My dad had always been a quiet man, the type who'd rather drive
18 hours straight than talk about his feelings for 10
minutes. But silence has a funny way of
stretching distance between people, and after my parents
split, that distance grew. A year passed, then five.
Eventually, I realized I hardly knew him anymore when he asked
me to join him on a camping trip near the Luka Chukai Mountains.
I figured it was his attempt to bridge the gap.
It felt like an overdue apology wrapped in an invitation, so
despite my reservations, I agreed.
Dad, whose real name was James but who'd always gone by Jimmy,
had driven long haul trucks most of his life.
He was familiar with nearly every dusty back Rd. from Gallup
to Tuba City, every shortcut through the Navajo Nation.
But one route always stuck out to him, Hwy. 13, winding through
the Luka Chukai range. He told me strange stories about
something that followed him along that lonely stretch,
something he called dark. I'd always dismissed these as
tall tales born from sleepless nights and the endless monotony
of the road. We arrived late in the afternoon
at our campsite, an isolated spot along a dry wash off a
neglected Forest Service Rd. The place felt empty, hollowed
out a patch of barren earth marked by cracked sediment and a
few stubborn junipers. Dad glanced at the tree line
every few seconds, as if expecting someone or something
to step out and greet us. I pretended not to notice.
Rusty, my dad's German shepherd, was probably the happiest of us.
He bounded around the wash, sniffing the dry ground,
seemingly oblivious to Dad's unease or my skepticism.
As dust closed in. We set up camp, pitching a tent
and building a small fire. We ate canned chili and bread
rolls in silence. Finally, after the sun
disappeared behind the distant Ridge, Dad spoke up.
You know Evan? He began quietly, staring into
the fire. I haven't been here in 30 years.
I nodded, waiting. I drove through here all the
time, but after one trip, I swore I'd never come back.
I glanced at him, eyebrows raised.
Why? Dad shifted uneasily, stirring
embers with a stick. There was something on the road
followed me from here, clear to the other side of the range,
like an animal. He shook his head slowly, eyes
still fixed on the flames. No, animals don't stay behind
your truck for miles without getting closer.
They don't walk upright, either. I laughed softly, assuming he
was joking or exaggerating for effect, but his serious
expression never wavered. Dad, come on, I finally said.
It was probably just shadows, headlights bouncing off rocks.
You'd been driving too long. He didn't respond, only shook
his head again, eyes hollow. Rusty suddenly stopped sniffing
the ground and froze, ears pointed toward the wash.
His hackles rose in a low growl, rumble deep in his throat.
Rusty. I called gently, leaning
forward. The dog ignored me, his
attention locked onto something beyond our circle of firelight.
Without warning, Rusty bolted, barking wildly as he disappeared
into the darkness of the wash. Rusty.
Dad shouted, rising from his chair.
I followed, peering uselessly into the blackness.
Rusty's barking faded quickly, swallowed by the dense silence.
We should go after him, I suggested nervously.
Dad's hand gripped my shoulder tightly, stopping me.
Wait, he whispered. Wait here.
Minutes crawled by, becoming an hour, then 2.
We called Rusty's name periodically, but received only
silence in return. Eventually, I convinced Dad to
sit again, promising we'd search.
At first light, I could tell he wasn't convinced, but he
reluctantly agreed. Around 2:30 in the morning, just
as I was dozing off, a shape appeared at the edge of the
fires glow. My heart leapt.
Rusty had returned. I rose quickly, relieved.
Hey boy, come here. I called softly.
Rusty didn't move. He stood there perfectly still,
eyes fixed blankly on us. Rusty.
Dad whispered beside me. Something's wrong.
I looked closer, chills creeping up my spine.
Dad was right. The dog's eyes were dark,
utterly dark, absorbing the fire light instead of reflecting it.
There was no familiar shine, no sign of life.
Then movement caught my attention.
Behind Rusty, another shape emerged slowly from the wash.
My throat tightened as I recognized Rusty again, this
time limping badly, fur matted with blood, eyes wide and
terrified. Dad.
I started, voice shaking. What the hell?
The dog at the edge of our campfire slowly turned its head
toward the wounded Rusty, then, without a sound, walked backward
into the darkness, vanishing completely from view.
I rushed forward, dropping to my knees as the injured dog
collapsed against me, whining weakly.
Dad approached slowly, his eyes fixed on the empty place where
the other Rusty had stood. We need to leave, he said, voice
trembling slightly. Right now.
I looked up at him, stunned and frightened beyond words.
For the first time, I saw absolute certainty in his eyes,
certainty that every strange story he'd ever told me about
these mountains had been true. My heart was hammering so loudly
in my chest that it drowned out every other sound around me.
The wounded Rusty lay curled beside the fire, whimpering
softly as I cleaned his wounds with shaking hands.
Dad had moved swiftly, dismantling our camp with a
speed and intensity I hadn't seen from him in decades.
We have to go. He repeated sharply, stuffing
gear into his backpack. His voice was different now,
stripped of the quiet uncertainty that defined him.
We can't stay here. I wrapped a bandage around
Rusty's hind leg, doing my best to steady my breath.
The thought of that thing wearing Rusty's face made bile
rise in my throat. I shook my head, trying to
banish the image. What the hell was that?
I finally whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
Dad didn't pause. He slung the backpack over his
shoulder, checking his pockets for his keys and knife.
It's what I warned you about, the thing that followed me on
the road years ago. I stared blankly at him, my
skepticism crushed under the weight of the horror we just
witnessed. But what is it?
He glanced around the edge of the fire light, avoiding my
eyes. I don't know exactly.
Just stories. Warnings from the elders.
They say it copies things, Animals, people.
It wears faces. I shivered involuntarily
glancing toward the darkness beyond the fire light.
Copies. Why?
Dad shook his head grimly to get close.
Before I could question him further, he started walking
cautiously toward the dry wash where we'd seen the fake Rusty
vanish. Reluctantly, I left the real
Rusty resting near the fire and followed, carrying a small
flashlight and Dad's heavy hunting knife.
We stopped at the edge of the wash.
There in the pale sand, was a perfectly round hole, burned as
if by intense heat, clean edged and unnatural.
Dad pointed at the hole with a shaking finger.
This isn't right. I knelt carefully, examining the
hole more closely. There were no footprints, no
drag marks, nothing. Just that unsettling, perfect
circle burned deep into the earth.
Have you ever seen anything like this?
I asked quietly. Dad shook his head again.
Never. But the elder said It leaves
marks, signs like it's reminding us it's here.
A sudden cry echoed from deep within the wash, low and drawn
out. It didn't sound human or animal,
just wrong. It reverberated around us,
hanging in the air, oppressive and thick.
Dad's eyes widened in panic. It knows we saw it.
He said quietly, grabbing my arm.
We need to move now. We returned quickly to the
campfire, where Rusty struggled to his feet with a pained whine.
