My name is Brian, I'm 31 years old, and I've been living in
Idaho for the last four years. For transparency's sake, I
didn't write up this account specifically as a submission for
your channel. But after it popped into my
recommended feed and I saw you taking submissions, I figured
I'd found the perfect home for the warning I'm about to give
you and your viewers. Although I have no doubt that
what you're about to read might frighten or disturb you, I can
assure you that it's not by design.
My only wish is that you and your subscribers take heed of
what I'm about to say. You see, I think there's someone
living off the grid up here in the Beaverhead Deer Lodge
National Forest, and I know for a fact that this person is very,
very dangerous. Part of the reason I moved up to
Boise from my native California, aside from all the financial
reasons, is that there are a total of 10 no forests within
driving distance of the city. I was a Boy Scout growing up, my
dad and uncles used to take my cousins and me during summer
vacations, and I found a group of fellow college students to
hike with when I was at UC Irvine.
So when it came time to choose a place to start a new life, Boise
climbed my wish list pretty damn quickly once I realized that it
combined urban amenities, a low cost of living, and the kind of
natural beauty that made Southern California feel more
like Manhattan than Malibu. During that first year in Idaho,
I spent a lot of time hiking Boise National Forest in the
Snake River conservation areas right on our doorstep, too.
But then, as time went by, I started to travel a little
farther afield with each trip, just to get a feel for all the
different forests in the region. I drove over to Sawtooth one
time, went up to Payette for a weekend, then went as far as
Bitterroot, Salmon Chalice, and then eventually Beaverhead Deer
Lodge. I made multiple trips to each of
the previously mentioned parks. I mean, you don't truly get to
know a place after just one or two hikes, but I only ever made
one trip to Beaverhead, and if I ever do get over my fear of the
place, you can bet your dollar I'm staying the hell away from
the hills between Maverick and Stewart mountains.
And if you value your life, so should you.
Now, in the southern portion of Beaver Head Forest lies the
valley between Maverick and Stewart Mountains.
At its westernmost point, where two creeks meet, the valley is
open and treeless. But then travel further east and
the trails taper off into what I can only describe as a capillary
system of narrow trails. It kind of reminded me of one of
those old hedge mazes, like the kind from The Shining, just on a
much bigger scale. All the trails look pretty much
identical, with wide open grass trails and pine covered hills
obscuring your view on either side.
You can't really get lost these days, not if you're armed with
the correct skills and equipment.
But if there was ever a place I felt slightly disoriented by the
lay of the land, it was there. You'd make a couple of turns,
think that you were back on the main strip again, and then boom,
the trail would narrow off and you'd find yourself at a dead
end. I guess to a less experienced
hiker, that might have been a cause for concern, but for me it
was almost nostalgic. I hadn't been even close to Lost
for coming up on 15 years by that point, so for me there was
something almost thrilling about it.
It's been years since I felt that same sense of adventure
while out on a hike. I also enjoyed them, but I'd
long since lost that sense of childlike awe and wonder, so to
have it back, that was really something I kept on exploring
for about an hour or so, just wandering up and down the trails
to try and familiarize myself with that part of the valley.
Then, as I was moseying down this one particular stretch of
trail, I began to smell something that smelled a lot
like campfire smoke. For quite a while now, I've been
in the habit of introducing myself to any fellow hikers and
campers I might run into. Some might call that intrusive
or even bothersome, but to me those are big city ideas.
I understand where my critics are coming from, but at the risk
of sounding melodramatic, the woods aren't the kind of place
that you want to go unnoticed. Part of it is just being
friendly, shooting the breeze with some kindly strangers.
But there's a practical side to it too.
I do a lot of solo hiking, and as much as I take all the
necessary precautions, I'm still much more vulnerable than most.
I like folks knowing I'm there, and I like knowing just a little
about who I'm sharing a trail or park with.
That way, if I detect even the slightest of bad vibes, I can
make myself scarce before trouble so much as toots in the
wind. And so I smelled the campfire
smoke, and I suspected it was coming from up the hill to my
right. I wandered up the slope a
little, and then, lo and behold, the smell of smoke got more and
more intense the further I walked.
And so off I went, following the smell like some human
Bloodhound, until eventually the Pines thinned out and I reached
a kind of treeless shelf on the hillside.
It was almost completely hidden from view, and just as I was
thinking this is flat enough to build on, I realized someone
already had. About 50 yards away.
Someone had built what looked like a small two room cabin,
complete with the beginnings of a little vegetable garden out
front and a short woven fence marking the property's boundary.
My first thought upon looking at it was this can't be legal
because as much as many national parks and forests might
encourage overnight campers, any kind of permanent dwelling is
strictly prohibited. But at the same time, this
person's dwelling was an impressive piece of work, and it
obviously wasn't constructed overnight.
In which case, how had he managed to stay up there for so
long without getting himself into trouble with the Forest
Service? All this is going through my
head and I'm just sort of staring at the little cabin in
amazement when all of a sudden the cabin's front door swings
open and out steps a bald guy of around 40 to 50 years of age
wearing a dirty wife beater and a pair of blue jeans.
Now his cabin had a pair of windows, complete with what
looked to be hinged shutters, but he hadn't looked out of them
before exiting his home. So the moment he sees me, I see
the startled look come over his face and he does not look
pleased to see me. I figured I'd obviously given
him a bit of a jump scare, so the first thing I think to do is
raise a hand and wave, just to let him know that I didn't have
any ill intentions. He doesn't return the wave, he
just walks back into his little cabin, then emerges seconds
later armed with what appeared to be a bolt action hunting
rifle. I just want to make it clear
that I did not step onto this man's property, and the word
property is quite purposely in quotation marks as I'm writing
here now. Neither was I bearing any kind
of weapon or trekking pole with me when he saw me.
All the guy saw was a four eyed, overweight dork with a floppy
hat and Apache beard, and his first move was to go grab his
rifle. The second I saw it, I turned on
the spot and started walking back down the hill towards the
tree line. And then as I walked I shouted
back. All right Mr. I get the message.
