That evening, we all gathered around the campfire, passing
around snacks and trading random jokes when my friend settled in
across from me. Normally, he was one of the
livelier folks, always laughing, always ready with a comeback.
But that night, his face looked drawn and he kept tapping his
foot on the dirt, like he was working up the nerve to say
something. I waited, because whatever had
him on edge was no silly ghost story.
He started by explaining a bit about his LDS mission, how it
covered a broad area, including a reservation that he didn't
visit often. Truth be told, none of us were
expecting more than a mild anecdote.
Then he let slip that this reservation region had an eerie
reputation among the locals. We all went quiet, even the ones
who'd been whispering or fiddling with their phones.
Something about his tone felt heavier than any cheap campfire
tale. He cleared his throat and told
us about a day he and his companion had to travel far out
of their normal route. They met some new investigators
who wanted to learn about the faith, and that part went
smoothly. The real trouble started after,
when they discovered they were nearly out of gas.
Nobody was around to help, so they sat there in a stretch of
nothingness until someone finally came by with a spare can
of fuel. By the time they were on the
road again, the sky was dark and the roads were almost deserted.
He paused to stare into the flames, recalling every detail.
It was late, and his companion had fallen asleep in the
passenger seat. My friend had one goal, get them
both home as fast as possible. He even admitted to pushing the
speed limit. He figured the biggest worry was
wildlife or a stray deer darting across his path, but that
changed fast. He said that while driving along
these unfamiliar back roads, he kept spotting movement in the
edges of the headlights. At first, he brushed it off.
Probably coyotes, maybe a raccoon.
Then something shifted right next to his window, much closer
than he expected. He glanced down, thinking he
would see an animal scurrying by.
Instead, he slammed on the brakes, practically launching
his companion forward against the dashboard.
His companion jolted awake with a startled shout, demanding an
explanation. All my friend could manage was
pray right now. He wouldn't, or maybe couldn't
say why just yet. Instead, he forced the car
forward again, driving the rest of the way in tight lipped
silence. His companion kept pestering
him, but my friend stayed locked on the road, acting like if he
spoke something worse might happen.
He made it back to their apartment complex with nerves
and shreds. Once they were parked, his
companion cornered him. That's when everything poured
out. He had glanced down to see
several figures, human in shape but sprinting on all fours,
running right beside the car, somehow matching his speed at 40
miles an hour. He insisted he wasn't joking.
They weren't animals or some optical illusion, though part of
him wished that's all it had been.
We were all dead silent around the fire.
The only sound was the pop and crackle of burning wood.
That image, 6 or so people galloping alongside a moving
vehicle, was too bizarre to dismiss.
I almost expected someone to laugh and call it a prank, but
no one did. The look on his face told us he
was dead serious. He went on to say that this was
only the start. Even after that night, he
couldn't shake the memory. It hovered in his mind every
time he drove those roads again. And apparently future visits to
the reservation area would bring more encounters.
But he saved those parts for later.
At that point, he was wrapping up what he called the late night
detour. I don't think anyone blinked
until he stopped talking. Eventually somebody tossed more
wood on the fire, but the mood around it had changed.
We all felt it, an uneasy sense that maybe there are things out
there best left unexplained. The night grew quieter and we
sat there a long time, wishing we could forget the image of
those shapes pounding the pavement on all fours, keeping
perfect pace. I got transferred to a small
town near the reservation, and the thought of going back to
that area put me on edge. But an assignment was an
assignment. My new companion and I drove out
to this old trailer where we'd be bunking for a few nights.
The place sat on a lonely stretch of land with a single
flickering street light that barely cut through the dark.
I kept telling myself it'd be fine, just a couple nights, then
we'd move. On.
Still, my nerves were shot. Our first evening, we turned in
early. The wind whistled against the
trailer walls, and the place rattled like it hadn't seen a
repairman in years. I tried to close my eyes and let
the hum of the old heater lull me to sleep, but at around 2:00
in the morning, a knock erupted from the front door.
Not a polite knock, either. More like a steady, insistent
thumping. My companion and I both bolted
upright. We figured maybe a local needed
help, so I flicked on the porch light and opened the door just a
crack. Nobody, absolutely no one, was
there. I stepped out, scanning the
immediate area, but the single street light couldn't push back
all the darkness. My companion stood behind me,
looking spooked, and we decided whoever it was must have run
off. We went back inside, locked up,
and tried to settle down again. Minutes later the knocks
returned, this time from the far side of the trailer.
Something about it felt wrong, rhythmic, almost like it was
playing a game with us. I crept around to the living
area window. I peered out, half expecting a
coyote or stray dog, but the shapes I glimpsed moving beyond
the trailer were taller, standing upright at times, then
dropping to all fours. My heart hammered as I thought
of the night I'd seen those figures keeping pace with my
car. It was like they'd found me
again. The rest of the night was
miserable. We barricaded the door and kept
every light on. In the morning, the sun revealed
footprints in the dirt circling the trailer, some clearly human,
others spaced oddly, like a person had been crawling on
hands and feet. Neither of us knew what to make
of it, but we decided not to linger any longer than
necessary. A few days later, we had to
drive a local church member home.
She lived near another patch of forest on the outskirts of the
reservation. My companion and I exchanged
worried looks when we realized how remote it was.
But we had a job to do, so we piled in the car and took off.
The woman sat in the back seat, chatting cheerily to pass the
time, and I tried to focus on the conversation instead of
staring into the woods. Even so, I caught shapes
flitting between the trees and my peripheral vision.
At one point, the woman fell silent.
She leaned forward, touched my shoulder, and told me to slow
down. Her voice was hushed, like she
didn't want whatever was out there to hear.
Confused, I eased off the gas. Then she pointed through the
window, and I spotted something dark and human shaped, crouched
between two thick tree trunks, watching us.
Its limbs seemed elongated or bent at awkward angles.