Dad carefully lifted the dog into his arms, holding him
protectively. I shouldered our remaining gear,
extinguishing the fire quickly with sand.
Within moments, we were stumbling down the rocky path
that led away from the campsite, following only the narrow beam
of our headlamps. As we hike deeper into the
trees, the oppressive silence around us grew heavier.
I kept glancing nervously at the ridgeline, convinced something
was pacing alongside us. Shadowing our steps, I'd catch
flickers of movement from the corner of my eye, something tall
and lean just out of clear sight.
Then came the sounds, subtle at first, a snapped twig here, a
rustle of branches there, but then growing closer, more
frequent. It mirrored our pace, always
just behind or ahead of us. It's copying us, Dad whispered,
confirming my fears. His face was pale and tense in
the weak glow of the headlamp. Don't stop moving.
Rusty wind softly in Dad's arms. Sensing our fear.
My stomach twisted with guilt at bringing the dog out here, of
dismissing Dad's warnings as superstition.
I clenched the knife tighter, determined to protect my father,
our dog, from whatever stalked us.
We crested a small rise in the path, pausing briefly to catch
our breath. My eyes were drawn back toward
the wash below, illuminated dimly in the moonlight.
My pulse froze. Something was crouched down
there in the middle of the dry riverbed.
The shape was hunched thin, with elongated arms that reach toward
the ground, its head tilted sideways, as if broken.
Even from a distance, I could sense its eyes locked onto mine.
Dad. I choked out, unable to move.
Dad followed my gaze, his face turning white as he saw it.
He grabbed my arm sharply, pulling me forward, breaking my
paralysis. Don't look at it, He hissed,
voice shaking with panic. Just keep walking.
I forced myself to look away, stumbling forward, breathing
ragged skin, crawling with the knowledge that the thing's eyes
were still upon us. And then, behind us, through the
heavy stillness, I heard a voice, clear and familiar.
My voice. Dad, wait.
I stopped cold, my body rigid with terror.
It was mimicking me, but with something horribly wrong in the
tone. A slight distortion, a hollow
emptiness that drained the blood from my limbs.
Dad squeezed my arm, his grip like steel.
He spoke through clenched teeth. Keep moving.
It wants you to stop. Don't listen.
We pressed forward again, quicker now, stumbling through
the darkness, the beam of my headlamp shaking as panic
overtook reason. My own voice echoed again from
behind, quieter this time, a mocking whisper that crept along
the forest floor. Don't leave me here, Dad.
I clenched my jaw and kept walking, fighting the
overwhelming urge to look back. Dawn began to break, filtering
dim Gray light through the dense trees.
We've been walking nearly non-stop for hours, exhaustion
and fear mixing into a numb, mechanical March.
Rusty was quiet in my father's arms now, his breathing shallow
but steady. My legs ached with each step,
but every time I thought about stopping, the memory of that
thing crouched in the dry wash drove me onward.
Almost there, Dad murmured softly, his voice raw from hours
of silence. His eyes never stopped scanning
the shadows around us, as if expecting the creature to
reappear at any moment. The forest felt different now.
Unnaturally quiet, empty like everything else had fled long
ago, leaving only the three of us and whatever lurked unseen in
the distance. Finally, after cresting a small
rise, relief surged through my veins at the sight of the
familiar dirt parking area ahead.
The battered outline of Dad's old truck stood waiting at the
edge of the service road, and for the first time in hours, I
felt hope stir inside me. But the feeling quickly faded as
we drew closer. My chest tightened.
The windshield was cracked, spider webbed from some heavy
impact. The hood was marred with deep
scratches, jagged, uneven gouges that stretched from the grill to
the windshield. My steps faltered, my heart
pounding faster again. Dad.
I said weakly, pointing toward the damage.
He stared silently, then quickened his pace, walking
around the truck, examining every angle.
His expression grew darker with each step.
It followed us. Here, He said quietly, placing
Rusty gently in the truck bed. The dog whimpered softly, but
stayed curled where Dad set him. I moved closer, dread pooling in
my stomach as I studied the scratches on the hood.
These weren't claw marks. Like any animal I knew.
They were deep, deliberate, as if something powerful had
gripped the metal, pulling itself onto the truck.
A chill settled into my bones as I imagined that thing leaning
over the hood, its unnatural shape silhouetted against the
night. Then my eyes landed on something
worse. There, smeared clearly against
the cracked windshield, was a handprint.
I moved closer, inspecting it closely.
My throat tightened painfully. The print was too large, the
fingers elongated, thin and spindly, and there was an extra
digit, bent and twisted. Dad moved beside me, his breath
hitching as he saw the print. For a long moment, neither of us
spoke, just stared at the evidence before us, unable to
deny its existence any longer. Finally, Dad broke the silence.
Get in the truck. I didn't hesitate, climbing
quickly into the passenger seat. I glanced back nervously at
Rusty, still lying motionless in the bed, eyes glazed with
exhaustion. Dad started the engine without
another word, and the truck rumbled reluctantly to life.
He drove slowly down the rugged Service Rd. eyes fixed ahead,
jaw set firmly. Neither of us looked back.
Minutes passed, the dense trees finally giving way to open
scrubland as we approach the highway.
The sky had fully lightened now, bathing the mountains in pale
golden sunlight, but nothing about the morning felt safe or
normal. The silence inside the truck was
thick, heavy, punctuated only by our shallow breathing and the
engine's hum. Finally, I broke the quiet.
Dad, I'm sorry. He glanced briefly at me,
confused. For what?
For not believing you? I admitted, swallowing hard.
All those years. Your stories, I thought you made
them up. I thought they were just trucker
tails. Dad exhaled deeply, eyes
distant. He shook his head slowly.
I wish they were. Some things are real, even if
nobody wants to believe it. We drove in silence again for a
long while, each lost in our own thoughts, until the 1st signs of
civilization appeared on the horizon.
Rusty stirred gently in the truck bed, his tail wagging
weakly. It felt like a small miracle.
After that trip, I never camped again.
Not near Lukachukai, not anywhere near tribal lands.
Dad sold his camper and gave up camping all together.
Rusty heeled eventually, though. He avoided the trees and trails
from then on, content to stay close to home, safe behind walls
that seemed too thin now. Months passed, but the
nightmares lingered each night. In those moments before sleep
took me, I'd see that thing crouched in the dry wash, head
tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes fixed on mine.
And every time I jolted awake, sweating and breathless, Dad's
words echoed in my mind. There's a reason you don't hear
these stories from the people who've lived it.
Because if you've seen it once, you don't want to be seen again.
I'd spent most of my childhood summers down in Flagstaff, but
the res had always been home. Even though my brother Marcus
and I grew up going to school off reservation, our roots ran
deep in the high ridges of the Chuska Mountains.
Our grandmother, Shimasani Ella, made sure of that.
