logic. The first one I encountered was
a 2003 BMW coupe, as pristine as if it had just rolled off the
showroom floor. Yet half of it was embedded in
an ancient spruce tree, seemingly fused with it.
It was as though the tree had grown around the car, or the car
had been inserted into the tree. Impossible, I know, but I swear
it was there, and I've seen more of them during my tenure.
Sometimes wedged in trees like the BMW and other times
inexplicably situated in open spaces, each one looked freshly
driven, defying reason as to how they got there, even without the
peculiar tree situation. What's even more unnerving about
these abandoned vehicles is the clothing.
I stopped investigating long ago and now steer clear of them, but
the first time I encountered 1, curiosity compelled me to
inspect it. The doors were locked, but when
I peered through the windows I saw something eerie in the front
seats. Clothes were laid out
meticulously. Pants, shirts, socks, shoes,
everything you'd wear strapped in with seatbelts as if the
occupants had vanished mid drive, leaving their clothes
behind exactly as they'd warn them.
It was eerie, to say the least, and it sent chills down my
spine. Another unsettling aspect is
that I've never seen the same vehicle twice.
I returned the day after spotting that first BMW camera
in hand, intending to snap a picture, but it had vanished.
I was certain I was in the right spot, as my footprints in the
snow from the previous day confirmed.
When I tried to report these strange sightings to the
Rangers, James informed me that they no longer bothered
investigating them. By the time anyone arrived, the
vehicles had disappeared. Apparently reports of such
occurrences have cropped up periodically for the past few
decades. Shrouded in mystery and lacking
any logical explanation, James did mention that one Ranger had
discovered a school bus from Texas.
Once inside, every seat was piled high with empty clothes,
except for the driver's seat. The Ranger described the driver
as being there, but not quite. Like a blurry hologram frozen in
time, the elderly driver appeared in a perpetual state of
terrified shock, with wide eyes and an open mouth.
The Ranger attempted to enter the bus through the rear
emergency door, but as he opened it, a deafening buzzing filled
his ears and an electric shock like vibration course through
his body. The closer he got, the more
intense the sensation became. He likened it to pushing two
strong magnets together. Resistance increased with
proximity. It was as if the universe itself
was barring his entry, as if he didn't belong.
He stumbled away, falling I'll for days afterward.
When he returned with other Rangers, the bus had vanished.
As for the buzzing and vibration, I can't personally
vouch for them. I simply steer clear of those
vehicles. They're simply not right.
The last eerie tale I'll share involves a rope bridge about a
mile from my cabin. The bridge spans a deep ravine
with a rocky outcrop beside it, often used as an observation
point. Typically, hikers stop here to
take selfies during the warmer months, but in winter the park
is closed and access is blocked by chains on the roads to
prevent visitors from straying. I hiked to this bridge roughly
once a week, scouting for new photo opportunities to pass the
time. The trek is picturesque, and the
landscape radiates with pristine beauty, untouched by human
presence. I've captured some breathtaking
shots of the bridge, but I never dare to step onto it in the
freezing cold. The boards are perpetually icy
and treacherous. A misstep could send me sliding,
plummeting 200 feet to the rocky abyss below before I even
realize what's happening. However, here's the eerie part.
Whenever I reach that bridge, I find multiple sets of footprints
leading up to the rocky outcrop, but none leading away from it.
These prints originate from various directions, some from
the path, others emerging from the trees, yet they all seem to
halt at the precipice of the ravine.
They vary in size and stride, some so small, others belonging
to Titanic figures. The first time I noticed them, I
worried that trespassers had met a tragic end, inching too close
to the edge and toppling over. But after spending a full day
meticulously descending to the ravine floor, I found no trace
of anyone other than myself. I might not be a tracking
expert, but I can tell when footprints lead up to a location
and don't return. On one occasion, I dared to
venture onto the rocky outcrop in an attempt to unravel the
mystery. I thought perhaps there was a
concealed path I hadn't noticed, but the moment my foot touched
the stone, agony seized my head. A throbbing pain akin to the
worst hangover. As I staggered back, the pain
vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving me with an
insistent Nosebleed that persisted throughout the day.
