Sanity is the ancient lie. It's a lie old as consciousness.
Sanity is our imagined common denominator, that non existent
place we are said to converge. Insanity is as real as anything
else. Consider what goes on in the
privacy of your mind. How often does reality cease to
measure up? How often does the Mystic seem
to reveal itself in feeling, in strange coincidence, in
prophetic dreams? Probably you never talk about
it. Probably you think you are alone
in your suspicions. It's intensely subjective,
unfortunately, and insanity defies documentation.
Probably you will never find the name or explanation for the
thing that visited you in the night.
Probably you've decided that it's only you that's not quite
right. There by the lie prevails.
This narrative of order is the myth.
As Hunter S Thompson said, there is not such thing as paranoia.
Your worst fears can come true at any moment.
All that to say, there is something wrong with the house
on Maple Ave. I wish I could explain it in a
concrete way, but I'm scared. The explanation exists beyond
our scope of comprehension, so we must base our truth on
instinct. That place isn't right.
It's unsettling, like a black and white cartoon.
It's the opposite of what a house ought to be.
It is the opposite of home, the opposite of safe, the opposite
of familiar. My family no longer owns the
place. It was decided we could do
better for a vacation house than an old mansion in small town
Appalachia. You could not imagine my relief.
I was sure I would die in that place someday.
Sure, it would catch me eventually, but I wish they
didn't sell. Obviously it wasn't my decision,
but still, I argued against it. I tried to make it a sentimental
thing. We'd owned it as a second home
since I was a toddler. It was practically part of the
family. I said.
Saying that made me cringe. The gross irony of the
statement. Probably why the argument wasn't
convincing. When that failed, I talked about
the investment. Think about what the property
could be worth in 10 years. In today's market, it barely
matters that a place might be haunted.
Again, this was a weak attempt. Money wasn't an issue for my
parents. Secretly I was hoping to inherit
the property. They could keep my trust fund,
give it to someone who deserved it.
Just let me have the house on Maple Ave.
Let that be my inheritance. Give it to me so I can start
demolishing the place. No half measures.
Locking the doors and fencing it off wouldn't be enough.
I was genuinely planning to bulldoze the house, chop down
the trees, and turn the grounds into a soulless parking lot.
I'd sow the dirt with salt like the Romans did to old Carthage.
Believe me, it would be doing the world a favor.
None of that is possible now, unless I'm ready to risk getting
locked up on arson charges. The jury is still out on that.
But I can write all of this down as a record of what happened
that night. I'm aware that nobody is going
to take this warning seriously. But when this happens to someone
else, whatever poor soul the house is digesting now, maybe
they'll know they aren't alone. These things are hard to say,
not the sort of topic that comes up in regular conversation.
It's difficult enough mulling this over in the privacy of my
mind. My memories fast turn to static.
My sanity wants me to forget. This might be the end of me
someday. I don't know if it's right for
me to pass it on, to speak this into existence.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
The house on Maple Ave. stands a little way back from the street.
Tall sycamores line the sidewalk.
Across the street is a dense forest.
It is very near the town, the town you might think abandoned
if not for the general upkeep. I don't remember seeing or
interacting with the neighbors. Whatever industry built this
place dissipated long ago. Tall, rusted skeletons of
twisted pipes and I beams and smokestacks rest darkly among
the trees and in wide lots of grass and asphalt.
Broken farm equipment lies abandoned in the fields amid
scattered farms, a few small stores, the corporate
supermarket chain, a tiny gas station operating out of pure
necessity. The old Victorian houses lining
Maple Ave. stand out from the woods and the shacks and the
dingy ranchers, like Roman ruins in a medieval village.
The house on Maple Ave. is not isolated in the quiet town on
the street with the big sycamores.
It isn't even the biggest and most impressive house on the
street, but it seems to be. It's strange.
I don't specifically remember any of her neighboring houses.
The yard and gardens are not overgrown, yet the house seems
perfectly comfortable in the surrounding woods.
It is not a large house, not imposing by any conventional
definition. Still, it looms over you like a
brutalist monstrosity. You could pass by driving down
the street and never give the place a second look.
It would pass by your window and be gone, forgotten, which is a
chilling thought. How many places like this do we
pass every day, never considering their evil nature
simply because we are distracted by other things?
I remember the first time is stepped inside.
I remember thinking the windows on the front facade looked like
eyes and the door was like a mouth.
Inside the house came with all original furnishings and
interior decor. I shouldn't say original, I
should say it was made to look like the original.
This in itself was already disturbing to me.
It reflected trends and styles that long predated my existence.
The tastes of the dead. It was like spending a night in
a museum or a graveyard. Grotesque bourgeois decadence.
My ex-girlfriend once called it. My God she was the worst.
I remember a giant floor to ceiling window at the landing
between the 1st and 2nd floor where the stairs swing around
and rise to the opposite direction.
The mirror was flanked on both sides by two stone cherubs.
Life sized babies with wings. Weird.
There were also giant mirrors in the library in the master
bedroom. There were these huge golden
chandeliers in the dining room, the living room, and the master
bedroom. My pretentious uncle told me
once these chandeliers were worth 20 grand, easily.
Their designs were of some kind of mythological inspiration,
Greek or Roman I'd imagine, based on the anthropomorphized
goats and seders and gargoyles holding up the glittering light
fixtures. I remember the hallway on the
2nd floor outside the master bedroom.
I remember it all furnished in a blazing red carpet, bizarrely
combined in a satin wallpaper of equally ridiculous saturation.
The entire hallway, floor to ceiling, all dripping red, so
red it dizzies the optic nerve. Imagine being trapped in a blood
vessel. It's important I mentioned the
paintings. They were probably originals
based on how valuable my pretentious uncle insisted they
were. By style and subject.
They looked like something from the late 1800s, like Jane Austen
characters. They were all doll faced with
flat white skin, wide eyed, wide mouthed.
They have that quality. Old portraits have the eyes
following you. It was an interesting
consistency in every single painting.
Every figure was made to look directly at the viewer, even
when it isn't anatomically consistent.
Their bodies seem to contort in an unnatural way to keep the
eyes facing outward. These paintings are stationed
like gargoyles throughout the house.
One in every bedroom, a few in the hallways, even one in the
master bathroom. I resented that we kept them
hanging. Something about a porcelain
faced family looking over while you sleep chills the nerves.
Let them whisper to each other in some dusty corner or the
attic. I would say there's something
wrong with the house on Maple Ave.
It's a dollhouse, someone's idea of a house.
It's a toothy grin, a clown's painted smile.
It's the candy house from Hansel and Gretel, a frilly, gaudy
thing hiding in the dark wood, luring you in to be eaten.
The place was a morgue back in the 70s.
We never learned much else about it, never even learned why it
stopped being a morgue. It was on the market one day,
and my parents just on the opportunity, wouldn't have been
my choice. Once a place crosses that
Rubicon of playing host to the dead, it never returns to the
hands of the living. What makes a haunted house?
Houses are built for occupancy. That's their express purpose.
If a house, or some part of a house is left abandoned by
people, it will be occupied by something else.
The incident happened on a Friday night sometime in late
fall, I think November. I was a sophomore in college at
the time. Penn State.