Each year she took us back to the sheep camp our grandfather
built decades ago. It was hidden up near Buffalo
Pass, just a little wooden cabin, quiet and simple, far
from anything. Marcus and I were teenagers now,
and it had been at least two years since our last visit.
Grandma worried that the fences around the old sheep corral
might have fallen over the winter, and she wanted us to
help patch them up before monsoon season.
So on a warm Friday in early June, we loaded tools, blankets
and food into her beat up Tacoma and set off on a winding dirt
Rd. deep into the Chuska Mountains.
The road was rougher than I remembered.
It twisted like a snake between stands of ponderosa pine and
juniper, then climbed steeply to a clearing at the edge of a wide
Canyon. The cabin sat tucked away in the
trees, a weathered wooden structure with a low roof and a
porch that creaked when we stepped on it.
Inside, the familiar smell of cedar smoke and old blankets
brought back memories. We dropped our bags near the
wood stove and stepped back outside.
Marcus stretched and looked around, smirking.
Still spooky? He said, nodding at the dense
woods surrounding the clearing. It's quiet, I replied, glancing
uneasily toward the shadows beneath the tall Pines.
Almost too quiet. Grandma frowned from the porch.
You boys stay close tonight. Don't wander things.
Listen out here. Marcus rolled his eyes, but I
felt her words sink into my stomach, heavy as stone.
Later, as the sun began dipping behind the mountain, Marcus and
I walked downhill to check out the dry Arroyo near the camp.
We tossed rocks into the empty Creek bed, laughing as Marcus
mimicked some deep voice. Storyteller.
Watch out, he teased. Skinwalkers might get us.
Don't say stuff like that, I said, glancing nervously back
toward the cabin. Marcus laughed louder, mocking
me in a cartoonish voice. Caleb, scared of Rez Bigfoot.
Before I could respond, Grandma's sharp voice cut
through the fading light. She stood framed in the cabin
window, serious as I'd ever seen her.
Stop laughing, she said sternly. Don't call things by name at
night. You know better.
Marcus fell quiet, suddenly sheepish.
I swallowed hard, glancing again at the darkness creeping
steadily toward us from the trees.
We ate a silent dinner by kerosene lanterns, the
conversation minimal. Grandma checked the locks twice
before bed, which wasn't usual for her.
She sprinkled ash and corn pollen carefully near the
doorway, mumbling something quietly in Navajo that I didn't
understand. Marcus and I lay awake in the
darkness, listening to Grandma's gentle breathing.
After a while, the quiet outside became oppressive.
No breeze, no animals. Nothing stirred in the forest at
all. Sometime deep into the night, I
woke suddenly, unsure what had startled me.
Then, in the silence, I heard it.
Knock, knock, knock. 3 slow, sharp raps.
They came from beneath the cabin, from directly under our
sleeping platform. Marcus stirred beside me, and
his eyes opened wide in the faint moonlight leaking through
cracks in the walls. Did you hear?
Marcus started, but Grandma cut him off sharply.
Don't speak, she whispered fiercely.
Don't move. Marcus and I froze, our breath
shallow, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Outside, something heavy moved
slowly around the cabin. It made no sound, no crunching
leaves, no snapping twigs, but we felt it circling A presence
unmistakable yet unseen. I wanted desperately to close my
eyes, but fear kept them wide open, staring into nothing.
We lay frozen for hours, terrified to even shift our
weight. Grandma sat upright the whole
time, her lips moving silently in prayer.
The room stayed pitch black, filled with nothing but tense
silence and the distant, terrible awareness of something
watching from just beyond the cabin walls.
Finally, just before dawn, the silence broke.
A single harsh scraping noise echoed through the cabin, one
clean line drawn heavily down the wooden door.
Then silence returned, heavier and deeper than before.
Grandma slowly released her breath and whispered one
sentence into the darkness. It's gone now, but don't speak
about it. None of us moved again until the
1st hint of dawn crept through the cracks, signaling that the
long, horrible night had finally ended.
When the first pale streaks of dawn finally pierced the cracks
in the cabin walls, Grandma stood slowly and moved toward
the door. Marcus and I exchanged cautious
glances, waiting silently. Grandma unlocked the heavy latch
and pushed the wooden door open, stepping outside with visible
caution. Immediately, I noticed her tense
posture, her shoulders rigid as she stared at something directly
in front of her. Marcus moved up behind me,
trying to look over my shoulder. Grandma said nothing, only
stepped aside so we could see clearly.
A single deep line had been gouged into the middle of the
door. Fresh, unmistakable.
It ran perfectly vertical, sharp and precise.
Grandma moved swiftly. Then, without speaking, she
walked to the truck, retrieved a small pouch of cedar and corn
pollen, and began carefully scattering it in front of the
doorway. Her lips moved silently, but we
didn't dare interrupt her. Marcus nudged me.
You see anything else? I shook my head.
The clearing around the cabin appeared empty and quiet, as
though nothing at all had happened.
But the mark on the door stood as proof that something had
visited us in the night, something with intent.
We spent the day repairing the fence line around the sheep
corral. As we worked, Marcus and I kept
looking around nervously. Grandma stayed quiet and
watchful, saying little except instructions.
Her mood had changed drastically from yesterday.
Every movement seemed cautious. Even Marcus kept his usual jokes
to himself. By midday, we reached a damaged
fence post at the far edge of the clearing, close to a deep
Gulch. The wooden post was twisted
sharply, bent nearly in half, splintered near the ground.
Grandma examined it silently, running her hand carefully along
the break. Then she froze.
Just beyond the broken fence post, etched clearly into the
soft earth, were prints, deep indentations, large and cloven
like those of a goat, but too large and arranged in a
staggering pattern. I bent down, examining them more
closely. My blood felt suddenly cold.
They didn't line up side by side like an animal would leave, but
rather stepped one after another, exactly as if something
had stood upright on 2 legs. Marcus swallowed hard, glancing
at Grandma. What made those?
Grandma only shook her head, her eyes fixed firmly on the Prince.
Something heard you last night, something we shouldn't speak
about. The mood darkened even more
after that. Grandma hurried us to finish our
work. She seemed to be racing the sun,
eager to retreat into the cabin before darkness fell again.
After we finished repairs, she began another quiet ritual,
placing ash circles around the perimeter of the cabin, her
whispered prayers more fervent than before.
Darkness arrived quickly, heavy and oppressive.
Grandma lit kerosene lanterns, hanging them carefully in each
corner. The flickering yellow glow cast
strange shapes along the walls. My skin prickled at the memory
of last night's knocking beneath the floorboards.
I dreaded what might happen next.
We lay awake again, Grandma upright near the cabin center,
vigilant and tense. Just after midnight, the wall
behind our heads jolted hard. A single heavy blow echoed
through the wood, rattling the entire structure.
Marcus sat bolt upright, eyes wide.
I felt my heart racing wildly, but Grandma held up her hand
sharply, signaling us to remain silent.
We waited, breathing shallowly, ears straining for more sounds.
