I've spent most of my life in this town where the population
sign reads just over 200, though I'm convinced we might be down
to fewer folks Some days, you'd think it'd be peaceful.
No traffic jams, no neon lights, and nothing but desert and
mountain stretching out in all directions.
And sure, it has its moments. At sunrise, you can feel like
you're the only person left on Earth in a strangely comforting
way. But once you realize how alone
you truly are, that comfort can twist into something else
entirely. My siblings and I kept ourselves
entertained by exploring these massive gravel pits on the
outskirts of our property. We called it our secret base,
though there was nothing secret about it.
It was just a big dusty area filled with holes, a few rocks,
and a rusted out sign or two warning people to keep out.
Naturally, that made it even more exciting for us.
We'd play survival games, pretend we were lost in some
epic wilderness. It was the kind of place that
felt exhilarating in broad daylight, yet at the same time,
it was always unnervingly quiet back there.
One afternoon, all three of us decided to see how far we could
go into the pit before freaking ourselves out.
We trudged deeper than usual, ignoring the nagging sense that
we were treading on ground nobody else bothered with.
The silence grew more intense, like the surrounding desert
wanted us to know it was paying attention.
Then we saw it. A teepee.
Someone had taken thick logs, freshly cut judging by the pale
wood, and arranged them into a surprisingly well built
structure. But there are no real trees to
speak of in that area, just dusty shrubs and the occasional
scrawny Bush. The three of us stood there,
gaping at this weird teepee that had no business existing out in
the gravel pits. For a second I toyed with the
idea of going closer, but I couldn't bring myself to move.
I saw that same hesitation in my siblings eyes, so we backed
away, acting tough and casual on the outside but feeling pretty
rattled under the surface. A few days later, curiosity got
the better of us, so we returned.
We inched around a bend in the pit, and that's when we noticed
a dark shape spread out on the ground in front of the teepees
entrance. It turned out to be a crow or a
Raven split straight down the middle.
The wings had been stretched out and there was zero blood
anywhere. It was as if someone had
dissected the creature in the cleanest, most precise way
possible. One of my siblings let out a
muffled gasp, and I remember wanting to say something
comforting, but my throat refused to cooperate.
Without another word, we scurried home, each of us
pretending we weren't absolutely disturbed by what we'd seen.
We tried to show our mom a little while later, some part of
me hoping we'd simply overreacted, but the teepee was
gone. Not a single branch remained, as
if it had never been there. My mom shot us a skeptical look,
which just made it all more unsettling.
We were left with the memory of that crow and the eerie feeling
that whoever built the teepee didn't want us bringing any
outsiders around. After that, I started noticing
oddities wherever I went. A patch of footprints leading
nowhere, a hush falling over the yard at twilight, or the way the
desert seemed to stare back whenever I glanced at the
horizon. I like to act like it was no big
deal, but deep down, part of me dreaded that I'd stumble onto
another scene like the one at the gravel pit.
And next time, there might not be an exit route so conveniently
open. I've always loved the night sky
out here. It's colossal and clear, like a
Dome of scattered diamonds. And if I'm not too distracted by
everything that comes with living in the middle of nowhere,
I might even find it peaceful. Sometimes I'd hop into the bed
of our pickup, lie back with a jacket tucked under my head, and
watch shooting stars streak overhead.
The distant mooing of cattle and shouts of farmhands became a
nightly soundtrack until one night something changed.
That evening, the cows started getting rowdy at the usual hour,
but over the course of a few minutes there was a shift in
tone. One particular cow began making
sounds that were too human. The noise droned on, filling the
darkness in a way that felt close.
Even though the feed lot is a decent stretch away.
The cries grew louder, or at least more focused, until they
were impossible to block out. My brain kept insisting there
had to be a logical explanation, a herd animal or a weird echo,
but my instincts refused to settle down.
I abandoned my stargazing and darted into the house, my mind
swirling with thoughts I could barely process.
Weeks later, I joined my family on our annual summer camping
trip. Up in the mountains, we found an
area surrounded by rugged trails and dense woods, a perfect place
to turn off the rest of the world.
Toad, my loyal dog, came along for the ride.
After we'd finished setting up tents and everyone had started
gathering brush for a campfire, I decided to scout ahead for
bigger logs. Toad trotted at my side,
sniffing the ground. I wandered around a bend, and
soon I couldn't hear my family's chatter.
The noise from our campsite vanished behind me, and that's
when a strange tugging sensation drew my attention deeper into
the forest. It wasn't a physical force, but
it was persuasive, like a whisper in my ear, encouraging
me to step off the trail. The notion felt ridiculous, yet
it was nearly overwhelming. If Toad hadn't pulled back on
his leash right then, I might have followed that urge blindly.
With one sharp yank, Toad snapped me back to awareness.
I spun around and hurried back to my parents and siblings,
acting like I'd just been off daydreaming.
No way was I about to tell them what nearly happened.
The same tension clung to me for the rest of the trip.
I tried to sleep in the tent, but each time branches cracked
or the wind rustled overhead, my attention shot to Toad.
He'd be bristling, ears perked, like he expected something to
burst out from behind the nearest tree.
Neither of us found much rest that week.
Things escalated further 1 winter night when our Husky
decided to Sprint off into the darkness.
It was bitterly cold and the fog rolled in so thick you couldn't
see more than a few feet in front of you.
My mom, my sister and I trudged through drifts, following the
Huskies tracks and calling his name.
Eventually we realized we'd need the truck to keep searching, so
I volunteered to head back with Toad while they continued on
foot. The walk home felt endless.
Clumps of snow muffled my steps and the swirling mist.
Made me lose track of the road. That's when a voice rose from
somewhere in the fields. Soft at first, but carrying an
odd droning quality that locked on to my attention.
It wasn't English, didn't sound like Spanish or any language I
recognized either. It reminded me of a chant, yet
no ceremony or prayer I've ever heard.
Normally, anyone out there would need to yell to be heard from
such a distance, but this murmur came through crisp and clear.
