My husband and I are a team of wildlife biologists specializing
in large predator tracking and population studies.
We often find ourselves camping in remote areas for days at a
time while collecting data and setting up trail cameras.
A few months ago, we were assigned to a project in
Yellowstone National Park. The goal was to gather
information on Wolfpack movements and their impact on
the local ecosystem. It was supposed to be a routine
trip. We had done this countless times
before, but what happened during those three days in Yellowstone
still haunts me. We arrived at our designated
campsite on a Tuesday afternoon. The weather was perfect, with
clear skies, a light breeze and the promise of a starry night
ahead. As we set up our tent and
equipment, I remember feeling excited about the work we'd be
doing. My husband, whom I'll call Tom
here, was in high spirits too, cracking jokes about how we
should open up a 5 star wilderness resort with our
expert tent pitching skills. After a simple dinner of
dehydrated camping meals, which Tom insists are getting better,
though I'm not convinced, we sat by the fire going over our plans
for the next few days. By then the sun had set and the
forest around us came alive with the sounds of owls hooting and
small animals moving in the underbrush.
It was very peaceful, very familiar.
But that didn't last long. We were sleeping in the tent
when suddenly, around midnight, Tom sat up, alert, causing me to
wake up too. Did you hear that?
He whispered. I hadn't, but the look on his
face made me strain my ears. There it was, the unmistakable
sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving through the
trees near our campsite. Tom grabbed his flashlight and
stepped out of the tent. I watched as his beam of light
cut through the darkness, sweeping through the tree line.
Nothing. And the footsteps had stopped.
Probably just a deer, Tom said as he crawled back into the
tent. But I could tell he wasn't
convinced. This scene repeated itself three
more times throughout the night. Each time, Tom would hear the
footsteps, go out to investigate, and find nothing.
By the time dawn broke, he was exhausted and on edge.
I swear, he said over his third cup of coffee in the morning,
those weren't animal footsteps. They sounded human.
I tried to reassure him, suggesting it could have been
another camper, maybe even a park Ranger doing nightly
rounds, but deep down I agreed. Something felt off.
Why wouldn't they respond when Tom called out to them?
Why did the sounds always stop just as he went to investigate?
Despite his lack of sleep, we had work to do.
We spent the next day hiking to our research sites, setting up
cameras and collecting samples. Tom was quieter than usual, his
eyes constantly scanning the trees around us.
I caught myself doing the same, that vague sense of unease
growing stronger every hour that passed.
It was mid afternoon when things took a turn from unsettling to
downright terrifying. We were checking a trail camera
we'd set up a while back when Tom froze, his hand gripping my
arm. Look.
He whispered, pointing to a clearing about 50 yards away.
At first I didn't see anything, but then a figure stepped out
from behind a large pine tree. It was tall, impossibly tall,
and thin too, with limbs that seemed too long for its body.
For a split second I thought it was just a trick of the light
shadows playing on a tree trunk of some sort, but then I saw it
move. The figures movements were jerky
and unnatural. They reminded me of a marionette
being pulled by strings. It took three long strides into
the clearing, its head swiveling in a way that made my stomach
churn. Then, as suddenly as it
appeared, it was gone, melting back into the shadows of the
forest. Tom and I stood there, rooted to
the spot. When I finally found my voice,
it came out as a hoarse whisper. What was that?
I don't know. Tom replied, his face pale.
But I think we should head back to camp now.
The walk back was tense, to say the least.
We moved quickly, constantly looking over our shoulders.
Every snapping twig or rustle of leaves made us jump.
By the time we made it back to our campsite, the sun was
setting, casting long shadows across the ground.
Neither of us had much of an appetite, but we forced down
some food anyway, knowing we needed the energy.
We didn't talk much, not much to say.
I guess we knew that we'd both seen something, Something that
shouldn't exist, or some sort of illusion that really freaked us
out. As darkness fell, we retreated
to our tent. Tom insisted on staying up to
keep watch, but I could see he was running on fumes.
Eventually, sheer exhaustion. One out and we both drifted into
an uneasy sleep. I'm not sure what woke me up.
A sound maybe? Or maybe that prickling sense of
wrongness that had been following us all day.
What I do know is that when I open my eyes, Tom was gone.
Panic seized me. I fumble for my phone,
activating the flashlight app with shaking fingers.
The tent was empty, Tom's sleeping bag pushed to the side.
Tom, I called out, my voice trembling.
There was no response. Heart pounding, I unzipped the
tent and stepped outside. The night was cool and still.
All I could hear was my own breathing.
I swept the flashlight beam across our campsite, seeing
nothing out of place so far. Tom, I called again, louder this
time. Still nothing.
Memories of the strange figure we'd seen flooded my mind.
What if it had taken Tom? What if he was out there
somewhere, hurt or worse? I started towards the tree line,
my legs feeling like lead. The beam of my flashlight seemed
pathetically small against the vast forest.
I'd only gone a few steps when I heard it, footsteps behind me
coming from the direction of our tent.
I whirled around, relief washing over me as I saw a silhouette
enter the tent. Tom.
He must have gone to use the bathroom or check on something
in the truck. Feeling a bit foolish for my
panic, I hurried back to the tent.
Tom, you scared me half to death.
I said as I climbed inside. Where'd you go off to?
There was no answer, but I felt movement as Tom settled into his
sleeping bag. I got back into mine, still a
bit shaken up, but mostly relieved.
I felt Tom's arm drape over me. It made me feel so much better,
and despite the strangeness of the past few days, I found
myself drifting back to sleep. I woke up to bright sunlight
filtering through the tent walls.
Tom's arm was no longer around me, and his sleeping bag was
empty. Figuring he must have gotten an
early start, I got dressed and stepped outside.
I spotted Tom by our truck, closing the driver's side door.
The man looked awful, dark circles under his eyes, his
movements slow and clumsy. Rough night?
I asked, walking over to him. He nodded, stifling a yawn.
Yeah. Couldn't sleep in the tent
again. Kept hearing those darn
footsteps. Ended up sleeping in the truck.
I frowned, confused. The truck?
Wait, when did you leave the tent last night?
Tom gave me an odd look. Around midnight, I guess.