We pulled over, uncertain whether to drive away or see if
someone needed help. The woman started whispering
about local legends, stories of entities roaming these woods,
blending between worlds. My companion looked at me, jaw
tight, clearly recalling the knocks from the other night.
Before any of us could decide what to do, that shape melted
back into the darkness. The woman clutched the seat and
said, please, just go. She sounded terrified, like
she'd seen this before and knew it was dangerous.
We dropped her off a little while later and she thanked us
but refused to elaborate further.
When we got out to stretch our legs, I noticed fresh dirt
smeared across the back door and trunk shapes, almost like
handprints with fingers too long to be normal.
My mind raced back to the figures outside the trailer.
Were they stalking us now? My final few nights in that
region, I visited a family who insisted I stay over because of
an incoming storm. Their house was a bit sturdier
than the trailer, so I thought maybe I'd feel safer.
My companion and I each took a spare cot in a small guest room.
The storm rolled in with gusty winds and flashes of lightning
that gave me a headache every time they lit up the window.
close to midnight, a shrill whistle broke the quiet.
It started low and rose in pitch, stopping abruptly, only
to start again a few seconds later, like someone out there
was calling out in a strange repeating pattern.
I sat up and my companion mumbled.
Should we check that? Every instinct told me no, but
something about the whistle seemed urgent.
Maybe someone was in trouble. The two of us headed to the back
door. The moment I opened it, the
whistling ceased. In that split second of silence,
I heard movement near the half broken fence.
Bolts of lightning flared across the sky, revealing a silhouette
crouched in the mud. It moved slowly along the fence
line, then darted away. When the next lightning strike
came, my companion and I just stood there, too rattled to
speak. We hurried back inside, locked
everything, and spent the rest of the storm listening for more
whistles. None came.
By daylight, we found the fence torn at one corner, wood
splintered and claw marks raking across it like something had
tried to climb over or tear it down.
Our hosts were shaken, saying they'd never seen anything like
that. They asked if it had anything to
do with the reservation stories they'd heard growing up, but we
couldn't give a real answer. All we had were scattered
glimpses of figures, like some group or presence that appeared
whenever we got too close to the reservation at night.
Or maybe they were following us, drawn by something we'd done or
seen. I left that small town feeling
more uneasy than ever, like the land itself held secrets we
weren't equipped to understand. And every so often, I still
wonder whether those knocks, that shadow, and that eerie
whistle were connected to the shapes I first saw running
beside my car, practically defying all logic.
If so, then we'd only seen the tip of whatever lurked in that
dark stretch of forest. The final stretch of my mission
came quicker than I expected, and part of me was relieved.
The higher ups asked me to revisit one last family living
near the reservation boundary, someone who needed a final
lesson and blessing. The thought of returning so
close to that place rattled my nerves, but I kept telling
myself it was only for a few hours, then I'd be clear of it.
I packed up the car, tossed in my notes and some water, and
tried to ignore the knot in my stomach.
When we arrived, dusk was already claiming the sky.
The family was friendly, though they looked a bit uneasy about
my presence. They told me of nearby farmers
finding livestock missing or mauled, and how strange noises
had kept them awake for days on end.
Their stories mirrored everything that had happened to
me. Footsteps in the dark, shapes
racing through the fields, and something out there that felt
almost sentient. Regardless, I stayed focused on
my purpose. I prayed with them, offered what
comfort I could, and prepared to head out before the worst of the
night set in. My new companion insisted we
drive straight through. No stops, no detours.
We stuck to the plan. But somewhere between the
family's house and the main highway, we plunged into a long,
narrow Rd. that wound through a forested hollow.
The headlights created jumping shadows that didn't look quite
natural. My hands were shaking on the
wheel, so I forced myself to breathe steady.
As we rounded a bend. The radio cut out, replaced by
static. That's when the shapes appeared.
There were at least three silhouettes loping along the
side of the road, more fluid than any normal stride.
Even at a solid clip, they seemed to keep up easily.
My companion whispered a prayer, voice trembling.
I gave the engine more gas, hoping distance might scare them
off, but they only drew closer. One of them, hunched low,
launched itself into the path of the headlights like it wanted to
force us to stop. Its eyes shone unnaturally
bright. For a split second, I locked
eyes with it, a moment so overwhelming that I nearly
slammed on the brakes. Somehow, I felt a surge of
determination. Maybe it was months of dealing
with these encounters, or maybe it was the faith I'd been
pouring into every. Prayer.
Instead of stopping, I hit the gas.
The figure jerked back, almost as though it couldn't withstand
that direct challenge. We roared past and gained speed
on the open Rd. behind us, the shapes scattered into the tree
line, slipping out of the headlights reach.
My heart thundered, but relief washed through me.
We'd made it past without letting them trap us.
When we merged onto the main highway, the tension broke.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see
those figures sprinting along the shoulder, but there was only
empty asphalt. My companion looked pale, eyes
darting from side to side, though his shoulders slowly
relaxed. After we finally made it back to
our apartment, we sat in silence for a while, replaying every
instant of that drive. Neither of us knew exactly what
we'd encountered, but we'd stood our ground and come out on the
other side. In the following weeks, I
finished my mission and returned home.
A sense of relief settled over me, though I still caught myself
scanning dark roads whenever I drove at night.
Eventually, I shared the entire story around a campfire with
some close friends. Telling it felt like a final
exhale, like I was unloading a weight I'd carried far too long.
Whether those shapes were people, legends, or something
unexplainable, I no longer felt haunted by the question of why
they'd shown up or what they wanted.
My only hope was that by Speaking of it, I could warn
others not to take the back roads so lightly.
If you ever find yourself out there under a waning moon,
remember to stay alert. Sometimes all it takes is faith
or sheer will to keep going and to remind whatever lurks in the
darkness that you're no easy prey.