My pulse hammered as I realized it wasn't just noise, it was
beckoning. I stood there, Toad at my side,
trying to decide what to do. Despite the biting cold, part of
me felt compelled to approach, like the sound had a hook in my
gut. Toad saved me again, tugging me
forward with a determined yank. I stumbled after him, letting
him guide me until the dim shape of our house came into view.
After I climbed into the truck and locked the doors, I just sat
there, staring at the whitened windows, unsure if I was
trembling from the chill or something else.
Eventually I remembered Mom and my sister were still out there,
so I forced myself to drive in the Huskies likely direction.
We never did manage to catch him that night.
He was back by morning, wagging his tail like he'd just gone on
a grand adventure. Meanwhile, I was left wondering
who or what had been trying to coax me out into the fields.
Maybe I was overthinking it, but I couldn't scrub that chanting
from my head. It rattled around in my
thoughts, especially late at night when the wind would pick
up in the desert seemed to draw a little closer to our doorstep.
Now, whenever I stare out the windows at night, I take note of
whether the usual farm sounds are present.
Because the moment that quiet sets in, heavy and complete, I
know something might be watching, waiting for a chance
to make itself known again. And the worst part is, I'm
almost certain it won't stop. Toad seems convinced of that
too, and that's enough for me to keep every door locked and every
light on when the sun goes down. I went to sleep way later than
I'd planned, close to midnight, and all I wanted was a few hours
of decent rest. The place I call home isn't what
you'd call welcoming after dark. It's perched on a rugged
incline, surrounded by these looming trees that block out
most light once the sun goes down.
Usually, I find it peaceful, but that night, something felt off.
Around 3:00 in the morning, my eyes flew open.
At first, I couldn't pin down what had jolted me awake.
No loud crash, no rattling window.
Just this sense that I wasn't alone.
My throat felt dry, so I slipped out of bed, trying not to make a
sound. The hallway was almost pitch
black except for a thin shaft of moonlight slicing across the
floor. I could have sworn the whole
house was holding secrets I didn't want to uncover.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, my nerves were
jangling. The faucet squeaked and the
water I gulped down tasted stale, like it had been sitting
in the pipes too long. Normally I'd check my phone or
listen to some late night show to calm down, but something told
me to stay quiet and keep my senses sharp.
When I got back to my room, I eased myself onto the edge of
the bed and happened to glance out the window.
It took a second for my eyes to adjust, but the moon was bright
enough to show the outlines of branches stretching at my level
like a haunted walkway suspended in mid air.
At first the trees looked empty, just swaying leaves and twisting
shapes, but there was a darker form out there that I couldn't
explain. It was perched on a thick
branch, kind of hunched, yet still taking up a lot of space.
That shape was wrong, too tall, too angular, and definitely
watching me. I caught a faint glimmer of red
where its eyes should have been, a color that didn't belong in
that landscape of silvery moonlight.
My pulse pounded in my ears, and I couldn't make sense of what I
was looking at. Animal, human, Something else
entirely. It had this lanky outline, like
its limbs stretched out more than they should, and it didn't
look the least bit uncomfortable balancing in those branches.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned in, trying to
convince myself this was just my imagination.
But there was no trick of the light here.
It was real enough to tighten every muscle in my body, and it
was studying me as though it was used to being the 1, hidden in
the dark, rarely caught off guard.
After an agonizing stretch of time that might have only been
10 or 15 seconds, the figure shifted, cocking its head in a
way that screamed curiosity or, worse, recognition.
I thought about reaching for my phone, calling someone, anyone,
but I couldn't bring myself to move.
A sick kind of fascination rooted me to the spot.
Just as I started to regain some composure, the creature vanished
from the branch. With a sudden, fluid motion, I
leapt off the bed and rushed to the window, half expecting to
see it sprawled out below. Instead, I glimpsed it weaving
through the undergrowth at an unbelievable speed.
The brush shook like something massive was forcing a path
downhill, heading deeper into the forest's shadows.
Even after it disappeared, I stayed frozen at the window,
mentally replaying what I'd seen.
I couldn't have made it up. It was too vivid, too
unsettling. The rest of the night was just
me sitting there, lights on, barely blinking.
I knew sleep wasn't happening. My mind wouldn't stop racing
through 1000 questions. Was it coming back?
Had it been lurking there before?
Would it have just watched me if I hadn't noticed it first?
When a faint hint of dawn finally crept over the treetops,
I still felt pinned in place by that silent encounter.
That moonlit glimpse of something beyond normal logic
stuck with me. And the most unnerving part?
It seemed to know I was there the whole time.
As if this was its territory and I'd stumbled into something I
wasn't meant to see. I barely slept a wink after what
happened, so I was awake before dawn even had a chance to
stretch across the sky. The minute the sunlight finally
crept in, I forced myself to peel away from the window.
My eyes felt gritty, my head hurt, and my nerves were
completely shot, but I needed some kind of proof that last
night wasn't a hallucination. When I first looked out at the
trees bathed in morning light, it almost felt like the forest
itself was mocking me, flaunting its newfound serenity.
Gone were the eerie, moonlit shadows and that terrifying
silhouette. Now, everything looked ordinary,
like any other stretch of woods on a clear day.
But I knew better than to let daylight fool me.
After gulping down a cup of coffee, I decided to walk around
the perimeter of my property. Honestly, I could have used some
extra caffeine or maybe something stronger, but I had to
do this while my courage was still high.
The sun was surprisingly bright, making me squint as I stepped
outside. It's like the world was saying
see nothing to be scared of. I wasn't buying it.
My boots crunched over patchy grass as I made my way toward
the tree line, scanning every inch of the ground.
Part of me felt ridiculous, like I was on a scavenger hunt for
footprints or claw marks, but I needed to see something that
would confirm what I'd witnessed.
I kept noticing snapped twigs, flattened areas in the brush,
and places where the pine needles seemed disturbed.
Could have been deer, could have been anything, really.
Yet each irregularity made my stomach clench, conjuring images
of last night's creature trampling its way through.
When I finally got back inside, I realized my hands were
shaking, Not from the chill in the air, but from the memory of
those glowing red eyes. I grabbed the nearest notebook
and scrawled down every detail. How tall it seemed, that hunched
posture, the incredible speed at which it bolted into the
undergrowth. My writing was uneven, and ink
bled in places where I pressed the pen too hard.
