We've been driving since dawn, and by the time the Ouachita
Mountains began to swallow us, their jagged peaks and thick
greenery felt like something from another world.
I'd booked this trip, an isolated A-frame cabin tucked
away in the heart of the Ouachita National Forest, mainly
because the photos promised seclusion and a weekend free
from distractions. I wanted us to disconnect,
laugh, maybe even scare ourselves a bit.
Turns out I'd get far more than I'd bargained for.
I remember pulling into a dusty gas station near the Talimena
Scenic Drive to fill up the tank and grab some snacks before
heading deeper into the wilderness.
The cashier, A grizzled local with wary eyes, gave a strange
look when I told him where we were going.
He hesitated, then mumbled something about that old place
and shook his head, returning my change without another word.
Tyler joked that we'd stumbled into a cheap horror movie set
up, but Emily glanced at me uneasily.
Maybe I should have noticed the worry etched on her face, but
instead I laughed it off. By late afternoon, our tires
crunched down a gravelly forestry Rd. curving sharply
into shadows cast by towering trees.
The cabin emerged abruptly around the last bend.
It was quaint, simple, and yet eerily picturesque, perched like
a forgotten dollhouse in a clearing surrounded by endless
trees. We unpacked quickly, excited
chatter filling the small rustic space.
Nina was already poking around, inspecting everything with her
careful historians eye. Emily set about organizing our
groceries, her thoughtful silence calming.
Tyler cracked beers open, spilling foam on the worn
hardwood floors and roaring with laughter as he teased us to
lighten up. The first hours passed in
comfort and laughter as dusk painted the sky Violet.
Tyler and I shoved aside a heavy oak dining table to clear space
near the stone fireplace. That's when Tyler stumbled
slightly, nearly falling as a floorboard gave beneath his
weight. He knelt, tugging at the edge of
a woven rug beneath A strangely placed board, creaked loose and
splintered at one end. Check this out, Tyler called
excitedly, grinning at his find. Emily's eyes narrowed,
apprehension evident in her expression.
Maybe we should leave it alone. She murmured, wrapping her
sweater tighter around her shoulders as if suddenly cold.
Ignoring her caution, Tyler pulled harder, revealing A worn
rectangular trapdoor hidden beneath the floorboards.
A tarnished iron ring sat flush with the warped wood.
Nina knelt beside him, examining it curiously.
This wasn't listed anywhere in the rental agreement.
Nina noted quietly, clearly intrigued.
She traced the ring gently. This looks old, like really old.
Let's open it. Tyler suggested eagerly,
grabbing the iron ring. Wait.
Emily's voice was tight. She stepped forward nervously.
We don't even know what's down there.
Maybe it's boarded up for a reason.
Tyler scoffed, dismissing her fears with a wave.
It's probably just an old wine cellar.
Come on, where's your sense of adventure?
I chuckled, shaking off my own lingering doubts.
It'll be fine. What's the worst that could
happen? With an exaggerated grunt, Tyler
lifted the trap door, revealing a pitch black hole below.
A musty stale breeze side upward, making my skin prickle.
Nina clicked on her phone flashlight and cautiously led
the way down narrow wooden steps that creaked beneath our weight.
At the bottom, the light wavered across bare earth walls.
A single stone structure rose ominously from the packed dirt,
A squat well, encircled by rusted barbed wire and sealed
meticulously with hardened wax cymbals carved deep into its
stone rim caught the weak light. Strange markings older than
anything I'd seen before. Don't touch it, Emily warned
sharply. Her voice echoed oddly, almost
distorted by the cramped cellar. It's sealed for a reason, Nina
added, softly but firmly. But Tyler laughed, a sound
unnaturally loud and bold against the claustrophobic
space. It's probably just superstition,
he declared dismissively. Whoever did this, they were
probably trying to hide moonshine or something.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a piece of rotted wood lying
nearby and wedged it beneath the seal, leveraging his full
weight. The wax cracked, then broke
apart sharply, pieces scattering across the floor.
The barbed wire groaned as Tyler pulled it aside, rust staining
his hands. A strange silence fell,
oppressive and unnatural. Emily trembled slightly,
whispering something that sounded like a prayer.
Nina stared wide eyed, clearly uneasy.
Even Tyler seemed hesitant, though he quickly hit his nerves
behind bravado. See, nothing.
He laughed, stepping back, but none of us moved closer.
That night, as we lay restless beneath unfamiliar quilts, sleep
overtook us uneasily. The cabin creaked gently in the
mountain breeze, lulling me into an uncomfortable half sleep.
But peace gave way quickly. In dreams, darkness dragged me
downward, slipping into something deeper than sleep,
into choking silence and blackness.
A clawed hand, cold and clammy, wrapped around my ankle, pulling
me steadily downward. Eyes blinked open around me, far
too many eyes, glowing and unblinking in the dark.
I fought and screamed without sound, trapped in the nightmare
until dawn finally broke through the small, dusty windows.
When we gathered silently in the kitchen the next morning, I
noticed the same haunted expression reflected on
everyone's face. No one spoke until Nina glanced
around, visibly shaken, and asked quietly.
Did you guys have that dream? Emily paled, nodding slowly.
Tyler didn't respond. I called his name, glancing
toward his room. Silence answered me.
His bed was empty, neatly made shoes still neatly placed by the
front door, as if he'd stepped out for just a moment and
vanished without a trace. None of us knew yet that we'd
broken a seal, unleashing something beyond our darkest
imagination, something that was already quietly stirring beneath
our feet, hungry and awake. Sunlight poured through the
cabin windows, but it felt hollow and distant, drained of
warmth. Tyler's absence hung heavy,
filling every corner, every silent pause between our
hesitant words. We searched frantically at
first, shouting his name into the sprawling forest, scanning
desperately for any signs, footprints, torn clothing,
anything, but found nothing except oppressive silence.
After hours of fruitless wandering, we returned to the
cabin, exhausted and shaken, our nerves frayed like bare wires.