None came. Once again, the cabin settled
into a silence so complete it seemed unnatural.
Hours passed in quiet tension. I felt exhausted, yet I was
afraid to even close my eyes. Around 3:00 in the morning,
Grandma suddenly stood up, her eyes locked onto the back
window. I hesitated, then carefully rose
and followed her to the rear door.
She didn't tell me to stop, but her hand gently pressed my arm,
cautioning me to stay silent. We stared into the moonlit
clearing behind the cabin, our eyes adjusting slowly.
Then I saw it. A figure stood just beyond the
outhouse, unmoving, silhouetted clearly against the darkness of
the trees. It looked human at first, but my
stomach clenched as I realized something was terribly wrong.
Its arms hung unnaturally long at its sides.
Its chest was thin and elongated, stretched strangely
upward like a shadow distorted by firelight, and below its legs
bent backwards sharply, ending in narrow cloven hooves like
those of a goat. My breath caught painfully in my
throat. Grandma's hand tightened around
my arm. Her other hand moved quickly,
scattering more ash and pollen on the threshold, her quiet
prayers fast and urgent. The figure remained utterly
motionless, staring directly toward us without any sign of
moving closer or retreating. The moon cast its twisted shadow
across the clearing, emphasizing every unnatural detail.
My heart hammered so loudly I thought surely it could hear.
Grandma's voice trembled softly in prayer, repeating ancient
words I barely recognized. The creature didn't move until
the 1st faint glow of dawn touched the trees, washing away
the shadows. And then suddenly, without any
visible movement, the clearing stood empty again.
The figure had vanished, leaving only silence behind.
Grandma exhaled slowly, her voice shaking as she spoke for
the first time in hours. It's over.
She whispered, though her tone made it clear she didn't truly
believe that. But we must leave this place
quickly. I didn't argue.
Marcus was already up, hurriedly gathering our things in silence.
We didn't speak at all, afraid even the quietest word might
draw it back. At dawn, Grandma hurried us out
of the cabin without another word.
Marcus threw our belongings into the back of the truck, moving
quickly but quietly. Grandma wouldn't let us touch
the bedding. Instead, she dragged it outside
herself, piling it beside the cabin and setting it ablaze.
The smoke rose in a dark column, carrying with it something
unspoken. We didn't say a word as we
climbed into the truck. Grandma made us face forward,
gently placing dried herbs behind our ears.
She whispered softly, almost too quiet to hear.
Don't look back, keep your eyes ahead.
Marcus sat rigid in the front seat, eyes fixed on the winding
Rd. that led us down from Buffalo Pass.
I tried not to think about what I'd seen last night, but the
image stayed vivid, the distorted shape of that figure
standing motionless at the tree line.
It's goat like legs grotesquely bent backward beneath a too thin
torso. A sick feeling twisted inside my
stomach when we finally reached our house in Sal, Grandma didn't
let us enter right away. She walked around us slowly,
burning cedar and mountain tobacco, murmuring prayers
beneath her breath. She scattered corn pollen on the
ground at our feet, eyes closed as she sang softly.
Marcus and I waited, silent, numb from exhaustion and
lingering fear. Our parents arrived home later
that afternoon, surprised by the tension they could clearly feel
in the house. Mom looked at Marcus and me,
confusion evident in her expression.
What happened out there? She asked cautiously.
Grandma didn't hesitate. Her voice was steady, but quiet
and serious. Something came to the camp.
It knows the boys names. Dad exchanged a glance with Mom.
Uneasy, he turned toward Grandma carefully.
What did you see? She paused for a long moment
before answering, and when she finally spoke, her words made me
shudder. A thing with the chest of a man
and legs like a goat. It watched from the shadows.
It's not our camp anymore. We must not return there.
That evening, Grandma called one of our relatives, a traditional
healer from Chinle. I recognized him immediately
when he arrived, an older man with long Gray streaked hair,
his face deeply lined with age and wisdom.
Marcus and I sat quietly as he prepared the room for the
Blessing Way ceremony, spreading woven blankets on the floor and
lighting sage that filled the room with dense, fragrant smoke.
The healer began singing softly in Navajo songs I'd never heard
before. The chant rose and fell gently,
calming my nerves and clearing the oppressive feeling lingering
inside me. Grandma watched silently from
the corner, nodding slowly to the rhythm.
We sat through the night, following his instructions
carefully, never questioning. I understood only fragments of
the Navajo he spoke, but I felt the strength of the prayers in
every word. As the ceremony concluded,
Grandma looked at us and spoke softly.
Don't speak about it again, leave it behind you.
Weeks later, summer was nearly over.
I was riding with some friends from school, heading through
Luka Chukai on our way towards Shiprock.
As the truck climbed up toward Buffalo Pass, one of my friends
joked about camping up in the Chuska Mountains sometime soon.
But it's spooky up there at night.
He laughed. Maybe we'll finally see a
skinwalker. The others chuckled and joined
in, teasing and throwing around casual jokes.
I sat quietly, staring out the window at the dark trees lining
the road. I felt a chill run down my
spine, tightening my throat. I spoke without turning toward
them, my voice quiet but firm. Don't joke about things like
that. The laughter died down slowly,
replaced by an awkward silence. No one pressed me for an
explanation, and I offered none. I knew what I'd seen.
I knew what we'd all felt that night in the cabin, and I knew
there were some stories better left untold.
My name is Frank. I'm 62, and I've spent nearly
all my life ranching cattle on the same dusty stretch of land
just outside Sannisti, New Mexico.
My father built the first fences, sinking wooden posts
into ground that folks around here said should never have been
disturbed. The elders whispered it was
sacred land, an old ceremonial place.
But my father, stubborn as the sandstone mesas that surround
us, shrugged it off. He said that tradition didn't
feed anyone. For decades, we worked this
ranch without trouble, pushing superstition aside as easily as
we pushed cattle through the cattle guards.
But last winter, everything changed.
Cattle started going missing. At first I blamed rustlers, then
coyotes, even mountain lions. But there was never a sign of
blood or struggle. No broken fences or tracks that
made sense. Just a space where a steer
should have stood and didn't. By summer, I'd lost 5 animals.
That was thousands of dollars disappearing like smoke into the
clear New Mexico sky. My sister convinced me to call
our nephew Elias. He'd just gotten home after
eight years in the Marines, and if anyone could keep watch, it'd
be him. When Elias arrived, he stood
tall and wary, eyes scanning everything as if we were already
under attack. Uncle, he said, gripping my
shoulder tightly. Show me.
I let him out to the South fence, where the cattle guard
marked the edge of the property. We walked slowly, scanning the
ground. The recent disappearances always
happened right around here, near the old cattle guard I'd welded
myself back in the 80's. The metal was rusted now, the
bars crossing a ditch meant to stop cattle from straying any
tracks. Elias knelt, brushing dirt away
from something I couldn't see. Nothing useful.
I said, shaking my head. Just a few odd prints.