I'm leaving. Hindsight is always 2020, I
guess, and I guess I should have just run as fast as I could.
But in the moment, I figured running would be the loudest way
to announce my guilt. Run off through the trees and
he'd think that I was up to no good, Maybe fire off a shot at
me and that'd be all, she wrote. But if I walked hands in the
air, not going for my own weapon and just trying to de escalate,
then maybe everything would just be fine.
I was armed at the time, by the way.
Nothing too big, just a handgun in case of bears and what not.
But then the last thing I wanted to do was potentially start a
gunfight in the middle of the woods.
If I pulled out my weapon, that constituted a serious
escalation. And the more this guy believed
that he was in control, the less likely he was probably to shoot
me. Or rather, that's what I
mistakenly believed at the time. I remember giving him a second
round of I'm going, OK, I don't want any trouble.
And in reply, all I heard was you stay right where you are.
Have you seen those new Dune movies?
There's a thing in it, something they call The Voice.
It's like a magical power. You speak and people obey
whether they want to or not. And I'm telling you, it was like
that guy had the voice. He spoke, and suddenly my feet
were in cement blocks. I wanted to keep walking.
Hell, I just wanted to run the second I saw his rifle.
But whatever kept him feeling in control and his fingers off the
trigger felt like my best course of action in the moment.
I also literally cannot overemphasize how little I
wanted to shoot this guy and turn a relaxing afternoon's hike
into one of the single darkest chapters of my entire life.
So he tells me to stop, but I obviously want to face the guy
as I'm talking to him, So I start to turn around.
Big mistake. The guy raises his rifle, works
the bolt to force around into the chamber, and then points it
at me so aggressively that I could practically feel it.
He was ready to fire. By that point, my life was in
serious danger. But all that was going through
my head as I had my arms way up in the air was please don't pee
your pants. Please don't pee your pants.
I didn't. And before you all go thinking,
ha ha, what a baby. I cannot overstate how fast your
mind works in those sorts of situations.
I was so scared. I felt like I could taste the
air. My arms and legs felt like they
were encased in concrete and I was sweating in places I didn't
know you could sweat from. So having all those irrational
thoughts like that not running when I had the chance, it all
seems like part and parcel of all that raw, primal fear that I
was feeling in the moment. Like I said, I started turning
to face him, but he racked his rifle and then started yelling
things like did I tell you to move?
Did I say move another muscle? Watch what happens.
All I could think to say was all the same stuff I'd repeated
already. Stuff about me wanting to leave,
about how I just stumbled across his place and was nothing more
than just curious. He looked at me up and down for
a second, then asked me if I was from the government.
I told him no, that I was just a hiker, and in an attempt to
reinforce that I wasn't some kind of Fed, I told him I worked
for a financial firm back in Boise, which was the truth.
I told him the name of the place, my position, and then
added that he could call them right then and there if he
didn't believe me because the office was open on weekends.
I only told him all that because he quite clearly had a problem
with cops or Rangers and probably just about anyone in a
position of authority. That, and once I got talking, I
found it unusually difficult to stop.
I was still talking when he told me to shut up.
And then after a few seconds of what looked like thinking, he
asked me a question that had me once again questioning whether I
was about to pee my pants or not.
The guy lowered his rifle just a little, which was kind of
reassuring, but not by much. And then he asked me, do you
believe in God? Make no mistake, I am not
prejudice against religious types.
I had a very Baptist grandmother who volunteered with the church
until just months before she passed, and she was just about
as saintly a person as it's possible to meet any other
context. That question would have
provoked anything except an honest answer, but in light of
the rifle I had pointed at my stomach, I presume it gave the
question a hell of a lot of weight.
On another day, I might have just spoken my mind and told him
I considered myself something of an agnostic.
I feel like there's something going on in terms of creation
and evolution, whatever you want to call it.
I just don't think we can so easily put a label like God on
it and imagine him up there as this big old friendly white guy
with a beard of clouds and a sunny demeanor.
But then, having considered my position, I decided honesty
almost certainly wasn't the best policy.
So instead of the truth, I lied and told him, Sure, I believe in
God. I thought that might have gotten
me out of the woods. Purely metaphorically, of
course, but then he asked me which God.
My gut told me that saying anything apart from Protestant
Christian would have probably been bad news for me.
So I went with my instinct and told him that I was Baptist,
just like my grandma. When I saw him give me this
little nod of approval, I felt so relieved that my knees almost
buckled. But unfortunately the guy wasn't
through with me just yet. Starting and stopping as he
tried to find the right words, he began to explain how only two
people in the world knew that he was up there and he couldn't
tolerate a third. I think he must have seen the
terror in my face because he went on to explain that he
didn't actually want to shoot me.
I guess he intended that to be reassuring, but somehow it was
not. And that's the point where
things turn back to why he'd asked me if I believed in God.
He needed to know that I believed in something so he
could make me swear on my life that I wouldn't tell anyone I'd
seen him right away. I told him, I swear to God, I
won't tell anyone I saw you. And I did it so promptly because
I very nearly believed that he might actually let me walk away,
but just the words alone weren't good enough for him holding the
rifle at his hip. Now the guy points it at me just
a little more directly and then tells me to get on my knees.
All I remember is saying please, but all that did was make him
raise the gun all the way up so he could aim down the sights at
me. He then repeated himself and
told me to get on my knees. And from that moment I was
convinced that I was going to die.
And I'm honestly not sure if I dropped to my knees deliberately
or simply because they just gave out altogether.
I thought that any second I'd simply go from being wide awake
and terrified to just darkness. He'd blow my brains out with a
single shot of that rifle and it'd switch me off like a light.
You know, I literally remember thinking to myself, at least
it'll be quick. But then instead of pulling the
trigger, he spoke again. The guy told me to swear again
to God that I'd never tell another living soul that I'd
seen him, or where he was living, or what we talked about.