Emily paced the kitchen quietly, her voice faintly trembling as
she whispered prayers under her breath.
I watched Nina pour over her phone and sketch pad, her
fingers flying through pages as she compared the strange symbols
we'd found on the well to something online.
Her expression darkened with each passing minute.
What is it? I finally asked, my voice
hoarse. She didn't answer immediately,
just held up her phone screen toward me.
The markings on the well, they're similar to old Choctaw
and Caddo symbols. She whispered.
They talk about something called the Throat of Fire beneath the
Stone. It's mentioned in old folklore
as a place where spirits, dangerous spirits, were
imprisoned. Emily stopped pacing, her eyes
wide, voice shaking. You mean demons?
I rubbed my forehead hard, exhaustion pressing down like an
invisible weight. That's insane.
It's just an old well, no. Nina said, voice tight.
We broke a seal that someone went to great lengths to create.
The barbed wire, the wax. It was intentional.
I wanted to argue, to dismiss it as folklore nonsense, but
Tyler's empty bed and shoes by the door mocked me, forcing
dread into my bones. That evening, after Emily went
to bed, I sat alone by the fireplace, guilt gnawing at my
stomach. I drifted off without realizing,
only to wake abruptly, standing upright, feet numb, the air
stale and earthy. Panic surged through me.
I was downstairs, in front of the open cellar.
How had I gotten here? Nina stood behind me, frozen,
eyes filled with fear. Jared, she whispered.
What are you doing? My lips parted to answer, but
instead of words, a low chance slipped from my mouth.
Deep and resonant words I didn't recognize.
They echoed horribly in the cellar's gloom, almost as if
someone else spoke through me. Terrified, I snapped my mouth
shut, backing away from the opening.
That wasn't me. I stammered, shaking
uncontrollably. I didn't.
I know. Nina breathed, carefully
approaching me. But something spoke through you.
We quickly slammed the cellar door shut, barricading it with
furniture before retreating into an uneasy silence.
The air felt heavy, electric, humming softly beneath our feet.
None of us slept well. At dawn, Emily's voice woke us,
hysterical, from her bedroom, Nina and I rushed in to find her
gripping the edge of her mattress, sheets tangled around
her feet, her face pale and drenched in sweat.
It was Tyler, she gasped. He was here in the room,
whispering to me. His voice, it came from the
floor. He kept telling me he's trapped
down there. We exchanged frightened glances,
each moment becoming clearer. The thing we had unleashed
wasn't content just to haunt our sleep.
It was seeping into our waking world, clawing at the edges of
our minds. None of us dared say what we
were all thinking. It was coming for us next.
As the day wore on, I felt a slow unraveling within me.
Dark whispers flitted through my thoughts, visions of the well
appearing uninvited. Every time I blinked, each time
I glanced toward the cellar, my heart thundered painfully, dread
pooling thickly in my gut. Desperate for answers, Nina
climbed the cabins narrow attic stairs, hoping to find more
clues about the previous occupants.
Hours later, she returned downstairs, pale and clutching A
faded leather bound diary tightly against her chest.
It belonged to someone named Martha Kincaid.
Nina began softly. She lived here in the early
1950s. Her husband found the well,
opened it like we did. Afterward, he changed, became
violent, obsessive. She says repeatedly that
something wanted to wear them, to walk in their bodies.
Did she say how to stop it? Emily asked desperately.
Nina's gaze lowered to the diary in her hands.
No, she whispered. The entries just end abruptly.
Silence fell like a shroud over us again, oppressive and
smothering. Emily crossed herself, lips
moving silently in prayer, eyes fixed nervously on the trap
door. Nina stared blankly at the
diary. But something inside me had
already begun to fracture. That night, I dreamt again, only
this time there was no well. Instead, Tyler stood silently in
front of me, skin pale and translucent, eyes glassy and
wrong. He opened his mouth, a sickening
black fluid spilling forth as countless insect legs extended
slowly outward, twitching and crawling toward me.
I jolted awake, screaming and thrashing, pinned by terror and
revulsion. The room was dim, moonlight
filtering weakly through gauzy curtains.
Emily's figure stood at the foot of my bed, her face white,
frozen in terror. Jared, she whispered, horrified.
What did you do? I looked down.
My hands were stained dark Crimson and wet blood.
I staggered back, feeling something warm and metallic on
my tongue. My hands trembled violently.
What did you do? She asked again, voice barely
audible. I couldn't answer, the words
locked behind horror in my throat.
Instead, my gaze landed on the cellar door, standing open once
more, yawning wide, waiting patiently.
Nina rushed in, seeing the blood, the cellar, my shaking
hands. Her face went ghostly pale.
Jared, she breathed. It has you.
I collapsed, overcome with guilt and terror.
Chain me, I begged. Lock me up, whatever it takes.
Nina nodded grimly, understanding crossing her face.
Without hesitation, she found rope, dragging a wooden chair
into the kitchen and binding me securely.
Emily knelt beside me, her eyes wet with tears.
Clutching my trembling fingers, I saw the marks on her arm, deep
scratches, scratches I knew I'd made.
I'm sorry, I whispered, heart shattering.
I didn't mean it's not you, Emily said softly.
It's the thing we set free. Hours passed, painfully slow,
tension thickening around us, a malevolent presence just beyond
sight. Pressing closer.
My vision blurred as consciousness slipped.
Before I fell away completely, I caught Emily's desperate prayer,
Nina's frightened murmuring, and beneath it all, something deep
beneath the cabin stirred hungrily whispering my name.
I woke to the taste of iron and the raw ache of rope burns
cutting deep into my wrists. The cabin felt colder now, the
air charged with a silent, waiting dread.
My vision cleared slowly, revealing Nina crouched by the
fireplace, her phone illuminating ancient symbols
she'd hastily sketched from the diary.
Emily stood by the front window, eyes bloodshot, arms wrapped
around herself as if trying to hold her sanity together with
sheer force. It's getting stronger.