Elias traced his fingers over deep hoof marks in the dirt.
They were strangely spaced and ended abruptly, as if the animal
had simply vanished. That afternoon, Elias helped me
rig floodlights around the cattle guard, heavy metal poles,
lights bright enough to burn away shadows nearby.
We pulled my battered camper trailer into place, close enough
to see anything moving near the fence line.
By nightfall, the ranch was bathed in harsh artificial
glare. Inside the camper, the silence
stretched on, punctuated only by Elias's occasional shifting.
Neither of us spoke much, eyes trained on the darkness outside.
The hours ticked slowly. Just after two in the morning, a
chill crept in, cold enough that Elias zipped up his jacket even
though it was mid-july by 250 AMA.
Faint rustling whispered through the brush.
You hear that? Elias murmured, instantly alert.
I nodded. We both leaned forward, muscles
tightening instinctively. It wasn't the sound cattle made.
This was too cautious. 2 measured at three O 7 exactly.
A shadow move just beyond the brightest reach of the lights.
Elias was already standing, rifle raised.
I squinted hard into the darkness, trying to make sense
of the form. It stood upright for a
heartbeat, human shaped but impossibly thin, bent in strange
ways that made my stomach tighten.
Then it dropped smoothly to all fours, moving forward in a
jerking, unnatural gait. It paused at the edge of
visibility, limbs twitching oddly.
I felt the hair stand up on my neck.
Every instinct told me this wasn't natural.
What the hell? Elias began.
The floodlights flickered suddenly, dimming just enough to
blur our vision, but not going completely dark.
Elias shouted, a raw sound I'd never heard from him, and fired
one shot. The crack echoed off sandstone
cliffs, and the figure twisted aside with a speed no human
could match, vanishing behind a nearby bluff.
Did you hit it? I breathed, heart hammering
against my ribs. I don't know.
Elias said grimly. His eyes stayed locked on the
place where it disappeared. His breathing was steady,
measured, like he'd trained himself to handle fear.
We moved cautiously from the trailer, flashlights in hand,
sweeping the scrubby ground. It was silent again, nothing
moving but us. After a few tense minutes, we
found tracks pressed clearly into soft dirt, barefoot, deep
and clawed, something no human foot could make.
We stood staring at them for a long moment, Elias's flashlight
trembling slightly. What is this, Uncle Frank?
I didn't answer, I couldn't. Instead, I looked up into the
sky, black as tar, and felt something I'd ignored for
decades whisper quietly inside me.
I realized then that the stories my grandfather told me weren't
just old man's tales, and whatever had haunted this land
before we'd claimed it wasn't finished with us yet.
The morning sun rose over the Mesa, pale and hot, casting long
shadows that stretched out across the ranch like black
fingers. Elias and I stood quietly by the
South fence, staring down at yet another empty spot where a steer
had stood just yesterday. The ground was scuffed, the
earth churned from the weight of a frightened animal, but again,
no blood, no drag marks, nothing except the deep, clawed Prince
we'd found in the night. They led off toward the bluff,
disappearing into thick brush. This doesn't make sense.
Elias said finally, frustration heavy in his voice.
He crouched low, examining the Prince again.
He shook his head, lips tight. It looks almost human, but it's
not. I glanced toward the sandstone
outcropping, stained red gold by the morning sun.
It was less than half a mile away, and from here it looked
harmless. I'd walked past that bluff 100
times without giving it much thought.
Today it felt different, heavier somehow.
I'll check it out, Elias said, standing and dusting off his
knees. Maybe I can see something from
up there. Before I could argue, he'd
already grabbed his gear. Rifle slung over his shoulder,
drone kit and a GoPro tucked under his arm, he moved toward
the bluff with the practiced ease of a soldier, weaving
carefully through the brush. I watched him go, something cold
and uneasy settling in my chest. Hours passed slowly, and the
ranch felt emptier than ever. I checked the cattle three
times, restless, glancing toward the bluff each time.
Elias still hadn't returned, and that tightness in my chest grew
worse as the sun climbed higher and then sank toward the
horizon. I finally saw him emerging from
the scrub brush. He moved fast, head down, his
expression dark. What did you see?
I asked, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat on the edge of
the trailer steps, wiping sweat from his forehead.
His face looked strained, eyes tired but sharp.
I found something strange, he said finally.
He pulled out his phone, swiping through photos he'd taken.
There's an old fire ring near the bluff.
A lot of bones. Small animals mostly, but some
larger ones too. But that's not the weirdest
part. He handed me the phone.
The images showed an odd black and stone mound, partially
buried, surrounded by dried, brittle sagebrush.
The stones were stacked carefully, deliberately, yet
somehow unnatural, as though placed in haste by nervous
hands. What is it?
I asked quietly, dread growing stronger inside me.
Elias shook his head slowly. I don't know, it didn't feel
right. Soon as I got close, my drone
started glitching. Controls froze and it crashed.
Camera went dark too. I handed him the phone, a sense
of unease crawling up my spine. You think someone built it
recently? No, Elias said firmly.
That mounds old decades at least.
But the fire pit looked fresh. Ashes weren't more than a couple
weeks old. We sat in silence as the sun
dipped lower, shadows lengthening and blending
together until the land turned purple and Gray.
Soon my sister Mary arrived, pulling her pickup truck up
close to the camper. When she got out, her face was
lined with worry. I talked to Auntie Lorraine, she
said without greeting, her voice tense.
She said you need to know the truth.
This land wasn't supposed to be ours.
It wasn't supposed to be anyone's.
Elias and I exchanged looks but stayed quiet, waiting for her to
continue. Mary took a deep breath, her
eyes haunted. Grandfather used to talk about
ceremonies done here. Old ways, Enemy Way rituals for
warriors coming back from battle.
One ceremony was interrupted long ago by a storm.
Lightning struck the Hogan and killed two men.
They never finished. They never closed it off.
Her words hung heavily between us, thick with unspoken fear.
My grandfather had mentioned Enemy Way ceremonies before,
healing rites meant to cleanse those who'd encountered death,
but I'd always thought they were just stories, forgotten history
that didn't matter now. You think that's why this is
happening? Elias asked quietly.
That whatever's taking the cattle is connected to those
rituals. Mary nodded slowly.
That's what Auntie Lorraine thinks.
She said you stirred something awake.
The idea twisted in my gut, heavy and sickening.
I'd never believed in curses or evil spirits, but after last
night, after what we'd seen, I wasn't so sure anymore.
Night fell quickly and we prepared again, this time with
more caution. Elias rigged motion sensors and
trip wires around the trailer and the cattle guard.
We double checked the floodlights, reinforcing the
setup and loading our rifles. Elias's dog, normally calm and
steady, wind softly inside the camper, refusing to leave.
Just before midnight, we settled inside, watching quietly.
The land was silent around us, the cattle restless in the
darkness beyond the lights. Time crept forward slowly, each
minute feeling like an hour. At 2:59 AM, the silence broke.