Reliving the memory turned my nerves raw all over again.
I spent the next hour or two crouched in front of my laptop,
diving deep into the darkest corners of Cryptid forums.
I read about everything from wendigos to skinwalkers to
unclassified forest folk. None of these descriptions
matched exactly what I'd seen, though.
I clicked through post after post, scanning for any mention
of elongated limbs and glowing eyes perched at tree level.
My head started spinning with folklore I'd never heard of,
each more bizarre than the last. There was so much nonsense out
there, but also just enough plausible detail to keep my
paranoia on a steady burn. By early afternoon, I was so
anxious that every small noise made me jump.
The hum of the refrigerator was suddenly too loud, the tick of
the clock too sharp. I'd whip my head toward the
window at the slightest hint of motion, half convinced I'd see
that tall shape lurking in the high branches.
But nothing was there, just swaying leaves and sunlight
dancing through the gaps. It felt like the forest was
holding its breath, waiting for me to let my guard down.
The worst part was this persistent thought worming its
way through my brain. Did that thing really see me?
Or was I intruding on its domain?
The question nagged at me so much that by late afternoon I
caught myself pacing the living room, trying to distract myself
with half hearted chores. No luck.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those red eyes staring back.
Before I knew it, the sun was dipping below the horizon.
Night fell quickly in these woods, and as the daylight
drained, my sense of safety went with it.
The house felt less like home and more like a flimsy shelter
against something that should never have been this close in
the 1st place. I left every light on, even the
porch light, just to keep the darkness at Bay, but 100 bright
bulbs wouldn't have driven away that uneasy feeling.
The house started groaning and creaking as it usually does at
night, but now each little sound threatened to send my heart
galloping. I settled in by the window with
a flashlight in hand, watching the branches turn into spindly
silhouettes under the moonlight. My eyes burned from lack of
sleep, yet I didn't dare look away for more than a few
seconds. Part of me wanted to spot it
again, just to be absolutely sure I wasn't losing my mind.
Another part of me dreaded the idea it might already be
watching, hidden in the leaves, waiting for the right moment to
show itself. The possibility of a repeat
encounter had me on edge, and I knew a second sighting would
confirm that last night was no weird fluke.
The clock edged closer to midnight and still no sign of
anything but the tension in my chest never let up.
Deep down, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of an even
darker secret, one that might be lurking just beyond my vision.
By the time the chapter of night ended, I was left with one
unshakable truth. I wasn't alone here.
This place, the one I'd called home for so long, no longer felt
like it belonged entirely to me. Something else was out there,
and it seemed more aware of me than I ever wanted it to be.
I knew the evening hunt was going to be tricky the second I
saw how fast the daylight faded. I'd spent the entire day perched
up in my stand, thinking this was just like any other trip
into the woods. The autumn chill had settled in
and the leaves under foot had gone from a vibrant gold to
something darker, almost foreboding.
Still, I'd been out here enough times to know how things usually
played out. When I finally took the shot, my
mind was on autopilot. I squeezed the trigger, heard
the crack, and watched the deer drop.
There was this immediate rush, a split second jolt of relief
because I'd been waiting all day for that moment.
Once I climbed down, though, the reality started gnawing at me.
It was dusk, and I had a hefty 5 pointer on my hands. 5 miles
back to the truck felt a lot farther in the creeping dark
than it had in the early morning light.
I'd left my gear cart about two miles away from the actual shot
sight, so hauling the deer that short distance initially didn't
faze me. My breath came out in visible
puffs, and the woods seemed quieter than usual.
Too quiet. Like something was off balance,
but I chalked it up to the usual post harvest hush.
Animals sense commotion and scatter.
Right when I reached the cart, everything switched from mildly
inconvenient to downright horrible in an instant.
I tried strapping the deer in, but the second I started
Wheeling forward the cart jolted and leaned.
The left wheel cracked so sharply it sounded like a
gunshot echoing in the trees. Next thing I knew, the wheel
hung by a sliver of metal before snapping completely free.
I stared at that busted wheel, half laughing at my own
stupidity for not checking the cart beforehand.
That tiny laugh died quick when it sank in that I had no backup
plan. No partner, no phone signal.
Just me and a deer that wasn't about to walk out on its own.
My only real option? Sling the carcass over my
shoulders and start moving. I hadn't gone more than a few
100 yards when I heard them coyotes howling in the distance.
It was faint. At first I tried to tell myself
they'd stay near the gut pile I'd left behind.
Maybe that was enough to keep them occupied.
But every time I stopped to catch my breath, it sounded like
more joined in. The noise echoed in the hollow
spaces between the trees, getting louder, and suddenly I
was worried I'd become a midnight snack if I didn't keep
moving. You'd think I'd have nerves of
steel after all the seasons I've spent out here, but something
about that chorus of cries set my teeth on edge.
I shoved my feet forward, ignoring the burn in my thighs
and the ache in my shoulders from the deer's weight.
My only goal was to push past the dry, semi open area and get
to higher ground. I knew a swamp waited ahead, an
absolute nightmare in daylight, let alone in near dark.
The tracks of mud and Moss under foot made each step a gamble.
More than once I slipped on the slick earth, imagining rows of
yellow eyes behind every crooked tree trunk.
The howls were growing bolder and the sense of being
surrounded started gnawing at me.
When I finally paused to adjust my grip, the deer threatened to
slide off my shoulders. My breath was ragged, and I
could feel the hush of the forest pressing down.
I tried listening for the coyotes, but the silence made it
worse. Like they were toying with me,
waiting, getting closer as I forced myself onward.
All I could think was how things went from a regular day of
hunting to a near nightmare in a heartbeat.
And I still had miles to go. I had no idea how much more I
had left in the tank, but I knew I couldn't let my legs quit.
The swamp behind me felt like it wanted to swallow me whole, and
every time a branch snapped I imagined a pack of snarling
teeth right at my ankles. My arms had gone numb beneath
the weight of the deer, and my lungs were on fire, but I kept
telling myself, just a little farther, just one more step.