Nina muttered, glancing up as she noticed me awake.
Her voice cracked slightly. The symbols, they're a ritual, a
binding. Martha mentioned a Choctaw elder
named Joseph. Tall Chief.
He helped them seal it originally.
Then we need him, Emily whispered urgently, stepping
forward. Before it's too late.
My head pounded, reality wavering around me.
The demon lingered, whispering at the fringes of my mind,
pushing at the boundaries of my consciousness.
Please, I croaked. Do something.
Nina stood abruptly, gripping her keys tightly.
I'll find him. Stay awake.
Fight it, Jared. I nodded weakly as she rushed
out into the fading daylight. As the door slammed shut, Emily
knelt beside me, eyes wet, voice a trembling whisper.
It's going to be OK, we'll fix this.
But as darkness descended over the forest, the cabin became a
prison. Shadows deepened and stretched
impossibly climbing walls and seeping along the ceiling.
Emily lit candles, placing them around the room, her lips
silently moving in prayer. I felt a heaviness pressing from
beneath the floorboards, cold and ravenous.
Suddenly, the cellar door creaked loudly, unlatched
itself, and swung open slowly, blackness bleeding upward.
I tried to cry out, but terror held my voice captive.
Emily froze, eyes wide and locked onto the open cellar,
trembling violently. Don't listen, I begged hoarsely,
desperate tears stinging my eyes.
Whatever you hear, don't trust it.
She stepped closer, entranced, face pale as a ghost.
It's Tyler, She whispered, grief stricken.
He's down there. No, I pleaded, fighting against
my restraints, rope tearing skin.
It's not him. But she leaned closer,
mesmerized, staring into the abyss.
He needs help, she whispered weakly, the seller's darkness
reflecting in her glassy eyes. Then Nina burst back into the
cabin, panting, dragging someone else behind her, an elderly
Choctaw man whose face seemed carved from weathered stone.
Joseph tall Chief stepped forward, gripping Emily's
shoulders firmly. It's deceiving you, he said
sternly. Don't listen to the voices,
they've tasted your fear. Emily shuddered, clarity
flooding her eyes as she staggered back from the cellar's
edge. Nina rushed to free me quickly,
loosening the ropes. My wrists burned, but adrenaline
numbed the pain. Joseph knelt swiftly by the
cellar, opening his eyes, scanning the symbols urgently.
The seal must be reforged, he said grimly.
But the cost is high. Cost.
Emily whispered fearfully. He met her gaze solemnly.
Blood and sacrifice willingly given.
The weight of his words sank into the room.
Nina shook her head, lips pressed thin.
There must be another way. Joseph shook his head gravely.
The first ceiling required it. The second demands no less.
The darkness beneath us stirred violently, the cabin shuddering
as if enraged. The candles flickered
erratically, shadows writhing upward like grasping hands.
My stomach twisted, fear closing like a fist around my throat.
We'd unleashed this. I'd unleashed it.
A harsh wind blew upward, whispering a chorus of voices.
Tyler's laughter, Martha's sobbing.
Then something guttural and inhuman, ancient and ravenous.
Emily stepped forward, eyes suddenly calm and resolved.
It should be me, no? I shouted, desperately,
staggering to my feet. Emily.
But she'd already grabbed Joseph's knife, slicing open her
palm decisively. Blood dripped heavily onto the
cellar door, sizzling and evaporating instantly into black
smoke. Joseph began chanting fiercely
in his native tongue, urging the symbols awake.
Nina wept quietly, holding Emily's other hand tightly.
The cellar screamed, a horrific, unbearable wail shaking the
walls. A shadow erupted upward,
coalescing into Jared. No, into something wearing my
face, a twisted mirror, grinning cruelly, eyes black and hollow.
You can't trap me again, it hissed, voice layered, echoing
hideously. I'll wear each of you until the
world falls quiet. My vision spun, stomach churning
violently. Emily stood firm, unyielding,
her blood dripping steadily onto the ancient stone.
The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing with each syllable of
Joseph's chant. The demon lunged forward,
reaching desperately for Emily. With all my strength, I grabbed
the imposter's form, my own distorted flesh burning like
acid under my grip. It twisted violently, shrieking,
fighting to escape. Seal it now.
I roared desperately. Emily closed her eyes,
whispering one final prayer. Blood streamed freely, pooling
around the cellar entrance. The symbols blazed fiercely,
illuminating the entire cabin. A force surged upward, pulling
violently downward, wrenching at the creature and myself.
I clung desperately to a floorboard, fingers slipping,
splintering, wood digging into my flesh.
With a final, savage pull, the cellar slammed shut.
The air. Suddenly still, silence rang
out, deafeningly, complete. Slowly, painfully, I raised
myself upright, shaking violently.
The cellar door was sealed, fused shut as if it never
existed. Emily was gone, vanished
completely. Nina knelt silently on the
ground, tears streaming unchecked down her face.
Joseph stood quietly, hands clasped together, murmuring a
quiet blessing. The authorities came days later,
drawn by the smoke rising from a fire.
We started before leaving, burning the cabin to ashes,
ensuring no one would ever unsealed that nightmare again.
Nina and I returned home separately, unable to face one
another, our friendship buried with Emily in that awful place.
In the quiet moments afterward, I tried to share our story,
posting photos of those carvings, desperate for someone
to believe me. But each time, my files
corrupted, images dissolving into meaningless static.
Eventually, I stopped trying. Tonight, sitting alone in my
dark apartment, I'm exhausted, haunted by Emily's courage and
Tyler's laughter, each echoing faintly behind my eyes.
Before drifting into sleep, I whisper Emily's name into a
disconnected phone number, foolishly hoping she'll answer.
Forgive me somehow. But every night the dream
returns, unending darkness, hungry limbs dragging me down,
and each time, Emily's voice softly warns from somewhere far
below. Don't dream.
Whatever you do, don't dream. I was 15 when we moved into that
place. Mom said it was temporary, just
a small duplex on the edge of nowhere until she could get back
on her feet after she left my stepdad.