Something scraped softly against the earth, moving slowly,
circling just beyond the lights. Elias stiffened, gripping his
rifle tighter. The sound changed suddenly, a
faint rattling breath, wet and uneven.
Elias whispered softly. It's back.
I strained my eyes into the shadows, trying to find it, but
it stayed just outside our vision, moving carefully,
deliberately avoiding the beams of light.
The air grew colder, prickling along my skin, making every hair
stand rigid. Then the shape emerged, crawling
on elbows and knees, jerking and twitching with an awful,
disjointed motion. It moved just beyond the
brightest edge of the floodlights, circling us slowly,
dragging limbs through the dirt. The motion sensors flashed
urgently, lighting up silently inside the camper, yet nothing
broke the beams outside. Elias aimed carefully, waiting
for a clear shot, but the shape moved unpredictably, circling
and retreating, never giving him the chance.
My breath came faster, sharp bursts of adrenaline making me
dizzy. I gripped my rifle tightly,
fighting panic. The creature stopped suddenly,
just at the boundary of the light.
It let out a low, ragged growl, a deep, animalistic rasp that
chilled me through. It seemed to stare right at us,
crouched low, fingers digging into the earth.
For a long moment, none of us moved.
Then, abruptly, it turned away, moving silently into the
darkness toward the cattle guard.
The floodlights stayed bright. The sensors continued flashing
wildly, but the creature was gone.
When we finally ventured outside, rifles raised, hearts
still racing, we found fresh cattle tracks leading toward the
gate, but nothing had triggered the sensors.
The gates were still locked, fences intact.
We stood there, helpless and silent, staring out at the black
emptiness beyond the cattle guard.
Elias shook his head slowly, frustration etched deeply into
his features. Whatever this thing is, he said
quietly, it knows exactly what it's doing.
I didn't answer. I just stared into the night, my
grandfather's stories ringing through my mind.
We weren't supposed to be here, on land where ceremonies
remained unfinished and whatever we had disturbed clearly wasn't
ready to leave us alone. At first light, I called Hosky
Banali. He was a retired medicine man
living out in Sheep Springs, about 20 minutes down the
highway. Hosky had helped families around
Sansty for years, cleansing homes, blessing newborns and
sending troubled spirits on their way.
When I explained what was happening, how the cattle
vanished, the strange creature we'd seen, the old fire ring, he
listened quietly, occasionally humming under his breath.
I'll be there before noon, he finally said, hanging up without
further comment. When he arrived, he stepped from
his old truck, his lined face solemn as he stared across the
land. He was older than me by at least
10 years, small and wiry, eyes narrowed with age.
Without greeting, he motioned Elias and me toward the bluff.
We followed silently, nerves still raw from the night before.
At the site, Husky paused, his gaze falling on the blackened
stones and scattered bones. Slowly he knelt, touching the
earth gently, almost as if reading it.
This place has been silent too long, he said, standing again
and brushing dirt from his hands.
What you found here, it opened something that was never closed.
The Old Ones performed ceremonies here to cleanse
warriors who saw death. But the last ritual was
interrupted. Lightning struck, killed two
men. That left an open gate, one
nobody remembers now. Something has found its way
through. Can you stop it?
Elias asked, his voice tense and hopeful.
Hosky stared out across the scrubland, deep in thought,
before finally nodding. We must finish what was started
tonight before it returns. We spent the afternoon
preparing. Husky guided us to play.
Cedar branches, crushed turquoise, ash and Obsidian.
At each corner of the property. He set up a small sand painting
in front of the camper, each detail carefully placed.
As twilight fell, he lit sage bundles, filling the air with
thick smoke. The scent was strong, earthy,
like something remembered from childhood.
When night came again, the three of us stood together near the
cattle guard. Husky began chanting softly in
Navajo, his voice low and steady.
Elias and I kept watch, rifles ready, eyes straining into the
shadows beyond the glow of the lights.
Hours crawled by slowly, tense and silent.
Elias shifted his weight from foot to foot, uneasy.
The cattle stirred nervously out in the darkness, sensing
something we couldn't yet see. Just after three AMA sharp crash
came from the north fence. The sound was violent, metal
rattling hard. Elias snapped around, raising
his rifle. Before I could react, the
floodlights burst, shards of glass scattering across the
ground. Darkness surged around us,
broken only by the faint glow of stars and Huskies burning sage
bundles. Yet the perimeter we'd marked
held strong. Whatever was out there stayed
beyond the cedar branches and ash we'd placed.
Slowly, a form emerged from the shadows, barely visible beneath
the dim Starlight. It moved awkwardly now, dragging
itself forward, staying just outside the boundary Husky had
made. Elias inhaled sharply as we both
saw it clearly for the first time.
It was painfully thin, tall and stretched, limbs bent at
unnatural angles. Its skin, visible even in faint
Starlight, was a sickly Gray, modeled with patches of
darkness. The head was elongated, skull
like, with empty hollows where eyes should have been.
It reached toward us, scratching at something unseen in the air.
I raised my rifle, but couldn't bring myself to pull the
trigger. Beside me, Elias hesitated to
frozen by the grotesque figure. Do not fire, Husky whispered
firmly. His chanting grew louder, words
urgent and powerful. He threw more herbs onto the
smoldering fire, sending smoke billowing into the darkness.
The creature shuddered visibly. It let out a thin, ragged
shriek, a sound filled with pain, anger, and confusion.
Elias and I exchanged A tense glance.
Slowly, agonizingly, the figure retreated, crawling backward
into the brush, its movements jerking as if being forced away
by an unseen hand. For several long minutes
afterward, none of us moved. We waited, breath shallow,
listening to the night. Eventually, the silence
returned, deeper and calmer now, like a weight finally lifted.
Husky stopped chanting, lowering his hands gently.
It's done. He said quietly, exhaustion
evident in his voice. The gateway is closed again.
It can't return, not here, not now.
Relief flooded through me, overwhelming and heavy.
Elias let out a breath he'd been holding, lowering his rifle
slowly. At sunrise, the ranch felt
different, lighter, warmer. Hosky finished his ritual
carefully dismantling the sand painting, burying the herbs and
ashes in sacred patterns around the property.
But even as we stood there, watching the sun climb higher
into a clear sky, Hosky looked at me with sombre eyes.
You should not stay, He warned gently.
This land remembers what was done.
It might never truly rest. I nodded slowly, understanding
what he meant. Over the next two years, I kept
the ranch, but I never slept there again.
When I sold it to an oil exploration company, it felt
like a relief, as if I'd finally stepped away from something
heavy that had been pressing against me for decades.
Elias moved down to Window Rock, and we didn't speak often.
When we did, we never mentioned what we'd seen at the cattle
guard, not until months later when I heard he'd shared the
story once in a dark corner of a bar.