As I broke free of the thickest part of the bog, my boots
finally met solid ground. Relief lasted maybe half a
second because the howls and yips were way too close.
It sounded like at least a dozen creatures weaving through the
trees, working together like a freakish team.
I could sense them flanking me from both sides, creeping in,
every bit of brush and undergrowth shifting with new
movement. I forced myself into a half run,
the deer bouncing on my back, mud and water dripping down my
legs. My grip was slick on the
hatchet, but it was the only real weapon I had.
The more I listened, the more I realized there were no single
set of footsteps. It was a whole.
Swarm, a living net that threatened to close around me.
I remember the first glimpse of the fence up ahead, a tall
silhouette against the moonlit sky.
I focused everything on reaching that fence, ignoring the ache in
my muscles. The closer I got, the louder the
pack seemed to become, as though they knew my escape route and
wanted to cut me off. My breath rattled in my chest,
but I hurled myself up and over, dear and all.
Not even hesitating when my jacket caught on a length of
twisted metal. The landing on the other side
knocked every ounce of air out of me.
My knees slammed onto gravel and I sprawled forward with the deer
rolling off me. My hands fumble for the knife or
the hatchet, anything. Expecting to see shapes leaping
over the fence a heartbeat later.
Instead, I heard them slam against it, snarling and raking
their claws across the chain links.
For a few gut wrenching seconds, I figured they'd get through
somehow. I braced for fur and teeth,
digging my boots into the ground as if I could launch myself away
at any second. Then it went quiet.
The pack whined and paced, but eventually they faded back into
the dark. My hands were shaking so badly I
had trouble picking up the deer. By the time I reached my truck,
I nearly collapsed again, half from relief, half from the
lingering terror gnawing at my nerves.
I wanted to leave right then, but my body refused to
cooperate. I locked the doors, slid into
the driver's seat, and let exhaustion take over.
Maybe I dozed for a few minutes, maybe it was longer, but when a
fist tapped against my window, I gasped hard.
A flashlight beam cut across the cab, and outside stood ADNR
Officer with a look in his eyes that said he'd never come across
anyone or anything like me before.
I cracked the window, still clutching my knife in one hand,
and managed to blurt out the story.
The broken cart, the chase, the fence.
The officer kept glancing at the blood on my clothes and the deer
in the back, like he was trying to figure if I was some kind of
lunatic. Once he checked my tags, though,
his whole posture eased and he actually let out a shaky laugh.
Called me Wildman, then told me to get some rest.
That moment felt surreal, like the night had been a fever dream
and this stranger's relief was the only real thing grounding
me. After he left, I just sat there,
breathing as evenly as I could manage.
Part of me wanted to drive off and never look back.
Another part of me was already thinking about next season
because apparently I don't learn.
I dozed off until the 1st pink streaks of morning crept in.
Even though I got out of that swamp in one piece, something
about the forest felt different from then on, like it had shown
me a side of itself I'd never forget.
I woke up last night gasping for air, the echoes of screeching
sounds bouncing around in my head.
It took a moment to remember where I was, curled up in my own
bed, blankets twisted around me. My thoughts turned immediately
to my old ferret, the one that died just a few weeks ago.
My mind keeps circling back to how enormous it got toward the
end, like a small cat, maybe even bigger, and the way it
almost sang this low croaking melody instead of squeaking in
the final days of its life. It acted like it knew something
the rest of us didn't. Sometimes I'd find it standing
on its hind legs for so long it felt like we were locked in a
staring contest. Its gaze was eerily calm, locked
on to me in a way no pet should ever look at anyone.
My mom tried to get me to examine the body once it passed,
but I shrugged her off. I thought she was just being
awed about the whole situation. Turns out, maybe she had a
reason. Not long after the ferret died,
I decided to clear my head by going for a walk with a friend.
We joked around, teased each other, just messing around as
usual. We both needed a laugh after the
weirdness of the past few weeks. Then I noticed a deer lurking a
few yards ahead, still as a statue, almost as though it had
been planted there. Normally a deer would bolt the
moment it spotted us, but this one just stared.
My friend, being braver than me, tried calling it closer with
little clicks and snaps of his fingers.
Strangely enough, the deer obeyed like it recognized us
somehow. We took a goofy selfie with the
deer right behind our shoulders. It looked at the camera.
No, it looked through the camera like it saw something inside the
lens. We shrugged it off at first,
marveling at how tame it acted, but neither of us could erase
the sense that something was off.
We even talked about it later, how its eyes felt more intense
than a regular animal's, but we let the conversation drift away.
Then, maybe 15 minutes after we parted ways with that deer, we
spotted it again in the distance, only this time it was
upright on its hind legs, bobbing along in a stiff,
lopsided gallop. We burst out laughing, part
shock, part disbelief, because nobody would take us seriously
if we tried to explain a deer prancing around like some
awkward 2 legged circus act. But that sight stuck with me.
It shouldn't have happened. It made me think about how my
ferret used to stand, arms dangling by its sides like it
was trying to mimic a person. The coincidence was too strange.
Still, I filed it away under Too weird for words and tried to.
Move on. Later that evening, though, I
couldn't stop replaying the image of that deer in my head.
Every time I shut my eyes, I saw it lurching on two legs all at
once. I was back in my room, thinking
about the ferret, recalling the day it just expired without
warning. And then came that screeching
again. A memory or something else, I'm
not sure. It rattled me so hard I swore my
vision blurred. For a split second I even
thought I heard claws scratching against the floor, but when I
glanced around, nothing was there.
Now I'm lying here again, unable to get comfortable.
I keep feeling like I'm being observed, even in the dark.
It's not exactly fear, more like a crawling tension at the base
of my neck, telling me that maybe the deer and my pet shared
a connection. Part of me wants to go check on
my mom, ask her what she really saw when she tried to show me
the ferret's body. The rest of me is too on edge to
move. I promised myself that tomorrow
I'd try to be logical, maybe do a bit of research on local
wildlife or bizarre animal behavior.