I tried to wake you up to see if you wanted to join me, but you
were out cold. A chill ran down my spine.
My mind raced. Tom.
I said slowly. What time did you come back to
the tent this morning? He shook his head.
I didn't. This is the first time I've been
out of the truck since midnight. I felt the blood drained from my
face as the full implication of his words hit me.
If Tom had been in the truck all night, then who or what had been
with me in the tent whose arm had held me as I slept?
I opened my mouth, trying to find the words to explain what
happened, but nothing came out. Tom must have seen the horror on
my face because he stepped closer and asked.
Hun, are you OK? What's wrong?
I took a deep breath, my voice barely above a whisper as I
replied. There was someone else in our
tent last night. We left Yellowstone that day,
abandoning our research project. We requested a transfer to a
different area, citing personal reasons.
Tom and I keep the story to ourselves, afraid of what other
people might think, but knowing that our experiences were very
real and we know that that thing wasn't exactly human.
Even when I write this now, I feel the phantom weight of that
arm on me. It makes me feel so violated and
unsafe. I try not to wonder, but still I
do. What would have happened if I
had turned to look at that thing lying next to me in the dark?
When we first drove up the gravel Rd. leading to our new
home in the Appalachian Mountains, I remember feeling a
mix of excitement and a little fear.
It was like one of those adventures you'd read about in
books, where families find hidden treasures in old houses.
Only our treasure was supposed to be the farm itself, sprawling
across 50 acres of land. Dad was the happiest I'd ever
seen him. He kept saying things like, this
is it, kids, our own piece of paradise.
He had big dreams of fixing up the place.
The farm had been abandoned for a long time, and nature had
pretty much taken over. But to Dad, it was perfect.
Our first day there was like a scene from a movie.
We all got out of the car and stretched, breathing in the
fresh mountain air. Dad started filming with his old
camera, capturing every laugh and every step we took exploring
our new home. Mom was smiling, her eyes bright
with hopes of a fresh start. My younger siblings ran around,
their laughter echoing off the trees.
The house itself was a bit creepy, though.
It was at the base of the mountain, tucked away in a
hollow like it was hiding. The woods around us were thick
and dense, making our house feel even more secluded.
Sometimes the way the shadows moved made me uneasy, as if the
trees were whispering secrets to each other.
Strange things started happening a few weeks after we moved in.
Small accidents at first, tools going missing.
Windows that we had fixed suddenly found cracked again.
Weird noises at night that none of us could explain.
Dad said it was all part of living in an old place, but I
wasn't so sure. As time went on, Dad began to
change. The joy he felt when we first
arrived started to fade. He spent more and more time
alone, often just staring out into the woods with a worried
look on his face. He stopped filming our
adventures, and sometimes he didn't even seem to hear us when
we talked to him. One night, I woke up to the
sound of him talking in the living room.
I crept down the stairs and saw him sitting in the dark, the
only light coming from the moon shining through the window.
He was talking to someone, but no one was there.
I called out to him and he jumped like I'd startled him
from a deep thought. He just shook his head and said
he was fine, but I knew he wasn't.
Those shadows in his eyes weren't just from the lack of
sleep. Things kept getting worse.
Dad started forgetting things like picking us up from school
or locking the doors at night. Mom tried to help him, but
whatever was happening to him seemed to be pulling him further
and further away from us. I started feeling scared, not
just of the dark or the strange sounds in the woods, but of what
was happening to Dad. It was like the farm, with all
its whispered promises, was swallowing him whole, and I
didn't know how to help him. All I could do was watch as the
dad I knew was slowly disappearing, replaced by
someone or something that seemed lost in the shadows of the old
Appalachian farm. After that summer, things went
from bad to worse. Our trailer felt more like a
haunted house than a home. The walls and floors were
falling apart, and sometimes when the wind blew, it felt like
the whole place might just blow away with it.
Dad said we just needed to tough it out a bit longer, but I could
see the worry in his eyes every time he looked around at the
crumbling walls. The whispers that I once thought
were just wine through the leaves had turned into voices by
then. At night I could hear them, and
they weren't friendly. They said mean things, filling
the air with cold and fear. I knew Dad heard them too,
because sometimes I'd catch him arguing back, whispering
fiercely into the darkness. Then came that awful night.
It was so hot that the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down
on us. Mom and dad were fighting again.
Their voices were loud and angry, and I could feel that
something terrible was about to happen.
I was in the living room with my siblings, trying to keep them
calm, but we all were scared. Suddenly everything went quiet.
Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels
like it's screaming. Dad walked into the room and his
face was different. It was like all the shadows in
the house had settled on him, making him look darker, scarier.
He had a gun in his hand. I'd never seen it before, and it
made my heart stop. The whispers were there too,
louder than ever, swirling around him like dark smoke.
They were saying terrible things, pushing him, telling him
we'd be better off without him. I wanted to scream, to tell them
to stop, but I was frozen. Dad just stood there for what
felt like forever. Then slowly he walked over to
his chair across the room and sat down.
He looked so tired and so sad. Tears were running down his
cheeks as he looked at us and said, I'm so sorry for
everything. His voice broke and it was the
most heartbreaking sound I'd ever heard.
He lifted the gun and I felt my sister's hands cover my eyes.
I heard a loud bang, louder than anything I'd ever heard.
I screamed, and when my sister finally let go, I saw Dad
slumped in the chair, but he was still breathing, still alive.
That night changed everything. Dad survived, and something
about that night made him want to fight the shadows.
We left the farm not long after, seeking help and hoping to
escape the darkness that had taken over our lives.
Even though we moved away, the memories of that night followed
us. Dad got better, but he was never
the same. The farm stayed with us, too,
like a bad dream that wouldn't end.
We never went back, but sometimes I'd catch Dad staring
out the window, a distant look in his eyes, as if he was still
listening to the whispers of that old haunted farm.
My friends Andrea, Mario and I had always been up for an
adventure, especially when it involved the great outdoors.
That's why when we decided to explore the Tahoe National
Forest, I was super excited. I knew it was going to be an
adventure we'd never forget. I'm the kind of person who loves
hiking and camping, and I was thrilled to share this trip with
my friends. We packed up my old Jeep Grand
Cherokee with everything we thought we'd need.