I've heard this story from my roommate more times than I'd
like to admit, but every time he shares it, my nerves go on high
alert. It all started in a Phoenix
suburb where he used to do his late night drives usually.
Around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, he loves the silence of
those roads, the kind of emptiness that feels strangely
peaceful. At least it used to.
The first encounter sounded almost too bizarre to be real.
He was driving along a dimly lit St. empty field, stretching out
on the left like a sea of dark silhouettes.
Suddenly, a figure on all fours came bolting out of that field.
It wasn't a coyote or a stray dog, my roommate swears.
It had a simian shape, with long limbs that moved way too fast to
be normal. Its entire body was this deep
black, the kind that almost blends into the shadows, but its
face stark white, like fresh snow.
He said it had human features. Without any expression, the
thing sprinted across the road, paused with abrupt precision,
and twisted its head to stare straight at him.
And just like that, it disappeared into the darkness.
He kept driving, not sure if his brain was playing tricks, but he
kept replaying that horrifying image of the white mask like
face burned into his memory. A few weeks later, he was on the
same stretch of asphalt, this time with a friend in the
passenger seat. They were probably talking about
random stuff to stay awake, when they noticed something crouched
in a tree up ahead. At first it looked like a lump
or a bunch of leaves, until it moved.
The second they got close. The figure clambered down the
tree with inhuman speed. The friend started yelling,
convinced they had just seen something completely unnatural.
It bounded across the road, spun around, and locked eyes on them
again with that cold white face. My roommate turned the car
around in a frenzy, determined to find it or at least prove it
was real. But the roads and fields were
silent. No movement, no clue.
The friend refused to drive back that way for weeks.
That was supposed to be the end of it. 2 freaking counters in
the middle of nowhere. But things only got worse.
One night my roommate was coming back from a late shift and
decided to avoid that same Rd., going a longer route instead.
Midway through, as he was passing by a fenced off
construction site, he spotted movement in his rear view
mirror. Something was in the distance,
bounding at an unnatural speed, half hunched over like it was
ready to leap. He slammed the brakes, hoping he
was just tired and seeing shadows.
The figure came closer, its shape illuminated by a
flickering street light, and it had that same black fur and pale
face. He didn't stick around to see
more. He floored the gas and took off.
When he finally glanced back, the road was empty again.
A few days after that, I got a call from him at around 4:00 in
the morning. He was practically yelling into
the phone, telling me to get outside immediately with a
flashlight. I stepped onto our front yard,
bracing for whatever had him so worked up.
A minute later, his car screeched up to the curb.
He jumped out and said he'd spotted the creature skulking
around a block away from our house.
We started patrolling the neighborhood, adrenaline driving
us to do something that, in hindsight, might have been a bad
idea. After half an hour, we rounded a
corner near a small playground. The area was lit by just one St.
lamp, and we both swear we saw a dark shape perched on top of the
swing set, craning its head as if it was surveying the quiet
streets. Then, like it sensed our
presence, it crouched low and dropped to the ground in a
swift, fluid motion. That same ghastly white face
appeared for just a heartbeat before it vanished behind a
neighboring fence. We ran over, hearts pounding,
but found nothing but the faint rustle of the desert breeze.
The 5th time it appeared, at least the fifth time he can say
for certain it was near that same open field where the story
began. My roommate thought it might be
wise to confront his fear head on, so he parked on the shoulder
of that lonely Rd. engine idling, headlights pointed
toward the tall grass. He walked out with a powerful
flashlight, scanning the dark for any sign of movement.
Maybe he hoped the creature wouldn't show, and that he'd be
able to tell himself it had all been in his head.
But as he swept the light across the field, something moved.
A shape rose up slowly, hunched but distinctly powerful.
In the wash of his flashlight beam, he caught that same
contrast. Black body, white human like
face, and then it sprinted straight for the fence line that
bordered the field, leaping over the chain link like it was no
obstacle at all. My roommate froze, half thinking
he might chase it, but reason kicked in and he got back in his
car and tore out of there. Every time he recounts these
episodes, he swears he's wide awake and sober.
He talks about the way the creature seems to appear and
vanish at will, leaving no trace except the sense of dread that
lingers for hours. Every now and then he wonders if
it's some messed up prank or elaborate costume, but nothing
explains the way it moves. Like gravity barely applies and
that face, so deathly white and human looking, stays burned into
his memory. We've considered setting up
night vision cameras or getting more people to stake out the
area, but honestly, we're not sure we even want to find out
what's lurking out there. My roommate isn't someone prone
to flights of fancy, which makes the stories even more chilling.
His friend, the one who freaked out in the passenger seat, won't
even talk about it anymore. And I'm left wondering if it's
only a matter of time before more folks around Phoenix start
seeing that same eerie figure crossing roads at impossible
speeds, pausing just long enough to make that unnerving eye
contact. Because if there's one thing
I've learned from hearing his tales, it's that what we don't
understand out here in the dark might be a lot closer than we
want to believe. I was about 8 or 9 when my
family made the annual trip to our Kickapoo homeland in a
remote part of Mexico. This was something we did every
year, a time when relatives from Oklahoma, Texas and Kansas all
converged on my grandmother Tana's land for important
traditions. Tana's property sprawled at the
base of a forbidding mountain range that everyone treated with
serious caution. People said those mountains
could twist your mind if you ventured too far up without the
right protections. Anyway, Tana kept two small
houses on her land. The old house was sealed tight,
metal bars over windows that didn't open, steel doors, all to
keep out the wandering animals or thieves who might prowl when
nobody was around. The new house had the same bars,
but you could swing the windows open, which was a luxury in the
scorching heat. My mother Nita and father Atohi
set my two sisters, AMA and Winona and me up in the old
house, while my aunt Winona and uncle Sani took their kids Hosa
and Lona to the new house. Another set of cousins, Chito
and Saya, were also around somewhere on the property,
helping with daily tasks or helping Tana prepare for
ceremonies. We were used to the darkness out
there, but every time we arrived it still felt like entering
another world. No St. lights for miles, just
inky blackness. When the sun went down, the only
real light might come from our trucks, headlights or maybe a
small campfire if we were lucky. Without that, you couldn't see
more than a few inches in front of your face.