But as tonight drags on, I can't help suspecting that nothing
about this is going to be explained by a few Google
searches. Something's unfolding, and I'm
not sure if it started with my ferrets last breath or if that
was just my first glimpse of something far darker.
Whatever the truth is, I'm starting to think it's coming
for me. Step by step, sighting by
sighting, scratch by scratch. I needed to get away.
At least, that's what I told myself when I pulled up to the
hotel. The place was as unremarkable as
you'd expect. A Gray building perched off the
main road with a big neon sign announcing it had a pub inside
It looked normal enough. From the outside.
Turns out appearances can be deceiving.
Everything felt more tense than it should.
As I hauled my bag toward the reception desk, I noticed the
hallway wasn't fully enclosed. One side opened straight to the
outdoors, letting in a damp chill.
A few stray cats were slinking around the corners.
Hissing at each other, I remember thinking the
architecture was weird. Why have a hallway leading to
the guest rooms be so exposed? Still, I checked in, thinking
I'd use the hotel's pub to drown out the freakish memories of
that deer from before and the ferret that kicked off my
nightmares. I dropped my things in the room,
freshened up, and headed down to the pub, wanting nothing more
than a few hours of distraction. That night the pub was lively
enough, a small stage set up for amateur performers, a handful of
tired travellers milling around the bar, half watching the guy
on stage sing some off key song. I sat by myself, ordered a drink
for a while. I let the hum of conversation
and clinking glasses lull me into forgetting how messed up my
life had been feeling. Almost managed to convince
myself I dreamt up that deer on two legs.
But when the pub finally closed and I stumbled out into that
open air hallway, I realized normalcy was short lived.
I heard this slow shuffling noise around the bend, like
someone dragging a heavy object. Hello.
I called, my voice cracking a bit.
Normally I wouldn't pry, but an uncomfortable feeling told me to
check. I edged forward and spotted a
woman, maybe in her 50s, overweight and breathing
raggedly. Her hair was plastered to her
forehead and her eyes darted in every direction, as if she
expected something to jump out at her.
Ma'am, are you? I started to ask, but she cut me
off with a weird slurring speech about needing a waiter.
It was such a random thing to say in an empty hallway that I
paused. I thought maybe she was having a
medical emergency, so I took a cautious step closer.
And then she turned her head a full 180° turn.
There was a wet snap, like the sound of a large branch
splintering in a storm. In that moment, all reason
dissolved into raw panic. Her face twisted backward, while
the rest of her body stayed facing me.
The wide eyed expression she wore, I can still see it in my
mind. Her lips were parted, making a
faint rasp. She let out this quiet moan and
then started moving, not walking, exactly.
Her feet dragged along the floor, leaving scuff marks.
It reminded me of someone being yanked by the ankles, only there
was no one there. I flattened myself against the
wall, trying not to breathe. The lights overhead flickered,
each burst of brightness giving me a new glimpse of her
contorted form. She kept gliding forward, if
that's even the right word, disappearing around the corner.
Part of me wanted to follow, ask if she needed help or if she was
even human at all. Instead, I stayed put, pressing
my entire body so tightly against the wall that I might as
well have melted into it. After a few agonizing minutes of
holding my breath or barely breathing, I realized the woman
was gone. That's when I forced myself to
Sprint back to my room. I could hear my shoes slapping
against the linoleum floor, a frantic echo.
Once I was inside, I flipped the deadbolt, locked the chain, even
wedged a chair under the knob like in a bad horror movie, only
it felt way too real. I collapsed onto the bed, heart
hammering. 1000 explanations ran through my mind.
She was sick, maybe hallucinating, but that doesn't
explain how her head spun all the way around, or how she
glided, leaving those trails on the floor.
Sleep was useless. I might have dozed off once or
twice, but each time I was startled awake by low, feral
moans outside my door. They sounded less human and more
like some large animal in distress.
The scratch, scratch, scratch that followed felt deliberate,
as though something wanted to claw straight through the wood.
I just sat on the mattress, back against the headboard, staring
at the door. I didn't even trust myself to
turn on the light. Eventually the scraping faded,
replaced by an eerie quiet that was worse because I didn't know
if it was really gone or just waiting.
I checked my phone, saw it was well past midnight.
That's when the thought hit me. Maybe all these things, the
giant ferret, the deer on two legs now, this twisted neck
woman, are pieces of some unholy puzzle, and I might be caught
right at the center of it. By the time morning light seeped
under the curtains, I felt like I'd aged a decade.
My body ached from tension. My head pounded with unanswered
questions. One realization loomed above all
else. I couldn't handle another night
like this. Whatever plagued me, and maybe
others too, wasn't just going to disappear on its own.
As insane as it sounded, I knew I had to be the one to track it
down, confront it, stop it, whatever it might take.
I remember muttering to myself, setting a date.
July 23rd. Somehow that seemed like a day
far enough away for me to prepare, but soon enough that I
wouldn't lose my nerve. I had no idea if I'd be facing
one creature or many, but I knew I had to try.
The open air hallway outside felt weighed down by something.
Even in broad daylight, it looked darker than the rest of
the property, like a perpetual twilight had settled in.
Shoving my things into my bag, I took a last glance down that
corridor. A breeze drifted through,
carrying a hint of decay, like a faint rotting smell that made my
skin crawl. I'm still not sure if I imagined
it or if it was real. Either way, I hustled out of
there, determined to gear up for whatever comes next.
Because I've learned the worst part of this entire ordeal isn't
the terror, it's the not knowing when it'll strike again.
And I've had my fill of that. I was alone at home that day,
slouched on my worn couch, flipping through channels I
didn't care about. The sky outside was Gray, heavy
with the threat of rain, so I figured the day would be as
uneventful as it gets. But at some point, I noticed a
few deer drifting into the yard. That sight usually brought a
calm vibe, something I'd admire for a moment before going back
to whatever I was doing. This time, though, something
about them felt off. The air outside felt strangely
still, like every sound had been sucked away.
The deer seemed normal at first, but I kept my eyes on them a
little longer than usual, and that's when I realized one of
their back legs was wrong. Every time it stepped, that leg
bent in a direction I can't even begin to explain.