I never attempted that again. Even Duke refuses to go near it.
He starts whining the moment we approach that part of the trail.
Mind you, this is a dog who's been known to confront packs of
wolves that dared approach our territory.
Despite his small stature, he lacks the self preservation
instinct, except when it comes to that overlook.
Even Duke has his limits, it seems.
I have more stories to share, but I'm growing weary and it's
time for me to get some rest. Tomorrow I'll need to head out
to the cabins by the frozen lake and ensure their roofs are
clear. I promise to write more later,
and next time I'll tell you about the dead bears.
It's a strange one, that's for sure.
Thanks for all the great feedback on my previous post.
Honestly, I wasn't sure how interested anyone would be in
some of the things going on out here and I was more than a
little surprised when I got back to my cabin yesterday and saw
all the responses. Before I get rolling with some
more experiences I've had out here, I just wanted to address a
few questions or comments that folks have made.
On my last update, someone suggested that I should try to
capture the shades with my camera.
That's a good suggestion, and I've already tried that on a
couple of occasions. The issue I've run into is that
because of the darkness and the snow, I only really have two
options. Either use a flash or some other
light source, or else use a long shutter speed on my cameras.
Even though I was pretty sure neither one would work, I have
actually tried both methods. Unfortunately, as anyone who has
driven in a snowstorm can attest, snow is great at
reflecting light, which is why you can't use your high beams
when driving in it. The light just reflects off the
snow and back into your eyes, effectively blinding you.
My results using this method were about what you'd expect,
nothing but a complete whiteout of the captured images.
Using a slow shutter speed didn't yield any better results.
All I got were images of completely incomprehensible
motion blurs. I suppose there are probably
better camera rigs out there that may be able to overcome
these challenges, but I don't know of them.
Even if they do exist, they're probably well outside of my
budget. The National Park Service
doesn't exactly pay seasonal caretakers and gold bullion.
There was also a concern that even though I'm trying to remain
anonymous, I've given away enough details about myself that
my employers could easily identify me.
Don't worry about that. Firstly, there are more than 20
national parks in Alaska covering over 50 million acres
of land. Believe it or not, it actually
contains the majority of the National Park land in the entire
United States, something like 65% of it.
As you can imagine, there are a lot of folks spread across the
state doing similar jobs to mine.
It's hard to envision exactly how expansive Alaska is and how
much of it is covered with stark wilderness unless you've been
here and seen it for yourself. I know that I didn't have the
faintest clue before I got here from the lower 48.
I guess the bottom line is that it's pretty unlikely that anyone
from the NPS will be able to identify me from what I've told
you about myself. If they do, I guess we'll cross
that bridge. Then finally, someone asked
about the license plates on some of the vehicles that
mysteriously appear out here in the wilderness, and whether they
were all from 1 area or from all over.
I've previously mentioned that I tend to avoid them if I come
across them anymore, but I can tell you that the first car I
ran across, the BMW, had a European style license plate on
the front. I assumed at the time that it
was just one of those trendy plates that folks in the US
sometimes put on the front of their Europeans cars for
decoration, but it's possible that it was legitimately from
somewhere in Europe. I'm not sure.
I recall that it was white and blue, but beyond that, I don't
remember much about it. Of course, the bus that the
Ranger found had Texas plates on it, but I don't know about any
others. Sorry.
OK, so now that I've cleared those points up, let's dive into
some of the other things going on out here.
Since I mentioned it in my previous post, I'll start off
with the bears. So you probably already know
this, but Alaska has some of the largest and most dangerous bears
in the entire world. Fortunately, the Kodiak and the
Polar bear aren't generally found in land up here, but we
still have more than our fair share of Grizzlies and large
black bears, both of which are apex predators and will make
quick work of the unwary or unprepared.