The day before, I had suddenly found myself without a
relationship and without a place to spend the night.
I'd caught my then girlfriend cheating on me with my roommate.
My roommate of all people. Imagine the audacity of stabbing
someone in the back while sleeping in a bunk just below
them. The inconvenience was the worst
part. I would need to find a place to
stay until student housing found me another room.
All that hassle with heartbreak on the side.
My God, she was the worst. I resolved to make myself scarce
that weekend. When my last class ended on
Friday afternoon, I got in my car and drove off campus without
a word to anybody. My parents house in Westchester
was too far of a drive and I wasn't in the mood to explain my
situation to them. But the house on Maple Ave. was
barely 1/2 hour's drive from campus.
It was a few hours before sunset when I arrived at the house.
The neighborhood was quiet as always.
No neighbors were visible as I drove in.
The woods were filled with birds and deer and various other
wildlife. But the sounds always seem to
fade as you got closer to the house.
But my mind was elsewhere. There wasn't much reason to be
nervous about the place in broad daylight.
It was lucky I remembered the combination to the front door.
I turned the brass knob and pass through the foyer.
For some reason, my mind caught in the image of a gaping mouth.
The place felt big and empty. This was the first and only time
I was completely alone in that house.
I was alone under high ceilings with twisting chandeliers and
maximalist decor. It was difficult to relax.
Already I was in a bad state. It occurred to me this was the
first time a single person was alone in that house since who
knows when. Nobody knew I was there.
Not my roommate, not my friends, not my parents.
I'd retreated from society and relationships and found myself
here. Predators like to isolate their
prey from the herd. All the better if the target has
a weak disposition. The TV was in the living room.
It was the one piece of modern tech in a place my grandmother
would say was too old and too out of date.
The TV and the couch would be my base of operations for the
evening. It was a Friday night, homework
could wait, and I wasn't in the mood to socialize.
I'd picked up some take out on the drive down.
This I laid out on the coffee table.
I flipped on the TV take out and Netflix is my guilty pleasure.
It has the feeling of a divorced dad eating dinner in front of
the TV. You also don't feel alone when
characters are speaking in the background, which is totally
irrational, by the way. Our brains may not know the
difference between recorded voices on a sitcom or a podcast,
but that doesn't make you any less vulnerable, any less alone.
Between the binge watching and the doom scrolling, the evening
passed quickly. My former roommate and
ex-girlfriend messaged me several times.
Where was I? What time was I getting back?
We all needed to talk this through.
All these messages were routinely ignored.
Now and then I'd like a message out of spite.
That made me feel better. And the house wasn't getting to
me. As you'd expect, between the
media consumption and the interpersonal drama, my brain
was fried, too worn down to be scared.
Random noises were easily brushed off.
It was the standard stuff anyway.
A branch tapped the window. Water gurgled through the pipes.
There were occasional creaks and groans I couldn't identify.
It was probably the house settling, whatever the hell
that's supposed to mean. Maybe it was the wind, Maybe it
was junkies trying to break in. Who the hell cared?
The light through the windows turned gold, then red, then Navy
blue. Shadows grew and consumed.
That's when I found myself spending much more time in my
peripheral vision. I noticed something then.
From the center of the living room where I was sitting, you
could see directly into the adjacent hallway towards the
foyer from the big mirror on the far wall.
There was another mirror on the right that reflected the dining
room and gave a glimpse of the kitchen and the servant's
staircase. I thought about the huge mirrors
in the library, the master bedroom, the 2nd floor landing.
There were a lot of mirrors in this house, but I suppose it
would make sense. Anybody living in a place like
this would have a massive ego. That was one explanation.
Another is that they were arranged strategically, like an
early warning system, like security cameras.
You would never be forced to turn a corner without knowing
what was waiting on the other side.
Maybe it wasn't about vanity, maybe someone was being
cautious. Once I read about this tribe in
Southeast Asia. When venturing into the jungle,
they would always wear masks with eyes and painted faces on
the back of their heads. This is to deter predators.
Tigers won't strike if they think you are staring directly
at them. Do you think mice know that
Hawks exist? What's a hawk to a mouse?
Is it even comprehensible? Do they have a concept of
flying? Could they imagine the power,
speed and agility of the thing that's hunting them?
It can't be that often that a mouse survives the encounter,
but as a species they must know in some capacity.
Hawks have been hunting them for eons, so on some instinctual
level, the mouse knows the hawk, even if it can't grasp the idea
of a hawk. We assume that humans have no
natural predators. Maybe that's because we couldn't
even imagine them like the mouse and the hawk.
It started to rain a little after dark.
It started to Thunder a little before midnight.
I decided I needed a shower before turning in.
I trudged up the stairs, past the mirror and the cherubs.
My reflection was shown to me, dark and vague in the pale light
of the chandelier. I looked as crappy as I felt.
The 2nd floor bathroom and shower was down the hall on the
left. Hot water is good to burn the
pain away. I locked the bathroom door even
though that should have been completely unnecessary.
A strong wind was blowing rain and branches against the window
panes. There's a certain vulnerability
one feels being naked behind a shower curtain in an old
porcelain tub in a big empty house.
The bathroom was wide and spacious.
There was a window on the far wall.
The wind moaned outside. Branches scratched at the glass.
Shadows danced on the wall. The shower curtain was sheer
enough to give you a degree of visibility, just enough to
imagine amorphous shapes and shadows moving on the other
side. To this day, I know I saw
something past that curtain. Something in the combination of
the lightning in the branches and my own imagination took the
form of a gaunt figure with long hands, visible directly on the
other side of the curtain. In the split second of my blurry
vision, it was standing there, watching.
The shape of it sent ice water through my veins.
I audibly cursed and almost slipped in the tub, water and
shampoo burning my eyes. Thunder rolled.
The lights flickered. I splashed water in my face and
tore the curtain aside, ready for a fight.
Of course, there was nothing there.
Nothing behind the shower curtain, nothing in the hallway
as I stepped outside. To this day, I'm not sure.
Maybe it was there with me in that bathroom.
Maybe my brain was trying to warn me, like I had caught the
thing. Scent, if you want to think
about it that way. I stared at the mirror and
slapped myself in the face, seeing the horror in my eyes,
trying to force myself to snap out of it, cursing my paranoia.
Lighting flashed red on the wallpaper.
The eyes on the paintings followed me as I headed toward
the master bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe like Hugh Hefner or
Tyler Durden. As far as the paintings were
concerned, this mansion belonged to me.
I doubted they approved of that. Regardless, tonight we were
living like aristocracy. The bed was genuinely vast, a
far cry from my dorm room. The ceiling loomed high
overhead, red velvet curtains draped over arched windows.
The mirror stood on the wall set between 2 windows.
It made me look small, framed in a giant mirror on a giant bed in
the wide bedroom in the big empty house.
I felt like I should ring one of the servants to bring my tea,
but I wasn't too keen to see who or what would show up.
I wondered why this room felt distinctly cooler than the rest
of the house. Must have been something to do
with the central air system. Rain thrummed, dull and rhythmic
on the windows. The crisp air and warm blankets
seemed to close in around me. I was fresh from the shower and
I was dead tired. It was strange, me feeling
anxious about the big empty house when I should have been
worried over finding a new roommate and a new girlfriend.