A couple of sleeping bags, a tent just in case, plenty of
snacks, and of course, Mario's camera equipment.
Mario is a photographer and he was especially eager to take
some cool shots of the wilderness and the stars at
night. As for me, all I brought was my
trusty fishing rod and a couple of knives.
After all, I felt at home in the woods and like to keep things
simple. The drive to Tahoe was filled
with our favorite tunes and lots of laughter.
We talked about the places we might explore and the kind of
photos Mario wanted to take. The further we drove from the
city, the more the scenery changed.
Tall buildings and busy streets gave way to open skies and
towering trees. It was like entering another
world, one that was quieter and Wilder.
As we drove deeper into the forest, our cell phones lost
service. I wasn't worried though.
I had been in situations like this many times before, but I
could tell Andrea was a bit nervous.
I reassured her that everything was going to be fine, that it
was part of the adventure. Finally, we found the perfect
spot to park the Jeep and set up camp for the night.
It was a small clearing off a bumpy dirt Rd.
We weren't going to set up the tent yet since we decided to
sleep in the Jeep. It might sound weird sleeping
all crammed in a car, but it was actually pretty cozy and fun.
Plus, it felt like a little adventure on its own.
We spent the evening chilling out.
Mario took some pictures of the sunset while Andrea and I
prepared our sleeping area in the back of the Jeep.
As night fell, the forest came alive with sounds, the distant
hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, and
the occasional snap of a twig. It was both exciting and a tiny
bit spooky. We had our dinner sandwiches and
chips, nothing fancy, and then spent some time stargazing.
Mario tried to capture some of the beauty with his camera.
Although it was really dark, we talked and joked around until
our eyelids began to droop. By then the forest felt like a
second home or maybe a mysterious new planet we had
just landed on. I remember thinking how lucky I
was to have friends who were up for this kind of thing.
As we settled into our sleeping bags, the last thing I said was
this is the best, we should do this more often.
And with that we drifted off to sleep, not knowing that the real
adventure was just about to begin.
It was the perfect start to our trip, but as I would soon learn,
the wilderness had surprises waiting for us that would test
our courage and show us how unpredictable nature could be.
That night, after we all tried to sleep for a bit in the
cramped back of the Jeep, something weird happened.
It was like the whole forest decided to wake up.
I could hear twigs snapping outside and even though it was a
hot night and we had the windows cracked open a bit, the sounds
made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Did you guys hear that? I whispered to Andrea and Mario.
They were both awake too, looking a bit scared.
What was that sound? Andrea asked, her voice barely a
whisper. I didn't want to freak them out,
but I was pretty curious about what was out there.
Maybe it was just a deer or some small animal, I thought, but
part of me wanted to check it out.
After all, isn't that part of the adventure?
Let's go see what it is. I suggested, trying to sound
braver than I felt. Mario was always up for taking
photos, so he grabbed his camera and I took my crossbow just in
case. We carefully opened the Jeep
door, trying not to make too much noise.
Andrea decided to stay behind. You guys are crazy, she said,
but she handed me the car keys just in case.
With only our headlamps to light the way, Mario and I walked into
the forest. The night was super dark and
every little sound seemed louder.
We didn't talk much, we just listened to the owls and the
rustle of leaves under our feet. We walked like that for about 15
minutes, looking for a good spot where Mario could take a photo
of the sky. That's when we found a little
Creek, it's water flowing quietly in the dark.
I was about to say something when Mario suddenly stopped.
He put a hand up to signal me to be quiet.
Listen, he whispered. I stood really still and
listened. But it was the strangest thing.
There were no sounds, no crickets, no frogs, nothing.
It was like the forest had gone completely silent.
I had never heard such silence before.
It was eerie. Then, out of nowhere, there it
was, a pair of glowing eyes watching us from about 40 feet
away. They were reflecting light from
our headlamps, staring at us from behind a tree.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
Whatever it was, it wasn't just any forest animal.
This thing was big, and it was standing on two legs, almost as
if it was trying to hide and watch us at the same time.
I quickly turned off my headlamp and loaded an arrow into my
crossbow. Turn off your light, Mario.
I whispered, but he was frozen, just staring at the creature.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the creature moved.
It stepped out from behind the tree and we could see it more
clearly. Two large yellow eyes and a huge
dark figure. It had no fur and its head was
oddly shaped, almost round. I didn't think I just acted.
I aimed and shot an arrow towards it.
The creature was fast though. It dodged the arrow and took off
running on all fours towards the Creek.
Mario finally snapped out of it, and we both ran back to the Jeep
as fast as we could. My heart was pounding so hard I
could barely hear anything else. When we got back, Andrea was
waiting, worried. You guys look like you've seen a
ghost. She said as we climb back
inside, locking the doors behind us.
We need to leave now. I told her, still trying to
catch my breath. We didn't sleep much after that,
too shaken by what we had seen. What was that thing?
And were we safe? These questions kept us wide
awake until the first light of dawn.
After what we saw in the woods, none of us could sleep.
We were too scared and had too many questions.
As soon as the sun started to light up the sky a little, we
decided it was safe enough to leave our camping spot.
We drove back to town, still trying to make sense of
everything. I kept replaying the sight of
those glowing eyes and the eerie silence that had fallen over the
forest. When we got back to
civilization, we went straight to a diner to grab some
breakfast. We were all hungry, but more
than that, we needed to be around other people.
As we sat at our table, Andrea and Mario talked about the
creature, trying to guess what it could have been.
I mostly listened, still feeling a bit shaken.
While we were eating, I noticed some people at the next table
glancing over at us. I must have mentioned the
creature a little too loudly because soon one of them walked
over to our table. He was an older man and he had a
look of concern on his face. I couldn't help but overhear you
folks talking about seeing something strange in the woods.
He said in a low voice. You're not the only ones, there
have been stories about that place for years.
He pulled up a chair and told us about a few encounters locals
had experienced similar to ours. Some said it was a ghost, others
thought it was a creature that lived deep in the forest.
Listening to him, I felt a little better knowing we weren't
the only ones who had seen something weird.