So I did. I put my hands together like I
was praying, but I didn't dare close my eyes.
Then I swore out loud that never in a million years would I ever
tell another of God's creations about anything that had occurred
that day. I don't think I said it quite
like that, but you get the idea. When I was done, he just said
again, louder, and I did what I was told.
Then once again, once I was finished, he starts yelling
something like swear on your family, tell him to strike you
down dead if you breathe a word to anybody.
I wasn't in a position to refuse him, and as much as I probably
could have lunged for his rifle or something, I'm also not an
idiot, so I didn't even consider that an option at the time.
Instead, I just tried my best to ensure that he kept that sense
of control, because the moment he lost it, the chances of me
getting switched off increased exponentially.
I swore on my whole extended family that I'd never, ever
speak of our encounter for as long as I lived.
I told him, and God and anything else listening for that matter,
that I would happily bury my loved ones if I broke my word
and bond, And not just that, but I'd happily follow them to hell
afterward if I ever breathed the word of our encounter.
I said just about anything and everything that came to mind.
But once I really thought about my mom and dad and how
devastated they'd be to hear about my body being found up
there on that hill, that's when I felt myself starting to well
up. I guess that's what really
satisfied him in the end, seeing me get sort of emotional like
that, not just scared, but sad or broken.
Only then did he lower the rifle, and only then did he let
me find my feet, and only then was I allowed to walk back down
the hillside towards the trail. He yelled, a reminder through
the trees after me, reminding me of my promises.
And so naturally, the first thing I did once I got some real
cell phone signal was to report the entire God damn thing in
excruciating detail to the Beaverhead County Sheriff.
Like I said, I'm not religious in the traditional sense and
even if I was, I wouldn't have let that guy manipulate my faith
in such a way. This also isn't some made-up
story where I'm going to keep the guy's secret, or one in
which I'm so scared that he'll come after me that I remain
silent. I'm willing to admit that I was
terrified at the time. I was shaking like a leaf as I
walked down that hill, but by the time I got back to my car, I
was just about angrier than I'd ever been in my entire life.
The mood I was in when I was pacing back and forth, calling
911, I could have ended that dude three times over.
But again, that would not have been the right play to make.
The grown up responsible thing to do would be to let law
enforcement handle it, and that's what I tried to do.
The only trouble was, after about a week of hounding the
sheriff into dealing with our potential fugitive, I realized
that nothing was being done regarding my complaint.
First off, piles of red tape meant that the sheriff was
forced to inform Beaverhead contingent forest Rangers of the
situation, who in turn took the task off his hands.
After assuring him they'd be in touch regarding their search of
the area the day before, I called the sheriff for a third
time. The Rangers had informed him
that they'd been unable to locate any such cabin in the
valley beneath Maverick Mountain.
Naturally, I told the sheriff that was impossible since I'd
seen the cabin and its occupant with my own two eyes.
I then went to the effort of providing him with at least what
I believed were the exact coordinates denoting the cabin's
location 45 degrees 28 minutes 30.9 seconds north, and 113
degrees 12 minutes 41.1 seconds W.
After that, the Rangers promised to send out a second search
party, and although this one actually found the guy's cabin,
the man himself was nowhere to be found and the structure
appeared to have been unoccupied for quite some time.
I was furious, to say the least. I have a lot of respect for
people that choose to serve this country, no matter what form
that service may take, but the ineptitude on the part of the
authorities in allowing a dangerous fugitive to slip
through their fingers is as staggering as it is frightening
to me. I don't know for certain who I
encountered up in Beaverhead that day, but I think that 90%
of you would agree that the man was most probably some kind of
criminal and that in all likelihood he was using that
cabin and valley as cover to hide from law enforcement.
That, or he was just a kind of psychopathic doomsday prepper
who took pleasure in terrorizing just some kindly stranger, And
either way, the idea of a second encounter filled me with a dread
so intense I'm not sure that I could put it into words.
And that's why I haven't been back to Beaverhead since.
And if I did happen to visit those parts in the future, I'd
stay the hell away from Maverick Mountain.
Regardless of that sadistic old Prick's motives.
I guess he figured that I wasn't going to be true to my word,
because, as I said. When the Rangers finally did
make it out to his cabin, the man who almost shot me was long
gone. But that in turn takes me all
the way back to the beginning of this e-mail, when I said it
wasn't so much a campfire story, but rather a grave warning to
anyone planning on hiking in southwestern Montana, north of
Idaho. I think that guy is still out
there living off the grid. In fact, I'm certain of it.
My only concern is that the next person who stumbles across him
won't be as fortunate as I was. And rather than just being
asked, do you believe in God? I'm scared they'll be sent to
meet him. The stars were spread across the
sky like a spill of diamonds twinkling above the southwestern
desert. It was a perfect night for
camping. Just me, my friend Billy, and
our dads. We had picked our favorite spot,
nestled close to a calm river and far enough from the main
roads to feel secluded, yet close enough to make a quick
escape if we needed to. The day had been filled with
laughter and the kind of contentment that comes from
being outdoors, away from the distractions of daily life.
We spent the afternoon hiking along the river, skipping stones
and sharing stories. By dusk, the campfire crackled
and popped, casting flickering shadows on the tent walls.
After a hearty dinner, we settled into our tents, Billy
and I in one, our dads in another.
The air was cool, and the rhythmic sounds of the river
soon lulled everyone but me to sleep.
I've always found it hard to sleep on camp outs, my mind
racing with the excitement of the day and the endless
possibilities of the night. I lay there, listening to
Billy's steady breathing beside me, the hood of an owl in the
distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.
It must have been around 11:00 PM.
When I finally drifted off. Sometime later, I jolted awake.
I glanced at my watch. It was 2:00 AM.
My heart pounded as I tried to figure out what had woken me.
The night was silent, too silent.
Then I heard it, a shuffling noise just outside the tent.