Now, since my contract covers the colder winter months, most
of these bears are hibernating during my time here.
That being said, not all bears hibernate, especially if they're
in an area of plentiful food supply.
Also, even when they are hibernating, they'll still
become active from time to time, so you definitely can't let your
guard down if you want to stay on this side of the grave.
It's a pretty safe bet that anyone who works up here,
especially alone, tends to carry a rifle as well as a large
caliber handgun whenever they're outside of their cabin.
I'm no exception to that. I carry a 4570 lever action over
my shoulder and a 500 Magnum revolver in a chest holster.
At first glance, it may seem like overkill.
That is a tremendous amount of firepower after all.
However, the first time you catch a glimpse of a Mama
grizzly with her Cubs and realize that you're looking at
an 800 LB. Predator that can run you down
in a heartbeat, you'll start wondering why I don't carry even
more. The reason I mention all this
isn't to give you the impression that there's some sort of
mythical monsters hiding behind every tree just waiting to
pounce, only that they represent the top of the food chain up
here. Period.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, short of a pack of starving
wolves will even threaten one, and even that's only been
documented on a handful of occasions.
They're massive, powerful, and aggressive, and if you live out
in their territory and don't keep your head on a swivel,
you're an idiot and probably soon to be converted into bear
crap. So, all that being the case, I'm
sure you'll understand what it means when I tell you that
something is killing big Grizzlies out here.
I'm not talking about poachers or indigenous hunters or
anything like that. I'm talking about something, As
in, not humans and definitely not hungry wolves.
But let me back up a step. My first season up here as a
winter caretaker was a hell of a learning experience.
Just trying to figure out the necessary maintenance routines
and learning to navigate around my area of responsibility was a
little overwhelming. One day I was returning from
making my rounds out to one of the Ranger stations that was
shut down for the winter and ended up taking a wrong turn on
the trail. By the time I realized my
mistake, I was already a fair distance along the new path and
wandering into unfamiliar territory.
Just as I was getting ready to turn around and retrace my
steps, I topped Arise and was suddenly faced with the
unmistakable form of a grizzly not 30 feet along the path ahead
and facing away from me. I've got to tell you, I almost
pissed myself as I fumble to unsling the rifle from my
shoulder. It's a damned good thing I
didn't actually need it at that moment, because I discovered to
my dismay that I had stupidly slung my shoulder pack over top
of the rifle sling, effectively trapping it against my body.
Stupidity and complacency are what gets you killed out here,
folks, and I could have been a perfect example of both at that
moment. As it turns out, the bear wasn't
moving. It was just standing there,
perfectly still. It's hindquarters facing me, and
I knew instinctively that something was wrong with it.
Giving up on my rifle, I grabbed my handgun from its holster and
cautiously approached the grizzly, my eyes intent on the
bear and prepared for the slightest hint of movement.
The closer I got to it, though, the more I certain I became that
it wasn't going to suddenly lunge at me and give me a lesson
on exactly where on the food chain I placed.
Here's where it gets surreal. Before I got close to it, I had
already recognized that it was dead.
What I couldn't explain was why it was still standing.
It had clearly been there a while as there were no paw
prints leading up to it in the snow, and as I rounded to the
front of it, I could see the flesh around its muzzle was
already starting to decompose and pull back from its skull.
When I got a good look at it, I could also see that it was
missing Tufts of fir here and there.
Despite all that, it was still standing like it had died and
just forgotten to fall down. I looked it over pretty closely,
which was still an unnerving exercise, dead or not, but I
couldn't find any sort of wounds that might indicate why it had
died. It was then that I realized a
couple of things. Firstly that there were
Grizzlies in the area that were active, and secondly, nothing
had scavenged the carcass. To say this is unusual is an
understatement. Most of the top carnivores in
this area, including wolves, Wolverines, and foxes,
supplement their diets by scavenging on carrion.