On this particular night, the air was muggy and still in the
old house. The windows were shut tight, so
we just tried to fall asleep in that stale heat.
After a long day of chores and travelling, we drifted off
easily enough. Then, in the middle of the
night, we were jolted awake by someone screaming.
It turned out to be Hosa, who was two years younger than me.
He was in the new house, and his voice tore through the silence
like an alarm. Groggy and annoyed, I scrambled
to a window only to see my father, normally calm and
imposing, rush in and tell us kids to stay put.
I remember crossing the dark room, stepping over scattered
belongings as I hurried to the barred window.
Outside, the moon gave off just enough glow to reveal
silhouettes hurrying around with flashlights.
My Aunt Winona looked frantic, pointing toward the fence line,
while my Uncle Sonny and a few older cousins combed the
property, scanning the ground for signs of an intruder.
They seemed genuinely worried, which made my chest tighten.
Why would they be so alarmed if this was just some bad dream?
The adults were up until Daybreak, but eventually my
sisters and I crashed again, too exhausted to stay vigilant.
When the sun rose, I cornered Hosa's older brother, Lona.
To see what was going on, he said Hosa had dozed off near an
open window in the new house. At some point, something brushed
his face. He woke to see an old, pale
woman pressing her head between the bars, her long Gray hair
nearly touching his cheek. She was staring down at him,
smiling. Hosa panicked and screamed his
head off, sending everyone into a frenzy.
I admit I was skeptical out there.
Your mind can play tricks on you in the pitch black darkness.
But Lona insisted that Hosa was certain he'd seen a real person.
Feeling unsettled, I tracked down another older cousin,
Chitto, who had scoured the grounds with a flashlight.
He told me they'd found footprints by every window on
Tana's property, prints that led toward the mountains.
Whoever this stranger was, she had circled.
Both houses in total darkness, bare feet in the rocky dirt.
Just the idea that someone could be roaming out there under that
sky, not even stumbling in the dark, made my stomach twist.
And that was only the beginning. Later that week, a few of us
kids were supposed to gather kindling for a late night fire.
My sister, Amma and I walked along a narrow trail beside the
new house, picking up dried branches.
We heard a rustle, like someone trudging through brush just
beyond the fence. Amma froze, eyes wide, but I
told her it was probably just a stray animal.
We didn't see anything, but the air felt charged with tension.
We headed back sooner than planned, arms loaded with
sticks. That same night, my aunt Winona
swore she caught a glimpse of a figure standing at the fence.
She thought it might have been a neighbor dropping by
unannounced, but no one answered.
When she called out, she took a few steps closer and said
whoever or whatever it was disappeared almost instantly.
After that, she refused to let anyone wander off without a
companion. The third night, I overheard
Tana and my mother speaking quietly.
They mentioned that sightings of an old woman had happened
before, years back, but those stories never got told to
children. It sounded like people had
spotted her skulking near windows, muttering in a low
voice, or sometimes just standing at the edge of the
property, watching from the shadows.
According to Tana, those mountains harbored spirits that
thrived on fear and isolation. If this woman came from there,
it meant something dangerous was drifting down from the peaks
onto our land. On the fourth night, a group of
us tried to sleep in the old house, feeling weirdly safer
with the windows locked. My sister Winona, always the
bold one, stayed up reading by Lantern light.
Around midnight, she said, she heard slow scratching noises on
the outside wall, like fingernails scraping metal.
She snuffed the Lantern and pressed herself against the
window, trying to see in the faint moonlight.
She thought she caught a shape limping away, a hunched figure
with stringy hair that glinted silver.
She told me she wanted to run outside to check, but a sudden
wave of dread pinned her where she was.
By now, people were on edge. Cheeto stayed up through the
night, patrolling with a flashlight and an old hunting
rifle. Uncle Sani started lighting
protective herbs around the perimeter, a practice some of
our elders do to keep negative forces at Bay.
Tana barely slept, busy guiding a different part of our extended
family through their ceremonies during the day, then worrying
about the intruder after dark. The final straw came on our last
evening there. Another cousin, Sia, was in the
new house helping with some cooking, when she saw a pale
hand grip one of the barred windows.
For a moment, Sia let out a startled shout, dropped a pot on
the ground, and ran to get help. By the time we all rushed in,
flashlights sweeping every corner, scanning around the
outside, the intruder was gone. But muddy handprints remained on
the wall beneath that window, smearing downward as if someone
had clung there for a few seconds.
Watching in the dawn light, Uncle Sonny found a fresh set of
footprints that led away from the new house, through the scrub
and straight up into the foothills.
When we followed them a short way, we noticed small patches of
disturbed earth, like whoever it was dragged their feet.
We didn't dare go farther without a proper ceremony.
Tana insisted we leave it alone. She said some places have a
hunger for fear, and if you wander in unprepared, you might
find exactly what's been feeding on it.
We left the property a day earlier than planned.
None of us wanted to linger, especially with the children so
rattled in the adults tents all the time.
On the drive back to the main road, hours of bumpy dirt paths
before even seeing a single highway, I sat quietly replaying
everything in my head. It was more than just footprints
and a glimpse of someone's face. It felt like the land itself was
unsettled, like old energies from the mountains had slithered
down to toy with us. Years later, I asked my mother
why everyone accepted Hosa's story so readily.
She reminded me that these sightings weren't new.