But I was here to forget all that, to forget this whole day
ever happened. I jumped when I saw the painting
on the left wall. It was next to the door where
you couldn't see walking in. The damn thing seemed to
materialize out of thin air. It was a man, almost life-size,
dressed all in black. His outfit looked like something
out of the 1800s, like Abe Lincoln without the hat.
His hand was tangled in the bushy fur of a black goat.
The goats horns were long, twisting into Crescent moons.
It was facing the side and I could see its one eye.
The eyes of the man and the eyes of the goat were painted to look
exactly the same. Those eyes were demonic, budging
white and lined in red. They were staring right down at
me. It didn't feel like staring at
paint on a canvas, it felt like staring at something with a
mind, something with intent, something that was staring back.
No way in hell I was sleeping with that.
Looking over me, I thought of changing rooms.
The voices in my head went into hysterical laughter at the idea.
Look at this guy, so paranoid that he changes bedrooms because
of the scary painting on the wall.
Coward. No wonder she left you.
Dragging myself out of bed, I took it off the wall and set it
down, facing the opposite direction.
That felt better. I tried falling asleep on the
wide bed in the cold, dark room. In the big empty house, lighting
flashed periodically in every flash.
Long fingers reached past the windows and along the walls.
I found myself staring at a corner of the ceiling far above
my head. The ceiling was so high you
could hardly see all the way up in the dark.
It was like the walls ascended into nothing.
There's a nice thought, sleeping with a deep black void over your
head. I refuse to close my eyes.
I kept checking the corners, surveying the mirrors, imagining
things in the shadows. I was tired.
Something wouldn't let me sleep. The high windows in the cold
dark room in the big empty house looked over the backyard and the
gardens and woods beyond. In the day, you could see low
mountains past the trees. You could still see them at
night, dark silhouettes against the stars.
I thought about the depth of those woods.
I thought about the age of those mountains.
I imagined sitting there at the window all night in sleepless
vigilance. What would you see if you
watched long enough? Maybe you would see why we keep
our eyes closed at night. Maybe you would see why our
ancestors built fires against the dark.
Low Thunder rolled in the distance.
I think I drifted off around then.
I did not sleep well that night. I barely remember if I slept at
all. The barriers between
consciousness and dreams were thin in those hours.
Sleeping with one eye open would be the expression.
But I did dream. I saw the painting fall back
from the wall, facing up. White knuckled hands gripped the
frame. A head and a face ascended from
inside. The eyes were staring,
screaming. Then I was falling.
Then I saw a desolate landscape, a Gray Moor of heath and heavy
wind. I saw a ruined house, a stone
Manor, burned and abandoned. I saw the Crest, carved in
stone, hanging over the shattered door.
The Crest was a red hand of six fingers with the shape of a
brick wall below, and two claymores crisscrossed over top.
My dream turned chaotic. I saw snapshots, flashes, a
black he goat wandering the heath, a ring of figures around
a high fire, a hooded face. I saw the masks of every form
and type and expression. Some were those old Greco Roman
theatre masks with the wide clown like smiles or frowns.
Many were the ornate operatic things you see at a masquerade
ball. They seem to flicker as if in
firelight. The expression seemed to move,
to smile, to speak. The eyes remained hollow and
blank. At one point in the dream, I was
awake again, or seemingly awake. I was in the master bedroom,
floating above the bed. I happened to look out the
window. It was still dark in the
moonlight. Through the curtains, I saw a
man on the street riding a large Black Horse.
He was staring at the house, staring at me.
Then I saw the mob. I saw the pitchforks and the
torches burning like little red stairs in the black countryside.
I saw the Manor, high and terrible, looming up on the
hill. And in that hazy flash, in the
weird dream world of things that make no sense, the old Manor
took the exact shape of the little house on Maple Ave.
The gates were thrown open. The mob flooded the grounds.
The revolutionaries came a knocking at the door.
I didn't see much after that. The dream didn't seem to want to
resolve itself. I had idea of disgust and
depravity, with no image to inform the feeling.
I felt the overwhelming decadence born of generations of
wealth and idle isolation. I felt the horror and the
revulsion those revolutionaries felt when they saw the true
state of their money delete and the hidden contents of that
accursed manner. Then I saw the ruins again,
freshly burned, a black stain upon the earth.
The grounds in the land all around seemed Gray and putrid.
It was utterly desolate, like the aftermath of Chernobyl.
Red faced preachers in black robes shouted at penitent
masses, waving their holy texts, Speaking of the Amalekites, of
the consequences of Akhan and the fall of Jericho.
The Crest flashed again before my eyes, the red hand of six
fingers. I saw the masks and the goat of
final time. The images faded into a long
hollow scream. Then I was falling again,
falling, falling until I sat straight up in a cold sweat.
I woke with a gasp, like 100 LB dumbbell had dropped on my
chest. I saw the time then.
It was 3/26 in the morning. It had been hours.
A single thought smashing into my mind like a sledgehammer.
Get out of the house. Get out of the house.
I barely registered what I did next.
Blurred and dazed, I tumbled out of bed.
It was bitter cold. I crashed through the door.
Never occurred to me to get dressed, get out of the house.
Now I want to be clear about something.
I never saw or heard anything at that point.
There were no physical manifestations.
This was all a response to a feeling.
That feeling was the deepest fear I have ever experienced,
was visceral. It was in my bones.
So when I say I didn't see anything, I don't mean it wasn't
real. This was beyond real.
This was the light beyond The Cave.
In those minutes, my brain's shallow interpretation of
reality fell away. The veil tore, the glass
shattered, the fog lifted. And there was only fear.
Fear of something worse than death.
Fear of something infinitely malicious.
The hatred of all mankind. Hatred beyond human
comprehension. Imagine darkness so deep you can
feel it like a hot breath on your neck.
Like velvet. My brain was screaming in a
blind panic. Something was chasing me.
Something in the house was chasing me.
I was alone and I wasn't alone. Nobody knew I was there.
Something was chasing me. There must have been some sort
of explanation, but I would figure it out later.
I had to get out of the house, so I ran.
I ran like a haunted animal. I ran through the red hallway,
practically falling down the stairs, tearing past the cherubs
at the landing. Reaching the bottom, I gripped
the baluster and swung the corner.
My shoulder slammed the door frame as I stumbled into the
living room. Adrenaline numbed the pain.
The light in the living room was still on.
The windows were black. The goatish chandelier swung
lazily as if in a breeze. I briefly saw myself in the
mirror. I barely recognized myself.
My eyes looked like the eyes in that painting through the dining
room. I ran.
The kitchen lay ahead, past a narrow hallway.
The back door was in the kitchen.
That was my escape. But something was waiting for me
in the kitchen. I sensed it.
My instincts repelled me as magnets of like polarity memory
called up the secondary staircase from the servants
quarters. A keen pursuer would have
predicted my escape route, assuming it was familiar with
the house. It was waiting to cut me off
before I could get out through the back door.
I reacted in a fraction of a second.