We talked with the man for a while and then the waitress came
over. She had heard a bit of our
conversation and mentioned that her cousin had seen something
similar last year. It seemed like everyone in town
had a story or knew someone who did.
After breakfast, we decided to try and enjoy the rest of our
day. We rented some kayaks and spent
the afternoon paddling around Lake Tahoe.
The water was calm and being out there helped us relax.
Mario took some beautiful photos and Andrea seemed to be in
better spirits, laughing and splashing water at us.
As the day went on, we talked less and less about the
creature. It felt like a distant memory,
something from a dream. We were just three friends
enjoying a day out on the lake, and for a while we could almost
forget about the night before. But as we packed up the kayaks,
I looked back at the forest lining the shore.
It was beautiful and peaceful from a distance, but I knew that
somewhere in there was something unexplained, something
mysterious. That evening we found a Vista
point overlooking the lake and decided to camp there for the
night. It was a clear night and the
stars were incredible. We set up our sleeping area
again and finally managed to fall asleep.
The next morning we woke up feeling refreshed.
The sun was shining and after the scare we had, it felt good
to see the daylight. We packed up and drove home,
talking about when we might come back.
Even though we had been scared, we knew we had experienced
something extraordinary and somehow I think it made us
closer as friends. We had shared something that we
would probably never fully understand, but we had faced it
together and that meant something.
I'd always felt at home in the wild.
The rougher the terrain, the better.
The gnarled paths of the Cascade Mountains were as familiar to me
as the streets of my own neighbourhood.
This time though, as I parked my old Subaru at the trailhead,
there was a subtle whisper in the wind that seemed to speak of
caution. Perhaps it was the overcast sky
or the slight drizzle that started as I gathered my gear,
but something felt off. The trail to Green Mountain
Lookout was a favorite of mine, one I'd tackled numerous times
in all seasons. But on this damp November
morning, the remoteness of the trail seemed more pronounced.
The parking area, a generous term for the gravel patch
capable of holding maybe half a dozen cars, was nearly empty.
Just one other vehicle was there, a beat up truck that
looked like it had seen better days.
It was unusual to see anyone else out here, especially with
the weather turning sour and the promise of snow in higher
elevations. I slung my pack over my
shoulders, feeling the familiar weight settle against my back.
The solitude of these hikes was something I relished.
It wasn't just about testing my limits, but also about finding
that rare piece that only comes from being completely alone in
nature. Today, however, the silence of
the woods seemed more pronounced.
There was a stillness, an absence of the usual rustle of
wildlife that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I chalked it up to the season. Most of the birds had migrated,
and the smaller critters were likely holed up away from the
damp chill. The trail started with a gentle
incline, weaving through towering Douglas firs and
western hemlocks whose branches dripped with moisture.
My boots pressed into the soft earth, each step sinking
slightly into the mud. I always kept my gaze mostly
downward when I hiked alone, not just to watch my footing but to
keep an eye out for tracks. It wasn't just out of habit from
my search and rescue days. Tracking was like a puzzle, part
of the thrill of being out here. A mile in, the forest gave way
to the edge of an Alpine Meadow. The transition from the dark,
dense woods to the open grassy field felt abrupt.
The Meadow, usually alive with color in the summer months, lay
subdued under a blanket of dying Browns and the last stubborn
greens of late fall. It was there I met them, two
hikers, a man and a woman coming down the trail.
Their light trail runners and the Sheen of sweat on their
faces spoke of a quicker pace than my own.
We exchanged nods, a brief connection in the mutual
acknowledgement of the trails condition.
They warned of the snow further up and mentioned they had
enjoyed having the trail to themselves.
I watched them disappear around a bend in the path before
continuing on. The further I hiked, the deeper
the silence seemed to grow. It was as if the mountain itself
was holding its breath. By the time I reached the first
dusting of snow, marking the beginning of the higher
elevations, the sense of isolation was complete.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a prickling
sensation that made me glance over my shoulder more than once.
But every time I looked back, all I saw were the empty,
winding paths of the Cascade Mountains, shrouded in mist and
mystery. The trail steepened and the tree
line thinned as I pushed higher into the mountains.
I was deep into the heart of the Cascades now, a place that
usually filled me with a sense of exhilaration, but today each
step seemed to echo against the silence, a stark reminder of my
isolation. As I moved through the
transition zone, where the forests dense embrace gave way
to the more open Alpine meadows, my eyes were automatically drawn
to the ground. Tracking was second nature to
me, a skill honed through years of necessity and passion.
It was then I noticed them, tracks that didn't match the
typical wildlife or hiker prints one would expect.
One set appeared to belong to a large dog, perhaps a mastiff,
given the size and depth. Beside them, partially obscured
by a thin dusting of fresh snow, were boot prints, much larger
than any standard size. These were no ordinary tracks.
I paused, considering the possibilities.
No one in their right mind would be out here with a dog that
size, not in these conditions, and certainly not without proper
gear. And the boot prints?
They were unusually large, too large for even the most robust
hiker. A chill ran down my spine as I
scanned the surrounding woods and meadows, half expecting to
see their owner watching me from the tree line.
The Meadow lay open before me, a broad expanse that in summer
would be awash with color blooms of Indian paintbrush, lupine,
and glacier lilies. Now it was a muted tapestry of
greens and Browns, beautiful but desolate in its wintry
transition. It was just past this point, as
the land began to rise again, that I saw it.
At first I thought it was a trick of the light, or perhaps a
leftover patch of snow that hadn't yet melted.
But as I squinted against the Gray light, the outline of the
shape became clearer. It was white and roughly
humanoid, standing out starkly against the dull colors of the
Meadow. The figure seemed to be looking
right at me, its posture unnaturally straight for
something created by nature. My heart pounded in my chest as
I stood frozen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Could it be a hunter in some kind of gear?
No, that didn't make sense. The figure was too stark, too
eerily still. A scarecrow, perhaps, left by
someone with a strange sense of humor.
But out here? I took a tentative step forward,
my eyes never leaving the shape. It was then, in the shifting
light and the silence of the high Meadow, that I saw it move.
Or thought I saw it move. A subtle shift, like a man
adjusting his stance. I stopped every instinct
screaming at me to turn and run, but I was rooted to the spot.