Some elders believed a spirit from the mountains took on that
old woman's shape and ventured down to peer into windows or
creep across fences, targeting families who let their guard
down. Knowing we'd found footprints
all around both houses made it impossible to dismiss it as a
child's nightmare. Even now, I don't love talking
about it. I don't go back to Mexico often,
and when I do, I stay in Tana's old house with the windows
sealed up. Relatives still speak of a pale
figure who prowls around occasionally, especially during
those large gatherings when people are too occupied to
notice who or what might be sneaking around in the dark.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering if there's something
in the mountains, something that can wear a human face for a
night just to remind us it's still there.
The thought alone makes me reluctant to glance out a window
after dark, as if I half expect to see that chilling smile right
on the other side of the bars. I remember how the house felt
too big that evening, despite how cramped it usually was.
You'd think having two brothers around would make me feel safer,
but it was just US, against this uneasy vibe creeping into every
corner. Normally we'd all be at the
dinner with the rest of the family, laughing, eating, and
celebrating. Instead we got stuck tending
sheep and the place felt hollow without our parents voices
echoing off those mudstone walls.
It started with the dogs outside.
They barked in this erratic way, like they couldn't decide if
they were afraid or furious. My older brother said it was
probably coyotes. My younger brother half agreed,
but I caught him staring at the door a bit too long, like he
wasn't convinced either. Me, I acted like nothing was
wrong, but I was lying to myself.
After dinner, we tried to settle down for the night.
The idea was to keep things normal.
We checked the sheep through the window, found all of them in the
pen, then bolted the door. But the dogs wouldn't let up.
They'd be quiet one second, then start yelping and growling like
someone stepped into their territory.
I remember pacing the length of the house from the old wood
stove to the window while my brothers pretended to doze off.
My younger brother teased. Quit being so jumpy.
But the flicker in his eyes told me he wasn't feeling calm
either. Eventually, I guess I just
forced myself to lie down. The rush of silence that
followed was almost worse than the barking.
It was like a switch had been flipped and the dogs decided to
clam up. All at once, my mind raced with
possibilities. Maybe the dogs had chased off
whatever had them so worked up, or maybe they lost interest and
wandered off. But each thought felt
incomplete. So I laid there, staring at the
low ceiling, my stomach twisting with a kind of dread I couldn't
explain. At some point, exhaustion took
over, and I drifted into a restless sleep.
A while later, I woke up with a start, realizing I needed the
outhouse. Of course, there was no way I
was going out there alone in the dark, so I nudged my brother
awake and he gave me this smirk that said really, you're scared
of the dark like a little kid. If it weren't for my pounding
nerves, I might have snapped back at him, but instead I just
told him to bring the flashlight.
Stepping outside was like walking into a vacuum.
The moon was out, but it wasn't helping my nerves at.
All the sheep were still huddled near the fence, and not a single
dog was visible. I could practically taste the
tension in the air. We crept toward the outhouse,
the flashlight beam darting across the ground and throwing
wild shadows on the stone walls. My brother, still grinning at my
anxiety, disappeared inside, leaving me standing there,
feeling more exposed by the 2nd. That's when the dog started up
again. Except it wasn't the usual
barking. It was furious.
I turned toward the sagebrush, my flashlight picking out random
shapes, and suddenly one of the dogs made a scream like noise,
something I'd never heard before.
A second later, everything cut off again.
No howling, no rustling, not even the sound of sheep.
My mouth went dry and I gripped that flashlight like it was my
only lifeline. In the sudden hush, I noticed a
figure at the truck, leaning casually with an arm propped on
the cab. It was too tall to be any normal
person, face chalk white under the moon, eyes that burned red
even from where I stood. My heart hammered in my chest as
I watched it kick. One of our dogs just lashed out,
sending the poor thing bolting away.
All the others scattered like they'd met the devil himself.
Then that figure turned and fixed its gaze on me.
For a few agonizing moments, I felt like I was breathing in
tar. Everything around me pulsed with
a Crimson haze, and a nauseating, rotting smell rolled
over me. I lost any sense of time.
Suddenly, I heard my brother step out, fussing with his belt
buckle. The creature shifted its
attention to him, giving me just enough of a jolt to realize I
wasn't going to let it get to my brother.
Something raw and furious took over inside me.
I roared. At least that's what I'd call it
now. And charged like 1/2 crazed
animal. I saw the thing flinch, the
horrific grin melt off its face, and it sprang away into the
darkness. We dashed back into the house,
slammed the door, and jammed a piece of wood across it.
Neither of us spoke, just stood there with our breath rough and
uneven, waiting for some sign it was gone for good.
But silence was all we got. Eventually, my younger brother
collapsed on his sleeping bag in shock, and I found myself
perched by the window, fighting the urge to cry or scream or
both. The night dragged on, lit only
by our single Lantern as we tried to convince ourselves that
morning would fix everything. I couldn't shake the idea that
this wasn't over, not by a long shot, and honestly, I wasn't
sure we could handle what was to come if that thing decided to
come back for more. But we had no choice.
Dawn would either bring answers or it wouldn't.
All I knew was I'd never forget how quickly fear could mutate
into that kind of raw, desperate anger, and how the quiet of that
night, broken only by a single flashlight's beam, made
everything feel way too real. Morning arrived, but the
sunlight didn't bring much relief.
My brothers and I stumbled around, exhausted, trying to
pretend everything was normal. Part of me just wanted to sit
and wait for our folks to come back.
Instead, we had chores to handle.
Our sheep needed tending, and I couldn't help feeling every step
outside was a gamble. My older brother kept pacing the
front room, eyes flicking to the windows.
The younger one hovered near the door, peering through narrow
cracks. I busied myself with feeding the
few animals we had penned up close to the house.
Even that routine felt off somehow.
The dogs, normally eager to follow along, stuck under the
porch instead, letting out low, uneasy growls whenever I passed.
As the day went on, my nerves stayed raw.
The memory of that creatures grin and those burning eyes
seemed stamped into the back of my mind.