It was too fast to consider my options, too fast to consider
the stupidity of what I was doing.
I sidestepped the kitchen, turned out of the hallway and
descended into the basement. The crooked wood stairs murmured
under my feet. The basement was pitch black.
I'd forgotten to turn on the light.
My bare feet were naked on the dirt floor.
The stone walls were cold to the touch.
The basement was an unfamiliar place.
I'd spent the last five years avoiding it.
Faded memories informed me that it was divided into several
spaces. Most of these spaces were
storage for random clutter. Somewhere was the laundry
machine in a water heater. On the far end was the cellar.
The cellar, I remember, had these concrete steps that led up
to an old hatch door and out into the backyard.
The cellar was my last way out, otherwise I'd be in the house
forever. I stumbled in the dark, bashing
my hip on the Stonewall. There was a crash as I knocked
over a pile of boxes. I heard a sound like glass
shattering. The noise reverberated through
the house. My panic came roaring back.
I turned. Nothing was behind me.
I imagined long fingered hands materializing from the dark to
encircle my neck. A dim light flowed down from the
basement stairs. I didn't remember leaving the
door open. I ducked through an opening in
the wall. Standing there at the bottom of
the stairs felt suicidal. There was a long groan from the
tangle of pipes just above my head.
The fear was overwhelming, but running was impossible in this
place. At any moment I could stumble
over some old furniture or bash my head against the wall.
It was the worst claustrophobia I have ever experienced.
It felt like slamming the gas and the brake pedal
simultaneously. I walked with my hand following
the wall. Again.
I stopped. When I came to a corner, another
thought materialized. I remember there was an opening
to my left just around the corner.
This LED into another storage room on the other side of the
wall. This storage room also had
direct access to the bottom of the basement stairs, meaning if
something had followed me down the stairs, it would have gone
straight and around. Or it would have taken a sharp
left. If it had gone straight and
around, it would be right behind me.
But if it had taken the left, it would have proceeded through the
adjacent room and followed parallel along the wall, in
which case it would be waiting in the opening just around the
corner. I took my hand away from the
wall, stepping back. I did not breathe.
My eyes were partially used to the dark now.
It was enough to spot straight ahead my salvation.
The opening to the cellar was on the far wall.
I could make a break for it. I poised myself like a runner.
If something was just around the corner, it would certainly see
me. Maybe the thing had guessed my
plan already, same as it predicted my escape through the
kitchen. It knew me, It was smarter than
me. It knew this house.
But I had this one opportunity. Eyeing the cellar, I broke into
a full Sprint. The terror roared upon me,
howling back 1000 times stronger than before.
I ran with everything I had. Death snapped at my heels.
A single misstep would have been my destruction.
At any moment I expected something to tear out my legs
and send me herd first into the dirt.
At any moment I expected hands to grasp my neck and cut off my
momentum. My eyes and mouth gaped wide.
Tears streamed down my face. I charged through the opening,
tearing through the cellar. Then I laughed up the steps,
drunk on adrenaline, hardly conscious of what was happening.
My full momentum was behind me. When my shoulder connected with
the wooden hatch, there was a thud, a snap and a crash.
I tumbled out into the lawn. The grass was wet and cold on my
arms and back. I scrambled back from the
cellar's yawning door. Nothing emerged on my feet now.
I ran barefoot across the lawn towards my car in the driveway.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I locked the doors and turned
the key. Just like that, the fear left me
in a gasp. My body deflated in a deep sigh
of relief. I actually started laughing.
This was all in my head. These things aren't real.
Monsters aren't real. Ghosts don't exist.
Houses aren't haunted. People are haunted.
I had taken all the anxiety and loneliness and pain in my head
and projected into that house. Mental illness.
Now that was certainly real. I definitely needed some kind of
medication. It was all in my head.
It was always in my head. For a long while, I sat awake in
the car. I was gasping for air, woefully
out of shape. My shoulder hurt.
I reminded myself to go to the gym more often.
The windows were glazed in fog. Maybe it was time to go back
inside. I looked back at the house,
rising in the dark with its sharp Gables and dark windows.
Fear repelled the idea of going back inside, and I didn't care
to fight it anymore. I knew then I couldn't go back.
It wouldn't be smart to risk another mental breakdown.
That was how I justified the feeling.
My adrenaline began to crash into paralyzed exhaustion.
I closed my eyes, not necessarily planning on sleeping
in the car, but having nothing against the idea.
I leaned my face against the cool glass.
My heartbeat started to slow down and everything faded away.
It was just after dawn when I woke a second time.
I groaned and sat up. In those first few moments, I
was barely lucid. The previous night's events were
a blur. If I hadn't been waking up in my
car, I might have assumed the whole thing was a dream.
It felt like waking from a brutal hangover and trying to
remember everything you did that night.
I turned slowly in the driver's seat.
That's when I saw the car window.
I recoiled. My thoughts were still in a
haze. The realization was slow to
materialize. Slowly I placed a shaking hand
against the glass. A pale, wide eyed reflection
stared back at me. I jerked back.
Then I pulled the lock and tumbled out of the car.
The light was Gray. Frost glistened on the grass.
A thick fog hung around the car in the yard and the woods.
The trees were like tall, dark scarecrows In the fog.
The house loomed high among their branches.
For ages I stood there, frozen, overwhelmed in primal terror.
All rational thinking vanished out of my head.
The world burned before my eyes. I lost all vestiges of thought,
of consciousness. Only fear remained, the fear of
a haunted animal. I realized what I was in that
moment. I wasn't a person.
I was prey. My mouth was a gape.
My paralyzed scream came out like a hollow moan.
In the years since, I've had an echo of that feeling several
more times. It's subtle.
You could easily mistake it without a point of reference.
I'd described it as a tinge of anxiety, a prickling feeling.
People often talk about feeling like they are being watched.
Usually it is barely there, but in some places it's stronger.
It's a Geiger counter. When I feel it hit me, I turn
and go in the opposite direction until it fades away.
Sometimes on long drives it grows and grows and grips me for
a while before fading again. In those instances, I keep my
eyes forward and bear down on the gas.
I never stop. I've traveled and been on the
road since graduating college. Never been able to hold down a
job. Drug and alcohol abuse haven't
helped. After a while it felt parasitic
to stay with my parents. That's what I tell people.
Makes me seem like a better person.
In reality, I was fed up trying to live with their
disappointment. In my travels, I've kept a list
documenting the times that fear manifested itself.
Maybe I'm hoping to find a pattern.
I felt its echo when I toured Auschwitz.
It was strong Once on the train through the Carpathian Mountains
towards Bucharest, New Orleans was so bad I was forced to cut
the trip short. One particular section of Rome
is best avoided. Some of my worst moments have
occurred when long drives take me through the mountains and
woods of Appalachia. But nothing compares to the
terror of that night, the terror of that moment.
Handprints. The car was covered in
handprints, Every inch of it. The hood, the doors, the roof.
Long, ragged scars stretched where it tried to pry back the
metal. The door handles were loose from
being pawed at relentlessly. One handle had been torn clean
off. Every part of my car had been
clawed and pried and chewed and jerked and ripped.