As I watched, paralyzed with a mix of fear and fascination, I
realized the figure was indeed facing me where there should
have been nothing. I could now discern the dark
spots of eyes and a slit that might have been a mouth.
It was as if the mountain itself had conjured a guardian, and now
it stood Sentinel over its domain, watching me with an
intensity that felt almost personal.
With a deep, steadying breath, I made the only decision I could.
I turned back the way I had come, my steps quick and uneven
as the figure watched me retreat.
The silence of the mountain pressed in on me, heavy with
unspoken threats as I hurried away from the unsettling
Sentinel in the Meadow. I've always believed in
listening to my gut, a lesson that's kept me alive more times
than I can count out here in the wild.
As I turned my back on that strange white figure standing
alone in the Alpine Meadow, every instinct was telling me
that I needed to get out of there fast.
My heart was pounding against my ribs like a hammer, and the
stillness of the mountain air felt oppressive, as if it were
pushing me forward with a sense of urgency I couldn't ignore.
As I retraced my steps, the landscape seemed transformed.
The familiar path now loomed, ominous and foreboding, and the
overhanging branches felt like fingers reaching out to snag at
my jacket. I couldn't shake the feeling of
being watched. I glanced back over my shoulder
repeatedly, half expecting to see that white figure gliding
silently after me, but the trail behind was empty every time I
checked. The silence was unnerving.
Not a bird stirred in the cold air, and even the wind seemed to
hold its breath. All I could hear was the crunch
of my boots on the sparse snow and the thud of my own
heartbeat. It was the kind of quiet that
screamed danger. I picked up the pace, my strides
growing longer and more urgent. Every shadow between the trees
seemed darker. Every natural noise made me
jump. I knew better than to run.
Running would only invite chase from whatever might be lurking
unseen. But damn, it was hard to keep
that walk from breaking into a Sprint.
The tracks I had seen earlier crossed my mind again.
They hadn't made sense then, and now thinking back, they seemed
like a warning I had foolishly ignored.
Could they have belonged to the owner of that white figure?
The thought was chilling, and it spurred me on faster.
About a mile down from where I had turned around, I realized
just how isolated I was. My only lifeline was the trail
beneath my feet, leading me back to my car.
I found myself regretting not bringing my heavier gear,
specifically the .357 Magnum that I had debated over.
It weighed 6 lbs, a hefty addition to my pack that I had
opted against. Now, the decision seemed
foolhardy. As the trail curved back into
the thicker tree cover, the forest felt denser, darker.
I unholstered my bear spray, holding it ready as I moved.
The primal part of my brain was on high alert, treating every
brush of wind against leaf as a potential threat.
I tried to stay calm, to keep my breathing even, but my lungs
didn't seem to get the message. The last stretch of the trail
was the worst. The trees closed in tight, the
path narrowed, and every step seemed to echo through the
woods. I was close to the parking area
now. I could almost smell the cold
metal of my car, the safety of enclosed space.
When I finally burst out of the tree line and saw my Subaru
sitting alone in the parking lot, the relief was palpable.
I practically threw my gear into the back seat and didn't relax
until the doors were locked and I was speeding down the Mountain
Rd. away from whatever secrets lay hidden in the silent
watching woods. I didn't look back.
Whatever mystery the mountain held, it could keep it.
I had no intention of finding out.
I was 20 years old and a sophomore at a College in
Southern California when this happened.
It was a Thursday night and I had just worked the closing
shift at my campuses coffee shop.
That particular night my Co workers and I headed over to the
Taco place next door for a few beers and some food.
For context, most of my Co workers were students either at
the university or one of the local community colleges.
Everyone was cool for the most part, so it was pretty typical
for us to go for drinks or smoke in the parking lot after closing
up the Cafe to chat, joke around, and decompress at the
end of a long busy shift. Despite our late closing hour,
we usually had a constant stream of customers right up until we
locked up at midnight. College students and their late
night caffeine needs after all. This night was a little
different though, because one of the usual closers had called out
sick. My manager had called around to
see if someone could cover for him.
That's how we ended up closing with Eric.
On the one hand I was grateful because every time I'd had to
close while we were short a worker, we would leave the cafe
nearly an hour later than usual. On the other hand, I really wish
that it had been anyone but Eric who had agreed to come in.
While most of my male Co workers were great and treated me like a
sister, Eric was the one Co worker who had always unsettled
me slightly. He was older, probably in his
early 30s, and usually worked the midday shift.
Because of my classes, I almost always worked the closing shift
so we would often overlap by a few hours.
At first I thought nothing of him and assumed he was a
graduate student or maybe just a random local.
I was friendly and cordial with him like I am with all my Co
workers, but the more we work together the more he made odd
comments and jokes around me. I remember he once offered me a
sausage breakfast sandwich that had been left uncollected on the
pickup counter. When I declined he smiled
weirdly at me and said Are you sure?
I thought you'd want it. Then he winked at me.
I told him that I was sure before turning and walking away.
I thought that was weird. Being a young bunch of mostly
students, we messed around a lot at work, so I thought maybe he
was trying to make a joke that fell flat, or maybe he'd made
some sort of reference that I wasn't understanding.
I didn't think more of it until a couple of weeks later.
We had just gotten the first shipments of cookie straws.
Yes, actual cookies in the shape of straws which we'd be selling
all summer. My Co worker broke a few into
pieces so we could all try them. After sampling the cookie, I got
back to my closing duties of preparing bottles of caramel
drizzle and whipped cream for the next day.
Eric was preparing drinks at the espresso bar when he came closer
to where I was working to use the blender.
He said to me, Hey, I bet if we had a cookie straw eating
contest, you'd be able to fit the most in your mouth.
I don't remember exactly how I reacted.
I was somewhat taken aback. I probably just awkwardly
laughed it off. I thought about his strange
words for the rest of my shift. The joke didn't really make
sense and an eating contest is obviously different from a stick
as many in your mouth as you can contest.
But despite my naivety, I understood what he was trying to
get across. Like I said, my Co workers would
joke around a lot and sexual jokes were not uncommon.