I leaned closer to the window, my mind fighting to make sense
of what I was seeing. The more I watched, the more I
realized it wasn't just the one leg.
Several of the deer, three, maybe 4, had some unnatural
curve to their joints. I tried telling myself it had to
be a trick of the light, a weird angle, anything that would
explain it, but the way their limbs moved just wasn't natural.
It felt like they were almost learning how to walk for the
first time, except they were doing it wrong.
They kept standing there, nibbling at the grass,
occasionally glancing in my direction as though they sensed
me watching from behind the glass.
I didn't want to move, worried I'd scare them off or worse,
attract their full attention. My breath caught in my throat
every time one of them jerked its head up, ears twitching.
The yard was silent, no chirping birds or rustling leaves, and
that silence made each awkward step echo in my mind.
My pulse hammered in my ears with every movement they made.
Eventually, one of the deer started to stroll toward the
tree line at the edge of the yard.
The others followed. That was when I noticed
something even more unsettling. As they walked away, their
bodies looked like they were growing.
At first I was sure I was imagining it, but I couldn't
ignore how their torsos seemed to stretch, how their necks
elongated to proportions that weren't possible.
I found myself frozen in place, trying to piece together a scene
that shouldn't exist. Every rational part of me
screamed that animals don't just do that.
The one with the most twisted leg was lagging behind the
group, its back hunched at an odd angle, ribs pushing against
its hide in a way that made me want to look away, but I
couldn't. It was almost as though it
sensed how disturbed I was because it paused for a moment,
turned its head toward me, and let out a sound.
It wasn't a typical deer noise. It sounded warped, like a groan
that buzzed through the air and left my stomach in knots.
My grip on the window sill tightened until my knuckles
ached. The rest of the deer didn't seem
fazed by the monstrous shift happening among them.
They continued to walk deeper into the trees, each limb
bending at uncomfortable angles, and I swear their silhouettes
elongated too, like something out of a nightmare, slender
forms fusing with the dim light. By the time they were half
hidden by the trunks, I could barely recognize them as deer
anymore. They were like outlines of
something else, something not meant to be seen in daylight.
I stood there in a haze, staring long after they disappeared.
For the rest of the day, I replayed the scene in my mind,
convinced I'd gotten it all wrong.
Maybe it was a trick of the sun. Maybe I was just tired.
Yet every time logic tried to reassure me, I'd remember the
way that leg bent, or how their necks stretched to an impossible
length and my stomach churned all over again.
That night, sleep was out of the question.
Every noise outside made me jolt.
Even the slightest rustling of leaves had me picturing those
distorted shapes lurking just beyond the yard.
I kept glancing at the window, half expecting to see one of
them press its elongated head against the glass.
My brain wouldn't let me forget. The memory was too fresh, too
vivid. I started wondering if I should
warn someone, call a game warden or a neighbor.
But what would I say? The deer in my yard looked like
something out of a horror movie. Nobody would believe me.
I wasn't sure I believed myself, but the terror was real.
My hands were trembling every time I walked past that window.
I couldn't bring myself to open the door, worried that if I
stepped outside I might come face to face with those twisted
creatures or whatever they were. Hours dragged by.
I flicked on every light in the house, convinced that staying in
the dark was a bad idea. My mind conjured images of those
deer creeping closer while I slept, their limbs contorting
further, their eyes glinting with some unnatural awareness.
I kept imagining them trying to get in.
Pushing against the walls with those warped legs, slowly
changing shape as they tried to squeeze through any possible
opening. By sunrise, I was mentally and
physically exhausted. I mustered the courage to peek
outside, but the yard was empty. Morning light flooded in, and
for a second I questioned whether I'd let my imagination
run wild. Still, a lingering dread hung in
the air, an unshakable sense that something was fundamentally
wrong with what I'd witnessed. This wasn't just a case of a
lame deer or a small injury. It was an impossible
transformation, a glimpse into something beyond normal
comprehension. Even now, whenever I look
outside, I have to brace myself. Part of me is sure I'll see
those shapes again, drifting among the trees, limbs bending
and stretching into unspeakable forms.
And a part of me wonders if one day they'll come back, maybe
this time closer than before. The thought of it leaves me
restless, scanning the yard with wary eyes, waiting for the
slightest hint of movement that might confirm my worst fears.
I always thought I knew every inch of my grandparents land in
Azle, TX like it was my own private playground.
That afternoon, the late sun hung in the sky, turning the
horizon the color of 1/2 hearted fire.
I wanted a moment to myself, so I wandered into the nearby
woods, the same patch of trees I'd explored dozens of times.
There was a rusty wire fence and a makeshift path covered in
crumpled leaves, all of it as familiar as the back of my hand.
The house wasn't far away, so I assumed nothing could really go
wrong. I just needed a little time to
breathe. The air felt strangely dense,
almost pressing against my skin, and every step I took sounded
louder than it should have. Usually the forest was calming,
a chorus of crickets and the occasional bird call, but the
silence that day was unnerving. I called out for my mom just to
break the quiet, even though I had no real reason to.
No response. A hint of worry began to grow,
like the atmosphere had changed without me realizing it.
Suddenly, I heard my name, but it came out sounding off like my
mother's voice, but somehow twisted.
It made me hesitate. My gut reaction was to answer,
so I called back, asking if she needed help.
Again, no reply. I glanced around, trying to
figure out the source of that voice.
My heart pounded so fiercely that it was hard to think.
In my head, I was running over all the reasons why my mom might
be in the woods, but none of them made any sense.
And that voice. It was familiar, yet nothing
about it felt OK. A moment later, I saw movement
behind a thick tree trunk. At first I assumed it was a
deer, or maybe a stray dog, but then something long and Gray
came into view. A figure standing taller than
any person I knew, with skin that looked worn and almost torn
in places. Its teeth were sharp enough to
catch the light in a way that made my stomach lurch.
I stayed frozen, my breath hitching in my throat.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, yet I couldn't
move. It shifted, almost like it was
testing how I'd react, and that was all the signal I needed.
My legs finally listened. I spun around and sprinted as
fast as I could back toward the house, snapping branches under
foot and crashing through brush. The woods felt darker, like the
sunlight was blocked out on purpose.