The fact that this bear had died and remained completely intact
wasn't just perplexing, it was unnatural.
I reported the find to the Ranger station and heard back
later from James that there had been nearly a dozen other
similar discoveries within that general area in the last two
months. The NPS had even brought in some
fancy zoological pathologist from Anchorage to figure out
what had killed the bears. They spent two weeks in the
field with the Rangers examining the carcasses, and then one
morning they were just gone. They had apparently been
abruptly recalled without so much as a buyer leave.
Immediately after that, the carcasses were destroyed and the
investigation shut down. A week later, a rushed and
astonishingly brief report came back indicating death by natural
predation. No further investigation
indicated natural predation. I'm not sure how a predator
could have killed the bear I found without leaving a single
mark on it or trace of blood, let alone somehow keep it
standing upright after death and then deciding it wasn't even
going to feed on the kill. I call bullcrap, and so did the
Rangers. James told me his boss had tried
to contact the pathologist For more information, but was told
that they had all been reassigned and we're no longer
working with the Park Service. Not one to easily give up,
James's boss tried calling a private cell number he had
gotten from one of the pathologists during their visit.
It went to a disconnected message indicating the phone was
no longer in service. This was strange because he had
just spoken to the investigator using that very number only a
couple weeks prior, so he knew it was a good number.
But late that night, he received a call from an unknown caller.
When he answered it, he recognized the hushed voice of
the pathologist he had befriended, sounding like they
were whispering into their phone.
Leave it alone, forget about it, was all they said before the
line went dead. He tried calling the number back
several times, but it just went to dead air each time.
That was the last time he heard anything about it.
He tried following up within the NPS, but somehow nobody was able
to find records that such an investigation had ever existed,
or even that any reports of the dead bears had been filed in the
1st place. James told me that for a while
it was all his boss wanted to talk about.
It had become like a splinter in his hand that he couldn't
ignore. He called anyone he could think
of in the chain of command at the NPS and any other agencies
he thought might be able to provide some clue about what was
going on, but couldn't make an inch of headway.
Then one day he just stopped talking about it like a switch
had been thrown. One evening James and his boss
were having beers at a local bar after their shift and talking
about how strange the whole thing was.
And then the next morning his boss walked in looking a little
shaky and out of sorts, went into his office and closed the
door and didn't say 2 words to James that day.
He never mentioned the incident again.
A few times James had brought it up in conversation with him
later on, and his boss just brushed the whole thing off and
changed subjects, looking very uncomfortable about the whole
thing. I don't know what happened, but
if I had to guess, I'm thinking that his boss was probably
digging into something that wasn't meant to be dug into, and
someone had convinced him it was better if he just forgot about
it. Look, I'm not some conspiracy
theorist nutjob, OK? I just know that the whole thing
stinks to high hell and I'll just leave it at that.
The other thing I'll tell you about today is what we call the
Witch's Lodge. I'm not sure what it was
originally. It's really not much more than a
single room log cabin built out in the deep Bush.
I've seen it a couple of times and been inside once.
It's a bit of a hike from my post and not somewhere easily
traveled, even by snowmobile, so I don't get out that way very
often. Old abandoned cabins aren't
really that unusual up here. You'll trip across them from
time to time, although most aren't much more than a few
walls and a collapsed roof after the years and harsh Alaskan
winters get through with them. The Witch's Lodge is a little
different, though. As far as I'm aware, nobody's
lived there for a long time, but whoever built it must have known
what they were doing, because it looks every bit as solid and
maintained as my own cabin. I'm not even sure how it got its
name, honestly. I just know that's how it was
introduced to me the first time, so that's how I'm introducing it
to you a couple of years ago. My Ranger buddy James radioed me
up asking if I wouldn't mind joining him in a search for a
couple of missing hikers, a father and his 12 year old son.