I tried to brush it off thinking I had no other choice because it
wasn't a big deal. These strange encounters weren't
over though, a few weeks later when I was eating a banana in
the back, scrolling on my phone. He joked that I could probably
fit the whole thing in before grabbing a sleeve of cups and
heading back to the front. Later that same night, over
drinks after Eric was gone, I asked my other Co workers what
they thought of him. None of them said they had any
issues with him, just that he was a quiet guy who didn't
interact with them much. I thought about repeating his
idiotic jokes to them but decided against it.
I didn't want to seem like I was blowing anything out of
proportion. All that background happened a
couple of months ago, shortly after the banana incident.
We hired a new barista and Eric was moved to the opening shift
so we no longer overlapped, much to my relief.
That brings us back to this Thursday night.
My Co workers and I had already been planning to get drinks
after work, so one of them cordially invited Eric and he
agreed. I tried to interact normally
with him throughout the shift, but something about the way he
kept looking at me unsettled me. While I changed the trash bins
in the lobby, I would turn around in time to see him
staring right at me before he turned back to whichever drink
he was making behind the counter.
We even made brief eye contact a few times.
When I began sweeping the lobby, I noticed him staring again.
When I came behind the counter to sweep, he suddenly turned to
me and asked. Need a ride home tonight?
No thanks, I responded reflexively.
I would often accept rides from my Co workers home as I lived a
couple of miles off campus, but the thought of taking a ride
with this guy sent a shiver down my spine.
He didn't respond to this and continued to stare as I quickly
finished up sweeping. By the time we were locking up
and heading next door for drinks, I was contemplating just
going straight home. I simply didn't like being
around Eric. His presence gave me a nod in my
stomach, but when I floated the idea of bailing to my other two
Co workers, they begged me to stay for at least one round on
them. As an underage and broke college
student, I rarely looked a gift horse in the mouth, so I agreed.
Plus, I again figured that I was probably overreacting to some
degree. Sure, Eric was a little off, but
he was probably just a socially awkward, harmless guy, right?
That night we opted for a bottle of white wine to go with our
usual huge basket of chips and salsa.
One of my other Co workers named Chris tried to make friendly
conversation with Eric. That's when Eric first mentioned
his fiance and I felt the knot in my stomach lift partially.
Thinking back now, it was naive of me to think this new
information was evidence that I really had been reading too
deeply into his comments and looks from before.
Regardless, in the moment I was more at ease, figuring he just
had an unfortunate and immature sense of humor, so I stuck
around when someone ordered a second bottle of wine, this time
pink. I was feeling pretty warm and
loose by the time the Taco place closed and we had to leave.
We all said goodbye and Chris and I walked over to the bus
stop and waited together. We both lived off campus and I
always took the bus. Most nights.
Chris's girlfriend would come to pick him up after work, but she
was out of town that week for some reason.
Even at this hour, there were usually still a few college
students milling about so close to campus, but Chris's presence
put me even more at ease. We boarded the city bus a few
minutes later. The bus was less than half full,
so Chris and I sat in two seats beside each other and continued
to chat. I lived further out from campus
than Chris, so when we got to his stop we said goodbye and I
watched as he climbed off the bus and into the night.
I popped my earbuds in, resuming the audio book I'd been
listening to on my way to work. I should let you know here that
when I was younger, I had a bad habit of not paying much
attention to my surroundings when I was out, so I sat there
and looked out the window for the remainder of my ride.
I rang the bell when my stop was next and stood to get off the
bus as it came to a familiar curb.
As I exited from the front door, I noticed someone in a dark
hoodie getting off the bus from the side exit.
My stop wasn't a busy one at this hour, more often than not I
would be the only one getting off the bus here.
But still, I didn't think much of it as I began my 20 minute
walk home. At the time I lived in a
residential area with lots of houses and apartment complexes.
It was much cheaper to live out here than closer to campus.
I was just enjoying my audio book when the chapter came to an
end and I paused it. Then I heard it.
Footsteps behind me, I glanced over my shoulder, feigning to
look at a sign. As I passed it, I glimpsed a
dark figure a few 100 feet from me, walking in the same
direction on the same side of the street.
The figure seemed to keep a steady distance, but I could
feel my heart rate quicken. It was probably just another
person heading home, I told myself.
Yet unease settled in my gut, reminiscent of the feeling I'd
had around Eric. I tried to shake it off, telling
myself I was being paranoid. I picked up my pace slightly,
hoping to create some more distance.
I took out one earbud, listening for the sound of footsteps.
They quickened too, matching my speed.
My mind raced with thoughts of the strange comments and the
unsettling stare from my Co worker earlier.
I turned at the next corner, hoping to lose whoever it was,
but the footsteps turned with me.
My apartment complex was only a few blocks away now.
I glanced back again, and the figure was closer.
I could make out the shape of the hooded person, their face
still obscured by the shadows. My pulse pounded in my ears, my
mind screaming at me to move faster, and I obeyed, no longer
caring about appearing paranoid. Suddenly I heard a voice, gruff,
gravelly and deep as it called out.
Need a ride home, Stephanie? My blood ran cold then.
This person knew my name. The voice sounded strange, as
though a man was trying to disguise his normal voice.
I knew in my gut it was Eric. My breath came in ragged gasps
as I broke into a full Sprint towards my building.
I desperately fumble with my keys, my hands shaking
uncontrollably. The footsteps grew louder,
closer, and I managed to unlock the door and slam it shut behind
me, locking it with trembling fingers.
I backed away from the door, heart racing, grabbing my phone
to call the police. In a trembling voice, I told the
woman on the phone that someone had followed me home.
Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the door and I
nearly screamed into the receiver.
He's at my door. I gasped between sobs.
Please send someone. The woman assured me that help
was on the way. I was so scared that I begged
her to stay on the line with me. She promised she would.
Then, when the knocking at my door turned into full on
pounding, I was convinced this person was actually about to
break in, busting my thin wooden door down as I sobbed
incoherently, the woman directed me to lock myself in the
bathroom until help arrived. As I waited for the police, I
cowered in my own bathtub, listening to the banging at the
door. After the longest wait, the
banging stopped abruptly. At first I was relieved, but
then I was even more scared because what was he doing now?