My lungs burned and my eyes started watering, but I didn't
dare slow down to look behind me.
When I reached the clearing, the porch light was just flickering
on, casting a shaky glow over the yard.
I stumbled onto the grass, gasping.
Mom and my stepdad were inside, talking casually about dinner,
oblivious to the chaos I'd just escaped.
My entire body was trembling. I tried to steady myself as I
went in, not wanting them to see how rattled I was.
Telling them felt impossible, like they'd chalk it up to a
spooky Daydream or a kids imagination.
But I knew what I saw. I practically barricaded myself
in my room, pressing my back against the door and closing my
eyes, replaying every second. That evening I didn't dare peek
out the window, convinced something hideous might be
staring right back at me. And all I could do was grapple
with the thought that the stories my family once whispered
in low tones might be more than just stories.
The property I'd always viewed as safe wasn't so comforting
anymore, and I realized I'd never look at those woods the
same way again. That night felt impossibly long.
Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured that ragged figure
crouching in a corner of my room, waiting.
My bed used to feel like a safe haven, but now it felt too
exposed. Every sound outside rustling
leaves a loose piece of gutter rattling transformed into a
potential threat. Sleep barely came, and when it
did, dreams overwhelmed me. I'd see that thing's warped
features and twisted grin wherever I turned.
I'd jolt awake drenched in sweat, my mind struggling to
separate nightmares from reality.
By morning, I was a wreck. My mom asked if I was feeling
sick, but I just shook my head and mumbled something about not
sleeping well. She didn't press, but I noticed
her concerned glance linger a little longer than usual.
Part of me wanted to tell her everything, but words seemed too
small for something so large and terrifying.
I worried she'd brush it off, or worse yet, believe me, and still
not know how to help. The days that followed only
added to the unease. I couldn't set foot outside
without expecting to see that shape skulking behind a tree
waiting for me. Sometimes I'd walk the perimeter
of the house, trying to convince myself I was just paranoid.
I started hearing faint echoes of footsteps that never matched
mine. Late at night, the yard took on
an unnatural stillness, like everything else had backed away
from our property. Even my grandparents dog, an old
mutt who usually barked at the slightest movement, stayed
curiously quiet. I turned to my grandfather,
hoping for some hint that maybe he'd run across a weird animal
or suspicious trespasser before. He was usually the first to
dismiss ghost stories, but this time he paused.
I saw a flicker in his expression, like he was
recalling something he'd tried to bury.
He wouldn't explain it outright, only muttered that some legends
are best left alone, then advised me not to wander too far
into the woods. It was a short conversation, but
it left a long shadow over my thoughts.
His reaction, that single spark of unease in his eyes, was
enough to confirm I might have crossed paths with something
truly out of the ordinary. The tension built day by day.
I'd try to distract myself by doing chores around the yard or
watching TV with my stepdad, but my mind refused to settle.
The house's walls felt claustrophobic, yet stepping
outside turned my stomach. Even in the daylight, I'd stare
at the tree line, half expecting something unnaturally tall and
thin to drift between the trunks.
It was an exhausting way to live, always looking over my
shoulder. Eventually, I reached a breaking
point. One evening, I gathered the
courage to tell my mom and stepdad some of it.
I left out the finer details of gnarly skin and razor sharp
teeth, but I admitted I'd seen a figure in the woods that scared
me more than anything else in my life.
They exchanged a worried look, but they didn't laugh it off.
My mom tried to reassure me that we'd check it out together.
My stepdad even offered to walk around with a flashlight once it
got dark. The thought of that made my
stomach flip, but at least they knew now I wasn't alone in it
anymore. Still, the Knights felt haunted
sometimes, just on the edge of hearing.
I'd swear I caught my own name, stretched and distorted into
something unholy. It never lasted long, and I'd
only catch it in that moment between waking and sleep, which
left me wondering if it was all in my head.
But it never felt imaginary. If anything, it felt like
something real messing with me, testing how far it could push
before I snapped. Even when the weeks rolled on
and I convinced myself that maybe it was just a terrible
misunderstanding, or maybe the figure was gone, I'd sensed that
charged presence lingering somewhere close.
It followed me inside into my dreams, my everyday routine.
The ordinary space I called home had changed forever.
I was always waiting for the next sign. 1/2 glimpsed movement
at the window, a bizarre sound scratching at the door, that
strange mimic of my mom's voice echoing through the empty yard.
And a small part of me feared that each time I sensed it, the
encounter would escalate, as if the thing was only growing
bolder. That was how life looked from
then on, each day filled with a dread I couldn't fully explain,
every night haunted by flickers of a nightmare that might still
be out there, lurking just past the place where porch light
turns to darkness. The memory of that towering
figure shaped my every decision, the future suddenly stretched
out in front of me with the ominous promise that I'd never
truly leave that moment behind. How could I when it felt like
the encounter had left a mark deep enough to call me back no
matter how hard I tried to run? I usually finish my shift after
everyone else is already asleep. So walking my dog, Ren, under
the dim suburban glow had become routine that night.
The street shone with leftovers from a recent rain, creating
silvery puddles that splintered the yard lights into shards of
glare. It was that familiar Texas
suburb, family homes in neat rows, the sort of place where
nothing dramatic was supposed to happen, but the reflections
bouncing off the wet pavement gave everything an odd haze.
I kept squinting, trying to figure out if my eyes were just
tired or if the gleaming lights truly made it harder to see
anything beyond their reach. The neighborhood was hushed.
No other dog walkers were around, no cars rolling by.
Just Ren and me. Ren was this sweet, laid back
companion, barely raising an eyebrow at squirrels, let alone
strangers. Normally that was comforting
until my mind started to drift into darker corners, wondering
how safe we really were. We kept moving along that narrow
Rd. with no sidewalks hugging the edge.
Whenever I heard the distant possibility of a car to night,
though there was no hint of an engine, my thoughts wandered.
I caught myself gazing up at the stars 1 moment, then scanning
the dark lawns for any sign of life the next.