It didn't bother me. I knew he'd only told it to free
himself, hoping to bury those memories somewhere far away,
just as I'd tried to do. In the end, the ranch sat empty
and quiet again, reclaimed slowly by wind and sun.
And though I never returned, sometimes late at night, I still
found myself waking suddenly, imagining something thin and
hungry scratching at a barrier, desperate to return to a place
it once claimed. I'd driven through Navajo
country dozens of times, working the oil fields near Farmington,
but I'd never lingered long enough to absorb much beyond the
scenery. My younger brother Raymond, had
never even been this far north. We'd planned a road trip from
Santa Fe, pushing northwest through Arizona's Four Corners
and into Monument Valley, hoping to snap pictures of Shiprock
Peak at sunrise. Raymond, who fancied himself a
photographer, insisted that golden hour at Shiprock was
worth skipping a motel stay for. I'd reluctantly agreed, thinking
the drive would be smooth enough.
Around midnight, we turned off the main highway, heading north
on Navajo Route 33 through Cove Chapter, aiming for a shortcut
Raymond had found through Red Valley.
I felt good about the route. I'd vaguely remember driving
parts of it before, but the optimism faded quickly.
About an hour past Cove, just as we passed Sawmill Trail, I
noticed the temperature gauge needle jumped suddenly into the
red. Julian, something's wrong,
Raymond said, leaning forward anxiously, his voice tight.
I see it, I muttered, pulling the truck onto the shoulder.
There was a sandstone bluff overlooking a wide valley, lit
dimly by a thin Crescent moon. I killed the engine immediately,
letting the truck roll to a stop, stepping out into the
biting winter air. We popped the hood, letting
steam spill upward into the darkness.
I shone my flashlight down and saw what I'd feared.
The radiator was almost empty. My stomach sank.
We had water in the back, but pouring it into a hot engine,
wrist cracking the radiator, leaving us stranded for good.
We had no choice but to wait until morning and let things
cool off naturally. Raymond rubbed his gloved hands
together and shook his head, breath forming vapor clouds.
Perfect timing. At least we have blankets and
snacks. I said, trying to sound
reassuring. Raymond was clearly
uncomfortable, glancing nervously toward the dark Ridge
lines. There was no cell service, of
course, not way out here. We settled back into the truck
cab, trying to find comfortable positions, preparing ourselves
mentally to endure a cold, restless night.
Raymond drifted off after about half an hour.
I tried to follow suit, but found myself restless, staring
through the windshield into the darkness.
It was around 2:00 in the morning when I first heard the
sound, a deep, low howl carrying far across the valley.
I knew coyotes well enough. This wasn't a coyote.
This was longer, lower, almost human, but raw and animalistic
at the same time. The hairs on my neck prickled,
and I nudged Raymond awake. You hear that?
He sat up slowly, eyes unfocused.
Hear what? As if answering, the howl came
again, closer this time, and from the opposite Ridge.
Raymond stiffened instantly, staring into the darkness.
What is that? He whispered.
No idea. I said, trying to mask my
unease. Maybe an elk or something.
Raymond shook his head, his eyes locked forward.
I've never heard an elk sound like that.
We stepped out of the truck again, straining our eyes in the
dim moonlight. The valley stretched ahead of
us, dark and silent now. The howls faded into echoes just
as we turned to get back into the truck.
Raymond grabbed my arm, pointing wordlessly at the sandstone
Ridge across the road. I followed his gaze.
My blood ran cold. Standing on the top of the
outcrop was a tall figure, backlit by moonlight, a dark
silhouette, hunched and elongated.
It looked oddly twisted, limbs longer than seemed possible, its
stance almost predatory. The thing was silent, completely
still. We watched, frozen ourselves,
unwilling or unable to move. Then it tilted its head back and
let out a howl identical to the ones we just heard.
The sound was deafeningly loud, unmistakably animal, yet
disturbingly human. Raymond took a step backward,
breathing hard. Julian.
I slowly reached into the truck, opening the center console and
gripping the revolver I'd stashed there.
My fingers shook as I loaded rounds into the chamber, never
taking my eyes off the figure. We both stood perfectly still,
as if locked in some silent standoff.
My heart hammered in my chest. Every muscle tensed.
Then, without warning, the thing began to descend from the Ridge.
It moved strangely, its limbs jerking as if unsure how to
carry its own weight. Something in its movements
seemed almost bird like, awkward yet terrifyingly precise.
Get back in the truck, I whispered sharply.
Raymond obeyed, scrambling inside, but I held my ground,
raising the revolver skyward. The creature paused about 50
yards away, and under the faint glow of moonlight I saw its head
clearly elongated, snout like eyes reflecting in the dark, its
mouth slightly open, revealing sharp teeth.
Then it dropped to all fours. I expected it to run at us, but
instead, impossibly, it crawled swiftly backward up the slope,
its grotesque form vanishing behind a large boulder.
I stumbled backward, nearly falling as I climbed into the
truck. We sat wordlessly in shock,
doors locked, breathing raggedly as we stared out into the silent
darkness. I kept the revolver clenched in
my sweaty palm, knowing sleep wouldn't come again until dawn.
For the next hour, neither of us said a word.
We sat in stunned silence, breath fogging the windows, eyes
locked on the sandstone bluff. The truck cab felt cramped,
suffocating. My palm was sweaty around the
revolver grip, finger resting nervously along the trigger
guard. Raymond shivered next to me,
fists clenched tightly in his lap.
I tried convincing myself we'd imagined it, that fear and
exhaustion had warped reality. But every time I closed my eyes,
the image was clear, its long limbs bending at unnatural
angles, its head tilted back, howling.
The sound still echoed clearly in my memory, impossible to
dismiss. Julian, what the hell was that
thing? Raymond finally broke the
silence, his voice barely audible above the throne of
adrenaline in my ears. I don't know.
I whispered back, eyes still fixed ahead.
Let's just stay quiet. He nodded, leaning forward, eyes
scanning the darkness outside. The moon offered barely enough
light to outline shapes beyond the truck.
Shadows stretched long and distorted across the sand,
shifting with every passing cloud.
Minutes dragged on endlessly. My eyes burned from staring
unblinkingly. Then Raymond stiffened suddenly,
his back pressed hard against the seat.
It's back, he breathed. I leaned forward, squinting into
the gloom. At first, nothing seemed
different, just the same desolate landscape of rock and
brush. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw
movement near the base of the Ridge.
It stood up right now, frozen in place, staring directly toward
us. My heart slammed violently in my
chest. Without warning, the creature
began descending again, this time rapidly.
It moves strangely, knees turning inward, stepping forward
in jerky, halting motions. Its limbs swung awkwardly, too
long for its body. Each stride felt unnatural,
disconnected, like it was trying to imitate something human but
failing horribly. It's coming this way.
Raymond's voice trembled, panic seeping through.
I gripped the revolver tighter, swallowing hard.
Stay calm. But calm felt impossible.