Was he going to try the windows? God, had I even remembered to
lock all the windows? As I strained to listen, I
thought I heard footsteps pacing on my front porch until even
that sound went away. When the police finally showed
up, they found no one. They took my statement and
assured me they would patrol the area, but even after they left,
I could not shake the feeling of being watched.
I called in sick from my classes and from work the next day.
I contemplated what to do. I didn't have proof per SE that
it was Eric who chased me home, but I knew deep down in my gut
it had to be him. Who else knew my name?
Who else would have offered me a ride home in that creepy way?
The next day at work I finally decided to report Eric to my
manager and told her about all these strange comments over the
past few months and my terrifying walk home the other
night. I expected her to say I was
overreacting, but instead she said that he would be fired
immediately. I remember him dropping by that
Friday afternoon to pick up his last check and tips.
I tried to busy myself with random tasks behind the bar.
I didn't want to interact with him or even look at him.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched him approach the
register. None of my other Co workers knew
what had happened yet, so my Co worker at the register
cheerfully asked him if he wanted a drink before he headed
out. Eric proceeded to order a
cappuccino. I begrudgingly dumped milk into
the milk frother and started pulling shots of espresso before
my Co worker handed me the cup. I made the drink and quickly put
it on the pickup counter before heading to the back to restock
the milk. I hoped by the time I came back
out front he would be gone. I was wrong.
In fact, he stood at the pickup counter looking angrily at me.
This is too heavy. I want this dry.
I tried to keep my expression neutral as I set out to remake
his drink. For those who don't know, a
cappuccino is supposed to be espresso shots with even parts
of milk and foam. A dry cappuccino means the
customer wants more foam than milk.
This is obviously the kind of thing that is most helpful to be
told before making the drink, but I swallowed my attitude down
and set the second lighter cappuccino in front of him
wordlessly. I just wanted him out of the
store at this point. He picked it up still too heavy.
I want it bone dry. My jaw tightened, I was
irritated, and it was obvious what he was doing.
A bone dry cappuccino means the person essentially wants only
foam with their espresso. I said nothing as I dumped the
prior 2 drinks in the sink and set about pouring even more
milk. I steamed 2 pitchers full and
painstakingly separated the foam from the milk with a spoon.
I nearly threw the drink down on the counter at him and told him
to have a good day, in a tone that suggested I would not be
remaking his stupid drink again. I turned away to tidy up the bar
and noticed him lingering there at the pickup counter for a few
more seconds before leaving. For a while, I feared that he
would come to the Cafe while I worked or follow me home again.
But week after week passed and he didn't show back up.
After a while, I assumed it was over, until around four months
later, I found a note tucked into my front door frame.
I figured it was my lease renewal from the landlord.
I grabbed it on my way in, locking the door behind me.
After settling in, I absent mindedly remembered the notice
at the door and unfolded it. I swear my heart stopped.
In a neat, almost childlike script, the paper read.
Why did you tell on me? I was genuinely terrified.
I knew getting the police involved would be unlikely to be
helpful for me as I had no way of proving who this note was
from or that Eric had even followed me home in the 1st
place. I started to spend most of my
nights at friends houses until I saved up enough to move closer
to campus. A few months after that I found
a new job on campus. I was sad to leave my Co workers
at the Cafe, many of whom I was close with at that point, but I
couldn't stand the anxiety and paranoia that Eric would show up
again or appear behind me on one of my walks home.
Thankfully, I never saw Eric again.
Even now, years later, I still get that unshakable feeling that
someone is watching me or following me when I walk home
alone. I find myself constantly
checking over my shoulder, my heart quickening at the
slightest sound behind me. Looking back, I wish I had
trusted my instincts and reported Eric's behavior to my
manager and the authorities sooner instead of brushing off
my unease and convincing myself that it was simply nothing.
Maybe then I could have spared myself from the nightmares I've
had since the air had that crispness about it, the kind
that signaled summer was making its last grandstand before
giving way to the colors of fall.
As the pickup truck rattled along the gravel Rd. toward
Beaver Mines, I couldn't shake the feeling that this trip was
going to be one for the books. Tim was at the wheel, his eyes
fixed on the winding path ahead while Caleb fiddled with the
radio, trying to find a signal amidst the static.
We're really doing this, huh? Caleb grinned, finally giving up
on the radio and settling back into his seat.
Yeah, and it's going to be epic. Tim replied, his voice filled
with the kind of easy confidence that comes from being the de
facto leader of our little trio. The truck crested a hill and the
forest stretched out before us like a vast, unexplored
wilderness. I felt a twinge of excitement
mixed with a whisper of apprehension as I thought about
the stories we'd heard around campfires and in the dimly lit
corners of our favorite diner. Stories of the Wilds of Alberta,
of creatures that roam the dense forests, legends that were
always dismissed by the light of day.
We arrived at our campsite by late afternoon.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long
shadows on the ground as we unloaded our gear.
Our camp was a simple affair, a tent, a fire pit, and a few logs
pulled up around it for seats. As we set up, the laughter and
banter flowed freely, easing the lingering nerves about being so
far from everything familiar. By nightfall, our campfire was
crackling, sending sparks up to compete with the stars.
Tim pulled out a bag of marshmallows, and soon we were
roasting them over the flames, the sticky sweetness perfect
against the chill in the air. You guys remember the story of
the Wendigo? Tim asked, a mischievous glint
in his eyes as he leaned closer to the fire, making shadows
dance wildly behind him. Caleb rolled his eyes.
Not that again. It's just a story to scare kids.
I wasn't so sure. There was something about being
out here, surrounded by the ancient trees in the deepening
dark, that made those old tales feel a little too real.
As the night deepened, we settled into our tent.
The fabric walls are only barrier against the vast dark
forest outside. I lay there, listening to the
Symphony of the night, the distant call of an owl, the
rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze.
It was peaceful, it was perfect, until it wasn't.
It started as a faint rustling, like the wind picking up.
Only there was no wind. The night had grown eerily
still. Tim and Caleb heard it too.
I saw their shadows shift as they sat up.
What was that? Caleb whispered, his voice tight
with tension. Probably just a deer.
Tim murmured, but even he didn't sound convinced.
Curiosity overcame us and we grabbed our flashlights,
unzipping the tent with hands that tremble just slightly.