That was when I spotted some shape, shadowy and distant, far
up ahead. It could have been anything,
maybe a trick of the light, but I knew I wasn't imagining it.
When it seemed to inch closer despite my pulse kicking up, I
told myself it was probably just a neighbor.
No big deal, right? I couldn't turn around anyway,
or I'd risk having this person behind me for the rest of my
walk. So onward I went, staying near
the curb with Wrens snuffling at every mailbox post.
The figure looked tall, and as we got nearer I noticed they
wore glasses. The glow of the yard lights
reflected off the lenses, revealing the slightest flicker
each time they shifted. That reflection was weirdly
hypnotic, like 2 little mirrors aimed my way.
I tried not to stare. The next overhead St. lamp was a
good stretch down the road, leaving a big patch of gloom
between us. In those few seconds of partial
darkness, I realized how quiet the figure was.
No phone in hand, no shuffle of feet on gravel, nothing.
I braced myself, half expecting a greeting or nod.
That moment never arrived. Ren perked up.
This was unusual. He barely reacted to strangers.
The leash went taut in my grip. We were nearly side by side when
the figure stopped. My breath caught in my throat.
Without a word, this person started to move in reverse,
every step aligning with mine as if we were dancing to some
silent beat. Ren, normally my gentle buddy,
erupted in barks, straining so hard that I nearly lost my
balance. My thoughts careened from
embarrassment over my suddenly feral sounding dog to a sharper
dread pulsing at the edges of my mind.
The stranger had no dog, no friendly wave, just a silent
backward pace. Keeping that reflective stare
locked on me. I couldn't pin down what felt
more unsettling, Wren's fierce reaction or the steady way the
stranger retreated, never breaking eye contact from behind
those lenses. In that instant, the street
lights seem dimmer, the houses too.
Still, I gripped Wren's leash with trembling hands, not sure
whether to shout or just keep moving.
The only thing I knew for certain was that every inch of
me wanted to get out of there fast.
I wasn't about to wait there, locked in that disturbing
standoff with a stranger who glided backward like some silent
puppet. My eyes landed on a brighter
intersection a short distance away.
Lit by scattered porch bulbs and the faint glow of passing
headlights. Without a second thought, I
tugged on Ren's leash and practically lunged in that
direction. He resisted at first, barking as
though unwilling to let this bizarre threat out of his sight.
It took a few. Harsh pulls before he followed
both of us stumbling onto the better lit side Rd.
The sudden shift from dark to light made my eyes ache.
I looked back, searching for any glimpse of the stranger, but the
gloomy stretch of houses seemed deserted.
Either he'd melted into the shadows, or my nerves were wound
so tight that I just couldn't see clearly.
Ren whined, ears pinned forward, still keyed up like something
wasn't right. My grip on his leash was damp
with sweat, and I kept expecting to spot a silhouette lurking
behind a mailbox or creeping around the corner.
All I wanted at that point was the safe familiarity of home.
Every time a branch rustled or a night bird called, I nearly
jumped. It felt as though the entire
neighborhood held its breath, waiting.
There was no one to call out to, no friendly face peeking through
a window. Just a few blocks more, I
thought. A few more blocks and I could
slam my door shut against whatever madness I'd just
witnessed. I kept glancing over my
shoulder, half expecting to catch a flicker of those
reflective glasses in the distance.
Instead, all I saw were wet driveways and dim silhouettes of
parked cars. I had to slow my pace when a car
finally appeared, its headlights swept across me, casting warped
shadows across the street. For an instant, I panicked that
the driver might be the same person, but it was just some
random sedan trundling along, oblivious to my anxiety.
As soon as the car was gone, the silence returned even heavier.
My house felt impossibly far away, but after what seemed like
forever, I spotted my porch light.
Normally, that soft glow was comforting in an everyday sort
of way, but to night it felt like a beacon.
Ren pulled ahead, eager to get inside as well.
He wasn't calm yet, and honestly, neither was I.
By the time I reached the front door, my hands were shaking so
badly that I had to fumble with my keys a few times before I
managed to fit 1 into the lock. When the door clicked open, I
nearly burst through, dragging Ren in behind me.
I flicked on every lamp I could reach, flipping them off again
when I realized how exposed the bright windows might make me.
Then I reversed my choice. Darkness felt even more
vulnerable. I settled for a single table
lamp in the living room, just enough to see what I was doing.
Ren paced around, whining, still rattled.
I kept expecting a knock at the door or a face peering in from
the window. My heart thudded every time I
imagined the scenario. Eventually, I made myself check
each lock, the back door, even the tiny windows by the laundry
room. Everything was secure, but it
didn't help me relax. My mind raced with questions.
Who had I just crossed paths with?
Why did he move in that bizarre backward stride, keeping me in
his line of sight? Was it some twisted prank?
Or was I this close to a genuine threat?
I spent the next hour perched on the edge of the couch, phone in
hand, debating whether to call someone, anyone, and explain.
But what would I say? That a strange man freaked me
out by walking in reverse? It sounded ridiculous, yet the
dread felt so real I couldn't wipe away the image of those
mirrored lenses reflecting the suburban lights.
Or the way Ren had erupted, like he was defending us from a real
monster. Sleep was out of the question.
Even after I finally managed to shut off the lights and make my
way to bed, I kept imagining footsteps crunching on gravel
outside my window. Each time I drifted off, I
jerked awake to silence, certain I'd heard something.
Ren lay curled at my feet, occasionally lifting his head
like he too, expected an intruder.
By morning, the sun spilled in through the blinds, painting
everything in warm, normal hues. The terror felt distant, almost
unreal, as though my mind had conjured it in the darkness.
But the leash was still by the front door, with a fresh set of
teeth marks from where Wren had yanked it in his frenzy.
That was enough to remind me what happened the night before
wasn't just in my head. I never did see the figure
again. Still, each evening afterward,
whenever I took rent out, I caught myself scanning the end
of every street, looking for a tall silhouette, maybe a glint
of glasses. And if I so much as glimpsed any
shape in the distance, my chest tightened in an instant.
That's the thing about terror. It clings to you even long after
your doorstep is locked up tight, like it's prowling just
behind the places where the light stops.