I froze, my imagination running wild.
I told myself it was probably my dad or Billy's dad up for a late
night bathroom break, but there was no sound of a tent zipper or
the rustling of fabric. The noise continued, slow and
deliberate. Circling the tent, I hunkered
down into my sleeping bag, my heart racing.
That's when I heard the yipping. If you've ever heard coyotes,
you know they don't howl like wolves.
They make a series of high pitched yips and wines, almost
playful. But this was different.
It was solitary, desperate. It circled the tent, yipping and
snuffling, the sound growing louder and then fading as if it
was moving in and out of earshot.
Billy slept on, undisturbed, and I strained to hear any movement
from our dad's tent, but there was nothing.
Whatever was out there, it was alone.
I lay still, my body tense, my mind racing.
Normally coyotes travel in packs, and their calls are
answered by others, but this one was alone, unanswered.
Eventually the noises stopped. I waited, breath held, but there
was only the sound of the river and the distant call of an owl.
I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew,
the sun was peeking over the horizon.
I crawled out of the tent, eager to see if there was any evidence
of our midnight visitor. The ground was soft near the
river bank, perfect for capturing tracks, but I found
nothing. No paw prints, no Tufts of fir,
no scat. I checked around the tents,
expanding my search, but it was as if nothing had been there at
all. When the others finally woke, I
asked if anyone had heard anything during the night.
Billy shook his head, groggy and confused.
Our dads shrugged, saying they'd slept soundly.
After breakfast, we packed up camp, still discussing the odd
noises. Billy did find one thing,
though. A single bare human footprint in
the sand along the river bank. No shoe print, just a naked
human foot. A day later, a massive storm
rolled through, flooding the river and washing away any trace
of our campsite. At the time, I chalked it up to
coincidence, but as I would soon learn, this was just the
beginning of my encounters with the unknown.
The summer nights in the Southwest can be unbearably hot,
so I'd taken to sleeping on the covered balcony of our house.
The night breeze did wonders to keep the heat at Bay, and I
relish the sounds of the desert as I drifted off to sleep.
It had been a long day outside and I was tired, grateful for
the cool air that kissed my skin as I lay on my cot, the stars
just visible through the screen. I'd fallen asleep easily enough,
the memories of the camping trip still fresh but starting to
fade. It was around 1:00 AM when I
woke up feeling uneasy, the kind of unease that makes the hairs
on the back of your neck stand on end.
I lay still, listening. At first there was nothing but
the usual sounds, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a
night bird. Then I heard it, the yipping.
That same high pitched yipping that had haunted me a year
before. My heart skipped a beat as I sat
up slowly, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound.
It was coming from the front of the house, just beyond the
balcony. I crept to the edge of the
balcony, peering through the wire screen, my eyes scanning
the darkness. The yipping continued, but this
time I was determined to see what was making the noise.
I squinted into the night, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.
There, in the shadows, I saw it. It was crouched low to the
ground, moving with a strange, almost shuffling gait.
It wasn't a coyote. I could see that much.
It was roughly the size of a man hunched over, its movements
deliberate and unsettling. I held my breath, my heart
pounding in my chest. The figure moved slowly, yipping
occasionally, but it never looked up.
It stayed low, moving along the front of the house, and then it
was gone, disappearing behind the row of houses across the
street. I stood there for a long time,
staring into the darkness, my mind racing.
Eventually I crawled back onto my cot, but sleep wouldn't come.
I lay there, replaying the scene in my head, trying to make sense
of what I'd seen. The yipping had sounded so
familiar, but the figure it was anything but.
The night dragged on, and I counted the hours until dawn,
the unease settling deep in my bones.
The next day, a storm rolled in, just like the year before.
The sky darkened and rain pounded against the roof, the
wind howling through the trees. I couldn't shake the feeling
that the storm was somehow connected to the encounter.
It was too similar to be a coincidence, the timing too
perfect. As the rain poured down, I told
my parents about what I'd seen. They listened, but their faces
were etched with skepticism. My dad suggested it was just a
coyote, my imagination running wild in the dark, but I knew
what I had seen. I knew it was something else,
something that didn't belong. The storm raged on, and I spent
the day in a fog, my mind replaying the events of the
night before. I couldn't shake the feeling
that the entity was trying to tell me something, trying to
reach out. I didn't know what it wanted,
but I knew that this wasn't the last I'd see of it.
The yipping had become a part of my life, a sound that now
brought with it a sense of dread and foreboding, and deep down I
knew that it would return. By the time I was 15, I'd almost
convinced myself that the encounters with the yipping
creature were nothing more than childhood imaginings.
We had moved to the Pacific Northwest, where the air was
cooler and the forests denser. Life was different here, slower
and somehow more serene, and I welcomed the change.
The memories of the past still lingered, but they felt distant,
like echoes from another world. One afternoon I stepped off the
school bus and started the familiar walk home.
The path wound through a stretch of woods before opening up to
our neighborhood. I liked this part of the walk.
It gave me a moment to unwind and breathe in the fresh pine
scented air. The sunlight filtered through
the trees casting dappled shadows on the ground.
I was lost in thought when I noticed movement out of the
corner of my eye. I stopped, my heart rate
quickening as I turned to see what it was.
Standing at the edge of the road, just beyond the tree line,
was a coyote. At first, I was relieved.
Coyotes were a common sight here, nothing unusual.
But then I met its eyes. There was something unsettling
about the way it looked at me. Its eyes were sharp and
intelligent, more so than any animal I'd ever seen.
We stood there locked in a silent stare.
Normally, wild animals avoid eye contact, but this coyote held my
gaze. I felt a chill run down my
spine. It was as if it recognized me.
I broke eye contact, looking away, but I couldn't help
glancing back. The coyote remained still,
watching me, its eyes following my every move.
The encounter felt like it stretched on for hours, though
it was only a few minutes. Eventually the coyote turned and
loped off into the forest, disappearing among the trees.