I'm just a caretaker. I don't normally participate in
Ranger or search and rescue related activities, but
apparently there wasn't anyone else available to accompany him
on that day and he had gotten a lead that the hikers may have
been heading out into my section of the park in search and rescue
efforts. Especially during the dark
Alaska winters. Finding someone quickly is
critical if you want to find them alive, so he wanted to
follow up on it sooner than later.
Of course I couldn't exactly refuse to help him, especially
not when one of them was just a kid.
So a couple of hours later I found myself trailing behind him
through the knee deep snow. We moved along a semi familiar
path for a while before he turned left at a fork and we
started making our way along, another that I wasn't familiar
with. He seemed like he knew where he
was headed, like he had a particular destination in mind
though, and we really didn't talk much during the hike.
We stopped a couple of times to rest and sip some hot coffee
from our thermoses, but even then we were both quiet.
I think there was some sort of dark cloud hanging over his
mood. I could see it in his narrowed
eyes and drawn brow. It was infectious and soon
started manifesting itself in the back of my own mind.
An hour later we came upon the place.
I was surprised to see this perfectly preserved little cedar
log cabin just sitting out here among the trees and looking for
all the world, like someone would come walking out of the
front door at any moment. Something about the place seemed
off, though. Somehow I knew that nobody lived
there, that nobody had lived there in a long time.
I can't explain it, but at that moment I had this strange
feeling that we weren't welcome here, like something was telling
me to turn around and head back while I still could.
Before I had the chance to open my mouth about it.
James turned to me and pointed towards the closed front door,
where I could clearly see the boot prints at its threshold.
Come on, he said over the wind that had just blown up, and I
could see the grim set to his expression.
Before he turned away from me and started making his way
towards the door. I noticed that he had drawn his
handgun, so I did the same, though I had no idea why.
We reached the entryway to the cabin, and he put his hand on
the latch before he lifted it. He paused and looked back at me
with that same dark expression. We're going to have to look
inside, he said. If there's nothing to be found
in there, fine, we'll just turn around and head back to your
cabin for a couple of glasses of whiskey by the fire.
Maybe the other groups will find them, then.
His eyes fixed hard on mine, like he wanted to make sure I
was paying damned good attention to him.
But if we find anyone other than this idiot hiker and his kid
inside, we're not going look at them, and we're not going to say
a single word to them, understand, even if they talk to
us first. I nodded at him, more confused
than anything else. But that wasn't good enough.
I need you to say it, Jim, to make sure you understand what
I'm telling you, he said, and the set of his eyes was so
serious and determined that I repeated his instructions back
to him without a second thought. When I did, he gave a brief nod
and lifted the latch, pushing the door inward.
We stepped through the doorway into the darkened room beyond.
As soon as we did, I was overwhelmed by the stench of
decay mixed with a strong sense of herbs and something else,
something sickly riding just under the surface of all that.
My eyes had just started to adjust to the dim light of the
interior, and I was able to make out the sparse furnishings of
the room. An old rickety table with a
solitary low back chair in front of a cold stone fireplace along
the far wall. I thought I could just make out
a cot, but I couldn't be sure. Damn it, it's happened again,
James said, almost under his breath, and the tone of warning
in his voice drew my attention immediately.
I turned to find him kneeling next to the desiccated husk of a
man's body, dressed in Gray snow pants and a red down jacket,
slumped back against the wall. It looked like it had been there
for years, and I stumbled backward in shock without
realizing it. What the crap, I exclaimed, not
really knowing what else to say. James picked up something that
was resting on the floor near the man's skeletal hand, looked
around briefly at the room, and then nodded to the door.
Time to go. I'll let the search and rescue
team know that we found the hikers, he said.
I was more than a little confused.
The body we were looking at was almost mummified.
It had clearly been there a long time, and I told him as much,
not to mention the fact that there was only one of them.