We couldn't afford much and this place was cheap.
Real cheap. A2 bedroom 2 bath unit in rural
Arizona right next to an abandoned private airstrip.
I remember standing in the gravel driveway that first day,
staring at the old windsock hanging limp off a crooked pole,
the air still and dry. We were in the middle of nowhere
and that wasn't an exaggeration. Just desert cactus and sun
bleached hangers that hadn't seen a plane in years.
The layout of the place was weird.
When you stepped inside, the entire back of the house was
visible, straight through a narrow hall and an open plan
living room and kitchen. The first bedroom, mine was on
the right, then the guest bathroom, and finally my mom's
room at the end of the hallway. All three doors lined up like
tombstones, exactly 8 feet apart.
I remember measuring once, just because something about the
spacing bothered me. Too perfect.
But the worst part wasn't the layout, it was how quiet
everything was at first. It was the kind of silence you
crave when you've lived around chaos.
But by the third or fourth night, it started to feel
unnatural, like the house was holding its breath, waiting for
something. Then the doors started slamming.
I was lying in bed one night, not even asleep yet, when it
happened for the first time. All three doors on the right
side of the hallway, mine, the bathroom, and my mom's slammed
shut at the exact same moment. The sound echoed down the hall
like a shotgun blast. I sat straight up, heart
pounding. Mom yelled from her room and I
heard her feet hit the floor. We both thought someone had
broken in. We searched the whole house.
Nothing. No sign of wind, Windows were
shut, the AC was off. There was no draft, no pressure
change, no explanation. Just three doors that had
violently shut on their own. It kept happening.
Once twice a week, always at night, always those same 3
doors. We started keeping them cracked
open with rubber wedges, but the wedges would be thrown across
the hallway and the doors would still slam.
Toby, our golden lab, started acting strange right around that
time. He'd always been high energy,
barked at everything, even tumbleweeds.
But he changed, stopped playing, stopped exploring. 1 morning, I
found him sitting in the living room with his nose jammed into
the corner of the wall, not moving, not asleep, just hiding.
I called his name three times before he even blinked.
I tried to pull him away, but he let out this low, shaky growl.
Not angry, terrified. That was the first time I felt
it. A pressure in the air, not like
heat, heavier than that. Like someone was standing behind
me but refusing to speak. I didn't tell mom, she was
already stressed enough, working late shifts and trying to act
like everything was fine. But I knew, I knew something was
wrong with that house. Then came the day that
everything changed. It was summer, dry and
miserable. I got home from school, grabbed
a sandwich, and flopped onto the couch, still in my shoes.
Toby curled up on the floor in front of me, facing the hallway.
It was the first time in weeks he'd stayed close to me.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember was
screaming. Not mine, Toby's.
He yelped so loudly I jumped off the couch, heart hammering.
My eyes flew open just in time to see his body being dragged
across the tile by something I couldn't see.
His nails scratched deep grooves into the floor as he fought it.
His back legs were stiff, his mouth open in terror.
It looked like something had him by the tail and was yanking with
every bit of strength it had. I bolted forward, shouting his
name, but the second I stepped into the hallway, I felt it.
Cold. Not a little chilly.
Cold. Freezing.
Like stepping into a walk in freezer, I looked down at my
arms and saw goosebumps rising. Instantly.
I could see my own breath in July in Arizona.
Then came the smell. It hit me like a punch in the
throat, rotting eggs and burned hair.
I gagged and stumbled back, pulling Toby into my arms.
He was shaking, whining, tail limp.
The air felt thick, wrong, like the molecules didn't want to be
there. The temperature snapped back a
few seconds later and the smell vanished with it.
But something had been there. Something strong enough to throw
a 70 LB dog across the floor. Something cold and angry.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed with the light on,
staring at the ceiling. Toby refused to leave the corner
of my room. Around 3:00 in the morning, I
heard it again. Footsteps.
Not outside, inside. Walking down the hallway toward
my room, Heavy, slow, like boots dragging across old tile, I
didn't breathe. The steps stopped just outside
my door. The knob creaked like someone
was testing it. I sat up, grabbed my bat from
under the bed and tiptoed to the door.
Flung it open. Nothing.
Just an empty hallway. Quiet still.
The next morning I noticed something weird about the
stereo. We had this old Panasonic system
my stepdad left behind when he moved out.
It hadn't worked in years, but that morning it was on.
Static blaring from the speakers.
No lights on the control panel, just static.
I went to turn it off and notice something underneath the white
noise. Something low and rhythmic.
Voices, not clear. Words, not music.
Wailing, layered, chaotic, screaming.
Hundreds of voices overlapping, crying out in agony.
I turned the volume down, but the noise stayed the same.
Eventually, I unplugged the system.
The sound kept going for almost 10 seconds before it finally
died. And that's when I realized we
weren't alone in that house. We never had been.
After the stereo incident, I stopped pretending everything
was normal. I didn't tell mom, not yet, but
something had shifted in me, like a blindfold had been ripped
off. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't
focus. Every corner of the house felt
like it was hiding something. And Toby, he wasn't just scared
anymore. He was deteriorating.
He barely ate. He drank only when I brought the
bowl to him. I don't think he left the living
room for more than a few minutes a day.
If I tried to drag him down the hallway toward the bedrooms,
he'd plant his feet and whimper like I was taking him toward a
firing squad. That's when I started digging.
The place we lived in wasn't exactly listed on Google Maps.
The airstrip didn't have a name anymore, just private property
No trespassing signs half buried in weeds.
But I found the original parcel info through the county
assessor's website. The property was registered to a
man named Elliot Warren, a retired pilot.
Apparently he'd built the strip in the late 70s and ran a
hobbyist aviation club until the early 2000s, when it shut down
under unclear circumstances. But it was his son, Daniel
Warren, who kept showing up in articles.