I stood there for a moment longer, trying to shake off the
feeling of dread that had settled over me.
When I finally continued home, my mind was racing.
Memories of the previous encounters flooding back.
The yipping, the storms, the sense of being watched.
It all came rushing back with a clarity that made my skin crawl.
That night, as I lay in bed, the wind began to howl.
A storm was brewing, the kind that rattles windows and shakes
the house to its foundations. Thunder rumbled in the distance,
and I felt a familiar sense of unease.
I tried to convince myself it was just a normal storm, but
deep down I knew better. In the morning I found a tree
had fallen across our yard, its massive trunk resting just feet
from the corner of the house where my bedroom was.
The damage was extensive, but miraculously the house itself
had been spared. As I stood there looking at the
fallen tree, I couldn't shake the feeling that the entity was
somehow involved, that it had been watching, waiting, the
encounters, the storms. They couldn't be mere
coincidences. The coyotes gaze, filled with an
intelligence that bordered on. Human, haunted me.
I knew that this wasn't over. The entity, whatever it was, was
still out there. Part of me wanted to understand
it, to find some sense of closure, but another part of me
was terrified of what that understanding might bring.
The Pacific Northwest was supposed to be a fresh start, a
place where I could leave the past behind.
But the past had followed me, and the yipping that had once
been a distant memory was now a present threat.
As I stood there, the sound of the wind in the trees echoing in
my ears, I made a silent vow to face whatever it was head on.
I needed answers and I was determined to find them, no
matter the cost. I've been hiking for as long as
I can remember. My dad was an army vet and his
brother was a bow hunting fanatic.
Most summers, our family would pack up and head into the woods
South of Abbeville, SC for a few days of hiking and camping.
It was a tradition that brought us all closer together.
After my dad passed away, I found that these trips into the
forest help me feel connected to him, even if it was just a few
hours of hiking on a Sunday afternoon.
I moved to Augusta after my dad died, and while there were some
nice patches of woods near Aikens Bluff, I found the areas
between Stevens Creek and Hamilton Branch State Park to be
much more like the woods we used to hike in when I was a kid.
For clarity's sake, I'm referring to Stevens Creek in
South Carolina, not the neighborhood in North Augusta.
In these woods, you could walk for miles and miles without
seeing anyone but the occasional fisherman.
It was peaceful and serene, a perfect escape from the stresses
of everyday life. One Sunday afternoon, I drove up
from Augusta, eager to lose myself in the tranquillity of
the forest. I parked my car near Clark's
Hill and started my hike along Stevens Creek.
About two miles in, something odd caught my eye.
To my left, in the dense woods was a large, dark shape, used to
seeing nothing but trees and the odd squirrel.
This unexpected sight grabbed my attention right away.
I stopped and turned to get a better look.
There, leaning against a tree was a makeshift shelter
constructed out of old dead wood.
Someone had stacked the wood at an angle, creating a sort of
primitive lean to it. Had a creepy, almost witchy vibe
to it, but I couldn't help but admire the effort and skill it
took to build it. I thought maybe a fisherman had
built it for fun or as a place to rest.
Curious but not overly concerned, I continued my hike.
About 10 minutes later, I saw another one of those shelters.
This one was bigger and more elaborate, with larger pieces of
wood carefully bound together. It was clear that someone had
put a lot of work into it. I'd never seen anything like it
on any of my previous hikes, but I still wasn't worried.
I figured maybe a dad and his kids had built them the day
before, using their time in the woods to practice some survival
skills. As I walked further, I spotted a
man up ahead working on one of the shelters.
He looked to be in his 50s or 60s, around the same age my dad
was when he passed. He had thinning Gray hair,
pulled back into a ponytail, and wore colorful hiking gear.
When he saw me approaching, he stopped what he was doing,
waved, and wished me a good afternoon.
We talked for a little while, and he introduced himself as
Ron. He told me he was out there
practicing the construction of impromptu shelters, hoping to
camp out one night under the stars.
I joked that he might end up looking up at nothing but
raindrops if he didn't master his shelters before the fall.
We shared a few laughs, and then I continued with my hike.
My usual routine was to hike until I reach the area near
Hamilton Branch, then turn back and retrace my steps along the
Creek. I thought I might see Ron again
on my way back, but he was gone by the time I reached his
shelters. As I drove back to Augusta, I
felt a sense of satisfaction. The woods had once again
provided a peaceful escape, and meeting Ron added a new and
interesting element to my usual hike.
Little did I know, this encounter was just the beginning
of a series of unsettling events that would soon unfold in these
familiar woods. Over the next few weeks, I
returned to Stevens Creek several times.
Each time I went back, I saw more of Ron's shelters.
They seem to be popping up everywhere like mushrooms after
a rainstorm. Every hike there was a new
structure to admire, each one more skillfully built than the
last. It felt like Ron and I were
having a silent conversation through his handiwork.
I would see his progress and wonder about his latest
adventures in the woods. 1 early September hike things took a
strange turn. I was about halfway along my
usual route, enjoying the peace and quiet, when I got the
feeling that I wasn't alone. At first I brushed it off as
paranoia. After all, the woods could play
tricks on your mind if you let them.
But then I heard it. A distinct snap of a twig behind
me. I stopped in my tracks and
turned around, scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
Nothing. Just the usual forest sights and
sounds. Still, the uneasy feeling
lingered. I continued walking, but
couldn't shake the sensation that someone or something was
watching me. I tried to calm myself,
reminding myself that it was probably just a deer or some
other harmless animal, But as I walked, the feeling grew
stronger, almost oppressive. After a few more minutes, I
decided to investigate. I turned off the main trail and
started walking in the direction where I'd heard the twig snap.
I moved slowly and cautiously, keeping my eyes and ears open
for any sign of movement. After about a minute or two, I
realized there was no one there. I stood still straining to hear
anything unusual, but there was only silence.
I decided to head back to the main trail.