The figure dropped onto all fours, head still locked
forward, and began crawling fast, disturbingly fluid, but
backwards. The speed was shocking, like
watching a film play in reverse. Raymond's breath hitched
sharply. I fumble for the flashlight in
the center console, desperate to see clearly.
Snapping it on, I aimed the bright beam straight toward the
approaching form. It froze instantly, bathed in
the harsh white glare. My stomach twisted violently.
The creature slowly stood again, rising to its full height.
It was taller than I'd guessed, nearly 7 feet.
Its long limbs hung loosely from its gaunt frame, covered
unevenly with patches of dark fur in places.
Bare skin stretched tight, pallid under the beam of light.
But worst of all was its head, elongated canine like eyes
reflecting back a sickly yellow glow.
Its jaw was partially open, revealing rows of sharp,
irregular teeth. Shoot it, Raymond shouted
frantically. I raise the revolver skyward and
squeeze the trigger, the sharp crack of the gunshot
reverberating across the valley. The creature recoiled sharply at
the sound, its head jerking backward.
Then, without hesitation, it dropped once more to all fours.
With a speed I'd never imagined possible, it bolted sideways,
disappearing instantly behind a cluster of rocks.
My hands shook uncontrollably. I glanced at Raymond, whose eyes
were wide, pupils dilated with terror.
Neither of us moved or spoke. We barely breathed.
The revolver felt inadequate now, small and useless against
whatever was out there. For another long stretch of
silence we waited, too frightened to even shift
position. Then, from behind us, a faint
scratching noise started, metallic scraping gently along
the truck bed. Julian Raymond hissed softly.
I hear it, I answered through clenched teeth, glancing into
the rear view mirror. Nothing showed in the limited
view, but the sound continued, a careful, deliberate scraping
along the metal. My nerves felt raw.
Slowly, cautiously, I cracked open the driver's door,
flashlight in one hand, revolver in the other, my pulse hammered
painfully in my ears. Stepping out, I shine the beam
toward the back of the truck, heart lodged in my throat.
The bed was empty. No marks, no footprints, no
animal or shape retreating into the darkness.
Only sand and rock. Quiet and still, I climb back
inside, locking the doors firmly.
Neither of us relaxed. Raymond stared forward blankly,
arms folded tightly across his chest, breathing shallow.
By 4:30, the world beyond the windshield felt lifeless.
Then I caught movement again on the Ridge ahead.
This time it wasn't just one figure.
It was several shadows crouched low, perched silently along the
sandstone rim. They didn't advance, didn't
howl. They just waited, unmoving eyes
reflecting dully in the thin moonlight.
Raymond let out a long, shaky breath.
They're watching us. He whispered numbly.
I know. I murmured back, dreads settling
heavy inside me. We just have to make it to
sunrise. Neither of us spoke again.
All we could do was stare back, waiting desperately for the
first hint of dawn. When the first faint glow of
sunrise began to seep over the horizon, it felt as if the
weight pressing on my chest finally loosened.
Raymond was still rigid beside me, gripping his knees as if
bracing for another nightmare to emerge.
Neither of us had managed even a moment of sleep after seeing
those things, watching silently from the ridgeline in the pale
dawn. Everything around us slowly
transformed. The jagged cliffs softened into
shades of red and gold, the dark brush brightening, the
landscape, becoming more familiar, less threatening.
I forced myself out of the truck, legs stiff and shaky.
My breath fogged in the morning chill as I moved cautiously
toward the hood, revolver still firmly in hand.
Raymond followed, nervously scanning the hills as I lifted
the hood and peered inside. The radiator had cooled down
enough now. With careful, slow movements, I
began pouring the water into the reservoir.
It trickled and gurgled quietly, steam rising slightly but no
longer violently hissing like before.
I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Think it'll hold? Raymond asked, voice low and
cautious, eyes never leaving the surrounding landscape.
It better. I muttered.
We're not staying here any longer.
Just as I twisted the radiator cap shut, the quiet hum of tires
approached from the distance, startling both of us.
We turned quickly, shielding our eyes against the glare of
morning sun, and watched as a white Dine utility truck slowed
and pulled up on the roadside. Behind us, an older Navajo man
climbed out, dressed in worn coveralls with a weathered face
that showed years of working outdoors.
His expression was unreadable as he moved toward us.
Trouble with your vehicle? He asked plainly, glancing
briefly at the revolver I was still gripping.
Embarrassed, I tucked it into my waistband.
Overheated. I answered cautiously, eyeing
him carefully. I think it'll be OK now.
The man nodded thoughtfully, his eyes calmly scanning the valley
beyond us. Without further comment, he
walked back to his truck, pulled a large plastic jug from behind
the seat, and returned to hand it to me.
Here, drink some water. We drank gratefully, the water
cold and sharp, helping to clear the fog of exhaustion and fear.
The man watched patiently as we finished, never once questioning
why two young men looked so pale and shaken in the early morning
chill. Finally, he gestured vaguely
toward the Canyon walls and the sandstone ridges that stretched
across the horizon. He spoke softly but clearly.
You boys should head out now, he advised gently.
Things move between those canyons when the moon is thin.
Best not to linger. His tone carried certainty, not
superstition. He'd lived here, knew these
lands and their secrets better than we ever could.
Raymond and I exchanged a glance, both knowing it was time
to leave. No explanations, no questions.
The man's warning had been clear enough.
We climbed back into our truck. As I turned the key, the engine
rumbled smoothly to life, bringing instant relief.
Without looking back, I guided us carefully onto the road
headed toward US Route 191. Neither of us spoke as we drove
S shadows gradually shrinking under the climbing sun.
At the junction leading towards Shiprock, Raymond pointed
hesitantly ahead. Should we still try for the
photos? He asked, voice weak, almost
uncertain. No, I said firmly.
We're going West through Montezuma Creek.
We're leaving Arizona behind. He nodded quietly, visibly
relieved, leaning back against his seat, closing his eyes
briefly for the first time since the night began.
The miles passed quickly as we put distance between ourselves
and Cove. By the time we crossed into
Utah, the sun was bright overhead, the landscape empty
and open. Even in the broad daylight, the
memories from the darkness clung stubbornly, refusing to fade.
A few days later, back home in Santa Fe, I found myself sitting
on the front porch, staring numbly into space, the phone
loosely in my hand. All the planned sightseeing
photographs and stories we'd meant to gather had vanished,
replaced by the uneasy weight of something we couldn't explain,
something that still lingered at the edge of our consciousness.
My phone buzzed sharply, startling me.
It was Raymond. A simple, short text appeared on
my screen. Did you tell anyone?
I hesitated only briefly, then typed back a quick response.
No, let's never go back there. I tossed the phone onto the
table beside me, leaning back in my chair.
Above, the sun was warm, the air calm and clear.
Yet somewhere deep inside, the howl still echoed, distant but
unmistakable, rising slowly like a forgotten memory that refused
to fade away.