Not many. Just enough to give me that sick
feeling in my gut. 3 overdose deaths, all unsolved, all within
a five year window. 2IN Prescott.
One here on this very property. Official cause in every case
accidental overdose. But there were no records of
prior drug use for any of the men.
No rehab, no known addictions. Just three guys in their early
20s who suddenly stopped breathing in their sleep.
Quiet deaths. Neat ones.
But it wasn't until I started searching old forums and message
boards that things got worse. I found a post from over a
decade ago, buried on a dead aviation site.
Someone had written Warren's kid had a thing for putting stuff in
people's drinks. Stay out of the hanger.
That's where he took them when they passed out.
That one sentence kept repeating in my head.
Stay out of the hanger. And it made sense in a way I
wish it hadn't. That hanger always felt off.
I'd never stepped foot inside it.
Even walking past, it made the hair rise on my arms.
I always felt watched. Not just the eerie kind of
watched, but targeted, like whatever was in there knew me by
name. As the days passed, the house's
energy shifted from creepy to hostile.
It started with the spiders. At first it was just one Black
Widow curled in the upper corner of the kitchen cabinet.
Then I found another in my shoes, a brown recluse under my
pillow. My mom stepped into the shower
one morning and screamed. There were three of them
crawling along the drain. She tried to laugh it off, but
she couldn't hide the look in her eyes, that raw, quiet fear.
Two days later, she was bit. She thought it was just a rash
at first, but her legs swelled up like a balloon, red hot and
weeping. I drove her to urgent care and
the nurse said the venom had started breaking down her skin
tissue. You got lucky, she told my mom.
If you'd waited another day, we might have been talking skin
grafts. Then my little brother Ben got
sick. It started as a red eye, then it
swelled shut and he couldn't stop crying.
The doctor at the ER took one look and immediately called for
a specialist. They told us the infection was
so advanced it could have destroyed his optic nerve.
Another day or two and he might have gone blind.
No one could explain how it had spread that fast.
I wanted to believe it was just bad luck, but that house had
stopped being subtle. One night I woke up gasping out
of nowhere. It felt like someone had their
hand on my chest. I reached for the lamp, flipped
it on, and froze. The closet door, always shut,
was wide open, and inside something moved.
Not scurrying, not scratching. Shifting, I grabbed the bat from
under my bed and stepped forward, heart pounding so hard
I thought it might burst. Nothing.
Just empty hangers and dusty shoes.
But I knew something had been in there, watching.
That was the same night the wall over my bed changed.
I didn't notice it until the next morning, when the sunlight
caught the wall at the right angle.
There was a word scratched faintly into the drywall just
above my headboard. I had to step onto my mattress
to read it. Mine.
I stood there for a long time, just staring.
Every cell in my body wanted to run, to scream, to wake Mom up
and make her pack. But something deep inside me,
the same thing that had kept me from looking under the bed all
those nights, told me it wouldn't matter.
We were already inside its web that weekend.
I finally snapped. I grabbed my flashlight and
headed out to the hangar just after sunset.
I didn't tell Mom, didn't even say where I was going.
I just waited until she went to bed and slipped out the back
door. The hanger was quiet, massive.
The metal siding creaked in the wind.
The big industrial roll up door was chained shut on one side,
but the pedestrian side door was just latched.
I opened it slowly and stepped inside.
It was colder than I expected. My flashlight flickered the
moment I crossed the threshold. The air smelled stale, like
gasoline and mildew. Dust swirled around my ankles as
I walked across the concrete floor.
Everything in me screamed to turn back, but I didn't.
I made my way toward the far end of the hangar, where the breaker
box was mounted on the wall. That's where the garage buttons
and light switch were too, glowing softly from their built
in lights. At least they should have been
glowing. They weren't.
That's when I realized why something was blocking them.
A shape, roughly human sized, stood directly in front of the
breaker box. My light cut through the space
around it, but not through it. It was darker than dark, like my
flashlight beam was getting swallowed whole.
I stopped. My legs wouldn't move forward.
And then it tilted its head. Not much, just enough to let me
know it saw me. And it was waiting.
I don't know how long I stood there in that hangar, just
staring at it. That thing, whatever it was,
wasn't a shadow. Shadows don't watch you, they
don't tilt their heads like animals studying prey, and they
sure as hell don't block light. But this thing, my flashlight
hit it directly, and the beam stopped.
It just ended. Like the air in front of it was
a solid wall. I couldn't move.
My chest tightened, every hair on my body stood on end.
I felt like if I breathe too loud, it would charge.
Then, without a sound, it did. It didn't run.
It didn't float. One blink and it was right in
front of me, inches from my face.
I didn't even see it move. My flashlight dropped from my
hand and clattered to the floor, plunging the hangar into near
total darkness except for what little light from the moon made
it through the slit above the door.
I wanted to run, but my legs were locked and now I could see
it. It's face not fully human, not
really anything. It was wrong.
Features that didn't line up. The mouth was too wide, the skin
looked like melted wax, and its ears were too small, pressed
tight against its skull, like they were afraid to exist.
But the worst part was its eyes. I'll never forget them.
Not red, not glowing, just black.
So black. Like pits in the world, but not
empty, alive. At the center of each was a
faint Milky Gray pupil, spinning slowly like a drain.
I felt like if I look too long I'd fall in.
My brain screamed for me to look away, but I couldn't.
That's when I understood its eyes were holding me in place.
I wasn't paralyzed because of fear.
I was trapped because this thing had reached inside me.
I could feel it digging. Not with fingers with thoughts.
Memories started flashing. My worst ones.
Toby yelping, my mom screaming when she got bit, Ben crying in
the ER, blood in the sink. The word mine scratched above my
bed. It was flipping through my life
like a photo album feeding. I was slipping, my knees
buckled, my head spun. I felt like I was outside my own
body, watching this thing peel me apart from the inside out.
Then, like a spark in the void, I remembered something.