None of us wanted to admit we were spooked, but we couldn't
hide how jumpy we were. At one point a board creaked
under our feet and my younger brother dropped a tin bowl, the
clang echoing through the house like a warning.
Eventually, we realized we couldn't just hunker down
forever. We needed to check the sheep and
see if anything had happened overnight.
I slung a water jug over my shoulder.
My brothers grabbed their own gear and we trudged out into the
yard. The dogs didn't join us.
Out back, the first thing we spotted were footprints.
They were huge and oddly shaped, pressed deep into the ground as
if someone heavy or something had passed through.
Some looked smeared, like it dragged its feet or maybe moved
on all fours. We stood there, heart pounding,
exchanging uneasy glances. Part of me wished they were just
boot prints from a random trespasser, but they were spaced
too far apart for that. I heard a soft whistle from my
brother, and he pointed at the corral fence.
A piece of wood was splintered near the top, which would take a
ridiculous amount of force. My older brother started
muttering that we had to do something, but the younger one
shook his head. What are we going to do, chase
it? We both knew that wasn't
happening. By midday, the sky was a glaring
blue, yet the tension still felt thick.
My older brother decided we should look in on the flock.
A couple of sheep were missing, probably just strayed, I told
myself. We couldn't risk losing them,
though, so we set off across the dusty yard, heading for the low
hills where they usually wandered.
The path out there was marked by scattered sagebrush and rough
rocks. Our best dog, the one that
usually helped us herd, followed at a distance.
We called to it, but it refused to come any closer.
My older brother got frustrated, but we both knew the dog wasn't
spooked without a reason. We finally spotted the missing
sheep along a shallow ravine, huddled by a scraggly Bush.
As we approached, movement caught my eye.
There was a shape leaning into the shadows, almost blending
with the landscape. When it turned, I recognized
that same pale face, though the daylight made it look even more
unnatural. Black lines ran across its
features, and the grin twisted into something worse than a
smirk. My younger brother shouted.
The creature suddenly stretched tall, moving its arms and legs
at angles that defied reason. The sheep bawled in fear,
stumbling away. I stood there, hard in my throat
as it looked directly at us. My older brother grabbed a rock,
hurling it in desperation. The thing jerked aside and
vanished in a blink, slinking behind a Ridge.
By the time we got closer, it was long gone, but it left
behind two trembling sheep, each bearing deep scratches like
claws had raked them. We rushed the wounded animals
back home, trying not to jostle them too much.
Blood spotted the ground with each step.
I glanced over my shoulder, convinced that figure might
appear again. It felt like we were trespassing
on territory we had no business being in, even though this land
was ours. Back at the house, we patched
the sheep as best as three kids could manage.
The sun started dipping, painting the sky in gold and
purple streaks. Normally, sundown would be a
relief after a day of work. Now it just felt like a
countdown. If we could encounter that thing
in broad daylight, who knew what nightfall would bring?
By the time darkness crept in, we had the windows blocked with
old blankets and anything else we could find.
The dogs finally ventured inside, trembling and refusing
to leave our sides. My brothers and I huddled around
a single lamp, the glow barely cutting through the room's
corners. We took turns checking outside,
pressing our faces to the glass Every time we looked.
We braced ourselves for a glimpse of that pale face.
Hours passed with no clear sign. At some point, the silence
seemed heavier than anything else.
Each of us was waiting for the next horror to show up, trying
to hold on to some slim hope our folks would return soon.
I remember how the night air slipped through the cracks in
the walls, carrying a chill that settled into my bones.
I hated feeling helpless, but I also couldn't deny how real our
situation was after what we saw out in the corral.
Those footprints, the shredded fence, those scratches on the
sheep. I had no illusions anymore.
Something was hunting around our place, prowling in the daylight
and using the night as a cloak. And as we sat, Lantern
flickering, I began to sense we'd only glimpsed a fraction of
what it was capable of. Night came again, and we felt
the weight of it pressing down on the House like a heavy
blanket. Earlier that afternoon, my
brothers and I had sworn we weren't stepping outside until
our family got back. None of us could shake the dread
crawling inside our heads, especially after seeing that
thing Slytherin around the sheep in broad daylight.
Now the sun was gone and the shadows outside seemed alive.
We double checked the locks on every door and window.
My older brother managed to find a couple of makeshift weapons,
an old crowbar, a heavy iron rod, and put them by the
entrance. None of us had any clue if
they'd actually work against something so unnatural, but it
was better than feeling totally helpless.
The dogs pressed themselves into one corner of the living room,
whining softly, tails tucked so tight they might as well have
been invisible. Time dragged.
Every few seconds, one of us would sneak a peek outside,
parting the curtain by just an inch, bracing ourselves for a
pale face leering back. But for a while, nothing
stirred. A whisper of hope crept in.
Maybe our parents would show up soon, headlights sweeping the
yard, and we'd be able to bolt out of here.
But that hope felt flimsy at best.
A gust of wind rattled the walls.
For a heartbeat, we all froze. Then it went quiet again.
The hush in the house was worse than the barking dogs from the
night before. At least barking let us know
they were trying to warn us. This silence, it felt like the
moment before a predator strikes.
When it finally happened, It started with a dull thump
against the front door. My youngest brother jerked
around, eyes wide, and my older brother grabbed the crowbar,
motioning for us to stay back. The dogs whimpered but didn't
bark. A bad sign?
If they were too afraid to make noise, we knew we were in
serious trouble. Then came scraping sounds, slow
and deliberate, like something was testing the integrity of the
wood. My heart pounded so hard I
thought I'd pass out. My older brother crept forward
and peeked through a tiny crack near the door frame.
He gasped. Stumbling back, I moved in to
take a look outside. Pressed against our door was
that tall silhouette. Even through the gap I could
make out a faint glow of red, eyes scanning around like it
could sense exactly where we stood.
For a moment, none of us could move.
The handle jiggled, and I heard what sounded like a low hiss.