If it wasn't Ron who had made the noise, then it could be
something less friendly, like a bear or even a Mountain Lion.
I wasn't keen on finding out. I had my bear spray and my
pistol with me, just in case, but I hoped I wouldn't need to
use them back on the trail. I kept glancing over my
shoulder, just to be safe. The woods had gone eerily quiet.
No birds singing, no insects chirping.
It felt like the whole forest was holding its breath.
That's when I knew something was definitely off.
It was like one of those moments in a horror movie when
everything goes silent right before something bad happens.
I picked up my pace, eager to get to the outskirts of Hamilton
Branch where I usually turned around.
When I reached the halfway point of my hike, I spotted 2 fly
fishermen setting up their gear by the Creek.
I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
At least I wasn't alone out here.
I walked over to them and struck up a conversation, asking if
they'd seen anyone else on the trail.
To my surprise, they said they had seen someone earlier, but
their description didn't match Ron at all.
The person they saw was wearing camouflage but didn't have any
hunting gear. They mentioned how the person
had mumbled something when they greeted him, but didn't really
respond. This added to my growing unease.
I thanked the fisherman and continued on my way, my mind
racing. If it wasn't Ron, then who was
it and why were they out here seemingly following me?
As I walked back to my car, I couldn't shake the feeling that
I was being watched. I decided then and there that I
would take a break from hiking at Stevens Creek.
The woods no longer felt like the peaceful escape they once
were. They felt dangerous, and I
wasn't sure I wanted to find out why.
It had been a couple of weeks since my unsettling hike at
Stevens Creek, and despite my better judgement, I decided to
give it one more try. The woods had always been my
refuge, a place where I could connect with my dad's memory and
escape the pressures of daily life.
So I packed up my gear and headed back, determined to
reclaim that sense of peace. I followed my usual route,
keeping my senses on high alert. The sun was shining and the
Creek babbled happily beside me, but I couldn't shake the feeling
that something was off. As I neared the spot where I had
met the fisherman, I noticed a pair of them setting up their
rods again. I felt a bit of relief.
Maybe this time I could ask them more questions.
I approached them with a friendly wave.
Hey there, have you guys seen anyone else on the trail today?
One of the fishermen looked up and nodded.
Yeah, we saw someone earlier. They were heading the opposite
direction, but they didn't say much, just kind of mumbled and
kept walking. I felt a chill run down my
spine. It sounded like the same person
from last time. What did he look like?
The fishermen squinted, thinking he was wearing camouflage but
not the usual hunting gear. No bright orange, no weapons,
just looked off, you know? I nodded, trying to hide my
unease. Thanks for the heads up.
Stay safe out here. I continued along the trail, my
hand never straying far from the bear spray on my belt.
The encounter with the fisherman had only heightened my anxiety.
As I walked, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder every
few minutes, half expecting to see someone lurking in the
shadows. About halfway along my route, I
decided to take a break. I found a Flat Rock by the Creek
and sat down, listening to the water and trying to calm my
racing heart. It was then that I heard it
again, the unmistakable snap of a twig behind me.
I froze, every muscle in my body tensing up.
Slowly I turned my head, scanning the trees.
There was no one there, but the silence was deafening.
No birds, no insects, nothing. Just the sound of my own
breathing and the rush of the Creek.
I knew then that something or someone was out there.
I stood up, trying to act casual, and started walking back
the way I had come. My pace was quick but measured,
not wanting to appear. Panicked.
My mind raced with possibilities.
Was it an animal? Was it Ron?
Or was it someone more sinister? I was about a mile from the
trailhead when I heard footsteps behind me.
This time they were unmistakable.
I stopped and turned, my heart pounding in my chest.
A figure emerged from the trees, wearing the same camouflage the
fisherman had described. Ron, is that you?
I called out, my voice trembling.
The figure stopped, staring at me.
Without saying a word. My hand moved to my pistol,
fingers grazing the cold metal. If you're following me, you need
to stop. I'm armed, and I know how to use
this. For a moment, there was no
response. Then the figure turned and
melted back into the forest, disappearing as quickly as they
had appeared. I stood there, heart racing,
unsure of what to do next. After a moment, I decided to
continue to the trailhead, my senses on high alert.
When I finally reached my car, I felt a wave of relief wash over
me. But I knew I couldn't keep
coming back here. The woods, once my sanctuary,
now felt like a place of danger. I made-up my mind then and
there. It was time to find a new place.
To hike. The memory of my dad would have
to follow me to safer trails. It had been a few weeks since my
last hike at Stevens Creek. I had kept my promise to myself
and stayed away, but the unsettling experiences still
haunted my thoughts. I couldn't shake the feeling
that something terrible had almost happened.
One evening, after getting home from work, my phone rang.
I glanced at the number and didn't recognize it, but
something told me to pick it up. Hello.
Hi, is this Tyler? A male voice asked.
Yes. Who's this?
This is Deputy Thompson from the McCormick County Sheriff's
Department. I need to ask you a few
questions about your hikes up near Stevens Creek.
My heart skipped a beat. Sure.
What's this about? We've been investigating some
incidents in that area. Have you ever encountered an
individual building shelters out there?
My mind immediately went to Ron. Yes, I met a guy named Ron a few
times. He was building these makeshift
shelters. Why?
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Can you describe him for me? I described Ron's thinning Gray
hair, his colorful hiking gear, and his friendly demeanor.
I mentioned how we had talked about his shelters and his plans
to camp out there. The deputy listened intently.
Thank you. We've found two sets of human
remains near Stevens Creek, and the individual you described
matches the description of our primary suspect.
My stomach churned. What do you mean Ron is a
suspect? Yes.
The deputy confirmed the bodies were found in one of the
shelters. We're trying to track down this
Ron you mentioned. I felt a cold sweat break out on
my forehead. The peaceful woods I had loved
so much now seemed sinister. Do you know what happened to the
victims? We can't disclose too many
details at this stage, the deputy said.
But we believe foul play was involved.