This was hunger. This was a craving I couldn't
imagine. I saw the claw Marks and the
handprint on the window pane. I remembered sleeping with my
face against the glass. One thing layer of glass.
This vehicle was my shark cage. If I hadn't locked the doors.
My horror grew as I studied the prints.
They were nearly human. Nothing is worse than nearly
human. The hands were twice the size of
my own. The fingers were long and thin.
Emaciated, maybe. To this day, I swear there were
six fingers on those handprints. The hands must have been caked
in dirt, judging by the smudges they made.
I try not to imagine from where the dirt came.
A dusty attic, a muddy cellar, an open grave.
The worst part was realizing I was not insane.
I'd sensed it the whole time. Moments pass where I still sense
it, but in that moment, standing there in the fog, that feeling
broke the surface again. The hunger was watching,
staring, waiting. For some reason, my mind went to
the second story window, the master bedroom, but I never
looked back at the house. I got in my car and I drove off,
and I never looked back at the house.
If I had, I think I would have seen it then, but I will never
go back. You couldn't bribe, threaten or
force me within 10 miles of that place.
That feeling, I believe, is innate.
Everybody has it, even if they can't place it.
It's an evolutionary adaptation, a survival response, a sixth
sense. We've come to discount our fear,
and we are paying the price. 50% of murders in the United States
go unsolved, and 25% of missing persons are never found.
We aren't the only intelligent species in this world, and the
others aren't our friends. Our ancestors knew somewhere in
the void of mythic history. They gave it names, after all.
You know it's names. They knew the evil was out there
hunting us. But I discovered the truth then,
in the house on Maple Ave. and I haven't slept a full night
since. We are but sentient apes
wandering in a dark forest. We exist in the shadow of
terrible cosmic entities, and we rest only in their momentary
indifference. There is no such thing as
paranoia. Your worst fears can come true
at any moment. I'm a long time backpacker, and
in the spring of 2010 I took a trip to Bulgaria to explore some
regions I'd heard about. I'd already done some
backpacking throughout Europe and some mountain climbing in
France, so I was eager to add new locations to the list of
places I've seen. Specifically, I learned of a new
province in Bulgaria called Montana, which will be familiar
to almost any listener from the States.
Montana, a word from several other languages across the
globe, means mountain. This province of Bulgaria was
known for its sublime mountain features and serene views and
overlooks. I was staying in a city called
Sophia, the capital city of Bulgaria.
It's an ancient city set into the heart of the Balin
Wilderness. Rolling green hills turn into
the foundation for the Balin Mountains, a towering Stonewall
of rugged beauty. Bulgaria is a nation of
unwavering durability. And that long lasting strength
is perfectly reflected in the monumental structure of their
mountain range. I spent the first couple of days
just meandering around the city. I had never been to Sofia before
and wanted to experience Bulgarian culture.
The food was incredible. I found lots of great stews and
breads that claim to be from very old recipes.
There were some more modern chefs in more modern restaurants
and they had fresh garden salads with wild herbs, fresh caught
fish entrees, and even fried street food.
Honestly it kind of reminded me of Prague with the open door
policy of the downtown area. The beautiful people just
walking around, lots of dark stunning architecture, cool
statues and historic bridges. The city's motto was something
like ever growing, never aging, which was really accurate.
It was like a place stuck in time.
During my trip, there was something going on in Sofia.
Not all the pieces had come together yet, but there was
something about a crime spree, some folks on the run, stuff
like that. It all seemed pretty contained,
spoken about, and even published in local newspapers as if it
were an ongoing burden with the same group of people.
I just gave it very little thought.
When I started speaking to folks in the area about my interest in
backpacking through the Balan Mountains, I had some very stern
fingers wagged in my face. Some of the old timers warned me
there was a certain area that I should avoid.
I should never enter any of the caves, no matter what the
situation. Do not go underground.
It was weird, but I had my own theories as to why they were
suggesting this. Bulgaria was heavily occupied
during the Second World War. I read there was a lot of old
bunkers, old wartime storage facilities underground.
I learned this because as a hiker, I needed to be Privy to
the dangers lurking in the area. This was the first time that
landmines were on the list. Some of these people literally
pulled out maps and showed me where not to go.
I wished I had paid more attention to them.
I looked, I smiled, I nodded, but I didn't really hear them as
there was a language barrier. They were already being pretty
vague. I packed up my equipment and hit
the trail that appealed to me most.
The following morning at that trailhead, I found a number of
people getting ready to make the ascent into the Balkans.
Many of them were foreigners like me.
It turned out this was a great tourist season for Sophia.
As I stood alongside Asian, German, and other American
tourists. It was good to hear some genuine
Midwestern voices out there. As the group started departing,
I realized most of them were going in the same direction.
I didn't want to hike alongside anybody, and a very steep,
jagged Cliff that caught my eye in the opposite direction
followed the trail up the same way as the others for a time
before breaking off and taking the splinter trail through a
couple of grassy Bluffs. The trail that I was taking was
much sharper, much steeper. The incline was quickly losing
my breath. I metered my steps to maintain
my energy and endurance. No sense in burning myself up in
the first mile. As the morning went on, the
rugged hillside turned into a much nicer jaunt through the
boulder field, which was situated on something of a
plateau along the mountain. This range is huge.
It stretches for miles and towers for thousands of feet.
There are all manner of terrain features nestled into its bosom.
Well, wouldn't you know it, the route that I decided to go on
just happened to be taking me into the heart of the area that
the locals told me not to go. By the time it was noon, I was
getting ready to take a short break, soak in the views, have a
small lunch maybe, and generally just catch my breath.
Well, I got off the path, tucked myself into this little bowl
atop some rocks, broke out my food.
It was supremely quiet, beyond beautiful, bright and not too
warm. Just perfect.
As I sat there and ate, I looked around.
I thought I could hear footsteps approaching me from behind and
then on the left, the direction of the trail.
After a bit, I turned to find somebody coming down from the
summit. I watched him walk for a bit,
wondering if I should shout hello to him.
I figured it was another tourist, though they probably
didn't want to be bothered. As he approached, I could tell
that he was a local. He was wearing very plain
clothing, looked filthy, and his boots were worn to almost
nothing. He walked with this agitated
gait that implied that he might be drunk or injured, maybe even
starving. It's hard to tell.
I just know that he was walking weird.
He trudged on by, continued downhill, disappeared, and
eventually I couldn't hear him any longer.
Seeing him though, made me curious, and if I wanted to make
good time and still see the top, I needed to get moving myself.
I finished my food, packed up, and hiked higher up the mountain
opposite of the guy I just saw. After an hour or so I started
seeing cave systems all over, mouths left and right.
I quickly remembered all those warnings from the old timers.
I realized where I was and remembered the guy that I saw.
What was he up to being so dirty?
Maybe he was a caver or a miner or something like that.
I followed up the path until it split and for some reason I
could tell that there was a razor thin offshoot where this
guy had come from. It looked like a very worn path
between some boulders. I could even see The Dirty marks
in the rocks where somebody regularly placed their hand to
navigate the pass. I turned and wandered up that
way myself. It LED me through some trees
over a lopsided hill until I saw a low cave mouth tucked into the
base of the next descent of the mountain.