The beam of light cut through the darkness, landing on the
trees that surrounded our camp. There was nothing out of place,
nothing moving. And then we saw them.
Two glowing eyes, unnaturally high off the ground, staring
back at us from the darkness. The figure was tall, gaunt,
almost ghostly. None of us moved.
None of us breathed. We were caught in its gaze,
trapped in a moment of primal fear that seemed to stretch into
eternity. We backed away slowly,
retreating to the supposed safety of our tent.
We told ourselves it was nothing, just a trick of the
light or our imagination fueled by the ghost stories.
But as we lay back down, listening to the silence that
had once seemed so peaceful, we knew something was out there,
and it had seen us. The morning light filtered
softly through the canvas of our tent, a stark contrast to the
darkness of the previous night. I was the first to stir my mind,
a whirl of unsettling dreams and the haunting image of those
glowing eyes as I nudge Tim and Caleb awake.
The silence of the forest felt oppressive, as if it were
waiting for something. We should go for a hike.
I suggested, more for the sake of doing something to shake off
the remnants of fear than for any real enthusiasm for the
activity. Tim nodded, pulling on his
boots. Yeah, let's check out the area.
Maybe we'll see that deer everyone keeps talking about
around here. The forest was dense, the
underbrush thick with late summer growth, making our hike
less leisurely and more of a struggle.
The sounds of our passage seemed overly loud in the quiet, the
snapping of twigs under foot like gunshots in the still air.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, and I caught
Caleb looking over his shoulder more than once, his eyes wide
and searching. We had been walking for about an
hour when Tim stopped so abruptly that I nearly ran into
him. Look, he whispered, pointing at
the ground ahead. It was a deer, or what was left
of it. The carcass was torn open, its
entrails spread grotesquely across the forest floor.
Flies buzzed loudly, the only sound in a suffocating silence.
This wasn't just any predator, Caleb said, his voice low.
Look at the marks, too brutal for a bear.
We stood there, the gravity of our situation settling in like a
heavy cloak. The forest didn't feel like ours
to explore anymore. It felt like we had intruded
into something ancient, something wild and unforgiving.
As we turn to head back to camp, a crackling in the bushes froze
us in our tracks. There, not 20 feet from where we
stood, was the creature from last night.
It was hunched over another deer, its movements jerky and
savage as it fed. Its skin was pulled tight over
its bones, making it look skeletal.
And its eyes, those same glowing eyes, were hollow yet burning
with a ravenous hunger. We backed away slowly, not
daring to take our eyes off it. The creature paused, its head
snapping up to fix its gaze on us.
It let out a sound, a chilling mix of a growl and a scream that
echoed through the trees and chilled my blood.
We didn't wait to see what it would do next.
We turned and ran, branches whipping against our faces,
roots threatening to trip us at every step.
The camp had never seemed so far away.
Back at the safety of our site, the fire from last night now
nothing but smoldering ashes, we packed our things with shaking
hands. The decision was unspoken, but
unanimous. We couldn't stay here, not with
that thing out there. But as we hurried to break camp,
the woods around us seemed to close in, the once welcoming
trees now looming like silent Sentinels.
Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig had us
jumpy and tense. We'll leave at dusk.
Tim said, his voice firm despite the fear I saw in his eyes.
We'll use the remaining daylight to get ready.
But as the shadows grew longer and the forest around us seemed
to whisper, I wondered if we would even make it until dusk.
The sky was painted with streaks of Crimson as the sun began its
descent. The light fading from the forest
around us, we had decided to wait until the cover of darkness
to make our escape, hoping the night would shield us from
whatever stalked these woods. Every minute that ticked by was
a minute spent in agonizing anticipation, the air thick with
the scent of our fear. We gathered our belongings, the
normality of the action at odds with the tremor in our hands and
the tightness in our chests. Caleb kept glancing at the
trees, his flashlight flicking on at every slight sound.
Tim was quiet, his eyes focused a hard edge to his jaw.
Let's do this. Tim finally said, his voice a
low rumble in the growing darkness.
Stick close, and whatever happens, don't run off alone.
We turned our flashlights on, the beams slicing through the
darkness as we stepped into the woods.
The path back to the truck was a familiar one, but tonight it
felt entirely alien, as if the trail had shifted, reshaped by
our fears into something sinister.
We hadn't gone far when the unmistakable crack of a branch
had us freezing in place. The sounds of the forest had
ceased, a heavy silence falling over everything.
Then a low growl rolled through the trees, the sound visceral
and chilling. It was close, too close.
Without a word, we broke into a run, the beams of our
flashlights jerky and wild as we navigated the uneven ground.
The growls grew louder, closer, joined by the heavy thudding
steps of something large moving swiftly through the underbrush.
We need to hide. I gasped out, my lungs burning
with the effort of our panicked flight.
The only cover insight were a couple of old porta potties left
by some long forgotten construction crew.
It was a desperate plan, but it was all we had.
We darted inside, squeezing into the cramped spaces.
The smell was overpowering, but the fear of what was outside was
greater. We barely breathed, listening as
the steps approached, then circled around our flimsy hiding
spots. The Wendigo was searching for
us, it's breathing ragged and hungry.
It scratched at the plastic, the sound making my heart stop each
time I closed my eyes, praying it would move on.
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the sounds began to
fade. We waited, counting endless
heartbeats before we dared to emerge.
The forest was dark, the path uncertain under the moon's scant
light. We moved quickly now, no longer
trying to avoid making noise, our only thought to put as much
distance as possible between US and that creature.
When the parking lot finally came into view, it was like
seeing the gates of heaven. We threw our gear into the back
of the truck and didn't stop to secure it, jumping into the cab.
Tim hit the gas the moment the doors were shut, the tires
crunching over the gravel as we speed away.
I looked back once, my breath catching in my throat.
There, at the edge of the trees, stood the Wendigo.
Its eyes glowed faintly in the headlights before it turned and
disappeared into the darkness. We drove in silence, the weight
of what we had experienced settling over us like a cold
shroud. Beaver mines had changed us,
shown us a world beyond our understanding, a world we were
lucky to escape. I knew then, as the forest faded
into the distance, that the wild had secrets best left
undiscovered.