The dogs crowded even closer into the corner, ears pinned
back. We were running out of time.
If it kept banging like that, the door wasn't going to hold.
My older brother raised the crowbar, gripping it so hard his
knuckles went white. I grabbed the iron rod, my
fingers trembling. If this thing came in, we'd have
to fight. And judging by our last
encounters, brute force might barely slow it down.
Still, we had no other option. Just when I thought we'd have to
launch ourselves at that door, headlights blazed across the
yard. A roar of engines cut through
the silence. Relief and terror slammed into
me at once. Our parents and maybe some other
relatives must have returned, But would that thing go after
them? The scraping stopped.
My younger brother darted to the window, letting out a shaky
breath. They're here.
He whispered, like he could hardly believe it.
I tugged the door open a crack, shouting for mom and dad.
They shouted back, voices echoing off the house.
I could almost feel the tension lift, until I glanced back and
saw that silhouette at the edge of our porch.
Tall, gangly limbs, white face catching the glare of the
headlights. My dad stepped out of the car,
eyes fixed on the figure while my mom let out a cry of alarm.
I didn't think, I couldn't. I just rushed forward, iron rod
in hand, fear and anger swirling in my gut.
My brothers followed, or maybe I just assumed they did.
It was too chaotic to be sure. The creature hissed, backing off
the step as we swung at it. One wild strike caught the edge
of its shoulder, making a sound like metal scraping rock.
It recoiled, red eyes flashing, that grotesque grin twisting
across its face. That's when my dad came hurtling
onto the porch, raising his flashlight like a club.
The beam swept across the thing's face, revealing skin the
color of ash, lips peeled back in a sneer.
My mom was shouting in panic, yelling at us to get back.
The dogs finally found their voice and barked like mad,
adding to the chaos. We cornered it, but it moved
with unnatural speed, twisting away Before we could fully box
it in. It leapt off the porch and
streaked into the yard, disappearing behind the truck.
I could hear the crunch of gravel under its feet, then
nothing. For a second, I stood there in
shock, adrenaline buzzing in my veins.
Then I heard my dad shout in the car.
Now no one argued. We scrambled off the porch,
cramming into the vehicles with barely a glance behind us.
The dogs jumped into the back, still barking ferociously.
My mom started the engine, tires kicking up dust as we tore down
the dirt path. I leaned out the window for one
last look, half expecting to see those red eyes peeking through
the swirling dust. But all I caught was a flicker
of movement near the edge of the property, a tall shape vanishing
Into Darkness. We didn't stop until we were
miles away, huddled together in a relative's driveway under
flickering porch lights. My mom called a local medicine
man, voice shaking as she recounted the story.
He arrived late that night, performing ceremonies with
pungent herbs and low, somber chants.
He warned us that some things latch onto fear like a life
source, and that going back could provoke it.
The next morning, we drove home as a group, grown-ups, cousins,
anyone who could help just to grab our stuff in broad
daylight. We didn't stay long, even in the
sun's harsh glare. The place felt charged, as
though something waited just beyond view.
Once we had the essentials, we left that house behind.
Without looking back, my folks decided we couldn't live there
anymore. None of us fought that choice.
It was like we'd survived a trial by fire, stumbling out
with our lives and a memory guaranteed to haunt us forever.
Even now, I can't stop replaying the moment when that door nearly
gave way, or the flash of those red eyes in the headlights.
We escaped, yeah, but it never felt like a triumph, More like a
close call with something we were never meant to see.
We never returned. We still own the land, I guess,
but as far as I know, it stayed empty, left for the wind and
whatever lurks thereafter. Dark.
The van we were in had a rattly old frame that made everything
feel tense whenever Mom took a sharp turn.
I sat near the back, knees pressed against the worn leather
seat, watching the moonlight flicker across the dashboard.
We'd been on the road for hours, weaving through the Navajo
reservation on a highway that seemed to stretch forever.
Hardly any cars passed us this late.
Honestly, it felt like we were the only people around for
miles. Mom was in one of her moods,
quiet eyes fixed on the deserted landscape rolling by.
The radio crackled, switching between static and faint country
songs before she finally gave up and turned it off.
Whenever we traveled at night like this, I'd usually bug her
for a scary story. This time, I didn't even need to
ask. She decided to share one of her
favorites, the night my aunt and her friends encountered
something out in the boondocks. The minute she mentioned Aunt's
name, I perked up. My aunt was the type who laughed
at danger, always the first to dive into an adventure.
According to Mom, she was also the person who saw the strangest
things on the reservation. Mom started describing a rundown
van Aunt and her buddies used to take out after dark, loaded with
cheap drinks and a playlist of whatever they could blast loud
enough to echo through the desert.
It sounded typical enough until rocks started hitting the sides
of their vehicle from nowhere. I tried to imagine it, an old
van squeaking down a dirt Rd. headlights cutting through dust
in the air, and then this weird tapping noise from somewhere
outside. Mom said they assumed it was
random debris at first, something the tires kicked up,
but the way aunt told it, the noises became more deliberate,
like somebody was standing out there aiming to get their
attention. Picture that, all your friends
laughing and sipping drinks. Then everything going pin drops
silent because you realize you're not alone.
Glancing out our own window, I thought of those endless
stretches of desert that Mom was guiding us through.
It was so dark beyond the road's edge you couldn't tell where the
horizon ended. The van's headlights revealed
scraps of brush, jagged rocks, and occasionally a flicker that
might have been an animal's eyes.
Listening to Mom's words, I kept wondering, could something out
there be watching us too? It wasn't just the story itself
that got to me, it was the sensation that we were following
a similar path. We were also in a creaky van at
night, making me feel uncomfortably close to Aunt's
experience. Mom's voice dropped when she
described how people on the reservation sometimes whispered
about skinwalkers. It wasn't a topic anyone joked
about, and no one wanted to dwell on it for too long.