My grandmother. When I was little, she told me a
story, some backwoods Appalachian thing about how evil
sometimes walked on 2 legs, and that if I ever came face to face
with it, I should call on God, not just think it, say it out
loud as if my life depended on it.
Back then I thought it was superstition, but now, with this
thing boring its eyes into me, it was the only thing I had
left. I opened my mouth, Nothing came
out. I tried again.
My throat was locked. The thing's face was still
inches from mine, expressionless, watching.
Finally, I pushed out a whisper. I I rebuke you in God's name.
Nothing. It didn't flinch.
I said. I rebuke you, I said louder.
In God's name. Still no reaction.
Then I screamed it. I rebuke you in the name of God.
The effect was immediate. Its face twitched.
Then it jerked backward like I'd hit it with a shovel.
Its mouth opened, not in a roar, but in a soundless scream.
The air around me changed. Pressure slammed into my ears.
My teeth rattled. Then the sound came.
It was like every hurricane, every tornado, every freight
train I've ever heard, all at once.
It wasn't a roar. It was a howl of hate, a scream
that felt personal, like it knew me, like it hated that I
existed. And then it charged.
But instead of hitting me, it passed through me.
I collapsed. The cold.
God, I'll never be able to describe it.
It wasn't just temperature, it was a presence.
Like drowning in ice. My lungs seized, My heart
stopped. I'm sure of it.
For a second, I thought I was dead.
Then it was gone. Just like that.
The air snapped back to normal. The hanger lights flickered back
on. The breaker buttons on the wall
glowed again, soft and orange. I sat there on the cold
concrete, gasping like I'd run a marathon in a snowstorm.
My whole chest burned, My arms were covered in goosebumps, but
I could feel it wasn't there anymore.
Not in that moment. I grabbed my flashlight, still
blinking from the floor, and ran.
I don't even remember how I got back into the house.
I just remember bursting through the back door and falling to my
knees. Mom was in the kitchen.
She looked up, startled. What was that noise?
I stared at her, shaking, and realized she hadn't heard any of
it. Not the screaming, not the wind,
nothing. Something outside, I said.
I, I think it was just a coyote or something.
She narrowed her eyes. You look like you've seen a
ghost. I didn't say anything, just went
to my room and locked the door. We moved out two months later.
No dramatic ending, no priest, no exorcism.
Mom said she was tired of the place, said she needed a fresh
start. I didn't argue.
Years later, I drove by the old airstrip just to see it.
The duplex was still standing, the hanger still there.
The windsock was gone. But as I passed the gravel
drive, I saw something that stopped me cold.
A yellow lab sitting in front of the hanger door, perfectly
still, staring into the corner, just like Toby used to.
I grew up in the shadow of these mountains, spent my childhood
hiking ridgelines, hunting elk, and camping beneath the stars of
the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness.
The Idaho Backcountry never scared me.
It felt like home. But that October, everything
changed. I parked my truck near the
Magruder Corridor trailhead at dawn, double checking my gear
one last time. My pack was stocked for a week.
Lightweight tent, food, water purifier, and my rifle, a
Remington 700 with a high-powered scope.
It was elk season and I wanted to fill the freezer before
winter. Solo trips were always my
favorite, but as I strapped on my pack I felt something shift
in the quiet around me. The birds were silent, not a
single rustle or chirp. That alone should have warned
me. The first two days passed
without seeing much sign of wildlife.
Usually there'd be tracks or scat something, but the trails
were oddly pristine, untouched. My unease started to build on
the 3rd morning as I made my way up toward Bear Creek Pass
Sunlight filtered weakly through low hanging clouds and the
forest was dense and cool, cloaked in a damp stillness.
I stopped to scan a nearby Ridge for movement.
Adjusting my scope, I carefully glass the slopes ahead.
Something strange caught my eye. A shape suspended high in a
lodge pole pine, about 30 feet off the ground.
At first I assumed it was a bear cash, maybe an elk carcass
hauled up by a Mountain Lion. But as I focus the lens, my
stomach tightened. It wasn't an animal.
It looked human. A limp figure in worn jeans and
a faded flannel shirt hung loosely from one arm, feet
dangling like a forgotten puppet.
I felt sick, heart racing as I adjusted the scope.
Had someone gotten hurt climbing?
Had a hunter fallen from a stand?
Just as I convinced myself the poor bastard was long dead, the
figure slowly, impossibly slowly, lifted its head and
turned it toward me. My mouth went dry.
My body refused to move, frozen with disbelief and horror.
Then it smiled. It wasn't a normal smile, not a
friendly grin, not even a grimace of pain.
It was an unnatural stretching of the mouth, a grotesque
widening that revealed too many teeth, too sharp, too white,
wet. It stared straight through the
scope, into my eyes, as if it knew exactly where I stood.
I dropped the scope in panic, stumbling backward against a
fallen log. My breath came in shallow
bursts, fogging in front of my face.
When I managed to look up again, the figure was gone.
The tree branches swayed gently, empty and mocking.
Adrenaline took over. I had to get down from that
Ridge, put distance between me and whatever I'd just seen.
I moved quickly down the trail, rifle gripped tight.
Every shadow now held menace, every creaking tree a hidden
threat. That night I set up camp near
Deep Creek. Darkness closed around me like a
physical weight. I huddled in my tent, rifle by
my side, trying to rationalize the encounter.
Maybe exhaustion had gotten to me, maybe it was just shadows
playing tricks, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't
forget that hideous smile. Sleep came slowly, troubled by
anxious dreams. Then I woke sharply, sometime
after midnight. A noise, quiet yet distinct,
echoed above my tent, dragging like something heavy being
slowly pulled along the branches overhead.
I lay perfectly still, straining to listen.
The dragging continued. No footsteps, no cracking
branches, just that endless scraping across the bark.
Pine needles pattered softly onto the tent fabric above my
head. My pulse hammered in my ears.
I grabbed my flashlight and unzipped the tent.
Cold air rushed in as I stepped out.
Rifle pointed upward, sweeping the beam through the black
canopy. Nothing.