If it was possible that this was the father, that still meant
that the son was somewhere out here.
It's too late. Jim was all he said, pressing
something into my hands as he passed me and stepped out the
door. I looked down and realized I was
holding a small notebook, like the kind of person might keep in
their pocket just in case they needed to write something down.
Numbly, I flipped it open. It was mostly empty except for
the 1st 2 pages which were scrawled in sloppy cursive and
pencil. I don't have it anymore, so this
is going to be as well as I remember it, but it should be
close enough that you get the gist of it.
We found her cabin. God, I wish we hadn't.
Nathan's gone. She took him.
I've been wandering around in here for days, but I can't find
my way out. I haven't seen Nathan or her
since that first day. My boy is gone.
How can I not find my way out? What's happening?
I can hear her whispers taunting me, but it's always just a
little farther forward, around the next corner.
I don't understand any of this. I'm so sorry.
As it turns out, we did end up heading back to my cabin.
James radioed the search and rescue team that he'd found The
hikers in the lodge and the person on the other end paused a
long moment before replying with a simple acknowledgement.
No questions, nothing else. Just acknowledged James.
We didn't say much to each other that night.
We just sat in front of my fire and drank the rest of my Jameson
until we both passed out. When I returned to consciousness
the next morning, James had already gotten up and left.
We haven't spoken about it since that day.
The notebook was gone when I awoke, so I assume he took that
with him. Clearly he knows something about
what happened about that cabin, but I've never asked him about
it. I'm not too sure I really want
to know. It's hard enough to sleep at
night out here sometimes. Speaking of which, I suppose
it's time for me to sign off and get some shut eye.
It's already almost two in the morning and I've got a long
day's work ahead of me tomorrow. It snowed pretty good today and
I was already behind in clearing the roof of the storage sheds
over near the old fire watchtower.
I'd rather not have to deal with the damage if the roof
collapses, so I'd better get over there as soon as it lets up
some outside. I'll write some more soon.
Good night all. I'm back again, but I think this
may be my Last Post. The situation has taken a
terrifying turn, and after this update I'm going to lay low and
try to disappear. Let me bring you up to speed on
what's happened as I recount these events From my
perspective. The day started like any other
in the heart of an Alaskan winter.
I was getting suited up, preparing to head down to the
storage sheds near the old fire watchtower.
In this remote, closed National Park, visitors were a rarity.
My only regular companions were my Ranger buddy James and the
supplier who brought me fresh provisions every few weeks.
When I heard a knock on the door to my cabin, my heart skipped a
beat. James never showed up at my door
without first calling on the radio.
His unexpected arrival was a cause for concern.
I opened the door and he entered, his expression deeply
troubled. Hell, James, you gave me quite a
start. I chuckled nervously, trying to
dispel the unease that hung in the air.
I knew something was amiss, and I had a gut feeling it might
involve me. James.
His face etched with a mixture of worry and anger, turned away
from the fireplace. He had something on his mind,
something that had shaken him to the core.
I got a call last night, Jim, he said, his voice flat, and so did
a few other Rangers. Oh, yeah, I replied
nonchalantly, though my heart was pounding.
James removed his wool cap, running a hand through his neat
hair. Yeah, it was about you, he said,
pointing at me with his cap. You've attracted attention with
those stories you've been posting online.
My stories? What stories?
I asked, feigning innocence. I hadn't shared the details of
these posts with James, though we discussed the idea before.
I hadn't admitted to writing them.
As far as he knew, I was just talking.
Despite the cabin's low temperature, sweat began to bead
on my palms. I had been certain that no one
could trace these posts back to me, believing that I'd concealed
the details well enough. But I had underestimated the
determination of those who sought to uncover the author.
In hindsight, my error was clear.