Did Ron ever mention any other locations, people or plans?
I racked my brain, but our conversations had been so
ordinary, so innocent. No, he didn't.
We mostly talked about the shelters and hiking.
I'm sorry I can't be more help. Any information is helpful, the
deputy assured me. If you remember anything else,
please give us a call. I hung up my mind racing.
The idea that Ron, or whoever he really was, could be responsible
for such a horrific crime was almost too much to bear.
I had seen his shelters as a quirky hobby, not a cover for
something dark and dangerous. In the days that followed, I
couldn't stop thinking about those hikes and my narrow
escape. I realized how close I had come
to being in real danger every time I recalled the feeling of
being watched the snap of the twig and the figure in
camouflage, I felt a chill run down my spine.
I tried searching online for any news about the investigation,
but there was nothing. It was as if the whole thing had
been swallowed by the forest, leaving me with more questions
than answers. I even considered going back to
Stevens Creek to find more clues, but the thought of it
filled me with dread. In the end, I decided it was
best to move on. I found new trails to hike, ones
that didn't hold the same dark memories.
But the experience changed me. I became more cautious, always
aware of my surroundings, never taking my safety for granted.
The woods had been my sanctuary, a place where I felt close to my
dad and at peace with the world. But now they were a reminder of
how quickly that peace could be shattered.
I still hiked, still sought out the tranquillity of nature, but
I knew I would never look at the wilderness the same way again.
I had seen its darker side, and it had left a mark that wouldn't
easily fade. It was a warm, sunny day in May
1995, the kind of day that made you glad to be alive and living
in Americus KS Devon Eugene Williams, a 29 year old truck
driver, stood in the yard of his new home watching his three
young children play. His wife, Mary Lou, was inside
preparing lunch. Devon took a deep breath,
savouring the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant aroma
of BBQ smoke from a neighbor's yard.
This was the life he had always dreamed of.
Devon was a big man with broad shoulders and a ready smile that
made people feel at ease. Friends described him as patient
and good-natured, the kind of guy who would give you the shirt
off his back. He loved his job, loved the open
road, and loved coming home to his family.
The new house was the culmination of years of hard
work and careful saving for Devin and Mary Lou, it was the
happiest point in their marriage, but beneath the
surface of this idyllic life, something was festering.
Devin had been feeling off for weeks, though he couldn't quite
put his finger on what was wrong.
It was just a sense of vague unease that he couldn't shake.
He didn't talk about it with Mary Lou not wanting to worry
her. She had enough on her plate with
the kids in the new house. Instead, he kept it to himself,
hoping it would pass. On May 23rd, Devin set off on a
routine delivery route to California.
He had taken this route dozens of times before and knew it like
the back of his hand. The trip out was uneventful and
he delivered his load on time. He reloaded his truck for the
return trip to Kansas City and called his boss, Tom Wilson, to
check in. Everything seemed fine.
Devin was punctual, lucid, and gave no indication that anything
was wrong. He did mention having trouble
sleeping, but that wasn't unusual for a long haul trucker.
The drive back started smoothly enough.
Devin made good time crossing into Arizona as the sun began to
set, but as the miles ticked by, that sense of unease grew
stronger. He felt restless, his mind
racing with thoughts he couldn't control.
He turned up the radio, trying to drown out the noise in his
head, but it didn't help. By the time he reached Kingman,
AZ, he was exhausted but wired too Keyed up to sleep.
On the evening of May 27th, Devon called his boss again.
He assured Tom that he'd make it to Kansas City on schedule, but
there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.
He complained of insomnia, saying he hadn't slept in days.
Tom asked if he was sure he could complete the journey.
Devon insisted he'd be fine. The next day, Devon's truck was
seen careening through Tonto National Forest at breakneck
speed. Campers Lynn and Jack Yarrington
were hiking nearby when they heard the roar of the engine.
They watched in horror as the massive 18 Wheeler speed along a
road that was most definitely not suited for such a large
vehicle. The truck swerved wildly,
narrowly avoiding collisions with trees and boulders.
Another group of hikers travelling by car had an even
closer call. The truck came hurtling toward
them, and they barely managed to swerve out of its path.
They later described the driver as a mustachioed man with a
disturbingly expressionless face, as if he were in a trance.
By late afternoon, the truck had swerved off the road and become
stuck in a field. A group on their way to a picnic
spotted it and stopped to offer assistance.
One man, Charles Hall, approached the driver and asked
if he needed help. The reply he received was as
chilling as it was confusing. They made me do it, Devon said,
his eyes wide with fear. Charles asked who made him do
what, But Devin's response was even more unsettling.
No, you can't help. No one can.
I'll never get it out of there. I'm going to jail.
Charles backed away, sensing something deeply wrong, and
later contacted the local Sheriff's Department.
By the time Deputy Wells arrived, the truck was
abandoned, the cab was locked, and there was no sign of Devin.
The happiest point in Devin Williams's life had taken a
dark, inexplicable turn. The man who had everything to
live for had vanished into the Arizona wilderness, leaving
behind more questions than answers.
The search for Devin Eugene Williams began in earnest on the
morning of May 29th, 1995. Americus KS was a tight knit
community and news of Devin's disappearance spread quickly.
His friends and Co workers from the trucking company were the
first to notice something was wrong.
When Devin failed to check in or show up as scheduled, Concern
turned to alarm when calls to his CB radio and cell phone went
unanswered. Mary Lou Williams was beside
herself with worry. She hadn't heard from Devon
since he left on his delivery route and his absence was a
gnawing void in her heart. She knew something was terribly
wrong. Devon would never abandoned his
family or his responsibilities without a word.
With her three young children clinginging to her, she made a
desperate call to the local Sheriff's Department.
Deputy Wells was assigned to the case.
He was a seasoned lawman with a reputation for thoroughness.
Wells started by interviewing Mary Lou and Devin's Co workers,
gathering as much information as he could about Devin's last
known whereabouts and state of mind.