The beam caught only tangled branches and shadows that danced
with the wind. But there was no wind.
The dragging paused. Silence pressed against my ears
until it hurt. Hello.
My voice was thin, swallowed immediately by the wilderness.
Nothing responded. I forced myself to breathe,
lowered my rifle slightly, trying to calm my shaking hands.
Then, directly above me, something shifted.
With deliberate slowness, I looked straight up, heart
pounding, flashlight trembling in my grip.
There, hanging silently from the branches, just out of clear
sight, was a hint of pale, sickly skin.
Long fingers curled around pine bark and those same worn jeans
and faded flannel sleeves. It swung ever so slightly,
mockingly gentle. The flashlight beam was shaking
so badly I couldn't get a Clearview, but I didn't need to.
I knew it was watching me. And just beyond the beams reach,
hidden in shadow, I saw the glint of too many teeth
stretching into that monstrous grin.
At dawn, the forest felt hollow, stripped of life and color.
Every tree seemed taller, closer, leaning over me in
silent mockery. Exhaustion made my thoughts
sluggish, tangled like a nest of roots, but adrenaline forced me
onward. I broke camp hurriedly stuffing
gear back into my pack, eager to leave Deep Creek far behind.
My rifle was heavier now. I carried it tightly, muzzle
raised, ready for whatever might drop from the canopy.
My plan was simple. Head north toward Magruder
Ranger Station, report what I'd seen, and never look back.
But the miles stretched endlessly through tangled
wilderness, the trails now barely recognizable beneath
thick mats of fallen pine needles.
The eerie silence amplified every breath, every footfall,
and soon paranoia took hold. Every snapping twig, every
rustling leaf stopped me in my tracks, but each time I scanned
the trees, nothing revealed itself.
It felt like something was trailing me, patient, invisible,
hanging in the branches and watching my every move.
My skin prickled with awareness, a feeling so intense I spun
around several times, rifle pointed upward, whispering
useless threats to the empty air.
Around noon, the trail turned muddy near a Creek bed.
Typically, this spot would be crisscrossed with elk prints,
moose tracks, even wolf paw marks.
But today the earth was eerily smooth, undisturbed, as if
nature itself had retreated from this place.
I crouched, uneasy, brushing my fingertips over the unnatural
stillness. When I looked up, I froze again.
A freshly killed elk hung above me, suspended 15 feet off the
ground, its neck bent sharply backward, its antlers tangled
grotesquely in the branches. The carcass wasn't torn open by
teeth or claws. It looked stretched, twisted, as
if some immense force had wrenched it upward through
branches too dense and narrow to allow it.
No blood dripped, no entrails dangled.
It just hung there, impossibly, staring at me with dead eyes,
wide and glassy. My stomach clenched and bile
rose in my throat. Whatever had put it there was
powerful, inhumanly powerful. Every primal instinct screamed
for me to flee. Forget the elk, forget the hunt,
forget pride. Just escape.
But before I could move, a noise filtered through the trees
behind me. I spun, rifle ready, heart
thudding painfully. There on the trail stood a
figure, a weathered old trapper, half hidden by shadow and brush.
His beard was tangled, face creased with age, eyes sunken
and wary. He raised his hand slowly,
showing he meant no harm. You saw it, didn't you?
His voice rasped softly, barely audible over my own panicked
breathing. I didn't lower my rifle
completely. What is it?
What did I see? He hesitated, eyes shifting
nervously toward the trees, then spoke quietly, almost
reluctantly. We call it the Taker.
Folks around Darby Hamilton, even down toward Elk City, they
all got stories. Old timers talked about it more
before the disappearances started getting too frequent.
It don't leave tracks, it don't bleed, and it don't hunt like
nothing else, you know. He glanced upward briefly, then
met my eyes with an intensity that rattled me.
It stalks you from above, takes what it wants, and leaves the
rest behind like trash in a tree.
He pointed upward. I forced myself not to follow
his finger, terrified I might see movement among the branches.
You saw it. Smile means it marked you.
He shook his head gravely. Best leave now.
Don't stop till you're clear of these woods.
Before I could ask another question, he turned and vanished
into the thick brush, footsteps unnervingly quiet, fading
quickly into nothingness. My pulse hammered against my
temples. I was alone again, more
vulnerable than ever, my heart sinking at his words.
It marked you. Night fell quickly in these
mountains. My original plan to reach
Magruder Station felt impossible now, with darkness already
closing around me. Reluctantly, I set up a hasty
camp in a small clearing near Lost Horse Ridge, my back
pressed against a large granite outcropping.
The illusion of security was all I had left.
I didn't light a fire. I sat inside my tent, rifle in
my lap, ears straining for the slightest noise.
It didn't take long. A familiar voice drifted softly
from the darkness. At first I thought it was
imagination or fear twisting normal sounds into horrors, but
it came again, clearer, achingly familiar.
Caleb, help me. My chest tightened painfully.
I recognize the voice immediately.
My brother Jake, who died in an avalanche 3 winters ago.
My rational mind screamed the obvious.
It couldn't be Jake, but the voice was exact same timbre,
same hesitant way he'd spoken when he was alive, as if lost
somewhere in the trees and begging for rescue.
Caleb, please, it hurts. Jake.
My voice broke on his name, betraying the dread and despair
that swirled inside me. The rifle trembled in my hands.
Then another voice joined the first, my own voice, distorted
and whispering, threaded with malice.
I see you, I see you, I see you. Fear surged through me, turning
every muscle rigid. It was mocking me, using my own
voice to taunt and torment. The whispers circled the tent,
never touching the ground, always above rustling branches,
brushing gently against fabric, trying to coax me out into the
night. I squeezed my eyes shut,
refusing to answer, to acknowledge them.
Silence stretched unbearably long, my heartbeat deafening,
until suddenly all noise ceased completely.
Minutes passed, long enough that hope crept in.