It was all very clearly trafficked in and out, lots of
dust and evidence of coming and going.
I walked over to it, knowing that guy was gone but still had
this uneasy feeling of being watched or at least seen.
I felt exposed out in the open either way.
I went over to The Cave and to my surprise I found this
makeshift fire pit sleeping area.
Some blankets, some carpets underneath, even an animal fur
rug. It honestly looked cozy, clearly
where that guy was living. I felt like I was snooping
around or something, and I definitely shouldn't be.
There was nothing really super alarming, but it just felt out
of place. There was a pile of honeycombs,
like harvested right out of the hive, being stored inside glass
Mason jars. There was a lot of it.
It seemed to be the only guy's food source.
There was a chair hammered together with random wooden
nails, and in the back chamber a collection of random things.
A pile of different eyeglasses, a couple of handbags, purses,
shoes, just all manner of random things.
Now that part was creepy, so I bolted.
I got back down to the main path, decided to keep going and
clear the summit, then started down the mountain, face straight
shot for the trailhead. I still had to walk myself back
into Sofia, so I had several hours of walking ahead of me.
I'd say about halfway down I encountered a couple coming up
themselves. I waved.
They waved back, but their motions seemed hurried, almost
panicked. Once we got close, they said
there'd been a man behind them, going in and out of the woods,
even chasing them. He screamed.
All this kind of weird stuff threatened to throw them off a
Cliff. I gave them a description of the
man that I saw earlier. They confirmed it was the same
guy. The couple was Bulgarian, but
not from Sophia. They weren't totally familiar
with the area. After a minute of talking and
surveying, they gathered their composure and decided to just
press on. We said our goodbyes and parted
ways. Now I was nervous.
I actually kept off the trail a little bit.
This ended up being a really good idea as when I came over
that Ridge I saw the guy down below me.
Fortunately, I could see another group of hikers maybe 1/2 mile
down from him. I knew there were friendlies
nearby, but still, I just wanted to keep as far away as possible
from this guy. Staying off the path, I
continued my descent, but in some odd twist of fate, the guy
saw me. We locked eyes and I knew
something was up immediately. It looked weird, more than
crazy. He started bee lining right
toward me, right up the side of the hill.
I smiled, raised my hand to him, and said hello down there in the
most American accent that I could muster.
It was my only move. Complete confidence.
It worked. He heard me speak and became
agitated, then started marching the other way back toward the
trail, muttering something underneath his breath.
I couldn't make out all of it, but what I did hear was very
hateful. Like I mentioned earlier, I'd
planned this trip for a while, so I came to Bulgaria with a
rudimentary understanding of the language.
Everything that guy said was about me.
Relieved, I continued to boogie down the mountain as quickly as
possible, never caught up with those hikers as they were
jamming out the miles even quicker than me.
It seemed everybody who encountered that creep was on a
mission to avoid him as well. The rest of my 10 days in
Bulgaria, I didn't hike in that area again.
I remembered some of what I read in the newspapers at the start.
It was about some people missing in the mountains.
I couldn't help but wonder if maybe that guy had something to
do with it. The next year a man was arrested
for the murder of at least one woman.
His preferred hiding spot was deep in the mountains in a cave
near the first hiking trip. And I'm pretty sure that I saw
that guy. I was a young university student
in 2009, fresh faced and brimming with excitement about
my life in a quiet town of Vadtrov.
I hadn't been born here. I had moved here from a similar
small town called Zaman to start my studies and in the process
moved in with my grandmother in this old house at the edge of
town. Zan was further West and I
needed to be close to Vosta for my program.
Also, Vadtroff was as close as I could get without paying rent.
I had a daily commute of 90 minutes on the railway.
The house was small and creaky but had its charm and almost
fairy tale quality, enhanced by the stunning views of the walk
in mountains that framed our horizon like a grand green
tapestry. Every morning I'd wake up to the
mist curling around the mountain peaks, and every evening I'd
watch the sun dip down below the ridges, casting the whole sky in
shades of Crimson and gold. Bulgaria is beautiful, but this
was true storybook living, and I fondly remember those days.
My days followed a comforting rhythm, classes at university,
afternoon spent in the company of friends at the local cafe,
and quiet evenings at home with my grandmother.
She was a warm, gentle soul who would brew tea and tell me
stories of her own youth, stories that seem to emerge
seamlessly with the serenity of the landscape just outside our
window. I'd call my parents occasionally
back in Zeeman from time to time, sharing tales of my small
town adventures and the idyllic life that I was currently
leading. I didn't tell them about those
late nights getting drunk with my classmates, but I'm sure they
had some kind of an idea. But then one day, that idyllic
routine was completely shattered.
I'd come home after a long day, anticipating the usual
tranquillity of the old house, perhaps even a good meal
prepared by my grandmother. I had a lot on my mind and a
pile of assignments, so I was kind of checked out.
As I rounded the corner onto our street, I saw something that
froze my blood. Yellow police tape fluttered
ominously in the breeze. Traffic cones were strewn across
the roadway. Police officers in dark uniforms
swarmed the area, their voices carrying this undertone of
urgency. Small groups of onlookers
clearly were not letting anybody through.
My heart was pounding in my chest.
I sprinted up the driveway, my thoughts racing the whole time.
Something happened to my grandmother.
Had she fallen or some kind of accident?
My steps quickened as I reached our street, but the sight that
greeted me next was far worse than any fear I could have
conjured up. I approached a cluster of
onlookers who all gathered at the edge of the police cordon.
I caught fragments of hushed conversations, my name in a few
of them. The whispers grew louder,
sharper, more incessant. A woman had been murdered in a
bungalow across the street. My initial shock was like a cold
slap to the face. This was Vadtrov, a small, close
knit community where the most exciting thing that usually
happened was a neighbor's dog getting loose.
I managed to squeeze through the crowd and make my way to the
bungalow in question. The crime scene tape glowed
starkly against the dimming sky, creating a grim boundary between
the normal world and something far darker.
The bungalow itself was a modest, picturesque place, an
irony that stung sharply now given the horror that had just
occurred within its walls. This was as close as anybody
could get. The policeman quickly ushered me
back to the sidewalk. They weren't taking any chances
and had very little patience actually threatening me for
crossing the police line. I didn't say anything.
It wasn't worth the trouble. I simply rejoined the crowd and
waited for the order to be admitted to the neighborhood.
The victim, a woman who'd been alone when it happened.
Her family hadn't arrived until the following day.
It turned out that the woman was part of a family who only used
the bungalow on weekends and holidays.
Part timers, but still a family. My grandmother knew them.
They came to stay off in and were always friendly during
their visits. Personally, I hadn't met them,
though the woman had come early to prepare the house for her
husband and her daughter. I imagined her excited, hopeful,
setting up the place for a weekend of familial warmth and
togetherness, only to meet a brutal end instead.
And on top of that, I wondered who it could be.
They didn't have anybody arrested yet, so in theory it
could be anybody. I suddenly understood why they
were being so harsh on the onlookers.
From what I understood, she'd been killed the day before after
a somewhat bizarre phone call home to her daughter.