If someone aimed to identify the source of these posts, they
would start by investigating Rangers who knew the terrain
intimately. Like James and me, I had hoped
that my friendship with James would protect me, that he would
turn a blind eye. But in a situation like this,
our loyalties were tested. The Witch's Lodge, a pseudonym
I'd used, wasn't its real name, yet James could likely identify
it from my descriptions. The same applied to the other
stories. I had underestimated the
resourcefulness of those who knew the terrain as well as we
did. I panicked internally, realizing
that my secret was exposed. Crap.
I messed up this time. James tilted his head, and his
stern expression signaled he was in no mood for games.
You know which stories, Jim? He said firmly.
The ones I warned you about. The ones I knew would get you
into trouble. I tried to downplay it, to
minimize the consequences. They were just stories on the
Internet, James. A bit of fun to stave off the
loneliness out here, you understand, right?
Yeah. Well, those fun stories have
stirred up trouble for both of us, James said, placing his hat
on a chair and turning back to the fireplace.
They know who wrote them. They know who you are.
Stunned, I stood, their mouth agape, comprehension dawning.
You told them? I asked incredulously.
I had been naive, failing to consider that James had a duty
to uphold, that he was bound by his commitments.
I hoped there was remorse in his eyes, that our friendship held
some value. What did you expect?
James retorted, without turning to face me.
His frustration, perhaps tinged with regret, was palpable.
That they'd look the other way again.
This isn't your first time pulling something like this,
Jim. Silence lingered, but beneath it
lay an unspoken truth. My actions had consequences,
ones I couldn't escape. James's duty had clashed with
our friendship. In a moment of desperation as I
grappled with the inevitability of my predicament, I acted.
My Magnum was drawn from its holster, and the deafening crack
of the gunshot filled the cabins.
Confined space. Smoke hung in the air, and the
flash momentarily blinded me. James staggered to the side, his
own firearm tumbling to the floor.
He clutched at the Crimson hole in his chest, gasping for air
with a wet, rattling breath. I'm sorry, James, I muttered,
grabbing my belongings and slinging my rifle over my
shoulder. I messed it all up.
I'm sorry. James's vacant gaze fixated on
nothing as his life slipped away.
The pool of red spread beneath him, marking the end of a
friendship. Shattered by my impulsive act.
That was this morning, I hastily left the cabin, strapping my
pack onto the snowmobile. Within moments, I was speeding
along the northern trail, leaving my cabin behind and
heading toward the decommissioned Ranger station.
I had taken a life, a friend's life, In the heat of the moment,
it felt like self preservation, but the guilt weighed heavily on
me. I knew there would be no
reprieve this time. Now I sit in the dim backroom of
the Ranger station, my snowmobile concealed in the
shadows, hidden beneath A tarp and a layer of freshly fallen
snow. I hope the snowfall obscures my
tracks, granting me a precious reprieve.
My hands shake as I write this, my fingers typing frantically on
the notebook computer. Surprisingly, the agency hasn't
yet locked down the firewalls, allowing me to relay this
message through the Ranger stations communication network.
Time is running out. I don't know what awaits me, but
there's no turning back. My true identity is Jim Clark,
and my affiliation with the government goes deeper than I've
admitted. But revealing more would risk
the suppression of this message by the Raptor AI protocols.
My role here was more than just a caretaker.
It involved keeping watch on intruders, on creatures on the
byproducts of their clandestine experiments.
What they do beneath the mountain is beyond my
comprehension. You should avoid national parks,
perhaps even state parks. The horrors I've witnessed, the
secrets they guard. I can't erase what I've done,
But I can warn you to stay away. It's for your own safety.
As I reflect on the terrifying truths I've shared, a sense of
impending doom fills the air. It's as if the shadows
themselves are closing in on me. There's a noise, a real one this
time, and my paranoia escalates. Time is short.
I must upload this post, hoping it reaches the world before they
intervene. My fate is sealed, but I hope my
words will serve as a warning to those who stumble upon this tale
of fear and secrets.