Then slowly, tentatively, I pushed open the tent flap and
looked outside. All my gear sat neatly packed
and stacked beside my tent, arranged as if lovingly prepared
for travel. A sickening dread filled me.
It was impossible. I'd scattered my belongings
carelessly, in haste, frantic to set up camp.
My pack was zipped tight, my boots arranged carefully side by
side. My rifle was gone.
I stood frozen, staring helplessly at the carefully
arranged items as realization seeped coldly into my bones.
Something had been inside my camp, inches away, separated
only by thin fabric, silently moving around me, unafraid.
My breath came in ragged gasps. I raised my eyes slowly,
reluctantly, upward into the dark branches above.
Dangling gently from a branch directly overhead, silhouetted
against the faint Starlight, was a small noose woven crudely from
sinew. It swung softly, mocking my
vulnerability. A message clearer than words.
The trappers voice echoed in my mind.
The taker marked you Above the noose, deeper in shadow.
I sensed more than saw it, waiting patiently, watching with
that terrible, inhuman grin. At first light, I ran.
With no rifle and only a hunting knife strapped to my belt, I
abandoned my gear and sprinted down the narrow trail toward Elk
Summit Trailhead. The mountains seem to close
tighter around me, their steep slopes clawing upward,
channelling me deeper into shadows.
The forest pulsed with menace, every towering pine a silent
Sentinel hiding whatever watched from above.
Fog rolled in, steadily blotting out the ridgeline ahead,
swallowing my path until only a pale, ghostly tunnel remained.
My breath burned in my chest, ragged and desperate.
Fear propelled me forward even as exhaustion seeped into my
bones, dragging me down. 16 miles lay between me and the
trailhead, 16 miles of isolated wilderness, haunted by something
that moved effortlessly above, unseen, relentless.
Around midday, voices began filtering through the mist, soft
and indistinct at first, drifting down from the treetops
like whispers on the wind. I didn't dare look up, didn't
dare slow down. You're almost there, one voice
crooned sweetly, eerily familiar.
Just look up and see. Another laughed softly, sharp
and cruel. Why won't you look at me?
The voices multiplied. My brother's voice, my own
voice, and others I didn't recognize, swirling and echoing
through the mist. Each word twisted through me,
cold and merciless, tightening around my sanity.
My lungs heaved and my boots stumbled over roots and stones
slick with dampness. Still, I refuse to pause.
Then, abruptly, the whispers vanished, replaced by a sudden,
heavy silence ahead. Something cracked sharply, not
overhead but behind me, close and deliberate.
I froze. Every muscle locked, terror
surging through my veins. Slowly, painfully, I forced
myself to turn in the gloom. Behind me, silhouetted by the
fog, a pale shape dropped silently from a pine tree onto
the path barely 10 feet away. Its body unfolded slowly, joints
creaking softly as it rose, limbs impossibly long and thin,
bending backward in places they shouldn't.
Its pale skin stretched tight over jutting bones, wet and
glistening as though freshly peeled.
My throat closed, trapping a scream.
Its face was human only in mockery, eyes narrow, slits
impossibly dark, fixed hungrily upon me.
Its mouth spread slowly into that familiar, grotesque grin,
Too wide, filled with far too many teeth, each sharp white and
wet. It didn't lunge or attack.
Instead, it stood silently, patiently savoring my terror.
The world narrowed around us. Time stretched impossibly thin.
My shaking hand found the emergency flare tucked inside my
vest. Slowly, praying desperately, I
drew it out. With a swift movement, I ignited
the flare. Red fire burst violently into
life, bathing the creature in stark, lurid light.
It's grin never faltered, the above revealing a nightmare that
stole my breath entirely. Every branch, every limb
overhead was gouged with deep drag marks, hundreds of them
Criss crossing chaotically. Entire sections of bark were
stripped bare, the marks forming intricate, obscene patterns that
no animal could make. The forest canopy itself was
scarred by the creatures endless passage, proof that it had
stalked these woods far longer than anyone imagined.
You see? It hissed softly, its voice like
dry leaves rustling. Now you see, I didn't wait for
another word. I hurled the burning flare at
its feet and bolted, running blindly through the fog shrouded
trees. Branches clawed at my face,
brambles tore at my clothes, but nothing slowed me down.
The creature laughed softly above, effortlessly gliding
through the branches, matching my frantic pace.
Always just out of sight, always grinning down from darkness.
My lungs burned, my legs threatened to collapse.
Every instinct told me it would end here, that the taker would
finally close its jaws around me.
But then, impossibly, miraculously, the trees thinned
and I burst from the forest edge onto the gravel Rd. of Elk
Summit trailhead. A camper truck idled nearby, 2
startled hikers stepping back as I stumbled toward them,
screaming for help. The woman caught me as I fell,
holding me upright, her face stricken with shock at my
panicked state. Please, I gasped, pointing
wildly toward the tree line. It's following me it it.
But the forest behind was still silent.
The hikers exchanged worried glances, eyes wide with
recognition, and ushered me quickly into their truck.
Back in Darby, after hours spent shaking and recounting my story
at a small roadside diner, the couple finally spoke quietly,
their voices low and troubled. You're not the first, the man
murmured, staring sadly into his coffee cup.
We lost our nephew up there last year.
Search parties combed every inch.
Nothing found except his boots way up high, tangled in
branches. Nobody could explain it.
That night, I didn't sleep. I sat alone in a motel room,
every curtain tightly closed, every door locked.
But peace never came. Instead, nightmares claimed me
whenever exhaustion briefly won. Always I dreamed of that awful
grin, teeth gleaming, mocking me from the branches above.
Months have passed, yet it never truly left me.
I sold my hunting gear, burned the rest, and swore never again
to enter those mountains. But still, on nights when
silence settles heavy around my house, I wake suddenly, heart
racing, to the sound of something dragging slowly,
deliberately, across my roof. And sometimes, in those moments,
I find scattered pine needles on my pillow, silent reminders that
it still watches from above, patient, grinning and endlessly
waiting.