After not answering the phone on the following day, the woman's
husband and daughter came to check on her, only to discover
her dead inside the house. Her body was desecrated, a cross
carved into her forehead, one of her breasts ruthlessly removed.
Horrific, and not something the village had ever seen before.
As the days continued to pass, I tried to piece together the
fragments of that story. The local news was abuzz with
all the details. Detectives had been brought in
from Sophia, and the town was gripped by a mix of fear and
curiosity. It was a long time before a man
was apprehended. He wasn't a serial killer, just
some man who had succumbed to a mental illness.
Rumor spread he'd been in and out of prison, a fractured soul
who once had lived a relatively normal life, but had been torn
apart by something completely sinister.
He became a squatter, a hermit living in the nearby caves.
His existence was marked by aggression and violence.
He wasn't caught until two years after her death.
His traceless existence in the mountains made him nearly
impossible to find. The whispers of the man later
dubbed the killer from The Cave travelled through the town like
a chilling breeze. It was said he'd snapped
completely, driven by some dark, unseen force.
I heard from one of the officers, a friend of my
grandmother's. He lived for years inside those
caves, a wild eyed figure who appeared only at the edges of
the forest and the lives of those unfortunate enough to
cross his path. The atmosphere inside Vadtrov
never returned to its old self. The air seemed to be heavier
now, the shadows even darker. The people who lived in the
neighborhood became more guarded, their conversations
hushed. The memory of the murder
lingered like a ghost among us all, an unwelcome specter in the
everyday life of that town. I didn't follow the case closely
after that. The initial shock had just
proceeded into this quiet, gnawing discomfort that I
preferred to ignore. I learned later that the man,
the killer from The Cave, was not a figment of some collective
paranoia, but a real threat who disrupted the lives of so many.
His capture was the end of one chapter, but the unsettling
nature of his existence left an indelible mark on the community.
To this day, when I think back to those days in Vodtroff, I
remember the beautiful mountains, the warm
conversations with my grandmother, and the creeping
dread that seeped into our lives with that one brutal act.
The town never quite felt the same again, neither did I.
The killer from The Cave wasn't just a monster from the shadows,
he was a reminder of how thin the veneer of safety can
actually be, and how easily the everyday normal can be shattered
by the unimaginable. I personally have seen my share
of darkness in my years with the National Police Service.
A few cases etched themselves into my mind as deeply as the
one involving Mahala Larkey, better known as the Killer from
The Cave. I was a junior officer working
in the outer provinces of Western Bulgaria back in 2009, a
time when the shadows of this country seemed darker, more
oppressive. It was a case that stretched
painfully over two years, testing my patience and resolve
more and more each day. Lars Story began in obscurity.
He was born inside a small village to a woman whose life
had been marred by hardship. Her struggles with alcohol and
mental distress were compounded by a car accident that left her
in an even worse state. Her husband was even more
injured, crippled from the incident itself.
Mahale grew up amid this turmoil and, predictably, had become a
chronic thief. His crimes at the time were
small but persistent. He was often in and out of
prison, where his brother would come to visit him, occasionally
asking for money. In the early years of his
release, Mahal kept a low profile, working at hotel
complexes, but it wasn't long before his criminal tendencies
resurfaced, leading to multiple incarcerations.
When his probation ended, Ma's mental state deteriorated very
rapidly. One day in a fit of rage, he
destroyed several vehicles at his workplace and then vanished
into the mountain. When we questioned his brother
and his Co workers, they all said the same thing.
Mahal believed he wasn't cut out for normal life in society.
This was further confirmed by the note in his prisoner files.
He was called an ideal prisoner but a bad citizen.
He just couldn't stay out of trouble.
For years Mahali lived in those mountains, squatting in various
caves and empty homes. His hideouts were unstable and
transient as he was. It also became apparent he had a
chilling habit of using those hiding places as makeshift
graves. When investigators later
uncovered his primary cave, they found not just his personal
belongings but also items belonging to several missing
persons. The implication was grim.
He had committed multiple murders before the crime in
Vadtrov. His violent nature was confirmed
by others he waylaid during his vagrancy, including sexual
assault and even rape. The murder of Elena was a tragic
culmination of Mahal's downward spiral.
Elena was a woman of old country kindness, visiting her bungalow
in Vadtroff. Mahala had been squatting there
for a week before Elena discovered him.
In a surprising act of naivety, Elena allowed Mahal to stay at
her home, perhaps believing kindness could tame the savage
nature of this complete stranger.
It was also a form of old world thinking that he was a good
person, just simply down on his luck.
Their interaction began benignly enough.
Mahalo, caught off guard by Elena's presence, initially
tried to charm her with a request to make food over a
simple meal. Elena began to scold Mahal for
his unkempt appearance and lifestyle.
The scolding was mild at first, just a woman trying to make
sense of a man that she didn't fully understand.
But Ma's patience quickly wore thin.
In a moment of volatile rage, he throttled Elena to death in her
own bedroom, a tragic reminder of how quickly kindness can turn
into peril. It turned out that Elena was a
member of a certain religious subsect and preached often.
Mahali just turned out to be the wrong audience.
When Mahal disappeared into the mountains after her murder, he
was largely surviving on whatever he could, primarily
honey. His craving for theft, however,
never abated. It was his insatiable need to
steal that eventually would lead to his capture.
The man had a knack for breaking into rich homes, cars and even
pickpocketing unsuspecting victims.
Inside the city, he was a shadow flitting in and out of luxury, a
thief with a penchant for the extravagant.
Bulgaria, being such an old country, has railways that tie
all of the villages and cities together.
Mahal was able to drift in and out of all manner of communities
via these rail systems, sometimes even hopping on trains
in the middle of the woods. He was crafty, stayed off the
radar, and was nothing but a ghoul to the NPS.
For two years, our task force was assembled to track down the
elusive criminal. We sifted through the
surveillance footage, piercing together Maas movements.
The video evidence showed him repeatedly appearing in the same
affluent neighborhoods, his face gradually becoming familiar to
us. Now with this information, we
focused our efforts on searching the mountainous region where
Mahali was rumored to be hiding out.
Hikers and transients had encountered a strange man in the
mountains, and all the reports were pretty consistent.
Everything was beginning to come together.
The search was exhaustive. We combed through an endless
network of tunnels and caves, each one more treacherous and
claustrophobic than the last. The air in those tunnels was
thick, combined with the dank, musty odor of neglect and decay,
every step seemed to echo with the ghostly remnants of Mahal's
past crimes. Finally, we located him in a
filthy den outside of Mezdra. The site was unsettling, a
disheveled, wild eyed man sleeping amidst a heap of
garbage, his face unrecognizable from his photographs.
Mahal's sanctuary was this grotesque mockery of comfort, a
refuge built from scraps. The moment of his apprehension
was almost anti climactic. We surrounded the den and when
he woke, his eyes were vacant, as if he had resigned himself to
his fate. We didn't even need to use
force. He was too exhausted and broken
to resist any of us. As we led him away, his gaze
remained fixed on the dark streaked walls of his makeshift
home. A man surrendering to the end of
his pitiful existence. Mahali Larkey was booked on
multiple charges, the murder of Elena, numerous thefts, and even
a handful of unsolved murders that haunted our records for
years. The case was one of the most
disturbing things I ever encountered, just a stark
reminder of how thin the line is between normalcy and chaos
itself. He was sentenced to two life
terms at Sophia Central Prison. The killer from The Cave became
a dark legend, a cautionary tale of how the human psyche can
unravel into something monstrous.