Devin's boss, Tom Wilson, recounted his last conversations
with Devin. The mention of insomnia stood
out, but there was nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary.
The first real lead came from Charles Hall, the Good Samaritan
who had encountered Devon in the Tonto National Forest.
Charles's account of Devon's bizarre behavior and his
chilling statements were deeply unsettling.
Wells decided to follow the trail to Arizona, hoping to find
some clue that would explain Devon's actions and whereabouts.
A-Team was quickly assembled, consisting of local law
enforcement officers, search and rescue personnel, and civilian
volunteers. They headed to the spot where
Devon's truck had been found, deep in the forest, stuck in a
muddy field. The massive semi was still
there, its refrigeration unit humming quietly, keeping its
cargo of lettuce and strawberries.
Fresh. Wells carefully inspected the
truck, noting that the cab was locked and the interior appeared
undisturbed. There were no signs of a
struggle or foul play. The search team spread out,
combing the surrounding area for any trace of Devon.
They scoured the dense forest using every resource at their
disposal, foot patrols, search dogs, off road vehicles, and
even aerial support. The heat was oppressive and the
thick underbrush made progress slow and arduous, but the
searchers were determined. They knew time was of the
essence. Days turned into nights, and
still there was no sign of Devon.
The forest seemed to swallow their efforts, offering no
clues, no trail to follow. Lynn and Jack Yarrington's
account of their encounter with Devon added to the mystery.
The sight of him mumbling to himself and trying to ignite a
$20 bill with a rock painted a picture of a man in the grip of
some deep, unfathomable terror. Despite their best efforts, the
search team found nothing. No scraps of clothing, no
footprints, not even a hint of where Devon might have gone.
It was as if he had vanished into thin air.
The lack of evidence was madding, and the searchers were
left with more questions than answers.
How could a man simply disappear without a trace?
What had driven him to such erratic behavior?
Back in Americus, Mary Lou clung to hope.
Each day that passed without news was a dagger to her heart,
but she refused to give up. Her children needed their
father, and she needed answers. The community rallied around
her, offering support and prayers, but the uncertainty was
a heavy burden to bear. Deputy Wells returned to Kansas,
frustrated by the lack of progress.
He reviewed the case files, going over every detail again
and again, hoping to find something he had missed.
Theories abounded, from a mental breakdown to foul play, but
there was no concrete evidence to support any of them.
The search for Devon Eugene Williams had begun, but the
mystery of his disappearance only deepened with each passing
day. The forest had kept its secrets
well, and the man who had once been the heart of his family was
now a haunting absence, a question mark that refused to be
answered. The discovery of Devon Eugene
Williams skull in May 1997 was a macabre closure to a haunting
mystery that had plagued his family and the community of
Americus KS for two long years. The hikers who stumbled upon the
skull were tracing the bottom of HeLa County's Mongolian rim, a
rugged and remote area that seemed an unlikely place for a
man like Devon to end up. Mary Lou Williams sat at her
kitchen table, the late afternoon light casting long
shadows through the room. She stared at the phone, willing
it to ring with news that might finally answer the burning
questions in her mind when it did.
The voice on the other end belonged to Deputy Wells, his
tone a mix of sympathy and resignation.
The dental records had confirmed the worst.
The skull belonged to her husband.
The coroner's report offered little solace.
The skull had been damaged, but it was impossible to determine
if it was the result of a violent act or the natural
course of decomposition and scavengers.
There was no definitive cause of death, no clear indication of
what had happened to Devon in those final, desperate moments.
The lack of answers gnawed at Mary Lou, leaving her with a
void that seemed impossible to fill.
As news of the discovery spread, the theories and speculations
resurfaced. Some suggested Devin had
suffered a diabetic episode, though he had no known history
of the disease. Others pointed to sleep
deprivation, remembering his complaints of insomnia.
In his last conversations with his boss, there were whispers of
mental illness. Despite Devin's previously
stable demeanor, A few even posited that he might have been
a victim of carbon monoxide poisoning from a leak in his
truck's cabin. Each theory seemed as plausible
as it was unprovable. Mary Lou found herself drifting
through the days, her thoughts consumed by the mystery of her
husband's fate. She longed for a definitive
answer, something that would make sense of the senseless.
But as each day passed, hope dwindled.
The discovery of the skull brought a grim kind of closure.
But it was a closure riddled with holes, leaving more
questions than it answered. Deputy Wells continued his
investigation, but there was little to go on.
The search for Devon had been exhaustive, yet it had yielded
so few clues. The truck, abandoned with its
cargo intact, remained a baffling enigma.
Why had Devon left it locked and seemingly untouched?
What had driven him to such erratic behavior in the forest
in Americus? The community rallied around
Mary Lou and her children, offering support and sympathy.
Yet the absence of Devon hung like a shadow over their lives.
The children asked questions that Mary Lou couldn't answer,
their young minds struggling to understand the incomprehensible.
The unanswered questions about Devon's state of mind continued
to haunt everyone involved. Was he lucid when he swerved his
truck off the road? Did he suffer a mental
breakdown? Or was he driven by an external
force, something or someone that terrified him beyond reason?
The fact that his skull was found less than a mile from
where he disappeared suggested he hadn't gone far.
But why had it taken so long to find him?
And what had he experienced in those final moments?
Mary Lou often found herself staring at the horizon,
imagining Devon out there, lost and afraid.
The man she had known and loved had become a mystery, a puzzle
that refused to be solved. Theories and speculation offered
no comfort, only a reminder of how little they truly knew.
In the end, Devon's disappearance and death remained
A haunting mystery, a dark chapter in the lives of those he
left behind. Mary Lou held on to the hope
that someday, somehow, the truth would come to light.
But for now, she lived with the painful reality that some
mysteries are never fully resolved and some questions
remain forever unanswered. The forest had claimed Devon
Williams and with him. The answers to a Riddle that
would continue to haunt all who knew him.