Yet there we were, speeding deeper into the night, trading
stories about them like we had all the time in the world.
By the time Mom wrapped up the first part, where Aunt and her
friends heard something land on the roof, I found myself
gripping the armrest so tight my knuckles ached.
I couldn't stop glancing at our own ceiling, half expecting a
thump that would confirm my worst fears.
Mom peeked at me through the rearview mirror, probably
noticing I'd gone quiet. She said Just wait until you
hear the rest, as if the scariest details were still
ahead. I tried to laugh it off, but the
tension wouldn't let go of me. We kept driving, and I felt like
the darkness around us was actually pressing closer,
carrying secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to uncover.
Mom hinted that the real terror came when Ant realized they were
dealing with something far beyond a casual prank or a wild
animal, something that enjoyed lurking in the edges of that
black desert night. And that was just the
introduction to my aunt's story. I braced myself for what came
next, secretly hoping Mom might decide it was too late to keep
talking and switch to some boring conversation about
tomorrow's plans. But she didn't.
She just kept her eyes on the road, and I could sense the rest
of the tale was only moments away.
As much as I dreaded it, I couldn't turn back now.
I had to hear how everything unfolded, no matter how
unnerving it got. Mom let the silence stretch for
a moment after finishing the first part of the story, keeping
me on edge. I had a feeling she wanted me to
soak in the uneasy calm before dropping the real horror.
The desert outside our windows had grown somehow darker, the
horizon no longer distinguishable from the sky.
A low hum vibrated through the van as we cruised along, and it
seemed to match the tension in the air.
She began again, voice quiet. So your aunt and her friends
realized something was on top of the van, thumping and scraping.
At first they thought maybe it was an animal, so they locked
all the doors and tried to keep still.
According to Mom, fear set in so hard that nobody dared speak
above a whisper. Then the worst part happened.
The roof rattled like an angry force was stomping around trying
to get a reaction. Everyone froze.
Mom continued, eyes fixed on the road.
Your aunt was shaking, trying to force the key to turn in that
old ignition, but the engine kept coughing and dying like it
had given up. That's when they heard a
scraping noise, a nasty, deliberate sound moving from the
back of the roof toward the windshield.
Hearing those words, I found myself picturing it all too
well. A pitch black knight, a battered
van in the middle of nowhere, and something alive on top
strong enough to shake metal. Mom turned the steering wheel
with a grip that suggested even she was unsettled by her own
recollection. Your aunt claimed she'd never
heard a noise like that. It was slow.
Drawing out each scratch as if to make sure they knew it was
there. A hush crept over me while I
imagined them pinned down, hearts pounding, uncertain
whether to run or stay. When Mom described what happened
next, it triggered an instinct in me to duck and hide, even
though we were just listening to a story.
She set a hand, pale and twisted, reached over the front
edge of the van, nails long enough to curl over the glass.
Your aunt saw it come into view, little by little, until it
finally scraped against the windshield.
In that moment, Mom added, your aunt thought it was all over.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Then the hand vanished. Everyone thought, prayed it was
gone, but that was just wishful thinking.
The figure jumped off the roof and appeared right outside the
driver's side window. A spike of dread jolted through
me. I tried to imagine how that must
have looked, a face inches away, separated only by a thin pane of
glass. Mom described its silhouette,
vaguely human but horribly off, staring with unsettling
intensity. My aunt panicked, launching
herself into the back seat, muttering every protective verse
she knew, while the others cowered and locked arms.
They huddled, listening for movement, not daring to peek.
But nothing happened for a while.
No thumping, no scraping, no footsteps.
Fear of the unknown was almost worse than the noise itself.
After what felt like ages, my aunt inched back to the driver's
seat, her breath coming in quick bursts.
With trembling hands, she jammed the key into the ignition and
gave it a desperate turn. This time, the engine roared to
life. They speed forward, tires
kicking up dirt and pebbles. In the mirror, they half
expected to see that figure chasing behind them, but the
darkness swallowed everything. Not one of them looked back for
more than a split second. Getting off that empty stretch
of road and toward the scattered lights of town became their only
goal. Mom paused, letting the enormity
of it all set in, Then concluded.
Your aunt and her friends never went partying out there again.
They refused to speak of it in detail for a long time.
She explained how those who grew up on the reservation might
gossip about skinwalkers and unexplainable sightings, but no
one joked around when a story like Ants was shared.
It was too real. At that point, our own van began
rolling into the outskirts of civilization.
The desert slowly gave way to a few lights and the faint glimmer
of houses. Relief mingled with leftover
dread as Mom parked in front of a small convenience store.
She flicked off the engine and turned to me, probably reading
the unease in my eyes. I didn't say much.
I wasn't exactly eager to speak, worried my voice might tremble
with everything swirling around in my head.
Yet despite the fear, there was a strange relief in knowing we'd
made it here in one piece. No one expected visitor waiting
for us in the darkness. Hearing my aunt's narrow escape
made our own trip feel safer by comparison, though every random
thump from the vans worn out parts made me jumpy.
Mom gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then switched topics to
something more ordinary, grabbing late night snacks and
stretching our legs. The conversation shift helped
clear the heaviness. Still, I caught myself glancing
at the roof when I stepped out, quietly, grateful nothing stood
perched on top like in the story.
Even after we got our snacks and climbed back in, I caught myself
scanning the shadows, half expecting an unnaturally shaped
figure to emerge and press itself against the window.
But it never did. We left that place with a fresh
tank of gas and the comforting glow of store lights fading in
the distance. Mom's story, though, remained a
constant echo in my mind. No matter how many miles we
travelled, the images stuck. The cracking roof, the wicked
nails scraping glass, and the horrifying stillness that
followed. I remember telling myself I'd
stay alert, never letting my guard down on these long, lonely
highways. In a way, maybe that was the
best ending to the story, one that kept you alert to whatever
might lurk in the desert night.