To this day, when I think about Mahali Larkey, it's with a heavy
heart. His story was a harrowing
journey from a troubled childhood to a reign of terror,
his crimes a haunting reminder of the fragile veneer of
civilization. In the quiet moments when the
world outside seems to grow still, I can almost hear the
echoes of that dark past, a grim Symphony of madness and despair
that just never quite fades away.
I lived in Freiburg, Germany for most of my life.
It's a beautiful city, right on the edge of the Black Forest.
Growing up, I naturally heard all the old stories about the
forest, tales of mischievous dwarfs, mysterious glass makers,
and spirits that roam the woods. But to me, they were always just
stories, at least until I had my own experience.
I work as a freelance photographer, mostly doing
nature shots for travel magazines and the like.
Honestly, it's a dream job. I get to spend my days hiking
through some of the most beautiful landscapes in Europe,
camera in hand. The Black Forest has always been
one of my favorite spots. There's something about the
dense, dark trees and the mist that often clings to the ground.
It's atmospheric to me. The eeriness can be relaxing.
I had a Commission from a hiking magazine to get some shots of
the less traveled paths in the forest.
They wanted to feature hidden gems for experienced hikers.
I was thrilled. This was a chance to explore
some areas I hadn't been to before.
My usual hiking partner Mark couldn't make it at the last
minute. Sorry mate, he said over the
phone. My kids got the flu, you going
to be OK on your own? I assured him I'd be fine.
It's just a couple of nights. I'll stick to the plan and check
in when I can. I set out early on a Tuesday
morning in late October. There was a light fog hanging
over the city as I drove towards the forest.
I'd planned a three day trip, staying at some of the more
remote mountain huts along the trail.
The first day went smoothly. I hiked about 20 kilometers
following one of the lesser known trails.
The autumn colors were stunning, deep Reds and golds of the Beech
trees contrasting beautifully with the dark green of the
spruces and firs. I even got some great shots of
the Bergbach waterfall, which was roaring from the recent
rains. As evening approached, I made it
to the first Hut. The place was basic but
comfortable enough. It had a few bunk beds, a small
kitchen area and most importantly, a roof over my
head. The forecast had mentioned
possible showers and I could hear the wind picking up
outside. But then I heard something else,
a long, low howl echoing through the trees.
I know what you might be thinking.
Wolves, right? And yes, I know they've been
making a comeback in Germany, But in all my years hiking the
Black Forest, I'd never heard one.
It sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to shrug it off.
Maybe it was just the wind, or maybe I was lucky enough to
finally hear one of the newly returned wolves.
But as I sat there, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up,
and I heard it again. It was closer this time.
I'm not ashamed to admit I was a bit creeped out.
I've spent plenty of nights alone in the woods, but
something about this felt different.
Wrong. I made sure the Hut door was
securely locked and tried to get some sleep, but every little
sound put me further on edge. I must have dozed off
eventually, because the next thing I knew it was dawn.
The forest was quiet except for the usual morning bird calls.
I felt a bit foolish in the light of day.
I probably just let my imagination run wild.
Last night I packed up and set off, determined to get some good
shots. The path I was following was
barely visible at times, all overgrown and rarely used.
It was exactly what the magazine was asking for.
As the day wore on, I began to feel this watched feeling.
That feeling you get when the hairs on your arms stand up and
you just know someone is out there looking at you.
It was that, but intense. Every time I turned around,
there would be nothing there. I tried to focus on my work, but
I kept finding myself glancing over my shoulder.
The forest seemed darker somehow, the shadows deeper than
they should have been. At one point I could have sworn
I saw something move just at the edge of my vision, but when I
turned to look once again, there was nothing there.
By late afternoon, I was seriously considering cutting my
trip short. The feeling of being watched
only grew worse, and now I was beginning to hear things.
The snapping of twigs, leaves rustling, always just out of
sight. I checked my phone, hoping to
call Mark or maybe even the local Ranger, but of course, no
signal. Just my luck.
I pushed on to the next Hut, arriving just as it was getting
dark. This one was even more isolated
than the 1st, and as I approached, I heard a splash
from a nearby stream. What I saw then, I still have
trouble believing even now. Standing in the stream, not 20
meters away from me, was something.
At first glance, it looked like a man.
Tall, muscular, standing on two legs.
But as I stared, unable to move, I realized it wasn't human at
all. Its body was covered in thick,
dark fur. Its face was elongated, almost
like a wolf's snout, with teeth that looked wickedly sharp even
from where I stood. Its eyes were amber, glowing in
the fading light, and they were fixed right on me.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I couldn't even breathe. Then, slowly, deliberately, it
lifted its head and let out that same howl I'd heard the night
before. I ran.
I'd like to say I was brave, that I stood my ground or tried
to document what I saw, but the truth is, blind panic took over.
I just ran, leaving my backpack behind.
I stumbled through the woods, tripping over roots and rocks,
my lungs beginning to burn. I'm not sure if it was fear or
my mind causing me to hear it, but I thought I could hear it
behind me. These heavy footfalls, snapping
branches. I don't know how long I ran, it
felt like hours. Eventually I broke out of the
tree line onto one of the main hiking paths.
There were a few other hikers. They're looking at me like I was
crazy. I'm sure I looked that way.
Whoa, are you all right? One of them asked.
He was a big guy who looked like a serious outdoorsman.
I babbled something about a wolf, pointing back the way I'd
come from. The hiker looked at his buddy,
and the buddy looked back. A wolf here, his friend said,
looking skeptical. I mean, maybe a dog.
There's a village not far from. Eventually I talked them into
checking it out, probably more to humor me than anything else.
They came back a few minutes later, shaking their heads.
Nothing there, friend. The first guy said.
You sure you're OK? Do you need us to call someone?
I must have looked a real mess. They kept insisting on giving me
a ride back to Freiburg. I think they assumed I'd had
some kind of panic attack, this overworked city guy not used to
the forest, that sort of thing. I didn't correct them though,
but I didn't know what else to say.
It took me a few days to work up the courage to go back for my
gear, this time with Mark accompanying me when he was free
and we went in broad daylight. We found my backpack right where
I dropped it. No tracks though, no sign that
anything else had been there. You sure you didn't spook
yourself, mate? Mark asked me as we hiked back.
You know how creepy it is out here, especially when you're
alone. I nodded, not trusting myself to
speak. I still live here in Freiburg, I
still work as a photographer, but I've learned my lesson about
the Black Forest. I won't go back out there alone,
and even in the middle of the city I keep my doors and windows
locked up tight. To this day, I doubt what I saw.
I seriously hope it was just a trick of the light, my mind
twisting the forms and shadows of the branches and trees in
front of me. Then again, there's no mistaking
that howl. I truly believe that there is a
werewolf or something very much like it lurking in the Black
Forest.